LL-L "Folklore" 2003.08.25 (07) [E/LS/Sorbian]

Tue Aug 26 05:18:46 UTC 2003

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A=Afrikaans Ap=Appalachian B=Brabantish D=Dutch E=English F=Frisian
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From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
Subject: Folklore

> From: Peter Meylof <peter.meylof at planet.nl>
> Subject: Folklore

> Ik bin my seaker dat oewleu van de Sage oawer de 'Witte Wyfen' heabt
heurd.

> Ik bin doonders newscierig, ho at dea Sage by oew in de buurte geet. Loat
my
> dat effen weaten aj wilt. En is d'r eane den weat of disse Sage van
> Saksischen oarsprong is?

Peter, Lowlanders,

I wonder if this theme of white godesses/angels (of death) does not go
beyond the spheres of Germanic (e.g., Valkyrie) and Celtic (e.g., “banshee”
< Irish _bean sídhe_ < _ben síde_ ‘white woman’), if perhaps this goes back
to an older Indo-European or even pre-Indo-European goddess or angel of
death figure.

It is interesting to note that there seem to be traces of similar notions in
Slavonic, at least in West Slavonic folklore.  An example is the “Midday
Wife” in the folklore of the Sorbs, a Slavonic-speaking ethnic minority
nowadays confined to Germany’s Lusatia (Sorbian _Łužica_, German _Lausitz_).
I am under the impression that the Midday Wife is featured more strongly in
Upper Sorbian folklore, namely in the south where traditionally there has
been direct contact with German rather than with Lowlands Saxon (Low
German).  Also, this figure seems to be connected with the German
mythological figure of the _Roggenmuhme_ (“Rye Crone”) who kills children
that roam in fields in the heat of day.  If this idea entered Slavonic via
Saxon it would most likely have done so via the northernmost Lower Sorbian
dialects and certain southeastern Saxon dialects (just south of Berlin).
This is not impossible, though I doubt it.  It would be interesting to know
if similar figures are known in Eastern and Southern Slavonic folklore.  Of
course this would not preclude the possibility that the notion originated as
a Germanic import, though I would be more inclined to suspect something much
older.

Below please find an example of how this Slavonic figure is represented in
today’s Upper Sorbian folkloristic literature (followed by my English
translation):

***

PŘIPOŁDNICA
[Adolf Černý]

Něhdy w starych časach je připołdnica była. To běše běła žona ze serpom,
kotraž při slónčnym wjedrje připołdnju po polach chodźeše, zo by ludźom, kiž
přez połnjo wonka dźěłachu, hłowu wotćała.
   Raz zetka připołdnica holcu na polu, kotraž přez připołdnjo len plěješe,
a chcyš jej wotzady hłowu wotrubnyć. Holca so na nju dohladawši poskoči,
zhrabny z mjezy swój serp a na njón pohladawši zawoła: „Ja so njeboju.“
Připołdnica rjekny: „Tež připołdnicy so njebojiš?“ Holca zawoła: „Nikoho so
ja njeboju!“ Připołdnica so směješe a rjekny: „Ty so mi lubiš.“ Holca praji:
„A ty so mi nelubiš, chiba zo by serp na trawu połožila.“ Připołdnica
rjekny: „To so hodźi“, pušći serp do trawy a potom dale rěčeše: „Ja chcu ći
žiwjenje wostajić, jelizo móžeš mi cyłu hodźinu wo lenu powědać.“ Holca
praji: „To sy zjebana; čehodla ja to njemóhła?“ Připołdnica rjekny: „Da
spytaj a powědaj.“ Holca sebi pomysli: „Ja budu kóžde słowo powědanja prawje
rozćahować, zo prawje wjele časa zańdźe a ja ćim wědćišo dobudu.“ Tuž započa
a rěčeše rozćahujcy: „Z le-nom je jaa-ra – jaaara –– wul-ka-haa-ra. Najpredy
so rola přihotuje, polo so wora a włóći – a to wšitko dyrbi so prawje derje
činić ... Haaaj – z le-nom je jaa-ra - jaaara –– wul-ka-haa-ra ...“ Tole
poslednje hrónčko při rozćahowacym powědanju jara husto wospjetowaše - a
prjedy hač bě poslednje slowo dorěčała, běše so hodźina drawno minyła.
Připołdnica rjekny: „Ty sy dobyła; ja sym přewinjena – a přewinjena so ja
nihdy wjace njewróću.“ Tak praješe a na serp zabywši připołdnica swoju
stronu dźěše, a potom ju ženje nichtó wjace wohladał njeje.

***

THE MIDDAY WIFE
[Adolf Černý]
[Translation: R. F. Hahn]

A long time ago there used to be the Midday Wife. It was a white woman with
a sickle, a woman that at noon appeared in fields for the purpose of
beheading people that worked out in the open in the middle of the day.
   Once the Midday Wife chanced upon a girl that was doing some weeding in a
field, and she was going to chop off her head from behind. When the girl saw
her she jumped up, grabbed a sickle from the edge of the field, looked at it
and said, “ I’m not afraid.” The Midday Wife said, “Not even of the Midday
Wife you aren’t afraid?” The girl shouted, “I’m afraid of no one!” The
Midday Wife laughed and said, “I like you.” The girl said, “And I don’t like
you, unless you drop the sickle onto the grass.” The Midday Wife said, “That
can be arranged,” dropped the sickle onto the grass and went on to say, “I’
ll let you keep your life if you can talk about flax for a whole hour.” The
girl said, “In that case you’re the one who’s being cheated. Why shouldn’t I
be able to do that?” The Midday Wife said, “All right, so give it a try;
start talking.” The girl thought, “I’m going to drag out every word in my
description nice and long, so a lot of time goes by and I’m all the more
sure to win.” So she started to talk, dragging out the words, “Wor-king with
flaaax is a lawt, a whole lawt of trou-ble. First the soil has got to be
prepared, the field has got to be plowed and harrowed - and all of this must
be done just right ... Yeah, wor-king with flaaax is a lawt, a whole lawt of
trou-ble.” She repeated this last phrase many times and dragged out the
words, and an hour had passed before she had finished saying the last word.
The Midday Wife said, “You’ve won; I’ve been defeated - and I never return
once I’ve been defeated.” Having said this, the Midday Wife went on her way,
even forgetting to take along her sickle, and no one ever saw her again.

***

Rumor has it that the Midday Wife got one of my female ancestors in a field
on a summer's day (near what is now the borders between Germany, Poland and
the Czech Republic) ...

Regards,
Reinhard/Ron

P.S.:
I used this Sorbian figure and also the apparently originally Slavonic
water-nix figure as multi-level metaphors in a (rather dark, some would say
“creepy”) Lowlands Saxon poem about my maternal grandmother (who was of
Sorbian descent):

MIDDAGSWIEV UN WATERMANN

se up’n stool vör de düüstere achtdaagsklock –
dat anknüttgaarn in kröpelige hannen klöört
de strümp för de gavenlaad’ tweerlei schraag’
tock, tock, tock – traag’ drüppene honnigtied
dirigeert dat up-un-daal vun twee goldringen
de enanner bie lütten upfräätt – un er heiland steit
bleek in’t licht un lett de kinner bie sick kamen
bloots ’n paar minuten to foot vun de bibelstünd
vun buten dämpstig jiepen un juuchen – binnen
schuul in ’n leev’ aan bedingen un de möde rœk
vun kattenkruut, kool un hammeltalg de as elend
rinkruupt in pulsters vun achteinhunnerd kroog –
wedder söökt wendlandsche vertellen vergävens
er klören up de nävelpalett vun’t pullwichelland

   In sneewitt Tüüg an’n Ackerrand
   Wiest se up die uut’t Heimaatland
   Mit knœkern’n Finger lang un stiev –
   Připołdnica, dat Middagswiev.

se hager un verloren up’n indigo-stempelden pœl
snackt vun de weltenkant up een siet vun’n mund –
er mannslüüd’ schœlt up er töven an’n ackerrand
kiek! de verläämde hand kann nu wull noch bäden
de fru bie de dœr treckt sick in eensen to uut un an
de bie’t finster findt in er handtasch er kinner nich
dat jaarhunnerd starvt jung – de aadler will lannen
keen elektroden un monitoorn hier, bloots duur –
töven – grootmoderrœk nu nich meer to’n schulen
de schadden vun maigröön bävert so fuchtig, bang
un schüllig üm dat krüüz up de sture witscherwand!
denn ga ga ga man wenn dat gaan noch good geit
wenn de wind die vun nor’n weit! spööklichten gœkelt
œver’n muddigen pool un nœlich dümpelt de vertellen

   Mank Aadbaarblomen an’n Dümpelrand
   Liggt he up d’ Luur in’t Heimaatland,
   Treckt die in’t Depe, wenn he kann –
   Wódny muž, de Watermann.

se up’t vergrieste bild in’t album uut de schuuvlaad’
twüschen er deerns un mannslüüd’ up d’ schisslong
jüm er naams al schräven up de granaat un de bomb
famieljenwääl ünner’t massenportree vun’n antichrist
lett de kinner bie sick kamen to’n starven un verdarven
Warte, warte nur ein Weilchen! – schädels wardt al mäten
laatnachtens kaamt lasters un laatt lastig swiegen achter
grootmoderrœk nu nich meer to’n schulen – tick-tick ...
achtdaagsklock in’n dubbeltakt – gau ... virtuell ... digitaal
müürn liegt wrack un daal – dat jaardusend starvt flink
klick up ’n link! – liekers wardt lasters er lasten nich loos
laterdagwulken seilt dörch’n schalm – keen unraad markt
de aadbaarblomen nerrn schüpp-schülpern aantenflutt
un an’n ackerrand staat aanwäten de roggenblomen

      1) _Soltauer Schriften_ 1999, 106–107
      2) _Ick löw, ick bin en Stück von di ...:
Freudenthal-Preisträger/innen
      1976-2001, ein niederdeutsches Lesebuch_, Heinrich Kröger, ed.,
      Rostock: Hinstorff, 2002; 225–226.

MIDDAY WIFE AND WATER MAN

she on the chair in front of the dark eight-day clock—
the darning yarn in crippled hands coloring
the socks for the gift drawer twofold paltry
tock, tock, tock—sluggishly dripping honey time
directing the up-and-down of two gold rings that
gradually devour each other—and her savior is standing
pallid in the light and lets the children come to him
only a few minutes’ walk to the next bible meeting
from the outside muffled twittering and cheering—inside
shelter in unconditional love and the weary smell
of valerian, cabbage, and mutton suet that enters
as misery into upholstery from times long gone by—
once again tales from Slav lands searching in vain for
their hues on the misty palette of the pollard willow land

   At the field’s brink in your native land
   All dressed in white with outstretched hand
   And bony finger she points at your life—
   Připołdnica, the midday wife.

she haggard and forlorn on the indigo-stamped pillow
is talking of the world’s edge on one side of her mouth—
her menfolk are supposed to be waiting for her at the brink
look! the paralyzed hand still seems to be able to pray
the woman by the door keeps getting undressed and dressed
the one by the window can’t find her children in her purse
the century is dying young—the eagle wants to land
though no electrodes and monitors here, just patience—
waiting—grandmother smell now no more for shelter
the shadows of young birch green trembling so wildly, anxiously
and guiltily about the cross on the stark whitewashed wall!
then just go go go while the going is still good, while your
wind’s blowing from the north! will-o’-the-wisps are swaying
above the muddy pool and tales keep bobbing languidly

   On the bank where water lilies stand
   He’s lying in wait in your native land,
   Will pull you down under deep if he can—
   Wódny muž, the water man.

she in the grayed picture in the album from the drawer
between her girls and her men on the chaise longue
their names already written on the grenade and the bomb
family bliss beneath the mass portrait of the antichrist
lets the children come to him for death and depravity
Warte, warte nur ein Weilchen!— skulls are being measured already
lorries come late at night and leave heavy silence behind
grandmother smell now no more for shelter—tick-tick ...
eight-day clock in double time—hastily ... virtually ... digitally
walls are lying in ruins—the millennium is on the brink
click on a link!—yet lorries still cannot lose their loads
latter-day clouds sailing through rushes—the water lilies
suspect no harm beneath the duckweed’s flood-fluid swaying
and the cornflowers at the field’s brink stand unaware

             [translated by the author]

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