When the Breton of the coast prepares to die,
his impatient and tired soul longs to become anaon and to cast off for the
open sea.
This is the place where the Heaven without
a latitude or a longitude is, the Heaven the Celts found in themselves without
a sextant or a compass.
The Irish call it Tir na n'Og, and the Breton
call it Bro ar Re Yaouank, which means Land of the Youth, for days are not
counted there.
It is an island, a floating land, that meets
each wave only once, that stays only one moment under each star. It is much
farer than you can imagine, and yet you can reach it within only one tide.
You cannot die at high water. The last breath
is breathed in slack water and the ebb takes the soul away in the heavy
foam of the returning wave.
But you need the upstream rising wind to lift
yourself up to kornog. If the wind keeps the soul in the blaze of the sun,
then the soul, guided by a great fire that burns night and day on the highest
knoll, finds its way to the happy island
On the shore a procession of elect awaits in
a supernatural light where every impurity vanishes and melts away. The trees
are all green, you have apples to eat, mead from running springs to drink.
It is an endless pardon in the shade, and the most beautiful hymns of the
fair plaited fairies lull the blest in transparent homes.
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