Shownotes Transcript
This time on Myths and Legends, it's a story of a New Year's party in the Canadian wilderness and of eight men who desperately do not want to be in the Canadian wilderness for New Year's. The creature this time is a giant goat with swivel horns who's held in way higher regard than he probably deserves. This is Myths and Legends, episode 399, Wild Night. ♪
This is a podcast where we tell stories from mythology and folklore. Some are incredibly popular tales you might think you know, but with surprising origins. Others are stories that might be new to you, but are definitely worth a listen. Today's story takes place in the 19th century in Canada, among French-Canadian loggers. Even though, to me, it seems counterintuitive, logging actually took place primarily in the winter back then.
When the trees would be easier to cut, when the sap wasn't flowing and the ground was clear thanks to the ice and snow, and when the world thawed in the spring, they would send the logs down the river to the sawmills, and they would get to go home in early summer, coming back in the winter to start all over again. Which is why a group of guys are celebrating New Year's together in the far north. And for one night, they don't want to be loggers in the far north. They want to be partygoers back home in the south.
They will, it seems, do anything to be able to get home, even make a deal with the devil. I got this kettle of molasses for the candy pool later, Joe said, sitting back by the fire and lighting his pipe. The woodcutter sighed. It was either go to the shanty, which was, no joke, a literal haze of tobacco smoke, or hang out with the cook here, little Joe, where his face roasted and his back was freezing, sitting by the fire.
Look at you, what do you have to be sad about? You have tobacco, we're doing a candy pull later. Little Joe took a long draw and put his feet up. He was really excited about the candy pull. We are stuck in the Canadian wilderness. I'm a logger in an extremely dangerous industry. It's like a 10% mortality rate year over year. And yeah, we have smoking and alcohol, but when numbing yourself to your life is the high point, that's almost sadder. Joe thought about it.
Yeah, still the candy pole, though. And we do the barrel jump at midnight. Then we go around to the other camps and congratulate them on making it to the new year. Granted, I realize a bunch of men wandering around the Canadian wilderness is a recipe for a few not making it very long into the new year, but tradition.
He looked left and right and reached forward, into the woodpile, and he popped the cork on the warm Jamaican rum he had sitting by the fire. What? Just because the kid was all depressed about life and stuff didn't mean he couldn't enjoy a drink. He had been at this job for 40 years now, cooking for the shanties. If you couldn't enjoy the little things, he downed his little drink, you couldn't enjoy the big things. And like the small rivulets make a large river, small drinks empty large barrels. He poured
poured himself another small drink to chip away at that large barrel. Besides, Joe, the cook, asked the logger, where would you rather be tonight? Oh, I don't know, with my girlfriend, the man barked, instead of with a bunch of guys in a smoky shanty in the freezing woods. And what would you give to go be with her? Money? Your life? Your soul? Joe's face seemed to glow with an infernal light in the campfire.
The vlogger asked what he was getting at here. Joe laughed. No, no, he understood. He used to be just like the man. He was willing to give anything to get what he wanted.
The kid muttered that that wasn't really his motivation here. He just didn't like working over the holidays. Yes, I was a rascal in my youth, but I have long since mended my ways. I never joke about religious matters, and I go to confession regularly every year. Joe took another swig of rum. The man said, oh, okay.
What I'm about to tell you took place on a New Year's Eve like this, 34 or 35 years ago, in a time when I feared neither God nor the devil, but on a night where I would learn to fear both. Oh, you know, I think I'm just going to go back and... But Joe cut him off and started his story. Joe, Joe, wake up. Joe's head pounded and his world was spinning. What time was it?
"It's after midnight, 34 or 35 years ago," Baptiste Durand said. Joe had missed the barrel jump, and most of the others had gone to see the other camps. He was going to see his sweetheart in Lavatoli.
Would Joe want to come with him? Joe sat up. He might still be extremely drunk, but Levateri was 300 miles away? They couldn't travel that distance in two months with the forest between here and there, especially with the roads covered and them having to work at sunup tomorrow.
Baptiste Durant grinned. Oh, they would make it. They would make it with time left over, because they would do Le Chasse Galerie. Joe sat up. No. Baptiste nodded, yes. They would travel in the bark canoe over trees, and they would be back before breakfast. Joe shook his head, it was too risky. You don't think a canoe can fly? Baptiste shouted. No.
No, it's precisely because I do think that that I shall tell you the story of Sébastien Lecel, the first among us to ride in a flying canoe. Baptiste drew Joe to his side and, above protests, started his story. A shambly mass of dead animals was emerging from the forest. The men grabbed their guns and then, oh, it was just Sébastien.
Everyone joked that Sebastian LaSalle had been born with a gun in his hand. And though none of them quite knew the biology well enough to prove that he wasn't, he had nonetheless been hunting since he was a child. It was his favorite pastime that he had turned into his profession. And, as someone whose hobby turned into their job, I can say that that can be a challenge. It's great, and I love it, but it can blur the line between work and life until you're working all the time and you don't even realize it.
Sebastian had that too, but he absolutely loved it. He would be gone for weeks at a time and return with just way too many dead animals. Killing stuff in the woods! He dumped the animals off with the merchants, collected his money, bought some more provisions and bullets, and got right back out there. This went on for years. We should all be so happy as Sebastian was, shooting stuff in the forest.
One day, though, he only clipped a deer. How dare he not die? Sebastian fired again and missed wide as the deer bounced off into the forest. He followed the tracks and the blood spots to a house, a small cabin deep in the part of the forest he had never traveled before. And from it, a song floated on the wind. He threw the gun over his back and knocked on the door, which creaked open and he saw her.
A young woman about his age dressing the wound on the side of the deer. In that instant, he loved something, someone, more than shooting animals in the wilderness. He loved Zoe. He could barely muster the courage to say hi. She smiled back at him. Zoe Demersak couldn't help feeling like something was wrong. Her relationship with Sebastian was good.
He stayed with her and her father that winter. While she was out with her dad extracting sap from the maple trees, Sebastian hunted and provided meals for them and for months they were happy. They had her father's approval and come the following September, they were set to wed.
Still, she had a terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen. Sebastian, quote, in the superb enjoyment of his healthy physique, could not sympathize with her and only laughed at her fears, end quote.
Look, I am no relationship expert. I have been married for over a decade now. And one of the ways we've managed that is when one of us is worried about something, we don't laugh in their face about it and then like break a belt with our neck like Gaston. What I'm saying is that even more than the vague portent of dread that she felt, this was a red flag.
"'Babe, tomorrow is our wedding day,' Sebastian said. "'It will be fine.' She said she just had one concern. Could he actually be a real husband? Could he become a serious, homestaying man? He left on hunts for weeks at a time, but she, as his wife, would need more than that. According to one version, an unconscious sigh escaped him, and he looked off toward the sky.
She said she knew he didn't want to talk about this, but he had been avoiding it for weeks and tomorrow was their wait. Where was he going? He took off in a run toward the forest and, try as she might, she could not catch him. I know we have some younger listeners, so let me just say, if anytime you want to have a talk with your partner and they literally run away from you, if they want to physically not be there anymore rather than deal with any feeling, that's not a great sign.
That was not Sebastian, though, Zoe learned when he returned. He wasn't trying to run from feelings and intimacy. He just wasn't paying attention to her words at all. He pointed toward the sky. Some ducks flew overhead. He and his buddies had to go on a hunt.
This is Canada. There are always ducks flying overhead. Zoe cried as Sebastian and his duck hunting boys got in the canoe. He told her not to worry. He'd be back in a year and a day. What? She looked up in shock. I'll be back by the wedding, babe. Sebastian laughed. He clapped. All right, let's go kill some ducks.
As the men paddled off down the river, the same feeling of unease grew in Zoe, until she felt like she would scream. Sebastian didn't return the next day, nor the day after. Zoe returned to the spot day after day and week after week, waiting out there all fall and winter. By the time spring came along, she had wasted away to almost nothing, pining after the man she loved.
Soon, she couldn't even stand. And her father brought a chair out for her to sit and look up at the sky. Finally, it was the day. A year after their wedding was supposed to take place. One year and one day after Sebastian left. She looked up in the sky. There he was. His canoe. His canoe and all the others. They were still up there. They had returned for her. He had returned for her.
"'See, see, there is Sebastian in the boat. He beckons to me, and our dog is barking so joyously. Did I not tell you he would come for me? Sebastian, I come, I come!' And then her spirit flew to him, and everyone standing on the shore of the lake saw the phantom boat drifting on a billow of clouds, and heard the barking dog as the vision melted into the boundless blue. "'So there you have it,' Baptiste said. "'Canoes can fly.'
How is that proof? Little Joe, the cook, asked. He might have had a bit too much to drink, but even he could tell that that wasn't proof. It's the origin story of Le Chasse-Galerie, Baptiste scoffed.
Um, well, first, Joe raised a finger. That was maybe the origin. Other origins have the hunter wanting to hunt rather than go to mass, so he was doomed to hunt for all eternity in his flying canoe, in a tale that's reminiscent of the wild hunt motif from European and Celtic societies. Sebastian just shirked his worldly responsibilities. In many ways, his story's kind of a happy one. He gets to hunt forever with his fiancée.
Also, second, I didn't say I didn't believe it. I know what it is. I just don't want to sell my soul to ride in a flying canoe, Joe said as Baptiste freshened up his rum.
Baptiste told the little man to relax. It was really easy. He had done it five times, and look, he still had a soul. All you had to do was not take God's name in vain while in the air and not touch any church steeples while they traveled. It was actually really easy. He drank from his empty cup, and Joe followed without thinking, drinking the rum from his own.
Look, Joe, I'm just saying, we can go to La Vaterie and be back in six hours. We can go 150 miles per hour. And frankly, you're no saint. None of us are. It's not like you don't risk your soul every day out here by just being you. Joe took another sip. Yes, he took too much drink. And yes, he didn't really think about religion or go to confession, but there was a bit
big, big difference between getting kind of drunk sometimes and not thinking about God and literally offering your soul to the devil for a magical canoe ride. Baptiste looked to the ground. Well, now he was embarrassed for sticking up for Joe. All the others, they said that Joe was too much of a coward, the little cook who hangs back at camp and doesn't go out into the forest with us. But I said, no, he is not a scared little man. He does not traffic in superstition.
Joe said it wasn't superstition. If the craft literally flew, there was reason to believe the devil would claim your soul. Baptiste laughed. As long as they were careful and stayed sober, they were fine. Plus, he would want to stay sober. Think about that lovely little Lisa Guimbert. She lived in Le Vatelé, didn't she? Think about how nice it would be to kiss her on New Year's. Joe didn't like the idea of people in camp thinking that he was a coward. He didn't like the idea of people in camp thinking that he was a coward.
And he did like the idea of kissing Lisa Guimbert. And if Baptiste Delon had made the trip five times already and survived, Joe sighed. Yeah, okay, he'd do it. Where was the canoe? We'll see Joe and company's wild ride, but that will be right after this. We get our eighth, someone called out from the shore. Right here, Baptiste pointed back to Joe.
The rest of them squinted. Who was that? Baptiste said it was Joe, the cook. Remember how they were always calling him a coward for not doing this? Well, now he's here. Baptiste laughed. We don't call him a coward, one of the men said before Joe interrupted. Wait.
Eighth? One of the men getting the canoe ready turned. Yeah, they needed to balance it out so there always had to be an even number of riders. Joe felt Baptiste's hand on his back, guiding him to a seat in the back of the boat next to him. He wanted Joe to be here, to be sure. It did help that it made the trip possible. It was a win-win. All right, now time for the oath. Baptiste turned to Joe, repeat after me.
They cried out to Satan, king of the infernal regions, quote, We promise to sell you our souls if within the following six hours we pronounce the name of God, your master and ours, or if we touch a cross on the voyage, on the condition that you will transport us through the air, wherever we may want to go, and bring us back safe and sound to the shanty. Make us travel over the mountains.
which are apparently the three magic words. Joe was about to step out of the canoe because these guys were obviously messing with him. They had all planned this when they were out cutting wood, playing a joke on little Joe, the cook.
But when he swung his foot around, he found that he, all of them really, were 600 feet up in the air in a flying canoe. It was only Baptiste's hand on his shoulders that kept him from flying up and over. Joe shook as he dared to peer out over the sides. He was looking down on the tops of the pine trees, of the river winding off farther north than he had ever been, of the mountains in the distance.
Come on, pick up your oar, let's go, Baptiste called out. Joe wouldn't dare remove his hands from the side of the canoe. What?
It's just as likely to capsize as a normal canoe. You'll be fine. Baptiste tried to pry Joe's hands free and get him to pick up the oar. Those flip over all the time, Joe cried. But Baptiste reasoned with him. Staying up or going back down? Both required him to pick up the oar. They weren't moving either way until Joe took it. So Joe took it.
He picked up the oar and, sticking it out of the boat, started paddling at the air. With each coordinated push of the oars, the canoe shot like an arrow through the sky, going faster than the wind. Their bodies were warm from the constant rowing, but, according to the story, their mustaches were frozen by the cold air up so high. They traveled over the frozen Gatineau River, seeing the glowing farmhouses dotting the fields ahead.
They heard bands playing as they looked down on town celebrating the new year. They passed over forests, rivers, towns, villages, and everywhere they went, they left a trail of sparks in the night sky behind them. Baptiste guided them and steered. He knew the route, and soon they saw the Ottawa River. Just then, Baptiste laughed. They were almost to Montreal.
They were going to have some fun with the churchgoers, getting close. They swooped down toward the Notre Dame Basilica in Montreal and, careful to avoid the towers, saw the people leaving church. Baptiste startled them, and though Joe might have felt a little bad about scaring the people, they weren't actually hurting anyone. They started up a song where they were, essentially, singing from the perspective of a daughter who's being wooed by a sailor in the bark canoe that flies and wants a kiss. I linked it in the show notes.
They laughed as the people stood bewildered and counted the steeples as they flew over Montreal. Soon they saw the two shining spires of La Vaterie, a town just north of Montreal, on the St. Lawrence River. We're going to land on the edge of the wood, Baptiste cried out. That was the field of his godfather, Jean-Jean Gabriel. They would go on foot through town. Ten minutes later, Joe was on the ground. It was surreal. The ground had never felt so solid and reassuring, but
He had flown. Like a bird through the sky, he had seen the world as few others had before, and he would never forget it. Now, though, it apparently was party time. The snow was thigh-deep for most of them, and waist-deep for Joe. They trudged to town until the white moonlight became the warm lantern light, and learned that the party was...
across the St. Lawrence River. So they found their canoe again, took it over, and landed. They all promised to meet back there. They had two hours in town because it was 2 a.m. already and they had to be back by 6 a.m. or else the devil would keep their souls. With two hours of travel time that gave them, let's do the math, absolutely no wiggle room. Remember, no saying you know whose name in vain, no touching anything in the shape of a cross, and no drinking. All right.
Have fun, everyone. Joe said he thought that all those rules were just for when they were flying. That was just for when they were flying, right? Baptiste laughed. Joe would be fine. Just relax. Unless relaxing involves swearing, drinking, or touching crosses, then absolutely do not relax.
The shanty boys, as the story calls them, knocked on the door of the dance hall. The man who opened the door, old Batset, called out to the young men and women behind him to look who was here. Dresses swished and toes tapped on the floor as the room left the dance floor briefly to see Baptiste, Joe, and the other shanty boys taking off their coats. Why are you all so late, one asked, and I
I thought you all were working up the Gatineau River. Another chimed in. Joe's heart beat faster for a bit, worried that people would find out he made a deal with the actual devil. But Baptiste said first, let them get their coats off. Then let them dance. Then, if by morning they were all still curious, he would answer all their questions. Joe didn't know about that, but by the time Baptiste said it, he didn't much care. His eyes had already settled on her. Lisa Guimbert, the woman he loved.
and her soft hand in his made him forget that he had risked the salvation of his soul. They danced for two hours straight, and while Joe was mostly entranced by her, he couldn't help but notice that Baptiste kept visiting the buffet. Still, Joe wouldn't see Lisa for months, and he wanted to get in as much time as he could with her now. Baptiste knew what was at risk. He would not make a foolish choice. Come about 3.55 a.m.,
Joe could see the shanty boys starting to congregate by the door, and seeing Baptiste on the dance floor, he could tell his worst fears were confirmed. Baptiste was completely loaded. The men at the door were waving for Joe and Baptiste to come on. They had 300 miles to go and two hours to travel it. They
They were cutting it close already. Joe broke off from his dance with Lisa, grabbed Baptiste, who fought and swatted at him all the way out. Joe grabbed his and Baptiste's coats from the rack, and the blast of Canadian winter wind hit them as they rushed out into the night, the whole dance hall confused and frankly a little insulted by their sudden disappearance. "'He's drunk?' one of the shanty boys yelled. "'He was the one who knew the way back. No one else even knew how to steer the thing.'
The men started to panic as, in the distance, a church bell chimed four. They now had to go as fast as possible. Joe rallied everyone. Get in the boat. He would manage Baptiste. A gentle coaxing turned out to be better than yelly accusations. And Joe sat in the back with Baptiste.
Well, they all said the magic words, akabrisakabrasakabram. Baptiste slurred his, but they guessed it counted because, moments later, they hovered 600 feet above ground. Joe pointed. Okay, see Mont-Royal? Go there first, okay? Baptiste inhaled sharply and woke up. What? Yeah, okay, he had this. Let's go. And they banked hard to the left and almost ended up in the Richelieu River. Okay, all right. Joe helped them all to not fall out, and Baptiste corrected.
and then overcorrected. Joe, Joe, one of the men in front cried out. They were heading right for a crucifix. Some rules, like not getting drunk, were, it seems, practical. If they all were drinking, then no one would be sober enough to get them home. The crucifix one, though, I'm pretty sure that was an instant game over. Joe shrieked and, pulling Baptiste's hand, they passed within ten feet of perdition, and...
After nearly crashing into a building, Joe coaxed Baptiste to get them back in the sky and, finally, heading toward Montreal. Baptiste grumbled that he knew his business, and the canoe lurched forward. Joe breathed as they approached Montreux. Good, okay. From there, they just needed to travel up the Gatineau, and then he nudged Baptiste to pull up a bit. Baptiste, who was not focused on the mountain that was no longer in front but below them, but just in front of them.
He was looking down at the lights of Montreal, and the music still echoing up, even so late in the night or early in the morning. I'm taking her in, boys, Baptiste cried out, and dove. The rest of the men braced themselves. Joe desperately tried to wrestle the oars from Baptiste's grasp, but seeing the mountain growing so quickly, he gripped the sides as the canoe slammed into a snowdrift.
Luckily, the snow was deep enough that none of them were hurt, and the canoe was fine, but by the time they managed to get out and get a count, they were down to seven. Baptiste was stumbling off toward the city. We don't have time for this, one man cried. Joe pointed, bring him back. Joe took out his knife and began cutting strips from the hem of his jacket. Minutes later, Baptiste was bound and gagged and wriggling in the body of the canoe, next to everyone's boots.
Joe, having managed Baptiste for the last few minutes, figured that he could drive, and the men picked up their oars. They said the magic words, and the canoe shot up 600 feet. By now, they had an hour to get back to camp, but Joe thought about it.
They worked hard rowing on the way there, and they made it in two hours, and he thought that was the top speed. He wondered if they rowed even harder, if they could move faster. He told the others, and since they were literally rowing for their souls, they all agreed. An hour of rowing on the wind, their shirts soaked and their mustaches frozen, and they actually started to see the base of the river that went up to their camp.
It was true. If they rode harder, they moved faster. Joe cried out for them, encouraging them that they were almost there, not much farther. Joe started taking them over to the pine forest and gasped. He saw their camp. They were almost back. And then he saw a shadow rise behind him, blocking the moonlight. You... I ought to kick the... out of you, you...
It was Baptiste. He had wiggled free and snapped his bonds, and since everyone had been working so hard to not be the property of the devil, no one noticed him until he was standing. Everyone, duck! Joe yelled, and the canoe looked back, just in time to not be bludgeoned by Baptiste, swinging his oar. F*** it! Baptiste cried out,
And there it was. The one thing they weren't supposed to say. The canoe stopped floating. Inertia being what it was, though, they didn't just drop from the sky like Wile E. Coyote. They were still moving about 100 miles an hour and headed straight for the tops of the pine trees. The last thing Joe remembered as they hit the pine needles was a long fall into the dark.
one that he feared was a fall into perdition. We'll see if Joe, the person telling the story 35 years later, makes it. But that will, once again, be right after this. The first thing Joe noticed was the light. And then he realized that he couldn't possibly be with the devil because he was freezing. Hey, get up, the boss said, nudging one of them with his foot. Joe sat up in the snow. Wait,
They made it? They made it. Made it to the new year? Yeah, despite your best efforts of having way too much to drink and sleeping in the snow, the boss said. Come on, everyone up, it's time to work. Joe laughed, that wasn't it. Then he thought better of it.
He looked around. Everyone was okay. Even Baptiste, who had been thrown farther than the rest since he was standing, you know, trying to murder the rest of them. Maybe spreading the news that they made a deal with the devil to travel 600 miles in one night was not the best idea. Yep, too much to drink, boss. We'll get right to it. Joe dipped his head and went to get changed. As they left, the boss shook his head.
These guys, man. As if working and living here wasn't dangerous enough. Then he looked up. Hey, how'd they get a canoe up in the pine trees? Yep, that was 35 years ago, Joe said, sitting by the fire. You never wanted to go back to see Lisa Guimbet? The kid asked. And Joe laughed. He did want to, but there wouldn't be a point. When he returned the following summer...
She was Madame Boisjolie. She got married. I always thought it was because I left the dance without saying goodbye.
Joe sighed. This was his life. It was a good one, but it made having a family next to impossible. He told the kid that the lesson to be learned from La Chassegarerie was to be content with where you are. Sure, you can look forward to riding down the river and seeing your sweetheart come summer, but stay here and enjoy the time you have. It's better than traveling in the partnership of the devil himself. The kid looked around. That sounded...
incredibly fun. He scanned the woods. Was there a birch bark canoe anywhere? Joe said that that wasn't the point. It was scary. Yeah, but you got to go party with your girlfriend and fly. And you're still talking about that one fun night you had like 40 years later. But she wasn't my girlfriend after that. Because of the cursed canoe. Joe looked wistfully at the fire.
Yeah, I think that's more a product of you being gone for five months out of the year and Monsieur Boisjoli not being gone more than the canoe. Joe said, but it was a cautionary tale. You shouldn't actually go do it. Don't make it sound so fun then, the kid pointed. Good talk. He was going to go find some guys. Thanks for telling him the exact thing to say to get the canoe in the air.
Joe yelled after the man. That wasn't the point. Yeah, he knew it sounded like fun bragging, but it was actually really scary. He sighed and took another swig from his hidden rum. Some people never learn from the stories you intentionally make sound fun and interesting. Oh, well. Some lessons had to be learned the hard way. Probably should stop telling that story, though. This happens like every year.
The story of La Chasse Galerie is a famous one in the Quebec area, and there has been a lot of scholarly ink spilled about it over the years. There have also been many different versions.
I went with the earliest written version I could find by Honoré Beauregard. But there are some versions where they don't make it back and spend their time forever sailing through the sky, like Sebastian in the first story. And there are versions where the devil puts his thumb on the scale and appears in the boat, causing them to mess up. That being said, with Baptiste in our story, they did not need the extra help. A lot of our stories in this podcast kind of float loosely in time and space.
with them being vaguely medieval European or Scandinavian or Greek. But this one is so indelibly linked to a time and place that it's really fun. It gives us a glimpse into a very particular time period and people, and you can learn a lot about somebody by the stories they tell. For example, in this one, Arnoldo Clyred talks about masculinity in these camps, and how alcohol, dangerous working conditions, physical strength, isolation, and risk-taking became a core piece of many masculine identities.
There's also apparently a Christian moral where even these burly men who shape nature to their will and face death daily up in the forests fear the devil and damnation. I mean, some of them not enough to not make the trip six times, but not everyone learns from their mistakes, I guess. Small historical point, but according to one journal article I read, companies actually banned drinking in shanties around the mid-1800s. For...
obvious reasons, which would both explain why Joe was hiding his rum in the framing narrative and why everyone was so excited and present for that barrel jump and candy pull. As we mentioned last week, Myths and Legends is moving to an every other week schedule, so our next episode is coming out in two weeks. In the meantime, if you want to get more episodes and catch up on our ad-free back catalog, the member feed is at mythpodcast.com membership or on Apple Podcasts. We're
We're on Instagram at Myths and Legends, and we'd love to connect on Discord if you're there. Links to everything in the show notes.
The creature this time is the centicore, or the Yale, from European folklore. You might have heard the phrase, keep your head on a swivel. Well, the Yale is what happens when you keep your horns on a swivel. You end up with an outsized and probably undeserved reputation. First recorded by the Roman writer Pliny the Elder, the Yale is native to Ethiopia, which I'm pretty sure was just Roman code for very far away, don't worry about it, because a lot of fantastical creatures seem to live there, and only there.
like the selfie we mentioned on last month's member episode, it being a five-legged cow with human man legs and human hands for feet. The ale, or centicore, is like if a goat was the size of a horse, but also the horns could move in any direction to defend or attack.
It has the tail of an elephant and the jaws of a wild boar. The British give them yellow polka dots, but the earliest Roman writers say they're dark gray. If gray with horns going in weird ways and an elephant tail sounds like an African buffalo, well, that's what a lot of people think this thing actually is. But the British
But that's not where the Yale story ends. Remember the tacky medieval yellow polka dots? Well, the Yale is still a prominent fixture and among the heraldic beasts of the British royal family because it was in the heraldry of Henry Tudor's, Henry VII's, mother. The Yale is apparently part of the Queen's beasts. Humble buffalo, look how far you've come. All you had to do was make the right friends who would wildly misclassify you as a sharp-toothed goat with swivel horns.
For everyone who is not a British royal heraldry nerd, which I'm right there with you, the name Yale probably makes you think of Yale University, an Ivy League school in Connecticut. While it might be tempting to link the name of the school with the creature, and indeed the school does sometimes, including carvings of the creature around campus and in the coat of arms, the name Yale comes from Elihu Yale, a rich British-American guy who gave a bunch of money to the early college.
That's it for this time. Myths and Legends is by Jason and Carissa Weiser. Our theme song is by Brooke for Free. And the Creature of the Week music is by Steve Combs. There are links to even more of the music we used in the show notes. Thank you so much for listening, and we'll see you next time.