Mythmaking

H.L. Mencken's Memorial Service is perhaps not as relevant in the present day as it would have been in 1921, considering the current popularity of Neo-Paganism, but the sentiment of it appeals to me greatly.

"Where is the grave-yard of dead gods? What lingering mourner waters their mounds? There was a day when Jupiter was the king of the gods, and any man who doubted his puissance was ipso facto a barbarian and an ignoramus. But where in all the world is there a man who worships Jupiter to-day? And what of Huitzilopochtli? In one year - and it is no more than five hundred years ago - 50,000 youths and maidens were slain in sacrifice to him. Today, if he is remembered at all, it is only by some vagrant savage in the depths of the Mexican forest. Huitzilopochtli, like many other gods, had no human father; his mother was a virtuous widow; he was born of an apparently innocent flirtation that she carried on with the sun. When he frowned, his father, the sun, stood still. When he roared with rage, earthquakes engulfed whole cities. When he thirsted he was watered with 10,000 gallons of human blood. But today Huitzilopochtli is as magnificently forgotten as Allen G. Thurman. Once the peer of Allah, Buddha, and Wotan, he is now the peer of General Coxey, Richmond P. Hobson, Nan Petterson, Alton B. Parker, Adelina Patti, General Weyler, and Tom Sharkey.

Speaking of Huitzilopochtli recalls his brother, Tezcatilpoca. Tezcatilpoca was almost as powerful: He consumed 25,000 virgins a year. Lead me to his tomb: I would weep, and hang a couronne des perles. But who knows where it is? Or where the grave of Quitzalcontl is? Or Tialoc? Or Chalchihuitlicue? Or Xiehtecutli? Or Centeotl, that sweet one? Or Tlazolteotl, the goddess of love? Or Mictlan? Or Ixtlilton? Or Omacatl? Or Yacatecutli? Or Mixcoatl? Or Xipe? Or all the host of Tzitzimitles? Where are their bones? Where is the willow on which they hung their harps? In what forlorn and unheard of hell do they await the resurrection morn? Who enjoys their residuary estates? Or that of Dis, whom Caesar found to be the chief god of the Celts? Or that of Tarves, the bull? Or that of Moccos, the pig? Or that of Epona, the mare? Or that of Mullo, the celestial jack-ass? There was a time when the Irish revered all these gods as violently as they now hate the English. But today even the drunkest Irishman laughs at them.

But they have company in oblivion: The hell of dead gods is as crowded as the Presbyterian hell for babies. Damona is there, and Esus, and Drunemeton, and Silvana, and Dervones, and Adsalluta, and Deva, and Belisama, and Axona, and Vintios, and Taranuous, and Sulis, and Cocidius, and Adsmerius, and Dumiatis, and Caletos, and Moccus, and Ollovidius, and Albiorix, and Leucitius, and Vitucadrus, and Ogmios, and Uxellimus, and Borvo, and Grannos, and Mogons. All mighty gods in their day, worshiped by millions, full of demands and impositions, able to bind and loose--all gods of the first class, not dilettanti. Men labored for generations to build vast temples to them--temples with stones as large as hay-wagons. The business of interpreting their whims occupied thousands of priests, wizards, archdeacons, evangelists, haruspices, bishops, archbishops. To doubt them was to die, usually at the stake. Armies took to the field to defend them against infidels: Villages were burned, women and children were butchered, cattle were driven off. Yet in the end they all withered and died, and today there is none so poor to do them reverence. Worse, the very tombs in which they lie are lost, and so even a respectful stranger is debarred from paying them the slightest and politest homage.

What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley? What has become of:

Resheph Anath Ashtoreth El Nergal Nebo Ninib Melek

Ahijah Isis Ptah Anubis Baal Astarte Hadad Addu

Shalem Dagon Sharrab Yau Amon-Re Osiris Sebek Molech?

All these were once gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Jahveh himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following:

Bilé Ler Arianrod Morrigu Govannon Gunfled Sokk-mimi Memetona Dagda Robigus Pluto Ops Meditrina Vesta Tilmun Ogyrvan Dea Dia Ceros Vaticanus Edulia Adeona Iuno Lucina Saturn Furrina Vediovis Consus Cronos Enki Engurra Belus Dimmer Mu-ul-lil Ubargisi Ubilulu Gasan lil U-dimmer-an-kia Enurestu Ueras

U-sab-sib Kerridwen Pwyll Tammuz Venus Bau Mulu-hursang Anu Beltis Nusku U-Mersi Beltu Dumu-zi-abzu Kuski-banda Sin Abil Addu Apsu Dagan Elali Isum Mami Nin-man Zaraqu Suqamunu Zagaga Gwydion Manawyddan Nuada Argetlam Tagd Goibniu Odin Llaw Gyffes Lleu Ogma Mider Rigantona Marzin Mars

Kaawanu Ni-zu Sahi Aa Allatu Jupiter Cunina Potina Statilinus Diana of Ephesus Nin-azu Lugal-Amarada Zer-panitu Merodach U-ki Dauke Gasan-abzu Elum U-Tin-dir-ki Marduk Nin-lil-la Nin Persephone Istar Lagas U-urugal Sirtumu Ea Nirig Nebo Samas Ma-banba-anna En-Mersi Amurru Assur Aku Qarradu Ura-gala

You may think I spoof. That I invent the names. I do not. Ask the rector to lend you any good treatise on comparative religion: You will find them all listed. They were gods of the highest standing and dignity - gods of civilized peoples - worshiped and believed in by millions. All were theoretically omnipotent, omniscient, and immortal. And all are dead."

Labels: memorial service, mencken, mythology

This lady-fly I take from off the grass,
Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass.
Fly, lady-bird, north, south, or east, or west,
Fly where the man is found that I love best.
- John Gay (1685 – 1732)
Despite the fact that, when I was younger, spiders could force me out of a room for hours and black beetles made my skin crawl, I never had such a problem with ladybirds. My Mum's house was frequently visited by the 'little red sphere', or Coccinellid, and even now upon finding one there I take the time to pick it up and make a wish before releasing it again.

The ladybird is probably the only insect to have been consistently viewed as an omen of good luck throughout the ages and it continues to enjoy popularity around the world today due to its talent for pest control. Its reputation as an admirable creature, in Britain at least, has been cemented by its association with the much loved Ladybird Books, who have been churning out children's classics for the past hundred years.

The word 'ladybird' itself is an evolution of 'lady beetle', which was so called because of its traditional connection with the Virgin Mary. A popular legend recalls that during the middle ages when invasive insects were destroying food crops, the farmers prayed to the Virgin Mary and were blessed with thousands of ladybirds who quickly ate the pests and saved the harvest. From then on, the ladybird was known as 'Our Lady's Beetle', which evolved through ladybeetle, ladybug and finally to the presently known ladybird. This religious connection is also found in the ladybirds' names around the world:

• Nyckelpiga - Our Lady's Key-Maid (Scandinavian)


• Marienkafer - Mary's Beetle (German)


• Bozhia Korovka - God's Little Cow (Russian)*


• Vaquilla de Dios - Cow of God (Spanish)*


• Bete a bon Dieu - literally Animal of the Good God (France)

*the nomen of ‘cow’ most likely given because of the ladybirds’ markings.

Why the final shift from 'bug' to 'bird' occurred in Britain is unclear, but the Online Etymology Dictionary proposes that it was done 'through aversion to the word bug, which there has overtones of sodomy'.


One of the ladybirds' most curious nicknames is Bishop Barnabee, first transcribed in Notes & Queries in 1849. It is still unknown where the latter part of the nickname originates, but with regards to its clerical title, a writer in the December issue of the above journal states:

"The dignified ecclesiastics in ancient times wore brilliant mixtures of colours in their habits. Bishops had scarlet and black, as this insect has on its wing-covers."

The ladybirds' colouring has also been attributed to the Virgin Mary; the red being symbolic of her mantle or robes and the seven black dots corresponding to her Seven Sorrows or Seven Joys, though this explanation must obviously only refer to the seven-spotted ladybird since the common genus sports only two spots.


The most well known area of ladybird folklore is that which involves the ladybird settling on a person's hand, usually accompanied by a rhyme.

In Welsh Folk-Lore (1887), author Elias Owen explains one procedure to use a ladybird to foretell the weather:

"First of all the lady-bird was placed in the palm of the left hand, or right; I do not think it made any difference which hand was used, and the person who held it addressed it as follows -

'Lady-bird, lady-bird, tell to me
What the weather is going to be;
If fair, then fly in the air,
If foul, then fall to the ground.'

The first two lines were said with the beetle in the hand, and the last two whilst it was thrown upwards; if it came to the ground without attempting to fly, it indicated rain; if, however, when thrown into the air it flew away, then fair weather was to be expected. The writer has often resorted to this test, but whether he found it true or false he cannot now say."

In Weather and Folk Lore (1911), Charles Dack states:

"Children, even now, when they find a Ladybird or cow lady say -

'Click, Clock, Clay. What time o'day.
One o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock, Click, clock, clay.'"

Unfortunately he makes no mention of what the exact method is, but presumably the o'clocks are counted until the ladybird takes flight, much like the blowing away of dandelion seeds.

James Napier recounts in Folk Lore and Superstitious Beliefs in the West of Scotland within This Century (1879):

"Grown up girls, when they caught a lady bird, held it in their hands, and repeated the following couplet -

'Fly away east or fly away west,
And show me where lives the one I like best.'

Its flight was watched with great anxiety, and when it took the direction which the young girl wished, it was not only a sort of pleasure, but a proof of the augury."

Another verse on determining the whereabouts of a future lovers home, again from Scotland, states:

"Lady, Lady Landers
Lady, Lady Landers
Tak yer cloak aboot your heid
An flee awa to Flanders.
Flee ower firth and flee ower fell,
Flee ower pool and rennin well,
Flee ower muir an flee ower mead,
Flee ower leevin, flee ower deid,
Flee ower corn, flee ower lea,
Flee ower river, flee ower sea,
Flee ye east or flee ye west,
Flee til her that loves me best."

The most famous, if somewhat cruel, rhyme is well known throughout the British Isles and has many regional variations. The frying pan is sometimes replaced by a grindstone and the name of the last little ladybird changes from place to place, but this is the one that I remember:

"Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,
Your house is on fire, your children are gone.
All but one and her name's Anne,
and she crept under the frying pan."

Having recited the rhyme, the ladybird was then blown off the hand if it hadn't flown away already. The verse is said to originate from farmers warning the helpful ladybirds to leave their fields before setting fire to the land in order to clear it and make ready for another years' crops.

I assume that all of the above verses were taught to children to encourage them not to harm a ladybird if it landed on them but rather to release it back into the air, thus allowing it to continue with its pest eradicating duties.


The ladybird as a symbol of luck permeates most European cultures and all of them consider killing a ladybird to be extremely unlucky. The most obvious of the superstitions is that if numerous ladybirds are seen flying in Spring, the crops will be good! Others include the ladybird granting a wish, carrying away ailments or foretelling a marriage within the year if it lands on the hand or crawls across it. The number of spots on the back of the ladybird are also significant and can denote how many happy months you will have in the immediate future, how many children you'll have or how much money you are about to find. Unfortunately they don't give any clues to the whereabouts of this supposed wealth!

Labels: folklore, ladybirds, superstition

This story was like car-crash TV for me when I was young, in that it absolutely horrified me but I couldn't stop reading it! As fairy tales go, this is certainly one of the most gruesome around, unsurprisingly conjured from the imagination of the Grimm brothers. I don't think it helps that there seems to be no specific moral to the story, other than 'watch out for moody step-mothers', perhaps.


"It is now long ago, quite two thousand years, since there was a rich man who had a beautiful and pious wife and they loved each other dearly. They had, however, no children, though they wished for them very much and the woman prayed for them day and night, but still they had none. Now there was a court-yard in front of their house in which was a juniper tree, and one day in winter the woman was standing beneath it paring herself an apple, and while she was paring herself the apple she cut her finger and the blood fell on the snow. "Ah," said the woman and sighed right heavily, and looked at the blood before her and was most unhappy, "Ah, if I had but a child as red as blood and as white as snow!" And while she thus spake, she became quite happy in her mind and felt just as if that were going to happen.

A month went by and the snow was gone, and two months and then everything was green, and three months and then all the flowers came out of the earth, and four months and then all the trees in the wood grew thicker and the green branches were all closely entwined and the birds sang until the wood resounded and the blossoms fell from the trees, then the fifth month passed away and she stood under the juniper tree, which smelt so sweetly that her heart leapt, and she fell on her knees and was beside herself with joy, and when the sixth month was over the fruit was large and fine and then she was quite still, and the seventh month she snatched at the juniper-berries and ate them greedily, then she grew sick and sorrowful, then the eighth month passed and she called her husband to her and wept and said, "If I die then bury me beneath the juniper tree." Then she was quite comforted and happy until the next month was over and then she had a child as white as snow and as red as blood, and when she beheld it she was so delighted that she died.

Then her husband buried her beneath the juniper tree and he began to weep sore; after some time he was more at ease, and though he still wept he could bear it and after some time longer he took another wife.

By the second wife he had a daughter, but the first wife's child was a little son and he was as red as blood and as white as snow. When the woman looked at her daughter she loved her very much, but then she looked at the little boy and it seemed to cut her to the heart, for the thought came into her mind that he would always stand in her way, and she was for ever thinking how she could get all the fortune for her daughter and the Evil One filled her mind with this till she was quite wroth with the little boy and slapped him here and cuffed him there, until the unhappy child was in continual terror for when he came out of school he had no peace in any place.

One day the woman had gone upstairs to her room, and her little daughter went up too and said, "Mother, give me an apple." "Yes, my child," said the woman and gave her a fine apple out of the chest, but the chest had a great heavy lid with a great sharp iron lock. "Mother," said the little daughter, "is brother not to have one too?" This made the woman angry, but she said, "Yes, when he comes out of school." And when she saw from the window that he was coming, it was just as if the Devil entered into her and she snatched at the apple and took it away again from her daughter, and said, "Thou shalt not have one before thy brother." Then she threw the apple into the chest, and shut it. Then the little boy came in at the door and the Devil made her say to him kindly, "My son, wilt thou have an apple?" and she looked wickedly at him. "Mother," said the little boy, "how dreadful you look! Yes, give me an apple." Then it seemed to her as if she were forced to say to him, "Come with me," and she opened the lid of the chest and said, "Take out an apple for thyself," and while the little boy was stooping inside, the Devil prompted her, and crash! She shut the lid down, and his head flew off and fell among the red apples. Then she was overwhelmed with terror and thought, "If I could but make them think that it was not done by me!" So she went upstairs to her room to her chest of drawers and took a white handkerchief out of the top drawer and set the head on the neck again, and folded the handkerchief so that nothing could be seen and she set him on a chair in front of the door and put the apple in his hand.

After this Marlinchen came into the kitchen to her mother, who was standing by the fire with a pan of hot water before her which she was constantly stirring round. "Mother," said Marlinchen, "brother is sitting at the door, and he looks quite white and has an apple in his hand. I asked him to give me the apple, but he did not answer me and I was quite frightened." "Go back to him," said her mother, "and if he will not answer thee, give him a box on the ear." So Marlinchen went to him and said, "Brother, give me the apple." But he was silent and she gave him a box on the ear, on which his head fell down. Marlinchen was terrified and began crying and screaming and ran to her mother and said, "Alas, mother, I have knocked my brother's head off!" and she wept and wept and could not be comforted. "Marlinchen," said the mother, "what hast thou done? But be quiet and let no one know it; it cannot be helped now, we will make him into black-puddings." Then the mother took the little boy and chopped him in pieces, put him into the pan and made him into black puddings; but Marlinchen stood by weeping and weeping and all her tears fell into the pan and there was no need of any salt.

Then the father came home and sat down to dinner and said, "But where is my son?" And the mother served up a great dish of black-puddings and Marlinchen wept and could not leave off. Then the father again said, "But where is my son?" "Ah," said the mother, "he has gone across the country to his mother's great uncle; he will stay there awhile." "And what is he going to do there? He did not even say good-bye to me."

Oh, he wanted to go, and asked me if he might stay six weeks, he is well taken care of there." "Ah," said the man, "I feel so unhappy lest all should not be right. He ought to have said good-bye to me." With that he began to eat and said, "Marlinchen, why art thou crying? Thy brother will certainly come back." Then he said, "Ah, wife, how delicious this food is, give me some more." And the more he ate the more he wanted to have and he said, "Give me some more, you shall have none of it. It seems to me as if it were all mine." And he ate and ate and threw all the bones under the table, until he had finished the whole. But Marlinchen went away to her chest of drawers and took her best silk handkerchief out of the bottom drawer, and got all the bones from beneath the table and tied them up in her silk handkerchief and carried them outside the door, weeping tears of blood.

Then the juniper tree began to stir itself and the branches parted asunder and moved together again, just as if some one was rejoicing and clapping his hands. At the same time a mist seemed to arise from the tree and in the centre of this mist it burned like a fire, and a beautiful bird flew out of the fire singing magnificently, and he flew high up in the air, and when he was gone, the juniper tree was just as it had been before, and the handkerchief with the bones was no longer there. Marlinchen, however, was as gay and happy as if her brother were still alive. And she went merrily into the house, and sat down to dinner and ate.

But the bird flew away and lighted on a goldsmith's house, and began to sing,

"My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!"

The goldsmith was sitting in his workshop making a gold chain when he heard the bird which was sitting singing on his roof, and very beautiful the song seemed to him. He stood up, but as he crossed the threshold he lost one of his slippers. But he went away right up the middle of the street with one shoe on and one sock; he had his apron on and in one hand he had the gold chain and in the other the pincers, and the sun was shining brightly on the street. Then he went right on and stood still, and said to the bird, "Bird," said he then, "how beautifully thou canst sing! Sing me that piece again." "No," said the bird, "I'll not sing it twice for nothing! Give me the golden chain, and then I will sing it again for thee." "There," said the goldsmith, "there is the golden chain for thee, now sing me that song again." Then the bird came and took the golden chain in his right claw and went and sat in front of the goldsmith and sang,

"My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!"

Then the bird flew away to a shoemaker, and lighted on his roof and sang,

"My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!"

The shoemaker heard that and ran out of doors in his shirt sleeves, and looked up at his roof and was forced to hold his hand before his eyes lest the sun should blind him. "Bird," said he, "how beautifully thou canst sing!" Then he called in at his door, "Wife, just come outside, there is a bird, look at that bird, he just can sing well." Then he called his daughter and children and apprentices, boys and girls, and they all came up the street and looked at the bird and saw how beautiful he was and what fine red and green feathers he had, and how like real gold his neck was, and how the eyes in his head shone like stars. "Bird," said the shoemaker, "now sing me that song again." "Nay," said the bird, "I do not sing twice for nothing; thou must give me something." "Wife," said the man, "go to the garret, upon the top shelf there stands a pair of red shoes, bring them down." Then the wife went and brought the shoes. "There, bird," said the man, "now sing me that piece again." Then the bird came and took the shoes in his left claw, and flew back on the roof, and sang,

"My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!"

And when he had sung the whole he flew away. In his right claw he had the chain and the shoes in his left and he flew far away to a mill, and the mill went, "klipp klapp, klipp klapp, klipp klapp," and in the mill sat twenty miller's men hewing a stone and cutting, hick hack, hick hack, hick hack, and the mill went klipp klapp, klipp klapp, klipp klapp. Then the bird went and sat on a lime-tree which stood in front of the mill, and sang,

"My mother she killed me,"

Then one of them stopped working,

"My father he ate me."

Then two more stopped working and listened to that,

"My sister, little Marlinchen,"

Then four more stopped,

"Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,"

Now eight only were hewing,

"Laid them beneath"

Now only five,

"The juniper tree,"

And now only one,

"Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!"

Then the last stopped also and heard the last words. "Bird," said he, "how beautifully thou singest! Let me, too, hear that. Sing that once more for me."

"Nay," said the bird, "I will not sing twice for nothing. Give me the millstone and then I will sing it again."

"Yes," said he, "if it belonged to me only, thou shouldst have it."

"Yes," said the others, "if he sings again he shall have it." Then the bird came down, and the twenty millers all set to work with a beam and raised the stone up. And the bird stuck his neck through the hole and put the stone on as if it were a collar, and flew on to the tree again and sang,

"My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!"

And when he had done singing, he spread his wings and in his right claw he had the chain and in his left the shoes and round his neck the millstone, and he flew far away to his father's house.

In the room sat the father, the mother and Marlinchen at dinner, and the father said, "How light-hearted I feel, how happy I am!" "Nay," said the mother, "I feel so uneasy, just as if a heavy storm were coming." Marlinchen, however, sat weeping and weeping and then came the bird flying, and as it seated itself on the roof the father said, "Ah, I feel so truly happy, and the sun is shining so beautifully outside, I feel just as if I were about to see some old friend again." "Nay," said the woman, "I feel so anxious, my teeth chatter and I seem to have fire in my veins." And she tore her stays open, but Marlinchen sat in a corner crying and held her plate before her eyes and cried till it was quite wet. Then the bird sat on the juniper tree, and sang,

"My mother she killed me,"

Then the mother stopped her ears, and shut her eyes and would not see or hear, but there was a roaring in her ears like the most violent storm and her eyes burnt and flashed like lightning,

"My father he ate me,"

"Ah, mother," says the man, "that is a beautiful bird! He sings so splendidly and the sun shines so warm and there is a smell just like cinnamon."

"My sister, little Marlinchen,"

Then Marlinchen laid her head on her knees and wept without ceasing, but the man said, "I am going out, I must see the bird quite close." "Oh, don't go," said the woman, "I feel as if the whole house were shaking and on fire." But the man went out and looked at the bird:

"Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!"

On this the bird let the golden chain fall and it fell exactly round the man's neck, and so exactly round it that it fitted beautifully. Then he went in and said, "Just look what a fine bird that is and what a handsome gold chain he has given me, and how pretty he is!" But the woman was terrified and fell down on the floor in the room, and her cap fell off her head. Then sang the bird once more,

"My mother she killed me."

"Would that I were a thousand feet beneath the earth so as not to hear that!"

"My father he ate me,"

Then the woman fell down again as if dead.

"My sister, little Marlinchen,"

"Ah," said Marlinchen, "I too will go out and see if the bird will give me anything," and she went out.

"Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,"

Then he threw down the shoes to her.

"Laid them beneath the juniper tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!"

Then she was light-hearted and joyous, and she put on the new red shoes and danced and leaped into the house. "Ah," said she, "I was so sad when I went out and now I am so light-hearted; that is a splendid bird, he has given me a pair of red shoes!" "Well," said the woman, and sprang to her feet and her hair stood up like flames of fire, "I feel as if the world were coming to an end! I, too, will go out and see if my heart feels lighter." And as she went out at the door, crash! The bird threw down the millstone on her head and she was entirely crushed by it. The father and Marlinchen heard what had happened and went out, and smoke, flames and fire were rising from the place, and when that was over, there stood the little brother and he took his father and Marlinchen by the hand and all three were right glad, and they went into the house to dinner, and ate."

Labels: fairy tale, grimm, juniper tree

In Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth and Legend, Donald Alexander McKenzie hails the Cailleach as the mother of all the gods and goddesses in Scotland and Scottish folktale collector J.G MacKay refers to her as the most tremendous figure in Gaelic myth today. Despite the fact that her name can be found throughout Scotland in folklore, customs, ancient monuments and the natural landscape, the Cailleach is one of the lesser known figures of Celtic mythology in todays society and is often overlooked, most likely because of the little information known about her. Her true origins have been lost over time. She is vastly ancient and predates even the Celtic mythology of which she has become a part - one Highland folktale states that she existed ‘from the long eternity of the world’. Comparisons and claims to her beginnings are made in places as far reaching as Spain and India. Some suggest that she was originally a Spanish princess named Beara, others that she is a bastardised version of the great Hindu mother goddess, Kali, brought to Britain by Indian immigrants.

The Cailleach is a crone goddess, usually depicted dressed entirely in grey with a dun-coloured plaid wrapped around her shoulders and carrying a wooden staff. In a few sources the staff is replaced with a wand, and in others, a hammer. Many stories describe her as wearing an apron or as having a creel strapped to her back (a creel is a large wicker basket, most commonly used in harvesting fish). Her face is blue, as that of a corpse, and her hair is long and white and speckled with frost. She has a single eye in the centre of her forehead, a trait characteristic of deities who can see beyond this world and into the next. It is quite plausible that it is the Cailleachs’ distorted image that we imitate as the witch at Halloween – the old woman, dressed in dark robes and carrying a staff, or in more modern times, a broom.

It is impossible to know if she was always the wizened hag that she is now recognised as or if the Celts endowed her with the crone status in recognition of her great antiquity. The word Cailleach itself, however, is easier to trace - it weaved its way into the Gaelic language during the dark ages. It is based on the Latin root ‘pallium’, meaning ‘a veil’. During the p to k consonant shift in the northern Celtic languages, the p became a c, and the addition of ‘ach’ turned the word into a personal descriptor. ‘Cailleach’ as a word has evolved over time and its meaning is now commonly accepted as ‘Old Wife’, but its literal translation is ‘Veiled One’.

The Cailleach is known throughout the British Isles in varying guises; she is Cailleach Bheur, Beira and Carlin in Scotland, Cally Berry and Cailleach Bheara in Ireland, Black Annis in England and Cailleach ny Groamch or Cailleach Groarnagh on the Isle of Man. In addition to these area-specific titles she assumes many other circumstantial labels; the Blue Hag of Winter, Bone Mother, Woman of Stones, Cailleach Nollaich (the Christmas old wife) and Cailleach Beinne Bric (guardian of the deer) amongst others.

Despite the many variations of her name and excepting a few area-specific tweaks to her story, the myths surrounding her consistently focus on her four main aspects: goddess of creation, the weather witch, the bringer of winter and goddess of destruction.

Her most prominent character is that of the winter goddess, ushering in the cold and dark winter months at Samhain, the Celtic festival from which our Halloween celebrations originate, and maintaining the cold until Imbolc, the Celtic festival of growth and renewal which is now widely marked in America as Groundhog Day.

In the dark hours of Samhain, the Cailleach would wash her great plaid in Corryvreckin, the sixth largest whirlpool in the world located just north of the Isle of Jura. When the plaid re-emerges from the tumultuous waters clean and shining white she uses it to cover Scotland in a blanket of snow. Throughout winter she walks the land, striking the ground and trees with her staff (in some sources she is depicted as riding across the land on the back of a grey wolf rather than walking) and crushing any signs of growth that appear there.

In one of the most common myths of the winter of the Cailleach, she imprisons the young and virginal Brid inside Ben Nevis on the night of Samhain, Brid being the personification of spring. One of the Cailleachs’ many sons, Angus, King of Summer, learns of Brids’ existence in a dream and consults the king of the Green Isle regarding her whereabouts. The king replies,

“The fair princess whom you saw is Brid, and in the days when you will be King of Summer she will be your queen. Of this your mother has full knowledge, and it is her wish to keep you away from Brid, so that her own reign may be prolonged.”

Under instruction from the king, Angus seeks out his beloved and frees her from the confines of the mountain. The Cailleach, knowing the consequences of the release of spring in Brid, immediately gives chase after the couple and a great fight ensues. The battle continues until, on the eve of Imbolc, the Cailleach escapes her sons’ potentially fatal blow by turning herself into a standing stone. She remains in that form until the following Samhain, when she will once again return to bring the winter and imprison Brid within Ben Nevis. In this eternal cycle of light and dark the changing of the seasons and the fertility of the land are made certain.

At the height of winter in Scotland it was customary for the head of the household to find a piece of oak and carve into it the face of the Cailleach Nollaigh or ‘Christmas Old Wife’. This stump represented cold and death and would be thrown onto the fire on Christmas Eve where it had to burn until reduced to ashes. This symbolically ensured that death would bypass the house during the coming year. The custom continued into the early 1900’s but seems to have died out since, more than likely due to the dwindling numbers of people having open fires in their homes.

As the weather witch, the Cailleach is the sharp and biting wind (‘Bheur’, one of the additions to her name in Scotland, means ‘sharp’), the bearer of storms and in her most prominent role, the bringer of snow and frost. It is thought that her title of weather witch originated in the Firth of Cromarty area in the west coast of Scotland where people say that when the winter storms rage, the Cailleach is tramping her blankets.

In the story of the battle between the Cailleach and Brid and Angus, she raises many storms to try and influence the outcome and harnesses the power of the four winds: ‘The Whistle’, which blew high and shrill, the ‘Sharp Billed Wind’, which pierced the land like a sharp-billed bird, ‘The Sweeper’ whose whirling gusts tore branches from the trees, and the ‘Gales of Complaint’, whose name is quite self explanatory!

Whilst it is easy to automatically label the Cailleach purely as a goddess of destruction and death one should also consider her aspects of transformation and guardianship. Without her necessary culling of new growth in winter, no life would survive the harsh weather until the following spring. Furthermore, the Cailleach is said to have been so fearful in appearance that she scared animals into hiding throughout the cold season, thus ensuring their survival, and also protected all of Scotlands’ deer by ensuring that enough ground was left untouched by frost for them to graze on. She is the keeper of the seed; the guardian of the essential life force.

Her guardian aspect has been connected to many wild animals, including wolves and boar, but the most widely known is that of the Cailleach Beinne Bric, protector of the deer. She assumes this title throughout the Scottish Highlands, particularly around Loch Treig in the Grampian Mountains. In this area, the local hunters were said to have had a relationship of mutual respect with the Cailleach who ensured that there was always a healthy population of deer to provide them with food and pelts. In return, she expected the hunters to keep to her instructions regarding which deer to cull and when, thus controlling the balance between humans and nature. If her instructions were not followed, there were serious consequences. One story tells of two boys who were sent out by their father to Stob Choire Claurigh to bring home a deer for their evening meal. Without first consulting the Cailleach, the boys killed a stag, tied a rope around its neck and dragged it for many miles back home, only to discover upon their arrival that the stag had disappeared and the rope alone remained. Their rather irate father explained to them that if you show no respect to the Cailleach, you will receive nothing in return.

In contrast to her destructive aspect, the Cailleach is also a great creator goddess. Many sources go so far as to bestow on her the accreditation for the creation of Scotland itself. She is portrayed as wading through the surrounding waters up and down the length of the country, dropping large boulders from her creel or apron to make the islands and subsequently scattering many smaller rocks and stones in the process to make the great mountains, many of which have been gifted with her name; Beinn Chailleach Bheur in Argyllshire and Beinn na Cailliach in Islay. A large furrow down the side of Beinn na Cailliach also bears her name, ‘Sgriob na Calliach’ (literally ‘furrow of the Cailleach’), and is said to have been made when she lost her footing and slid down the hill. On a smaller scale, cairns and standing stones throughout Scotland are also dedicated to her; there is a Cailleach stone on Gigha, for example, and many of the Callanais stones on the Isle of Lewis are said to be the fruits of her creative exploits. One myth tells how, whilst treading through the waters off the west coast of Scotland, a fisherman in his boat sailed underneath her and the sail of his boat brushed the inside of the Cailleachs’ thigh. She got such a fright that she dropped the boulder she was holding, and it became the island we know today as Ailsa Craig.

One of the most interesting stories concerning the Cailleachs’ creator aspect is that of Tigh na Cailleach, or ‘House of the Cailleach’, which can be found at the head of Glen Lyon, itself situated near another of her namesakes, Glen Cailleach. This small stone structure is said to have been created as she was brushing pebbles from her apron and has been regarded as a shrine to the goddess for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. Bob Bissett, head stalker of the Inverman estate, continued the customs put in place by her original devotees until his death some years ago: in the time between winter and spring when the Cailleach roamed the land, the roof of her ‘house’ was freshly thatched, presumably to make it comfortable for her, and a water-worn stone some 18 inches high representing the Cailleach was brought outside. During the summer months, when she assumed the semblance of the standing stone and her home was no longer needed, the symbolic Cailleach was placed back inside the structure before it was completely sealed up. It remained this way until the following winter when the cycle started again.

Loch Awe, on the banks of Ben Cruachan is another of her masterpieces and probably the most widely known thanks to the retelling of the myth surrounding its creation featured in the tour of Cruachan Power Station inside Ben Cruachan itself. As the story goes, there was once a great well on the summit of Ben Cruachan from which the Cailleach drew her water every day. The well was covered by a heavy stone slab which it was essential to replace by sunset or the water contained inside the well would spill out and flood the world. One particularly tiring evening, the Cailleach removed the stone slab to draw her water and sat down for a rest before the walk home. Unfortunately, she fell into a deep sleep on the hillside and as soon as the sun disappeared under the horizon, water tumbled from the well in vast torrents and streamed down the mountain side. The roar of the water woke her and she quickly replaced the slab atop the well. Whilst she replaced the covering in time to stop the world being flooded, the once fertile Vale of Tempe was entirely covered in water - the Loch Awe we know today.

Labels: cailleach, celtic, mythology, scotland

It's a rare occurrence for me to look onto my garden and not see at least one magpie. Like other members of the Corvidae family, the magpie appears frequently in folklore and is surrounded by much superstition. Groups of magpies have long been used to foretell the future, albeit rather broadly. One variation of the ubiquitous rhyme states:

One for sorrow, two for joy,
three for a girl, four for a boy,
five for silver, six for gold,
seven for a secret never to be told.

And another:

One for sorrow, two for mirth,
Three for a wedding, four for a birth,
Five for silver, six for gold,
Seven for a secret not to be told.

There are a variety of ways to counteract the misfortune brought by the 'one for sorrow'. Talking to magpies is one of my family traditions; one of those traditions that you believe everyone practices until you're in company and announce, upon spotting a solitary magpie, "Good morning (or afternoon, or evening) Mr Magpie! How are you and all your sons?", only to be met with puzzled gazes and accusations of lunacy. In fact, saluting the lone magpie in order to avoid the bad luck it supposedly causes is a widespread belief with many variations:

• address the Magpie with a respectful greeting such as 'Good morning/evening sir.'
• make a cross in the air
• cross your thumbs and say: 'I cross the magpie, the magpie crosses me, bad luck to the magpie, and good luck to me.'
• remove your hat and bow politely
• remove your hat, spit in the direction of the magpie and say: 'Devil, devil, I defy thee.' or repeat 'I defy thee' seven times
• pinch the person you are walking with or, if alone, pinch yourself
• spit over your shoulder and say: 'Clean birds by sevens, unclean by twos, the dove in the heavens, is the one I choose.'
• look round for a crow, as the sight of it neutralises the bad luck of the magpie
• ask: 'Hello Mr Magpie! How is your wife/where is your wife?' or 'Hello Mr Magpie! How are all your little ones?'

There are also many superstitions specific to what the bird is doing at the time it is seen:

• a single magpie seen flying around a house denotes bad luck
• to see a magpie perched atop a house means you should rearrange a journey
• a single magpie seen on the way to church indicates that death is present
• a magpie on a windowsill warns of an immediate death
• if a flock of magpies suddenly abandon a nesting area, hard times are ahead
• a single magpie denotes foul weather (presumably arising from the fact that pairs of magpies only forage together when the weather is fine)
• a chattering magpie denotes the arrival of a stranger

There seems to be an east-west divide in the nature of the magpies' luck. The east regard it as a good omen: in China, the magpie is a symbol of happiness and its song foretells prosperity; in Korea, it delivers good news and in Mongolia, it's a clever creature that controls the weather.

As is common with many prevalent modern superstitions, the most popular explanation for the dislike of the magpie is connected to Christianity, as C.A. Swainson explains in The Folklore and Provincial Names of British Birds:

"When the Blessed Saviour was hanging in agony upon the Cross, two birds perched upon it. One was a magpie, which at that time had the gayest plumage of all the feathered race. A tuft adorned her head, and her tail rivalled the peacock's in brilliancy. But alas her beauty was only equalled by her wickedness, and the evil creature insulted the Redeemer while suffering His last agony.

The other was a tiny bird of dusky hue, who timidly approached the Cross, uttering plaintive chirps of sorrow: with her wings she wiped away the tears that flowed from the Saviour's eyes, while with her beak she plucked out the thorns which pierced His brow. A drop of blood fell from His forehead on her breast and tinged with scarlet its dull brown feathers.

'Blessed be thou,' said the Lord to her, 'thou sharer in my sufferings. Wherever thou goest happiness and joy shall follow thee; blue as the heaven shall be thy eggs and from henceforth thou shalt be the Bird of God, the bearer of good tidings. But thou,' and He addressed the magpie, 'thou art cursed. No longer shall the brilliant tuft and bright feathers, of which thou art so proud and at the same time so unworthy, adorn thee; thy colour shall be sad and sombre, thy life a hard one; ever, too, shall thy nest be open to the storm.'"

And indeed, on closer inspection the magpies' distinctive black and white plumage reveals a sheen of blue across its wings and emerald green down the length of its tail. Another explanation for its black and white colouring states that the magpie is the offspring of the raven and the dove, conceived when Noah sent the birds out from the Ark at the end of the great flood (which puts a rather different slant on the dove's purity!).


In Scottish folklore, as noted by Walter Gregor in Superstitions in the North East of Scotland, the magpie was named the devil's bird and was known for carrying a drop of the devil's blood under its tongue. It was believed that the magpie could receive the gift of speech if its tongue was scratched and a drop of blood from a human tongue inserted into the wound.

The historic disapproval of the magpie has been maintained fairly steadily to the present day, not helped by the common misconception that it is solely responsible for the decline of the song bird in Britain, most notably the thrush. Whilst it is true that they will feed on the eggs and young of other birds, these form far too small a percentage of the magpies' diet to have made any lasting impact on the thrush population. Detailed census work carried out by the British Trust for Ornithology over the last twenty years has found that there has been no major decline in the populations of small birds that can be attributed to magpies. Instead, the BTO believe that the decrease in numbers is due to habitat changes, severe weathers and predation by domestic cats, squirrels or rats.

Labels: folklore, magpies, superstition

Originating from a Norweigan fairy tale, Why the Sea is Salt was one of my most favourite stories when I was young. Unfortunately I no longer own the anthology in which it was featured. I'm hoping to find that book again, one of these days.

"Once upon a time, long long ago, there were two brothers; one rich and the other poor. When Christmas Eve came the poor brother had not so much as a crumb in the house, either of meat or bread, and so he went to his brother to ask him for something with which to keep Christmas. It was by no means the first time that the rich brother had been forced to give something to his poorer sibling and he was no better pleased at being asked now than he ever was.

"If you will do what I ask you, you shall have a whole ham," said the rich brother. The poor brother immediately promised this and thanked him.

"Well here is the ham. Now you must go straight to Dead Man's Hall," said the rich brother, throwing the ham to him. "I will do what I have promised," said the other, and he took the ham and set off. He trudged on and on for many hours until at nightfall he came to a place where there was a bright light. "I have no doubt that this is the place," thought the poor brother.

An old man with a long white beard was standing in the outhouse chopping Yule logs.

"Good-evening," said the poor brother.

"Good-evening to you," said the man. "Where are you going at this late hour?"

"I am going to Dead Man's Hall, if only I am on the right track," answered the poor brother.

"Oh yes, you are right enough, for it is here," said the old man. "When you get inside they will all want to buy your ham, for they don't get much meat to eat, but you must not sell it unless you can get the mill which stands behind the door for it. When you come out again I will teach you how to handle the mill, which is useful for almost everything."

So the poor brother thanked the other for his good advice and rapped at the door.

When he got in, everything happened just as the old man had said it would: folks great and small came round him like ants on an ant-hill, and each tried to outbid the other for the ham.

"By rights my wife and I ought to have it for our Christmas dinner, but since you have set your hearts upon it, I must give it up to you," said the poor brother. "But if I sell it, I will have the mill which is standing there behind the door."

At first they would not hear to this and haggled and bargained with the poor brother, but he stuck to what he had said and they were forced to give him the mill. When he came out again into the yard, he asked the old wood-cutter how he was to handle the mill, and when he had learned that he thanked him and set off home with all the speed he could, but did not get there until after the clock had struck twelve on Christmas Eve.

"Where in the world have you been?" said his wife. "Here I have sat waiting hour after hour and have not even two sticks to lay across each other under the Christmas porridge pot."

"Oh! I could not come before; I had something of importance to see about and a long way to go too, but now you shall see!" said the man, and then he set the hand-mill on the table and bade it first grind light, then a tablecloth, and then meat and ale and everything else that was good for a Christmas Eve's supper; and the mill ground all that he ordered. "Bless me!" said his wife, as one thing after another appeared; and she wanted to know where her husband had got the mill from, but he would not tell her that.

"Never mind where I got it; you can see that it is a good one and the water that turns it will never freeze," said the man. So he ground meat and drink and all kinds of good things to last all Christmas-tide, and on the third day he invited all his friends and kin to his home and gave them a great feast.

Now when his rich brother saw all that there was at the banquet and in the house he was both vexed and angry, for he grudged everything his brother had. "'Twas only on Christmas eve," he said to the rest, "he was so poorly off that he came and begged for a morsel of food and now he gives a feast as if he were count or a king." and he turned to his brother and said, "But where in the world did you get all this wealth?"

"From behind the door," answered the owner of the mill, for he did not care to tell his brother much about it. But later in the evening when he had gotten a little too merry, he could keep his secret no longer and he brought out the mill and said:

"There you see what has gotten me all this wealth," and so he made the mill grind all kinds of things.

When his brother saw it he set his heart on having the mill, and after some talk it was agreed that the rich brother was to get it at hay-harvest time when he was to pay three hundred dollars for it. Now, you may fancy the mill did not grow rusty for want of work, for while he had it the poor brother made it grind meat and drink that would last for years. When hay-harvest came the rich brother got it, but he was in such a hurry to make it grind that he forgot to learn how to handle it.

It was evening when the rich brother got the mill home and next morning he told his wife to go out into the hayfield and toss hay while the mowers cut the grass and he would stay at home and get the dinner ready. When dinner time drew near, he put the mill on the kitchen table and said:

"Grind herrings and broth, and grind them good and fast."

And the mill began to grind herrings and broth. First all the dishes and tubs were filled and then the kitchen floor was covered. The man twisted and turned it and did all he could to make the mill stop, but whichsoever way he turned it and howsoever he screwed it, the mill went on grinding, and in a short time the broth rose so high that the man was nearly drowned. So he threw open the parlour door, but it was not long before the mill had ground the parlour full too and it was only at the risk of his life that the man could get hold of the latch of the house door through the stream of broth. When he got the door open, he ran out and set off down the road with the stream of herrings and broth at his heels, roaring like a waterfall over the whole farm.

Now his wife, who was out tossing the hay, began to think dinner was long in coming and said to the women and the mowers: "Though the master does not call us home, we may as well go. Maybe he finds it hard work to boil the broth and will be glad of my help."

So they began to straggle homeward, but just as they had got a little way up the hill, what should they meet but herrings and broth, all running and dashing and splashing together in a stream and the master himself running before them for his life. As he passed them he called out: "Eat, drink! Eat, drink! But take care you're not drowned in the broth."

Away he ran as fast as his legs would carry him to his brother's house and begged him in heaven's name to take back the mill at once, for, said he, "If it grinds only one hour more, the whole parish will be swallowed up by herrings and broth." But the brother would not take it until the other paid him three hundred dollars and that he was obliged to do. Now the poor brother had both the money and the mill again.

It was not long before he had a farmhouse much finer than that in which his brother lived and he covered it with plates of gold; and the farmhouse lay close by the sea-shore so it shone and glittered far out to sea. All who sailed by put ashore to see the rich man in the golden house, and to see the wonderful mill, for the report of it spread far and wide and there was no one who had not heard tell of it.

One day there came a skipper who wanted to see the mill, and the first thing he asked was if it could grind salt.

"Grind salt!" said the owner, "I should think it could. It can grind anything."

When the skipper heard that he said he must have the mill, for if he only had it, he thought, he need not take his long voyages across stormy seas for a lading of salt. He much preferred sitting at home with a pipe and a glass. At first the man would not hear of parting with it, but the skipper begged and begged and at last the man sold it to him. When the skipper had got the mill on his back he did not stay there long, for he was so afraid that the man would change his mind, and he was in such a hurry to get away with it that he had no time to ask how to handle the mill. He got on board his ship as fast as he could and set sail.

When he had gone a good way out to sea he took the mill on deck. "Grind salt, and grind both good and fast." said the skipper. So the mill began to grind salt until it spouted out like water, and when the skipper had got the ship filled he wanted to stop the mill, but whichsoever way he turned it and howsoever much he tried it went on grinding, and the heap of salt grew higher and higher until at last the ship sank.

There lies the mill at the bottom of the sea, and still, day by day, it grinds on; and that is why the sea is salt."

Labels: fairy tale, why the sea is salt

When I began researching the origins of possibly the most reviled day in the modern calendar, I was confident that I would be spending a few hours reading and writing about the Knights Templar, the original Christian Soldiers recently thrown into the limelight by Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code. As it turned out, however, it was quite the opposite.

Whilst Fridays and the number thirteen have been marked as unlucky for hundreds if not thousands of years, it is only at the beginning of the 20th century that the two become intertwined. The first known reference to Friday the 13th as an unlucky day comes from the journal Notes & Queries in 1913, where the author states:

I have met a 'coach' of fine mental capacities... ...who dreaded the evil luck of Friday the 13th.

A lack of written evidence is certainly not conclusive proof that the superstition did not exist before 1913 but a quick glance at reference books published around the same time indicates that this is indeed the case. Only three years previously, T. Sharper Knowlson in Origins of Popular Superstitions and Customs notes that misfortune can arise from seating thirteen at a table and refers to Friday as having been 'regarded as unlucky for ages', but the two are never connected in any way. The same is found in The Dictionary of Phrase and Fable by E. Cobham Brewer (1898) and Folk Lore and Superstitious Beliefs in the West of Scotland by James Napier (1879) - both reference Friday and the number thirteen as being unlucky but never combine the two. The exact origins of the convergence are yet to be traced.


Looking at Friday and the number thirteen as separate entities makes the task of unearthing the origins of the superstitions surrounding them slightly easier. It should also be noted that there are certainly links between the two, even if they are somewhat tenuous at times, which might suggest that the convergence that was eventually reached was little more than a natural conclusion.

In the most popular theory for the origin of both Friday and the number thirteen's bad luck, the blame is laid squarely at the feet of Christianity, though not necessarily correctly. It is commonly believed that Eve's temptation of Adam with the Forbidden Fruit, the death of Adam and Eve, the slaying of Abel by his brother, Cain, and the crucifixion of Jesus all took place on a Friday, although the Bible does not actually identify the day of the week on which the first three events occurred. The superstition about seating thirteen at a table is commonly attributed to the Last Supper, the setting for Judas's betrayal of Jesus, but its origins can be traced even further back to a similar setting in Norse mythology: twelve of the Norse deities gathered for a banquet at Valhalla, home of the Odin, chief of the gods. Loki, the trickster, gatecrashed the feasting (bringing the total number of attendees to thirteen) and killed Odin's much loved son Balder with a spear of mistletoe. Balder's murder was one of the events that set Ragnarok, the Norse mythos' end of days, in motion.

The pre-Christian Teutonic people considered Friday to be especially lucky as it was sacred to their most beloved goddess Frigg, from whom the word Friday is derived (Frigg/daeg, 'day'). The suppression of her worship during the Christianisation of Northern Europe and the religious persecution that went hand-in-hand with the process only exacerbated the bad luck that was already associated with the day. It has also been suggested that thirteen was a number associated with Frigg as it was said that she had twelve aspects to her being, in addition to that of the all-encompassing mother goddess, bringing the total to thirteen.

In Rome, Friday was the day reserved for executions and in more modern times the thirteenpence-halfpenny was known as a hangman, so called because that was how much he was paid per hanging.

Preceding all of the above, the ancient Egyptians believed that life was a quest for spiritual ascension - this quest unfolded in thirteen stages, the first twelve taking place throughout life and the thirteenth taking place after death. The symbolism the Egyptians conferred to the number thirteen was corrupted by subsequent cultures who came to associate it with a fear of death instead of reverence for the afterlife.

Finally, to the order of the Knights Templar. It is certainly true that on Friday, October 13th, 1307, King Philip IV of France had Templar Grand Master Jacques de Molay and scores of other Templars arrested for numerous obscenities and heresies and subsequently had them horrifically tortured until they confessed. None of the charges were ever proven and their decimation has gone down in history as an outrage. It does seem perfectly reasonable to believe that this event could have been the cause of Friday 13th's association with bad luck, but if that was the case, why is there no mention of it before 1913?


Despite our modern sensibilities, paraskavedekatriaphobia, or the fear of Friday 13th, is still very much prevalent today. Donald Dossey of the Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute in Asheville, North Carolina puts the number of sufferers at around seventeen million in the US alone and estimates that $800 or $900 million in revenue is lost on this day because people will not fly or do business as they normally would. Dr T.J. Scanlon presented evidence in the British Medical Journal in 1993 that in the UK the number of hospital admissions due to transport accidents increases by as much as 52 per cent on Friday the 13th, and there is a statistically significant greater number of suicides and murders on this day.

As the Thomas theorem states:

If men define situations as real, they are real in their consequences.

Self-fulfilling prophecy? Or should the combination of two of the most prevalent and widely spread superstitions actually give cause for concern? I doubt it, but you never know!

Labels: folklore, friday 13th, superstition