Homo hematophagens

Vampires are mythological or folkloric beings who subsist by feeding on the life essence (generally in the form of blood) of living creatures, regardless of whether they are an ‘undead’ or a living person. In most cases, vampires are revenants of evil beings, suicide victims, or witches, but they can also be created by a malevolent spirit possessing  a corpse or by being bitten by a vampire.

Although vampiric entities have been recorded in many cultures – and these records may go back to prehistoric times – the term vampire was not popularized until the early 18th century, after an influx of vampire superstition into Western Europe from areas where vampire legends were frequent, such as the Balkans, although local variants were also known by different names, such as vrykolakas in Greece and strigoi in Romania. This increased level of vampire superstition in Europe led to mass hysteria and in some cases resulted in people being accused of vampirism, public executions – and the practice of pinning corpses to the ground with stakes.

While folkloric vampires of the Balkans and Eastern Europe had a wide range of appearance – ranging from nearly human to bloated rotting corpses, it was the success of John Polidori’s 1819 novella The Vampyre that established the archetype of charismatic and sophisticated vampire; it is arguably the most influential vampire work of the early 19th century, inspiring such works as Varney the Vampire and eventually Dracula. The Vampyre was itself based on Lord Byron’s unfinished story Fragment of a Novel, also known as The Burial: A Fragment, published in 1819. However, it is Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel Dracula that is remembered as the quintessential vampire novel and which provided the basis of modern vampire fiction. Dracula drew on earlier mythologies of  werewolves and similar legendary demons and, according to literary historian Susan Sellers, “was to voice the anxieties of an age”, and the “fears of late Victorian Patriarchy ”.

The success of this book spawned a distinctive vampire genre, still popular in the 21st century, with books, films, video games, and television shows. The vampire is now such a dominant figure in the horror genre that Sellers places the current vampire myth in the “comparative safety of nightmare fantasy”.

Homo lupus

A werewolf , also known as a lycanthrope (from the Greek λυκάνθρωπος: λύκος, lukos, “wolf”, and άνθρωπος, anthrōpos, man), is a mythological or folkloric human with the ability to shape-shift into a wolf or an anthropomorphic wolf-like creature, either purposely or after being placed under a curse. This transformation is often associated with the appearance of the full moon, as popularly noted by the medieval chronicler Gervase of Tilbury, and perhaps in earlier times among the ancient Greeks through the writings of Petronius.

Werewolves are often attributed superhuman strength and senses, far beyond those of both wolves and men. The werewolf is generally held as a European character, although its lore spread through the world in later times. Shape-shifters, similar to werewolves, are common in tales from all over the world, most notably amongst the Native Americans, though most of them involve animal forms other than wolves.

Werewolves are a frequent subject of modern fiction, although fictional werewolves have been attributed traits distinct from those of original folklore. For example, the notions that werewolves are only vulnerable to silver bullets or that they can cause others to become werewolves by biting or wounding them derive from works of modern fiction. Werewolves continue to endure in modern culture and fiction, with books, films and television shows cementing the werewolf’s stance as a dominant figure in the fantasy or horror genres.

The lycanthrope has achieved something of a cult status in recent times through the popularity of The Twilight Saga; a series of five supernatural romantic fantasy films based on the four Twilight Series novels by the American author Stephanie Meyer.

http://origin011.wordpress.com/

The focus remains on human-animal relationships; with drawings that have been created in response to more ‘fleshy’ themes …

Any comments will be most welcome.

Centaur burial

In Greek mythology the centaur or hippocentaur is a composite creature, part human and part horse. In early Attic and Boeotian vase painting they were depicted with the hind quarters of a horse, in later renderings a human torso was attached to the withers, where the horse’s head would normally appear.

This half human, half animal composition has led a number of writers to treat them as liminal beings, caught between two natures. These are embodied in contrasting myths: on the one hand representing untamed nature, as in their violent, sexually motivated battle with the Lapiths or, conversely, as Chiron: kindly teacher of Greek heroes including Achilles, Actaeon, Asclepius and Jason.

Chiron, the noble centaur, gave up his life so that man could obtain the use of fire, poisoned by an arrow dipped in the Hydra’s blood. He is honored by a place in the sky as the constellation Centaurus.

Part III: The Western Island

… continued from Part II

Brother Luke digested the contents of the warning from the Northern Island with a feeling of utter dismay. He then looked down into the coracle at the supplies that the lighthouse keeper had given him. There was plenty of food and water to help him make the journey home, but given the man’s morbid condition it all felt touched by death … he could muster little appetite for what lay bundled there. He then slumped forward onto the oars.

Eventually he turned the coracle round and headed back in a south-westerly direction towards the Western Island.

The sea had returned to a glassy stillness, and he was glad of the lack of wind, but it felt like a labour of Sisyphus to continue rowing. By now his hands were raw and blistered from contact with the oars. Time sank into the stillness of the empty disc on which he floated and the sun’s energy shrouded him in sickening layers of heat. He loosened the habit from around his shoulders and rowed half naked. Sweat dripped from his brow, his flesh cooked.

Then, quite close by, he saw a long black rock; the perfect place for him to rest from the exertions of rowing without the coracle drifting. The rock was slightly mottled, grey and black, marble smooth, slimy beneath his feet and strangely warm – a fact that brother Luke put down to its dark colour. Feeling a sudden chill, he slipped his arms back into the habit and sat down for a moment before gingerly exploring the outcrop. The rock was featureless apart from a strange protrusion that ran along its centre and a slight, shallow depression at one end …

Suddenly, Brother Luke felt a tremor pass through his feet and a great geyser of frothing brine erupted from the depression. The black rock began to rise from the water and he fell sideways into the ocean. Initially buoyed up by the air trapped within his habit, he soon began to feel dragged down by its weight. He had no choice but to tear the garment from his body. The cold wrenched breath from his tightening chest. As he struggled to the surface he saw what, in fact, the rock was; through a cloud of bubbles a tiny sentient eye set within a huge bulbous head, a small flipper held out at an angle to the rippled bulk of its body. A true leviathan of the deep; what was once known in a long dead European language as a cachalot …

Somehow he scrambled back into the coracle and lay shivering, wet and naked in the shallow belly of the boat. From his supine position, he could see the great tail of the beast rise; he cowered in its terrifying shadow, fearing that the gigantic flukes were about to smash down and shatter the flimsy coracle. He covered his head and closed his eyes.

Then the shadow disappeared. He felt the coracle rock and, feeling a potent rush of relief, awkwardly raised himself up. All that was left of the whale’s presence was a lens of still water amongst the turmoil, the surface limit of the column of water displaced by the leviathan’s descent.

Brother Luke began, again, to row.

The night was desperately cold and a low, oppressive cloud blanketed the moon and stars from view. He continued to toil onwards in a mindless state, wrapped in the coracle’s sail. Finally, the soft granular light of dawn spread through the darkness from the east, and the Western Island became dimly discernible as a small grey lump on the horizon. As it grew closer, he could detect its familiar fluted limestone buttresses emerging from the sea. Again he heard the sounds of seabirds. He rowed closer, made his way to the small bay on the eastern side of the island, and anchored the coracle with a heavy stone.

The island’s familiar emptiness greeted him as he walked up the hill. The day was windless, still, and a fragrant dampness rose up from the pasture beneath his bare feet. Exhausted from his journey, he felt glad to be home. Following the tiny path that he alone had made since his arrival many years ago, he took pleasure from the sun that was gradually warming his cold, weary, naked body. He skirted the beehive, and then cast a handful of feed from his store to the chickens. As he passed by the cow he gave her an affectionate stroke. He then returned to the store to grab a flagon of mead and made his way up to the solitary, beehive-shaped cell.

He looked out at the sunset that was beginning to paint the western sky in broad strokes of vividly melding reds, yellows and violets. Beams of crepuscular light radiated downwards from the warm grey clouds that shrouded the sun. He sat down on his humble straw cot. He took three mouthfuls of mead from the flagon, relishing the rich sweetness that burst in his mouth. The last man on earth then felt a desperate need for rest.

Part II: The Lighthouse Keeper and the Northern Island

… continued from Part I

‘So, would you like to play chess?’ asked the lighthouse keeper.

It was clear to brother Luke that the man kneeling before him was dying. His complexion bore a waxy, yellowish pallor and a network of blackish-blue veins formed disturbing, delicate webs on his exposed skin. These veins spread across and beneath a complex design of blue-green swirling tattoos. The man’s ears hung in tatters, fringed by a regular series of precise incisions, all of equal length and spacing, that had been made into the flesh. The monk knelt opposite the lighthouse keeper on a thick, comfortable, richly woven carpet of wool. The carpet was decorated with the same motifs as those that covered the lighthouse keeper’s body. Out of the tower’s western porthole window he could see the darkness of the arriving storm. The sound of crashing waves and distant thunder reached his ears.

In between them was a low table on which was laid a chess set made of walrus tooth and whale ivory; intricately carved, time-worn pieces shaped in the form of bearded men bearing shields and ancient weapons.

‘The gods of the silk road were happy to share accommodation’, said the lighthouse keeper.

Brother Luke said nothing.

‘By which I mean that you are welcome to sleep on my floor while the storm passes through. I have plenty of food too… and not much appetite.’ The lighthouse keeper coughed, a hollow, rasping cough, and then stood up to spit out of the porthole.

He continued to stand there for a few moments, with his back to the monk then returned with a strained smile.

He then gestured to brother Luke to make the first move.

It had taken him the best part of a day to row from the Eastern Island. The freshening wind bore occasional squalls of rain and sent the surface of the ocean into shuddering spasms of light. The wind felt threatening and he soon became aware of a sombre accumulation of cloud that was building to the west. He stood up in the coracle and, shielding his eyes, scanned the horizon for signs of land. The lighthouse was plainly visible, a tiny grey splinter sticking up from the sea. Though clearly some distance away, it seemed the safest thing to head for and, according to Brother Luke’s rudimentary map, it was only a short diversion from his intended destination. Eventually, after much backbreaking toil, the lighthouse building rose above him from the rocky platform of the skerry; a cylinder of smooth white quartzite blocks that tapered delicately from base to top. The pillar was crowned with a rusting mass of iron. A tattered crown of thorns.

Brother Luke was aware from his map that beneath these blackening waters lay the remains of hundreds of ships. And, with a shudder, he thought of the bodies of the navigators that must be down there in those immense, chilling depths; far from any light, far from the comfort of their homes. The frantic wind drew his attention to the west. In the distance he could now see faint flashes of lightning illuminating the clouds. He pulled the coracle onto the rock platform and knocked loudly at the door. It soon opened and a strange figure stepped out to meet him. The man wore faded robes that must once have shone with bright colours, and a headdress of dusty plumage.

‘Welcome brother’, the man said, ‘I suggest that you bring your boat inside.’

This was the man that now played chess with brother Luke. They played a long, skilful game as the storm raged around the lighthouse, throwing vast waves up to the porthole windows of the room that they kneeled in, 50 feet or so above the rock of the skerry. Occasional gouts of water entered the glassless portholes but they never reached the centre of the circular chamber. Eventually the candles burned low and it was clear that the lighthouse keeper needed rest. Brother Luke took his arm and helped him to his cot before returning to the carpet where he now rested his head. It felt strangely comforting to hear the sea making its futile attempts at attrition of the lighthouse, which conveyed dull vibrations from the detonating surf.

When he rose the following morning the storm had abated. Looking together out into the grey light from the northern porthole window, they could see that the swell had subsided into a light chop. They could also dimly make out the Northern Island emerging from a light shroud of mist. Circling seagulls brayed like donkeys around the lighthouse…

Before saying farewell the lighthouse keeper cast five astragaloi or knucklebones onto the air. For a fleeting moment they were suspended in a perfect diamond against the walls of the lighthouse. Then they fell; when they had landed, he examined them carefully from above. ‘I am afraid that you have a very lonely journey ahead, my friend’, he said in a low, melancholy tone.

With these words in mind, brother Luke now rowed closer to the Northern Island. He could see that it was a near perfect dome of orange granite besmeared with chalky guano from the hordes of seabirds that mobbed in the sky. Then, as he drew closer still, he discerned a hundred or so gently drifting coracles. They were of a longer and narrower design than his own and clearly intended to carry a number of passengers. As he grew closer he could see that all of the leather-skinned vessels were empty. He drew alongside one and awkwardly stepped inside.

A note, scrawled in bone black ink lay at the bottom of the boat.

On it was written the following message: ‘Do not set foot on the island, there is plague’.

To be continued …

Part I: The Eastern Island

Brother Luke gazed out of the tiny window of his beehive shaped cell. He could detect no draft from the gaps in the dry-stone structure. He could see the ocean and it was calm; calm enough to reflect a perfect image of the sun as it sank towards the horizon. Putting down his pen, he settled his head into the palm of his left hand. Today is the day for my journey, he thought.

The coracle was ready in the little natural harbour on the eastern side of the island. In anticipation he had packed it with supplies for two days: some bread, a little cheese and butter from the monastery’s tiny dairy; water, wine and honey, and a flagon of mead. He had also packed letters and gifts for the monks that inhabited the neighbouring islands and a fishing line with hooks. He anticipated that this would be sufficient for the journey. Travelling at night would mean that he could navigate by the stars.

The sun had disappeared into a thin set of pink and grey cloud-banks when Brother Luke waded out to the little leather boat. He raised the hem of his thick woolen habit as he did so, and held his sandals in his hands. The water was cold and the rounded boulders slippery beneath his feet. His heart beat loudly in his chest; although the distance was not great, he was under no illusions as to the perils that might await him on his voyage. He was only a boy when he had first set foot on the western island and the intervening years had filled his mind with many troubling tales; of monks lost at sea and dreadful sounds born across the ocean on storm-driven winds … and the margins of the illustrated psalters that he read on a daily basis were filled with the most terrifying figments … chimerical images of the inhabitants of the abyssal waters that surrounded the archipelago and of monstrous beasts rumoured to exist in the vast unexplored reaches of the western oceans.

Still, he took courage, settled onto the coracle bench and began to row. His aim at first was to circumnavigate the eastern lee of the island, raise the coracle’s sail and take advantage of the prevailing south-westerly winds to carry him in the intended direction.

He pulled on the oars. As the island slowly withdrew into the gathering darkness he felt a tremor of genuine terror. The sun had set and the ocean was now black; a great silence was hanging heavily, like the boughs of a lightless forest across the water. He stopped for an anxious moment, but could hear nothing save the dripping of water from the oars. He looked down at the reflections of the stars; so deep, the water here, that they had never been sounded … utterly unfathomable in fact. He took some comfort in the sublime profundity of the situation and looked up into the brilliant firmament above. By his calculation the island that he had departed from was still not so far away. He could still row back …

Then, a delicate breeze from the south west; his chance to raise the sail.

He lit his tallow lantern and went about the business of rigging the canvas. It caught the quickly freshening breeze and he felt the boat begin to spin. With his hand on the tiller he felt more in control of the situation and his qualms began to ease. Taking a fix from the North Star he could see that the wind was taking him due east. He needed to begin his calculations of distance …

The night was long and chill, a salty dampness pervaded the air. Towards dawn the labour of navigating became too much and, after lashing the tiller, he drew his robe tightly about his shoulders, lay down in the cramped belly of the coracle and closed his eyes. He drifted off to sleep, rocked by the gentle motion of a slight swell, but his dreams were uneasy; dreams of raiders, men bearing terrible weapons, bloody, vivid, violent dreams … then, suddenly, he was awoken by terrible screams.  A light, ragged mist had descended but he could still discern the dim black bulk of the island ahead; long shallow wedges of black rock topped by tousled manes of vivid green vegetation receding into the grey gloom, speckled by scores of white and black seabirds: gannets, gulls, fulmars, puffins, razorbills, cormorants, guillemots.

He had arrived at his destination much sooner than expected. The screams that had disturbed his rest were, of course, those of the birds, which now plumeted like a black and white rain into the steel grey waters. He stowed the sail and pulled once more on the oars, heading for the rough hewn steps that he could dimly discern; marked at the foot of the cliff by a brightly painted red cross. He secured the coracle, then made his way up the black cliff. Eventually, and somewhat out of breath, he reached the monastery and was greeted by the welcoming sight of smoke emerging from the roofs of the cells. He could smell cooking and wondered if the monks might be preparing breakfast. He called out, but no answer. He called again. He lifted the curtain door of the first cell … said a few words of greeting and then went in, his eyes slowly adjusting to the musky gloom..

The cell, which was of a similar drystone construction to his own on the western island, but made from a much thinner slatey material, was deserted. A desk, identical to his own, was placed, against the tiny window that, like his own window, faced east. It had more or less the same view, except that this island was more angular in its shape, the sea a little choppier than when he had left. On the desk he could see a freshly cut pen and a few delicate brushes, one whose tapered bristles were still wet with bright paint. An egg yolk, freshly broken to bind the paint, was as yellow and glossy as if it had just been emptied from the shell. Exotic yet familiar pigments were arranged neatly on the desk, including a small block of ultramarine rock and a lump of madder root. There was a terracotta bowl containing black ink made from powdered bone charcoal. A page of text was laid in the centre of the desk; it was clear that work was still in progress on one of the tiny marginal illustrations .

Brother Luke then systematically entered each cell; in each he found evidence of recent activity but no men, no monks.

Finally, when he had examined the interior of the last of the tiny beehive structures, he walked out into the gathering wind and the cries of the seabirds. From this vantage point he could see the allotments, the livestock, the whole green wedge of the eastern island sliding down into the sea. He called out, for one last time, more loudly and with greater urgency. No reply. It was apparent that the island was deserted.

To be continued …

Knuckle Bone Wallpaper

Astragaloi wallpaper design.

Inspired by a recent thread on the zooarch (zooarchaeology) jiscmail forum concerning knuckle bone floors.

Knucklebones (also known as hucklebones, dibs, dibstones, jackstones, chuckstones or five-stones), is a game of very ancient origin, played with five small objects, originally the ‘knucklebones’ (actually the astragalus: a bone in the ankle or ‘hock of a sheep).

Hacked scapula

Ram scapula with butchering marks that may show intentional patterning.

Also drilled with a series of holes that may have had divinatory purpose.

I would very much welcome any further interpretation of this specimen.

It was midnight and the moon was full, casting long, cold shadows as we gathered around the pit. The ladder had now been removed and into the hole we poured water, milk, and then sweet wine from the silver cup. Honey followed, emptied directly from an earthenware jar, and then barley; which entered the pit with a pattering hiss, glistening like polished tin as it briefly caught the moonlight on its descent into the darkness. I heard behind me the low, throaty bleat of the black ram. Herr Culz, the German, and strongest amongst us, held tightly onto the beast whilst the man, who I still cannot name, held up the knife before cutting deep into the woolly neck. The warm red blood flowed strong and fast, steaming as it entered the night. The blood frothed into the cup and then soon overflowed into the pit – a dozen or so times, before being poured down in gouts by the nameless man with the knife.

Then … Silence … the rams bleating at an end now that it had violently kicked and convulsed into stillness. And we waited; paused at the edge of the pit, as the moon began it’s long, slow descent, for what seemed like an age.

At first there was nothing to discern except shadow. Then, like the dancing lights that one perceives when staring into closed eyelids, little green impish squiggles appeared. Slowly these began to swirl until the effect was very like looking into a child’s kaleidoscope; patterns of brilliant multi-coloured gemstones revolved within the pit and slowly, now, took the form of a glittering whirlwind or sparkling, iridescent dust devil that began to rise. The gemstones changed in colour from green and gold and sapphire blue … coalescing into a dark, bloody, crimson red and as they did so the twisting form became less fragmentary, more liquid. It grew arms and a head, became a tall figure, towering over the pit; still slowly spinning but now dripping also – a figure of blood!

“Why have you disturbed my rest?” I heard the words in my mind, whispered in Ancient Greek, they were not sounds as such … “Why have you disturbed my rest?” … again, those soundless words, repeated with greater urgency …

“Name yourself” – Cultz’s voice wavered in the stillness – he stood directly opposite me and I could see his eyes were wild with fear. The ram was dropped at his feet. All of the others standing around the pit stood like statues before this dreadful Medusa.

“I am Odysseus, known also as Ulysses, son of Sisyphus, grandson of Aeolus. Why have you disturbed my rest – and how came you by my cup?”

The red, clotted eyes had settled on the cup, held in the shaking hand of our nameless colleague. “You must ask him a question in return” whispered the terrified Mills. The man was silent, his body shaking. “Quick, ask the question”, I could hear it in my mind but it wasn’t said out loud, all of the gathered archaeologists in unison willing speech. “Can’t … think …” he somehow gasped. Then, with startling suddenness, the bloody spectre of Odysseus reached out and, grasping the man holding the cup in a crimson embrace, descended with him, spiralling rapidly back down into the pit. As they went down together one could just discern the figure of blood losing form and becoming a black turbid pool deep within … then the ground shook and we were all forced to leap back as soil began to flow back into the pit …

It was now near daybreak and surprisingly cold, a chill wind blew and the rising sun was masked by a black cloud that boiled on the eastern horizon. My colleagues had fled back to their tents. Of the pit there was now no sign, save for the disturbed soil and rock that had created a complete backfill; and a large dark circle of moisture that marked the spot like a rapidly drying stain.

On my return to London I made every effort to ascertain the name of the colleague who was taken from us that day but to no avail. According to the expedition records no one was unaccounted for save for the evidence of a mysterious undecipherable signature on a requisition order that could have been made in Greek – I could perhaps discern the alpha character at the beginning of the name.

My attempts to write an account of this event met, at the best with ridicule; at the worst all attempts at publication were ignored or returned with impossible requests for editorial revisions to the manuscript.

My colleagues simply refused to speak of the matter.

London 1885