TRÉMEUR OR THE HEADLESS MAN

_{New meeting with Saint Herbot.}

Trémeur therefore entered the cabaret, and, with a thick tongue, as expected, he asked for a good drink of sistr’ mad (apple cider). The old woman poured it full of it into an enormous pitcher; our traveler was soaked. The red man naturally relighted the fire and made Trémeur sit as close to the hearth as possible. Trémeur, holding the pitcher under his chin, began to drink with delight, without seeing the witch who was laughing, the fire which was flaming behind, and the butter which was melting rapidly on his poor neck...

Suddenly the devil got involved, for sure, because the protruding head rolled into the large pitcher that the drinker held in both hands. Now, the sexton, who was a famous prankster, although a gravedigger by trade, said that Trémeur continued to drink his cider, with so much ardor, that he swallowed... (In truth this is too hard to swallow, all the same!) But what do you want? So he said that Trémeur had swallowed his head, his own head, and that he only noticed it when he was paying the expense and saying kenavo, good evening, to the company...

Rest assured: we will not follow this prankster sexton in this awful joke, and I will tell you the real truth.

Then, the detached head having rolled into the bottom of the pitcher, the red man, who was writhing with laughter, tied the pitcher with a string to Trémeur's back, and told him that there was no longer any need, in a cabaret, of an imbecile without a head, and therefore without a mouth, to consume good cider. It was quite natural, and poor Trémeur understood it. So he set off with his pitcher and his head on his back and resolved to go find Saint Herbot, his godfather, in the hermitage where he lived, near the waterfall that bears his name.

""Knock Knock.""

"Who's there?"

No answer.

Saint Herbot, having looked through the skylight, exclaimed:

"Here is a strange wanderer, without a face. Ah! I bet he’s my godson! You stood in the sun, or too close to the fire, my boy: the butter melted, and..."

"And my head slipped, and I come to ask you for it again, my godfather."

Trémeur did not respond in this way, of course, but he tried to make him understood, in the manner of mutes, by moving his shoulders and his pitcher.

“This is not too clear,” said the hermit, "You should first tell me where your devil is."

Then, by shaking harder the large pitcher where the cider was sloshing nicely, Trémeur managed to grab the string and signaled to the hermit to look inside.

"By the horns of my cow!" cried the owner of good butter, examining the fatal pitcher, “There is his head, his head drowned in cider! Ah! it is a big sin of drunkenness, and this time, my poor boy, there is only our Holy Father the Pope who can absolve you and restore you, if it is an effect of the will of God. In the meantime, my son, come in here, and let's talk a little."

Source: Trémeur ou l'homme sans tête from the French book Contes et légendes de Basse-Bretagne published in 1891.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Part 6