La Chasse-galerie [Archive] - The Apricity Forum: A European Cultural Community

Psychonaut

02-01-2009, 10:06 PM

Who knew? There's a Wild Hunt tradition in Québec!

La Chasse-galerie (The Hunt of Gallery) also known as "The Bewitched Canoe" is a French Canadian tale of voyageurs who make a deal with the Devil, a variant of the Wild Hunt. In Quebec, the legend of the "chasse-galerie", or the bewitched canoe, is a favourite. Its most famous version was written by Honoré Beaugrand (1848 - 1906?). It was published in The Century in August 1892.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5a/Lachassegalerie.jpg

Origin
This particular story can be traced back to a French legend about a rich nobleman named Gallery who loved to hunt (literal translation). He loved it so much that he refused to attend Sunday mass. As punishment for this sin he was condemned to forever fly through the night skies, chased by galloping horses and howling wolves, in a fashion reminiscent of the Wild Hunt.

When French settlers arrived in Canada, they swapped stories with the natives and the tale of Gallery was combined with an Indian legend about a flying canoe.

Variations
After a night of heavy drinking on New Year's Eve, a group of "voyageurs" (pioneers) working at a remote timber camp want to visit their sweethearts some 100 leagues away (300 miles). The only way to make such a long journey and be back in time for work the next morning is to run the "chasse-galerie". Running the "chasse-galerie" means making a pact with the Devil so that their canoe can fly through the air to their destination with great speed. However, the travelers must not mention God's name or touch the cross of any church steeple as they whisk by in the flying canoe. If either of these rules are broken during the voyage, then the Devil will have their souls. To be safe, the men promise not to touch another drop of rum to keep their heads clear. The crew take their places in the canoe which then rises off the ground, and they start to paddle. Far below they see the frozen Gatineau River, many villages, shiny church steeples and then the lights of Montréal. The bewitched canoe eventually touches down near a house where New Year's Eve festivities are in full swing. No one wonders at the trappers'/loggers' sudden arrival. They are embraced with open arms and soon are dancing and celebrating as merrily as everyone else. Soon it is late and the men must leave if they are to get back to camp in time for work. As they fly through the moonless night, it becomes apparent that their navigator had been drinking as he steers the canoe on a dangerously unsteady course. While passing over Montréal they just miss running into a church steeple, and soon after the canoe end up stuck in a deep snowdrift. At this point the drunken navigator begins swearing and taking the Lord's name in vain. Terrified the Devil will take their souls, the men bind and gag their friend and elect another to steer. The navigator soon breaks his bonds and begins swearing again. The crew become more and more shaken at the possibility of losing their souls, and they eventually steer the bewitched canoe right into a tall pine. The men spill out and are knocked unconscious (or pass out). Notably the ending of the story changes from version to version. Sometimes the men are condemned to fly the canoe through hell and appear in the sky every New Year's Eve, but in other versions all, or all but one, escape the terms the Devil made.

Several different versions of this tale exist. The Acadian version involves an axe handle. It stretches to accommodate as many as climb on.

Another variation has the Devil himself steering and deliberately trying to break the rules on the return journey, at which point they threw him out of the canoe to save themselves.

In English this particular legend is known as The Canoe, or The Wild Hunt Bewitched. The second name is used to translate precisely "chasse-galerie" as it is known in French Canadian, the other term is much broader.

In Quebec, the best known version is written by Honoré Beaugrand. This is the story of the Gatineau loggers who make a pact with the devil in order to steal a boat so they can visit their women. They are warned, however, not to blaspheme during the voyage, or touch crosses atop church steeples, and they must be back before six o'clock the next morning. Otherwise they would lose their souls. Beaugrand was a Freemason Luciferian. Luciferians were inspired by the ancient myths of Egypt, Rome and Greece, Gnosticism and traditional Western occultism. They considered Lucifer as an angelic light bearer. In his version, the Devil (Lucifer) is rather generous, and allows the men to return unhurt and undamaged.

The tale appeared in a book of french canadian folktales called Legends of French Canada by Edward C. Woodley, published in 1931, republished in 1938. The tale is told as a recollection of one of the men who made chasse-galerie. The men travel from St. Maurice to St. Jeanne. The return accident is credited to whiskey-blanc.

http://mailer.fsu.edu/~mshaftel/rivard/chassegalimages_files/image003.jpg

Source (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chasse-galerie)

YggsVinr

03-11-2009, 03:09 PM

Well, its a rather rough translation but here it is. I don't have the means on this computer to make a pdf so here's a rather long post instead. Enjoy :)

La Chasse-Galerie

The following account is based on a folktale that goes back to the time of the coureurs des bois and the voyageurs of the North-West. The men of the logging camps perpetuated the tradition. I have met more than one voyageur who has confirmed that he has seen canoes flying through the air filled with the possessed under the spell of Satan going to visit their girlfriends. If I were asked to use more intellectual terms I would remind those asking that I am telling a story about men whose language is as crude/harsh as their occupation and existence.

“I am going to tell you all a great story. But if there are any here among you who are tempted to run the chasse-galerie or transform into a werewolf you’d better go attend the barn owls’ sabbath tonight for I shall begin my story by making the sign of the cross in order to ward off the devil and his minions. I had enough of the damned in my youth.”

Not one man left: on the contrary, all came nearer the hearth where the cook finished giving his warning and prepared to tell his story.

Their boss ordered the distribution of the contents of a small barrel of rum among the men according to tradition, and the cook had finished preparing the fricot de pattes (stew made of pigs’ feet) and glissantes (a kind of dumpling) for the next day’s meal. The molasses was simmering in the big caldron to end the evening’s festivities.

Each man had packed his pipe with good Canadian tobacco, and a thick cloud obscured the inside of the cabin where a crackling fire of resinous pine intermittently cast a red tint illuminating the figures of those rustic woodsmen.

Joe, the cook, was a small disfigured man that the men called the hunchback and had been a woodsman for at least forty years. In that time he had seen everything and all it took was a drink of rum to get him to tell stories of his adventures.

“As I was saying”, he continued, “even though I was a little rough in my youth, today I don’t tolerate the mockery of religion. I go to confession every year and what I’m going to tell you now happened in the days of my youth when I feared neither god nor the devil.

It was a night like this one on New Year’s Eve around thirty four or thirty five years ago.

My comrades and I were having a drink around the campfire. But if little streams become great rivers, then little drinks empty large barrels and in those days we drank much more than we do today. It was not unusual to see our festivities end in fist fights.

I myself had drained a half a dozen drinks, at which point my head was spinning so I took a nap on my furs while waiting for the jump over the lard barrel from the old year into the new year just like we’ll do tonight at midnight, then going visiting and wishing the men in the next camp a happy new year.

I had been sleeping for a while when I was shaken roughly awake by the boss, Baptiste Durand, who told me: ‘Joe, midnight just passed and you’re late for jumping over the barrel. Our comrades have left for the neighbouring camp and I am going to Lavaltrie to see my girlfriend. Do you want to come?’

‘Lavaltrie ! Are you crazy ? We are more than a hundred leagues away. It would take you two months to make the trip through the snow. What about the work to be done the day after New Years?’

‘Idiot, I didn’t mean to walk there. We’ll take the trip in a canoe and tomorrow morning at six o’clock we will be back in the camp.’

I understood.

My boss was suggesting that we run the chasse-galerie and that I risk my immortal soul for the pleasure of seeing my girlfriend in the village.

It was a little shocking. It was true that I was a little bit of a drunk and a debaucher and that religion didn’t mean much to me in those days, but selling my soul to the devil was even beyond me.

‘Coward,’ exclaimed Baptiste, ‘you know well that there is no danger. We’ll be in Lavaltrie and back again in six hours. You know well that with the chasse-galerie we travel at least fifty leagues an hour when one knows how to man the oar like we do. We only need to avoid speaking the name of the good lord during the journey and not to crash into the church tower crosses on the way. It’s easy to do and to avoid all danger all we have to do is to think before we speak and keep an eye on where we’re going, and not to get drunk on the way. I’ve made the trip five times and you can see that nothing’s ever happened to me. Let’s go, my friend, take courage and we’ll be in Lavaltrie in two hours. Think of the pleasure of kissing Liza Guimbette. There are already seven of us for the journey but there needs to be an even number. You will be the eighth.’

‘Yes all that is fine, but it requires making a deal with the devil and he is not forgiving when one makes a deal with him.’

‘A simple formality, Joe. All we need to do is stay sober, to think before we speak, and to man the oar properly. Come, come! Our companions are waiting outside and the canoe for the (log) drive is ready for the voyage.’

I allowed myself to be dragged out of the cabin where I saw six of our men who were waiting for us, oar in hand. The big canoe was in the snow in the clearing and before I had the chance to think about it I was already seated in front, oar at the ready. I admit I was a bit troubled and Baptiste, who hadn’t been to confession for seven years, did not leave me any time to think. He was standing in the back and in a loud voice said, ‘repeat after me’ and we repeated:

‘Satan, king of hell, we permit you to take our souls if in the next six hours we say the name of our master the good lord and if we touch a cross during our trip. Under these conditions you will transport us across the sky to where we wish to go and you will take us back to this same camp. Acabris! Acabras! Acabram! Take us over the mountain!’

We had just pronounced the last words when we felt the canoe lift five or six hundred feet in the air. I felt as light as a feather and at the command of Baptiste we started to row as though possessed.

At the first strokes of the oar the canoe shot through the air like an arrow and it was then that it could be said that the devil was truly carrying us. It took away our breath and the hairs of our raccoon fur hats were trembling in the wind.

We flew faster than the wind. For a quarter of an hour we navigated above the forest without seeing anything else other than the tops of the great pines.

The night was superb and the moon illuminated the heavens like a beautiful noonday sun.

It was very cold and our moustaches were covered in frost as we were all rowing. All this was understandable since it was the devil who was guiding us, and I assure you all that it was not at a slow pace.

We soon saw a light in the distance; it was Gatineau wherein the light reflecting off the ice shone above us. Then little by little we saw the lights in the houses and then the church towers that glimmered like the bayonets of soldiers training on the Champ-de-Mars of Montreal.

We were passing the bell towers as fast as telegraph poles when traveling by train. And we still flew like demons shooting over the villages, forests and rivers and leaving a shining trail behind us. It was Baptiste, the possessed one, that was steering since he knew the way and we soon arrived at the Ottawa river that was our guide in order to descend toward the Lake of Two Mountains.

‘Wait a second’ cried Baptiste. ‘We’re going to fly low over Montreal to scare those who are still awake and celebrating. Joe, clear your throat and sing us a rowing song.’

We already saw the many lights of the big city and Baptiste with one stroke of the oar made us descend near the towers of Notre-Dame. I took out my chewing tobacco to make sure I didn’t swallow it and I belted out this song for the occasion that all the rowers repeated together.

I was my father’s only daughter
Canoe that will fly
And he sent me over the sea
Canoe that flies, that flies
Canoe that will fly

And he sent me over the sea
Canoe that will fly
The sailor who takes us
Canoe that flies, that flies
Canoe that will fly

The sailor who takes me
Canoe that will fly
Says, kiss me my love
Canoe that flies, that flies
Canoe that will fly

He says, kiss me my love
Canoe that will fly
No no, sir I will not
Canoe that flies, that flies
Canoe that will fly

No, no sir, I will not
Canoe that will fly
Because if my father found out
Canoe that flies, that flies
Canoe that will fly

Because if my father found out
Canoe that will fly
Oh, he would surely thrash me
Canoe that flies that flies
Canoe that will fly

Around two in the morning we saw groups of people stopping in the streets to look at us go by, but we were flying so fast that in the blink of an eye we had left Montreal and its suburbs behind. I started to count the church towers: those of Longue-Pointe, Pointe-aux-Trembles, Repentigny, Saint-Sulpice, and, finally, the two silver points of Lavaltrie that dominated the green summit of the region’s great pines.

‘Attention!’ shouted Baptiste, ‘We are going to land near the entrance of the forest in my godfather Jean-Jean Gabriel’s field and then we’ll go find some celebrations in the neighbourhood.’

We did as he said and five minutes later our canoe rested in a snow bank near Jean-Jean Gabriel’s forest, and all eight of us headed to the village. It was not easy going since there was no path through the snow, which came right up to our rears.

Baptiste, more excited than the others, went to knock on his godfather’s door where the lights were still on, but only a servant girl was home and told Baptiste that the older folk had gone for a snack at Robillard’s house, but that the boys and girls of the parish were all at Batissette Augé near Contrecoeur on the other side of the river where there was a New Year’s dance.

‘Let’s go to the dance at Batissette Augé’s!’ said Baptiste, ‘we’re certain to see our girlfriends there.’

We then returned to the canoe while being careful not to drink and to watch what we said because we had to be able to retake the same route and get back before six in the morning, otherwise we would be damned and the devil would take us to the depths of hell.

‘Acabris! Acabras! Acabram! Carry us over the mountains!’ shouted Baptiste once more.

And then we were all headed for la Petite-Misère while navigating through the air like the renegades that we were. With two strokes of the oar we had crossed the river and had arrived at Batissette Augé’s where the lights were still on. We could hear the vague sounds of a fiddle playing and the laughter of the dancers, whose shimmering shadows we saw through the frosted windows.

We hid our canoe by the shore.

Baptiste repeated, comrades, don’t be foolish and be careful what you say! Let’s dance like mad men but don’t drink a single glass of Molson (beer) nor rum, do you understand? And at my signal follow me because we need to leave without attracting attention.

Then we went to knock on the door.

Batissette came to answer the door and we were welcomed with open arms by all the visitors whom we mostly all knew.

We were greeted with many questions:

‘Where did you all come from?’

‘I thought you were in the camp!’

‘You’ve arrived late enough!’

‘Come have a drink!’

Baptiste said : ‘Give us a second to take off our coats and then let us dance a little. We came especially to dance. Tomorrow morning I’ll answer all your questions and we’ll tell you everything you want to know.’

I located Liza Guimbette and saw Boisjoli of Lanoraie boasting to her.

I approached her to say hello and to ask her for the next dance, a reel. She accepted with a smile that made me forget that I had risked my soul for the pleasure of her company.

During the next two hours we danced incessantly and there was not another who danced as I did. My comrades amused themselves like devils and the local guys were utterly annoyed by us all by the time four o’clock came around.

I thought I saw Baptiste Durand approach the buffet where whiskey was served, but I was so busy dancing with Liza that I didn’t really take notice. But when it was time to get back in the canoe I could clearly see that Baptiste was drunk, and I had to take him by the arm and drag him out with me while signaling to the others to follow without attracting attention.

We left one after another without drawing any attention and five minutes later we were once more in the canoe after being uncivilized and leaving the dance without saying goodbye to anyone, not even Liza who I’d invited for a dance. I’ve since thought that that was why she acted foolishly and married Boisjoli instead of me, and without inviting me to the wedding.

But to get back to the story of the canoe, we were quite disappointed to see that Baptiste had drank because it was he who steered us and we only had but enough time to get back to the camp for six in the morning. The moon had disappeared, the night was no longer moonlit like before and it was not without fear that I took my spot at the front of the canoe, keeping an eye on our route. Before we were lifted into the air I turned back to Baptiste and said: ‘Hey! Listen to me, my friend. Steer directly toward Mont Royal as soon as you see it.’

I know what I’m doing, responded Baptiste, so mind your own business!

I then repeated: Acabris! Acabras! Acabram! Take us over the mountains !
And then we were off at a great speed. But it became immediately obvious that our navigator was not as steady-handed as before since the canoe was zigzagging every which way. We passed not more than one hundred feet from the tower of Contrecoeur and instead of steering us west towards Montreal, Baptiste took us toward Richelieu. We bounced like a ball over Beloeil mountain and we just missed crashing into the great cross the bishop of Nancy had placed there.
‘Go right, Baptiste ! To the right ! you’re going to damn us all to hell if you don’t steer better than that !’
Then Baptiste turned the canoe to the right aiming for Mont Royal in the distance.
I swear I began to shake a little with fear because if Baptiste continued to steer this way we would be roasted like piglets on a fire (damned).
I assure you that we did not expect the rapid descent that came. The moment we passed over Mont Royal Baptiste dropped us straight down and in the blink of an eye we were lodged in a snow bank at the side of the mountain. Luckily the snow was soft and no one came to harm, and the canoe was in one piece.
But just as we had removed ourselves from the snow, Baptiste began to curse like a madman and argued that he wanted to go back to Gatineau to have a drink. I tried to reason with him but try to argue successfully with a drunk who wants to wet his whistle! And so, reaching the end of my patience and instead of abandoning our souls to the devil already licking his chops at seeing us in that state, I had a word with all my other comrades who were as afraid as I was. We then threw ourselves on Baptiste trying not to do him harm, then we tossed him in the bottom of the canoe after having tied him up like sausage and gagging him to prevent him from saying anything dangerous while we were in the air.
So we repeated the words and were on our way again going at a devilish pace since we only had one hour to get to the Gatineau camp. I steered this time and I can assure you I had my eyes open and my arm steady. We raced up the Ottawa river to the Pointe-à-Gatineau, and from there we headed north toward the camp.
We were only a few leagues away when that devil Baptiste managed to untie himself, take the gag out of his mouth, and stand up in the middle of the canoe and let loose a string of curses that made me shudder to the very tips of my hair.
It was impossible to wrestle him down in the canoe without risking a plummet of three hundred feet. The fool was jerking about like a hanged man, threatening us all with his oar that he was swinging about his head like an Irish man with his shillelagh. We were in a horrible fix as you can well understand. But luckily we arrived, however I was so excited that through a misstep while trying to dodge Baptiste’s oar I sent the canoe hurtling into the top of a tall pine, and suddenly we were falling, hitting every branch like a grouse shot out of a tree.
I don’t know how long it took to hit the ground because I lost consciousness before then, and my last memory was as that of a man dreaming of plunging down a bottomless well.
Around eight in the morning I woke up in my bed in our cabin where our comrades who found us plunged neck-deep in the snow had taken us. Nobody broke their neck thankfully, but I don’t think I need to tell you that I was in great pain including a black eye and a few cuts on my hands and face. The devil had not carried us all the way and I don’t need to tell you that I didn’t want to contradict the story that they had found us passed out rum-drunk in a snow bank. It already was bad enough that I had almost sold my soul to the devil and it wasn’t until years later that I told the real story of what happened.
All I can tell you, my friends, is that it’s not as fun as they say rowing through the air in the dead of winter, running the chasse-galerie just to see your girlfriend in town. If you believe my story then you’ll wait until the summer to go see your girlfriends without making a deal with the devil.
Then Joe plunged his spoon into the golden boiling molasses and declared that it was ready.