Episode 160 – The Sword in the Stone – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 160 Show Notes

Source: Arthurian Legend

This week on MYTH, it’s off to merry olde England for one of the most famous stories of Arthurian legend. You’ll see that kings are just better than everyone else, that even a holy duty is nothing compared to a jousting tournament, and that wizards are tricksy fellows. Then, in Gods and Monsters, a troublesome spirit is going to get into a battle of wits with a farmer. This is the Myths Your Teacher Hated podcast, where I tell the stories of cultures from around the world in all of their original, bloody, uncensored glory. Modern tellings of these stories have become dry and dusty, but I’ll be trying to breathe new life into them. This is Episode 160, “The Sword in the Stone”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
It’s time to head back to merry old England to catch up with the young King Arthur, who has been secreted away by the half-demon wizard Merlin. This story picks up where Episode 139 left off. As always, we’ll be using Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur as the primary source for this tale, supplemented by the French Vulgate (also known as the Lancelot-Grail Cycle) which was likely written by multiple authors.
When we last left our epic tale, Uther Pendragon had become king with the help of Merlin after the death of Uther’s brother Aurelius Ambrosius at the hands of the traitorous Brittons allied with the murderous Saxons. Uther was a good king but kind of a horny cad in his personal life. He fell in lust with Igraine, the wife of his ally Duke Tintagil of Cornwall. The honest Duke didn’t take it well when the king made a pass at his beloved wife, so he returned to his castle without the king’s knowledge or permission. Uther was pissed at this insult (and the denial of his libido), so he went to war with Tintagil, besieging Castle Terrabil.
This siege dragged on, and King Uther’s case of royal blue-balls got worse and worse until it literally made him physically sick. Merlin was summoned and, in exchange for the right to raise the king’s firstborn child as soon as it was born, he promised to get Uther his night of horny passion with Igraine by magically disguising Uther to look like Tintagil. As the two spent a sweaty night in bed (which, if you’re keeping track, is rape by deception), Duke Tintagil died in battle unaware of what was happening with his wife. With Cornwall’s lord fallen, the war was over and Igraine was a widow. Uther was still very much taken with her, so he made her his new queen. As Merlin had said, she had gotten pregnant during their magical tryst. She gave birth and the child was immediately delivered to Merlin, who took the boy away. The wizard named the boy Arthur and gave him to Uther’s loyal knight Sir Ector to foster in secret. To be clear, the man had no idea who the boy’s father was, only that the wizard was calling in a favor and asking that the boy be raised as his own blood.
Either way, Uther rules in peace for the next two years before falling mysteriously ill (possibly due to Saxon poison). On his deathbed, the king named his son Arthur as his rightful heir with his final breath. Of course, no one knew where this so-called prince was, so none of the lords could put the child on the throne as a puppet king. The various dukes and barons called their armies and went to war to try and take the crown for themselves instead, ushering in many long years of civil war.
We’ll skip over the decade and a half of strife and pick things up again when young Arthur, unaware of his own heritage, is a strapping lad of 16. Winter was fast approaching and Merlin decided for his own ineffable reasons that it was finally time to move things along. He went to visit the Archbishop of Canterbury and advised him to summon all of the lords of the realm and knights at arms who had been fighting amongst themselves to come to London at Christmas. If they did so, then they would bear witness to a great miracle, one that would reveal the rightful ruler of England.
Being the most senior official in the church, the Archbishop’s summons carried a great deal of weight amongst the nobles, and it was not something that was ignored lightly. Besides, this damned civil war had been dragging on for almost 15 years with no end in sight. No single baron was strong enough by himself to conquer the others but none were quite willing to set aside their own claims and rally around a single man. If the Archbishop promised a miracle that could decide the kingship once and for all with no further waste of blood and treasure, then it was worth it. Quite a few of the barons spent the time between the message’s arrival and the Yuletide to clean up their lives and try to live a more holy life in the hopes that it would make them more appealing to whatever godly miracle was about to bestow the crown.
If you’re familiar at all with the legend of King Arthur, then you probably already know what miracle Merlin has in mind (and the title of this episode is a big freaking clue). Christmas Eve finally came and with it, the midnight mass that ushered in the holiest of holy days. The barons mingled with the higher ranked clergy at the largest church in London (or Logres, as it was called by the people of Arthur’s time) all of them speaking in hushed tones about the promised miracle and the supposed arrival of a king at last. Some were hopeful while others were openly skeptical that God Almighty meant to hand-pick the next king of England so blatantly, but all were curious enough to be present. This wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to be absent for, however it shook out.
The church bells rang and a holy man from the countryside made his way to the altar to sing the mass. He began by addressing the assembled gentry directly. “Gentlemen, you have all gathered here on this holy night for three things. First, to save your souls and be washed clean in this holy place; second, to bring honor upon your lives; and third, to witness the wonders that our Lord Almighty may perform this night. If it be His will, he will anoint a king amongst you to protect the people and uphold the church. As we celebrate the birth of the King of Kings, let us await the coming of this earthly king as well.” And yes, the linking of Arthur’s announcement with the Christian beliefs is a very deliberate move on the part of Merlin (and to a lesser extent, the Archbishop). It was widely believed at the time that kings were appointed to their positions by god (a concept known as the divine right of kings), so this situation is intended to echo and amplify that idea.
The lords joined in for the hymns and prayers of mass until, hours later, they had finished the ceremony. No great miracle had been performed before their eyes, a fact which had the skeptics among the crowd preening a little. That is, until they filed out into the churchyard where a massive stone had appeared from nowhere. It was an enormous, unblemished slab of pure marble that was far, far too large to have been moved here during the mass, especially without anyone hearing anything. Even stranger, a solid steel anvil a foot high sat centered upon the rock. Driven clean through this anvil and into the very rock itself stood a naked blade, golden letters visible along the haft.
Here at last was the promised miracle. Only divine providence (or some demon-based wizard magic) could possibly have set this impossible situation up outside the church in such a short time. The people marveled at it and someone went to fetch the archbishop. He climbed up to the sword, blessing it with holy water before reading the golden lettering on the sword aloud for all to hear: Whoso pulleth out this sword from this stone and anvil is the rightful king of all England. The Archbishop selected ten worthy knights to guard the sword in the stone, commanding that no one touch it until the second mass, the dawn mass, had been completed. There was quite a bit of grumbling and cursing (or as the story puts it, words said that are not fit to be written down), but no one dared to cross the archbishop on what was so obviously a holy matter.
He used the service, with everyone’s attention firmly on him, to get everyone on the same page with this whole magic sword thing. “My assembled lords and gentlemen, the miracle you were promised has come to pass. Surely none can question that this sword in the stone comes from God Almighty himself and that it is a holy test to pick the one true king. I will have your solemn vows in this holy house of our Lord God that you will all abide by this test. I do not know who the man is who can pull forth this sword, but I do know that it will be worthiness and not riches or titles or brute strength that wins the day. If the man who is to be king is not yet born, then none now living will be able to draw it forth until the day that man finally comes. So, gentlemen? Do I have your oaths?” And as one, the assembled nobles all swore to kneel before whomever the sword deemed the proper king.
After mass was well and truly complete, the lords filed back out into the churchyard. One by one by order of rank, each climbed up to the sword and tried to pull it from the stone to become king. And, one by one, each failed to even budge it. The sword was magically sealed into its anvil and its stone, and none but the hand of the rightful king could pull it free. After the nobles, each of the assembled knights tried as well, but none were successful. “Our king is not here this night. Thus, I charge the ten doughty knights I have asked to guard this sword to do so with honor and diligence. Let any who wishes to undertake this test be allowed to do so, no matter how humble his station in life. The great and mighty have all had their chance and none have drawn the sword, so the Lord clearly wishes us to cast a wider net.” The ten knights accepted this holy duty with proper solemnity and took up their positions.
Over the next week, word spread like wildfire about the sword in the stone. People came from all over London and then from the countryside farther abroad in England to try and test their mettle. Grunt and groan and strain though they might, none could budge the sword. A week later, the lords and barons gathered again at the church for the Feast of the Circumcision, better known now as New Year’s Day (and I think the modern holiday name is a welcome upgrade). Once again, the Archbishop of Canterbury stood before the assembled nobility, all of whom had made note of the fact that the sword was still buried in the stone and anvil.
“As I told you at Christmas Mass, none but the rightful king can draw forth the sword. I know that some of you doubted in your hearts the truth of these words, but a week has gone by with all and sundry trying to pull the sword, and yet it stands fast. I have prayed on the matter, and I feel confident that the true King of England will appear soon so I ask all of you to remain here in London until that time. That way, everyone can swear fealty to the new king at the same time and put an end to this civil war once and for all.” The nobles all agreed that it made sense to stay put until the sword was drawn (or at least until everyone else got bored and decided to return to their castles and their endless war). To pass the time and keep tensions from boiling over, they decided to host a great tourney. There would be jousting and feats of skill as well as plenty of feasting and drinking. It would give the knights something to do and entertain the populace at the same time.
Now I mentioned earlier that young Arthur had been fostered with a loyal knight named Sir Ector. This family was chosen in part because his wife had just given birth to their first son shortly before, a boy named Kay. The two were raised as brothers by blood in London. Sir Ector was not counted among the great and mighty (though he was still far from poor), but he wasn’t one to miss out on a chance for glory at such a massive tournament. Sir Kay had only been knighted since All Saint’s Day (or November 1^st) and thus was anxious to prove himself to his peers. So anxious, in fact, that he rode off for the tourney with his father and brother but without his sword. A thing he kind of needed. See, if lances failed it often came down to swords and, in addition, it was common for there to be a great melee with anyone who wanted to test their skill allowed to take part.
It was only after the trio had gotten settled and Arthur was helping Sir Kay get dressed for battle that the oversight was noticed. “Oh shit, this is bad, Arthur. If I don’t have my sword, I’m fucked. I can’t screw up my first outing as a real knight – I’ll never live down the humiliation. Hey, uh, could you do me a huge solid? Could you ride back home and get my sword for me? I’ve got to finish getting into my armor and going through the opening ceremonies, but you can slip away without being noticed.” If your main exposure to Sir Kay is the 1963 Disney movie, then you may be surprised to learn that Arthur and Kay actually have a fairly strong relationship. They truly consider each other brothers, so Arthur readily agreed to help Kay out of friendship rather than fear of bullying.
He rode as fast as he could through the streets of London for Sir Ector’s home. When he arrived, the lights were dark and the house was still since everyone had taken the day to go see Sir Ector and Sir Kay fight in the tourney. This wasn’t a problem in and of itself since Arthur was able to get himself in but, though he searched all the likely places, he could find no sword. Ector’s wife had decided to stash them away securely in her room before leaving the house totally empty, never imagining that anyone would be looking for them before she got back.The story doesn’t explain why she felt the need to hide the sword (and all of the other weapons she found, apparently), but I would imagine it’s a question of robbery. Without even a servant staying behind to keep an eye on things, it would be a piece of cake for someone to slip in and steal the very expensive weapons.
None of that helped Arthur in his predicament. He was frustrated at his failure to find his brother’s sword and determined to come up with a solution. He could try to buy one, but he didn’t have a lot of money on him and besides, most of the decent blacksmiths were probably at the tourney themselves. He rode aimlessly as he pondered, wandering by the churchyard where the sword in the stone was clearly visible. The guardian knights were nowhere to be seen however, having all run off to watch the tourney and/or join the melee. Arthur smiled broadly as an idea came to him. He had never taken the test, so there was nothing stopping him from walking over there right now. If he could draw the sword from the anvil, then he could give it to Kay to use in the tourney. Problem solved! I mean, there’s the little hiccup that literally no one has been able to do that simple task up until now, but Arthur had learned the boundless optimism and self-confidence that comes with wealth and privilege.
Riding over to the stone, Arthur leaned out of the saddle and pulled on the hilt with one hand without even bothering to dismount. The sword came away easily in his hand because, as we already know, he is the trueborn son of the old king Uther and the duly appointed heir to the throne. Wrapping the weapon in his tunic for safety since he had no scabbard, Arthur rode back to the tourney with the miracle sword.
Kay was watching anxiously as Arthur returned, and he hurried out to meet his brother. “Did you find it?” Arthur shook his head with a grin. “Sorry, I couldn’t find your sword anywhere in the house, but I’ve got something even better.” He pulled forth the regal, scabbardless weapon from his tunic and held it out. “I found you an even cooler sword.” Kay stared at it, shocked. He was fairly sure he knew what this sword was but it couldn’t be…right? “Arthur, where did you get this from?” “From the churchyard. You know, the sword in the stone that anyone is allowed to take if they can draw it forth? I drew it, so now you can use it, easy peasy. The guards had all left to come to the tourney, so no one will know. You can borrow it and then we can just put it back if we want.” Kay wasn’t at all sure what to do with this mind-blowing revelation, so he did the only thing he could think of – he wrapped the sword up in his own tunic and went to talk to dad.
As he walked inside alone, he was seized with a wild impulse. He had the sword and no one had seen who had actually pulled it from the anvil and the stone. “Dad? So I’ve got a real good news/bad news situation here. Bad news, I forgot my sword for the tourney and didn’t have time to go back and get it. Good news, I found a replacement in the churchyard.” He pulled out the sword with its golden lettering, unmistakably the sword in the stone. “I’m gonna be king, dad!” This scene is where the picture we get of Kay as a lying, bullying douchebag comes from. It’s clearly not the ethical or kind choice he’s making here, but I understand the temptation. He’s literally holding the right to kingship in his hands and, as a 16 year old kid, it’s hard to make good decisions in high-pressure situations. That certainly doesn’t excuse his bad behavior here, but he genuinely seems like a good kid who’s making a bad call.
Sir Ector doubted this story. He knew his kid well enough to know when he was lying, and Sir Kay was lying through his goddamned teeth right now. If he even suspects who Arthur’s father is, he may have already put the pieces together. Instead of celebrating this incredible news, he simply nodded curtly at his son. “Follow me.” Kay knew better than to argue, so he followed his father to the horses and mounted up. They rode in awkward silence all the way back to the churchyard and inside the church itself.
Sir Ector led Sir Kay to stand before the altar holding the sword of kings. “I’m going to ask you this one time, son, and remember that you are on holy ground before you lie to my face. Where did you get that sword?” Kay had spent the silent ride over here in contemplation and he’d realized that he’d royally fucked up. It had been wrong to try and falsely claim kingship and he was deeply ashamed at his attempted deception. “I’m sorry, father. I lied to you before. I really did forget my sword, but it was Arthur who went home to fetch it. When he couldn’t find it, he brought this to me to use in the tourney. I assume he pulled it from the stone, but I wasn’t there so I don’t actually know where he got it.” And that’s why I was giving Kay grace before. As soon as he receives pushback, he realizes that he’d made a mistake and makes it right. He doesn’t try to justify himself or make excuses
Sir Ector nodded, having heard the answer he’d pretty well expected. “Very well, son. Give the sword to me – you have no right to it.” He looked around and saw that, also as he’d expected, Arthur had followed his father and brother to the church, though he was giving them a respectful distance to have their conversation in privacy. “Come here, lad.” Ector handed over the sword, then nodded his head towards the anvil. “Put that back where you got it, alright son? I have a theory I want to test.” Arthur did so, inserting the sword back into its place with ease. “Alright, Kay – see if you can pull it out now that it’s been loosened up.” Nervously, Sir Kay strode over and, grasping the hilt with both hands, pulled with all his might.
The sword didn’t budge an inch. Ector nodded. “For the sake of thoroughness, let me take a crack at it.” Sir Kay moved aside to let his father take his place. The elder knight also pulled on the sword with all his not-inconsiderable might, but still it didn’t move. If he hadn’t held the thing himself only moments ago, he’d have sworn that the sword and the stone were all a single unbreakable piece. He ushered the two boys inside the church to have a private conversation. He asked Arthur how he had come to possess the sword. Arthur recounted the events we’ve already discussed, and Ector was satisfied that it jived completely with Kay’s version of the story.
“Arthur, do you understand what it means for you to have pulled this sword from that stone?” Sir Ector pointed at the gold lettering on the haft that Arthur hadn’t bothered to read in his haste to help his brother. “It means that you are the rightful king of England, lad.” Arthur took this shock in stride. He’d heard the rumors, but having them confirmed was something else. “If that is so, sir, then at least I will still have you at my right hand as my father.” Ector shook his head slowly. “I am your father in that I raised you from an infant, but I am not the man who sired you. I do not know who this man was, nor the woman who birthed you.”
That was a much bigger shock to young Arthur than any theoretical kingship. “I am fatherless, then?” Ector put a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Not knowing who your father was is not the same as being fatherless. I may not be your birth father, but I’m still your dad. We raised you as one of our own and, in truth, you have become a true part of our family. If I help you to become king, then I pray you do not forget this fact. When you take control of the country, bring your brother up to the heights with you. Make him your seneschal,” (a chief steward of a medieval noble house). “If he is wicked or foolish, then show him forbearance. That streak comes from the milk of the peasant girl who nursed him. My wife’s milk was reserved for you so that you might grow up strong and noble.” That’s not at all how that works, but whatever. Arthur smiled sadly. “If I may, sir, I ask that you not disown me as your son. I’ve never known any other family, and I don’t want to lose the only one I have. If I do somehow become king, then of course my brother Kay will be part of my court. I would have it no other way.”
By the time they were done with all of this, the melee, the final event of the tournament, had just come to a close. The great barons of the land arrived back at the church where Ector, Kay, and Arthur waited to hear vespers (an evening service). As they filed in, Ector greeted some of them who he was friendliest with and told them that the sword had been pulled from the stone and returned. He wanted to see to it that it was drawn again in full view of the assembled nobles so that there could be no question of trickery. They quickly sought out the archbishop and relayed the tale to him. “Your holiness, this is my son Arthur. He is not yet a knight, but the sword has found him worthy. I ask that you let him take the test of the sword before the assembled gentry.”
Once everyone was settled, Arthur stepped up to the stone and, in one fluid motion, drew it forth and raised it high above his head. The archbishop stepped up beside the young boy who was about to be king, embraced him, and sang Te Deum, a traditional hymn. The barons and lords grumbled at this, complaining that a mere boy – and not even a knight at that – was supposed to be their king. This was no great lord, this was a hedge knight! The archbishop rounded on them with all the holy fury he could muster. “I dare say that the Lord God who arranged this miracle knows more about the worthiness of those assembled than any of you! Or is there someone out there who believes they know better than God who should be king?”
The holy man’s words swayed the common folk, and obviously his family was on his side, but the barons were unconvinced. Sure, they’d all sworn a holy oath to abide by the sword’s decision, but that was when it was going to be one of their number who was chosen. They may not all like each other, but they at least respected each other as knights and lords. The archbishop tutted at the squabbling men derisively. “Such petty children, the lot of you! I say truly that if all of you decided to stand against the crowing of our King Arthur and only God stood in favor of it, then it would most assuredly be done. I have my faith, but clearly you assholes all need proof. And you shall have it! Arthur, put the sword back in the stone.”
And so for the second time, Arthur placed the sword back where it had come from and once again, it stuck fast. The archbishop smiled toothily at the assembled lords. “You have all seen the sword pulled free and returned to its sheath. Surely one of you can draw it free now that the boy has loosened it for you? Come, my wealthy, powerful lords – try your hand at pulling the sword free again.” One by one, all of the assembled lords put their entire backs into trying to draw the sword from the stone, but it refused to budge as though it had never moved in all of existence and would remain in this fixed spot until the end of eternity. Once they had all tried and all failed, the archbishop addressed them again. “Never has a more perfect election of a king ever been made. Surely you see the hand of God in this matter? Only a fool or a madman would go against the clear will of the Lord.”
The barons shuffled uncomfortably. They said that they did not think of themselves as either fools or madmen, but they simply could not understand how a mere boy was supposed to lead them. The archbishop repeated that they didn’t have to understand, they simply had to obey. God knew more than they did, m’kay? The barons could tell that things were getting out of hand, so they tried a hail mary – they asked the archbishop to hold off on finalizing anything with Arthur until Candlemas, the Feast of the Presentation on February 2nd. That way, those more distant lords who hadn’t already had a chance to take the sword test could get the opportunity. Knowing that God was literally on his side, the Archbishop of Canterbury agreed to these terms.
The sword stayed where it was for the next month. On Candlemas, everyone gathered again, including all those who had not been present before. Once again, everyone went around and tried to draw forth the sword and, as always, all of them failed spectacularly. Once everyone was done, the archbishop called Arthur over and, with a prayer asking for God’s guidance, directed the young man to draw the sword. And, as he had twice before, Arthur pulled it from the stone with no effort. The barons were sweating now, but they called again for a delay. They asked the archbishop to hold off on crowning Arthur until Easter, another month away. The clergyman was getting very tired of their bullshit, but he also wanted to set their new king up for success. “Alright, I’ll delay one more time. If no one else can pull the sword from the stone before Easter except Arthur, then you will all submit to his kingship then. No more delays, no infighting. Got it?” Reluctantly, the assembled lords agreed.
As they filed out, still very disgruntled, the archbishop pulled Arthur aside, advising him to spend the time between now and his crowning learning all he could about governance and living a righteous life. Easter came and again none could draw the sword. And, surprise surprise, the lords still weren’t ready to make Arthur their king. It’s almost like this whole thing is a delaying tactic with no real exit strategy. “How is a man of such humble birth supposed to be our king? You say this lad is learned and wise beyond his years, but we don’t know him. Give us the chance to take his measure.” The archbishop rolled his eyes. “You really mean to try and delay this thing again? You’re not very good Christians.” “Just hold off until Whitsuntide” (a holiday seven weeks after Easter) “to let us meet our future king.
Annoyed but unwilling to start the new king’s reign off with war, the archbishop agreed. Concerned that someone might try to take a swing at Arthur and prevent him from ever being crowned, he consulted with Merlin and gathered together a group of knights to accompany the young king-to-be. These included some of Uther’s most trusted men as well as some Arthur himself trusted: Sir Baudwin of Britain, Sir Kay, Sir Ulfius, and Sir Brastias. They stayed with him every day until the feast of Pentecost on Whitsuntide.
The next morning, the assembled lords gathered to speak with Arthur, who was not yet king. They wanted his assurances that they would hold on to all their lands and titles and honors that they had acquired during the long years of war with no king on the throne. They asked him also to begin naming his court since he would surely be king in less than two months time. Arthur considered this. “I cannot do these things until I am crowned king, or they would mean nothing. I do not mean to strip you of anything that is yours by right, but I do not yet have the authority to grant your requests. You asked to delay the coronation and so you must also wait to receive answer to these requests.” It was a clever tactic, motivating the lords to actually accept his kingship the next time they all met lest someone convince him to rearrange the way things stood. The barons could see that there was indeed wisdom in this young man, and it would only grow as he did. They had finally come around to accepting the results of the sword in the stone’s judgment, and so they promised that they would see young Arthur crowned on Whistunday.
Tradition dictated that the barons should give coronation gifts to the king in anticipation of his coming ascendancy. They got together and agreed to make a test out of it. They gave him extremely lavish gifts to see if there was greed in his heart. Arthur was a good and honest man, so he did exactly as tradition dictated. With the help of his assemblage of knights, he determined the worth of the things he was given and then turned around and gave it to the lesser lords and the common folk. Everyone whispered that there must surely be noble blood in the veins of this lowly hedge knight with how he conquered every obstacle with grace and dignity. Without greed, he took everything that was given to him and put it to use improving the country.
Whitsun Eve came and one last time, everyone attempted to draw out the sword but none were successful. And, one last time, Arthur drew it forth with ease and a flourish. That evening, the archbishop dubbed the future king into the knighthood as he sat vigil as was tradition. He watched the sun dawn on Whitsunday and saw the barons approaching the church. The archbishop introduced Arthur as the realm’s newest knight and asked if any still intended to oppose the coronation. At last, none did. Everyone knelt as Arthur was made king, swearing their allegiance, and then Arthur knelt as he made the traditional oaths to his vassals and to his country. Sir Kay was made his seneschal, as he had promised; Sir Baudwin was made constable; Sir Ulfius was made chamberlain (an officer who manages a noble house); and Sir Brastius was made the warden of the north. Many of the nation’s enemies lay north of Trent at that time, so it was an important position. Scotland and Wales were not yet united under his banner. In due time, Arthur and his knights would bring peace to the land and undergo many daring quests, but those tales will have to wait until next time.
One point I want to make clear is that the sword in the stone is not Excalibur. It’s a different magical sword. We’ll eventually see Arthur’s famous blade but, for now, it’s time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about the personalities and history of one of the gods or monsters from this week’s pantheon that was not discussed in the main story. This week’s monster is the bogle.
The bogle is a catch-all name for a number of different cunning ghosts, spirits, or other supernatural creatures in northern England and Scotland. Spirits such as Puck from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the shellycoat (a trickster spirit that lives in rivers, lakes, and ponds), or the Northumbrian giants known as the ettins all fall under this umbrella. The one thing all bogles have in common is that they seem to exist for the soul purpose of annoying the shit out of humans. They rarely do any significant or lasting harm, but they love to play pranks and generally ruin your day.
The Tatty Bogle, one of the more famous, liked to hide himself in potato fields to either jump out and attack unwary humans or else cause a blight on the crop. The name bogle is likely the origin for the word bogey and boogeyman, and may itself be derived from the German word boggelmann or goblin. One common story of a shellycoat has it calling out ‘lost! Lost!’ as two travelers passed along the banks of the Ettrick at night. The concerned people tried to follow the voice in order to save the apparently lost person, only to find the voice always just a little further away. They searched all night before arriving at the headwaters of the river at the top of the mountain around dawn. Hearing the voice now coming from the other side of the mountain, the exhausted and disillusioned travelers gave it up as a bad job. As soon as they turned around, they heard the wild laughter of the spirit at its successful trick.
It was easy to get on the wrong side of a bogle and only some clever thinking could outmaneuver the spirit and avoid trouble. One such story of running afoul of the bogles comes from The Book of English Folk Tales, collected by Sybil Marshall. In this particular village in the northern part of England, the farmers were plagued by the attentions of a particularly diligent bogle. They all complained about his tricks, but most just shrugged and got on with it. Trying to stop a bogle was like trying to stop a thunderstorm: futile, exhausting, and liable to end with you getting hurt.
Jack didn’t agree with this philosophy. He didn’t care for the bogle’s general douchebaggery around the local farms but, so far, he hadn’t been directly impacted and so he’d been content to let it be. His family had been there, scraping out a meager living, since before the Romans came. He was a tough cookie and a clever one to boot. Jack had a fairly modest farm, so he would’ve liked nothing better than to increase his holdings and make his life a little more comfortable in the doing. He’d had his eye on his neighbor’s parcel of land for years. The man had no family to pass it on to, so when he died, Jack would have the chance to buy it. When that day came, Jack was ready with his savings. He returned to his substantially larger farm that night, quite content with the day’s business, sitting by the hearth at the center of the room to warm up.
Jack lived alone and so, as many solitary people do, he had a habit of speaking aloud to himself. He grinned, looking out at the newly acquired fields. “That’ll bring a nice harvest come fall, now that it’s mine.” From a shadowy corner on the other side of the fire came a gruff voice. “That ain’t yours though, human.” Jack sat up, startled. He shook his head to try and reset his brain in case it was playing tricks on him, then looked carefully around the theoretically empty room. Sitting in the chair directly across from him was a bogle who definitely hadn’t been there a minute ago. The fae was a dried up, wrinkled little fellow with skin like old leather and a wild shock of wiry gray hair like a horse’s mane. He was only about three feet tall though clearly an old man, so Jack knew he was dealing with the local bogle.
The fae eyed him back with a stony stare. “You hear me, Jack? That land ain’t yours. It’s mine. Been in my family forever and a day.” Jack snorted. “That so? Well maybe it used to be yours, but it’s mine now. Bought it today with cash money. Got the papers and everything. You got papers, bogle?” The little spirit sneered. “Papers? What the fuck do papers got to do with anything? They don’t prove shit. That land’s been my family’s since the moon was made of green cheese, long before you little human shits were here at all. It’s mine and it’ll be mine going forward.”
Jack had never seen a bogle himself, but he’d heard the stories since he was a wee lad. He knew that they were crafty creatures and that only a fool got on one’s wrong side. They were fond of making your life a living hell for the smallest perceived insult. The farmer was confident that he could outwit this little spirit, but he needed time to think. He needed to stall. “If that field’s been yours all these years, then why’s it been farmed so piss poor? That land’s looked like dogshit for years and years.” The bogle snorted in exasperation. “Are all humans such dimwitted asshats? Because that damned fool who lived here before wouldn’t agree to the bargain I offered. Without my help, he wasn’t able to harvest shit off it. And neither will you.” The bogle cackled with cruel delight at this, showing yellow teeth that were as old as the hills and as hard and sharp.
“A bargain, eh? So what’re the terms then?” The bogle smiled. “Glad to see you’re being reasonable, Jack. The deal is simplicity itself – I own the land, you do all the work, and we split the harvest 50-50.” Jack nodded slowly as he contemplated this. “I’ve been farming my whole life so I’m not afraid of a little hard work. That deal sounds fair. You said we split the crop evenly? Then you got yourself a deal.” He held out a hand to shake on it, which the bogle greedily grasped. The bargain was sealed. Of course, Jack planned to cheat. It’d be a sad day when he couldn’t get one over on a damned bogle.
“So do you want the top half or the bottom half this year?” The bogle paused. He’d meant they’d each get the same number of vegetables each, not half of each vegetable but he recovered quickly from his surprise. “Oh, tops of course.” He stood up from the chair and stretched. “I get the tops and you get the bottoms. Fair as fair can be.” The fae vanished into the night, leaving Jack alone to ponder whether he was making a wise decision.
That year, Jack put his back into making the new land work for him. Come harvest time, he had as fine a crop of turnips as he could hope for . The bogle came soon after Jack had finished bringing it all in to collect his annual fee. “Alright then, bogle – I believe we agreed that you’d get the tops and I’d get the bottoms, right?” “That was the deal.” “Excellent. I’ve gone ahead and done all the work, as agreed. Your pile of turnip tops are piled up by the gate.” While these leafy greens are edible, they’re frequently used to feed pigs and such rather than being used in food, at least in that particular village. The bogle realized that he’d come out behind on their bargain this year, with Jack ending up with basically all of the actual crop without technically violating the terms of their deal. He cracked his fingers one by one in anger and frustration as he considered. “And what about next year, Jack?” “What about next year, bogle? You want tops or bottoms?” The bogle smiled, showing all of his teeth. He’d figured out this game. “Bottoms, Jack. I want bottoms next year.”
Another year came and went and, at harvest time, the bogle returned. “How’s our crop, Jack?” “Oh just as fine as you could wish for. The barley came in tall and strong. You had bottoms this time, right?” The bogle nodded slowly, beginning to realize that he’d been hoodwinked again. “Thought so. I already threshed the ears, so you should get to carting off the roots and chaff.” The fae was furious at being outwitted by this fucking farmer two years in a row. He was done with this tops or bottoms bullshit. “Next year, you’re planting wheat and we’re splitting the standing crop.” Jack nodded with a smile. “That’s fine, so long as you help with the reaping.” That hadn’t actually been part of the deal, but the bogle figured it was a good way to keep an eye on the crafty human and make sure he didn’t pull any fresh bullshit. “Deal. See you next year, Jack.”
The trickster fae spent that year racking his brain to figure out how to outwit the mortal. By the time the harvest came around again, he thought he had it. “Harvest time again, Jack. I’m here to help with the reaping as agreed. How about we make this interesting though? You and I each mow half the field. Whoever finishes first wins the whole crop.” The bogle had been reaping with his scythe since before Jack had even been a twinkling in his daddy’s eye, so he was confident he could outmow any human alive. He grinned as Jack nodded. “Sounds like fun. It’ll be a good bit of reaping though. The thing’s littered with tough old dock roots.” “Docks schmocks. I don’t give a shit about docks. I’ve been using a scythe longer than you been alive. I’ll take the far side of the field. Tomorrow, you and I go head to head.”
As soon as the bogle left, Jack went out to visit the local blacksmith. He ordered a huge number of thin iron rods and carried them home. He planted them throughout the far side of the field, hidden amongst the wheat. It was after dark by the time he finished, but Jack was satisfied that it would all be worth it. In the morning, the bogle returned with an ancient scythe over one shoulder. With his squat bandy legs and his long, strong arms, he looked like he was practically built for reaping. Jack walked out to the field beside him, his own scythe over his shoulder. They each sharpened their blades and then set out to the field at the same time. As one, they began to reap.
Jack took down huge swaths of wheat with each smooth swipe, keeping a regular rhythm like the experienced farmer he was. The bogle matched him swing for swing, wheat dropping in smooth waves – right up until he hit the first iron rod. The bogle figured he’d just hit one of those tough dock roots, a weed that often littered neglected fields, and kept going. Alas he kept hitting iron rod after iron rod. Each blow took the edge of his scythe, dulling it until it wouldn’t even be able to cut soft butter. The bogle might as well have been trying to mow with a stick for all the good his ruined scythe was doing. The fae straightened up to look over at Jack, who was tearing through his half of the field like a tornado.
“Heya, Jack. When, uh, when do we stop for a little wiffle waffle?” which meant he wanted to stop and sharpen the scythes. Jack straightened up in mock surprise. “A wiffle waffle? Why not for another four hours or so, around noon time when we stop for lunch.” Without waiting for a reply, he bent down and got back to work. The bogle looked at his notched, blunted blade and realized that he’d already lost. There was no chance he’d been able to catch up to Jack now. Throwing his scythe over his shoulder in frustration, he walked off and away from the field without making any kind of arrangement for the next year. And, in fact, Jack never saw the little bogle ever again.
Considering how often the fae were accused of blighting fields or getting the better of locals who weren’t careful enough, it’s nice to see a clever farmer come out on top. So if you’re ever out in the countryside of northern England, keep your wits about you or you may end up on the wrong side of a bogle’s trick.
That’s it for this episode of Myths Your Teacher Hated. Keep up with new episodes on our Facebook page, on iTunes, on TuneIn, on Vurbl, and on Spotify, or you can follow us on Instagram as MythsYourTeacherHatedPod, on Tumblr as MythsYourTeacherHated, on Bluesky as MythsPodcast, and on Mastodon as MythsYourTeacherHated. You can also find news and episodes on our website at myths your teacher hated dot com. If you have any questions, any gods or monsters you’d want to learn about, or any ideas for future stories that you’d like to hear, feel free to drop me a line. I’m trying to pull as much material from as many different cultures as possible, but there are all sorts of stories I’ve never heard, so suggestions are appreciated. The theme music is by Tiny Cheese Puff.
Next time, we’re going to paddle up the fjords until we reach north of north for tales of the Inuit. You’ll see that handsome men can be very entitled, that you should maybe listen when the magical creature tells you a journey is too rough for you, and that when times get hard, we all need to come together as a community. Then, in Gods and Monsters, magical creatures don’t always make good husbands but they might still be better than human fathers. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.