Lore - Episode 160: Sleight of Hand

Episode Date: December 21, 2020

One of the oldest beliefs in human history is also the root of countless stories in our collective folklore. But to understand the power of those tales, we need to understand the people who brought them to life. ———————— 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 an odd place to find an innkeeper. He had been brought from Bristol to the Tower of London in the spring of 1561 and soon found himself living in the Salt Tower, one of the many towers on the site. His was the one at the southeast corner where the Tower Bridge meets the River Thames. He wasn't a guest of the King though, not in the usual sense at least. No Hugh Draper had been arrested, and during his weeks imprisoned inside those cold stone walls, he noticed the graffiti left behind by past inmates, carved into the rock with whatever crude implements they could find. So Hugh Draper began to add his own to the collection.

He carved two pieces of artwork, actually, both of which still survive. The first is an astrological chart, a thick ring with 12 smaller circles forming points along its path, and a spider's web of crisscrossing lines that connected each one of those to the others. And around it is what looks like a stone spreadsheet filled with numbers and symbols. And the second carving was of an astrological globe. They are odd carvings for a number of reasons, not least of which because they were highly incriminating. You see, Hugh Draper had been arrested for sorcery, and although he denied the charges early on, it's clear from his carvings that he knew much more than he was letting on.

In fact, it's hard to imagine how they could have helped his case. In the worlds of literature and pop culture, magicians have typically been the hero. From Merlin to Gandalf and everyone in between, so many of our stories have leaned on the powers of the Almighty Sorcerer, but that hasn't always been the case. In fact, for a very long time, those magicians were feared and hated. Not because they were seen as charlatans, although that was sometimes true, and not because they were viewed as practitioners of some new and dangerous cult since magicians had been around for thousands of years. No, they were feared for a much more simple reason. Because just about everyone was convinced that

their powers were real. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. Where does magic come from? For some of us, it's not a question we've ever really stepped back and asked. For others, mostly fantasy authors, it's the question at the heart of the entire adventure. But in the general historical sense, the question, where does magic come from, has a surprising answer. The first magicians that we know of, at least, came from the world of Zoroastrianism. That's the name of one of the most ancient and continuously practiced religions in the world, originating from the area now known as Iran. While the religion itself dates back to at least 2000 BCE, it's named after the 6th century BCE prophet Zoroaster.

But even if none of that sounds familiar to you, you would immediately recognize the word for their priests, the Magi. Zoroastrianism involves a lot of familiar elements, judgment after death, a heaven and a hell, and the concept of free will. And right at the center of it all is the balance between good and evil, represented by two powerful figures, Ahura Mazda on the light side and the desert demon Araman on the dark side. And this duality helped reinforce later ideas, like the Christian devil, sometimes known as Mephistopheles. And those Magi spread their teachings. In the Greek world, they were known as Magus, and I think it's pretty clear how those words have been passed down to us today as the word

magic. But it was really in the medieval world that magicians truly flourished. Now, it's important to keep in mind that for centuries, magic was everywhere, midwives and monks, priests and physicians, scholars and scientists, any of these people could be, and often were, viewed as practitioners of magic. For a very long time, many medicinal practices involved natural magic, where herbal remedies were applied alongside incantations from sacred texts. And at the core of a lot of this was that idea of good and evil. Some of the magic was tolerated and even appreciated because of its helpful nature, while other branches of it were shunned or even outlawed. People acknowledged the ancient power these magicians possessed,

but they were also anxious about the dangers it might invite. In medieval Europe, there were officially seven types of magic that could be practiced, and their names mostly make sense to this day. Geomancy, Hydromancy, Aromancy and Pyromancy were concerned with earth, water, wind and fire. Chyromancy and Scapulomancy were fortune-telling methods that focused on the lines of the palm of the hand or the shape of a person's shoulder bones, respectively. But if you're counting, that's only six. The final one, it seems, was the most feared of the bunch. Black magic. This was often bundled under the umbrella of necromancy and usually involved communication with the dead and summoning spirits. It was dark magic because it involved an

area of life that most people avoided, death, but also because it brushed up against the one thing that medieval Europeans feared above all else. The Devil. And hovering outside this list of seven realms of magic was the equally ancient practice of alchemy. With some of its oldest roots found in China before spreading westward to places like Egypt, Greece and Rome, alchemy was a world that was so mysterious and so secretive that it was often assumed to be equal parts magical and evil. And look, I know that's a lot of information to have thrown at you. A lot of words and cultures and things you won't remember in a few minutes. And that's okay. But I'm telling you all of this for a larger reason. And here it is. One of the oldest beliefs in the world

is the idea that some people can wield supernatural powers to help or harm their communities. And at the same time, one of the oldest occupations in the world, aside from hunting and farming, was that of the magician. But by the time the Renaissance began, right around the end of the 14th century, more and more of that magical world was becoming forbidden. After all, that's why Hugh Draper, our innkeeper from Bristol, found himself a prisoner in the Salt Tower in London. More and more, magic was becoming evil and society was punishing those who broke the rules. But that didn't stop people from doing it anyway. In fact, the pages of history are filled with stories of brave individuals who broke the mold and left their mark on the world through the

forbidden practice of the magical arts. And their power, it seems, was frightening. Everyone has heard of Merlin. Whether it's the traditional Arthurian legends or modern spins on it through television, film, and the printed page, he's one of the cornerstones of the entire concept of magicians. But he's also a work of fiction, which doesn't help us out that much, does it? But the Merlin of Japan was a very real person. That's what historians call Abe Noseime, a man who lived and worked in the latter half of the 10th century. He was what the Japanese called an onmi-oji, a wizard who served a number of Japan's emperors during his lifetime. And his powers were legendary. It's said that Abe Noseime inherited his gifts from his mother,

who was skilled at fortune-telling and divination. Now, maybe it was because of his lofty position in the government, or perhaps it was just the superstitious nature of the people around him. But it was believed that his mother was actually a type of spirit known as a kitsune. But what is clear is that he earned a massive amount of sway over the emperor. Legend says that Abe Noseime was killed by a powerful rival who stole his magical texts. Later, after he was resurrected, he hunted down the rival that had killed him and took back his book for himself. And yes, stories of resurrecting wizards might smack a bit too much of fantasy. But his legacy was so powerful that within a century of his death, the Abe clan was in charge of the government's official

wizard department, the onmi-oji. Across Europe, there were a number of magicians that I've mentioned here in the past. People like Paracelsus, the Swiss astrologer, botanist, and physician who dabbled in alchemy. Paracelsus actually created an entire language known as the Alphabet of the Magi, which he used to summon healing spirits. Whether or not it worked, his talents for curing sick patients was known all over Europe. In England, there was John Dee. Advisor to Queen Elizabeth I, Dee was obsessed with learning the secrets of the universe from angels in his dreams, and his apprentice and eventual rival, Edward Kelly, built his own reputation as a powerful sorcerer, even being knighted by the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II for his achievements in alchemy.

But another of the lesser known historical wizards was Rabbi Chaim Samuel Jacob Falk, who worked in London in the middle of the 1700s. Famous for being a powerful practitioner of the Jewish mysticism known as Kabbalah, Falk was said to be able to go long periods of time without food or water, and could use the names of God and the angels to perform amazing feats of magic. Just like John Dee, Falk was obsessed with his own dreams, and he kept a journal of all the arcane knowledge that he learned from them. Countless legends surround his life, although it's difficult to separate out the truth from the fiction. Plus, there's a good amount of antisemitism in them, which casts them all in a suspicious light. Still, he made a powerful impact on the Jewish

community in London. And then there was Alphonse Louis Constant, a French magician who became famous for his theories of what he called transcendental magic. Working under the name Elephos Levi, his ideas focused on our place in the universe and helping people to navigate it. And if you've ever used modern tarot cards, you have him to thank for making the modern design as popular as it is today. Now, it would be easy to think of historical sorcerers as individuals who lived hundreds of years ago. And in general, yes, that's correct. But one of the most infamous students of magic passed away as recently as 1947. Alastair Crowley, much like John Dee and Edward Kelly, was born in England. And while some of his interests seemed

very modern today, like his obsession with sex magic and secret societies, he never lost sight of his magical roots. It's said that he regularly communicated with spirits from Egypt and claimed that it was the Egyptian god Horus who gifted him with the title of prophet. In fact, scholars today view Crowley's approach to magic as something more akin to a religion, which sort of brings the journey full circle, echoing back to the Magi, those magician priests of ancient Zoroastrianism. All of the people I've mentioned were influential. All of them were surrounded by legends of great power. And all of them are remembered by historians as famous wizards in their own right. But at the end of the day, there are few who can hold the candle to one individual,

partly because of his reputation and the deeds that were attributed to him, and partly because of his impact on our views of what a sorcerer actually is. He was part trickster, part scholar, and 100% dangerous. And if even half the stories that are told about him are true, he might also be something bigger, one of the most powerful sorcerers in history. Like most famous wizards, we don't know a lot about his early years. Johann Georg would later claim that he was born when the sun and Jupiter were conjunct in the sign of Taurus, which admittedly isn't very helpful to most of us. But looking at the years he was active and the astronomical data, he was most likely born in 1478. Where? Well, that's another

mystery. Something his hometown was a German village outside Heidelberg called Heldstadt. Most, though, are convinced that it's a town 75 miles to the south called Nittlingen, and there's a museum there today in his honor. All we can say for sure is that Johann was born in Germany in the late 15th century, and that's about it. In 1506, he pops up on the historical record, where he's recorded performing magical feats and telling fortunes for those who request him. And then just a year later, he is mentioned in a letter by a prominent religious leader, Abbott Johannus Trithemius. His words aren't kind, but they give us a solid glimpse into the man Johann Georg had become. At just 28 years old, Johann had already made waves.

That man about whom you wrote to me, the cranky Abbott wrote, who dares to call himself the Prince of Necromancers is a wandering vagrant, a driveler, and a cheat who deserves to be punished with a whip that he may not lightly dare to publicly profess that which is abominable against the Holy Church. Clearly, the old Abbott wasn't interested in pulling punches, but the word to focus on in his critical review of the man was necromancy. It seems that after working his way through Germany, performing small magic tricks, and divination for a growing fanbase, Johann Georg had acquired a darker reputation. The unhappy Abbott Trithemius goes on to lay out his crimes in perfect detail. Johann Georg, fount of necromancy, astrologer, second magus, chyromancer, agromancer, pyromancer,

second in the art of water. It reads like some sort of fantasy version of a LinkedIn profile. Honestly, all it lacks is a photo of Eucid or the blue holding a birch staff and a sword, but even though a Trithemius seems to have hated the man, Johann managed to keep traveling and growing in power. Some of his early reputation was scholarly. Throughout the 1530s, professors and physicians praised Johann Georg for his skill in the realms of astrology and medicine, but he was also becoming known for some less mundane accomplishments. For example, it's said that the man had traveled to Venice and attempted to fly from one of the tall church towers there. He didn't float off into the sky, but he also didn't die when he

collided with the ground below, and that made him a hero to many. To his critics, though, it hinted at a darker power, but I'll get to that in a moment. Another of my favorite stories about him finds Johann in prison somewhere in Europe. Like many early 16th century jails, he had been denied just about everything other than stale bread and dirty water, but a conversation with the visiting chaplain offered him a tempting opportunity because the chaplain carried wine with him in case he needed to offer inmates the Eucharist. Johann spoke up and made a deal with the chaplain. Give me the wine and I'll teach you how to shave your face without using a blade. Curious, the chaplain agreed, handing over the

wine in exchange for a small bottle containing a magic salve. After applying it to his face, though, the chaplain screamed in horror and then fell to the ground and writhed in pain as the salve ate away at his flesh. One more example, mostly because I just can't get enough of this guy. It's said that he once stood before a crowd of people at a party and dazzled them with his magic. In the midst of the show, he conjured up actual grapevines loaded with heavy bunches of ripe fruit, and clearly each of the guests wanted to cut them off and start enjoying them. Just before the people started cutting the grapes free of the vines, Johann waved his hand and the magical fruit disappeared in a puff of smoke. Confused, the party goers looked at

their own hands. What they had been holding hadn't really been the grapes at all, but their own noses, and they had been moments away from slicing them off. Naturally, his reputation as a trickster who used magic to harm others only reinforced the stories about him. A lot of them centered on that term the old abbot had used to describe him. Johann Georg, they claimed, was a necromancer, and the thing about that word at the time was that it came with a very specific connotation. You see, theologians of Johann's day didn't actually believe that a necromancer could raise the dead. That was a power only God could wield. Instead, they believed that when those bodies stood back up and walked, they were being worn like

costumes by demons. Put all the pieces together, and a necromancer was nothing more than someone who worked in partnership with the devil. In fact, the rumors went deeper. It seems that sometime around 1514, Johann Georg had grown bored with his lot in life, and so he decided to summon the devil in order to ask for greater powers. Armed with a wand and a spellbook, Johann retreated into the woods of Wittenberg and located a crossroad, a traditional location for interactions with the devil. There he drew a magic circle and began his dark ceremony. It said that the air around him filled with a powerful storm, strong winds, thunder, and flashes of lightning filled the night sky. Then, in an instant, everything went quiet, only to be replaced by the sound of music,

as if a symphony were playing off in the distance. And that's when the devil appeared. Johann referred to him as Mephistopheles, a common name for the devil in Germany at the time, and then they began to bargain. Johann wanted power unlike any other wizard of the age. He also wanted Mephistopheles to be at his side day and night, caring for his every need. And amazingly, the devil agreed to those terms. But in exchange, Johann had to give up something incredibly valuable, his soul. Actually, the devil requested both his soul and his body, insisting that they become his property at the moment of Johann's death. And despite the eternal implications, the man agreed. So all of those stories of his amazing powers and evil trickery, well, they start to

make a lot more sense in the light of this dark deal, don't they? Johann Georg died sometime around 1540. It's said that he had holed himself up in a hotel in Germany, where he was working on an alchemy project. It was something he had done for decades, and he was far from a novice at it. But that day, something went wrong. An explosion shook the hotel. When the rubble was cleared away, they found the man's room utterly destroyed and scattered amongst the broken furniture and crumbled walls were small, bloody pieces of the controversial figure who was believed by many to be the most powerful sorcerer in the world. People whispered, of course, it's what they're good at. The devil, they said, had finally come to collect what he was owed. Johann's body was no longer his.

It's honestly difficult to imagine folklore without magic. Whether we're talking about people with mysterious powers that protect their community or other worldly forces that fill people with dread, magic is one of the main tent poles of the world of folklore. Obviously, magic is there to fill in the blanks. To explain how mysterious things were able to happen or to help shed light on the evil deeds of dangerous individuals, magic ties so many of our beloved stories together with a shimmering thread that adds beauty and wonder. So naturally, there are tales about people who use magic for their own gain. And the truth is, you don't have to believe in magic to see its value. It entertains us, delights us, and forces us to dream of a world

where things that aren't possible suddenly are. And that's the sort of inspiration that drives humans to learn and grow and invent new things. Fiction can be a seed that grows into something real. A quick glance at the sci-fi of the 1960s should be proof enough of that. Johann Georg would be talked about for a very long time after his death, thanks to the attraction of all that magic. New books were attributed to him posthumously, and others wrote volumes about him. There were rumors about his corpse, legends about his exploits, and, most importantly, constant retellings of his deal with the devil. But it would take over three centuries for German writer Johann Wolfgang Van Gogh to write the definitive story about him. It was a fictional

play, scripted in two parts, and is widely considered to be the most famous work in all of German literature. And while the names and locations were changed when he wrote it, the main character used the last name of the man he was based on, Johann Georg Faust. But Faust wasn't the only magician in history to leave us wondering where the line between fact and fiction really sits. In fact, another example is one we discussed at the beginning of our journey, the Bristol innkeeper who was thrown into a London prison, Hugh Draper. Draper, if you recall, had been arrested for sorcery, and that sort of thing doesn't happen without evidence. He was asked about his magical books, but Draper told the authorities that he

had gotten rid of them long before. He was, after all, just an innkeeper. But they didn't buy it, and tossed him into a cell in the Salt Tower to wait for whatever punishment was deemed appropriate. But that punishment never came. There's no record of his verdict or punishment, and not even a passing reference to his execution. Hugh Draper seems to have stepped into the Tower of London, and then vanished entirely. Now sure, we could probably just blame poor record keeping. Maybe he was hauled out and hanged from the trader's gate, or perhaps he was quietly executed in a less public location. The crown could do whatever it wanted, after all. But not writing it down feels very odd, doesn't it? Or maybe Hugh Draper found a different way out. What if all his carvings and

symbols were part of his plan to escape, drawing, so to speak, on all that arcane knowledge that he had locked away in his head? He was a sorcerer in the era of witch hunts, and his future certainly didn't look bright. How he escaped his prison in the Tower of London we will never know for sure. But I desperately want to believe it had something to do with the very thing most of humanity has been obsessed with since the dawn of civilization. Magic. I think it's clear that people like Johann Georg Faust were cut from a different cloth, mixing chemicals in their study night after night, performing illusions for nobles and paying audiences, telling fortunes with the help of elaborate astrological charts.

They were the rock stars of their day, loved by the public, sneered at by respectable scholars, and always surrounded by controversy. But they also pushed science forward. Stick around after this brief sponsor break, and I'll tell you about one more bizarre yet brilliant sorcerer that should never be forgotten. He called himself a doctor, but that wasn't actually true. He had never received a degree from a university in any subject matter at all, and it wasn't even an honorary doctorate. It was just a title that he gave himself to garner respect from those around him. Still, Dr. Brand wasn't such a sludge. After working as a merchant, he transitioned to being

a pharmacist, a job that required a sharp mind and a good memory. He might not have had a degree to point to on the wall, but he was certainly gifted and ambitious, and after getting married, he was suddenly wealthy too. His new bride had brought a substantial dowry with her into their marriage, and seeing his chance, he quit his day job to chase after his ultimate goal, to create the Philosopher's Stone. Now, most of us have heard plenty about it, so I won't go into detail. But suffice to say, a magical substance that could transform common elements into gold while also bestowing the gift of immortality? Well, it was hard to say no. The rest of Brand's life was one long chain of chemical experiments.

He wasn't the only person looking for the fabled substance, but each new player brought their own unique spin on the search, and Brand was an observer. He noticed how many of the other alchemists were obsessed with water and the human body, and decided to combine them into one big solution. The answer to the secret of the Philosopher's Stone, he believed, was hidden right inside each of us, so he started collecting urine. Now, before you laugh, think about what it is. It flows and behaves just like water, which is its main component, and it usually looks golden. And gold, of course, is what they were all after,

so Brand started gathering all the urine he could get his hands on. There's no definitive proof of where he got it, but we do know he needed a lot of it. Some say he approached the German army with his unusual request while others believe he hit up taverns all over the city, since beer drinkers produced the most golden urine he could find. There are even rumors that he simply asked his wife and her friends to pitch in. Honestly though, it was probably a mix of all of them. He experimented with urine for a very long time, but eventually discovered something, and then refined his method. It was a step-by-step chemical process that worked something like this.

First, place all the urine out in the sun for several weeks, because the sun in alchemy is strongly associated with gold. Second, boil that urine down until it reduces to a thick syrup. After that, a red oil will form on the surface of the liquid, and that needs to be siphoned off and saved for later. Next, let the substance cool down, at which point it separates into two layers, a thick black porous part and a salty lower part. And yes, in order for them to know that it was salty, they probably had to taste it. Which, yeah, I know. Thankfully, that was the part that they

tossed aside. Step five, that black, spongy material was then mixed with the red oil that had been saved earlier, and then put back on the heat until it started smoking, which honestly must have spelled horrible. But after a refined version of the oil is again siphoned off, something magical was left. And that's what bran had collected into a glass jar, an odd, white, waxy paste. Why? Because it glowed. When exposed to the air, it instantly caught on fire and burned bright and fast, but inside the jar, it stayed intact and gave off a steady, never-ending pale green light. What he had discovered wasn't the philosopher's stone, but it was still significant. It was the element known today as phosphorus.

Now, bran knew that he had found something magical, but he honestly didn't know what to do with it. He ended up just using a glass vial filled with the substance as a book light, reading and studying by its soft glow. But as time went on, his funds dried up, reduced to nothing but a mixture of frustration and failure, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Hennigbrand, the self-proclaimed doctor and failed pursuer of the philosopher's stone, was forced to sell his discovery to some of his more scholarly acquaintances. At first, he simply sold the phosphorus itself, hoping that by keeping the recipe for it a secret, he might still turn his metaphorical lead into real, spendable gold. But soon,

even that wasn't enough. In the end, he sold the instructions and set his pale light free. Hennigbrand died in obscurity, broke and broken. And while he is still known today as the first to discover phosphorus, it was the educated, degree-holding scholars who get much of the credit for refining and exploring its uses. But his story is a perfect example of why we should never be too quick to judge the power of historical sorcery. It may or may not be real, but the discoveries it has led to have quite possibly changed the world. And that, my friends, is magical. This episode of Lore was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research by Ali Steed

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 and executive produce a whole bunch of other podcasts, including Aaron Mankey's Cabinet of Curiosities and Strange Arrivals, all of which I think you'd enjoy. My production company Grim and Mild specializes in shows that sit at the intersection of the dark and historical. You can learn more about all of those shows and everything else going on over in one central place, grimandmild.com. And you can also follow the show on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram.

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