Kirurre
Where the great river rules clever and cold, mountain winters can be fatal. A tale about Nahia, Kirurre, and the laminak who will build a bridge for their village, based on Basque folklore.
The first ever theme of Les Cassettes, a literary salon hosted by my friends Elsa and Lila, was Goosebumps / Chair de Poule. The confluence of goose/poule prompted me to think poultry, which led me to the rooster in the Basque legend of the Laminak bridge. The lamina (plural: laminak) is a forest elf- or nereid-like creature in Basque mythology, typically portrayed as living in and around rivers, but sometimes striking bargains with humans and even helping with household chores like Scottish brownies. Sometimes they appear as beautiful women with webbed duck feet, brushing their hair with a golden comb. My story about Nahia and Kirurre also borrows elements from the German tale of Melusina. I have thoughts about what I “want it to mean,” but since it’s a work in progress, I’d rather you comment and let me know what you think it means!
Beharrezko da, orain, kontatu1—It is necessary now to tell you how the waters flow from the deep caves in the crags of San Martiko2 and spread into the valley. Far beyond the mountains, the great river pays tribute to the sea. But here, where the sloping shoulders of the mountains bear the bruises of long-gone glaciers, the uhaitzandi3 rules, clever and cold.
It used to be that elders warned the children never to cross the icy uhaitzandi alone, for its maw could open wide and swallow them whole.
—Remember Nahia Erramuneko, they used to whisper, who might have stayed seven forever if Kirurre hadn’t saved her. You might live to see the spring, if only you listen to what I say.
Through the very heart of Herria4, a village crowned by mountain peaks dressed in thick beech woods, ran the uhaitzandi, along whose banks stood a house, Etxea5, the Erramuneko family seat for seven generations. Though Erramuneko cousins had married into other village families, Nahia was the eldest daughter of the eldest daughter, who took responsibility for all. Nahia cared for Etxea, and Kirurre took care of Nahia.
On dim winter afternoons, Nahia combed and carded wool until her eyes grew heavy like snow, but when she dozed off with Kirurre beside her, the wheel would continue to turn out lengths of yarn.
When they ventured to the forest edges to gather kindling, Kirurre led the way along hidden paths to find mushrooms and the driest branches, so the fires Nahia built burned long and hot.
On laundry day, they cleaned woolen garments with wooden paddles and lye soap. When they finished, Kirurre warmed Nahia’s cold hands, her own unfrozen by the icy mountain water.
As midwinter approached, Kirurre fled the dark night and went to bed each evening at sunset, but Nahia and her cousins would often stay up late talking. One evening, young Maialena decided to cross the uhaitzandi back to her own house by the full moon’s light. Nahia, watching from the window, allowed her to go—but Maialena never reached the other side.
At Maialena’s funeral, the elders decided to call upon the people of the forest to have a bridge built in the village. The laminak could be called at dawn or dusk. The sun was there, and then it was not, and in its stead were the laminak, who named their price.
—We will build a bridge in three nights, no more, no less, in exchange for a daughter of Zubiburu6 house, no more, no less.
No such house existed in Herria; the name was meant to be claimed. Nahia, who bore responsibility for all, stepped into her role and proclaimed for the first time,
—I am Nahia of Zubiburu house, at the edge of the bridge.
The work would begin that evening and continue until sunrise, for the laminak fled from nothing but sunlight.
During the night, Nahia couldn’t close her eyes. In the rafters of her house, she saw the great sharp-toothed mountains, and felt the crumbling massive weight of stone, which pressed her further into bed. At daybreak, she peered through the window, and saw that all of the stones for the bridge had been cut to perfection.
During the day, Nahia’s hands and limbs felt numb and leaden. She kneaded bread, but it turned dense in her hands and blackened quickly in the oven. But Kirurre’s bread was soft and light, as white as Nahia’s was black, and the family was fed.
On the second evening, Nahia proclaimed for the second time,
—I am Nahia of Zubiburu house, at the edge of the bridge.
During the night, Nahia couldn’t close her eyes. In her bedposts, she saw a forest of beech trees taking root in the riverbed, growing from saplings to summer canopies, and as they began to loose their leaves, the rooster crowed. Nahia peered through the window, and saw a wooden structure for the bridge had been erected across the river.
During the day, Nahia tended to the chickens with Kirurre. Back in the house, they cracked open their eggs to make supper. Nahia’s first egg had two yolks; her second egg had a black yolk; and the third egg had nothing inside at all. But the eggs Kirurre had collected were whole and yellow, and the family was fed.
On the third evening, Nahia proclaimed for the third time,
—I am Nahia of Zubiburu house, at the edge of the bridge.
During the night, Nahia couldn’t close her eyes, and so Kirurre brushed and braided her hair with a wooden comb and told her a story. It is necessary now to tell you how we met. A girl from Herria approached the uhaitzandi where a moonlit figure sat in the icy water, brushing her hair with a golden comb. Thinking to rescue the shining girl, the village girl stepped onto the ice, where she was pulled under by the uhaitzandi, then pulled back by the golden girl, who gently sang of striking bargains with cold waters, of dusk and dawn, of home, as Nahia drifted off to sleep.
When Nahia awoke, Kirurre was gone. She searched the house, but Kirurre was nowhere to be found, so Nahia stepped across the threshold into the night. She followed the uhaitzandi upstream to the place where Kirurre had saved her long ago. There she found a golden rooster. Nahia drew out the wooden comb, which appeared golden in the moonlight. She gently began to brush the rooster’s feathers, and as she did, a soft glow rose from its plumage, through which limb by limb, Kirurre emerged. When Nahia had combed away every feather, Kirurre let out a crow that broke the night open like day’s first light.
The laminak, fearing this false dawn, fled and abandoned their work, leaving one stone unplaced on the bridge—no more, no less. The deal had been for a completed bridge in exchange for a daughter of Zubiburu house—no more, no less.
The bridge was built, the bargains were broken, but the uhaitzandi silently ran its course below. Standing by the missing stone, Nahia and Kirurre faced each other and looked beyond to home—toward the forest, toward the house—and crossed over.
As first light crept into the sky, Nahia kindled the fire at Zubiburu hourse, and it burned hotter than ever, emitting golden sparks. The men crossed the bridge to take the livestock to pasture, and upon their return, each had forgotten Kirurre and how she had tended the hearth for them all.
In the afternoon, Nahia found a dozen blue eggs with golden speckles in the coop. The neighbors crossed the bridge to dine at Zubiburu house, and each had forgotten that the village had ever not had a bridge.
In the evening, Nahia’s cousins crossed the bridge to visit Zubiburu hourse. Each had forgotten that they’d ever had another cousin, named Maialena, and returned merrily home with no thought to the uhaitzandi that still flowed through the village, or to the forest and mountains and laminak beyond.
It used to be that elders warned the children never to cross the icy uhaitzandi alone, for its maw could open wide and swallow them whole; but it is necessary now to tell you of the dangers of forgetting what flows beneath the bridge.
Remember Nahia Erramuneko, who returned to the bridge with the golden comb, placed it in the final gap, and crossed over it into the cold night.
Notes on names & language
The name “Nahia” in Basque literally means “the desire” or “the wish.” “Erramuneko” means “of Erramun,” or child of Raymond.
The name “Kirurre” is a contraction of the onomatopoeia for a roosters’ crow in Basque, kikiriki, and urre (meaning “gold”). To describe the action of crowing, the verb kikirikatu can be used.
I’ve added a few citations throughout the text to directly gloss the Basque vocabulary included in the text.
Beharrezko da, orain, kontatu is directly translated directly afterwards in the text: it means, “It is necessary now to tell you,” and it is a common way to start a story in Basque folk tales, equivalent to “Once upon a time…”
San Martiko means “of Saint Martin,” referring to the crags or rocks of La Pierre St. Martin atop the Soule valley. The French Basque Country is divided into three regions, and Soule (or Xiberoa in Basque) is the easternmost and smallest.
Uhaitzandi literally means “great river,” and is one of the Basque names given to the river, called Le Saison in French, that runs from the mountains and through most of the Soule valley.
Herria is literally “The Village.” The “-a” suffix in Basque serves as an indicative article, in this case, “the.”
Etxea is literally “The House.”
Zubiburu literally means “Edge of the Bridge.” In 1699 in the village of Sainte-Engrâce, one of the most isolated mountain villages in Soule, a house is cited as being named “Suburu,” a reduction of zubiburu (edge of the bridge). In 1851, a house was called “Chuburu” in the Dolaïnty-Urrutia neighborhood, and the same in the center of town, contracted again as “Chubucot.” (Citation)