This three-basin fountain was created in 1982 by local artist Serge Albasini. Two figures adorn the fountain, a woman and a man, the heroes of a local legend that the artist wanted to honour.
The legend is taken from the website : Notrehistoire.ch - the two poor people
A long time ago, Vercorin experienced a torrid summer. From dawn onwards, the sun would rise into the sky like a ball of fire, setting the atmosphere ablaze. To escape the scorching heat, the villagers went out to their fields at first light. When they returned home at the hour of the Angelus, they closed doors, windows and shutters, and barricaded themselves in like besieged men. But the heat crept up the walls, into the kitchens and into the bedrooms.
It was as hot as when you open the door of an oven. The thermometer on a beam in the schoolhouse kept rising: 32° one day, 34° the next, 36° the day after that.
The nights offered no relief, and the inhabitants slept poorly, drenched in sweat.
There was not the slightest breath of air. Everything was frozen in a fiery immobility.
At first, there was no concern. The scorching summers of central Valais, dry and arid, were nothing new, we were used to them. Rain-soaked clouds would eventually roll in from the far horizon. Lightning would pierce them. Thunder would rumble and its cracks would roll in long echoes across the valley. Then the water that haunted their dreams would fall from the sky like a long-awaited blessing, making them forget all their suffering. And life would begin anew.
However, at the edge of the forest, the level of the bisse was dropping. From the mouth of the fountain in the centre of the village, all that came out was a plaintive gurgle and, on the shady banks, the mauve willowherbs faded. Along the façades, the roses, which had once been as beautiful as delicately scented princesses, were now just poor, stunted things that were a sight to behold. Occasionally, in the afternoon, cumulus clouds budded above the mountains on the Gemmi side. They unfurled in immense wispy curls in the brilliant azure. But after a few hours, they evaporated, and any promise of rain with them.
Water was rationed. The women gave up washing their children in the wooden tub they had set up in the middle of the kitchen. They no longer came to the covered fountain in the centre of the village to wash their clothes, knotting them and banging them on their washing boards. Their chatter and laughter died away. There was a great silence.
The sky remained blue, ever more intense and so sparkling that it hurt just to look at it.
The young woman held out a hand and pointed to a space in front of her.
- In those days, above the church, in place of all those cottages, there were terraced fields. Oats, rye, barley, hemp, flax and potatoes were grown. Exposed to full sun and without water, these crops suffered.
- A drought like this has never been seen before! the locals would say to each other when they met in the narrow streets early in the morning or greeted each other on their doorsteps in the evening.
- The grass in the meadows is red!
- The earth is so thirsty it's full of cracks.
- Everything is burning up. We're going to lose everything.
- What will become of us? Is this the end of the world or what?
One evening, however, clouds rolled over the Bernese Alps and darkened the entire sky. Gusts of wind shook the foliage of the centuries-old lime trees near the castle.
- This is it! It's got to be tonight," we repeated in a burst of hope.
As dusk fell, lights flashed in zigzags in the distance. But these fireworks were only flashes of heat, and the convulsions of the storm a nervous pregnancy. Once the clouds had cleared, the stars twinkled whiter and crueler still.
- Brothers, it's time for divine supplication," said the priest from the pulpit. Next Sunday, we'll make a procession to the Third Cross to implore the Lord to grant us rain. Confidence! Heaven will not turn a deaf ear to our prayers.
On Sunday, the faithful, their faces baked under their black felt hats or silk kerchiefs, marched along the powdery path, the banner of Saint Boniface in the lead, and the hum of their prayers mingled with the crackling of insects on the embankments.
Shortly after the parishioners had returned home, a dark swell of heavy clouds invaded the sky. The wind rose furiously. There were thunderclaps like cannon shots. The clouds crashed against the peaks of the Val d'Anniviers and burst over Chandolin in a long curtain of rain. But not a drop fell on Vercorin!
One by one, the village fountains fell silent. The bisse on the edge of the forest ran dry. The leaves of the linden trees, which stood like watchtowers at the front and back of the Château, hung withered and pitiful. The vegetables in the gardens were lost. The children still took the goats to the meadows, but as there was no pasture for them, they bleated so pitifully that it was pitiful. Flocks of crows circled in the overheated air, chirping their black caws over the roofs. The inhabitants were getting thinner. In the evening, little children could be heard crying longingly before going to sleep.
The following Sunday, the parish priest once again spoke from the pulpit about the situation:
- This misery that is happening to us, brothers and sisters, is a sign: there is too much sin in Vercorin! On Sunday afternoons, young people descend on Voualans to dance to the tunes of the accordion, that diabolical instrument. Don't they know that dancing leads straight to libertinism, and libertinism to perdition? What's more, right here, during mass, some people pass bottles around the rostrum. And it's not holy water! These thirstless drinkers take the house of the Lord as a place for tasting. As for you, the pillars at the back of the church - and the priest waved a threatening forefinger at them - you perish throughout the service as if you were in the village square commenting on the latest news from the town crier.
The priest was silent long enough to pass his handkerchief over his forehead, then added, shaking his head:
- To think that I had to put up a large sign against the wall at the back: "This place is a place of prayer. Silence!"
He looked round the room with a stern gaze, and raised the volume of his stentorian voice:
- In the evening, the boys come to church for the rosary. But instead of fixing their eyes on the statue of Our Lady, they stare at the girls and, without waiting for the prayer to end, they rush to see them off. But what's worse, there are strong-minded people among us who think they are stronger than the Holy Spirit, miscreants who, on Sundays, hit the cardboard in the café instead of attending Holy Mass.
With his right hand raised towards the vault, he concluded on a high note, with accents of Savonarola that impressed his audience:
- My brothers and sisters, God's mercy is not inexhaustible! God's patience has limits!
It was as hot as a blaze. As the fire from heaven continued unabated, the parish priest's words finally shook the most reluctant. Those who had made the bistro their chapel returned to the church. The bottles of wine disappeared from the rostrum. There were no more accordions or balls at Voualans, and the young people deserted the place. The fervour was unanimous. But the rain never came.
There was a couple in the village in their fifties who had no children. They were simple, poor people, like the peasants here. Their faith was their only asset, a compact faith, as solid as the stone of this fountain.
One noon, the Angelus had just sounded when there was a knock at their door. Élise left the table where she and her husband Cyprien were sitting and went to open the door. A distraught neighbour handed her her latest baby.
- Take a look! He's not waking up. He's barely breathing. He's going to die!
Élise bent over the emaciated little face.
- He's not well at all," she exclaimed, moved to the core of her being.
- We'll give you some milk," said Cyprien. And some cheese and potatoes too!
And he went straight down to the cellar.
After the young mother left, Élise murmured:
- We've got to do something!
- Of course, but what more can we do?" replied Cyprien.
From then on, they were never seen again. On the day they disappeared, someone did spot a couple climbing towards the ridge that runs from Brentaz to the Roc d'Orzival. But since then, nothing.
The next day, the sky became overcast from early morning. The leaves of the lime trees near the Château quivered, and the rain began to fall, a gentle, generous, steady downpour. At the first drop, the townsfolk threw themselves into the streets, offering their faces to the long-awaited water, raising their arms, dancing and cheering.
For three days in a row, without a break, the rain streamed through the alleys of the village and made its music heard on the rooftops. The water resumed its chattering in the fountains. It sang again in the bisse at the edge of the forest, bringing life back to the parched terraces and reddened meadows.
The young woman was silent for a few moments, then continued:
- If you walk towards Orzival, you'll see two human-shaped rocks standing opposite each other on the ridge overlooking the Rouja mountain pasture. They are Élise and Cyprien, transformed into stone. They are known as the two poor people.
