Lore - Episode 112: Facets

Episode Date: April 15, 2019

Of all the parts of life that we can depend on, one of the darkest parts is loss. That’s the trouble with being surrounded by mortal, fragile human beings; at some point, the people we love won’t be here anymore. Which is why the mourning process is the playground for all sorts of powerful bits of folklore. * * * The Lore book series: www.theworldoflore.com/books The Lore TV show: www.Amazon.com/Lore Latest Lore news: www.theworldoflore.com/now Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.com Access premium content!: https://www.lorepodcast.com/support See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Most historians agree that Richard was the last of his kind. When he passed away in 1906, he took a centuries-old tradition with him to the grave. That's more than a little fitting considering the fact that his trade was centered around death. Richard Munzlo, you see, was a sin-eater. Dating back to at least the Middle Ages, the sin-eater was a spiritual solution to a spiritual problem. While some people had the time and forethought to see a priest before death and confessed their sins, those who passed away unexpectedly did not, and sudden death was probably one of the most common ways to go back then. So the role of the sin-eater entered the

picture to help offer peace. They would arrive shortly after death and be ushered into a room alone with the body of the deceased. Hours before, someone would have placed a piece of bread on top of the body and sometimes a nearby cup of wine, and it was the sin-eater's job to consume those items. The goal was simple. If the person had died without confession, the sin-eater would take that sin upon themselves through the act of eating. But of course, there were consequences to a job like that. Most sin-eaters were social outcasts, and because that prevented other more traditional employment, they were oftentimes very poor. Death and grief are guaranteed parts of our life. Like taxes, they are something we can count on experiencing more than once. But despite that

element of dependability, we never seem to be ready for it, do we? More often than not, we're taken by surprise and left gasping for relief. So it's no wonder that cultures around the globe have put traditions and beliefs into practice that are meant to help. A balm for an aching soul, but also a grim reminder of the inevitable. Part of living is losing the ones we love, and we'll take any help we can get to manage that. Even if it fuels our nightmares. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. But as long as humans have been around, we've been dying. I think it goes without saying that everyone, no matter how historically important or socially insignificant, will eventually pass away.

Death, as so many people have said, is the Great Equalizer. But that doesn't make it easy for those who are left behind to grieve, which is why funerary traditions are nearly as old as civilization. In fact, some paleoanthropologists believe that Neanderthals were the first culture to practice intentional burial, pushing the tradition back nearly half a million years. But aside from all the burial traditions that were designed to help the deceased, there were other practices that focused more on the grieving. One of those is professional mourning, the act of hiring individuals to share in the loss of the family. The technical term for professional mourners is moirologist, and it was their job to lament

and wail and give eulogies for the benefit of the grief-stricken relatives at the funeral. The practice is an ancient one, with evidence found in the historical records of many ancient Near Eastern cultures. In ancient Egypt, the role of the professional mourner was to cry out and beat their chest. They arrived at the funeral procession dressed in filthy clothing, with dirt smeared on their skin and hair, and were meant to signify the lowest point of the grief process. Similar stories can be found all throughout the Mediterranean area, but also farther away, in China. In fact, China is one of the few cultures that have kept the practice alive, with professional mourners taking on a significant role in

modern funerals. There is a lot of texture and detail to their role, but one key element is that upon arriving, they will crawl from the outside into the funeral location, all while wailing out the name of the deceased. A lot of that might be new to you, and that's okay. The world is a tapestry of tradition, and it's easy to miss out on certain parts. But there's one culture whose use of professional mourners is known to just about everyone, the Irish. And while you might not know the details of their role, you certainly know their name. It's an old practice known as keening, a term that comes from the Gaelic word for crying or weeping. There's evidence placing it back as

far as the 16th century, but it could very well be older. The Irish keening woman was very similar to a bard. She was skilled in a vast collection of songs of lament, and would be hired to sing them at funerals. But of course, there's a twist on the tradition. There always is, isn't there? You see, legends began to be spread about how the great old Gaelic families actually kept a keening woman on permanent retainer, sometimes even living in their house. But not just any woman, mind you. No, these stories claimed that the keening woman were fairies, fairies who were gifted enough to know when a person was about to die and to wail before it happened. And these fairy women are known to just about everyone in the Western world, only by a different name,

because the Gaelic words for woman and fairy combine into a name that has become rooted in popular American culture, the Banshee. Some stories portray the Banshee as a beautiful young woman, while others say she is an old hag in a hooded burial shroud. And because folklore has a way of evolving over time, the stories that began with the Banshee being able to predict the death have transformed into something darker, as one story from the middle of the 16th century demonstrates for us. Most of us have seen the setting for this story in one shape or another. Dunlust Castle is situated on the northern tip of northern Ireland, and it's a spectacular set of ancient ruins. It's the filming location for the Game of Thrones Castle Pike, and was

mentioned by C.S. Lewis as the inspiration for Care Paravelle from his Narnia books. But there's more to Dunlust Castle than popular culture. In the middle of the 16th century, those ruins were a thriving, beautiful structure inhabited by the McQuillen family. Legend tells us that Lord McQuillen chose to marry off his daughter Maeve to a family member in order to secure ownership of the castle for future generations. But Maeve had already fallen in love with someone else. Maeve refused to go through with the arranged marriage, so as punishment, her father locked her in one of the castle towers hoping she would change her mind. Instead, Maeve's lover snuck in and freed her, and a couple escaped to a nearby

sea cave where a small boat waited for them. Sadly, a storm blew in that night, dashing their boat against the rocks and sending both of them to a watery grave. And ever since, Maeve's ghost has been seen throughout the castle, wailing into the wind. She might not have been a fairy woman, but it's said that she appeared frequently, always before the death of prominent family members inside the castle. Whether the legend is true to its core or nothing more than a kernel of fact covered in a thick shell of embellishments, nothing changes the power of the tale. Loss and grief are never easy to handle, and so humans have created systems and beliefs to take the sting out of it. Story is an escape after all, however real or made up it might be.

And as the story spread, so too did the belief in the Keening Woman, which is how three centuries later and thousands of miles away, another community found themselves wrestling with that very same intersection of personal pain and belief in the supernatural. The Banshee, it seems, had come to America. Folklore is precious and personal, and because of that, it travels with us. When our ancestors moved from one country to another, they brought all of the essentials with them, like clothing and tools, food and medicine. But they also brought their stories, because deep down, we all hinge a part of our identity on our folklore.

The Gaelic people of Ireland and Scotland might have helped birth the idea of the Banshee hundreds of years ago, but over those centuries, their culture has done a lot of moving around. Now, we might think of a new world with new challenges and new dangers, but sort of wash away the old stories and replace them with something more relevant. But honestly, what could be more relevant than death and grief? One particular story from World War II illustrates this well. According to a researcher who gathered some of these Irish tales, there were two brothers who were separated by the Atlantic. One inherited the family farm in Ireland, while the other sought out a better life in America,

and part of that life involved enlisting in the Air Force. The brother who stayed on the family farm claimed that he was pulled from his sleep one night by an otherworldly sound that reminded him of cats fighting outside. The following morning, he approached his neighbor to ask about it, but the neighbor shook his head. He didn't own any cats, and hadn't seen any in the area either. But an explanation arrived later that day in the form of a telegram. It was from Texas, where his brother had been stationed, and it was a heartbreaking message, too. The night before, it seems, the farmer's brother had died in a tragic accident.

Looking back through the lens of grief, those wailing sounds that had woken him up took on a whole new meaning. But there is another story worth sharing, because it shows the transformation of the Banshee mythology over time, and it comes from one of the most unlikely places, West Virginia. That's where a Scottish immigrant named Thomas Maher arrived in the early part of the 1880s. According to the legend, Maher fell in love with a woman in town named Mary, but their marriage began on a sour note. Apparently, an autumn wedding was a bad omen, and while it didn't guarantee disaster, it did catch the attention of the folks around them. Over the next few years, Thomas and Mary had eight children, but six of those eight passed away in

childhood. And a lot of the retellings of this story sort of jump from that fact to later events, but I think it's important to stop and soak that in. That's six small funerals, six graves, and six mortal wounds in their hearts. If there was anyone familiar with grief in its purest form, it was Thomas and Mary Maher. Not everything was rough for the couple, though. Over the years, their farm was successful, and a community began to grow around them that eventually took on the name Mahertown. But peace is never guaranteed, and as the civil war ignited around them, it slowly crept into their little part of the world. Battles could be seen in the distance, and soon enough, soldiers from both sides were passing through, stealing supplies as they went.

By the time the war was over, the Maher farm was in trouble financially, so Thomas took a second job on the nearby river to help make ends meet. It was a job that pulled him away from the farm every evening, and it was on those dimly lit rides to and from the river that he began to encounter something unsettling. It was a robed figure on a white horse. The first few times Thomas saw it, he brushed it off as a curiosity. He told Mary about it, but neither of them could decide who the person might be. Once, Thomas even tried to approach them, but the rider would simply turn their horse away and disappear into the evening mist. One evening in February of 1876, Thomas left for work as usual, and Mary said goodbye. The next

morning she awoke and began preparing a meal for his arrival. But that time came and went. Finally, the sound of a rider could be heard outside, and Mary joyfully opened the door to welcome her husband back home. Instead of Thomas, though, there was something else unexpected on her doorstep, a white horse with a dark rider. Up close, Mary could see more detail, and realized that the figure was a woman, and the woman spoke. I have come to tell you that your husband has died, the mysterious woman told her in a cold voice. Say your prayers, lady. I bid you well. Mary spent the next few moments in shock and fear, praying that the messenger was wrong.

But when a new rider was seen approaching, and it too wasn't Thomas, she gave up all hope. It's true, the new messenger told her. Thomas had passed away, having fallen and broken his neck. Years later, according to the legend, Mary passed away at the ripe old age of 90. Some say when her children found her body, they also heard the sounds of wailing from somewhere deeper in the house. They described it as the sound made by wild cats, an anguished, high-pitched wail. The story of Thomas and Mary Marr is about a ghostly woman who warns of impending death, turning the wailing woman into a bad omen. But the tale takes on a darker twist south of the American border, where visions of weeping women are less a premonition and more a dark

reminder of intense loss and grief, a grief that refuses to die. But they aren't known as banshees, or even keening women. There, they go by a very different name. La Yerona The stories of La Yerona are a lot older than most people are aware. In fact, some historians believe we can follow the trail all the way back to the Aztecs. According to their mythology, one of the deities spoken of was a goddess known as Quatlike. She was primarily a mother, giving birth to the sun, moon, and stars, among other things. But she also served as the inspiration behind Siwa Teteo, the divine women. These were said to be the angry spirits of women who died

in childbirth. Much like the Keening women of Ireland, they were said to have disheveled hair and a rough appearance. They were almost always depicted with their teeth bared in a fierce expression, and their hands resembled claws. It was a story about mourning and death, yes, but it also involved pregnancy and motherhood, two elements that modern versions of La Yerona still contain. And that's the closest we're going to get to an original source for the tale of La Yerona, because she's taken countless forms over the centuries, which means that no matter which of those stories I tell you today, someone will feel like their favorite tale has been left out. But rather than see that as a problem, I think that's one of the most powerful

features of the legend. Why? Because the story of La Yerona has an almost chameleon-like nature that has shown a tendency to shift and change, depending on the socio-political climate of the day. Let me walk you through a few examples to show you what I mean. Some of the first tales of a weeping mother dressed in white date back to pre-Columbian times before the arrival of Europeans. They are legends of a series of prophetic warnings sent by the gods to the Aztecs, hinting at catastrophic change. And of course, that change arrived in the form of Europeans, who began the process of conquering the people of Latin America. Some refer to those warnings as the Eight Omens of Montezuma,

referring to the eight examples recorded by a Franciscan friar in the 12th volume of a book known as The Florentine Codex. In it, the story is told of how, for several nights, the Aztec people heard the sound of a wailing woman who cried out, My children, it is too late. Where can I take you? Stepping forward in time, the roots of the La Llorona legend adapted after the arrival of the Spanish. One of the most prominent retellings involves La Malinche, a Nahuá woman who served as the interpreter and advisor to Conquistador Hernán Cortés around 1519. According to the legends, La Malinche was also his mistress, and she bore him a number of children.

Sadly, though, it's said that when La Malinche discovered that Cortés was planning to marry another woman, she drowned their children in a nearby river. She spent the rest of her life grieving their loss and searching for their bodies. At least, that's the legend. The truth is a bit less exciting. Yes, La Malinche was a real person. She was one of 20 Aztec women gifted to Cortés as slaves and did in fact give birth to his firstborn son, Martin, in 1523. But Martin died over 70 years later in Spain, not in a Mexican river. Still, true or not, the tale captured the imagination of a nation struggling to breathe under the oppressive boots of the Spanish, and so it's still whispered today. Since then, the story has evolved to reflect

nearly every change in Latin American culture. It was there during the era of New Spain and then stayed behind as Mexico claimed their independence in 1821. It's been the subject of songs, plays, books, and films. And all of those original elements have been distilled down over the centuries and given more prominence. The grief of a mother who has lost her children, her own murderous actions, the wailing and white garments of lament. All of it has remained, like a time capsule, preserved for hundreds of years so that we can peer back into history and connect with the past on an emotional level. Sadly though, there's no single historical person or event that we can definitively say is the root of the story, or even a documented

encounter that everything hinges upon. La Llorona, like so many of the wailing women tales around the world, is a ghost. She's frequently spotted, deeply memorable, and yet wholly transparent, which makes her one of the finest examples of global folklore in the world. And that's really what it's all about, isn't it? It's about common ground. It's about how the painful loss that death exposes us to is as ageless as humanity itself. But the way we respond to it has worn a thousand different faces. The infinitely adaptable legend of La Llorona, more than any other piece of folklore, shows us exactly that. Because no matter how much the world around us changes, or how vastly different our background might be from one another, there will always be

something we all have in common. Grief The stories we tend to cling to most tightly are the ones that bring us comfort. We can see evidence of that in the tale of Richard Munzlo, the last known sin-eater who passed away in 1906 that I mentioned at the beginning of today's story. In 2010, the people of the small village where he was buried decided that his ruined headstone deserved restoration. Over the course of just a few months, they managed to raise over a thousand pounds and use that money to repair his grave marker. And then a service was held by the parish church in his memory. Because for as unsavory as his job might have been, he helped people grieve,

and there was something noble in that. The legend of the Weeping Woman is almost as universal as humanity itself. We can find versions of the tale in the nation of Togo in West Africa, 14th century Spain, and in pre-modern Northern Europe. Some of them present the Weeping Woman as an angel of death, while others describe her as simply haunting. It's a bit like looking at a gemstone. If you hold it up to the light and slowly turn it, you'll see facet after facet, each one small part of a larger object, and the Weeping Woman is certainly quite the gem. Wherever we look, there's another version of the tale to study. Some of them hold warnings for us or for our children, or use her legend like a boogeyman.

Others find solace from a painful world in her tale. And some versions even empower us, giving us strength to stand up to oppression or abuse. In many ways, the Weeping Woman is a symbol that can be an inspiration for just about anything. And that's not always a good thing. The Lamy building in Santa Fe, New Mexico stands on the side of a much older building. But before that, at least according to the legends, there was a graveyard there. In 1859, the ground was leveled and a Catholic school, St. Michael's, was constructed beside the old Spanish mission there, making it one of the first formal schools in the area. The building has changed a bit over the years, but according to the old stories, there was at

least one episode of tragedy in its past. Long ago, near the turn of the century, a wave of smallpox passed through the school population there. At least two of the students died as a result of the sickness, and the school made the unusual choice to bury them both in unmarked graves. When one of the mothers arrived days later to claim her son's body, school officials were unable to locate it. And obviously, this new loss devastated the mother. She had already lost a son, and now she couldn't even hold his body and mourn properly. She physically left the building that day, but there are many who believe that a part of her remained behind, hoping for the day when her son's remains might be found.

Ever since, there have been stories whispered about the building, that the mother's spirit has never left, trapped forever in the place where her son passed away. Perhaps it's her grief that anchors her there, or maybe she just refuses to give up her search for her son. Either way, sightings of her have become a common experience. The most common description is that of a short female figure who has been seen wandering the halls, only to disappear around corners or through doors. They say her face is covered by a lace scarf, and her body is draped in a white gown. But it's not her appearance that is the most disturbing thing about her. No, it's what witnesses have heard, the universal and unmistakable

language of grief, the sound of weeping. The idea of a mournful spirit, dressed in white and weeping for her children, is one of the most common folk stories around the globe. But you would be surprised just how varied those tales can be. In fact, I've set aside another personal favorite that took place thousands of miles away from Latin America, and I think you're going to love it. Stick around after this short sponsor break to hear that tale. Everyone wants to climb out from beneath the oppressive expectations of their friends and family and become something special. Many people struggle with that and eventually give up,

but some manage to break through. And I want to tell you about one of those people. Before I do, a confession. I'm really bad at pronouncing words and names from other languages. I blame my midwestern tongue for that, but I honestly try my best. And because I'm about to tell you a story from half a world away from my home, I just want to warn you. I'm about to butcher some words, so please be patient with me. The hero of our tale was a man named Sarif Abdurrahman Al-Khandri, who was born the son of a nobleman on the island of Borneo in the middle of the 18th century. But Abdurrahman, just like a lot of us, wanted to make his own name for himself, rather than rest on the laurels of his father. So in the early 1760s, he headed out on his own.

Along the way, Abdurrahman married the daughter of a local sultan. He also built up a small fleet of ships and began to use them to attack the European ships that moved in and out of his territory. Whether the ships were Dutch, English, or French, it didn't matter to Abdurrahman. What was important was the success, and that was something he had in spades. A few years after his marriage, he left his wife's country behind and headed home. But because his father-in-law disapproved of his reckless behavior and pirate-like methods, he refused to let Abdurrahman take his wife and children with him. So sometime around 1770, he took his fleet and left everything else behind.

Upon arriving at the home of his family, he was met with two surprises. First, his father had passed away at some point during his time away, leaving him with little influence in his homeland. Second, though, his blood family was in agreement that Abdurrahman's career choice felt a bit too unsavory, and they kicked him out. Which left him wondering where to go. Soon enough, though, he figured that out. On the southwestern coast of Borneo, it was a river that cut inland to the east, just north of the river Kapuas, and inside that river was an island. It would be the perfect place to build a new city, one that could be the centerpiece of his own brand new kingdom. But there was a problem.

The island was said to be haunted. And not just haunted, this island was said to be the home of hundreds of vampiric ghosts known as Pontianak. These are said to be the evil spirits of women who tragically died while pregnant, and it might not surprise you to learn that their most common form is that of pale women in a white dress. The legends say that you can identify a Pontianak by the sounds it makes, usually described as the shrill cry of an infant, although sometimes the high-pitched whine of a dog. And they are not a friendly spirit, either. Stories say that Pontianak are known to attack the living, preferring to kill them by cutting open their stomachs with their claw-like fingers before consuming the organs from within.

And according to the legend of Abdurrahman, the island he set his eyes on was covered in these creatures, which meant that unless he and his men wanted to die horrible deaths the moment they set foot on its shores, they were going to have to get creative. Thankfully, he still had his fleet. It said that he ordered all of his ships, each one armed with an array of cannons, to surround the island and open fire. At first, the shrill cry of the Pontianak could be heard over the ring of the cannons, but slowly, as the barrage continued, that sound began to fade away. When the bombardment was over, there was nothing but silence. Somehow, Abdurrahman had defeated the vengeful spirits with artillery.

He went on to found the kingdom he dreamed of, and the city that grew up around that original settlement bears the name of the creatures that once inhabited it, Pontianak. And whether or not the legends about those first experiences there are true, they certainly offer us a valuable lesson. If the wailing spirits can be chased away, maybe our pain and grief can too. This episode of Lore was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research by Marseille Crockett and music by Chad Lawson. Lore is much more than just a podcast. There's a book series available in bookstores and online, and two fantastic seasons of the television show on

Amazon Prime Video. Check them both out if you want more Lore in your life. And I also make two other podcasts, Aaron Mankey's Cabinet of Curiosities, and Unobscured, and I think you'd enjoy both of them. Each one explores other areas of our dark history, ranging from bite-sized episodes to season-long dives into a single topic. And you can learn about both of those shows and everything else going on over in one central place, theworldoflore.com slash now. And you can also follow the show on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Just search for Lore podcast, all one word, and click that follow button. When you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi.

And as always, thanks for listening. Love yous.