Lore - REMASTERED – Episode 5: Under Construction

Episode Date: May 31, 2021

A fresh take on a classic episode, exploring the world of hidden spirits in the earth, and the way humans have shaped their lives around those beliefs. With a brand new recording, modern production, and music by Chad Lawson. ———————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  All the shows from Grim & Mild: www.grimandmild.com 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.

On the southwestern corner of Iceland, just to the south of the city of Reykjavík, is a small peninsula that juts out into the cold waters of the North Atlantic. It's known as the Alftanes Peninsula, and although few people live there, the local government recently decided to connect the small stretch of land to the town of Gardaber, a suburb of Reykjavík. In 2015, however, construction on the new road was brought to a halt. Standing in their way was a massive rock, 12 feet high and weighing an estimated 70 tons. According to Highway Department employee Peter Mathiasen, the rock has presented an unusual

challenge to his department's construction project. Now you have to understand something about Iceland. Much of the region is a vast expanse of sparse grass and large volcanic rock formations. The ground boils with geysers and springs, and the sky seems to be eternally gray and cloudy, so it's important to recognize that there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of these volcanic stones along the construction route. So what could possibly be so important about this one particular stone? Why would the Highway Department go to such lengths, even covering the expanse of hiring

a crane just to move one stone to a safer location? The stone, they say, is inhabited. It is, as it has been for many long centuries, home to the Holdafok, the hidden people. They are the size and shape of humans, and live in much the same way. Except of course, they're invisible. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. In the late 1930s, another road construction project in the same area of Iceland was planned to cut straight through a hill known as Elphol.

In the beginning, though, the project was met with challenges. First, the money for the project ran out, and when funding resumed a decade later, construction encountered even more challenges. The machines that were used to cut through the hill started to break at an unusual rate. Tools were damaged and lost. In the end, the road was simply built around the hill to avoid the digging altogether. When the road was due for updating in the 1980s, the notion of demolishing the hill was brought up again, and more machinery was brought in to drill through the hill.

After the first drill broke, another was brought, but it stopped working, too. After that, the workers refused to bring any of their tools near the hill out of fear that they would be lost or broken by the Holdafok who guard the place. Iceland is a culture teeming with references to this invisible society of human-like creatures. In a recent survey, more than half of all people in the country, 54%, said they believed in the existence of these creatures. But who are the Holdafok? According to one Icelandic folktale, the hidden people can be traced back to Adam and Eve.

According to the legend, Eve had a number of children whom she hid from God. But God, being omniscient and aware of everything that happens, found them anyway. In the story, God declared that, what man hides from God, God will hide from man. As a result, these children of Adam and Eve vanished from sight and have lived alongside humans ever since, hidden from our eyes. Wherever they came from, Iceland is apparently filled with them. They are described as being the same size as humans, usually clad in 19th century Icelandic clothing, which is often described as green and simple.

The people of Iceland have another term for these creatures, though. They don't use it as often because they feel it's not as respectful as the hidden folk. But it's a word we all know, and it's history and meaning run deep. They call them the elves. When we think of elves, most of us imagine the little people who helped Santa Claus in his workshop at the North Pole. We picture tiny people with pointed ears who wear tall, pointed hats. But that vision of elves is actually new, dating back only to Victorian-era fairy tales, when

French stories of fairies were mixed and confused with more ancient tales of elves from the Celtic, Germanic, and Scandinavian peoples. The oldest records of something resembling elves are from Anglo-Saxon England and medieval Iceland, though some records do exist in Germany as well. The characteristics are consistent across the continent, though. Elves were described as human-like, that they were once divine creatures of some unknown origin, and that they were very, very dangerous. In Norse mythology, elves were mainly thought of as females who lived in the hills and mounds

of stone. The Swedish elves were said to be beautiful women who lived in the forest with their king. The Scandinavian folklore described them as fair-haired, dressed in white, and dangerous when offended. In fact, in many folktales, elves were given the role of disease spirits. An elf could inflict horrible skin rashes on the one who offended them, and the term was called an elven blow. The only way to calm and satisfy them was actually to visit their homes, often large

stones in the forest, and leave them an offering of food. Elves, you see, were dangerous. Now at first, elves were simply thought of as mischievous pranksters. Something odd that happened during a person's day could be blamed on the elves. A tangle in a person's hair was called an elf lock, and birthmarks were referred to as elf marks. Elves had a darker side, though. Much like their cultural counterparts in other countries, such as Hobbes, Leprechauns, Hobgoblins,

and Trolls, elves were known to be highly dangerous. In fact, a deeply common thread through all cultures is just how easy it is to offend them, and how terrible the consequences might be if that happened. One such tale was that of the changeling. According to legend, elves would invade the home of new parents and swap out their infant child for a small elf, while the human baby would be wonderfully cared for back in the home of the elves. The surrogate that was left behind, the changeling, would be fussy and unhappy.

In Iceland, there are tales of Holdafolk who kidnap adults, who are then taken back to the hills to work for the hidden people. In their place, the Holdafolk leave emotionless hollow copies of the ones they take. It was said that if someone you knew underwent a severe personality change, becoming depressed or listless, for example, it was because they had been replaced by the elves. It was also believed that elves could enter the dreams of a sleeping person and inflict nightmares upon them. In fact, one of the German words for nightmare, albdrucken, literally means elf pressure.

You see, if it was horrible, unexplainable, or tragic, there was always one easy explanation that dominated medieval minds. Blame it on the elves. But what if these were more than just folktales? If so, that might explain the incredibly similar stories that exist among the native tribes of the American northeast. In 2011, a nonprofit housing developer in the United States began the final stages of their plan to build a $19 million, 120-unit construction project known as The Villages.

Everything about it looked promising. It would generate roughly $1.5 million in tax revenue for the town of Montville, Connecticut. It would create over 100 construction-related jobs. And once completed, it would provide affordable housing to scores of local families. But because The Villages project was a non-profit endeavor, the development company applied for federal funding to offset the costs. As a requirement for the funding process, the developer was required to complete an archaeological survey of the 12.2-acre parcel of land.

And that's when they hit a snag. The proposed building site, it turns out, encroached on Mohegan tribe property. The Mohegan people were an offshoot of the Pequot tribe, originating in the 17th century in Connecticut. They have deep roots in the area there. And naturally, parts of their historic past are still present. Among the sensitive archaeological sites that the Mohegan tribe claimed were at risk were Mohegan Hill, Fort Shantok, and Moschopp's Rock, among others.

None of those historic sites are unusual in any way. But when the tribal historic preservation officer for the Mohegans presented their case to the Federal Housing and Urban Development Department, there was one complaint that stood out among all the others. Creatures, they claimed, lived inside Mohegan Hill. The construction project threatened their very lives, and unless it was stopped, the little people, as they would call them, would disappear, leaving the tribe unprotected from outsiders.

The Mohegan people have long believed in the existence of creatures who they called the Makaiowasug, the little people. The stone piles on Mohegan Hill were said to have been built by them long ago and served as protection from the outside world. These Makaiowasug have remained inside the hill ever since, guarding the stones and protecting the tribe. These were powerful creatures that could protect and preserve the people. But if ignored or treated poorly, could also bring great harm and chaos.

Naturally the Mohegan people became very good at managing their relationship with them. One of the most prominent Mohegan tribe members of the last century was a woman named Gladys Tantekwijan, who passed away in 2005 at the age of 106. She was a 10th generation descendant of the Mohegan chief Unkas, a prominent colonial era leader, and was also a tribal medicine woman. Her role included maintaining her tribe's knowledge of the Makaiowasug and how to interact with them. According to her, there were even four non-negotiable laws for dealing with the little people.

First, serve and protect their leader and matriarchal deity, Granny Squannet. Second, never speak to them in the summer months when they are most active. Third, never stare directly at one, or else the creature will become invisible and steal your belongings. And finally, leave them offerings from time to time. And so to this day, the Mohegan tribe continues to make offerings to these creatures in hopes that they will continue their role as protectors and guardians. It is traditional to leave them an offering of cornmeal and berries, and sometimes even

meat. The vast majority of people in the world don't really believe in the existence of elves or hidden people living in the bones of the earth. One explanation as to why Iceland is different, though, actually has to do with the Vikings. When they conquered a city, the Vikings had real life enemies to focus their hatred on. When they settled in Iceland, however, no one else was there to be defeated. Perhaps the hold of oak provided the excuse they needed to feel like conquerors in a land with no native inhabitants.

Other scholars believe that elves represent our connection to the earth of old. They are a sort of primitive environmentalism, a reminder of the way life used to be before urban sprawl and manufacturing left its mark on our world. Whatever the reason, our ancestors firmly believed in these otherworldly beings who could curse or bless them at will. Elves served as an excuse for the unexplained, as solid ground when nothing else seemed to make sense. We might laugh it off today from our modern point of view, but centuries ago, elves literally

gave people an opportunity to hope, or a reason to be afraid. Oh, and remember Peter Mathiason, the highway department's employee in Reykjavík, Iceland? He's made it very clear to journalists that he doesn't believe in elves, but that doesn't stop him from telling an odd story to those who ask. Apparently, his family came from the northern side of Iceland long ago. There in the wild north country, the family claimed to have had a protective elf who brought good fortune to them. When they moved south, the family elf remained behind.

Peter recalls going on a camping trip in the north some years ago, before he left his father asked him to go and pay his respects to the elf, and to thank her for the help she had given to his family. Not being one to believe in the old stories, though, Peter forgot the request. The next day, despite an overcast sky and wet drizzle, he woke up sore and blistered by what he described as something like a sunburn. He could barely stand, in fact. Did Peter experience some random, mysterious, dermatological episode, or was he the victim

of an elven blow from an angry family patron? Like his ancestors, the easiest explanation might also be, the most otherworldly. Spirits in the rocks beneath our feet certainly offer some amazing stories, and I hope you've enjoyed this tour through some of the most mysterious on the list. But we're not quite finished just yet. Stick around after this brief sponsor break to hear one more tale of magic in the hills. They said there was pirate treasure buried there. Some of the people even claimed to have watched the pirates bury it in a secret place.

It was rode to shore and dragged through the forest to be hidden away, and as all pirate stories seem to tell us, eventually the people who knew where it had been hidden were dead or gone. Now, you'd think that having watched the pirates hide the treasure, the people of Lynn would have simply gone and retrieved it for themselves. The trouble was, before they could manage that, an earthquake rocked the area in 1658. The place where the treasure was believed to have been kept was sealed by falling rocks. Over the years, the hiding place took on a bit of a reputation.

They called it Dungeon Rock and claimed that deep within, a treasure of immense value awaited those who could dig it out. But for nearly two centuries, that legend stayed unconfirmed. In 1852, though, a stranger moved to town with a plan to change all of that. His name was Hiram Marble, a spiritualist from New York who arrived with a mission. According to him, one of the pirates had come to him in a dream and revealed the location of the treasure. All he had to do was dig it out.

Sounds easy, right? So he purchased the land that contained Dungeon Rock, built a home nearby and started digging. The trouble was, it was a slow job. From what I've read, he barely managed to cut through a foot of rock each month, meaning the process was slow and painful. And it was frustrating, too. According to the legends, Hiram had a medium on call who would reach out to the spirit of the dead pirate, an outlaw named Thomas Veal, and ask him questions to help in the

search. Cheer up, Marble, the spirit once told him. We are with you and doing everything we can to help. Apparently, that didn't include actually digging with him, so that was all left to Hiram Marble. Oh, and so was the cost of the job. This had become his occupation, so he had to live off of his savings, and over the years that nest egg began to dry up.

So like any good American, he turned his hobby into a product and started selling tickets to visit the cave. By the mid-1860s, the job had become a family affair. Hiram's son Edwin was working alongside his father in the cave, helping him tunnel toward the legendary treasure at a faster pace. They say that by 1864, the two men had managed to dig over 130 feet into the rock, but still no breakthroughs. Four years later, Hiram passed away.

He died poor and frustrated. The pirate treasure he had learned about from the spirit world had eluded him, and even though he gave everything he had to find it, it just wasn't enough. His son Edwin carried on the work, though. He kept digging and the tunnel kept getting deeper, but still there was no secret chamber or pocket of space down below where he might find the treasure. And 12 years after his father died, Edwin did the same, just as poor and just as frustrated. It turns out, though, Edwin had a sister, but she never picked up the shovel and kept

the work moving ahead. She had her hands full with all the tourists who wandered up there to see the legendary dig site, more so because of the tunnel than the treasure it was supposed to contain. I've read that she charged her visitors 25 cents for a glimpse inside. Over the years, the people stopped flocking to the hill, and the property was bundled up in the Lynn Woods, a large patch of wooden parkland between Route 1 and Route 129. What I've seen online, there's a metal gate across the entrance to the cave, keeping visitors out.

A quarter doesn't buy you as much as it used to, I guess. Oh, and one last thing. Both Hiram and Edwin are buried up there on Dungeon Rock. They had funerals up there as well. They spent so much of their lives on top of that hill, I guess it's only fitting. Still, I find it a bit ironic that after nearly 30 years of cutting through the rock, the only things were absolutely certain are buried up there, but the bodies of the men who did the digging.

This episode of Lore was researched, written, and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with 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, 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 the historical. You can learn more about all of those shows and everything else going on over in one central place. And you can also follow this show on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Just search for Lore podcast, all one word, and then click that follow button. And when you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi.

And as always, thanks for listening.