Lore - Episode 128: A Hole in the Head

Episode Date: October 28, 2019

Most of our life is spent looking for things. Companionship, security, even our lost keys. But above all of that is our search for answers, and the way human beings have tried to find them has lead to all manner of frightening situations. ———————————— Lore Resources Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources 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.

It was older than the ancient Roman Empire by at least five centuries. The hilltop fortress near the Armenian town of Ghegorat was discovered in 2015 by a pair of American archaeologists, but it was more than a series of walls and cellar holes. This ruined fortress was home to a number of buildings, and each one served a specific purpose. There was a workshop for crafting stone tools, another for working with metal, and others that seemed to serve as official quarters with idols and royal seals found in the ground. There was even a small mill for grinding flour.

But that wasn't the key feature of the fortress. No, what set it apart and drew the attention of historians was the presence of three unique shrines. Divination seemed to have all the telltale signs of osteomancy, the practice of using animal bones to seek the will of the gods, another hinted at lithomancy, the same sort of practice only using stones instead of bones, and the final building apparently served the same purpose just with flour. They were divination shrines, places where the inhabitants of the fortress, or perhaps

just the rulers of the community there, might seek answers from the divine in order to make informed decisions about their future. And they are an early example of a practice that can be found in just about every ancient culture around the world. When our ancestors needed answers and didn't know where to turn, they looked to the realms beyond our own. They developed traditions and techniques that they believed would allow them to peer into the darkness and set eyes on the best path forward, whether it was learning if the crops

would be plentiful in the coming season or why one of their elders suddenly passed away. Seeking answers has always been a part of the human experience. But it hasn't always been that simple, and oftentimes a lot more was at stake than when and where to plant our grain. Sometimes those glimpses into the mind of the divine has led to violence and suffering and pain, and for thousands of years we've accepted that as the price we must pay for answers. And in the process, those events have made one thing absolutely certain.

Just how far they were willing to go is downright chilling. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. Everyone wants answers. It's part of who we are as human beings. We seek the reasons to explain our past, the truth to frame our present, and the knowledge to predict our future. And while that's a frustratingly difficult hunger to satisfy, it hasn't stopped us from trying.

As I said before, nearly every ancient culture that we know of has explored some form of divination. They've turned to the gods or to some supernatural force in search of guidance and warnings. It was used to gain the advantage in battle or to navigate the tricky waters of political life in a cutthroat world. The word itself, divination, comes from the Latin divinare, which means exactly what you might expect to foretell the future. But it comes from an older Greek word, mantike, which means madness or insanity, but also

inspiration. It's where we get words like manic or mania, and we can understand why, believing that someone can seek guidance about the future from the divine seems, on many levels at least, like a sign of madness. We can find writings about it all the way back to the world of the ancient Greeks. The philosopher Plato wrote a dialogue called Phaedrus back in 370 BC, in which he talks about the connection between madness and divination. Some even called madness a divine ecstasy, while others have spoken of being touched

by the gods. Either way, the message is clear. The Romans picked up on those traditions, but they refined them slightly. According to cultural anthropologist Barbara Tedlock, it was less about madness for the Romans and more about a system. It was a diagnostic tool that had rules and a process, like some sort of recipe that could be repeated perfectly over and over again. And those ideas were probably the biggest influence on how European cultures of the

last thousand years approached divination. But the practice shows up in so many other places as well. The indigenous people of North America, for example, wove together pieces of their mythology with powerful visual elements. As a result, dreams played a major role in their version of divination, oftentimes focusing on medicinal cures. We have references to the practice and the writings of the ancient Near Eastern cultures, too, such as the Sumerians and the Babylonians, while references also appear in Central and

South American cultures. In fact, the name of the Aztec god Tezcatlipoca literally translates into Smoking Mirror, a reference to the use of polished obsidian as a scrying device. Which is interesting, because the Englishman John Dee, who served as an advisor to Queen Elizabeth I in the second half of the 16th century, dabbled in divination throughout much of his life. And one of his key tools in that process, at least if the rumors about him are true, was a small, round hand mirror crafted of black obsidian.

Whether or not it was actually used by him, it's a tantalizing connection to the Aztec traditions. But Europe didn't need to borrow a lot of new ideas about divination because it was already overflowing with them. One great example can be seen in how, for a very long time, there was very little distinction between astronomy, the scientific study of celestial bodies, and astrology, the study of how the movements of those celestial bodies influence human lives. Science and divination inhabited the same space in most people's minds.

Folklore scholar P. J. Heather wrote in the 1950s about one particular Arthurian legend that involved a shooting star. In the tale, the magician Merlin interpreted the position of the comet to hint at key military victories that loomed in Arthur's future. Because part of the comet pointed toward Ireland, Arthur traveled there and was said to have defeated his enemies, all thanks to a shooting star and Merlin's insight into the future. And of course, the Christian story of the birth of Christ shows just how old this idea really is.

The wise men from the East, as it's said, have long been thought to be Persian priests known as Magi. According to historian Owen Davies, most ancient writers, like Pliny the Elder, believe that magic itself, and therefore divination, was invented by this specific group of priests. And the fact that the biblical wise men interpreted a celestial object and then followed it across the Middle East certainly lines up with that idea. But divination was about more than dreams and mirrors and looking intently at the night sky.

It was about prying key knowledge out of the hands of the gods and then using it to make better decisions, to seek the truth in the face of mystery, to bring order and meaning to a life that was so often filled with chaos and frustration. And in many cultures, that process took on a very particular shape. It might sound like a brand new concept to a lot of us, but trust me, you've bumped into it many times before. In pop culture, to common phrases we use without even thinking, one ancient method of divination has stood the test of time, and they called it trial by ordeal.

Centuries ago, none of our modern forensic tools were available. No DNA testing, or fingerprints, or security footage. So to give a boost to the frustrating process of dishing out justice in a murder investigation, people began to incorporate elements of divination into the process, specifically a practice known as trial by ordeal, and the reasons were out of this world, literally. You see, there was a common belief that the gods would favor the innocent, sometimes by offering protection, but most commonly by helping bring their killers to justice. And this wasn't purely a Christian belief, either.

According to historian Mitchell Roth, for about 400 years, beginning in 1215, almost every single culture in the world included trials by ordeal in their legal system. Because in the face of the unknown, the help of the gods was often needed. The basic idea behind trial by ordeal is relatively simple. If someone was murdered, there were certain things that could be done to give the gods a chance to point out the true killer. If those steps were followed correctly, there would be no question, and the killer would be brought to justice.

One type of trial by ordeal that was common in Europe was known as trial by fire. Of course, you've probably used that phrase at one point in your life, usually to hint at a trying or painful experience. But in the Middle Ages, its name was a lot more literal. A trial by fire usually involves some variation of endurance in the presence of deadly heat. Sometimes the accused was required to walk on burning coals, while other times they had to dip their arm into scalding water to retrieve a stone. It all depended on the culture you lived in and the local traditions of your day.

Differences aside, though, the goal was always the same. The accused would endure painful, deadly heat, and then their wounds would be treated. Three days later, those wounds would be checked. If they had healed sufficiently, they were declared innocent and set free. If they had not, though, it was a sign of their guilt, and their true punishment began. Another common method of divination for justice was known as trial by water. Just think of that classic Monty Python and the Holy Grail scene, where they discussed dunking the accused witch, a bit of comedy that was based on a horrible reality.

If the accused was innocent, they would sink. If they floated, though, or even simply swam away, they were guilty. Trial by hot iron probably makes sense just from its name, but because I'm a fan of detail, here are the basics. The accused would be handed a red hot piece of metal, usually iron, and then they were required to carry it a prescribed distance. If they dropped it, they failed. If the wound didn't heal fast enough, they failed.

Either way, the gods had spoken. And there were others, including one called trial by morsel, which involves swallowing a piece of food, and trial by bean, another connected to food, this one involving a bean that was poisonous. Trial by diving seemed to be limited to India and southern Asia, and it involved staying underwater long enough to be proven innocent. But the most bizarre test, as far as I'm concerned, was known as trial by blood. Keep in mind, in the case of murder, there's a lot of emotion.

There's pain and loss, as well as anger and confusion. People want answers, and the biggest question is usually about who the true killer was. So trial by blood served the purpose by giving people a systematic way of discovering that person's identity. Here's how it worked. Once the search for the true killer began, the body of the victim was placed naked on a table or floor in a common space. Then the suspects would be led one by one toward it, where they were instructed to

circle the body three times. Then they would approach the body and touch the wound that had killed the victim. If nothing happened, they would be considered innocent and released from custody. But if their touch somehow caused the wound to produce fresh blood, that was seen as a sign that they were guilty. Historians call the process cruentation, from the Latin cruentare, which means to make bloody. According to forensic psychiatrist Robert Britton, this tradition most likely has origins in ancient Germany, and was probably spread across Europe by the advancements of the Roman

Empire. King James I of Scotland, in his 1597 book called Demonology, described cruentation with rich detail. In a secret murder, he wrote, if the dead carcass be at any time thereafter handled by the murderer, it will gush out blood, as if the blood were crying to the heavens for revenge of the murderer, God having appointed that secret supernatural sign. But the intervention of God wasn't the only core belief in action. There have been a lot of theories over the centuries about why cruentation was an effective

practice for finding the true killer. Depending on the era or the latest scientific ideas, the reason for its usefulness shifted slightly. 16th century physician Paracelsus believed that the human soul resided in the blood, and that violent murder could cause the soul to stay in the body longer than normal death. If a suspect's touch caused fresh blood to flow, he believed it was the soul's way of getting the final word. 17th century physician John Webster had a similar idea.

To him though, the relationship between the body and the soul was a romantic one. They were bound together by love, and a murderer had a way of severing that bond prematurely. In response, the blood inside the body would flow outward in the presence of the killer to seek revenge. It was an unusual tradition, to say the least, but for a very long time it made sense to people. In fact, it found its way into popular literature, which highlighted how widespread it really was, but also served to keep the tradition alive.

Sir Walter Scott mentions it in his novel The Fair Maid of Perth. As does Shakespeare in Richard III. It even appears in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by legendary author Mark Twain. But that's the benefit of our modern world. All those crazy traditions from ancient history, however justified or rationalized they might have been, are now relics of the past thanks to our maturity as a culture. It would be reassuring to know that traditions as gruesome and superstitious as cruintation have retreated into the shadows.

But that would be a lie. It happened in the heat of the moment, but it had also been a long time coming. Williams was an outdoorsman, in a way. Back then they called folk like him Backwoodsman, and that's the word used by Judge James Emmett, who recorded this story for posterity. Williams was happier when he was in nature, often hunting in the wooded river valley outside of town. So it wasn't unusual that he was walking through the trees one day, or that he was carrying

his rifle. It's probably something he did each and every day. No, what was unusual was that he spotted a figure sitting at the base of a large tree. He squinted and decided that he recognized the man. It was his brother, someone he rarely got along with and had recently had a number of heated arguments with, and so it was that mixture of hatred that gave him an idea. He pulled his rifle from his shoulder, took aim from a distance, and fired, and the bullet hit its target.

The man sitting against the tree slumped forward, a bloody hole in his head. But as Williams approached, panic began to gnaw at him. The face was becoming less and less like his brother with every step, and sure enough, when he finally reached the body, his fears were confirmed. He had killed someone else instead. Williams backtracked and headed back to his home, probably hoping no one had witnessed what he'd done, and no one had. But when the body was found a few days later, the authorities went looking for clues.

Because the victim, a man named Louis Sartain, had been loved by everyone, and they wanted to bring his killer to justice. After inspecting the area around the tree, they discovered that there were two sets of footprints, one of which belonged to the victim. The other, though, was quickly linked to Williams, although it was purely circumstantial. Williams was known around town as a hothead, and he was prone to violent arguments, all of which made him a prime suspect. But they had no definitive proof, yet.

Sartain's body was buried a short while later, and life seemed to move on in the small village. But people were keeping an eye on Williams, waiting for him to crack. Just about everyone knew that he was the killer. They believed it right down to their bones, and they assumed he would eventually crumble under the weight of guilt and confess. But as the days wore on without an answer, the people in town became more and more desperate, and when desperation enters the picture, folklore is often there to meet it. Judge Emmett doesn't record who it was who stepped forward with the idea, but at some

point it was suggested that they exhume Sartain's body and bring the community together for a bit of divination through trial by blood. After gaining the proper legal permission, the body was dug up and then transported to the local church, where it was put on display in the center of the room. Then the constable called every man in town to step inside. One by one, they were called forward and compelled to place their hands on Sartain's corpse. But it wasn't an easy thing to do. Emmett describes the state of the body better than I ever could.

His corpse, Emmett wrote, presented a horrifying sight to the great concourse of people that gathered at the church in response to the Constable's summons or the prompting of curiosity that was wrought to a wonderful pitch. The murdered man's hair and beard had grown fully one half of an inch, and his body was fairly alive with slimy graveworms which were feasting upon his flesh. The stench arriving from the decaying body could not have been endured under less exciting circumstances. Somehow though, the men of the town managed to do what was required.

One by one, they approached the corpse, placed their hands on it, and then walked away. And it went on like that for a long while, until finally the only one left to step forward was Williams, which had been planned all along. And as he stepped into the room and drew near to the body, everyone held their breath. This was the moment that they had been waiting for. A blood of sartain would cry out against his killer, and justice would be served. It didn't help that Williams looked pale and nervous, although that was understandable. He knew he was guilty, and he knew the risk he was putting himself in.

Tradition had taught all of them that trial by blood was a powerful tool for dividing the truth. Slowly Williams reached out his hand and then placed his palm on the cold rotting flesh of the man he'd killed. He closed his eyes, afraid to see the evidence of his murder flowing from the bloody hole in sartain's head. But when the crowd failed to erupt with excitement, he glanced down. Despite everything he'd been taught, despite tradition and belief and his own awareness

of his overwhelming guilt, the trial had failed. There was no blood. Judge Emmett would later sum up the aftermath by stating the obvious. It was, he wrote, I have no doubt the most weird performance of the kind that has ever taken place, and it made a lifelong impression upon those who were present. And he was right. It was a weird thing to do, but not just because of the tradition itself. It was unusual because it wasn't something you might expect to find in the American state

of Ohio, and most certainly not in the year 1818, long after the end of the Enlightenment. But there it was, a relic from the past, still alive and active, long after everyone might have assumed it was gone. Sometimes the traditions we cling to fail to deliver. They illustrate our gullibility and expose our fears. Most of the time it's simply disappointing, but every now and then it can crack the foundation we've built our hope upon. But more than that, folklore does something else.

It puts our desperation on display. Sometimes all we really want are answers. There's so much in life that's gray and undetermined, it's easy to be overwhelmed by the mystery of it all. And for a good part of recorded history, people have tamed that mystery with divination. I realize just how simple it would be to write off the generations who came before us as primitive, overly superstitious fools. But the fact of the matter is that they were a lot like you and I.

They had fears and hopes and unanswered questions, and they built systems that were designed to give them a greater sense of security. The practice of trial by blood began to dwindle sometime after 1215, when Pope Innocent III made it clear that clergy weren't supposed to get involved in divination. It's easy to see why priests had been pulled into these trials by ordeal, though. They were viewed by most people as the members of their community who were the closest to God, so their participation brought a sense of guarantee. With God on their side, the truth would always come out.

What helped keep it all going for so long was just enough coincidence. All it took was one or two instances in each generation where the wounds of a victim's body actually did produce fresh blood to convince people that the practice worked. There was even one that took place later than the one recorded by Judge Emmett. According to a South Carolina newspaper, a community performed the trial by blood ritual in 1874, and it worked. Williams managed to escape the noose thanks to the tricky nature of his own trial, but the town's folk still held up for revenge for the blood of sartain to finally get the

last word, and that might have actually happened. You see, sometime after the test failed, Williams encountered a man named Joe Mounce. The pair spent an afternoon in friendly conversation over drinks, but once the alcohol took over, Williams became the angry, violent man everyone knew him to be. After an altercation broke out between the two men, Mounce grabbed a blunt object and clubbed Williams over the head. No, it didn't kill him, but it did leave quite the impression on his skull. A sizeable dent, in fact, so the doctor was called to tend the wound, and he suggested

the most unusual solution. He proposed using a thick drill bit on a hand crank drill to carve out the dent and relieve the pressure. Maybe it was the alcohol, or perhaps the pain was too much to bear, but Williams quickly agreed to the idea. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work. When the doctor was finished, he had a patient who was in more pain now than he had been earlier, and not only that, but the open wound in his skull allowed infection to set in.

A short while later, Williams passed away, and those who knew the details couldn't help it notice the poetic justice of it all, and how it all seemed to confirm the idea that Sartain's blood had indeed found a way to get the final word in their story together. Williams, in the end, died with a bloody hole in his head. Just like the man, he'd murdered. The world of divination, and specifically the various trials by Ordeal used for that purpose, feels like something out of a fantasy novel. Just hold this red-hot iron rod for a moment, and the gods will have their say.

It's easy to see why people have been fascinated by it all for centuries. And if that includes you, stick around through this brief sponsor break for one more glimpse into that strange and gruesome world. Over the years, there have been a lot of theories put forward about why Cruintation worked. Keep in mind it actually doesn't, but it seemed to work often enough to not only reinforce the belief, but to inspire scientists to explain why. I mentioned Paracelsus and John Webster earlier, but there were others who weighed in on the subject.

The 13th century philosopher Giles of Rome had a number of theories, all of which look a bit foolish in retrospect. Still, hearing about them can help us understand why people were so willing to believe in the practice for so long. One idea he had was that blood had a sort of magnetic attraction to itself. Giles of Rome assumed that the killer would use a knife, and that they wouldn't clean the blade, and would then keep that knife on their possession, all before participating in trial by blood.

It's a lot of assumption, I know, but in that specific setup, he believed that the blood on the knife would lure the blood in the body to come out, causing the wounds to bleed. Naturally. Another idea he had was that there was some sort of exchange of spiritual energy between the murderer and their victim. Giles theorized that this exchange took place through the eyes, and that returning to the body to look the victim in the face would cause those spirits to rejoin.

All that magnetic energy, or whatever you want to call it, would stir the blood inside the corpse, causing some to bleed out. I think you get the idea. It was a mysterious practice that was built on a bold claim, that the gods, or some other supernatural force, would help to bring the killer to justice, and every time a rite of cruentation ended with fresh blood, it served as confirmation bias, reinforcing the old beliefs. Stories.

Like this one. Philip Stansfield wasn't a nice man. There had been stories about him since his youth, about how his rebellious behavior wasn't proper for the son of a wealthy nobleman. While Sir James Stansfield was a respected member of society, and the wealthy owner of a number of textile mills, his son was a bit of a disappointment. But in January of 1688, Sir James' body was found in the nearby river. His son, Philip, seemed upset and distraught, and was quick to claim that the older man

had drowned. But there were some who suspected foul play. The authorities were brought in, and after the autopsy had been performed, it became clear that Sir James hadn't drowned at all, but had been killed at home in his bed before being dumped into the river. It was a shocking revelation, but it also meant that they now had to catch a killer. But they already had a suspect. To help in that quest, the physicians cleaned and dressed the dead man's wounds, all under

the pretense that they were preparing him for burial. When it was time to place the body into the coffin, though, Philip Stansfield was called in to help. He didn't know it yet, but everyone else had a plan. It's said that when Philip placed his hands on his father's corpse and lifted it off the table, blood began to seep from the man's wounds. So much blood, in fact, that it ran down the side of his body where Philip had grabbed him, covering the young man's hands in a wash of crimson.

The sight of it was so frightening to him that he dropped his father's body on the floor and then dashed from the room. When they found him later, he was seated inside a nearby church, muttering to himself while wiping his hands on his clothing. It wasn't a true confession, but it was evidence enough to have him arrested and put on trial. And the key piece of evidence was how he failed the ancient test of cruentation. The trial began on February 6th of 1688 at the High Court in Edinburgh, and it was over the very next day.

Philip Stansfield's own attorney tried to get the cruentation results dismissed, but amazingly the court overruled it, and while it wasn't the only evidence brought by the Crown to prove his guilt, it was certainly the most exciting. In fact, the King's Council, a high-profile Scottish lawyer named Sir George McKenzie, spent a good amount of time explaining how thorough the physicians had been in cleaning and dressing the wounds on the body. And then, to drive the point home, he made it clear that God had delivered justice to them all.

All the jury had to do was act on it. Oh, and if that name, Sir George McKenzie, rings a bell, that's because he's been discussed in a previous episode. The haunted tomb of Bloody McKenzie, as he was known, is a popular destination for visitors to the infamous Greyfriars burial ground. After a verdict of guilty, Philip Stansfield was taken to the main markets in Edinburgh a week later, on February 15th, to be executed for his crimes before a crowd of many thousands. He was hanged sometime between 2 and 4 in the afternoon, then his tongue was cut out and

burned on the gallows' platform, all before his right hand was cut off and sent back to his hometown for display there. As far as historians can tell, the trial of Philip Stansfield was the last time the Scottish courts allowed cruentation to be used as evidence in a trial. But that's not the only interesting thing about the life and death of Philip Stansfield, because a little bit earlier I mentioned that he was a rebellious youth, and I want to give you one more anecdote to elaborate on that. It seems that at some point in the early 1670s, Philip attended church one morning while he

was a student at the University of St Andrews. As the minister John Welsh was preaching, Philip pulled something out of his pocket and threw it at the man, and amazingly it actually hit him. Welsh stopped in the middle of his sentence and scanned the congregation for the one responsible, but somehow Philip escaped being identified. Instead, the minister took a long, slow breath and then pronounced a warning. I do not know who put this public affront on a servant of Christ, he said, but being who I am, I am persuaded there will be more people present at your death than there are hearing

me preach today. I realize that prophecy and divination are two separate things, but after hearing a story like this, I can't help but stop and wonder. Sometimes, it really does work, doesn't it? This episode of Lore was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research by Sam Alberti 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 seasons of the television show on Amazon Prime Video.

Check them both out if you want more lore in your life. I also make two other podcasts, Aaron Mankey's Cabinet of Curiosities and Unobscured, and I think you'd enjoy both. 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 more 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 then click that follow button. When you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi. And as always, thanks for listening. I'll see you in the next one.