Cthulhu Lives!: An Eldritch Tribute to H. P. Lovecraft by Greg Stolze, Tim Dedopulos, John Reppion, Lynne Hardy, Gabor Csigas, Gethin A. Lynes Page A
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have come to my attention.
The cat has awakened from his rest and is once again clawing at the window frame. I believe it is time for me to facilitate his escape into the fog (for however long he can stand it this time) and put the kettle on.
Best,
John
+ + +
To: Brian J. Showers ([email protected])
From: John Reppion ([email protected])
Sent: 21 Dec 2008 20:20
Subject: Mr. Magpie
Brian,
The fog has cleared a bit, and the Yule moon seems unusually bright and yellow. I suppose I don’t usually pay much attention to it. With the cat still insisting on entering and exiting at short, regular intervals however, I seem to be looking out of the window every fifteen minutes or so tonight. A huge tiding of magpies is chattering out there, and has been for at least half an hour now. Princes Park seems to be home to hundreds of the birds, and it is not uncommon for them to flock together in the trees and chakker-chakker in unison. I was quite unnerved the first time I observed this behaviour and while I’d like to say that I’ve got used to it, I still find something weird and malevolent about the sound.
There was a story that received heavy coverage in the local newspapers a couple of years ago, about an old man who lived over on the other side of the park. He had been catching magpies in his garden using Larsen Traps, large cage-type contraptions baited with smaller birds to lure the magpies in. The man had died in his home, but as he had lived alone, it was a good while before the authorities were notified. The more sensational reports called him “Mr. Magpie”. They found a couple of dozen traps in his back garden, all containing dead birds, but that was nothing to the amount of carcasses and bones they found piled on an old compost heap. The old man had devoted a lot of time and effort to eradicating the birds, and the papers claimed he must have killed close to a thousand magpies over the years. On nights like this I can almost sympathise with the sentiment!
The Mr. Magpie story led me to some research into the folklore surrounding these noisy birds, which I filed away with the rest of my Princes Park information. Maybe the cacophony outside my window is fuelling my imagination tonight, but some of the data is really quite eerie.
C. A. Swainson’s Folklore and Provincial Names of British Birds states that a magpie “which at that time had the gayest plumage of all the feathered race” perched on an arm of the cross and “insulted the Redeemer while suffering His last agony.” Jesus evidently took the creature’s taunts to heart, cursing the bird and all its kind forevermore: “No longer shall the brilliant tuft and bright feathers, of which thou art so proud and at the same time so unworthy, adorn thee; thy colour shall be sad and sombre, thy life a hard one; ever, too, shall thy nest be open to the storm.”
I’m sure I have read somewhere that magpies were once believed to be psychopomps, lying in wait for the souls of the dying. It was said that they timed their cries to cover the struggling breath of those at death’s door. According to myth-making.blogspot.com, magpies are known as “the devil’s bird” in Scottish folklore, and are supposed to carry a drop of Lucifer’s own blood beneath their tongues: “It was believed that the magpie could receive the gift of speech if its tongue was scratched and a drop of blood from a human tongue inserted into the wound.”
Old Toki, the district’s founding pagan father, would doubtless have considered the tiding a very ill omen indeed, as a magpie’s form was believed by the Norsemen to be a favourite disguise of witches. That being the case, they must be having their Sabbat tonight, as I have never heard the magpie chorus so loud or prolonged. Their numbers seem to be growing by the minute. The cat is sitting at the window listening intently, but seems reluctant to venture outdoors. For the time being anyway.
Best,
John
+ + +
To:
The cat has awakened from his rest and is once again clawing at the window frame. I believe it is time for me to facilitate his escape into the fog (for however long he can stand it this time) and put the kettle on.
Best,
John
+ + +
To: Brian J. Showers ([email protected])
From: John Reppion ([email protected])
Sent: 21 Dec 2008 20:20
Subject: Mr. Magpie
Brian,
The fog has cleared a bit, and the Yule moon seems unusually bright and yellow. I suppose I don’t usually pay much attention to it. With the cat still insisting on entering and exiting at short, regular intervals however, I seem to be looking out of the window every fifteen minutes or so tonight. A huge tiding of magpies is chattering out there, and has been for at least half an hour now. Princes Park seems to be home to hundreds of the birds, and it is not uncommon for them to flock together in the trees and chakker-chakker in unison. I was quite unnerved the first time I observed this behaviour and while I’d like to say that I’ve got used to it, I still find something weird and malevolent about the sound.
There was a story that received heavy coverage in the local newspapers a couple of years ago, about an old man who lived over on the other side of the park. He had been catching magpies in his garden using Larsen Traps, large cage-type contraptions baited with smaller birds to lure the magpies in. The man had died in his home, but as he had lived alone, it was a good while before the authorities were notified. The more sensational reports called him “Mr. Magpie”. They found a couple of dozen traps in his back garden, all containing dead birds, but that was nothing to the amount of carcasses and bones they found piled on an old compost heap. The old man had devoted a lot of time and effort to eradicating the birds, and the papers claimed he must have killed close to a thousand magpies over the years. On nights like this I can almost sympathise with the sentiment!
The Mr. Magpie story led me to some research into the folklore surrounding these noisy birds, which I filed away with the rest of my Princes Park information. Maybe the cacophony outside my window is fuelling my imagination tonight, but some of the data is really quite eerie.
C. A. Swainson’s Folklore and Provincial Names of British Birds states that a magpie “which at that time had the gayest plumage of all the feathered race” perched on an arm of the cross and “insulted the Redeemer while suffering His last agony.” Jesus evidently took the creature’s taunts to heart, cursing the bird and all its kind forevermore: “No longer shall the brilliant tuft and bright feathers, of which thou art so proud and at the same time so unworthy, adorn thee; thy colour shall be sad and sombre, thy life a hard one; ever, too, shall thy nest be open to the storm.”
I’m sure I have read somewhere that magpies were once believed to be psychopomps, lying in wait for the souls of the dying. It was said that they timed their cries to cover the struggling breath of those at death’s door. According to myth-making.blogspot.com, magpies are known as “the devil’s bird” in Scottish folklore, and are supposed to carry a drop of Lucifer’s own blood beneath their tongues: “It was believed that the magpie could receive the gift of speech if its tongue was scratched and a drop of blood from a human tongue inserted into the wound.”
Old Toki, the district’s founding pagan father, would doubtless have considered the tiding a very ill omen indeed, as a magpie’s form was believed by the Norsemen to be a favourite disguise of witches. That being the case, they must be having their Sabbat tonight, as I have never heard the magpie chorus so loud or prolonged. Their numbers seem to be growing by the minute. The cat is sitting at the window listening intently, but seems reluctant to venture outdoors. For the time being anyway.
Best,
John
+ + +
To:
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