Review : Of Doves And Ravens

Let's get straight on with another Christmas read : Benjamin Stimpson's Of Doves And Ravens. This second bit of Welsh folklore is more specialist than Anne Ross's Folklore of Wales, concentrating on witches, wizards, and to a lesser extent magical practises in general. There's a smattering of other stuff here and there : the occasional ghost, weird creature and so on. But mostly it's about magical people.

This appears to be Stimpson's first book, and good on him. It's a pretty extensive, 300 page compendium of tales from across Wales, organised geographically. While I'm not at all sure I agree with Ross that magical beliefs are inevitably dying out (and even less sure as to whether this would be a good thing or not), I definitely think the stories need to be collected. Many of Stimpson's chosen stories are extremely minor, local legends, some of which are even at the level of rumours and gossip. Without books like this, such things would all too easily be lost forever. Some of them are shite, but some are wonderful. They deserve to be remembered.

As with Ross, Stimpson concentrates on presenting the stories rather than analysing them. But the commentary he does offer is intelligent and it's clear he's done some exhaustive research in compiling all this – it's only a shame there's no kind of conclusion section. The other minor issue is that there's a good deal of repetition in the chosen stories, such as :

• The "crow barn", in which a wizard manages to trap crows in a barn to stop them eating crops. That's it. It's dull as hell, but interminably minor variations of this occur across Wales, despite the fact it's an incredibly boring story. It makes us seem like a bunch of halfwits.
• Outwitting the Devil : typically by promising him half the crops (why does the Devil want vegetables anyway ?) and giving him the bad half, e.g. the tops of potatoes or the roots of wheat; being buried in the wall of a churchyard to avoid being buried inside or out and so cheating the Devil of a soul. That sort of thing.
• Using a magical spell book with imprisoned spirits that are released accidentally. Usually the book is so dangerous that the wizard only uses it once per year, but the reason it's used at all is rarely stated.
• And the title : on the death of a wizard, a dove will come to the body if his soul is pure, a raven if it's to be taken by the Devil. There are variations but this basic motif is found in many stories of wizards who would have lived remarkably similar lives if they were real people.
• Endless variations of the Llyn Y Fan Fach tale of a fairy who emerges from a lake to marry some young boy based on the consistency of his bread. Then he "strikes" her three times so she buggers off, leaving him with three medically-gifted children. It's not a bad story, but we don't need this many retellings of it.

If you're reading it geographically then I suppose this repetition doesn't matter so much, but if you read it straight through then it all becomes a bit tiresome. Many local wizards have an essentially identical story, and it would have been far better to just state the repeated bits in the introductory summary that accompanies each entry. 

This aside, there's little else to find fault with. The individual stories are told as descriptions of what the story says rather than actually as fiction. It's an easy read, all very straightforward and with a wealth of detail, once you get past the repetitive strain of yet another witch who did no worse than stopping the milk from churning. But then, this fits with Stimpson's description of a time when "magic was not considered silly... it was common sense".

I'm going to give this one another solid 7/10. It's a great read, and even in the repetitive bits, some interesting themes emerge.

Wyrd Wales

Alright then, let's get on with summarising my favourite bits. I mean, look, you can either go and watch the news about the actions of real-life monsters in America and Russia... or you can read about the much more fun fictional variety in Wales. Your choice.

The Nuisance Witch

As Stimpson says in the introduction, most typical Welsh witches were essentially normal people, not villainous old crones bent on murder. If they caused problems then they were incredibly petty ones : preventing milk from churning, making cows get a bit lost, stopping carts, that sort of thing. Both male and female magicians were often friendly members of the community and usually fully and unequivocally Christian. Unlike other countries, including our English neighbours, witches weren't seen as demonic or inhuman.

Reading through the individual cases I was reminded of nothing so much as the witches of Discworld :  figures who commanded respect but tinged with genuine fear. You wouldn't cross a witch, but you wouldn't expect her to come after you for no good reason – and you could fully expect any curse they inflicted to be lifted so long as you made a suitable apology. Pissing off the local witch would be a lot like annoying the town mayor : it's a bad idea, but for heaven's sake, he wouldn't be likely to try and eat your children or anything.

And as Keith Thomas pointed out, the only time most witches ever retaliated were when they had been wronged in some way. The fear of the witch was not a fear of their innate malevolence, but a projection of guilt : knowing you should have been more charitable* would lead to a fear of legitimate reprisal. At worse, in most cases you'd have a nuisance witch who'd act out of petty spite, but the chance of them doing anything really bad were extremely low.

* Another common motif is a curse that makes people dance for overcharging customers. One extreme case is that of a male witch who made his host get stuck up a ladder for refusing to share his fruit. It's an odd story, and he comes across as a colossal dick : when someone invites you round for tea, what kind of jerk demands they share things they never promised to share ? "Oh, you won't let me change the TV channel ? Well I guess I'll glue you to your chair then !".

What's weird about many of these cases were that people sincerely believed, incredibly recently, that some among them possessed incredible powers but used them for the most petty gains. One nuisance witch was said to turn into a hare in order to sneak into a field and eat the vegetables, another was said to fly from town to town and teleport into beer cellars for a drink. These would be world-changing, reality-altering powers which people seemed to think, quite genuinely, were being used for utterly minor personal gains.

And when I say recently, I mean extremely recently, exactly as in Anne Ross. While a handful of the tales here are medieval, the majority are 19th century, with plenty even in the early 20th century. Even the more exotic claims could be found in the Victorian era, including stories of rescuing a girl from the fairies and the ritual killing of animals in magical rites. Strictly speaking the latter wouldn't be classed as a sacrifice as the animals – which could include, dramatically, horses – weren't being offered to a deity*, though functionally I suppose it would be basically the same. 

* As Keith Thomas also said, there's almost no evidence of witches engaging in devil worship, with only a single example in the whole book. There's even one story of a witch who was literally ripped apart by the Devil because she spoiled milk – which hardly suggests they were on good terms.

Which isn't something I typically associate with such a modern historical period. It's like finding a lost bunch of Druids but in an era of steam trains and newspapers... I also can't help escape the notion that my forefathers must have been incredibly backward people. Had the Enlightenment just passed rural Wales by ? Were we all isolated shepherds living in the misty valleys, scratching a living off rocks and relying on wizardry for survival ?

Witchcraft

One other common aspect is that witchcraft was seen very much as a learnable skill. When magic practitioners were consulted, very often the advice was for the client (not the wizard) to perform some magical rite, typically something very simple like writing down a charm and placing it in the correct location (see also the healing and cursing wells discussed last time). In one case a witch treated two patients, but only one recovered because the other hadn't heard the incantation, almost as though magic were believed to be a two-way thing.

To be fair to my deplorably uncritical forebears, there were at least some notes of skepticism about the whole thing. There are plenty of stories where the famous local wizard might successfully summon demons or fly fifty miles in a night* but then be totally unable to find their own stolen property. At least they didn't think of magic as being a foolproof solution; they seemed aware that things didn't always work.

* In one particularly pointless case, a wizard flew across the country to deliver a hot mince pie to the King. We're a weird bunch.

Skepticism proper also crops up from time to time. Some visitors write in downright mocking terms about the claims of the local wizardry, with one story in particular deriding an "ancient book" as clearly having been printed with moveable type. One case that stands out to me is when someone pointed out that the reason the oxen weren't moving was not because of a curse but because their harness was demonstrably too small. 

So the Welsh were not entirely stupid, and we have to be given full marks for creativity if nothing else. Even so, it's hard to understand why people went straight for magic as an explanation. Now I love Uncanny, but there are only a few cases where I can honestly say, "yep, that's plainly stupid*, why did you even report this ?" (like the one where the claimed supernatural monster is blatantly just a smelly goat). Yet virtually all the cases here fall into this category, and there are none at all which present anything that sounds even remotely like credible evidence.

* There are, to be sure, only a very few of the opposite extreme where I struggle to see any rational explanation. Most are in a happy, entertaining grey area; I think, if I'm honest, I would like to believe in some supernatural aspect, but equally honestly, I can't say that I actually do.

It's not that I'm surprised to find a lack of evidence for fairies, you understand. No, what I'm getting at is that I'm surprised such beliefs persisted for so long and until so recently without any good supporting data. The demand to have some explanation is extremely strong, and far outweighs the need for it to be correct. If a child went missing, fairies it must be; if the milk won't churn, we'll blame it on a witch and get on with our day.

Even so, I perpetually wonder that people really do seem to think like this. And I continuously fret over the notion that half of all people are stupider than the average, especially when I look at the state of the world today.

Hags and Hounds

Witches in Discworld come from magical stock : some innate ability is required. This notion appears absent from Welsh witches but with a few exceptions. For as well as the formidable but usually well-meaning village witch, there were also other beings of an entirely different order.

Fairies are one such case, being inherently magical and inhabiting a world all of their own. Spirits and demons are another, often of extreme power... and yet, like the Devil himself, usually unbelievably stupid (though presented as though those who outwitted him were absolute geniuses) and easily manipulated creatures. But two stand out as being truly the stuff of horror. As promised last time, I want to look at these in a bit more detail.

My favourite is the gwrach y rhibin, the hag of the mist. Stimpson notes that modern would-be witches are making a mistake when they adopt this term for themselves, because the term is one of insult and true gwrachs are implicitly understood to be inhuman monsters. He charts the evolution of the creature over about a hundred years. The gwrach begins as a mountain hag who comes at dusk to the windows of a house where someone is about to die, naming in a "shrill voice" the the unfortunate person. Then she gains an apron full of stones which dribble along the path behind her as well as wings with which she flies (so being upstairs will no longer save you). Next comes her extreme ugliness, leathery bat-like wings and a "cadaverous appearance", as well as an ability to literally freeze the blood in the veins of those who hear her. She can even change gender and has fire in her eyes, with a screech that can drive men insane.

The gwrach began as a northern mountain legend, related to the torrent spectra and Grey King (both other figures associated with streams and mists, with the streams explaining the trail of stones). But at least one tale, from 1878, reports a gwrach much further south, visiting the far more domestic setting of a pub in Cardiff : and a full-on gwrach too, with teeth like tusks and a gown trailing as she flew through the air.

There are a few other interesting hag figures not directly related to the gwrach. The canthrig bwt was a child-eating hag who dwelt in a cave. She features in varying legends, sometimes killed by a criminal to avoid his penance, sometimes contemporary with – and even asking for assistance from – King Arthur. Sometimes she's a giant. A smaller but intimidating 7-foot swamp-dwelling hag, the Morfa Borth, was supposed to cause disease by blowing on people's faces. 

And then there's the gwyll of Llyn Cwm Llwch, a lake-dwelling Druid priestess seeking 900 victims to secure her immortality. Falling in love with a prince come to retrieve his lover, a princess already in her thrall, the Druidess called on the Devil. A whole host of writhing corpses followed her out of the pool* together with the princess, but she – in a most un-fairytale-like fashion, rejected the prince and chose the Devil instead. The prince seized the gwyll and leapt over the cliff to their deaths. Good luck with that one, Disney.

* This is one of few stories featuring undead bodies of any sort. There are no vampires, no zombies, but arguably one werewolf (if we count them as undead). The latter was a nasty little man turned into a wolf twice for bad behaviour, but the second time the witch died before he could be turned back. He was shot some years later, c.1890.

The last hag I want to mention brings us also to the terrifying cwn annwn, the hell hounds*. These huge dogs also come with the mist, white of coat but sometimes with red ears or covered in gore, with flaming eyes and nostrils. Their howls foretell death, and apparently they had a good make-work plan because they were also feared as dangerous in their own right, being thought to eat sleeping children. Incidentally, this hardly suggests a mere scare-them-straight threat to misbehaving youngsters, because how would this do anything but keep them awake and unruly ?

* Google them and most of the pictures are adorable. Canthrig bwt returns almost nothing, which just goes to show how important it is to have actual books about this stuff. 

The legend gets even stranger, and is worth a full quote (from James Motley, 1848) :

They are guided by the Master, a dark gigantic figure, carrying a long hunting pole at his back, and with a horn slung around his neck... no-one must call to them, for if anyone says, "I join in the hunt", blood will rain, and pieces of dead bodies fall to the earth, which have been torn from the ground by a powerful witch who accompanies the procession. This witch is probably the Mallt y Nos, or "Matilda of the night".

Blimey ! The witch herself seems very similar to the gwarch, and may or may not be the same figure. Later her story was developed into something all of its own, said to be a noble lady who declared she'd not go to heaven if she couldn't hunt there. Now she's condemned to join the Wild Hunt for all eternity, and some say she's a figure of misery, having long since come to regret her casual blasphemy.

... but wait, there's one more ! Not really a hag or a witch, but a fairy. I have to mention Llyn Y Fan Fach because it's so popular and strange. I visited the lake once, in the depths of winter. Smaller pools were frozen and there was a bitter wind up in the mountains; at a frosty sunset, it's a place all too suggestive to the imagination. Anyway, the basic tale (there are others which involve giants and stuff, but this is the principle legend) is that a young lad goes to the lake minding his herds when he spots a beautiful girl emerging with her own cattle. He offers her bread, three times : in goldilocks fashion, it's the wrong consistency until on the third day he gets it right. She promises to marry him, but in true fairy tale Chekhov's Gun fashion, the condition is that he mustn't strike her three times without cause. 

The marriage is by all accounts a happy one, and they have three children who later go on to become great physicians. But here the versions differ. In some, he gets angry and indeed strikes her; in others, he does no more than tap her on the shoulder to get her attention. In all cases he has cause, such as her laughing inappropriately at a funeral*. Nonetheless, three blows are three blows, and she takes all her herds back into the lake and he never sees her again. Like most fairy tales it isn't clear what exactly compels her to do this, but unlike most, she does in fact return, though only to see and tutor her sons. This makes it all the stranger as to why she can't see her husband again, especially in the cases where he's done her no injury (in one, the "blow" is no more damaging or threatening than a pillow fight).

* I mean there's a clear reason for his actions, not that he's justified in the versions where he hits her violently. She herself appears to be morally impeccable.

What does it mean ? Is it supposed to describe the complexities of life, with rules we can't fully understand – a case of making no mistakes but still getting things wrong ? Or is the man a figure who literally can't control himself ? Perhaps the popularity is due to its ambiguity, a useful metaphor that's flexible to many different situations.

Conclusions

In all of these examinations of supernatural beliefs, I keep coming back to two questions : did people really believe all of this, and did those beliefs reflect a moral belief or a world view ?

The answer to the first is relatively straightforward here : largely yes. Most of the stories don't actually go anywhere or make any sort of moral point whatsoever, literally amounting to "the milk wouldn't churn until the witch removed the curse" and suchlike. They feel like very simple tales that do no more than claim the event happened. There's a fundamental honesty about their utter lack of narrative and highly limited entertainment value.

Of course, that doesn't mean everyone believed all of them, and presumably some were things people just straight-up invented to amuse each other. But that they thought people would take them seriously seems clear enough. It would be much harder to decide on the boundaries of what they believed, whether they really thought the gwrach had wings or not for example. But the general principles, the belief in witches, fairies, wizardry and charms and omens of death... that's secure enough. As to why such ideas persisted for so long, I don't care to speculate.

What of the morality ? Here it's more complicated. Some definitely fall firmly into "this is just the way the world works" variety : there's no moral defence against the hounds of hell; writing down a charm wasn't itself deemed a moral or immoral act. That there was seen no issue of the clergy being wizards, or witches usually (though not quite always) being professed Christians who happened to do magic, suggests that for the most part, the supernatural was an inescapable part of life. Nobody gets punished or rewarded for their actions in most of these stories – they might benefit or suffer, but that's not the same thing at all. They might be warnings or encouragements, but they're not moral lessons.

On the other hand, morality does creep in. Share your wealth with your community. Treat the old and the poor with generosity and kindness. Apologise when you give offence. Try to follow the rules and respect the elderly. And from time to time, don't assume your cart broke down because a witch broke it – use your stupid brain and do some proper maintenance every once in a while.

Myths, legends and folklore are too complex to pigeonhole. Morality tales or world view... sometimes they're one or the other, sometimes they're both, and sometimes they're about flying a mince pie to the king. Make of them what you will.

Review : Folklore of Wales

Following on from Sarah Clegg's The Dead of Winter, I couldn't resist picking up another couple of short books on folklore. Both of which I devoured over Christmas, so let's start the New Year with the happy business of witches and whatnot.

The Review Bit

First up, Anne Ross' Folklore of Wales. The only appropriate adjective for this is... well, nice. It has a very distinctive style, an unusual mix of the academic, the readable narrative, and the unbearably twee : for one annual festivity she describes how "the sweet music of the harp would further enhance the happy occasion", without embarrassment. It takes some getting used to, but the clarity and simplicity of the text generally makes up for the often rose-tinted view of the people of the past. And Ross knows when to be lucid and when to be deliberately obscure, when to be literal and when to be quasi-mystical.

As Clegg noted, academics of Ross' generation tended to view the originators of folklore as being simplistic peasants, uncreative and dull, with all their wild beliefs being vestiges of ancient pagan religions rather than their own creations. Ross certainly does fall into this trap quite heavily, rarely acknowledging that largely illiterate people can still be crazily imaginative. She definitely infers too much that weird cults and practices must have been remnants of lost religions proper... but she doesn't lean into this too heavily. We don't get lectured here, with Ross largely concentrating on presenting folkloric beliefs rather than analysing them. Contrary to Clegg's view, it's also clear she loves her subject matter* dearly – on more than one occasion I had to wonder if she was a pagan herself.

* No lectures here on the word "Celtic" either, a word only delivered with lengthy apologies in many recent books. And to be fair, she does sometimes note that some ideas are wholly modern.

So yeah, it's nice. It's a short book but with plenty of illustrations and figures, covering a very wide breadth of all aspects of Welsh folklore. At ~£15 it's pricey for a 150 page paperback, and it would have helped if she didn't keep complaining about the lack of available space* – just add another 50 pages if you want to ! Perhaps the biggest problem is some chapters are rather unstructured, with no clear link between one topic and the next. But it's rare to find any section which is uninteresting, and overall it's well worth a read. A solid 7/10 from me.

* Two other things. She's weirdly horny for cranes (the birds), describing them as though they were near-miraculous and – for some unknown reason – able to run as fast as a horse (hint : they can't). And worryingly, she seems to think that humans and dinosaurs coexisted.

Wales, It Is A Silly Place

Right then, here's what I learned about my native country.

Commonly Celtic 

I've previously remarked on the similarities of pagan stories across Europe, but I wasn't aware of just how similar Welsh beliefs are with other traditions in Britain. For example the famous "Scottish" Kelpie also occurs in Welsh folklore as the Ceffl Dwr and appears to be essentially the same type of beastie : a water-dwelling horse, sometimes with shapeshifting abilities, that lures the unwary to their deaths. Good marketing on behalf of the Scots, but a bit unfair on the rest of us. Quit hogging the water horses !

I'll get my own deadly water horse, with blackjack, and hookers...

Fairies also occur throughout Sottish, Irish and Welsh myths in very similar form* : smallish (about three feet tall as a rule, though larger in the older stories), chaotic neutral (capable of both good and evil but primarily concerned with doing their own thing), living underground (though again not always in the earlier Welsh stories, where they seem to inhabit more of a parallel world than an underground kingdom), highly magical, and with a distinctive tendency to manipulate time.

* Although it should be noted that the Irish have specific mythological tales describing their origin. I'm not aware of any comparable Welsh stories, with our fairies just being a thing.

There are also soothsayers who are described almost like shamans, with similar ritualistic performances and a dress code not at all unlike what you'd expect for an ancient wizard (quoting third hand, with similar Scottish practises described elsewhere in the text) :

Whenever he assumed to practise the black art, he put on a most grotesque dress, a cap of sheepskin with a high crown, bearing a plume of pigeon's feathers, and a coat of unusual pattern, with broad hems, and covered with talismanic characters. In his hand he had a whip, the thong of which was made of the skin of an eel and the handle of bone.

He certainly sounds like an intimidating chap if nothing else.

Ross also points out more specific similarities between the Welsh Arthur and the Irish hero Finn MacCool. Both lead warbands (early Arthur is not even a king; later Arthur is an Emperor), both invade the otherworld, both command animals, both fight magical pigs*, and both are said to be sleeping rather than dead. She also notes, albeit a bit more tangentially, the similarity of Arthur and the Welsh for bear (arth), as well as the name of the magician Math (of the Mabinogion) and the Irish word for prophet.

* I know wild boar can be dangerous beasts indeed, but still, my modern notion of the farmyard varieties just doesn't accept them as much more threatening than Peppa Pig.

Not that Arthur is just a Welsh version of an Irish hero or the other way around, however. A final interesting suggestion from Ross (and others) is that the linguistic similarity suggests Arthur was originally a Celtic bear god, though this feels like quite the leap of faith to me. Regardless, the Arthurian traditions throughout the British Isles (and indeed France, as we shall see) all have unique attributes, and the English Arthur is no more the Welsh Arthur than he is secretly Finn MacCool in disguise. Perhaps they had a common point of origin, perhaps not... Arthur's origins and evolution are nothing if not complex*. Perhaps it's all just the result of similar cultures exploring similar themes.

* And Merlin's too. In a variation on the Vortigern tale of needing a child without a father, Ross gives a version where the locals set the far more realistic standards that the father only had sex with the mother once. There are even Welsh accounts where he's not Welsh at all, which is not what I expected from ancient legends.

Of course, the original Arthur was Welsh though. That's just common sense.

Monsters in the mist

Not all supernatural tales are as sophisticated or as pan-Brittanic as Arthur. Some are distinctly Welsh*, with a particular focus here on creatures of the mist. Of these, some are widely mentioned but little described, such as the Grey King who appears to have power to control mountain fog, but whether he's a figure of malevolence or just a personification of natural forces is... ahem... hazy. Sinister might be the best word, rather than outright evil.

* Although not entirely. Ross doesn't do a detailed comparison of everything, so it's possible that some of these are found elsewhere as well.

Far less ambiguous is the torrent spectre, a ghostly giant that dwells in streams and delights in causing deadly floods. Oddly, Ross says nothing of interest at all about giants more generally, which is strange as  they appear to be far more common in Welsh legends and folklore than our more famous dragons. She's also a bit confusing with the afanc, the strange crocodile-beaver water monster than does classic monster things, but according to the story here also seduces local maidens... whereas another version of the same local tale I found online says that the poor girl volunteered herself as bait – a far more heroic interpretation.

Some descriptions of the afanc also have it more straightforwardly as a water-dragon. Of the more familiar land-dwelling dragons, every book on Celtic folklore harps on about the incident under Vortigern's castle which gave rise to the big red one on the flag. Ross, to her great credit, gives another dragon story I'd never heard before. The legend says that snakes who drank women's milk and ate communion bread would be transformed into winged serpents or dragons. She relates one particular tale of a nest of such creatures at Moel Bentyrch, where the locals erected a stone pillar. This was not to commemorate the story but allegedly as an active defence against the monsters : covered with scarlet ribbon (which they supposedly hated) and concealing iron spikes in the hope they'd impale themselves on it.

Other creatures are less surreal and more straightforwardly horrific. My two favourite are the cwm annwn (the hounds of hell) and the gwarch y rhibyn (the hag of the mist). The hounds were ferocious white beasts whose appearance and howls presaged death, but they were also said to bite and even kill people, disappearing into the earth at the spot the grave would be dug. The gwarch was even worse. A banshee-like hideous hag that appeared in the mountain mists to rattle on windows, she evolved in the tellings into an almost Balrog-like monstrosity. More on both of these two when I review the next book.

This is getting much too scary, but fortunately some monsters are altogether weirder. Monstrous water-cats are apparently another widespread concept, of which the Cath Palug is surely both the strangest and the silliest. Arising from yet another magical pig hunted by Arthur, which went around birthing a whole assortment of different creatures before the cat, British stories have this later slain by one of Arthur's knights. Not so the French, however, who have the cat killing Arthur and going on to assume the throne. Which is quite possibly a case of deliberate mockery of a folk hero, and not very nice at all.

Believing in believing ?

All this raises the classic question of whether anyone ever really believed in any of this, or if later people just mistook fiction for documentation. Surely the Cath Palug becoming king was never believed by anyone at all and always understood to be fiction, but what of the rest ?

Here things get more interesting. Ross is explicit that many believed in some of this within living memory, and indeed a few still do – as communities, even, rather than the odd crazy loon. She recalls children around Bala being actively scared of a ghostly pig that would emerge at Halloween (best episode of Peppa ever), but also adults who believed in various lake monsters. There are even eyewitness accounts of fairies well into modern times, and people leaving milk out for them in living memory – enough to demonstrate that people took some of this stuff very seriously indeed. The gwarch also appears to have been a figure of genuine fear, not a story to scare naughty children with.

It wasn't just monsters either. Other supernatural ideas also appear to have been widely believed, especially omens and prophecies. The number of rituals for divination was huge : burning candles to see when the flame went out to check for ill health, or checking which way a rooster crowing at night happened to be looking*, or seeing the future through holes in bones, planting hemp at crossroads, and all manner of other bizarre practises and a myriad of variations on a theme. Basically anything you see on a cheap TV show featuring fortune-telling – yeah, someone did that. There are legions of examples of how such seemingly arbitrary rites were exactly that : a way to make a random decision when there was just no way to make a properly informed choice**. 

* Quite who would be able to get up in time to check this accurately isn't specified.

** In relation to the sheer randomness of it all, two examples I particularly like. First, the notion that eating the flesh of an eagle could allow you to cure shingles (and/or grant prophetic powers) by breathing and spitting on the affected area, an ability than some said would be retained for nine generations. Secondly how snakeskin could be used to cure essentially anything, including granting invulnerability. I mean, you can see how some weird ideas stick around a lot longer than they should, but you'd think people would eventually notice that consuming the ashes of snakeskin wasn't making them invincible.

One of the most eerie beliefs was that of the corpse candle. A traveller sees a blue night wandering the fields at night which goes into a house and into the room of someone who'll be found dead the next morning. Similarly, blue lights represented the soul in other, happier but equally weird circumstances, such as girls letting down a woollen ladder hoping to reveal a future lover. The idea seems to have been that their soul would climb the ladder as a blue light and then reveal themselves. 

There were also wells used for both healing and cursing, or even weather control by dropping in pieces of quartz to cause storms. It's interesting to chart how some wells began as extremely holy places but later became sites of evil used exclusively for cursing, dropping in charms and spells in the hope they'd summon some supernatural power to inflict harm on their targets. Many spells appear to be simple things, not much more than writing down what you wanted to happen and dropping it in the appropriate places. While this began as a pagan practise, the rituals evolved to become fully Christian : a sort of modified prayer would be written, explicitly calling on the power of God or Jesus or whatnot. And Ross notes that some such wells only gained their reputation in the modern era, acknowledging that not all folklore is the end product of centuries of tradition.

Conclusions

Ross does, however, state that we're likely now at the very end of such beliefs. She goes on something of a stock rant about the decline of society, how television is corrupting the young and the instant gratification of big-city living is eroding the value of storytelling and village life. It's not at all convincing, and I'd be willing to bet such laments have been made since the first caveman decided to build a hut.

Are such beliefs changing ? Yes, absolutely. They always do. It's difficult to think that we'll ever return to thinking that standing stones would take themselves down to the nearest lake for a drink, or that eating eagles would grant healing powers – and in some such cases, it's far better to let these ideas die (both for our own well-being and that of the eagles). Presumably, Ross wouldn't have felt so nostalgic had she been a bit more skeptical of the idea that most local customs are truly ancient.

That said, I concede that Ross presents a decent case for a more community-oriented view of the past. Not in the meddling, interfering sense we see in cases of witch hunts, but in the common activities open to all. These days we have essentially Christmas as the only major annual communal event, perhaps also New Year, with the others (Halloween, Easter, a few others) being much lesser. In contrast Ross describes festivals of similar magnitude to Christmas happening throughout the year, even just a century ago. Nowadays we have a great deal more activities available for like-minded people to participate in, but fewer that act for community unification.

Are we losing the sense of magic though ? I'm not so sure. If we accept that folk traditions are, in many cases, not ancient, then it seems to point towards how people think at a fundamental level. Two thousand years of the Christian faith was unable to stop people going from door to door with a horse's skull to engage in a rap-battle with the neighbours... I suspect at any point in history one would witness beliefs changing, some dying out while new ones spring up. As in Hogfather, there is a fixed quantity of belief in the universe. You can't kill crazy : if the gods are dead and we have killed them, then – sorry atheists – some other mad idea will simply emerge to fill the gap.

Review : Land of Mist And Magic

I continue exploring the world of mythology with Philip Parker's Land of Mist and Magic. This rather lovely coffee-table book presents a fully illustrated guide to a collection of British mythology, legends, heroic fiction, and folklore. 

As a physical product it's hard to find fault with this one. Good, thick pages, extremely high-quality printed images, and a text that's highly readable. It doesn't offer much in the way of outright analysis but it does include some incisive and intelligent commentary. This is absolutely a book you can read for pleasure as well as display as a sort of trophy-book to impressive visitors. Come in, gentle stranger, and marvel at the wondrous books you see before you !

Anyway, the text consists of a series of retellings combining different sources to merge all the major elements together, usually with a short introduction describing the origin and history of the story. They're all written in a simple, present-tense style which is never going to win any literary awards* but it gets the job done; they're imperfect, but more than adequate. The descriptive passages of both the scenery and the emotional state of the characters usually adds something not found in the original, archaic literature. But it can also lack an edge, sometimes missing important details for the sake of brevity.

* In particular, over-use of bland phrases like "will never be forgotten" does feel a bit chatbot. In one extreme case, Parker uses "forgotten" three times in as many sentences, which is getting lazy.

On the other hand, there's an unexpected benefit of being concise : when giving only an extract from a story, the moral lesson becomes so much clearer than when reading the tale in full. Often in the old myths (Celtic, Greek and Norse alike) it's very hard to understand what, if any, lesson the reader is supposed to take from these vast pseudo-histories. It may be more realistic to have a hero falling into cynicism and pettiness, but it makes it much harder to understand which actions are deemed to be "right" if everything a hero does is always undone; everything becomes subsumed in the ever-changing now. Cutting the story off, or into distinct segments to be told separately, makes it so much easier to say, "look, they did this, and they were rewarded" without being bogged down by what happened next.

One example illustrates both points. Pwyll and Rhiannon involves the nobleman Pwyll marrying the mysterious fairy Rhiannon, along with some job-swapping with the fairy king. At his wedding feast he foolishly grants a request to a stranger, which turns out to be Rhiannon's abusive ex... but with some cunning trickery involving an unfillable magic bag, they trap him and beat him up so everything ends happily*.

* It probably needs to be reiterated quite a lot that ancient fairy stories are not much like the modern versions. On the other hand, some stories, like Lady Godiva, are so boring they could only appeal to puritanical Victorians; if it was a modern version, the very least she could do to make it interesting would be to start an OnlyFans account. Get over yourself, Lady G.

In this version, that's all that happens, and the moral that even rash promises must be upheld comes through clearly. In the full telling, as given in Epic Celtic Tales, the story continues and it all gets weird, involving a horse-stealing monster and Rhiannon being framed for eating her children*. The moral theme of the earlier part of the story is lost, but on the other hand, the version given in LOMAM doesn't include Rhiannon sharply chiding her witless husband. This isn't a minor detail – it gives her much more feminist depth and underscores just how stupid the otherwise astute, and seemingly generous, Pwyll, is being at that particular moment.

* What did I just say ?

But restricting the story to only a single episode in the otherwise near-complete history of the pair changes the interpretation completely. Instead of it being an almost random "bunch of stuff that happens" sequence of events, suddenly it has a clear message. I tend to read stories expecting that the main point will only come through in the entire product, that the ending is what gives it meaning. Here is seems that this is not the case, that the reader is expected to consider each part in isolation : it's up to the audience to decide at what point to search for the lessons being told. This is exactly what Plato did when he quoted poets to debate some moral point, rather than considering the full history of Achilles or Odysseus. Still, to have this pointed out explicitly is, for me, very valuable.

Anyway, since the analysis is light with this one, and having covered mythology quite a bit already by this point, I think I'll limit the rest of this post to a short set of the most interesting tales I came across within the pages. It's very much a mixed bag, but some of these were wholly new to me while others put familiar tales in a new light. 

Origins : the origin myths of Britain are certainly interesting if you're a modern-day fruitcake... sorry, Reform voter. They're all explicit in that Britain was founded by foreigners – in the case of Scotland, a bunch of mixed-race (mainly Egyptian) immigrants arriving on a small boat. They are clearly proud of having a foreign origin, albeit ones they could look to for imperial glory (Egypt, Rome, Troy). They wanted the Stone of Scone to have a foreign origin to give it mystical credence, wanted to associate themselves with Brutus even as early as the 7th century. They actively deride the previous "native" inhabitants as savage giants who don't really do much except get killed by the heroes. Even when they give Britain a more glorious path of its own, such as when Arthur conquers the Roman Empire, they have it done by forging respectful alliances with other people and respecting their treaty obligations.

Fuck off Reform. Just fuck right off and stop spouting bollocks about "native Britons".

Though to be fair... they don't always have the Britons, once established, as being a bunch of Guardian-reading hippies. They're extremely racist against the Irish, in one story having Merlin steal the stones for Stonehenge (which is constructed, pointlessly, as a war memorial) after slaughtering their way through the Irish ranks. Just because they weren't anything like modern bigots doesn't mean the people telling these stories were very nice. Likewise, when St Carantoc subdued a dragon, he doesn't let Arthur kill it. Saying that it surrendered to Christian faith, instead it he lets it loose to, err... go off and eat Saxon children instead.

Well, I guess that should scare away the Guardian readers as well as the Reform voters, thus bringing my audience down to pretty much zero. Oh well.

Bladud : A curious tale that, while told in its fullest form by Geoffrey of Monmouth, took centuries to develop. Bladud was a possibly Welsh princeling with a hunger for learning who went to learn at Plato's Academy. Expelled for pursuing forbidden knowledge, he returned to Britain with leprosy and found employment with a kindly swineherd. Thanks to his keen wit and observational skills, he discovered a cure and was able to assume his rightful position as king, building a bathhouse on the healing waters that cured him. But his all-consuming hunger for knowledge was not sated, eventually ending in his death in an attempt to fly.

I rather like this one. Bladud's thirst for knowledge isn't the problem, it's that he lacks wisdom. He's a complex character, wanting to help the people of the kingdom but also foolhardy : he doesn't know when to stop, when to just be grateful for his first miracle rather than greedily seeking a second. He could have ruled well – no external enemies assailed him – but he threw it away on a vanity project rather than making the most of what he had. He knew a great deal, but lacked the self-awareness needed to control his own worst impulses.

Saint David : As my patron saint I feel I have to mention this one, but it seems he was a right cunt. His clifftop birth in a storm, to a mother who was herself a saint, was dramatic enough I suppose. But then he was apparently "so holy that he silenced the Bishop from the womb" when his mother walked into a sermon, and if that doesn't scream "awkward pregnancy" then I don't know what does*. Fair play to him for reviving the dead and healing the sick, but his lifestyle of extreme asceticism for himself and his followers – even the one with magical bees – doesn't appeal. Only eating bread and drinking water, preaching while neck-deep in freezing rivers... no thanks. Never mind that his most famous sermon, where the ground rose beneath him so his words could be heard by the crowd, was against the Pelagian "heresy" of free will. Sorry, Dave, you sound like a dick.

* It would also make her rather less saintly and a lot more interesting.

Folk heroes : A couple of popular figures need to be mentioned because they show just how much the stories have changed. Jack (of the Beanstalk fame) didn't start out as a figure having anything to do with beanstalks of any kind, but he did go around killing assorted giants : the earlier Jack has a much longer and more interesting series of adventures than the later one, though both are the classic "unexpected hero" who did nothing to earn his abilities. Similarly, the modern narrative of Robin Hood has a very fixed storyline, whereas the original has nothing much to do with robbing from the rich and has Robin of unexceptional abilities who brawls with his own men. A cantankerous, petty Robin who's also a bit of a god-botherer certainly puts a different spin on things. He begins his journey to folk hero as a commoner, not one of the gentry who merely sympathises with their plight.

Arthurian stories : A few micro-comments on these. Vortigern, tyrant of Britain during Merlin's infancy, is portrayed here as weak and ineffectual. I much prefer Rutger Hauer's version in which he's a classical... well, tyrant. It's not at all clear how he stayed in power in Parker's description, especially as he's given all the charisma of a diseased hamster. This vision of a past Britain in a state of decay is, however, interesting in itself, given the myriad concerns as to whether the Anglo-Saxon invasion ever happened (or at least to what extent and in what form). For the Greeks and Romans, history seems to have been a tale largely of continuous decline, but the medieval British, it seems to have been much less of a monotonic fall from grace. Perhaps this willingness to believe in a ruinous past says something about the mindset of the authors and why we shouldn't take their more apocalyptic descriptions too literally.

The stories of the Holy Grail also varies considerably from some of the modern Arthurian legends. As mentioned in Dragons, Heroes, Myths and Magic, this appears in the Mabinogion story of Peredur, but once again, setting this part aside as its own complete tale changes the whole interpretation. Peredur encounters the grail – a plate carrying a severed, bleeding head, and nothing at all to do with Jesus or a cup* – in the castle of the Fisher King (so called because he's injured so he fishes rather than hunts), where his failure to ask about it means he can't recover it... but he wasn't even looking for it, nor could he possibly have known what he was supposed to ask. The message is so utterly unclear that it actually becomes oddly satisfying. One day I might even attempt to articulate why.

* Wikipedia says that the Peredur story doesn't contain a grail, but this doesn't ring true. The plate carrying the severed head may not be described as a grail but it carries exactly the same narrative function as in the carbon-copy version Percival, which does supposedly contain a grail. Methinks someone is nit-picking here in the extreme.

There are other points where things verge on the confusing rather than the merely complicated. In the story of St Carantoc Arthur is a mere sub-king rather than the all-conquering perfect Emperor of later elaborations. In some stories there are multiple ladies of the lake, one of whom is decapitated, and multiple Excaliburs that may or may not relate to the one in the stone. Just as in Mark Williams' Celtic Myths That Shaped The Way We Think, Gwain's quest to seek the Green Knight is described as a failure, but what exactly makes it so isn't really stated*. Arthur's death, in some versions, is an almost complete catastrophe, a descent into anarchy and an ending which is simply tragic. In some versions, Arthur's army flee Mordred's host to the land of Lyonesse, which is destroyed in an Atlantis-like flood, a dramatic and absolutely final end to the whole Arthurian saga. At least it provides a clean break for history to resume.

* I find ChatGPT's answer to this very satisfying, however. I might have to re-read the tale in full.

Hereward the Wake : Not to be confused with Hereward the Woke, his liberally-minded cousin. This is a very interesting legend/fiction of one of the few romanticised holdouts against the Normal conquest. The mythologised idea of clinging on to the old ways is rife in Arthurian legend but appears virtually absent following the Norman Conquest... is this because the Normal lifestyles were simply too similar to their Saxon predecessors ? It's hard to mythologise a bygone age of different pottery styles and questionable facial hair choices, maybe. 

Anyway, Hereward is a rebel in East Anglia whose prior adventures include killing giants and man-bears. His tale partially follows the classic narrative structure : an overly-complicated and seemingly unconnected series of events without a clear message. More unusual is that when Hereward goes to reconnoitre the surroundings in disguise, it doesn't work very well. This is extremely refreshing because disguises in these old stories seem to be otherwise of near-perfect efficacy. And when his camp is attacked by a witch in service of the Norman army, they send her in by pushing her atop a tower. It's a very Norse image* that doesn't fit our modern ideas of the Normans as relatively advanced and sophisticated compared to the Saxons. Here is an unexpected, incongruous bit of paganism in an era otherwise familiar to every schoolboy raised on stories of 1066 and all that.

* The witch operating from a tower appears in other Norse sagas and archaeology. ChatGPT suggests that the height affords the witch the liminal space that in other cultures might be represented by forests, water, caves and so on, as well as stemming from a peculiarly Norse requirement for magic to be visible.

Hereward's tale stands out for romanticising a previous era which is usually glossed over as mere regime change. As in Mark Morris, the cultural change throughout the Saxon era was substantial, with the heroes of the local mead halls not being much like the powerful rulers of country-wide kingdoms. It's also unusual in having magical events and creatures but set in a distinct, highly identifiable time and place with real, named people. Even King William gets a look in. He forgives Hereward his rebellion, thus making the whole thing a complete waste of time, making it very much a classic "bunch of stuff that happened" narrative despite its many oddities. Well, maybe in the full text there's a more skillful explanation and some more satisfying moral narrative being told.

---

Ronald Hutton and Neil Price, as well as others, describe paganism as essentially amoral, more a world view than a moral doctrine. And I can see the appeal of this, but the most interesting thing about Parker's book is that it strongly challenges this simple view. I think it's fair to say that the morality of Christian stories does come through a lot louder than in the pagan myths, but this doesn't mean it's absent. Certainly the ancient moral beliefs wouldn't find much in common with those any modern religion, even the reinvented strands of paganism, but the stories might not be as inconsistent as they first appear. Perhaps we should be reading them less as epic sagas and more of collections of individual tales, each one with a different but distinct moral aspect. They require more analysis than listening to Jesus droning on about the meek, and they're probably a lot less self-consistent too. But there are morals to be found within – they're not stories purely intended for entertainment nor records of events people believed actually happened. 

I love the glorious weirdness of the whole thing, a dangerous and magical world of unpredictable adventures, strange creatures and supernatural forces around every turn. Their literary sophistication, with themes running and developing across multiple stories which relate back to each other, is clear; these were not written by the chronically bored or insane (well, not all of them, at any rate). If we allow that the moral lessons are being imparted in a very different way to modern sensibilities, just as the stories themselves are told differently, perhaps there's a whole other level of appreciation to be found here.

Review : The Witches (III)

It's time to wrap up my rundown of Stacy Schiff's The Witches. In part one we looked at what made Salem so unique : the weirdness of the magical claims and the extent to which they spread throughout the community. In part two we began to see why this was so different from the usual situation in which one or two witches might be accused from time to time and then nothing much for years at a time. The courts were flawed and corrupt, twisting evidence to suit their purpose, allowing suspicion of the procedure itself to be viewed as evidence as witchcraft. Suspects were housed in appalling conditions but granted freedom if they confessed, which is perhaps the only reason that the execution rate wasn't very much higher – but at the same time explains the extremely high accusation and conviction rate.

In this final post, let's go into the underlying ideology at work. If the courts allowed and even encouraged the crisis, it still would never have happened at all without some deep-seated beliefs in absolute nonsense. We'll end on what happened afterwards, but first, we need to turn our attention to just what the hell was going on.

The Problems Of Being Holier Than Thou

Schiff, it must be said, presents a more believable picture of Puritan life than Gaskill – if conditions were as harsh as he claimed, everyone would simply have died. In Schiff's account the general state of the populace is more nuanced. Yes, they worked fucking hard and life was tough. But they did have leisure time. Taverns might be frowned upon but they existed, and life was not so wholly joyless as Gaskill claims : people might even laugh and joke from time to time.

It was also unavoidably corrupt. With a devout and perverted belief in a meritocracy*, wealth was a symbol of moral virtue and poverty its opposite. The poor did not deserve charity because they were by definition sinners. This seems to have been a sincerely held belief, not merely an excuse to keep those on top in their favoured position : the idea of equality was dismissed as literally Satanic. They had an intensely conscious moral belief that their batshit nonsense was righteousness. 

* That is, that society was meritocratic rather than that it should be meritocratic, or that any steps needed to be taken to make it so. 

To that end, even the wealthy were, impossibly, all but forbidden from actually enjoying their wealth. This level of repression and hierarchy led inevitably to widespread abuse by the civic leaders, sometimes physically and sexually, of their downtrodden flock. In an environment which was already challenging just to survive, this wasn't helping anyone's sanity.

Nor, for that matter, were the all-pervasive judgements, the "surveillance society of the soul" as Paul Lay described it. In but one of many social paradoxes (good grief these people were a right bunch of shits*), this was a group who had deliberately sought out a remote location where they could freely judge each other without their community being judged by others. The continuous judgements, the relentless meddling in everyone else' daily lives, led to a climate of fear. If there were happier moments, the general environment was that of a complete dystopia. They were obsessed with justice, after a fashion, but only in the punitive rather than the moral-philosophical sense : they wanted to inflict judgements, not enforce moral standards. Plato would have torn his hair out in disgust, and then probably punched them all in the face.

* Calvinism, I think, might be one of the most self-destructive systems of thought every devised. I have a lot of sympathy and respect for the idea that the world has an unknown, godly component to it, but I think of Puritanism as little better than a terrorist sect.

All this raises the distinct possibility that the accusations and confessions were, in part, not only the result of social contagions. Some of them may have been the result of actual, medical-grade hallucinations : they may really have believed they saw some of the things they claimed to have seen. A not-so-guilty pleasure for me at the moment is the Uncanny podcast, and I have to wonder how many modern-day supernatural claims can be explained by a similar process. Certainly the belief in even the most preposterous magical claims was sincere; if some folklore was really never any more than a story, then witchcraft is one case where the beliefs were absolutely solid : one unfortunate woman was executed for selling chickens after happening to turn up after a magical summoning ritual. 

And once again, hypocrisy was rife. They believed magic was real but forbade its use. As Keith Thomas pointed out, by removing the option of counter-magic, the only recourse was to deal with the practitioners. But there's another level of irony at work in this which speaks to a deeper fear. Puritans, as a persecuted people, now became Nietzschean monsters, themselves the persecutors of the lowest of (their own) society. Perhaps this illustrates the difference sorts of fear felt throughout various demographics more broadly. It's one thing to be afraid for yourself and to want to protect your loved ones, but it's quite another to be afraid of other people and want to oppress them.

What didn't help matters was that analytical but uncritical mindset. They took the apparent presence of a vast throng of demonic witches not as evidence of their own corruption, but in their own self-importance : after all, Satan wouldn't bother if they weren't so godly that he needed to destroy them. It felt good to be pursued by demons because that only showed how holy they were.

What a bunch of absolutely contemptible fuckwits. But I digress.

Nor did it help that their moral world view was hugely over-simplified. Essentially all evils were attributable to a single source : Satan. This meant that any wrongdoing had but a single cause, an enormously binary "if you're not with us you're against us" view of morality. Small wonder that questioning the judicial process raised immediate suspicions that the critic was themselves likely a witch. These people may not have been coherent, but they were at least self-consistent.

One final paradox concerns the community views on gender. In this case the victims were predominantly but not overwhelmingly female, something I've neglected despite Schiff giving much excellent commentary here. For the sake of space, I'll reduce this to noting that the expected role of women wasn't exactly that of a modern "trad wife" incel nonsense, but it did inflame male insecurities. Women didn't have a lifestyle that was physically any easier than that of men, and could be both oppressed (with limited rights of speech and power, with the entire town leadership being exclusively male) but also independent (running their own businesses and speaking out regardless of what the law permitted). Again, it makes sense that in having a more confined social role, women were necessarily more likely to deviate, and correspondingly more likely to be seen as susceptible to Satan's power. Everyone, to the Puritan way of thinking, was guilty of something, women most of all, and calling it witchcraft only gave that guilt a name.

In short, these people were completely mad.

Epilogue : The Aftermath

Salem began with the spectacular testimony of an enslaved Indian woman (eventually freed without a trial), from which followed a rapid, all-consuming explosion, an obsession with eliminating all witches at all costs. It so dominated the village that essential work was at real risk of not being done, which in those situations began to present a danger to life.

What Schiff doesn't analyse much is why Salem in particular went to such extremes. Gaskill noted that more cosmopolitan, tolerant, liberal places in America had no such problems with witchcraft, or at least very much less – and certainly no risk of the runaway situation which happened in Salem. But this does not explain why only Salem went into a near-catastrophe : there were other Puritan colonies in the area, but they didn't fall into such an all-consuming passion for self-destruction.

There are at least two possible contributing factors. First, Schiff notes that the Salem villagers were especially quarrelsome and given to pettiness, not willing to help each other, prone to responding over-harshly to the merest slight. Given the small size of the population, the nature of individual characters could potentially be a major issue here : if just one or two of the town leaders had been a bit more sympathetic, a bit less willing to inflame the worst tendencies of the common people, things might well have turned out very differently.

The second factor may be political. The village was intensely conflicted in its loyalties, seeing themselves as a fully independent offspring of Britain whereas the British very much regarded them as a minor and subservient colony. The colonists felt a profound need to demonstrate their independence as a legal entity, and prominent court trials could show the world that Salem was no petty backwater that was dependent on a larger government for its survival.

The trials ended as swiftly as they had begun. In Schiff's narrative, there's a bit of a wobble in the last couple of months, a little more skepticism creeping through... and then they ended completely. As with witch hunts back in the motherland, in part the sheer number of witches being accused eventually made people question the whole process. It took time, but whereas trying (say) one or two witches per year might be sustainable indefinitely – indeed accusations persisted even into the 20th century – the idea of hundreds began to be seen as preposterous. A combination of mounting concern and the practical need to get back to work brought the proceedings to a sharp but anti-climactic end. It was, ultimately, a self-limiting problem, but not before nineteen people had died and hundreds more been accused of wild, murderous intent.

Given the magnitude of the event, it might be thought that a return to normality was all but impossible. In fact it seemed to happen swiftly, perhaps in part out of the pressing needs of manual labour. Even so, the accused (and the convicted, remembering that confessions were by far the best route to avoiding sentences) and the accusers now found themselves having to learn to get along all over again.

It wasn't easy. Sometimes reconciliation was absolutely impossible. Some left, others died. Some pulled together. In one way the general opinion did an important pivot : suddenly everyone realised that maybe those thought to be bewitched were not, by definition, reliable witnesses. Perhaps also the trials had become self-sustaining, and by putting an end to them, most ordinary people felt much less need to accuse their neighbours even if they might privately still believe them guilty. 

One of the key issues that had dominated the trials was whether Satan could deceive the innocent. Like whether spectral evidence (hallucinations of a single person) should be admitted, this was a highly controversial topic. The issue was that if Satan could affect the unwilling, then his power would be implausibly great, a rival God that undermined Calvinist predestination. The solution was an uneasy compromise : Satan could sometimes deceive the innocent but not usually. It was all very ad-hoc, corrupt enough to excuse the friends of judges while allowing mass convictions. But perhaps this too gave a little wedge, an excuse for the accusers, after things had calmed down, to say that the accused weren't as guilty as they'd thought.

Any notion that it was the accusers fault just wasn't on the table. Some key antagonists did, eventually, change their minds. Initial apologies stopped short of admitting responsibility – exactly as in the case of modern politicians, barely apologies at all : "I'm sorry if you feel offended that we executed some innocents as well" sort of thing. Other key voices never wavered from their fervent belief that everything they had done was necessary and right, though only a very few indeed actually thought the trials should continue. It was all very awkward. 

There was a distinct undertone to the whole thing, an unspoken suspicion lingering in the air that maybe we've made a horrible mistake. Or perhaps more likely that they were about to make a horrible mistake : thank goodness we only executed all the guilty ones and stopped ourselves from carrying on, we'd have gone too far if we'd done that.

Being able to utter this out loud was too terrible a prospect at the immediate end of the trials; it took a full century to manage this. None of the accusers ever faced justice : the atrocity was only recognised for what it was long after everyone had died. But even though these people were fantastically stupid, they weren't simple caricatures. At least one of the main accusers left a substantial fund to help Indian students, hardly the action of someone purely intent on inflicting harm. Which again makes it all the more disturbing : that people did actually think through (albeit badly) their actions and conclude that they were doing the right thing.

---

I've talked many times about how politically we can sometimes feel on the edge of chaos. Not all journalism is sensationalist rhetoric (although much of it is)... some of the more hyperbolic stuff does accurately reflect what can happen if things go on unchecked.

Salem represents a prime example of just how true this can be, how a narrow difference in thinking can lead to disaster. The villagers were not, in a sense, unintelligent. They were logical and analytical, but not curious or critical. They saw a phenomena and explained it according to their own world view, never stopping to question their assumptions for a moment. They had a devastatingly binary view of reality and morality : anything not of God was of the Devil, anyone who didn't think like them was highly suspicious. They allowed themselves little in the way of reward for following a lifestyle of almost unrelenting discipline, but ensured that everyone who failed to uphold their standards was delivered the full measure of blame.

Things twist so much when you allow room for an opinion rather than facts, to have a belief but allow room for doubt. It's not about whether you belief the Universe is run by a big beardy man in the sky or a collection of electrical fields, it's about how you think people who believe differently should be treated. How we respond to each other is, sociologically, much more important that what we ourselves personally feel. But the moment we make those feelings for facts, the minute we start thinking our position unassailable, the more likely we are to slide into intolerance.

Salem also shows how, even in a seemingly worse-case scenario of ideological and political freefall, hitting rock bottom is by no means guaranteed. Success is not final and failure is not fatal; most complaints about contemporary British politics are borne of a woeful, deplorable lack of imagination. Salem is what happens when you really take the brakes off, allow that imagination freedom with almost nothing to temper it. Don't come complaining about inheritance taxes for farmers to me, sunshine.

The pessimistic take from Salem is that the witch hunts went on for as long as they did : as Schiff put it, nobody was guilty except the accusers. The optimistic take is that they did stop : the town could have collapsed completely, but it didn't. And the ugly take is that no justice was ever meted out to the demented fuckwits who believed in ludicrous nonsense, who maintained that everything they'd done was correct even as they stopped doing it. They were never at the receiving end of the judicial system they were so keen to inflict on others. In the end, Salem, perhaps, is an illustration of how if there isn't justice for all, there isn't justice for anyone.

Review : The Witches (II)

Welcome back to summary-review of Stacy Schiff's Big Book Of Witches, an incredibly thorough (though often torturous) examination of the Salem witch trials. In part one I set out what made Salem different to other witch cases in my previous reading material : principally the routine claims of spectacular magical powers, the grand designs of a new world order, the extreme accusation and conviction rate. Now we need to look at why things ended up like this. Let's start with the court system, ordinarily able to keep the everyday fears of the populace in check... but in this case they actually made things much, much worse.

Evaluation of Evidence : Or, How To Catch A Witch

It's important to remember that the proverbial sort of witch hunts were rare events, and in Salem things seem to have gone exceptionally badly wrong. Even here though, the judicial system wasn't purely one-sided – it was more like a mixture of the good, the bad, and the exceedingly ugly. Often the boundaries were altogether blurry.

In Salem's favour, it should be acknowledged that not everybody was convinced of the evidence in all cases. A few even seem to have been almost diehard skeptics; doubt about the reality of witchcraft itself was in its infancy but it was in existence. If such fundamental doubts weren't much raised in Salem, then at least a few were concerned about all the specific cases and the difficulty of proof. Even some of the most virulently anti-witch were at least considering whether capital punishments were required or beneficial. Which is chilling in its own way... these people didn't go to knee-jerk "burn the witch !" chanting, but sat down and thought about it quite carefully (albeit in a deeply flawed way), and decided that hanging nineteen people was something they really wanted to do.

And there was a requirement, even among the most fervent, that evidence should be presented and persuasive. It was not enough to simply accuse, something of substance had to be shown. There were definite levels of evidence, with the hard, tangible sort greatly preferred. Confessions were also a gold standard : again, a mere accusation wasn't (quite) enough. Particularly contentious was whether hallucinations ("spectral" visions that only a few people could see) should count. Though not everyone dismissed such claims, everyone preferred the situation where there were multiple witnesses to supernatural phenomena; there was an awareness that it was possible some people were just seeing things.

But this is pretty much everything that can be said in favour of the Salem trials; beyond that they were legally about as rigorous as a puppy on cocaine. The impressions I get from Schiff is that the great and the good in Salem sincerely believed, by and large, that their standards were sufficient and they were driving at truth, but by any reasonable definition the legal "protections" afforded by the judicial system were scarcely more than a fig leaf. 

For one thing, the forensic skills of these imbecilic villagers was appalling, almost literally to the degree of not being able to tell arse from elbow : when examining internal organs, they had difficulty in distinguishing the heart from the stomach. Good luck with looking for supernatural marks if you can't even understand the most basic regular biology.

Confessions were treated with extreme confirmation bias, with no attempt to question their validity whatever. Incredibly obvious questions were overlooked : not only such basic issues as how powerful witches were apparently easily subdued, but also specific ones like how one woman claimed to be a witch for the last 40 years when she was only 38. The procedure was ludicrously one-sided and absolutely goal-driven, and it could also be corrupted to ensure that the judges' friends were never in danger of being in the dock.

While there were definitely standards of evidence, practically anything could count to some degree. Muttering, kneeling, expressing one's own virtues too loudly, being too strong... all could be blamed on witchy powers. If the court wanted evidence, evidence would be found : not manufactured exactly, but anything you said or did could be twisted to suit the agenda. The accused weren't given the evidence until the trial began, and even if they were found innocent of the crime they were initially accused of, they could still be found guilty of another crime at the same trial.

It look a while to understand Schiff's description of the Salem villagers as "logical", but by the end it becomes clear. Having accepted a "fact", they would be proceed to deduce its implications in great detail... but they would rarely question the validity of the information given them, and always steer the analysis to fit the agenda rather than looking for the most likely implications independently. They were intensely analytical but only rarely ever critical. 

For example, judges and juries might equally well decide that a story was too fantastic not to be true as it was to declare the opposite. Inconsistencies in accounts of multiple witnesses were first seen as problematic, then later "realised" to be actually quite helpful, since real people have faulty memories* – actually, they decided, these differences constituted evidence that something had indeed happened rather than the accusers collaborating.

* It's interesting to see the glimmers of a better approach to assessing evidence slowly coming through in Salem. But not only did this happen much too slowly to have any meaningful impact on the trials, it did so in a highly perverted way, with methodologies changing to ensure conviction (such as deliberately picking the most promising case to bring to trail first) rather than out of any interest in the truth.

This twisting, agenda-driven approach was one reason conviction rates soared. Another factor was at work which drove the accusation rates through the roof : the idea that criticising the procedure was itself evidence of witchcraft. Once that took hold, there was a runaway growth in the accusation rates. True, this "evidence" was hardly top tier, but it was enough.

The other factor helping both conviction and accusation rates reach absurd levels was very much Salem-specific. Whereas elsewhere a confession might save your immortal soul but would do nothing to save your physical body from the noose, here it almost always led to the capital sentence being rescinded in favour of a much lesser punishment, or even nothing at all. That alone is a clear, major factor why so many confessed to things that were absolutely impossible. Couple this with the horrendous conditions in which prisoners were kept, sometimes for months*, and the runaway witch hunt becomes all too easy to understand.

* Direct, deliberate torture was not quite absent, but was extremely rare. Keeping the accused in absolute squalor, in temperatures which were at first unbearably cold and then oppressively hot, with little food and less sanitation, might as well amount to much the same thing, however. The lack of deliberate torture to extract information in some ways makes the thing all the worse : ordinary people were willing to believe their neighbours were guilty of the most outlandish and horrifying crimes without recourse to forcing them to confess.

In many ways the Salem witch trials resemble the output of an especially crappy LLM : extremely confident, founded on falsehoods but carried to a logical, analytical, uncritical extreme; they were also of course heavily reliant on a great deal of literal hallucinations. One notion I rather like from programming is what I call thinking at scale. If you find a bug, first you look for typos, then you check things like whether a variable is being set or used correctly, then you move up to structural issues like whether loops are nested properly, and finally you might question whether what you've done is really a good idea after all. These people seemed to have incredibly narrow-scale thinking limited to a single level, a single premise that couldn't itself be much questioned. They could analyse to the nth degree, but never question the fundamental premise of what they were doing.

Another analogy might be the Borg of Star Trek. These are not a species, but something which happens to any suitable species that encounters Borg hive-mind technology : assimilated into a collective delusion. These kinds of witch hunts were not the result of some crazed individuals like Hopkins, but a process which took on a life of its own, under the right conditions able to escape the control of any one person. Salem was truly in the grip of mass hysteria.

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All this covers most of the major points as to why, when the witch hunts began, they spiralled out of control. But the above doesn't really address the more fundamental question of why people were like this, why they thought and acted in the way they did, why they were so afraid of witches and why they began the trials in the first place. That's what we need to look in the concluding part of the trilogy, along with what happened when it all came to a sudden, spontaneous halt.

Review : The Witches (I)

It's time for another book on witches. Previously I've looked at Malcom Gaskill's Witchfinders (covering the machinations of Matthew Hopkins and John Stearne), the book-length section in Keith Thomas' epic Religion and the Decline of Magic (covering the typical behaviour and trials of individual witches), and Gaskill's sequel The Ruin of All Witches (looking at a single case in the early American colonies). This time it's Stacy Schiff's The Witches, covering one of the most famous incidents of all : Salem.

The Review Bit

As far as the book itself goes, the word that keeps coming to mind is dense. It's incredibly thorough, sometimes interminably so. Contrary to the hyperbolic review quotes that lace the cover, Schiff's writing style is – by far – the worst thing about this book. Her recounting of events and analysis of what happened is as good as any you'll find, but the prose itself sometimes becomes a right proper slog. It's full of forced rhetoric and odd references when a simple plain statement would do, and often drops apparently crucial developments in single throwaway lines. I frequently felt myself wondering, "wait, what ?" as some key development was glossed over, unclear if this was really supposed to be a part of the narrative or just referencing a future event for context.

I also encountered moments where I really didn't know what she meant at all, where I either didn't understand the metaphor she was using or would interpret a statement in exactly the opposite way it was apparently intended; parts of it felt downright contradictory and unclear. This isn't limited to the minor details either, with some contradictions being pretty fundamental to the analysis. As a relative unimportant example, she goes on at length about witches flying across Salem (indeed this is how she opens the whole narrative) only later to say that flying wasn't something Salem witches were ever believed to do; similarly, claims on the conviction rate for the accused vary wildly from "actually quite low, just as in usual witchcraft cases" to "literally 100%".

(I think the difference here is explained as Schiff meaning that were ordinarily low, say about 10%, whereas in Salem itself this went much higher, but she phrases things in a deeply confusing way)

The phrase that keeps coming to mind is trying too hard. There's some very, very good stuff in here but it could so easily have been simplified into a riveting page-turner. Schiff can certainly turn a phrase, but, like Edward Gibbon, she doesn't seem to know when to stop. It doesn't help that the font size is peculiarly small as well.

I'm going to give this one a 7/10. It gives an insight equal to any good history book and the exhaustive, meticulous research that's gone into this comes through in abundance. But the text has neither the clarity of Thomas nor the flourish of Gaskill. It wouldn't be my first choice for a look at witchcraft and witch trials by any means, but it was certainly worth persevering with.

Lessons of Salem

The more I let this one gestate, the more I realise how no one example can capture the full picture of witchcraft or witchcraft trials, any more than reading about a single murderer can wholly answer the question of why people kill each other. All the previous incidents I've read about had their own unique mitigating and exacerbating circumstances. Consequently, Schiff's book gives a new perspective on both witches and witch hunts, adding another piece to the proverbial puzzle.

Salem, in Schiff's telling, was a society in a perfect storm in which everything went wrong. If it doesn't offer any direct parallels to modern society, it demonstrates just how far south things can go, how a tight-knit community can tear itself to pieces... and how it can eventually rebuild itself. 

To understand how a small village rises to infamy through the obscenity of mass murder, I'll first set out how Salem distinguished itself from other incidents. In part two I'll turn to how evidence was presented in the courts and how 17th-century villagers reacted to such matters. And last of all, I'll look at the role of religious and sociological beliefs in influencing judgement, and end with what happened after that one dreadful summer of 1692.

Where Salem Went Wrong

Salem isn't much like the other incidents I've read about. Keith Thomas covered individual witch trials, as did Malcolm Gaskill in Ruin, but only Witchfinders looked at when things escalated into the proverbial, relentless witch hunts the phrase is now synonymous with. Most of the time, witches were treated more like ordinary criminals. That's the first point which distinguishes Salem : it was a case when things degenerated into an outright frenzy, a whole village falling for a catastrophic mass delusion.

By way of contrast, Hopkins and Stearne were witchfinders on tour, going from village to village; they killed a lot more people over not that much longer a timespan, but over a much larger area. With their "witches*" essentially a series of individual incidents in different village, each settlement suffered a lot less. Not so in Salem. This is (essentially) the tale of a single village that descended into virtual anarchy, to the point that complete self-destruction seemed just around the corner. Nothing like that came close with Hopkins.

* I do think Thomas' point that there were indeed witches is an underrated issue. True, the majority were innocent, vulnerable people who were made scapegoats (and even worse, as he points out, they were often those who had been wronged by the community who feared their justifiable retribution). But some were, by all reasonable definitions, guilty of attempted murder, even if we now accept the methods could never work.

And whereas H&S exploited the pre-existing fears of the locals but were themselves a critical driving force behind the witch hunts, there was no such instigating force in Salem. Here the village wreaked havoc purely upon itself, with nobody else to blame. The external situation did have a part to play in the events that happened, but the hunts were initiated and sustained entirely by the locals.

One similarity to the cases of Hopkins was the semi-lawlessness of the situation. The Witchfinder General operated in a Civil War environment where normal judicial procedures were suspended : had regular legal options been in effect, he and Stearne would have met with considerably less "success". Salem was a far-flung and conflicted colony, according to Schiff desperate to prove itself, yearning for independence but utterly unprepared for the realities which that would bring. They were also, every single bleedin' one of them, a bunch of petty, quarrelsome jerks whose underlying ideological beliefs were extraordinarily stupid and next-level toxic. Their leaders were self-important but not (by and large) especially intelligent and not at all interested in critical thinking. Remind you of anyone ?

Salem was also distinct in terms of the scale and nature of the accusations. The number of executions (fourteen women and five men) is not, on paper, anything remarkable as far as atrocities go : this was not much more than a modern mass shooting, certainly nothing on the scale of a major terrorist incident. But the context of a population of maybe 500, this was a big deal. Even more so in terms of the number of the (formally) accused, which reached well above 100, with preposterous figures of 700 witches being bandied about. Salem was, it seemed, both infiltrated and surrounded by hordes of demonic forces.

And the designs they had on this tiny backwater were even more stupendous. Whereas more isolated cases focused on the mundane and the banal (souring milk, causing sleeplessness), the Salem witches had grander plans. Here, in Satan's kingdom where the word of Christ had not yet found its audience, the witches were planning to destroy the town and eventually all of Christendom.

Such a task would take monumental powers, of which the Salem witches apparently did possess except when needed most (i.e. in prison). There were few accusations of cavorting with imps, but plenty of shapeshifting, flying, murderous designs, and sightings of strange glowing jellyfish (amid innumerable other claims, each more bizarre than the last). Witches apparently possessed all manner of supreme magical abilities yet were rarely able to evade capture, let alone escape from prisons. The would-be global apocalypse was fortuitously prevented by a small village constabulary.

Back in the motherland, belief in witches was still rife, but witch hunts had all but burned themselves out – in part due to a restoration of law and order. Salem was about fifty years behind the times, but another distinguishing factor was a heavy reliance on the seizures of young girls claiming them were victims of witchcraft. Schiff gives very little insight into these individuals but their role was crucial. It was hard for the courts to deny the "evidence" of teenagers having fits on demand whenever one of the accused was brought near them. These were children living in a highly oppressive society suddenly being given an incredibly powerful voice; they also knew a great deal of private information. In a world preciously thin on recreation ("we must have some sport", declared one) but big on blame and hard work, putting those normally at the bottom of the food chain in a position of blackmail over the great and the good was a recipe for disaster.

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Before we look in more detail at the society which led to this spiritual bombshell, we should first turn to why the courts were so utterly ineffectual in preventing things from getting out of hand. Poor as they were, even in a 17th century court it wasn't usually the case that an accusation led to conviction (any more than every Roman gladiatorial duel ended in a death). Everyone believed in witches, but they had no especial desire to see the world collapse into anarchy. Understanding the failure to properly evaluate evidence is the first piece of the puzzle in understanding the near-collapse of the social order, which we'll look at in part two.

Review : The Dead of Winter

A short review of a short book. I bought Sarah Clegg's The Dead of Winter last year as a Christmas present for family, and my December trip back home this year gave me the chance to read it for myself.

This is a delicious little Christmas treat. Concise but intelligent, witty but respectful, moralising but without preaching overmuch, and anecdotal while staying on point, Clegg has written something of near-perfect balance. She takes us on a tour of the darker side of Christmas : Krampus, Mari Llwyd, witches, Wild Hunts, Saturnalia and more are all found within. She describes visiting empty churches in the depths of winter with the haunting tone it requires, without skimping on the need for comic relief and self-awareness. The book neither takes itself too seriously nor pokes excessive fun at rituals which are frequently bizarre.

The term I think I'm looking for here is cosy horror. There's a sense of danger about some of the celebrations, which on occasion result in real injury and serious threat. Children, in the more exuberent festivities which still take place, are in danger of nothing more than being scared, but for adults the threat is just enough to give it a real edge. Clegg herself comes off rather badly injured after being whipped by a Krampus in Vienna, at once drawn to the otherworldly and repelled by the danger. If ever there was a case of a moth to a flame, here it is.

Clegg is not afraid to draw attention to the less-than-wholesome aspects of these sometimes anarchic rituals. Not only does the make-believe violence occasionally flare into something considerably worse than scaring children, but  there's an element of misogyny and racism in some of the events. Clegg is, of course, absolutely right to point this out, but the ambiguity, the tension in being fascinated and attracted by the forbidden fruit of base impulse, while at the same time repelled by the knowledge that some of this is really very wrong, makes the text a compelling read. It's a conflict which cannot be fully resolved, only explored. Clegg yearns for the violent, almost lusts for the devilish and the macabre, but at the same time would love to curl up with a nice cup of cocoa and a large friendly cat in front of a small fire.

Perhaps it's a question of aesthetics. Perhaps we're drawn to the look of a thing, our fantasy of how it should be, not its reality. We want to be scared but not really harmed; ravished (and there is a tone of sexuality here) but with consent. It feels like there's more than a hint about something with much wider implications than the sociological history of Christmas.

And Clegg does raise some good points about the sociology of the thing. In particular, she notes that folklorists in the modern era have tended to an elitist, academic perspective, fascinated by their subject matter but disparaging of its adherents. The general peasantry, they said, was essentially stupid, stagnant, and unimaginative, simultaneously both living in a pre-industrial utopia and yet also barbarous savages. Bereft of any original ideas, all of their ritual customs must surely be matters of the utmost seriousness, direct vestiges of ancient pagan rites. Heaven forbid they should have done anything just for pure fun, let alone invent anything new. The nobel savage fallacy looms large.

A permanent question that comes to mind whenever I read books of folklore and mythology is whether people really ever believed in the ideas originally. And of course, it's abundantly clear that this question is both impossible to fully answer and often completely the wrong thing to ask. Ancient pagan beliefs were malleable in the extreme, and the idea that modifying it would make it untrue just didn't feature in the world view.

Nevertheless, some aspects of the rituals which survive today, and of those practised in the relatively recent past, do seem to have credible connections to the pre-Christian era. Christmas certainly seems to have developed from truly ancient midwinter festivals; their are hints that Mari Llwyd (the rap-battling horse skull of Welsh tradition) has ancient roots despite waxing and waning in popularity over time. But if there was always something like Krampus, there's no evidence of Krampus ever being a god. Some beliefs were taken extremely seriously (witches were, after all, executed), but others... well, not so much.

Indeed the violence, directed at children, is sometimes so extreme that there's an element of teasing about the whole thing. Krampus eats children, which is hardly a credible threat; various witches go much further : they disembowel children, wrap their entrails around a pole and stuff them with straw. This hideous imagery is perhaps terrifying enough to snap an unruly child into conformity without needing to make good on the threat (beyond perhaps a good slap, back in unenlightened eras). There's an edge of danger there but limited, analogous, maybe, to an iron fist in a velvet glove.

It's often said that Christmas is a celebration of the light – a way of driving out the darkness of midwinter, but I think we want to celebrate the darkness as well, to plunge ourselves into it, use it to make things that are as excitingly horrifying as they can be, to fill the night with monsters and scares that take full advantage of the longer, deeper darkness, and enjoy all the terrifying possibilities it brings, knowing deep down that it's a horror of our own making, and can be – just about – controlled. This is horror as entertainment – horror to be relished. There's too much fun in the monsters for them to be solely representations of a genuine fear, too much joy in the subversive excitement of rampaging through the night, whether as a witch, Krampus or snapping monsters, too much laughter mingling with the screams that echo through the centuries.

Yet even Santa has his darker side, giving coal to naughty children : it's hardly an image of child-devouring savagery, but it still makes him a less than pure figure. Embodying the negative aspects with their own personas, says Clegg, makes the joyous spirits of Christmas all the more potent. Just as Protestantism put all its sinful eggs in Satan's singular basket, making one supreme evil in place of a multitude of others, so perhaps Krampus et al. let Santa or St Nicholas rise to their status of paragons of virtue. Devils, in short, make the gods better.

Not that this was usually done consciously. Things were invented and modified and lost because things just felt right at the moment. Rather than being the literal survival of pagan traditions, many aspects were the result more of pagan tendencies : the flexibility of belief, the creativity in mixing demonic horror with the wholesomeness of being with friends and family. There was little or no alternative religion to Christianity in medieval Europe, but this didn't mean the old ways were gone completely. The yearning to give physical shape to our hopes and fears is simply too strong to suppress entirely. Paganism, perhaps, is less of a religion and more the default state of humanity.

It's delightfully ironic that folklore is so dynamic that it happily absorbed a story about it being entirely static and unchanging just because it happened to be a very good story.

And these new ideas did something else as well – they made the Christmas monsters frightening again, just at a time when the darker side of Christmas practises were, to some extent, dying out... To the people who were unlikely to believe in a real demon, the idea that Krampus carried with him millennia of bloody death allowed him to retain a huge portion of the exciting terror he might otherwise have lost.

This is fakelore again : a belief that other people believed a ritual somehow gives it extra validity of a sort. The idea that people were at some point genuinely terrified of Krampus, even knowing the idea is pure nonsense, nevertheless gives the idea an altogether sharper edge than thinking it was only ever for amusement (archaeologists in particular are often prone to saying "ritual" as though this could only ever be a serious and solemn event).

Eliminating Christmas horror proved impossible for the Church, but not through lack of trying. Far more successful than the Puritan attempt at cancel culture was the Victorian establishment approach of taming Christmas and making it family friendly. By giving people activities which they actually wanted to do, allowing them time off to be with friends and eat themselves silly (as opposed to just berating them for not praying hard enough), the need for noisily prowling the streets threatening violence in exchange for food and drink receded. 

Even then, the belief that there's something dangerous in the darkest depths of midwinter never fully died. Perhaps a resurgence in Christmas horror is a result of a failing social contracts, perhaps it's just because it's bloody good fun. We need outlets for our baser tendencies. Even if we're consciously aware of it, the urge to go – for a limited time – beyond the social norms, with at least some reduction in the consequences, may be truly irresistible. If the exact beliefs aren't truly ancient, the most basic idea may be something that's literally a permanent feature of humanity.