Tag: magic

Sorcery and Magic Part Four

Magic in the Christian context I n Constantinople is slightly harder to define, though not by much. If you think of magic as a belief system whereupon the order of things can be influenced by human will alone, there is much in Christianity and especially Byzantine Orthodox Christianity with its icons and incense that fits the bill nicely. The use of icons began to be seen as a form of idolatry and in the eight century, iconoclasm saw the destruction of many of these images of art. A second iconoclasm occurred in the ninth century. The people loved their icons however and iconography was eventually restored. Items such as amulets were popular to protect a mother during pregnancy for example, or worn to ward off the “evil-eye”, though they were frowned upon by the Church hierarchy. It was suspected that the Empress Zoe was indulging in some sort of pagan ritual in her chambers, while pretending to distill sweet oils for perfumes and cosmetics.

As with any culture, when a religion such as Christianity is introduced, it begins with the aristocracy and only slowly filters down to the lower strata of society as folk wisdom and folk magic continue to be practiced long after a nation has been “converted”. This was evident in Anglo-Saxon England as witnessed by the endurance of the old gods in things such as place names, the days of the week and even our own planet. It certainly was evident in Kiev, for though Vladimir converted to Orthodox Christianity, and outlawed the old Slavonic and Norse gods in an attempt to unify his people through religion, he failed to eradicate the old ways completely and in fact they continued to remain vibrant for the Russian people as late as the fifteenth century.

Henry Maguire writes in Byzantine Magic:

Practices like exorcism, blessing, or even the major sacraments could be viewed and used on the popular level in precisely the same ways as the magical operations designed to manipulate the material conditions of human life while prayers and rituals dedicated to saints who would be used in specific circumstances could be thought to create similarly efficacious alterations in human relations t those of the magical practices described above.

Emperor Manuel I Comnenus utilized astrology for his own purposes in the twelfth century. The Byzantine historian Anna Comnene, daughter of the Emperor Alexios, commented at length in her Alexiad on the use of astrologers and prophesies. Now these (astrologers) observe the hour of the birth of the persons about whom they intend to prophesy, and fix the cardinal points and carefully note the disposition of all the stars, in short they do everything that the inventor of this science bequeathed to posterity and which those who trouble about such trifles understand. We, also, at one time dabbled a little in this science, not in order to cast horoscopes (God forbid!), but by gaining a more accurate idea of this vain study to be able to pass judgment upon its devotees. She takes care to distance herself, not wishing to impinge on her reputation or imply that she (God forbid!) recommends that anyone ought to visit an astrologer for personal reasons.

Resources: Byzantine Magic by Henry Maguire

Byzantium: Church, Society, and Civilization Seen Through Contemporary Eyes By Deno John Geanakoplos

History of the Byzantine Empire from DCCXVI to MLVII By George Finlay

 

Sorcery and Magic Part One

The Sagas and Eddas speak at length on magic and no one is so central to that role as the seiðkona or volva. Seidr is a shamanistic approach to magic that differs from galdr, which involved singing or chanting the runes. Despite that numerous references to these practitioners of magic, we know little of what actually went on and can only guess at some aspects.

In the Ynglinga Saga, Freyja is the one who brings the magic art to the Aesir:

Njord’s daughter Freya was priestess of the sacrifices,

and first taught the Asaland people the magic art,

as it was in use and fashion among the Vanaland people.

Odin learns magic from Freyja, though in the Lokasenna, Loki accuses him of learning it from the Sami people thus:

 

“They say that with spells in Samsey once

Like witches with charms didst thou work;

And in witch’s guise among men didst thou go;

Unmanly thy soul must seem.”

Ardre_Odin_Sleipnir
Odin and Sleipnir

For a man to practice seiðr was considered especially shameful and unmanly. He was thenceforth known as ergi. It is likely though, given the shamanistic way seiðr was practiced, that is was brought learned from the Sami people.

Some hints as to the nature of the magic they used might come from accounts of later medieval witches who were supposed to have rubbed a strange ointment of herbs upon their broomsticks upon which they rode naked. Francis Bacon listed the ingredients of the witches ointment as “the fat of children digged out of their graves, of juices of smallage, wolfe-bane and cinque foil, mingled with the meal of fine wheat.” Other recipes listed nightshade and henbane among other poisonous plants with toxic alkaloids. Not surprisingly, nightshade is notorious for producing a sensation of flight. Henbane also produces a hallucinogenic reaction.

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Grave goods of a Norse seeress including the mysterious wand

When archaeologists unearthed a rich grave of a woman at Fyrkat, Denmark from the tenth century, they found among many other grave goods, a pouch containing the seeds of henbane and cannabis both with mind-altering properties. Even henbane petals rubbed against the skin have been reported to have caused an experience akin to floating or flying. How much more so when combined with nightshade and mandrake, plants with high levels of toxic alkaloids such as scopolamine, hyoscyamine, and atropine. Such plants were placed in a fatty substance by medieval witches and applied to a distaff or broomstick and ridden upon. These herbs can take very quick effect on the skin and more so against the mucous membranes of a woman’s vagina. This would explain the sexual element darkly hinted at by later Christian writers, but never properly alluded to. In any case, asmale practitioners of seiðr were looked on with scorn by their contemporaries, it is possible that seiðr required one to be sexually passive, or perhaps there were actions associated with the anointed distaff that disagreed strongly with medieval Scandinavian sensibilities of gender roles, including that of fiber arts as we shall explore in part three of this study.

Any thoughts on this subject? I would love to hear from you. Comment below.