As you may know, behind Aeternum is a small business based in Brittany (specifically in the south of Finistère). And it is well known that this region lives to the rhythm of legends, myths, and magical practices more or less known (Brocéliande, Merlin, the Fairy Viviane, the Alignments, and many others). Thus, to highlight our beautiful region, we will regularly publish little-known legends from Breton history. This week, we head to Morbihan.
Many centuries ago, in the village of Saint-Salomon, lived a miller as rich as he was stingy. Little concerned with the well-being of others, he only thought about protecting his possessions from curious eyes and too skillful hands. He dreamed of surrounding his mill with an impenetrable stone wall, a rampart that would deter thieves and assert his supremacy over the surrounding lands.
But building such a fortification required time, labor, and above all, money. However, the masons he consulted asked for a price he considered exorbitant. Refusing to loosen his purse strings, the miller grew impatient. Then the idea came to him to turn to a different kind of craftsman, a being said to be capable of raising monuments in one night: the Devil himself.
On a moonless night, he drew a pentacle on the ground and summoned the Evil One. The shadow appeared, imposing and sneering, ready to negotiate. “I will build your wall before dawn,” promised the Devil, “but in exchange, you will give me what you hold most precious.”
The miller hesitated, feigning thought, then declared: “So be it. You shall have my daughter. But on one condition: the wall must be finished before the rooster crows.”
A carnivorous smile split the demon’s face. He accepted, confident of his victory. Without wasting a moment, he set to work. In the pale moonlight, the stones piled up with inhuman speed. The foundations were laid in the blink of an eye, the walls rose in spectral silence. The miller watched, worried but confident in his secret plan.
When there was only one stone left to place, the one the Devil was carrying in his arms, a piercing cry broke the night. The rooster’s crow!
The demon stopped dead, frozen in horror. Tricked! The miller had ordered his servant to dip the poultry in a bucket of ice water, forcing it to crow early.
Furious at being deceived, the Devil let out a furious howl. In one last fit of rage, he struck the stone with such force that it sank deep into the ground. His hands and arms left an indelible imprint, forever marking the place of his defeat. Then, in a whirlwind of smoke and flames, he disappeared.
Since that day, the menhir of Bormouïs, nicknamed the Devil’s Stone, stands alone, keeping the memory of this bold trick. The elders say that by approaching the stone, you can still make out the imprint of the demon’s hands, frozen for eternity in the cold rock.
Source: Port d'Attache
