Episode 188 – Dead of Night – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 188 Show Notes

Source: English Folklore

This week on MYTH, awful things lurk in the bogs of Lincolnshire. You’ll learn that swamps are deathtraps in the dark, that even goddesses can die, and that sometimes you need to keep your mouth shut. Then, in Gods and Monsters, a hideous dragon will rampage across Northumbria. 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 188, “Dead of Night”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
This week’s story was originally collected by Marie Clothilde Balfour from North Lincolnshire in England in 1891. It was later included by Joseph Jacobs in his More English Fairy Tales collection in 1894, which popularized the story. Although the land has largely been tamed now, the Carland was once all bogs. A carr is a type of waterlogged wooded landscape near the sea, a wetland dominated by shrubs rather than trees. In this case, the specific carrs referred to are the bogs of Lincolnshire in the Ancholme Valley. The land was covered with great pools of black water linked with creeping trickles of brackish streams and soft mud that squished when you stepped on it.
Long ago, ages before the carrs were drained and cultivated, the Moon was shining high in the night sky as she ever has. Her pale luminescence lit up the bogs and marshes so brightly that one could walk safely amongst them at night, almost as well as you could in daylight. The moon goes in cycles though, and so there were nights each month where her light was dim or, for a few nights, gone entirely. In those pitch black times, capital T Things would creep out of hiding to stalk the carrs. These things dwelt in the deepest darkness and could only lurk about, seeking innocents to murder and consume, when the moon’s light was not around. These Things, these bogies and horrors and other less identifiable terrors that go bump in the night all crept out of hiding when the Moon didn’t shine.
The people loved the Moon for her gentle light, but they whispered in fear of those nights when she left them to their own devices. The Moon eventually heard these tales, and she was deeply troubled at the wickedness that was occurring across the land in her absence. She was a good, gentle deity or spirit (the story is not entirely clear on that point) which is why she stayed up all night to shine for the world below rather than sleeping along with everyone else. It was her gift and her sacrifice made gladly. She had, of course, never seen hide nor hair of these wicked beasties and so she decided that she simply must see for herself in order to know what to do. “I’ll slip down to earth on my next lightless night and see what there is to see. Maybe it’s not as bad as the whispered rumors make it sound.”
And so it was that, at month’s end, the Moon was due for her usual night of rest. Down from the sky she stepped, all wrapped up in a heavy cloak to hide her light with a black hood over her pale, shining blonde hair. As stealthily as she could, the Moon crept down to the bog’s edge to wait for these supposed Things to emerge. She looked about, but all she saw was a vast expanse of dark water broken here and there with small, muddy hillocks and twisted snags of gnarled brush. All was dark and still and silent. The only light that shone in the mirrored surface of the carr was the faint glimmer of the stars and the even fainter glow of the Moon’s feet stealing out from beneath her cloak.
Drawing said cloak tightly around herself, she trembled at the faint sense of unease that the unsettling blackness of the gnarled landscape created in her. Steeling her nerve, she resolved to stay and watch until she could be sure that she had seen what there was to fear out there. It was becoming clear that she couldn’t do this from the edge of the bog – the Things she was searching for were sure to be lurking deeper inside the mire. On steps as light as a summer’s breeze, she moved from tuft to hillock, weaving between the greedy gurgling water eager to suck her down into the muck.
Deep into the marshy swamp the Moon crept, careful as a mouse. As she neared an enormous black pool, the mud slipped beneath her foot, unbalancing her. Windmilling her arms desperately to avoid plunging into the still black waters, the Moon reached out with both hands to seize at a nearby tangle of branches. As her fingers brushed the rough wood, it suddenly writhed to life, twining itself around her wrists painfully. The wood held her fast in its grip like a pair of handcuffs, trapping her in place. Panicked, the Moon twisted and pulled and pried, but it was no use. The wood was simply too strong and her arms stretched too far for her to be able to escape. She was well and truly trapped. Well fuck.
The night’s impenetrable darkness felt all the more eerie and ominous now that she was trapped. She stood there, trembling in the dark and wondering if anyone would ever be able to find her to help her. She had told no one of her plan, so no one even knew to look for her. Over the sound of her own labored breathing, she noticed a voice far off in the distance calling, calling, and then dying away again with a sob. The voice grew louder until the marsh was filled with the piteous crying. Beneath the wailing, the Moon began to hear the squish of feet floundering blindly through the muck. Off in the distance, a face appeared, terrified eyes enormous in the pale white blob floating in the night.
As it drew a little closer, she saw that it was a man, clearly lost in the bog. He had strayed into this deadly maze and was trapped, his only hope the pale light leaking out from beneath the Moon’s cloak. He was following her thinking that she would lead him out to the village beyond the carr. Not knowing that the Moon was trapped in the swamp with him, her light looked like safety. Alas, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. In his clumsy stumbling in her direction, the lost man was nearing the enormous black pool and leaving the rightful path farther and farther behind. She was so upset at accidentally misleading him and so terrified that she was about to get him killed that the Moon struggled twice as hard as before to escape. She jerked her arms and writhed like a snake, but the wood was no more forgiving than it had been before.
In a flash of desperate insight, the Moon began tossing her head until the black hood fell away from her yellow-white locks. Her gentle light was freed from the confining cloth, illuminating the bog in pale moonbeams and driving back the thick shadows. The man wept with joy at this sudden radiance that he had feared he would die without ever seeing again. The hungry Things, their teeth sharp and the bellies rumbling, had been creeping up around him waiting for the moment to spring. At the revelation of the Moon’s light, they fled back into the deeper woods, away from the man.
The man saw them flee from the corner of his eye and knew how close his brush with death had truly been. Desperate to get away from the Quicks and Bogles and other terrors, he fled toward the path that he could now clearly see again without ever investigating the sudden light source. His wide eyes peered into the dusky shadows where those terrible fangs waited for him, so he didn’t look closely at the light. He had no idea that the Moon was there at all, let alone that she was trapped. And so relieved was the Moon herself at this poor man’s salvation that she forgot that she too needed help getting free from her living manacles to escape the Dark Snag of the carr. Off he went, gasping and sobbing as he stumbled towards the path with as much speed as he could possibly muster.
Only then did her own situation return to her. The Moon fought again to escape, to follow after the no-longer-lost man, but she had no more luck on this third attempt. Gasping, she collapsed to her knees, arms still held aloft by the twisted brush. In her exhausted fall, the hood fell back across her lustrous tresses leaving her shrouded in darkness once more. And with the light extinguished, the Things in the shadows emerged again. They knew who she was now and that she was trapped at their mercy. They screeched and howled and laughed wickedly as they crowded around her bound form. Mocking and scratching and beating, they vented their fury at being denied their prey tonight and every other night that she had ever shone. Shrieking with rage and spite and pure fucking hate, they spent an age hurting her.
“Fuck you, you lunar bitch!” cried the witch-bodies. “Your hideous light ruined our spells this last year!” “And you drove us to hide in tiny, foul corners!” screamed the bogles. And all the other things laughed and screeched in agreement and hate till the water trembled with the sound of it and the twisted hillocks shook with the fury of it. And then they began to torment her a second time. “Let’s poison her until her mouth foams and her veins blacken!” suggested the witches. “Too impersonal – let’s smother her, choke her to death with our claws around her throat so that we can feel the last twitches of life leave her damnable body,” retorted the crawling horrors as they twined themselves up her knees. The other nameless Things laughed at these suggestions and at the obvious terror it stirred in the poor, trapped moon. She crouched down as far as she possibly could and wept. She wished that they would just get it over with already. She wished that she were dead.
The assembled Things fought and argued and squabbled about the best way to punish the hated Moon all night until the faint gray light of dawn lit the horizon. The horrors saw the coming of the sun with terror – not only for its awful burning light but because they feared that morning would come before they could enact their destruction on the Moon. If they were forced to leave her here in the bog during the day, there was every chance for her to be found and rescued.
Thus it was that the Things decided on a compromise of sorts. They seized the poor, exhausted Moon with clutching bony fingers and dragged her down towards the endless still depths of the black pool. With cruel giggling, these terrible hands shoved her beneath the water’s frigid surface and into the sucking mud at the bottom. That likely would be enough to trap her, but these awful beings were taking no chances. The bogles rolled a massive boulder into the pool on top of the sunken Moon, crushing her beneath its terrible weight. With that, not even she would be able to rise back into the sky. Two of the will-o-the-wisps were set to take turns as guards, watching the black snag of branches trapping the Moon’s wrists even now. It was their job to make sure she stayed put through the long hours of daylight so that she couldn’t possibly escape and ruin their awful fun in the lightless shadows of the moonless night.
The Moon may have been a goddess or spirit or whatever, but that didn’t mean she was completely immortal. Trapped beneath the stone at the bottom of the choking bog, she held her breath for as long as she could but eventually, she had to breathe. She opened her mouth and drew the brackish water into her lungs, drowning her. The Moon was dead and buried in the bog, in an unmarked grave that none would ever know to look for. She would simply vanish from the sky without explanation, leaving the poor denizens of the world at the mercy of the terrible monsters that lurked in the darkness.
Days passed and the time came for the Moon’s reappearance in the sky. Folks put pennies in their pockets (said to bring luck on the night of the new moon) and straws in their caps (no idea what this one is about) to be ready to greet her return. Night fell and the people cast their eyes heavenward in anticipation, for the Moon had always been a true and steadfast friend to those who lived in the Carrlands. Her light was the only thing that kept back the evil things in the shadows that otherwise would creep out to devour them; the only thing that made the paths safe after sundown. But the shadows only grew deeper and deeper with no sign of the Moon.
As the moonless nights stretched onward without relief, the rending of the claws and the gnashing of the teeth of those Things lurking in the dark got worse. As time wore on with still no sign of the new Moon, the people began to fear the dark worse than ever. Many of them, terrified and helpless, came to see the local Wise Woman who dwelt in the old mill for her help. Surely someone with her weird and mystic gifts could discover what had happened to the Moon. Where had she gone? Had they offended her in some way and this was her punishment? How could they convince her to come back?
The Wise Woman was also worried about the disappearance of the Moon and so she promised everyone who asked that she would look into it. She’d been planning to do so anyhow. She read the tea leaves in her pot, she gazed into her mystic mirror, and she read deeply of her grimoire, but she could find no hint of where the Moon had gone. She had simply vanished. “Well it’s mighty fucking weird, I’ll tell you all that. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but I can’t find a single hint as to what happened to the Moon. If anyone hears anything that might be related, anything at all, come and tell me. If I know more, I might be able to figure out what I’m missing.”
Disappointed, the people all promised to do so and went back to their daily lives. More time passed without any glimmer of the missing Moon and naturally the mystery became one of the main points of gossip. They talked and speculated about it at home, over ales at the inn, and in hushed tones in the garth (an open, grassy courtyard in a cloister).
One day, as the locals were settled in the inn to drink and talk (and probably to get home before full dark since there was still no Moon), a man from the far end of the bog was there as well. He’d had business in town and was spending the evening smoking and listening to everyone talk, unwilling to make the incredibly dangerous trek back home through the carr at night. The conversation turned to the missing Moon, as it always did eventually. As the people all turned over everything they knew to see if there was anything new to tell the Wise Woman, the outside suddenly leapt to his feet. “Shit, it slipped clean out of my head but I did see something mighty strange out in the bog. It was right around when the Moon disappeared too!”
That’s right, this was that same poor soul who the Moon had saved before her own torture, execution, and burial in the mire. He related that whole story about being lost in the bog, stalked by unseen creatures with sharp teeth and cruel laughter when a sudden, unexpected light had driven them off. “After getting home safe, I climbed into bed and shivered under the covers until sunrise before finally collapsing into sleep. When I finally woke up again, I did my level best to forget all about that horrid experience.”
Shouting excitedly, the people all rushed over to the old mill and the Wise Woman right that very second. The outsider repeated his story a second time, answering a few shrewd questions from the hedge witch. Nodding and muttering to herself, she consulted the tea leaves again and poured over her book. At last, she sat back and, after a little more muttering, she nodded to herself in satisfaction. “I saw her, I think. It’s dark where she is, terribly dark. I can’t rightly see much of anything, but I can smell and I can feel. She’s there, out in the bog where you last saw her light. If you do exactly as I say, maybe you can see her light again. If it’s not too late.”
Everyone gathered around her, voices hushed to listen to her wisdom. “All of you need to head out into the bog just before dusk, when the gloom begins to gather. Each of you put a stone in your mouth and take a stick from a hazel tree in your hands. Don’t say a word until you’re safely home again lest you draw the lurking evil onto your own heads. If you follow these instructions, you can all walk without fear into the heart of the marsh. There, at the murky center of that dread land, look for a coffin, a candle, and a cross. Your Moon is trapped near there. If you search, maybe you can find her. I don’t know what’s happened to her, but it’s surely nothing good. Be careful and be brave.”
It was too late to head out that night, as the sun was setting fast and gloom was rising, so the people promised to begin the following day. In the morning, bright and early, the townsfolk gathered the specified items and made sure that everyone knew the Wise Woman’s words. As the shadows lengthened, every man in town had a stone in his mouth and a hazel twig in his hand as he headed into the bog. It was far more terrifying than it had ever been before, but they took strength from the instructions of the Wise Woman – she knew what she was doing. If she said they were protected, then that’s all there was to it.
The men stumbled and slipped and splashed through the carr, trying to stick to the paths as much as possible. As they neared the bog’s heart, they gathered their courage and headed into the wilder places where people rarely ventured. Now they began to hear whispers and growls in the dark. They saw nothing, but frigid fingers would sometimes run along their arms, claws briefly grasping at their hair. None could seem to get a grip on them thanks to the mystical protection of the Wise Woman, and so they stumbled on, eyes wide and staring.
The men sought for the promised coffin, candle, and cross when they stumbled across the still, black pool and the great thorny snag of branches and brambles. It was here that the Moon had been murdered and buried, though of course none of them knew that. One of the men stopped suddenly, just barely biting back a startled cry. In the distance was a great black stone rising up from the black pool. From where he was standing, it looked eerily like an enormous, strange coffin. Hanging above it was the snarl of brambles and branches that looked like a gruesome, crooked cross floating above the coffin. And glowing faintly in the midst of that twisted snag was a tiny light, like the last guttering of a dying candle.
Signaling his companions, they all silently agreed that this had to be the place that the old Wise Woman had meant. They knelt down in the stinking muck and prayed silently. None had forgotten the warning to speak no word inside the bog, and that surely included prayer. They directed their thoughts first towards the twisted cross and then behind them to ward off the bogles that would surely be creeping up on them. The coffin-shaped stone seemed the place to start. The men waded out into the pool and gathered around it. Straining and heaving, they lifted the stone out of the clinging, sucking mud. As it rolled aside, they saw – for just a moment – a strange, beautiful, motionless face lying still beneath the water.
The removal of the stone and the warm faith of the gathered men woke the dead Moon and her eyes shot open. Light erupted from her form again, so white and shining that it blinded all those gathered around her opened tomb. They stepped back in shock and hope, blinking desperately to clear the stars in their vision. When they could finally see again, the Moon was once again hanging in its rightful place in the sky. She was as big and bright and beautiful as ever, smiling and shining down on them. Her light showed the paths through the bog as clear as day and drove back the terrible Things that had been creeping up on the gathered humans despite the stones and hazel sticks. They made it home safely thanks to her. Ever since, her light has shone bright and pure except for those few nights of the new Moon when she must rest.
And so, with Moon once more returned to her eternal place in the sky, it’s time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about 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 Laidly Worm of Spindleston Heugh.
This story comes from a traditional Northumbrian ballad first published in 1778. The Reverend Robert Lambe supposedly transcribed it from a latin manuscript written by a bard from 1270, but that was probably a lie to make the ballad sound cooler. The version I’ll be using is the one from Joseph Jacobs in English Fairy Tales in 1922.
Once upon a time, a king lived in Bamborough Castle in Northumbria with his beautiful wife and two children: a son named Childe Wynd and a daughter named Margaret. When Childe Wynd came of age, he rode off alone to seek his fortune as folklore princes often do. Alas, soon after he left the castle behind, his mother the queen died unexpectedly. The king mourned his beloved wife long and faithfully, but time passed and the grief became less overwhelming. One day, he was out hunting and he met a lady of incredible beauty. The king fell in love almost immediately and declared that he would have her as his bride. He sent word ahead to Bamborough Castle that he would be returning with the woman who would be the new queen.
The king may have moved on, but Princess Margaret very much had not. She was not thrilled to have a new stepmother stepping into her mother’s place but she was a dutiful daughter so she kept her complaints to herself. On the day that her father and his new queen were due to arrive, she came down to the castle gate with all of the keys, ready to hand them over to the new mistress of the castle as her father had requested. The royal procession appeared on the horizon and neared Margaret, who bowed low and held out the keys. “Welcome home my dear father to your hall and bowers. And welcome also to you, my new mother – everything here is to be yours as well.”
One of the knights who was accompanying the new queen nudged his fellow knight. “Check out this northern princess. She’s got to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” It was meant as an aside, however inappropriate, but the queen overheard and flushed with jealousy and anger. “Spare me your false courtesy, princess,” she snapped. Under her breath, the new stepqueen added “I’ll put an end to your false beauty soon enough.” If folklore stepmothers are bad, the royal version is even worse.
That very night, the new queen who was, almost inevitably, a witch, stole down to the castle dungeon to set up her secret magical practice space. She chanted long into the night, casting her spell thrice times three and passed her wand across the workings nine times nine. These are multiples of powerful numbers which is why it’s written out that bizarre way. Anywho, the spell was thus cast and poor dutiful Princess Margaret was placed under a curse. That’s got to be some kind of speedrun record from new mother to evil curse. The spell itself went thus: quote “I weird ye to be a Laidly Worm and borrowed shall ye never be until Childe Wynd, the king’s own son, come to the Heugh and thrice kiss thee; until the world comes to an end, borrowed shall ye never be.” For the sake of clarity here, weird means under a spell or cursed (weird women were those with magical powers or the gift of prophecy); worm here is the old British word for a dragon from the Germanic tradition – think Jormungandr) and laidly means loathsome or hideous; borrowed in this context means freed.
Thus Princess Margaret went to bed her usual maidenly self and awoke as an enormous, hideous dragon. When her maid came in to dress her in the morning as usual, they found a terrible serpent coiled up under the bed and no sign of the human princess. Seeing them approach, the worm uncoiled itself and slithered towards them. Poor Margaret didn’t know what she was yet, so she had no idea why her maid screamed in blood-curdling terror and ran away. She figured it out soon enough though and realized that people were probably going to assume that she had eaten the princess instead of that she was the princess. Fearing for her safety and not wanting to terrorize anyone else in the castle, she fled to the heugh, a rocky crag, known as the rock of Spindleston. Wishing her serpent eyes could weep, she coiled around the stone and lay basking in the sun feeling miserable.
She might still be a princess in her soul but her body was that of a fearsome dragon and her hunger matched the latter. She was forced to leave her solitude in search of food. Unfortunately, for a dragon as large and terrible as she was cursed to be, food was basically anything that couldn’t run away fast enough. It didn’t take long for stories to spread around Bamborough of the Laidly Worm of Spindleston Heugh. After a few instances of this dreadful predation, the people went to a mighty warlock and begged for help, which fair. The warlock consulted his grimoires and his spirit familiar for advice. His magic was powerful and he soon saw the truth. “This terrible worm is none other than the Princess Margaret, transformed by a cruel curse. Hunger drives her to these dreadful acts. Set aside seven cows for her. Each day as the sun begins to set, carry every drop of their milk to the stone trough at the foot of the Heugh. She will drink the milk instead of rampaging through the countryside if her hunger is thus slaked and she will trouble the land no more. But if you wish to save her and return her to her natural form (and maybe see the witch who cursed her punished), send for her brother Childe Wynd across the sea.”
The people hastened to follow the warlock’s sage advice. They had loved the princess and everyone had been devastated at her apparent devouring. The milk was laid out for her and, sure enough, she never rampaged through the countryside again. News was sent to her brother. When it reached him, he was understandably furious. He swore an oath to free his sister from this wicked curse and punish the evil witch sitting beside his father as their stepmother. Thirty three of his men swore this oath beside him, vowing to aid the prince in his quest for justice.
Wherever the message found them, it apparently wasn’t near anywhere with a ship heading back to Bamborough so he and his men built their own goddamned ship. The keel was fashioned from rowan wood since it was said to be a wood that the magic of witches cannot touch. As soon as everything was ready, the 34 men loaded aboard and rowed for home. As they neared the keep, the wicked stepqueen’s magics warned that someone was working against her. Being an evil witch comes with evil magic perks, including demonic familiars. She summoned her imp familiars to stop her stepson. “Childe Wynd is returning from over the seas. He must never land, do you understand me! Raise a storm, fill his ship with holes, whatever it takes but do not let that man set foot back on Northumbrian soil.”
The squealing, cackling imps flew out to do as their mistress commanded. They found Childe Wynd’s ship easily enough but, as they neared, they found that they could not touch it. That rowan wood keel was working as promised. Imps are good for mischief making but not so much for the problem solving, so they flew back to the stepqueen for instructions. Alas for her, she also had no idea how to deal with this problem. The issue with being a powerful witch is that it’s easy to become dependent on magic for solving every problem. Without her only real tool, she was at wit’s end. Then she remembered that she wasn’t just a witch, she was a fucking witch queen! She had a literal army at her command!
Thus, the queen ordered her men-at-arms to head out and wait in ambush for Childe Wynd’s ship (though I don’t know if they are aware of who they are preparing to murder). As an insurance policy, the witch queen also used her magic to compel the Laidly Worm to journey to the harbor and wait as well. As the ship drew near to shore, the great serpent uncoiled and slithered into the sea. It turns out that Princess Margaret’s twisted form made a serviceable sea serpent as well. Three times, she drove back the Prince’s ship and each time, Childe Wynd urged his men to keep rowing. Finally realizing that he couldn’t win by just battering his ship against a fucking dragon, the prince ordered his men to back oars and retreat.
The stepqueen thought that she had won, driving off the threat, but Childe Wynd was just regrouping. He knew his homeland intimately, so he knew that the royal harbor was far from the only place to land. He had his men sail around the point and land safely in nearby Bundle Creek instead. They beached the ship, armed themselves, and rushed inland to fight the waiting force – most especially the dread Worm. It turns out that the witch queen had been very literal in her command to the imps not to let the prince set foot on his homeland. The very instant he did, her power over the cursed princess was broken. She was still a dragon to be sure, but she could no longer be compelled to fight her own beloved brother.
It’s possible that the witch had used her magic to compel her soldiers to fight their prince or that she simply hadn’t told them who they were waiting for. Whichever it was, they threw down their arms and refused to fight their own royalty leaving the 34 men free to face the dragon instead. Raising their swords, they charged but to their surprise, the Laidly Worm didn’t roar in challenge and charge back. It coiled up submissively and from its hideous throat came Princess Margaret’s voice. “O quit your sword, unbend your bow and give me kisses three; for though I am a poisonous worm, no harm I’ll do to thee.”
It could easily have been a trap and Childe Wynd lowered his sword, hesitating. There was clearly vile magic afoot, but he wasn’t sure if the dragon was the trick or his sister’s voice. As he deliberated, the worm spoke again. “O quit your sword, unbend your bow and give me kisses three; If I’m not won ere set of sun, won never shall I be.” That was enough to convince the prince. It could still be a trick, but he couldn’t risk his sister on his doubts. He had come to save her and he would gladly risk his life to do so. Sheathing his sword, Childe Wynd approached the Laidly Worm. Three times he kissed the loathsome creature. On the third, there was an ear-splitting hiss and roar as the worm reared back…and then was gone, replaced with Margaret once more. The prince wrapped his sister in his cloak (no word on if she’s naked or in her pajamas, but neither is appropriate for a princess in public) and took her to the castle.
The evil stepqueen had fled back to her bower alone, knowing that her defeat was imminent. She had no dragon and no soldiers to guard her any longer, and her magic could not touch the prince. When Childe Wynd came to the castle, he marched straight up to the bower where he had learned the stepqueen made her lair. She was there, all fight gone out of her. Drawing a rowan stick instead of his sword, the prince reached for his stepmother with it. The moment the stick touched the witch, she shrivelled and shrank into a huge, ugly toad. It stared up at the prince with bulging eyes and an evil hiss. With a grumpy croak, the toad hopped away down the castle steps. Childe Wynd let her go, content to let the former witch live and suffer.
With the prince’s return, the king abdicated in favor of his son. His bewitching by the beautiful stepqueen had left him unsure of his own ability to rule any longer. Childe Wynd became king and ruled long and well. He and his sister both lived happily ever after. But the loathsome toad is said to still haunt the area around old Bamborough Keep, the wicked witch queen still trapped in her form as a Laidly Toad.
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, and on Bluesky as MythsPodcast. 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’ll travel to Japan to catch up with a Shinto trickster god. You’ll see that baby gods come from some weird, gross places, that food comes from even weirder, grosser places, and that exile can be a very, very slow process. Then, in Gods and Monsters, a horde of insects will struggle against each other for the dangerous beauty of the Princess of the Fireflies. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.