HERMAN MELVILLE’S POLYNESIAN MYSTERY CAT – A WHALE OF A CRYPTO-TALE?

by on May.15, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post

Did Herman Melville see a spectral black cat in Polynesia? (public domain)
For obvious reasons, it’s always particularly interesting to learn of a possible cryptozoological encounter featuring a famous person. So I am greatly indebted to German mystery beast investigator Ulrich Magin for very kindly bringing to my attention recently the following example, hitherto-unpublicised online in a cryptozoological context.
The eyewitness in question is none other than Moby-Dickauthor Herman Melville, who documented his intriguing sighting – a veritable whale of a crypto-tale, no less! – in one of his non-fiction books, namely Typee: A Peep At Polynesian Life (1846). Describing time spent on the Polynesian island of Nukuheva in the Marquesas group, he included the following memorable lines:
As for the animal that made the fortune of my lord mayor Whittington, I shall never forget the day that I was lying in the house about noon, everybody else being fast asleep; and happening to raise my eyes, met those of a big black spectral cat, which sat erect in the doorway, looking at me with its frightful goggling green orbs, like one of those monstrous imps that tormented some of the olden saints! I am one of those unfortunate persons, to whom the sight of these animals is at any time an insufferable annoyance.
Thus constitutionally averse to cats in general, the unexpected apparition of this one in particular utterly confounded me. When I had a little recovered from the fascination of its glance, I started up; the cat fled, and emboldened by this, I rushed out of the house in pursuit; but it had disappeared. It was the only time I ever saw one in the valley, and how it got there I cannot imagine. It is just possible that it might have escaped from one of the ships at Nukuheva. It was in vain to seek information on the subject from the natives, since none of them had seen the animal, the appearance of which remains a mystery to me to this day.
What I find very intriguing about this report is how Melville ostensibly changed his opinion as to the nature of the cat during his description of it. For whereas in the first paragraph he referred to it as spectral and likened it to a saint-bothering imp, thereby implying that it appeared to be some form of paranormal, zooform entity, in the second paragraph he suggested that it may have escaped from a visiting ship, thus indicating that it was merely some absconded kitty of the corporeal kind.
True, his ‘spectral’ description may simply have been metaphorical rather than literal, but whatever the cat was, it was apparently not native to Nukuheva, and does indeed remain a mystery, not just in Melville’s day either, but also right up to the present day, just over 170 years after his book was first published.
Herman Melville – oil painting by Asa Weston Twitchell (public domain)

Leave a Comment more...

HERMAN MELVILLE’S POLYNESIAN MYSTERY CAT – A WHALE OF A CRYPTO-TALE?

by on May.15, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post

Did Herman Melville see a spectral black cat in Polynesia? (public domain)
For obvious reasons, it’s always particularly interesting to learn of a possible cryptozoological encounter featuring a famous person. So I am greatly indebted to German mystery beast investigator Ulrich Magin for very kindly bringing to my attention recently the following example, hitherto-unpublicised online in a cryptozoological context.
The eyewitness in question is none other than Moby-Dickauthor Herman Melville, who documented his intriguing sighting – a veritable whale of a crypto-tale, no less! – in one of his non-fiction books, namely Typee: A Peep At Polynesian Life (1846). Describing time spent on the Polynesian island of Nukuheva in the Marquesas group, he included the following memorable lines:
As for the animal that made the fortune of my lord mayor Whittington, I shall never forget the day that I was lying in the house about noon, everybody else being fast asleep; and happening to raise my eyes, met those of a big black spectral cat, which sat erect in the doorway, looking at me with its frightful goggling green orbs, like one of those monstrous imps that tormented some of the olden saints! I am one of those unfortunate persons, to whom the sight of these animals is at any time an insufferable annoyance.
Thus constitutionally averse to cats in general, the unexpected apparition of this one in particular utterly confounded me. When I had a little recovered from the fascination of its glance, I started up; the cat fled, and emboldened by this, I rushed out of the house in pursuit; but it had disappeared. It was the only time I ever saw one in the valley, and how it got there I cannot imagine. It is just possible that it might have escaped from one of the ships at Nukuheva. It was in vain to seek information on the subject from the natives, since none of them had seen the animal, the appearance of which remains a mystery to me to this day.
What I find very intriguing about this report is how Melville ostensibly changed his opinion as to the nature of the cat during his description of it. For whereas in the first paragraph he referred to it as spectral and likened it to a saint-bothering imp, thereby implying that it appeared to be some form of paranormal, zooform entity, in the second paragraph he suggested that it may have escaped from a visiting ship, thus indicating that it was merely some absconded kitty of the corporeal kind.
True, his ‘spectral’ description may simply have been metaphorical rather than literal, but whatever the cat was, it was apparently not native to Nukuheva, and does indeed remain a mystery, not just in Melville’s day either, but also right up to the present day, just over 170 years after his book was first published.
Herman Melville – oil painting by Asa Weston Twitchell (public domain)

Leave a Comment more...

SEEKING GLYCON – BLOND-HAIRED, HUMAN-HEADED, SERPENT-BODIED, AND VERY TALKATIVE!

by on May.12, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post

The statue of Glycon unearthed at Tomis, Romania, in 1962; right-hand view (public domain)
A snake with a blond head of hair and the ears of a man would certainly be a marvel – but how much more so would one be that could also speak, and even foretell the futures of those who sought an audience with this wondrous ophidian oracle? All of this and much more – or, quite probably, a great deal less – was Glycon, the Roman Empire‘s incredible serpentine soothsayer.
In c.105 AD, a very controversial, enigmatic figure was born who would in time come to be known far and wide as Alexander of Abonoteichus, after the small fishing village on the Black Sea‘s southern coast that was his birthplace. Back in Alexander’s time, Abonoteichus was located within the Roman province of Bithynia-Pontus (specifically within Paphlagonia, which was sandwiched between Bithynia and Pontus), but today it is contained within the Asian Turkish province of Kastamonu, and is now named Inebolu.
19th-Century illustration of an African rock python (public domain)
Apparently very handsome and tall with an extremely charismatic personality, Alexander was originally apprenticed to a physician/magician, but after his mentor died Alexander met up with a Byzantine chorus-writer nicknamed Cocconas, and the two spent some time thereafter travelling around together, earning their living as fake magicians, quack doctors, and via other chicanery. Eventually, they reached Pella in Macedonia, and it was here that Glycon was born, so to speak, because this is where they purchased for just a paltry sum of money an extremely large and impressive-looking yet very tame snake (such serpents being commonly for sale in this locality at that time).
It was probably an African rock python Python sebae, as specimens of this very sizeable species (averaging 15.75 ft long but sometimes exceeding 20 ft) were apparently brought back to Rome, because it is depicted in Roman mosaics. Also, fertility-related snake cults had long existed in Macedonia, stretching back at least as far as the 4th Century BC.
Apollo after slaying the serpent dragon Python, engraving by W Wellcome, late 1700s (public domain)
Alexander and Cocconas then journeyed to Chalcedon, a maritime town in Bithyna, where they lost no time in concealing inside its temple to the god Apollo a series of bronze tablets proclaiming that both Apollo and his serpent-associated son Asclepius, the Roman god of medicine and healing, would soon be appearing in Alexander’s home village of Abonoteichus. They then contrived for these ‘hidden’ tablets to be found, and news of the tablets’ sensational proclamations swiftly travelled widely, eventually reaching Abonoteichus itself, whose inhabitants promptly began building a temple dedicated to Apollo and Asclepius. It was then, in or around 150 AD, that the partnership of Alexander and Cocconas broke up, with Cocconas electing to stay in Chalcedon and continue producing phoney oracles, whereas Alexander was keen to put the next stage of their original plan into action, and so he duly set off back to Abonoteichus.
Using more fake oracles to proclaim himself as a prophet and healer, Alexander also claimed that his father was none other than Podaleirius, son of Asclepius himself and a legendary healer in his own right. Moreover, as signal proof of this, he arranged for a goose egg that he had ‘discovered’ inside Abonoteichus’s newly-built temple to be publicly opened by him at noon on the following day in the village’s marketplace before a crowd of curious but credulous onlookers, promising that a wonder would be revealed that would confirm all that he had alleged. And sure enough, when he opened the egg, a tiny snake emerged (one that supposedly he had subtly inserted inside before overtly ‘discovering’ the egg in the temple). As snakes were sacred to Asclepius (one common European species, the Aesculapian snake Zamenis longissimus, is actually named after Asclepius’s Greek counterpart, Aesculapius), Alexander’s grandiose claims were readily accepted by Abonoteichus’s simple, unworldly villagers.
Statue of Asclepius and snake, 2nd century CE, found on the island of Rhodes, Greece (public domain)
As an interesting aside here: Chickens are often infected with parasitic gut-inhabiting worms, including the ascarid roundworm Ascaris lineata, a nematode species that can grow to a few inches in length (a related giant species in humans can grow to over 1 ft in length!). They are often passed out of the bird’s gut when it defaecates. Unlike in mammals, however, the bird’s gut and its reproductive system share a common external passageway and opening – the cloaca. Sometimes, therefore, an ascarid worm ejected from the gut finds its way into the bird’s reproductive system rather than being excreted into the outside world, and moves into the oviduct. Once here, however, it becomes incorporated into the albumen of an egg, inside which it remains alive yet trapped when the egg is laid. But as soon as the egg is broken open to eat by some unsuspecting diner, the worm wriggles its way out of it and inevitably scares the diner, who frequently but mistakenly assumes that this unexpected creature is actually a tiny snake.
I wonder if such a scenario explained the above ‘snake-inside-egg’ incident involving Alexander? Or could the egg have actually been a genuine snake egg, but passed off to the ingenuous crowd by Alexander as an unshelled, undersized goose egg, perhaps?
Ascaris, a large parasitic nematode (public domain)
But that was not all. Alexander also stated that the baby snake was itself a deity, and that he would therefore be caring for it. After a few days had elapsed with the villagers not setting eyes upon this infant reptilian god, Alexander reappeared, once again thronged by awed spectators, but now only briefly and ensconced within a small dimly-lit shrine inside the temple where viewing conditions were far from ideal. Moreover, this time his huge, fully-grown pet snake from Pella was wrapped around his body, and he glibly announced that the baby serpent deity had miraculously matured directly into adulthood.
Yet even that incredible high-speed transformation was not the most surprising facet of Alexander’s outrageous revelation. Instead of possessing a typical snake’s head, the head of this remarkable creature apparently resembled that of a man, and sported an abundance of long blond hair sprouting liberally from it, as well as a pair of human ears! Moreover, it could even speak, and in the future would directly voice certain oracles or autophones to temples worshippers seeking guidance. Alexander announced that this astonishing entity was called Glycon, and constituted a new, living, physical manifestation or incarnation of Asclepius.
Two Romanian postage stamps, issued in 1974 and 1994 respectively, depicting the famous statue of Glycon unearthed in 1962 (public domain)
Henceforth, Alexander’s reputation, wealth, prestige, influence, and power, derived from his status as a celebrated prophecy-spouting soothsayer and in turn a highly-esteemed personage attracting acclaim and attention from all strata of Roman society, knew no bounds. In particular, the temple that he had established at Abonoteichus (by now a prosperous town) became a focus for fertility-themed worship and offerings by barren women wishing to become pregnant; and also for the very lucrative provision of oracles (always requiring prior receipt of payment). Moreover, Alexander was frequently consulted by public figures of high political standing anxious to solicit his ostensibly Heaven-sent advice regarding significant matters of state. The fact that sometimes his advice was by no means reliable seemed to be conveniently overlooked.
Thus it was, for example, that in 161 AD, Alexander provided a very favourable oracle to Marcus Sedatius Severianus, the Gaul-originating Roman governor of Cappadocia, on the basis of which Severianus put into action his plan to invade Armenia – only for his invasion force, including himself, to be slaughtered by the Parthians. Allegedly, Alexander soon afterwards replaced the official temple record of his oracle with a revised one that was much less favourable.
A sheet of Romania‘s Glycon-depicting postage stamp issued in 1974, from my own philatelic collection (public domain)
In 166 AD, Alexander provided an oracle verse that was utilised as an amulet and inscribed above the doors of numerous houses throughout the Roman Empire in the hope of warding off the devastating Antonine Plague that had been introduced into the Empire by troops returning home from campaigns in the Near East, and which killed thousands of people every day. Not surprisingly, the amulets had no effect (indeed, it was actually claimed by critics of this futile course of action that households bearing an amulet suffered more plague-induced deaths than those not bearing it!), but Alexander was too powerful by then for his standing to be affected by any such dissension.
Not long after that debacle, the Roman emperor himself, Marcus Aurelius, requested Alexander to send an oracle to his troops on the Danube River during ongoing warfare (168-174 AD) with a Germanic tribe called the Marcomanni. The oracle that Alexander duly sent declared that victory would be achieved if two lions were thrown alive into the Danube. Once again, however, the stark fact that after obeying this unusual command the emperor’s army was annihilated there (20,000 Roman soldiers killed, and even the hapless lions clubbed to death) failed to elicit any censure for the unperturbed Alexander, who coolly pointed out that the oracle had not specified which side in the war would achieve success!
Bust of Marcus Aurelius (public domain)
Of course, Alexander was far from being entirely unsuccessful as a prophet, but reputedly his triumphs often involved the use of spies, thugs, and blackmailers to obtain the necessary information upon which to base his oracles. In addition, there were claims that sealed scrolls containing requests for oracles that acolytes presented to him were secretly opened by him using hot needles in order to discover what information they contained and thus devise an oracle in accordance with it. He also benefited from making friends in (very) high places, of which one of the most significant was Publius Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus, a former Roman consul and provincial Roman governor in Asia and Upper Moesia, who declared himself protector of the Glycon oracle. He also provided Alexander with some very high-ranking contacts in Roman society, and he even married Alexander’s own daughter.
Not content with merely being an exceptionally famous mystic, meanwhile, Alexander utilised Rutilianus’s own eminence to help launch a very spectacular annual three-day festival replete with processions, ceremonies, and re-enactments of various mystical rituals, all held at the temple in Abonoteichus. These were devoted to the celebration of Apollo’s birth and that of his son Asclepius, the appearance of Glycon, Alexander’s own mother’s supposed marriage to Asclepius’s son Podaleirius, and even an alleged romance between Alexander himself and the moon goddess Selene that purportedly led to the birth of Alexander’s daughter, now the wife of Rutilianus.
Selene the moon goddess, with Phosphoros the Morning Star and Hesperos the Evening Star, depicted on Roman marble altar, 2nd century CE (public domain)
Alexander even persuaded the Roman emperor Antoninus Pius to change Abonoteichus’s name to the much grander-sounding Ionopolis (‘Greek city’). In addition, this same emperor and also his successors Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius all issued coinage depicting Glycon. Yet despite achieving such successes as these, with savage irony a prediction that he made about himself proved to be singularly inaccurate – just like many that he had predicted for others had been. He prophesied that he would live to the age of 150, but died at only 70 in or around 170 AD, caused by a gangrenous limb. Yet although the cult’s leader was no more, the cult itself, and its veneration of Glycon, persisted for at least a further century – having occupied a vast area at its peak of popularity, stretching from the Danube in the west to the Euphrates in the east – before eventually petering out. Having said that, it is nothing if not interesting to note that as recently as the 1970s, belief in a “magical snake” still existed among Turkish locals living in the vicinity of Inebolu (formerly Ionopolis/Abonoteichus).
But how do we know about Alexander and Glycon, almost a millennium after their demise? In fact, only a single primary source for the extraordinary history of the reputedly phoney prophet and his talkative hairy-headed human-eared snake god is known, and it just so happens to be an exceedingly acerbic, hostile account written by an infamously vituperative satirist with a very specific reason for hating Alexander and all that he represented. Needless to say, therefore, one might well be forgiven for wondering whether the entire saga was totally fictitious.

The statue of Glycon unearthed at Tomis, Romania, in 1962; left-hand view (© CristianChirita/Wikipedia – CC BY-SA 3.0 licence)

Happily, however, independent corroboration for the reality of the Glycon cult also exists. This includes not only the survival of some of the afore-mentioned Roman coinage bearing the image (and even the name) of this very singular deified serpent, but also a magnificent marble statue of Glycon, dating from the Severan dynasty (193-235 AD), standing almost 3 ft tall, and in excellent condition. It had been excavated in April 1962 along with various other statuary under the site of a former railway station in Constanta, Romania, formerly the ancient city of Tomis.
So spectacular and unexpected was this ornate Glycon sculpture, now housed at Constanta’s Museum of National History and Archaeology, that it featured on a Romanian postage stamp in 1974 (which is what first brought Glycon to my attention, as an enthusiastic stamp collector during my childhood), as well as on a second one issued in 1994, and also on a Romanian 10,000 lei bank note in 1994.
The Romanian 10,000 lei bank note depicting the Glycon statue, issued in 1994 – sample only (Wikipedia/public domain – reproduced here on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use basis only)
Moreover, smaller Glycon statuettes in bronze have been found in Athens too, confirming the cult’s spread into and across southwestern Europe. And according to the 2nd-Century-AD Christian philosopher Athenagoras of Athens, writing in his Apology (c.176/177 AD), a statue of Alexander once stood in the forum of Parium, which was a Greek city in Mysia on the Hellespont (now called the Dardanelles). 
Consequently, as there can be no doubt that Glycon, regardless of its true nature, really did exist, should we look more favourably upon its sole primary literary source, even though said source originated from the pen of an inimical satirist? This is where it all becomes much more complex, as will now be seen.
Lucian of Samosata, engraving by William Faithorne, 1600s (public domain)
The source in question is a concise but coruscating essay tersely entitled Alexander the False Prophet, written in Ancient Greek by Lucian of Samosata (Samosata being an ancient Syrian city on the west bank of the Euphrates river). A popular Greek satirist and rhetorician, Lucian was a contemporary of Alexander, and was particularly noted for the scoffing, sarcastic nature of many of his writings. His essay contained the history of Alexander and Glycon that I have summarised here in this present article of mine, but also included many additional claims and suppositions of fraud, lewd behaviour, and other undesirable activities relative to its human and serpentine subjects.
For instance, Lucian confidently asserted that the talking head of Glycon was not this snake’s real head (which, he claimed, was kept well hidden under Alexander’s armpit), but was instead an artificial construction made from linen and skilfully manipulated by Alexander using a lengthy internal tube composed of conjoined bird windpipes that led out from the false head into a hidden chamber where an assistant spoke words into the tube, thus making it seem as if Glycon were speaking. Lucian further alleged that a series of very fine, attached horse-hairs acted as internal pulleys to make the false head open and close its mouth, and extend and retract its tongue.
Sculpture of Lucian of Samosata, atop an ornamental pillar in the grounds of Nordkirchen Castle, near Münster, Germany (© Mbdortmund/Wikipedia – GFDL 1.2 licence)
Lucian also ‘explained’ how various of Alexander’s correct predictions had been achieved via fraudulent activity. He even alleged that shortly after a somewhat acrimonious meeting with Alexander (in c.162 AD) during which he had tried to trick Alexander and had even attempted (albeit unsuccessfully) to dissuade Rutilianus from marrying the latter’s daughter, he had narrowly avoided death during a boat trip when Alexander had supposedly paid the vessel’s crew to murder him, only being saved when the captain prevented them from carrying out the heinous deed.
Traditionally, this vicious character assassination of Alexander by Lucian in literary form has tended to be viewed uncritically by those modern-day scholars actually aware of it (with Glycon in particular being among the Roman Empire‘s least-known figures of interest nowadays). However, all of that changed dramatically in June 2011, with the publication of a fascinating, eye-opening article presenting a very erudite reappraisal of Alexander, Glycon, and their portrayal by their longstanding nemesis Lucian. Published in the British monthly periodical Fortean Times (which is devoted to the serious investigation and chronicling of unexplained and controversial phenomena of every conceivable – and inconceivable! – kind), the article was authored by Steve Moore, a highly-respected veteran researcher of ancient Asian and European mysteries, and it directly challenged many of Lucian’s long-accepted claims.
Opening page of text from Steve Moore’s excellent Fortean Times article (© Steve Moore/Fortean Times)
For example, Steve questioned how Lucian could have known any specific details about Alexander’s early years, especially those shared with Cocconas, bearing in mind that he, Lucian, had not spent any time alongside the pair to witness anything at first hand, and that Cocconas and Alexander were hardly likely to have informed him (or anyone else, for that matter) what they had been doing if they had truly been engaged in fraudulent activity during that time period, as vehemently asserted by Lucian in his account. Indeed, Steve went even further, by questioning whether Cocconas even existed – after all, there is no mention of him outside Lucian’s poisonous diatribe. Might he therefore have been a wholly fictitious character, invented specifically by Lucian in order to cast Alexander’s early years in as bad a light as possible?
No less circumspect are Lucian’s wholly-unsubstantiated claims of spying, thuggery, blackmail, furtively opening sealed scrolls, and a varied assortment of other equally unpleasant activities attributed by him to Alexander. As for Lucian’s once again unconfirmed allegation of almost being murdered by henchmen of Alexander while taking a boat ride, this just so happens to have been a very popular storyline in romantic works of fiction from that time period (and of which Lucian would certainly have been well aware). So it should clearly be viewed with great caution as a supposed statement of fact.
Was Glycon’s voice achieved by ventriloquism and its head a glove or sock puppet, i.e. comparable, for instance, with how the famous American entertainer Shari Lewis ‘brought to life’ Lamb Chop and Charlie Horse? (public domain)
Equally, Steve pointed out that Lucian’s bold statements regarding the nature of Glycon’s head and speech were mere supposition too. True, the notions that Lucian had put forward regarding the mechanisms by which a fake head could have been secretly operated by Alexander were nothing if not ingenious, but that is all that they were – notions, not facts. No physical evidence or direct eyewitness observations confirming them were presented by Lucian in support of his accusations, it was all speculation (and spiteful speculation at that) on his part, nothing more. Other, much less controversial options also existed but which Lucian never mentioned, such as ventriloquism to make Glycon speak, and a simple glove or sock puppet-like creation to make its fake head move and open its mouth (always assuming of course that a fake head really was present).
Moreover, we only have Lucian’s very questionable testimony that Glycon actually talked at all! In fact, it is even possible that Lucian never actually saw Glycon or spoke to anyone who had done so, because, amazingly, his essay makes no mention whatsoever of Glycon’s two most remarkable physical features – its human ears and blond hair. Conversely, whereas Lucian claimed that it possessed a human-like head, most of the physical depictions of Glycon currently known (i.e. the various coins and statues noted earlier by me in this article) actually portray it with a long-snouted head that is certainly more pythonesque than humanoid in appearance. If for no other reason than this, therefore, the authentic nature of the content of Lucian’s essay clearly should not – can not – be taken in any way for granted.
Glycon portrayed upon a 2nd-Century AD Ionopolis coin (copyright holder unknown, despite considerable searches by me; reproduced here on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use educational basis only)
Returning to the matter of the mobility and loquacity of Glycon’s head, it would be very prudent here to quote Steve’s take on Lucian’s assertions regarding this:
In boasting that he knows how the trick was done, Lucian is plainly covering up the fact that this can only be a matter of conjecture. These conjectures may be very close to the truth; but they remain conjectures, not proof.
Steve also applied this same line of sound reasoning very successfully and convincingly to many other of Lucian’s scathing claims masquerading as facts against Alexander. In addition, certain of Alexander’s activities that Lucian deemed to be evidence of his fakery – most notably his retreating overnight into an inner, subterranean sanctuary called the adyton, in order to receive his oracles in peaceful solitude via dreams, and then reveal them publicly the following morning – were shown by Steve to be no different from those performed by various soothsayers and oracle-givers who had not been accused of or linked to fraud, such as the very famous, much-revered Oracle of Apollo at Claros, on the coast of Ionia in present-day Anatolia, Turkey.
‘Chariot of Apollo’, by Gustave Moreau, late 1800s (public domain)
Indeed, there is even a very relevant, present-day parallel, as Steve tellingly revealed in his own article:
The adyton is an underground chamber, and it’s now known that withdrawal to a cave or subterranean chamber to obtain visions and mystic revelations was a common practice among Greek seers, being used similarly to a modern sensory deprivation tank.
As for charges made by Lucian against Alexander of lewd behaviour and even male prostitution: such activities were by no means uncommon back in their day, and some of the ceremonies and rituals performed during the kinds of celebration that Alexander had modelled his own annual three-day festival upon were notoriously liberal to say the least! Once again, therefore, why was Lucian singling out Alexander, this time for indulging in behaviour that was no different – or worse – than that of many others in his role?
Illustration from 1885 depicting a small bronze bust of Epicurus, derived from Herculaneum (public domain)
The answer would seem to be quite simple, but hitherto ignored by those who have supported Lucian’s writings unquestioningly. Lucian was an Epicurean, whereas Alexander was no fan of Epicureans, or Christians either, for that matter, banning both groups from his annual festivities. His reason for doing so is that Epicureans (followers of the teachings of the ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus) were known for their fervent scepticism of superstition and claimed cases of divine intervention (and Christians would certainly not have tolerated any cult of snake veneration, i.e. ophiolatreia, derived from the Roman deity Asclepius – or indeed any other such cult).
Consequently, the activities of Alexander would have made him a prime focus for disdain by Lucian. And when this was coupled with Alexander’s own dislike of Epicureans, as well as his immense success and fame, overshadowing Lucian’s own accomplishments at that time, it was inevitable that literary sparks would fly when Lucian chose to write about him.
Astronomically, Asclepius is immortalised as the constellation Ophiuchus, the snake-bearer, as depicted here in Urania’s Mirror – a set of constellation cards published in London in c. 1825 (public domain)
Certainly, there was never any hope for an unbiased, objective account, and Lucian definitely did not disappoint on that score – the result being a destructive, cynical, hyper-sceptical, and uber-vitriolic outpouring of verbal venom specifically designed to diminish, denigrate, and entirely discredit the reputation of the subject of his enmity. And for many centuries, this is exactly what Lucian’s vindictive essay achieved, abetted by Christian scholars and scientists alike (for whom stories of snake deities and diviners of the future were anathema), until Steve Moore’s much-needed objective perspicacity opened readers’ eyes to what may well have been the greatest of all trickeries associated with Alexander and Glycon – one which, ironically, was nothing of their own doing either, but was instead the ostensibly accurate yet substantially inaccurate account of their lives penned by Lucian. In short, the true nature of this toxic treatise had been hidden in plain sight for a very long time indeed, shielded from any penetrating analysis by Lucian’s name and by generations of readers with their own compatible agenda, until the coming of Steve’s diligent, iconoclastic detective work.
Obviously, there is no doubt that hoaxing did play some part in certain of Alexander’s activities, most notably in relation to the physical serpent Glycon, but equally, as Steve so forensically revealed, it is likely that Alexander was nowhere near as villainous as Lucian would have everyone believe – more sinned against than sinning, in fact. It is often said that the pen is mightier than the sword, but never more so than when that pen has been liberally dipped in the lethal venom of hatred and jealousy.

Glycon statuette, c. 150-300 CE, exhibited at the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, at Ankara, Turkey (© Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, Ankara, included here on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use educational basis onlyAttribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 Intenational licence)

I wish to dedicate this ShukerNature blog article of mine to the memory of Steve Moore (1949-2014), one of my first and enduring friends in the Fortean community, who always encouraged and supported my own writings and researches within the fascinating field of inexplicabilia, including cryptozoology. Thank you Steve, and may you now know the answers to all of the many ancient historical riddles that you investigated so extensively, and with such expertise and wisdom, during a life so richly inspired by mystery and wonder.
Steve Moore (© Steve Moore)
Leave a Comment more...

SEEKING GLYCON – BLOND-HAIRED, HUMAN-HEADED, SERPENT-BODIED, AND VERY TALKATIVE!

by on May.12, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post

The statue of Glycon unearthed at Tomis, Romania, in 1962; right-hand view (public domain)
A snake with a blond head of hair and the ears of a man would certainly be a marvel – but how much more so would one be that could also speak, and even foretell the futures of those who sought an audience with this wondrous ophidian oracle? All of this and much more – or, quite probably, a great deal less – was Glycon, the Roman Empire‘s incredible serpentine soothsayer.
In c.105 AD, a very controversial, enigmatic figure was born who would in time come to be known far and wide as Alexander of Abonoteichus, after the small fishing village on the Black Sea‘s southern coast that was his birthplace. Back in Alexander’s time, Abonoteichus was located within the Roman province of Bithynia-Pontus (specifically within Paphlagonia, which was sandwiched between Bithynia and Pontus), but today it is contained within the Asian Turkish province of Kastamonu, and is now named Inebolu.
19th-Century illustration of an African rock python (public domain)
Apparently very handsome and tall with an extremely charismatic personality, Alexander was originally apprenticed to a physician/magician, but after his mentor died Alexander met up with a Byzantine chorus-writer nicknamed Cocconas, and the two spent some time thereafter travelling around together, earning their living as fake magicians, quack doctors, and via other chicanery. Eventually, they reached Pella in Macedonia, and it was here that Glycon was born, so to speak, because this is where they purchased for just a paltry sum of money an extremely large and impressive-looking yet very tame snake (such serpents being commonly for sale in this locality at that time).
It was probably an African rock python Python sebae, as specimens of this very sizeable species (averaging 15.75 ft long but sometimes exceeding 20 ft) were apparently brought back to Rome, because it is depicted in Roman mosaics. Also, fertility-related snake cults had long existed in Macedonia, stretching back at least as far as the 4th Century BC.
Apollo after slaying the serpent dragon Python, engraving by W Wellcome, late 1700s (public domain)
Alexander and Cocconas then journeyed to Chalcedon, a maritime town in Bithyna, where they lost no time in concealing inside its temple to the god Apollo a series of bronze tablets proclaiming that both Apollo and his serpent-associated son Asclepius, the Roman god of medicine and healing, would soon be appearing in Alexander’s home village of Abonoteichus. They then contrived for these ‘hidden’ tablets to be found, and news of the tablets’ sensational proclamations swiftly travelled widely, eventually reaching Abonoteichus itself, whose inhabitants promptly began building a temple dedicated to Apollo and Asclepius. It was then, in or around 150 AD, that the partnership of Alexander and Cocconas broke up, with Cocconas electing to stay in Chalcedon and continue producing phoney oracles, whereas Alexander was keen to put the next stage of their original plan into action, and so he duly set off back to Abonoteichus.
Using more fake oracles to proclaim himself as a prophet and healer, Alexander also claimed that his father was none other than Podaleirius, son of Asclepius himself and a legendary healer in his own right. Moreover, as signal proof of this, he arranged for a goose egg that he had ‘discovered’ inside Abonoteichus’s newly-built temple to be publicly opened by him at noon on the following day in the village’s marketplace before a crowd of curious but credulous onlookers, promising that a wonder would be revealed that would confirm all that he had alleged. And sure enough, when he opened the egg, a tiny snake emerged (one that supposedly he had subtly inserted inside before overtly ‘discovering’ the egg in the temple). As snakes were sacred to Asclepius (one common European species, the Aesculapian snake Zamenis longissimus, is actually named after Asclepius’s Greek counterpart, Aesculapius), Alexander’s grandiose claims were readily accepted by Abonoteichus’s simple, unworldly villagers.
Statue of Asclepius and snake, 2nd century CE, found on the island of Rhodes, Greece (public domain)
As an interesting aside here: Chickens are often infected with parasitic gut-inhabiting worms, including the ascarid roundworm Ascaris lineata, a nematode species that can grow to a few inches in length (a related giant species in humans can grow to over 1 ft in length!). They are often passed out of the bird’s gut when it defaecates. Unlike in mammals, however, the bird’s gut and its reproductive system share a common external passageway and opening – the cloaca. Sometimes, therefore, an ascarid worm ejected from the gut finds its way into the bird’s reproductive system rather than being excreted into the outside world, and moves into the oviduct. Once here, however, it becomes incorporated into the albumen of an egg, inside which it remains alive yet trapped when the egg is laid. But as soon as the egg is broken open to eat by some unsuspecting diner, the worm wriggles its way out of it and inevitably scares the diner, who frequently but mistakenly assumes that this unexpected creature is actually a tiny snake.
I wonder if such a scenario explained the above ‘snake-inside-egg’ incident involving Alexander? Or could the egg have actually been a genuine snake egg, but passed off to the ingenuous crowd by Alexander as an unshelled, undersized goose egg, perhaps?
Ascaris, a large parasitic nematode (public domain)
But that was not all. Alexander also stated that the baby snake was itself a deity, and that he would therefore be caring for it. After a few days had elapsed with the villagers not setting eyes upon this infant reptilian god, Alexander reappeared, once again thronged by awed spectators, but now only briefly and ensconced within a small dimly-lit shrine inside the temple where viewing conditions were far from ideal. Moreover, this time his huge, fully-grown pet snake from Pella was wrapped around his body, and he glibly announced that the baby serpent deity had miraculously matured directly into adulthood.
Yet even that incredible high-speed transformation was not the most surprising facet of Alexander’s outrageous revelation. Instead of possessing a typical snake’s head, the head of this remarkable creature apparently resembled that of a man, and sported an abundance of long blond hair sprouting liberally from it, as well as a pair of human ears! Moreover, it could even speak, and in the future would directly voice certain oracles or autophones to temples worshippers seeking guidance. Alexander announced that this astonishing entity was called Glycon, and constituted a new, living, physical manifestation or incarnation of Asclepius.
Two Romanian postage stamps, issued in 1974 and 1994 respectively, depicting the famous statue of Glycon unearthed in 1962 (public domain)
Henceforth, Alexander’s reputation, wealth, prestige, influence, and power, derived from his status as a celebrated prophecy-spouting soothsayer and in turn a highly-esteemed personage attracting acclaim and attention from all strata of Roman society, knew no bounds. In particular, the temple that he had established at Abonoteichus (by now a prosperous town) became a focus for fertility-themed worship and offerings by barren women wishing to become pregnant; and also for the very lucrative provision of oracles (always requiring prior receipt of payment). Moreover, Alexander was frequently consulted by public figures of high political standing anxious to solicit his ostensibly Heaven-sent advice regarding significant matters of state. The fact that sometimes his advice was by no means reliable seemed to be conveniently overlooked.
Thus it was, for example, that in 161 AD, Alexander provided a very favourable oracle to Marcus Sedatius Severianus, the Gaul-originating Roman governor of Cappadocia, on the basis of which Severianus put into action his plan to invade Armenia – only for his invasion force, including himself, to be slaughtered by the Parthians. Allegedly, Alexander soon afterwards replaced the official temple record of his oracle with a revised one that was much less favourable.
A sheet of Romania‘s Glycon-depicting postage stamp issued in 1974, from my own philatelic collection (public domain)
In 166 AD, Alexander provided an oracle verse that was utilised as an amulet and inscribed above the doors of numerous houses throughout the Roman Empire in the hope of warding off the devastating Antonine Plague that had been introduced into the Empire by troops returning home from campaigns in the Near East, and which killed thousands of people every day. Not surprisingly, the amulets had no effect (indeed, it was actually claimed by critics of this futile course of action that households bearing an amulet suffered more plague-induced deaths than those not bearing it!), but Alexander was too powerful by then for his standing to be affected by any such dissension.
Not long after that debacle, the Roman emperor himself, Marcus Aurelius, requested Alexander to send an oracle to his troops on the Danube River during ongoing warfare (168-174 AD) with a Germanic tribe called the Marcomanni. The oracle that Alexander duly sent declared that victory would be achieved if two lions were thrown alive into the Danube. Once again, however, the stark fact that after obeying this unusual command the emperor’s army was annihilated there (20,000 Roman soldiers killed, and even the hapless lions clubbed to death) failed to elicit any censure for the unperturbed Alexander, who coolly pointed out that the oracle had not specified which side in the war would achieve success!
Bust of Marcus Aurelius (public domain)
Of course, Alexander was far from being entirely unsuccessful as a prophet, but reputedly his triumphs often involved the use of spies, thugs, and blackmailers to obtain the necessary information upon which to base his oracles. In addition, there were claims that sealed scrolls containing requests for oracles that acolytes presented to him were secretly opened by him using hot needles in order to discover what information they contained and thus devise an oracle in accordance with it. He also benefited from making friends in (very) high places, of which one of the most significant was Publius Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus, a former Roman consul and provincial Roman governor in Asia and Upper Moesia, who declared himself protector of the Glycon oracle. He also provided Alexander with some very high-ranking contacts in Roman society, and he even married Alexander’s own daughter.
Not content with merely being an exceptionally famous mystic, meanwhile, Alexander utilised Rutilianus’s own eminence to help launch a very spectacular annual three-day festival replete with processions, ceremonies, and re-enactments of various mystical rituals, all held at the temple in Abonoteichus. These were devoted to the celebration of Apollo’s birth and that of his son Asclepius, the appearance of Glycon, Alexander’s own mother’s supposed marriage to Asclepius’s son Podaleirius, and even an alleged romance between Alexander himself and the moon goddess Selene that purportedly led to the birth of Alexander’s daughter, now the wife of Rutilianus.
Selene the moon goddess, with Phosphoros the Morning Star and Hesperos the Evening Star, depicted on Roman marble altar, 2nd century CE (public domain)
Alexander even persuaded the Roman emperor Antoninus Pius to change Abonoteichus’s name to the much grander-sounding Ionopolis (‘Greek city’). In addition, this same emperor and also his successors Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius all issued coinage depicting Glycon. Yet despite achieving such successes as these, with savage irony a prediction that he made about himself proved to be singularly inaccurate – just like many that he had predicted for others had been. He prophesied that he would live to the age of 150, but died at only 70 in or around 170 AD, caused by a gangrenous limb. Yet although the cult’s leader was no more, the cult itself, and its veneration of Glycon, persisted for at least a further century – having occupied a vast area at its peak of popularity, stretching from the Danube in the west to the Euphrates in the east – before eventually petering out. Having said that, it is nothing if not interesting to note that as recently as the 1970s, belief in a “magical snake” still existed among Turkish locals living in the vicinity of Inebolu (formerly Ionopolis/Abonoteichus).
But how do we know about Alexander and Glycon, almost a millennium after their demise? In fact, only a single primary source for the extraordinary history of the reputedly phoney prophet and his talkative hairy-headed human-eared snake god is known, and it just so happens to be an exceedingly acerbic, hostile account written by an infamously vituperative satirist with a very specific reason for hating Alexander and all that he represented. Needless to say, therefore, one might well be forgiven for wondering whether the entire saga was totally fictitious.

The statue of Glycon unearthed at Tomis, Romania, in 1962; left-hand view (© CristianChirita/Wikipedia – CC BY-SA 3.0 licence)

Happily, however, independent corroboration for the reality of the Glycon cult also exists. This includes not only the survival of some of the afore-mentioned Roman coinage bearing the image (and even the name) of this very singular deified serpent, but also a magnificent marble statue of Glycon, dating from the Severan dynasty (193-235 AD), standing almost 3 ft tall, and in excellent condition. It had been excavated in April 1962 along with various other statuary under the site of a former railway station in Constanta, Romania, formerly the ancient city of Tomis.
So spectacular and unexpected was this ornate Glycon sculpture, now housed at Constanta’s Museum of National History and Archaeology, that it featured on a Romanian postage stamp in 1974 (which is what first brought Glycon to my attention, as an enthusiastic stamp collector during my childhood), as well as on a second one issued in 1994, and also on a Romanian 10,000 lei bank note in 1994.
The Romanian 10,000 lei bank note depicting the Glycon statue, issued in 1994 – sample only (Wikipedia/public domain – reproduced here on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use basis only)
Moreover, smaller Glycon statuettes in bronze have been found in Athens too, confirming the cult’s spread into and across southwestern Europe. And according to the 2nd-Century-AD Christian philosopher Athenagoras of Athens, writing in his Apology (c.176/177 AD), a statue of Alexander once stood in the forum of Parium, which was a Greek city in Mysia on the Hellespont (now called the Dardanelles). 
Consequently, as there can be no doubt that Glycon, regardless of its true nature, really did exist, should we look more favourably upon its sole primary literary source, even though said source originated from the pen of an inimical satirist? This is where it all becomes much more complex, as will now be seen.
Lucian of Samosata, engraving by William Faithorne, 1600s (public domain)
The source in question is a concise but coruscating essay tersely entitled Alexander the False Prophet, written in Ancient Greek by Lucian of Samosata (Samosata being an ancient Syrian city on the west bank of the Euphrates river). A popular Greek satirist and rhetorician, Lucian was a contemporary of Alexander, and was particularly noted for the scoffing, sarcastic nature of many of his writings. His essay contained the history of Alexander and Glycon that I have summarised here in this present article of mine, but also included many additional claims and suppositions of fraud, lewd behaviour, and other undesirable activities relative to its human and serpentine subjects.
For instance, Lucian confidently asserted that the talking head of Glycon was not this snake’s real head (which, he claimed, was kept well hidden under Alexander’s armpit), but was instead an artificial construction made from linen and skilfully manipulated by Alexander using a lengthy internal tube composed of conjoined bird windpipes that led out from the false head into a hidden chamber where an assistant spoke words into the tube, thus making it seem as if Glycon were speaking. Lucian further alleged that a series of very fine, attached horse-hairs acted as internal pulleys to make the false head open and close its mouth, and extend and retract its tongue.
Sculpture of Lucian of Samosata, atop an ornamental pillar in the grounds of Nordkirchen Castle, near Münster, Germany (© Mbdortmund/Wikipedia – GFDL 1.2 licence)
Lucian also ‘explained’ how various of Alexander’s correct predictions had been achieved via fraudulent activity. He even alleged that shortly after a somewhat acrimonious meeting with Alexander (in c.162 AD) during which he had tried to trick Alexander and had even attempted (albeit unsuccessfully) to dissuade Rutilianus from marrying the latter’s daughter, he had narrowly avoided death during a boat trip when Alexander had supposedly paid the vessel’s crew to murder him, only being saved when the captain prevented them from carrying out the heinous deed.
Traditionally, this vicious character assassination of Alexander by Lucian in literary form has tended to be viewed uncritically by those modern-day scholars actually aware of it (with Glycon in particular being among the Roman Empire‘s least-known figures of interest nowadays). However, all of that changed dramatically in June 2011, with the publication of a fascinating, eye-opening article presenting a very erudite reappraisal of Alexander, Glycon, and their portrayal by their longstanding nemesis Lucian. Published in the British monthly periodical Fortean Times (which is devoted to the serious investigation and chronicling of unexplained and controversial phenomena of every conceivable – and inconceivable! – kind), the article was authored by Steve Moore, a highly-respected veteran researcher of ancient Asian and European mysteries, and it directly challenged many of Lucian’s long-accepted claims.
Opening page of text from Steve Moore’s excellent Fortean Times article (© Steve Moore/Fortean Times)
For example, Steve questioned how Lucian could have known any specific details about Alexander’s early years, especially those shared with Cocconas, bearing in mind that he, Lucian, had not spent any time alongside the pair to witness anything at first hand, and that Cocconas and Alexander were hardly likely to have informed him (or anyone else, for that matter) what they had been doing if they had truly been engaged in fraudulent activity during that time period, as vehemently asserted by Lucian in his account. Indeed, Steve went even further, by questioning whether Cocconas even existed – after all, there is no mention of him outside Lucian’s poisonous diatribe. Might he therefore have been a wholly fictitious character, invented specifically by Lucian in order to cast Alexander’s early years in as bad a light as possible?
No less circumspect are Lucian’s wholly-unsubstantiated claims of spying, thuggery, blackmail, furtively opening sealed scrolls, and a varied assortment of other equally unpleasant activities attributed by him to Alexander. As for Lucian’s once again unconfirmed allegation of almost being murdered by henchmen of Alexander while taking a boat ride, this just so happens to have been a very popular storyline in romantic works of fiction from that time period (and of which Lucian would certainly have been well aware). So it should clearly be viewed with great caution as a supposed statement of fact.
Was Glycon’s voice achieved by ventriloquism and its head a glove or sock puppet, i.e. comparable, for instance, with how the famous American entertainer Shari Lewis ‘brought to life’ Lamb Chop and Charlie Horse? (public domain)
Equally, Steve pointed out that Lucian’s bold statements regarding the nature of Glycon’s head and speech were mere supposition too. True, the notions that Lucian had put forward regarding the mechanisms by which a fake head could have been secretly operated by Alexander were nothing if not ingenious, but that is all that they were – notions, not facts. No physical evidence or direct eyewitness observations confirming them were presented by Lucian in support of his accusations, it was all speculation (and spiteful speculation at that) on his part, nothing more. Other, much less controversial options also existed but which Lucian never mentioned, such as ventriloquism to make Glycon speak, and a simple glove or sock puppet-like creation to make its fake head move and open its mouth (always assuming of course that a fake head really was present).
Moreover, we only have Lucian’s very questionable testimony that Glycon actually talked at all! In fact, it is even possible that Lucian never actually saw Glycon or spoke to anyone who had done so, because, amazingly, his essay makes no mention whatsoever of Glycon’s two most remarkable physical features – its human ears and blond hair. Conversely, whereas Lucian claimed that it possessed a human-like head, most of the physical depictions of Glycon currently known (i.e. the various coins and statues noted earlier by me in this article) actually portray it with a long-snouted head that is certainly more pythonesque than humanoid in appearance. If for no other reason than this, therefore, the authentic nature of the content of Lucian’s essay clearly should not – can not – be taken in any way for granted.
Glycon portrayed upon a 2nd-Century AD Ionopolis coin (copyright holder unknown, despite considerable searches by me; reproduced here on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use educational basis only)
Returning to the matter of the mobility and loquacity of Glycon’s head, it would be very prudent here to quote Steve’s take on Lucian’s assertions regarding this:
In boasting that he knows how the trick was done, Lucian is plainly covering up the fact that this can only be a matter of conjecture. These conjectures may be very close to the truth; but they remain conjectures, not proof.
Steve also applied this same line of sound reasoning very successfully and convincingly to many other of Lucian’s scathing claims masquerading as facts against Alexander. In addition, certain of Alexander’s activities that Lucian deemed to be evidence of his fakery – most notably his retreating overnight into an inner, subterranean sanctuary called the adyton, in order to receive his oracles in peaceful solitude via dreams, and then reveal them publicly the following morning – were shown by Steve to be no different from those performed by various soothsayers and oracle-givers who had not been accused of or linked to fraud, such as the very famous, much-revered Oracle of Apollo at Claros, on the coast of Ionia in present-day Anatolia, Turkey.
‘Chariot of Apollo’, by Gustave Moreau, late 1800s (public domain)
Indeed, there is even a very relevant, present-day parallel, as Steve tellingly revealed in his own article:
The adyton is an underground chamber, and it’s now known that withdrawal to a cave or subterranean chamber to obtain visions and mystic revelations was a common practice among Greek seers, being used similarly to a modern sensory deprivation tank.
As for charges made by Lucian against Alexander of lewd behaviour and even male prostitution: such activities were by no means uncommon back in their day, and some of the ceremonies and rituals performed during the kinds of celebration that Alexander had modelled his own annual three-day festival upon were notoriously liberal to say the least! Once again, therefore, why was Lucian singling out Alexander, this time for indulging in behaviour that was no different – or worse – than that of many others in his role?
Illustration from 1885 depicting a small bronze bust of Epicurus, derived from Herculaneum (public domain)
The answer would seem to be quite simple, but hitherto ignored by those who have supported Lucian’s writings unquestioningly. Lucian was an Epicurean, whereas Alexander was no fan of Epicureans, or Christians either, for that matter, banning both groups from his annual festivities. His reason for doing so is that Epicureans (followers of the teachings of the ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus) were known for their fervent scepticism of superstition and claimed cases of divine intervention (and Christians would certainly not have tolerated any cult of snake veneration, i.e. ophiolatreia, derived from the Roman deity Asclepius – or indeed any other such cult).
Consequently, the activities of Alexander would have made him a prime focus for disdain by Lucian. And when this was coupled with Alexander’s own dislike of Epicureans, as well as his immense success and fame, overshadowing Lucian’s own accomplishments at that time, it was inevitable that literary sparks would fly when Lucian chose to write about him.
Astronomically, Asclepius is immortalised as the constellation Ophiuchus, the snake-bearer, as depicted here in Urania’s Mirror – a set of constellation cards published in London in c. 1825 (public domain)
Certainly, there was never any hope for an unbiased, objective account, and Lucian definitely did not disappoint on that score – the result being a destructive, cynical, hyper-sceptical, and uber-vitriolic outpouring of verbal venom specifically designed to diminish, denigrate, and entirely discredit the reputation of the subject of his enmity. And for many centuries, this is exactly what Lucian’s vindictive essay achieved, abetted by Christian scholars and scientists alike (for whom stories of snake deities and diviners of the future were anathema), until Steve Moore’s much-needed objective perspicacity opened readers’ eyes to what may well have been the greatest of all trickeries associated with Alexander and Glycon – one which, ironically, was nothing of their own doing either, but was instead the ostensibly accurate yet substantially inaccurate account of their lives penned by Lucian. In short, the true nature of this toxic treatise had been hidden in plain sight for a very long time indeed, shielded from any penetrating analysis by Lucian’s name and by generations of readers with their own compatible agenda, until the coming of Steve’s diligent, iconoclastic detective work.
Obviously, there is no doubt that hoaxing did play some part in certain of Alexander’s activities, most notably in relation to the physical serpent Glycon, but equally, as Steve so forensically revealed, it is likely that Alexander was nowhere near as villainous as Lucian would have everyone believe – more sinned against than sinning, in fact. It is often said that the pen is mightier than the sword, but never more so than when that pen has been liberally dipped in the lethal venom of hatred and jealousy.

Glycon statuette, c. 150-300 CE, exhibited at the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, at Ankara, Turkey (© Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, Ankara, included here on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use educational basis onlyAttribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 Intenational licence)

I wish to dedicate this ShukerNature blog article of mine to the memory of Steve Moore (1949-2014), one of my first and enduring friends in the Fortean community, who always encouraged and supported my own writings and researches within the fascinating field of inexplicabilia, including cryptozoology. Thank you Steve, and may you now know the answers to all of the many ancient historical riddles that you investigated so extensively, and with such expertise and wisdom, during a life so richly inspired by mystery and wonder.
Steve Moore (© Steve Moore)
Leave a Comment more...

WHITHER THE WOOLLY CHEETAH?

by on May.03, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post

The only known illustration of a woolly cheetah (Public domain)
Nowadays, the once-obscure, elusive king cheetah, a mutant morph of the normal cheetah Acinonyx jubatusfamously adorned with an ornate patterning of stripes and blotches very different from the latter species’ polka-dotted wild-type counterpart, is enjoying a well-earned scientific renaissance.
In marked contrast, however, a second, equally eyecatching cheetah form seems to have vanished without trace into the mists of scientific anonymity, after only the briefest of spells in the zoological limelight.
A king cheetah, famed for its exquisite and very elaborate markings, produced by a mutant gene allele (© Steve Jurvetson/Wikipedia – CC BY 2.0 licence)
On 19 June 1877, Philip L. Sclater, longstanding secretary of the Zoological Society of London, recorded in its Proceedings (i.e. the PZSL) the acquisition by London Zoo of a most unusual cat – male and apparently not fully grown – which he described as follows:
It presents generally the appearance of a cheetah (Felis jubatus) [the cheetah’s old scientific name], but is thicker in the body, and has shorter and stouter limbs, and a much thicker tail. When adult it will probably be considerably larger than the Cheetah, and is larger even now than our three specimens of that animal. The fur is much more woolly and dense than in the Cheetah, as is particularly noticeable on the ears, mane and tail. The whole of the body is of a pale isabelline colour, rather paler on the belly and lower parts, but covered all over, including the belly, with roundish dark fulvous blotches. There are no traces of the black spots which are so conspicuous in all of the varieties of the Cheetah which I have seen, nor of the characteristic black line between the mouth and eye.
Evidently this brown-blotched felid appeared very different from the usual form – to the extent that Sclater stated that it was impossible to associate it with this. Instead, he proposed for it the temporary name of Felis lanea, the woolly cheetah. It had been obtained from Beaufort West, South Africa, and, as Sclater himself remarked: “It is difficult to understand how such a distinct animal can have so long escaped the observations of naturalists”.
One other matter is also difficult to understand, and remains a source of confusion concerning this mystery cat. Sclater referred to its markings as ‘blotches’, but in the illustration that accompanied this report, the creature was depicted with numerous tiny spots!
The PZSL 1877 chromolithograph of the woolly cheetah that accompanied Sclater’s report of it (Public domain)
A year later, on 18 June 1878, Sclater noted in the Society’s Proceedings that he had received a letter from a Mr E.L. Layard, informing him that a second woolly cheetah was currently preserved in the South African Museum. Like the first, it had been procured from Beaufort West. It had been killed by Arthur V. Jackson who, like Layard himself, assumed that it was an erythristic (abnormally red) variant of the normal cheetah. At the end of this item, in answer to an enquiry by Layard, Sclater recorded that the claws of the London Zoo specimen were non-retractile.
Sharing Sclater’s own bewilderment as to how so large and unusual an animal could have evaded scientific detection until then, many zoologists had grave reservations concerning his optimism that the woolly cheetah constituted a totally separate species. In 1881, English biologist Dr St George J. Mivart commented that the noted American zoologist Prof. Daniel G. Elliot regarded this felid simply as a variety of the known cheetah species (curiously, Mivart ascribed the presence of a stripe to one side – but not both sides – of the woolly cheetah’s muzzle when describing this feline form in his book The Cat, a feature not mentioned by Sclater, and in any event highly abnormal, thereby confusing the issue even further).
Dramatis personae in the woolly cheetah saga: Philip L. Sclater (public domain), Dr St George J. Mivart (Wellcome Images/Wikipedia – CC BY 4.0 licence), and Prof. Daniel G. Elliot (public domain)
By then, London Zoo’s specimen had died, and Elliot’s opinion received support from the discovery by eminent mammalogist Oldfield Thomas of the then British Museum (Natural History) – now known as the Natural History Museum – that this cat’s skull did not differ from that of any other cheetah.
On 4 November 1884, Sclater recorded in the PZSL a woolly cheetah skin sent to him by the Reverend G. Fisk, again obtained from Beaufort West. In comparison with the zoo specimen, this example was more distinctly spotted, less densely furred, and rather smaller in size. Reverend Fisk believed that these differences were due to the specimen being a female, an explanation accepted by Sclater, who felt that this new skin consolidated his opinion concerning the woolly cheetah’s separate status. The rest of the scientific world, conversely, remained unconvinced, so that since then it has been regarded as merely an unusual variant of the typical cheetah species.
A normal, polka-dotted cheetah (public domain)
The woolly cheetah may indeed be nothing more surprising than an atypical colour morph – perhaps a partial albino, as suggested by king cheetah researcher Lena Bottriell and felid geneticist Roy Robinson, or an erythristic version, as opined by Jackson and Layard. At the same time, Sclater’s more radical views can also be appreciated, because this cat form differs from the typical cheetah not only in colour and markings but also in fur density and even in relative limb length. Simple colour variants do not generally exhibit such pronounced differences as these from normal individuals of the same species. Its shorter limbs suggest a non-cursorial life – could it possibly have been a forest form?
It is worth noting that a ‘lion-like forest cheetah’ known as the kitanga was described in the 20th Century’s early years to Major G. St J. Orde-Brown by the Embu natives of south-eastern Kenya (as recorded by Kenneth C. Gandar Dower in his book The Spotted Lion, 1937,  chronicling Dower’s own searches for another of Africa’s mystery cats, the elusive marozi). Moreover, according to correspondent Owen Burnham who lived there for many years, a comparable felid has occasionally been reported from the little-explored forests of Senegal, West Africa, where this region’s subspecies of the typical cheetah, A. j. hecki, is extremely rare.
A pair of marozis or spotted lions (© William M. Rebsamen)
The possibility of a cheetah form becoming modified for life in this type of habitat is by no means implausible. On the contrary, even the normal spotted form is not an exclusive denizen of the savannahs. This was well demonstrated in March 1983, when Lise Campbell spied a single cheetah at a height of 2.5 miles in the vicinity of the Sirimon Track in the moorland zone of Mount Kenya. She had a second sighting later that day of what may have been the same animal, even higher, amidst the tufted high-altitude grass, and documented her observations in an East African Natural History Society Bulletincommunication (May-June 1983).
As for the woolly cheetah: according to mammalogists Daphne Hills and Dr Reay Smithers in their Arnoldia Zimbabwe paper of 1980 (concerning the king cheetah), this odd form no longer occurs in Beaufort West.Presumably, therefore, it is extinct, and the chance to investigate further its precise taxonomic status similarly lost. Or is it? The Natural History Museum owns the skin of London Zoo’s specimen – so now, with the ever-advancing techniques of DNA-based genetic analyses readily available to researchers, perhaps it may be possible to carry out some such tests upon small samples of this skin and finally reveal the precise genetic identity of the mystifying woolly cheetah.
This ShukerNature blog article is excerpted and expanded from my book Mystery Cats of the World.

Leave a Comment more...

WHITHER THE WOOLLY CHEETAH?

by on May.03, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post

The only known illustration of a woolly cheetah (Public domain)
Nowadays, the once-obscure, elusive king cheetah, a mutant morph of the normal cheetah Acinonyx jubatusfamously adorned with an ornate patterning of stripes and blotches very different from the latter species’ polka-dotted wild-type counterpart, is enjoying a well-earned scientific renaissance.
In marked contrast, however, a second, equally eyecatching cheetah form seems to have vanished without trace into the mists of scientific anonymity, after only the briefest of spells in the zoological limelight.
A king cheetah, famed for its exquisite and very elaborate markings, produced by a mutant gene allele (© Steve Jurvetson/Wikipedia – CC BY 2.0 licence)
On 19 June 1877, Philip L. Sclater, longstanding secretary of the Zoological Society of London, recorded in its Proceedings (i.e. the PZSL) the acquisition by London Zoo of a most unusual cat – male and apparently not fully grown – which he described as follows:
It presents generally the appearance of a cheetah (Felis jubatus) [the cheetah’s old scientific name], but is thicker in the body, and has shorter and stouter limbs, and a much thicker tail. When adult it will probably be considerably larger than the Cheetah, and is larger even now than our three specimens of that animal. The fur is much more woolly and dense than in the Cheetah, as is particularly noticeable on the ears, mane and tail. The whole of the body is of a pale isabelline colour, rather paler on the belly and lower parts, but covered all over, including the belly, with roundish dark fulvous blotches. There are no traces of the black spots which are so conspicuous in all of the varieties of the Cheetah which I have seen, nor of the characteristic black line between the mouth and eye.
Evidently this brown-blotched felid appeared very different from the usual form – to the extent that Sclater stated that it was impossible to associate it with this. Instead, he proposed for it the temporary name of Felis lanea, the woolly cheetah. It had been obtained from Beaufort West, South Africa, and, as Sclater himself remarked: “It is difficult to understand how such a distinct animal can have so long escaped the observations of naturalists”.
One other matter is also difficult to understand, and remains a source of confusion concerning this mystery cat. Sclater referred to its markings as ‘blotches’, but in the illustration that accompanied this report, the creature was depicted with numerous tiny spots!
The PZSL 1877 chromolithograph of the woolly cheetah that accompanied Sclater’s report of it (Public domain)
A year later, on 18 June 1878, Sclater noted in the Society’s Proceedings that he had received a letter from a Mr E.L. Layard, informing him that a second woolly cheetah was currently preserved in the South African Museum. Like the first, it had been procured from Beaufort West. It had been killed by Arthur V. Jackson who, like Layard himself, assumed that it was an erythristic (abnormally red) variant of the normal cheetah. At the end of this item, in answer to an enquiry by Layard, Sclater recorded that the claws of the London Zoo specimen were non-retractile.
Sharing Sclater’s own bewilderment as to how so large and unusual an animal could have evaded scientific detection until then, many zoologists had grave reservations concerning his optimism that the woolly cheetah constituted a totally separate species. In 1881, English biologist Dr St George J. Mivart commented that the noted American zoologist Prof. Daniel G. Elliot regarded this felid simply as a variety of the known cheetah species (curiously, Mivart ascribed the presence of a stripe to one side – but not both sides – of the woolly cheetah’s muzzle when describing this feline form in his book The Cat, a feature not mentioned by Sclater, and in any event highly abnormal, thereby confusing the issue even further).
Dramatis personae in the woolly cheetah saga: Philip L. Sclater (public domain), Dr St George J. Mivart (Wellcome Images/Wikipedia – CC BY 4.0 licence), and Prof. Daniel G. Elliot (public domain)
By then, London Zoo’s specimen had died, and Elliot’s opinion received support from the discovery by eminent mammalogist Oldfield Thomas of the then British Museum (Natural History) – now known as the Natural History Museum – that this cat’s skull did not differ from that of any other cheetah.
On 4 November 1884, Sclater recorded in the PZSL a woolly cheetah skin sent to him by the Reverend G. Fisk, again obtained from Beaufort West. In comparison with the zoo specimen, this example was more distinctly spotted, less densely furred, and rather smaller in size. Reverend Fisk believed that these differences were due to the specimen being a female, an explanation accepted by Sclater, who felt that this new skin consolidated his opinion concerning the woolly cheetah’s separate status. The rest of the scientific world, conversely, remained unconvinced, so that since then it has been regarded as merely an unusual variant of the typical cheetah species.
A normal, polka-dotted cheetah (public domain)
The woolly cheetah may indeed be nothing more surprising than an atypical colour morph – perhaps a partial albino, as suggested by king cheetah researcher Lena Bottriell and felid geneticist Roy Robinson, or an erythristic version, as opined by Jackson and Layard. At the same time, Sclater’s more radical views can also be appreciated, because this cat form differs from the typical cheetah not only in colour and markings but also in fur density and even in relative limb length. Simple colour variants do not generally exhibit such pronounced differences as these from normal individuals of the same species. Its shorter limbs suggest a non-cursorial life – could it possibly have been a forest form?
It is worth noting that a ‘lion-like forest cheetah’ known as the kitanga was described in the 20th Century’s early years to Major G. St J. Orde-Brown by the Embu natives of south-eastern Kenya (as recorded by Kenneth C. Gandar Dower in his book The Spotted Lion, 1937,  chronicling Dower’s own searches for another of Africa’s mystery cats, the elusive marozi). Moreover, according to correspondent Owen Burnham who lived there for many years, a comparable felid has occasionally been reported from the little-explored forests of Senegal, West Africa, where this region’s subspecies of the typical cheetah, A. j. hecki, is extremely rare.
A pair of marozis or spotted lions (© William M. Rebsamen)
The possibility of a cheetah form becoming modified for life in this type of habitat is by no means implausible. On the contrary, even the normal spotted form is not an exclusive denizen of the savannahs. This was well demonstrated in March 1983, when Lise Campbell spied a single cheetah at a height of 2.5 miles in the vicinity of the Sirimon Track in the moorland zone of Mount Kenya. She had a second sighting later that day of what may have been the same animal, even higher, amidst the tufted high-altitude grass, and documented her observations in an East African Natural History Society Bulletincommunication (May-June 1983).
As for the woolly cheetah: according to mammalogists Daphne Hills and Dr Reay Smithers in their Arnoldia Zimbabwe paper of 1980 (concerning the king cheetah), this odd form no longer occurs in Beaufort West.Presumably, therefore, it is extinct, and the chance to investigate further its precise taxonomic status similarly lost. Or is it? The Natural History Museum owns the skin of London Zoo’s specimen – so now, with the ever-advancing techniques of DNA-based genetic analyses readily available to researchers, perhaps it may be possible to carry out some such tests upon small samples of this skin and finally reveal the precise genetic identity of the mystifying woolly cheetah.
This ShukerNature blog article is excerpted and expanded from my book Mystery Cats of the World.

Leave a Comment more...

THE YARA-MA-YHA-WHO

by on May.01, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post


The yara-ma-yha-who (© Andy Paciorek)
The yara-ma-yha-who is one of Australia’s most feared supernatural entities, but it may also have a basis in reality, at least according to veteran cryptozoologist Dr Bernard Heuvelmans. For he speculated in his classic tome On the Track of Unknown Animals (1958) that perhaps it was inspired by ancient memories of southeast Asian tarsiers, those small but exclusively carnivorous, nocturnal primates with gargantuan orbs for eyes and weird superficially sucker-like finger-tips and toe-tips.
Heuvelmans deemed it possible that their unearthly, goblinesque appearance may have sufficiently impressed itself upon the native peoples whose descendants subsequently travelled to and settled in Australia, giving rise there to the aboriginal nations, for their collective memories, passed down from generation to generation Down Under, to have preserved a still-lingering version of it, distorted and embellished with lurid imaginings, ultimately yielding the nightmarish yara-ma-yha-who.
Whatever the explanation for it, however, the yara-ma-yha-who is truly terrifying, not only in appearance but also in activity, as now revealed here in my retelling of its traditional grisly behaviour upon encountering an unfortunate human.
Did ancient memories of tarsiers inspire native aboriginal belief in the yara-ma-yha-who? (© LDC, Inc Foundation/Wikipedia – CC BY-SA 3.0 licence; © Pierre Fidenci/Wikipedia – CC BY-SA 2.5 licence)
Creatures of shadow come in many forms, but few are not only more monstrous in physical form but also more hideous in predatory behaviour than the horrific yara-ma-yha-who of the Australian bush, which is active during the daylight hours but lurks hidden in tall fig trees amid the concealing darkness encompassed by their burly overlapping branches. Here it sits, waiting…
Twilight had not yet fallen as the hunter walked down a long tree-fringed path leading towards his settlement just beyond the forest’s perimeter. Peering fearfully all around, he inwardly cursed himself for not having waited until the sun had set in the sky before journeying through this ill-omened place. For his people’s ancient lore warned of the terrors that dark, lonely locales concealed within their black hearts even during the span of daytime.
Shafts of sunlight filtered through the roof-like canopy of interspersed branches overhead, lighting the gloom below – and revealing a fairly large creature squatting on a sturdy branch just ahead. A koala, perhaps, or even a tree kangaroo? Gripping his spear, he moved closer, as the sunlight slowly transformed the entity from a featureless silhouette into a furry being that seemed to have scarlet skin. Surely, though, reasoned the hunter, this abnormal hue was due merely to the fiery rays of the soon-to-be-setting sun falling upon it? He fervently hoped so, because the alternative was too terrifying even to contemplate. Fortunately, the creature was sitting with its back to him, so if he could just walk by softly, without attracting its attention, all would be well.
Unfortunately, his foot trod heavily upon a dry, shed twig, which snapped loudly in the evening stillness. Immediately, the creature turned, and as the hunter gazed up into that hideous visage, he knew without hesitation that it was already too late. Just as he had dreaded, what he had encountered was neither koala nor tree kangaroo but was, instead, a yara-ma-yha-who!
The eyes of this fiendish entity were enormous – twin globes of glowing evil that almost filled its entire face within its disproportionately large head. And as its hands stretched towards him, the doomed hunter observed with skin-crawling fascination that each of its long spindly fingers and toes bore a large flat sucker at its tip. Instantly, the yara-ma-yha-who leaped down upon the terrified hunter, knocking him onto the floor, its suckers pressed against his quivering body. And as he lay there, with this foul vampyric beast upon his chest, he could feel each sucker drawing blood from his body, draining him of his life-force.
That alone would have been more than enough horror to withstand, but the hunter knew from his people’s lore that there was even worse to come – much, much worse. Suddenly, when finally satiated with blood, the yara-ma-yha-who opened its wide toothless mouth – and, just like a snake, dislocated its jaws, so that its gaping maw now resembled an immense black cavern. Then, leaning forward, in a single enormous gulp it swallowed whole the hapless hunter, weak and paralysed with fear, but still living.
After executing a macabre dance designed solely to facilitate the movement of its engulfed human victim down its gullet into its distended stomach, the yara-ma-yha-who squatted back down…and waited. After a while, it opened its gigantic mouth again, and vomited forth its prey. Although hideously disfigured by the creature’s highly corrosive gastric juices, the hunter, incredibly, remained alive, but was somewhat smaller in size. When the yara-ma-yha-who saw this, it promptly swallowed him once more, then performed its bizarre dance of digestion.
This grotesque sequence of events was repeated several times, until finally, when vomited up yet again, the hunter, barely living but still breathing, was no bigger than the yara-ma-yha-who, and totally unrecognisable. When it inspected him this time, the yara-ma-yha-who seemed satisfied, and in an instant it had gone, leaping into a nearby tree – to await another victim.
What had formerly been the hunter, meanwhile, lay there on the ground as it gradually revived, its furry skin burnt scarlet from the yara-ma-yha-who’s metabolic acid. Then it raised itself up onto its haunches, its huge eyes blinking in the darkness, its suckered fingers twitching as if electrified. Soon, just like its creator, it would leap into a tree, to watch, and wait – a new yara-ma-yha-who, hungry for human blood and life-force, having already forgotten that it too had once been human.
This ShukerNature blog article is exclusively excerpted from Creatures of Shadow and Night, a book-in-progress written by me in which I retell the legends associated with a global range of supernatural entities of darkness, and complemented throughout by spectacular full-colour illustrations specially prepared by highly-acclaimed graphics artist Andy Paciorek.

Leave a Comment more...

THE YARA-MA-YHA-WHO

by on May.01, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post


The yara-ma-yha-who (© Andy Paciorek)
The yara-ma-yha-who is one of Australia’s most feared supernatural entities, but it may also have a basis in reality, at least according to veteran cryptozoologist Dr Bernard Heuvelmans. For he speculated in his classic tome On the Track of Unknown Animals (1958) that perhaps it was inspired by ancient memories of southeast Asian tarsiers, those small but exclusively carnivorous, nocturnal primates with gargantuan orbs for eyes and weird superficially sucker-like finger-tips and toe-tips.
Heuvelmans deemed it possible that their unearthly, goblinesque appearance may have sufficiently impressed itself upon the native peoples whose descendants subsequently travelled to and settled in Australia, giving rise there to the aboriginal nations, for their collective memories, passed down from generation to generation Down Under, to have preserved a still-lingering version of it, distorted and embellished with lurid imaginings, ultimately yielding the nightmarish yara-ma-yha-who.
Whatever the explanation for it, however, the yara-ma-yha-who is truly terrifying, not only in appearance but also in activity, as now revealed here in my retelling of its traditional grisly behaviour upon encountering an unfortunate human.
Did ancient memories of tarsiers inspire native aboriginal belief in the yara-ma-yha-who? (© LDC, Inc Foundation/Wikipedia – CC BY-SA 3.0 licence; © Pierre Fidenci/Wikipedia – CC BY-SA 2.5 licence)
Creatures of shadow come in many forms, but few are not only more monstrous in physical form but also more hideous in predatory behaviour than the horrific yara-ma-yha-who of the Australian bush, which is active during the daylight hours but lurks hidden in tall fig trees amid the concealing darkness encompassed by their burly overlapping branches. Here it sits, waiting…
Twilight had not yet fallen as the hunter walked down a long tree-fringed path leading towards his settlement just beyond the forest’s perimeter. Peering fearfully all around, he inwardly cursed himself for not having waited until the sun had set in the sky before journeying through this ill-omened place. For his people’s ancient lore warned of the terrors that dark, lonely locales concealed within their black hearts even during the span of daytime.
Shafts of sunlight filtered through the roof-like canopy of interspersed branches overhead, lighting the gloom below – and revealing a fairly large creature squatting on a sturdy branch just ahead. A koala, perhaps, or even a tree kangaroo? Gripping his spear, he moved closer, as the sunlight slowly transformed the entity from a featureless silhouette into a furry being that seemed to have scarlet skin. Surely, though, reasoned the hunter, this abnormal hue was due merely to the fiery rays of the soon-to-be-setting sun falling upon it? He fervently hoped so, because the alternative was too terrifying even to contemplate. Fortunately, the creature was sitting with its back to him, so if he could just walk by softly, without attracting its attention, all would be well.
Unfortunately, his foot trod heavily upon a dry, shed twig, which snapped loudly in the evening stillness. Immediately, the creature turned, and as the hunter gazed up into that hideous visage, he knew without hesitation that it was already too late. Just as he had dreaded, what he had encountered was neither koala nor tree kangaroo but was, instead, a yara-ma-yha-who!
The eyes of this fiendish entity were enormous – twin globes of glowing evil that almost filled its entire face within its disproportionately large head. And as its hands stretched towards him, the doomed hunter observed with skin-crawling fascination that each of its long spindly fingers and toes bore a large flat sucker at its tip. Instantly, the yara-ma-yha-who leaped down upon the terrified hunter, knocking him onto the floor, its suckers pressed against his quivering body. And as he lay there, with this foul vampyric beast upon his chest, he could feel each sucker drawing blood from his body, draining him of his life-force.
That alone would have been more than enough horror to withstand, but the hunter knew from his people’s lore that there was even worse to come – much, much worse. Suddenly, when finally satiated with blood, the yara-ma-yha-who opened its wide toothless mouth – and, just like a snake, dislocated its jaws, so that its gaping maw now resembled an immense black cavern. Then, leaning forward, in a single enormous gulp it swallowed whole the hapless hunter, weak and paralysed with fear, but still living.
After executing a macabre dance designed solely to facilitate the movement of its engulfed human victim down its gullet into its distended stomach, the yara-ma-yha-who squatted back down…and waited. After a while, it opened its gigantic mouth again, and vomited forth its prey. Although hideously disfigured by the creature’s highly corrosive gastric juices, the hunter, incredibly, remained alive, but was somewhat smaller in size. When the yara-ma-yha-who saw this, it promptly swallowed him once more, then performed its bizarre dance of digestion.
This grotesque sequence of events was repeated several times, until finally, when vomited up yet again, the hunter, barely living but still breathing, was no bigger than the yara-ma-yha-who, and totally unrecognisable. When it inspected him this time, the yara-ma-yha-who seemed satisfied, and in an instant it had gone, leaping into a nearby tree – to await another victim.
What had formerly been the hunter, meanwhile, lay there on the ground as it gradually revived, its furry skin burnt scarlet from the yara-ma-yha-who’s metabolic acid. Then it raised itself up onto its haunches, its huge eyes blinking in the darkness, its suckered fingers twitching as if electrified. Soon, just like its creator, it would leap into a tree, to watch, and wait – a new yara-ma-yha-who, hungry for human blood and life-force, having already forgotten that it too had once been human.
This ShukerNature blog article is exclusively excerpted from Creatures of Shadow and Night, a book-in-progress written by me in which I retell the legends associated with a global range of supernatural entities of darkness, and complemented throughout by spectacular full-colour illustrations specially prepared by highly-acclaimed graphics artist Andy Paciorek.

Leave a Comment more...

THE NAGA HAG

by on Apr.20, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post

A naga hag (© Andy Paciorek)
Ancient India – a land of gods, demons, and cobras, and sometimes all three combined within a single dread form: the naga, or human serpent. Some of these ophidian deities were benevolent to humanity, such as the great seven-headed naga Muchilinda, whose magnificent heptarchy of expanded hoods shielded the sleeping Lord Buddha from the blazing mid-day sun. Others, especially the female naga hags or nagini, could be far less benign…
It had started as a playful game of hide and seek between the youth and his lover, taking turns to stay concealed for a while behind a tree or a bush at the edge of the jungle, before suddenly leaping forth to startle the other, then laughing, embracing, and kissing. But now the youth was becoming concerned. He had been searching for his lover, calling out her name, for what seemed like an eternity, finally entering into the jungle itself, as the sun gradually dimmed and diminished, its noontide incandescence replaced by the shimmering haze of early evening.
And then, as if from nowhere, his lover had risen up from the tall grass just ahead, her slim, pale form no longer clothed, and almost sinuous amid the half-light of the jungle’s shade. He called to her, but in answer his lover merely extended her arms to him, as her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in ripples of obsidian. Her limbs remained hidden amid the grass, but her waist and torso swayed slowly, almost hypnotically, willing him to draw nearer, ever closer, to her waiting arms.
The youth smiled, his earlier fear at her absence now totally dissipated as he moved forward. He had only known her for a short while, yet he had fallen passionately, uncontrollably in love with her almost from the first moment of their meeting. And now, at last, it seemed that his love would be returned.
He stood before her, trembling slightly in anticipation as the cool evening breeze ruffled her dark hair until it seemed almost alive, flickering and entwining. The grass at her waist stirred – and as he looked down, the youth was horrified to see what appeared to be a huge serpent writhing where his lover’s feet must surely be standing.
But even as he opened his mouth to cry out in fear, the cry shrivelled and died in his throat. The breeze had become much stronger, blowing aside the grass, bowing it down in all directions, and the youth’s eyes stared, transfixed, unbelieving, at the huge serpent – which, as he now could see only too plainly, was not a serpent at all, but the limbless, scaly-skinned lower torso of his lover. She was not human – or, at least, not entirely so. She was a naga hag!
Even as he forced himself to look back up at her face, dragging his eyes away from the thrashing, serpentine abomination that was an intrinsic part of her body, he knew that it was too late. He gazed into her cold, amber, reptilian eyes, noticing for the first time that they were lidless, and then, with detached, almost preternatural calmness – or perhaps resigned acquiescence – observed how her slender canine teeth had enlarged into venom-dripping fangs.
He closed his eyes once more, for the last time, and so was spared the ultimate horror of seeing his lover’s face transform into that of a human cobra, its hair flailing outward and coalescing into a dark expanded hood, as it leaned forward to sink its fangs into his throat. Once sustained, the naga hag drew back again, and the youth’s limp brittle shell, which had once known life but only an empty promise of love, dropped soundlessly to the ground, drained and dead, like the last rays of the setting sun that were sinking beneath the sable canopy of the jungle.
This ShukerNature blog article is exclusively excerpted from Creatures of Shadow and Night – a book-in-progress in which I am retelling the folklore and legends of a wide range of sinister and decidedly dark supernatural entities of the night, most of which are relatively or entirely unknown outside their respective homelands. Moreover, each of my verbal portrayals is accompanied visually by a spectacular full-colour illustration specially prepared by highly-acclaimed graphics artist Andy Paciorek.
Nag hag or nagina figurine (© Dr Karl Shuker)

Leave a Comment more...

THE NAGA HAG

by on Apr.20, 2017, under Syndicated from the Web

Reposted from ShukerNature | Go to Original Post

A naga hag (© Andy Paciorek)
Ancient India – a land of gods, demons, and cobras, and sometimes all three combined within a single dread form: the naga, or human serpent. Some of these ophidian deities were benevolent to humanity, such as the great seven-headed naga Muchilinda, whose magnificent heptarchy of expanded hoods shielded the sleeping Lord Buddha from the blazing mid-day sun. Others, especially the female naga hags or nagini, could be far less benign…
It had started as a playful game of hide and seek between the youth and his lover, taking turns to stay concealed for a while behind a tree or a bush at the edge of the jungle, before suddenly leaping forth to startle the other, then laughing, embracing, and kissing. But now the youth was becoming concerned. He had been searching for his lover, calling out her name, for what seemed like an eternity, finally entering into the jungle itself, as the sun gradually dimmed and diminished, its noontide incandescence replaced by the shimmering haze of early evening.
And then, as if from nowhere, his lover had risen up from the tall grass just ahead, her slim, pale form no longer clothed, and almost sinuous amid the half-light of the jungle’s shade. He called to her, but in answer his lover merely extended her arms to him, as her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in ripples of obsidian. Her limbs remained hidden amid the grass, but her waist and torso swayed slowly, almost hypnotically, willing him to draw nearer, ever closer, to her waiting arms.
The youth smiled, his earlier fear at her absence now totally dissipated as he moved forward. He had only known her for a short while, yet he had fallen passionately, uncontrollably in love with her almost from the first moment of their meeting. And now, at last, it seemed that his love would be returned.
He stood before her, trembling slightly in anticipation as the cool evening breeze ruffled her dark hair until it seemed almost alive, flickering and entwining. The grass at her waist stirred – and as he looked down, the youth was horrified to see what appeared to be a huge serpent writhing where his lover’s feet must surely be standing.
But even as he opened his mouth to cry out in fear, the cry shrivelled and died in his throat. The breeze had become much stronger, blowing aside the grass, bowing it down in all directions, and the youth’s eyes stared, transfixed, unbelieving, at the huge serpent – which, as he now could see only too plainly, was not a serpent at all, but the limbless, scaly-skinned lower torso of his lover. She was not human – or, at least, not entirely so. She was a naga hag!
Even as he forced himself to look back up at her face, dragging his eyes away from the thrashing, serpentine abomination that was an intrinsic part of her body, he knew that it was too late. He gazed into her cold, amber, reptilian eyes, noticing for the first time that they were lidless, and then, with detached, almost preternatural calmness – or perhaps resigned acquiescence – observed how her slender canine teeth had enlarged into venom-dripping fangs.
He closed his eyes once more, for the last time, and so was spared the ultimate horror of seeing his lover’s face transform into that of a human cobra, its hair flailing outward and coalescing into a dark expanded hood, as it leaned forward to sink its fangs into his throat. Once sustained, the naga hag drew back again, and the youth’s limp brittle shell, which had once known life but only an empty promise of love, dropped soundlessly to the ground, drained and dead, like the last rays of the setting sun that were sinking beneath the sable canopy of the jungle.
This ShukerNature blog article is exclusively excerpted from Creatures of Shadow and Night – a book-in-progress in which I am retelling the folklore and legends of a wide range of sinister and decidedly dark supernatural entities of the night, most of which are relatively or entirely unknown outside their respective homelands. Moreover, each of my verbal portrayals is accompanied visually by a spectacular full-colour illustration specially prepared by highly-acclaimed graphics artist Andy Paciorek.
Nag hag or nagina figurine (© Dr Karl Shuker)

Leave a Comment more...

Site Representation Request

If you have a relevant website and wish to be represented on WhereMonstersDwell.com, please send a link to your site with a brief description and be sure to include a note granting permission to include your content. Send requests to netherworldnetwork[at]comcast[dot]net with the subject line "content feed permission" and we will be happy to consider adding your site to our family of associated websites.

Information Content Disclaimer

The views and opinions stated in any and all of the articles represented on this site are solely those of the contributing author or authors, and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of WhereMonstersDwell.com, The Netherworld Network, its parent company or any affiliated companies, or any individual, groups, or companies mentioned in articles on this site.