Lore - Episode 24: A Stranger Among Us

Episode Date: December 28, 2015

Many family traditions and treasured folktales involve strangers who visit us. What would Christmas be without Santa, after all. But strangers in general are a lot less appealing than we might believe. ———————————————— 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.

Folklore is a living thing. In many ways, the stories we tell and the lessons we pass on are like a tree. The branches reach out into generations and cultures, sometimes in obvious ways, and other times reaching surprising new places. One good example of this would be of the folklore surrounding small fairy people that we've discussed here before. Pakwajis, trolls, goblins, puka, and dozens of similar variations are scattered all around the world with amazing consistency and reach.

How or why is something we'll probably never fully understand, but it shows us how folklore can spread, how it can migrate, and how it can build upon the past. At the same time though, folklore has roots, and they run deeper than we might expect. Some stories that we still whisper about in the dark today have crossed the lips of people for centuries, and in some cases, millennia. When I hear a story for the first time, or discover a new collection of tales that have been widely distributed, I often stop and ask myself the same questions. Where did it come from?

What lies at the bottom of the narrative? What are its roots? Outside of Halloween, there is no other time of the year, at least for European cultures, that is, where folklore rushes to the forefront of everyone's lives with such significance, such power, and such ease as the Christmas season. And rightly so, there is so much there to unpack and explore. The tree, the gifts, the food, and the nocturnal visit from a stranger, one who has seemingly stalked our lives all year long, and yet we blindly welcome into our home.

And if there's one lesson that folklore has taught us over the centuries, it's to be aware of strangers. They aren't always who they seem to be. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. When we think of coal in our stockings, and food and drink left out for a visitor, we rarely pair those ideas with the image of a woman flying through the air on a broomstick. But in Italy, there are those who still tell the story of La Bifana. Bifana's story has been told since at least the 13th century, originally connected with

the Christian feast of the Epiphany. But while many people have never heard of her, the details of her story are eerily familiar. During her visit, Bifana was said to enter homes through the chimney. She is typically depicted carrying a basket or bag full of gifts, but is also known to leave behind a lump of coal, or a single stick, for children who failed to behave during the year. Before leaving each home, Bifana would sweep the floor with her broom, something scholars see as a metaphor for sweeping away the deeds of the previous year.

And then she would eat the food left out for her, often times, sausage and broccoli. Side note, cookies and milk sound so much better, don't they? Interestingly enough, Bifana is not the only Christmas legend with passing resemblance to a witch. In the German Alps, there have been stories of another female figure dating back to the 10th century. Some call her Perkta, or Berkta, or later Bertha. Jacob Grimm, while researching his Deutsch mythology, theorized that she was one of the

ancient Germanic mother goddesses. She and her sisters were said to have taught humanity the arts of agriculture, spinning wool and cooking. Over time, though, her legend began to integrate with parts of the Christmas season. Because of her role in teaching humanity the basics of home management, Perkta's meaning began to shift over the centuries, turning her into the punisher of those who worked during the holidays, failed to feast properly, and, much later, hunting down the lazy. And what better time for her to conduct an end of year review, so to speak, than Christmas?

How did Perkta dish out her punishment on the people of Germany? Well, a hint can be found in her other popular title, The Belly Slitter. During the 12 days of Christmas, she would travel through the towns and inspect the people's behavior. If they had followed the rules and done right in her eyes, they were rewarded. If they had not been good, though, she was known to have a very nasty side. Anyone disobedient enough to warrant punishment, adult or child alike, would have their stomachs ripped open.

Perkta would scoop out whatever might still be inside, pull out the full length of their intestines, and then stuff the victim's belly with garbage, straw, and rocks. While a stomach full of refuse might seem a little over the top, that distinction actually goes to another ancient female in folklore. While stories of gorilla, the mythical giant goddess, are far outside the common narrative of Christmas for many of us, but the people of Iceland, she is still a whispered source of dread among children. One of the earliest mentions of gorilla dates back to the 13th century collection of Icelandic

mythology known as the Edda, written by Snorri Sturlsson. According to the many stories told about her over the centuries, gorilla possesses the ability to locate disobedient children. She can do this year-round, so they say, and because of that, she was often used as a parental tool to coerce children into doing what they were told. It was in the Christmas season, though, that gorilla became even more monstrous. That was when she was said to climb out of her home in the mountain and make her way toward the towns.

She would hunt far and wide for all the naughty children and then take them back to her cave. Once there, she would cut them up, place them in her stew, and devour them. And according to the legend, she never ran out of food. There have been other stories of strangers told throughout the centuries, but not all have happy endings. In fact, there is often more loss than gain when it comes to the visits of some of those legends. In the Northern Alps, stories have been told for generations about the traveling stranger,

known as Belsnickel. Considered to be one of the helpers of St. Nicholas, Belsnickel travels ahead of the big red man and dispenses his own form of Christmas cheer with physical abuse. Descriptions of Belsnickel liken him to the wild men of old, with torn and dirty clothes fashioned from animal skins and furs in a face that is covered in a snarled, filthy beard. Some stories report that he wears a mask with a long tongue protruding from the mouth. According to the legend, which spans centuries in both Germany and the American state of

Pennsylvania, Belsnickel would enter the home of a family and scatter nuts and sweets on the floor for the children to collect. Then, with their backs to him, he would lash out with a switch made of hazel or birch, whipping their backs and leaving red marks. And Belsnickel isn't alone. Another traveling stranger from the same region, one who has seen a rise in popularity around the globe, is a creature known as Krampus. At first blush, Krampus sounds similar in many ways to the other strangers and European

folklore, but what sets him apart is truly frightening. It is said that Krampus visits the home of children during the Christmas season, but he doesn't have a dual nature. There is no reward or special treat when he comes to town. No, his sole purpose and passion in life is to dole out punishment on children who have failed to obey and do their work. Like Belsnickel, he too carries a switch, but in most stories there are more than one. Apparently, he beats so many children that he needs a few spare branches, so he carries

them in a bundle. In addition, he is often depicted wearing chains and some form of large sack or cart. Because ultimately, Krampus isn't as interested in beating children as he is in taking them. When he arrives in each legend, we are greeted by the appearance of a wild demonic creature with long horns, cloven feet, and a twisted face. After beating the disobedient children, Krampus chains them up and tosses them into his sack before vanishing as quickly as he came, taking the children with him back to hell. The origins of Krampus are still unclear, but some scholars think that the legend predates

Christianity. Instead, they believe that the story has roots in an ancient alpine myth of a horned god of the witches. Even the switch, his weapon of choice, might have been a carryover from the initiation rites of witches, where the novices were beaten. Far from forgotten, festivals are held throughout Europe to this day that feature many of these legends. Events like Krampus Noct in Germany and the Bethana Festival in Urbania attract tens of

thousands who dress in masks and dance and celebrate. Like Halloween, these are instances where monsters and strangers have been embraced and elevated to something of a children's story. Which is ironic when you understand the roots. Stripping away the detail, Krampus has, from a 30,000 foot view, more than a passing resemblance to Pan, the Greek horned god of nature, shepherds, flocks, and mountains. Along with his musical flute, Pan is widely known for robbing the innocence from people, usually through sexual means.

In a culture that saw the threshold between childhood and adulthood as the loss of virginity, Pan figuratively stole people's children. And when you think of it that way, it's more than easy to see similarities. Not only between Krampus and Pan, but also between Pan and a character that Disney has helped us all fall in love with, Peter Pan. While he might be able to fly, has no horns, and is missing the cloven feet that Pan sports in every image and statue, Peter Pan fulfills the role perfectly. He arrives at night, he carries a flute, and lures our children away to another place.

It's a modern story with a familiar ending, but it was far from the first of its kind. That honor, according to some, falls to a small German village in 1284. You might already know the story, but the truth beneath it is far worse than you'd ever expect. In 1284, the German village of Hamelin was struggling with an infestation of rats. Now, I've only seen a few rats myself over the years, but I also don't live in a densely populated urban area like New York City or London. But in medieval Europe, from what I can gather, rats were as abundant as squirrels, only bigger

and more disease-ridden. It's hard to imagine the impact that an infestation of rats could have on a town today. If we found a half-eaten bag of flour in the cupboard, there's a grocery store down the street where we can get more year-round. But in the Middle Ages, food was grown locally and used throughout the year. If rats ate and ruined the food supplies, there was little a town could do. Rats met death in many instances. According to the story that has been passed down through the centuries since then, a stranger

entered Hamelin in the spring of 1284. He was dressed in colorful clothing, possessed what we might call today as a silver tongue, and claimed to have a very unusual, although also very timely, skill. He was a rat catcher. As a profession, rat catching dates back centuries, but it's rarely seen as a safe and sanitary job. The risk of being bitten or contracting some disease carried by the rats has always been a hazard of the job.

And while the exact nature of their involvement has been up for debate for decades, most scholars agree that rats have been key players in the spread of plague, particularly the Black Death of the 14th century. And there were few truly effective tools at their disposal, which made the job that much more difficult. Some rat catchers used a special breed of terrier, while others made use of traps. But the most effective tool for centuries was also the most minimal and inexpensive of them all, bare hands.

And seen as how most rats prefer to stay hidden inside dark places, this was a risky technique. The motivation for it, although, was the meritocracy of it. The more you caught, the more you earned. And while there's no documented proof of this rumor, it's been whispered for centuries that rat catchers would sometimes raise their own rats in captivity and then turn them in as part of the job, inflating their numbers and then their pay. This allowed them to pad their paychecks when business was slow, and it also earned them a shady reputation.

As a side note, one of the most famous rat catchers in London's history was a man named Jack Black, who claimed that his black tan terrier was the father of all the black tan terriers in London, and who pioneered the art of breeding rats and keeping them as pets. He even wore an outfit made entirely of scarlet cloth, with a big wide sash across his chest that had two cast iron rats on it. He was probably also a riot at parties, but I can't confirm that, just a hunch. The man who walked into Hamlin that June wasn't any less of a character if the legends are to be believed.

He wore an outrageous outfit, although his was reportedly one of multicolored fabric that was known back then as pied, which was typically a short of blotchy pattern, and he carried a tool that no other rat catcher claimed to use, a flute. And the mayor of Hamlin trusted the man. Maybe it was the not-so-subtle illusion his appearance made to the ancient stories of the god Pan, a deity who tended flocks of animals and played a flute. Maybe it was the man's marketing ability, that silver tongue and outrageous outfit. Perhaps he overpromised and won the mayor's approval.

For the reason, this stranger was said to have struck a deal. He would catch all the rats in town, he told the mayor. He would lead them out of the town and away from their lives. And he would do this, he said, with his musical instrument, a pipe that he claimed would lure them away. Now, I don't know about you, but I would have been skeptical. The mayor, though, was desperate. Sure, they haggled over the price, but in the end, the stranger won.

The exact amount of money differs from version to version of the story, but in all of them, it's an exorbitant sum. And that's the point. Hamlin was so desperate they were willing to overpay for a solution. And then he got to work. According to all the stories and even the children's tales we were raised on, the piper picked up his flute and began to play. As if driven by some magical force, all of the rats and Hamlins scuttled out of their

hiding places and began to crowd around him. Streams of them, thousands of them, all writhing in a mass at his feet. Then, when it seemed like they had all come out, he marched out of town and down to the Vessa River. The stories say that he was beyond successful. Most accounts say that all but one of the rats drowned in the river that day. Hamlin's troubles were over for a while. You see, the piper returned later to collect his money.

He had done the job they had hired him to perform. The rats were gone. But for some unknown reason, the mayor refused to pay him. Now the stories don't say why, but we can speculate. Maybe it was because the stranger didn't return with any bodies to show for his work, as was the custom for a rat catcher. How could the town pay him per head? And there were no heads to count.

At any rate, the mayor turned the stranger away, and the man, clearly taken advantage of, stormed out of the village. But not before turning to face the people of Hamlin and proclaim a curse on them. He would return one day, he said. And when he did, he would have his revenge. Remember, this is a story that's been passed down for over 800 years. Most of what we know about the real events is pure legend, based loosely unscattered reports of a stained glass window in the church there in Hamlin.

The window itself was lost in 1660, but there are drawings of it that predate the destruction, as far back as the 14th century. And the earliest mention of these events is a 1384 entry in the Hamlin town records. The events were recorded, of course, because the stranger did return. According to the story, though, he changed clothing, trading in his colorful robes for the uniform of a hunter. Gone was the salesman. The stranger was returning for vengeance.

While the adults were in church on June 26, the stranger strode into town and began to play his flute again. This time, rather than crowds of writhing rats, it was the children who clambered out of the houses. They flooded the streets, gathering around the strange visitor. Then, when they were all present, he marched them out of town, never to be seen again. There are, of course, a number of morals to this story, but the one that has stuck with us for centuries remains ever true.

Never trust a stranger. Folklore is full of strangers. In many stories, it's flat out amazing just how much freedom we have given them in our lives. Even stories of someone as benign as Santa Claus have an element of danger when you view them from outside the cultural fishbowl. Here's the story of a strange man who stalks our children year round, noting their behavior and secret desires, who then breaks into our homes, eats our food, and leaves a few

presents to prove that he was there. For the people of Hamlin, though, that stranger cost them far more than a plate of cookies. Their ill treatment of the man who came to town led to the loss of their children. And as difficult as it is to believe, the story of Hamlin is true. Part of it, at least. Stories are in agreement that the rats were a later addition to the tale, showing up about 300 years after the events were said to have taken place. But as far back as the records go, there has always been a stranger, a visitor from the

outside, who leaves with the children. And although it's taken a very long time to figure out why, some historians think they have the answer. To understand the truth, they say, we first have to understand the political culture that Hamlin found itself in. In 1227, about 50 years prior to the events of Hamlin, a battle took place on the border between what was then the Holy Roman Empire and Denmark, pushing the Danish border north of modern-day Germany.

As a result, a whole new territory opened up that needed colonists. Men called locators were assigned to travel the land and find volunteers to populate this new territory. They often wore colorful clothing. They were eloquent speakers. They were, in a sense, a lot like today's door-to-door salesmen. The empire needed farmers and craftsmen and soldiers to protect these new lands. But it was hard to find people willing to uproot their lives and travel north, especially

when that new land was alongside a contested military heavy border. It was a hard sell. And so when the locators came knocking, rather than shipping off a handful of adult volunteers, townsfolk would sometimes get creative. Instead of paying with their own lives, they would sell their children to these men. The proof, it turns out, is in the phone book and on Google Maps. Many town names along a line between Hamlin and Poland bear a striking resemblance to town names from medieval Germany, oftentimes even showing up more than once.

Even more compelling, surnames from the 1284 Hamlin town records still show up in phone books in Pomerania, a region of Poland along the Baltic Sea. The folklore, you see, tells a colorful story, one that's as easy for children to swallow as a spoonful of honey. But the truth that the story hides turns out to be far less palatable. An entire town, desperate for a solution to their economic and social challenges, actually sold their children off to recruiters hoping to colonize new lands. It's plot reminiscent of M. Night Shyamalan's The Village, in that these people constructed

a fantasy around certain events and then passed that lie on to later generations in order to justify their actions and avoid questions. In the end, an outsider did indeed come to Hamlin that day, but he wasn't the one who took the children. No, it turns out that the true monsters were already there, living in a house next door, shopping in the market, farming the fields. The most dangerous stranger, it seems, isn't the outsider. It's the one who hides among us.

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Lore is much more than a podcast. There's a book series in bookstores around the country and online, and the second season of the Amazon Prime television show was recently released. 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.

You can learn about both of those shows and everything else going on all over in one central place, theworldoflore.com slash now. And you can also follow the show on Facebook, Twitter, 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.