For the ancient Celts, death was a transition from one form of existence into another: from the material world that we know and experience every day to a mystical Otherworld that lay just outside our realm of consciousness. This transition from one reality to another was accomplished in a number of ways. The dying person could be carried off by beautiful maidens, as in the death of the Celtic King Arthur, or he or she could be carried off by dark horsemen, who appear in several Irish and Manx tales.
The most common method for carrying off the souls of the dead in Ireland, Scotland, and Brittany, however, was the “death coach,” a fearsome vehicle that traveled about the night-bound roads, collecting the spirits of those who had died to take them to the Otherworld (and during the Christian period to Paradise or Hell). In Ireland, it was known as the “coshta-bodhr” (coach-a-bower) or “deaf coach,” as it's passing made no sound—although this wasn't always the case. Sometimes, the thing rumbled along so fast along the Irish roads that it set the very bushes along the roadsides on fire. It was a conveyance that inspired awe and terror.
In Brittany, this horrible vehicle was no more than a creaking cart, loaded with the souls of the dead and driven by a creature known as the Ankou. Explanations as to what this being actually was vary from place to place. In some areas of Brittany, he is the Lord of the Dead, responsible for the safekeeping of the dead until they receive their Ultimate Reward; in order regions, he is a ghost or specter. He is always the embodiment of Death or Father Time.
The following account of the Ankolu—possibly the best that there is—is taken from Breton writer and folklorist Anatole Le Braz's (1859–1926) seminal work on Breton death and the supernatural, La Legende de la mort en Basse-Britagne, croyances et usages des Bretons armoricaines (published in Paris in 1893).
Excerpt From La Legende de la mort en
Basse-Britagne, croyances et usages des
Bretons armoricaines
by Anatole Le Braz
In many places, the last one to die in each year becomes the Ankou; in a few places it is the first one to die.
When there have been more deaths than usual in a year, they say the Ankou is a wicked one.
Sometimes they depict the Ankou as a tall, thin man with long white hair and a face shaded by a large felt hat; sometimes in the form of a skeleton draped in a shroud, and whose head turns continuously, just like a weather cock, so that he can see all the region he has to cover at a single glance.
In one case or the other he holds a scythe. It differs from ordinary scythes in having its blade turned the other way round, so that when he uses it, instead of bringing it towards him, he pushes it forward.
The Ankou's coach is like the ones they used in the old days for transporting the dead.
It is usually pulled by two horses harnessed in line. The one in front is thin, emaciated and scarcely able to stand on its feet. The one behind is fat, with a shiny coat, and without a collar.
The Ankou stands in the coach.
He is escorted by two companions, both of whom walk. One of them leads the first horse by the bridle. The other has the job of opening the field gates and the doors of the houses. He is also the one who piles the dead up in the coach; the dead whom the Ankou has harvested.
When the Ankou sets out on his tour, they say his coach is filled with pebbles that it will go more heavily, making more noise.
When he reaches the house where there is someone that he must harvest, he abruptly discharges his load, to make room for his new ‘ballast.’
That is the cause of the sound of pebbles which is heard so often in home where they are watching over a dying person, just at the time of that person's last breath.
“It was a night in June, at a time when they leave the horses out all night.
A young man had taken his horses to the fields. He was whistling on his way back, for the night was clear and the moon was shining. He heard a coach coming towards him, a coach whose badly greased axle went ‘squeak-squeak.’
But he was sure it was the coach of death.
‘At least I'll be able to see that coach with my own eyes’ he thought.
And he crossed the ditch and hid himself in a clump of hazels so that he could see without being seen.
The coach came into view.
It was drawn by three white horses harnessed one behind the other. Two men accompanied it, each dressed in black and wearing wide-brimmed felt hats. One of them led the first horse by the bridle; the other was standing up in the front of the coach.
As the coach came opposite the hazel clump where the young man was hiding, the axle went ‘crack.’
‘Stop’ said the man on the coach to the one who was leading the horses.
The man cried ‘woa’ and the team came to a halt.
‘The axle pin's just broken’, said the Ankou. ‘Go and cut what you need to make a new one from that hazel clump over there.’
‘I'm lost’ thought the young man, who right then regretted his indiscreet curiosity very much.
However, he was not punished there and then. The coachman cut off a branch, shaped it, inserted it into the axle and then the horses went on their way.
The young man was able to return home safe and sound, but towards morning, he was taken with an unknown fever and they buried him the next day.”
[Editor's Note: Told by Francoise, daughter of Jean Le Gac, 1890]
“Gab Lucas worked at Rune-Riou. He went back every night to Kerdrenkenn where he lived with his wife Madelaine and five children in the most wretched thatched cottage of the poor village. For Gab Lucas had only the ten pennies that he earned by very hard work each day. This did not prevent him from having a happy nature and being a good worker. The owners of Rune-Riou valued him. At the end of the week, they often invited him to spend Saturday evening with them, drinking flip (rum and cider) and eating roast chestnuts. At the stroke of ten the farmer would give Gab his weekly wage and his wife would always add some present for the household at Kerdrenkenn.
One Saturday night she said to him
‘Gab, I've put a sack of potatoes aside for you. Give them to Madelaine on my behalf’.
Gab Lucas thanked her, threw the sack on his back and set off home, after having wished everyone good night.
It is a good three quarters of a league from Rune-Riou to Kerdrenkenn. Gab walked sprightly at first. The moon was shining and the good flip he had drunk warmed his stomach. He whistled a Breton air to keep himself company, happy that Madelaine would be pleased when she saw him return with a good sack of potatoes. They would cook a large potful for the next day; they would add a slice of pork belly to it, and they would all enjoy themselves.
All went well for a quarter of a league.
But then the virtue of the flip wore off in the coolness of the night. Gab felt all the tiredness of the day's work come back to him. The sack of potatoes began to weigh heavy on his shoulders. Soon he no longer felt like whistling.
‘If only a wagon would come by’ he thought.... ‘But I'll have no such luck.’
But just then he reached the cross where the track from the farm at Nizilzi joins the road.
‘Well,’ said Gab ‘I can always sit on the steps of the cross for a moment whilst I catch my breath.’
He set his load down, sat beside it, and lit his pipe.
The countryside was silent all around.
Suddenly the dogs at Nizilzi began to howl pitifully.
‘Why on earth are they making such a din?’ wondered Gab.
Then he heard the sound of a cart coming from Nizilzi. Its badly greased axle went squeak, squeak.
‘It looks as though my wish is about to come true; they must be going for a load of sand, they'll take my sack right to my door,’ said Gab to himself.
He saw the horses come into view, and then the cart. They were terribly thin and emaciated those horses. They were certainly not from Nizilzi, because their horses always looked so fat and shiny. As for the cart, its base was made of a few loosely fitted planks, two rude hurdles served as sides. A great gawk of a man, who was just as scraggy as his beasts, led this pitiful team. A large felt hat shaded his face. Gab could not recognise him. He greeted him all the same.
‘Comrade would you have room for this sack in your cart? My back's aching. I'm only going as far as Kerdrenkenn.’
The carter did not reply.
‘He must not have heard me,’ said Gab to himself. ‘That awful cart makes such a noise.’
The opportunity was too good to be missed. Gab hurriedly put his pipe out, stuffed it into his jacket pocket, grabbed the sack of potatoes, and ran after the cart, which was going fast enough. He ended by catching up with it and dropped his sack inside, letting out a sigh of relief.
But how do you explain this? The sack went through the old planks and landed on the ground.
‘What sort of a cart is this?’ said Gab to himself.
He picked up the sack and once more put it in the cart, but this time further forward.
But the base of the cart had no solidity, for the sack and Gab went through it. Both of them rolled on the ground.
The strange team wound on its way. Its mysterious leader had not even turned his head.
Gab let them move away from him. When they had disappeared, he took his own turn to go up to Kerdrenkenn, where he arrived half-dead from fright.
‘What's wrong’ asked Madeaine, seeing him so upset.
Gab told her of his adventure.
‘It's quite simple.’ said his wife to him, ‘You've met the coach of the dead.’
Gab almost had a fit. The next day, they heard the church bell ringing. The Master of Nizilzi had died on the previous night, towards half-past ten.”
[Editor's Note: Told by Marie-Yvonne, Port Blanc]