It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman Which gives the stern’st good-night. ~ William Shakespeare, MacBeth
Two of the most forsaken places in popular imagination are cemeteries at night and deep outer space. I spent an evening earlier this week at Norton Cemetery stargazing with a friend who has a really good telescope.
Photo: Greg Smith
As we waited for twilight to deepen, a bat flitted over our heads. Eastern Coyotes wailed in the distance. As the night got underway, a Long-Eared Owl began her subtle one-note song.
The Ojibwe call death “crossing the owl bridge,” and the Tohono O’odham bury owl feathers with loved ones. The association in Western Europe of owls with death is thought to carry over from the pre-Indo-European practice of excarnation, the placement of dead bodies on platforms to be devoured by birds. But all the bodies in this cemetery were in the ground.
Photo: Rawastrodata
I heard the territorial scream of a Long-Eared Owl a few years ago, and I’ll never forget it. A friend and I were camping and awakened in the night by the sound, so piercing that we scrambled out of our sleeping bags trying to place it. In contrast, the single long note of the placid Long-Eared Owl could easily be missed if not repeated.
The stargazing was great. We looked at Saturn with his rings and Jupiter with his moons and debated how “Io” should be pronounced (I say EE-oh, you say EYE-oh).
One of the most awesome sights through the telescope, six thousand light years away, was the Wild Duck star cluster. It was discovered in 1681 by Gottfried Kirch and included in Charles Messier’s 1764 catalog (M-11). It is supposed to resemble the tale of a duck in flight. Honestly, I couldn’t see it, but it is a beautiful cluster.
This week I participated in a storytelling project about the Adirondacks. I chose the fisher as my subject, an animal I did not know existed before moving here.
The fisher is a member of the weasel family, the size of a large cat and sometimes called a fishercat. When pussies go missing in the Adirondacks, though, the culprit is often a fisher.
Fishers are quite aggressive, snarling and hissing at people who surprise them rather than running away. They feed on animals much larger than they are and can even kill and eat porcupines! Once a fisher lunged at me, probably defending a kill.
The fisher who frightened me so badly was on the ground, but fishers spend most of their time in the trees. They need large expanses of uninterrupted forest, so they are only found in sparsely populated areas of North America.
If you encounter a fisher in the wild, give her plenty of room. She is not impressed by your larger size, and she is much meaner than you.
I was reading Iphigenia in Aulis this week, and another thought struck me about this myth.
The Greeks performed a ritual to Artemis prior to attacking Troy, offering Agamemnon’s daughter Iphigenia to her priestesshood, in order to secure favorable winds and other blessings from the goddess, who was venerated along the coast of Asia Minor. Buttering up the gods of the people you planned to attack, trying to get them to move over to your side, was an ancient war strategy. The story goes that Iphigenia was going to be killed at the altar, but by a miracle Artemis substituted a deer (or sometimes, a bear) at the last minute. This made a better story, but it (probably) was an embellishment. Maybe as part of the ritual to Artemis a deer was sacrificed. Maybe Iphigenia initially protested being relegated into chastity. Her mother almost certainly wasn’t onboard with the plan. But I’m not going along with the miracle substitution.
Photo: Elfer
I was thinking this week about how Judy Grahn and other feminists have viewed the Trojan War as a last stand against Western patriarchy, the defeated Trojans representing the matriarchy. The all-women priestesshoods were relics from the matriarchies, their continuation an uneasy truce, or even a condition of surrender. As patriarchy gained a firmer hold, the Witch hunts of the Catholic (later Protestant) church sought to eliminate these relics of female power. The persecution of Dianics by American Witches are a continuation of that quest to subdue female power under male domination. Thinking of the autonomous priestesshood as a term of surrender puts the attacks on Dianics within Paganism in sharper focus. The three major methods of maintaining female subordination under Patriarchy are violence, economic oppression, and religion. Destruction of religious self-determination for women is an essential part of patriarchal control on the left and the right.
Iphigenia means “mother of strong children” and is probably an early name for Artemis or another bear goddess who became merged with Artemis. It later became an honorary title for her priestess. There are conflicting versions to the following story, but this much is not in dispute: The hero Agamemnon, leading an offensive against Troy, made little headway with his fleet due to unfavorable winds sent by Artemis, whom Agamemnon had offended. After consulting an oracle, Agamemnon offered Artemis his eldest daughter Iphigenia, thus earning the implacable wrath of his wife, Clytemnestra.
King Agamemnon of Mycenae was on the wrong side of Artemis from the start. His father had failed to honor a vow that he would sacrifice a prized lamb to the Huntress, and there is no record that the son felt an obligation to make good the pledge. Agamemnon, so capable in manly pursuits, once slew a white stag with a single arrow and boasted that Artemis could do no better. So true this boast: the beast was a member of the Virgin’s chariot team, and she would never have slain it.
When Queen Helen ran away with the Trojan prince Paris, Agamemnon took command of the retaliatory mission. Here was a chance to lead a great coalition and gain heroic stature. So much more the pleasure of Artemis, whose sympathies were inclined toward the Trojans, in thwarting Agamemnon’s plans. As the fleet readied to embark, an unfavorable northeast wind stranded them in the harbor of Aulis for weeks. Some say the goddess was miffed over the killing of a hare and cursed the whole expedition. Impatient to sail and bewildered by the persistent bad wind, Agamemnon called for an oracle. A chicken was gutted and the seer declared Artemis must be coaxed with a sacrifice of Agamemnon’s oldest daughter.
At first Agamemnon demurred. His wife would never surrender the girl, he protested. The military cohorts devised a scheme: send a messenger to the mother explaining that the demigod and prince Achilles wished to marry the princess, and she must come at once.
Clytemnestra, whose ambitions were wholly channeled in securing an advantageous match for her beautiful daughter, hastened to Aulis with Iphigenia, where a comedy of errors—or perhaps a tragedy of errors—awaited them. Agamemnon’s secret letter to Clytemnestra exposing the ruse had been intercepted, and the strong-willed matron arrived against her husband’s expectations demanding a marriage contract. Achilles, innocent and uninformed of the subterfuge (and married to someone else besides), was protesting there had been a mistake. Priests were completing preparations for Iphigenia’s dedication. The bamboozled daughter was balking at the plan, and her mother began begging Agamemnon and then threatening him. Surely there was a face-saving way out of the mess, by declaring Achilles an unknowing partner to deception if nothing else, but the fact remained that ships were stuck in harbor and men were itching for war.
Iphigenia, realizing her father’s ambitions and her country’s future revolved around her, finally stepped forward and declared she would go to Artemis. Iphigenia was as loyal, devoted and obedient as she was beautiful. Or maybe filial duty and patriotism were just a piece of it, and Artemis herself seduced the girl. Perhaps Artemis promised her adventure in a far flung country. She could be mistress of a great temple. The possessions of rich ladies who died in childbirth were sent to this temple, and Iphigenia’s beauty could be displayed against the finest fabrics and jewels.
Iphigenia’s acquiescence stirred a whirlwind. At the altar of Artemis the priests raised their knives to slit the girl’s throat, but at the last moment a bear cub was switched in her stead, and Iphigenia was swept on a red cloud to the land of Tauris. The same wind that whisked the new priestess filled the sails of the Greek fleet, and they were off to conquer Troy.
In offering Artemis the coveted maiden, Agamemnon was given the favorable wind he requested, but the act never improved the disposition of the goddess toward him. Later she abandoned him to the wrath of Clytemnestra.
It would be inaccurate to say the sacrifice of Iphigenia turned Clytemnestra away from her husband, for he had earned her hatred long ago. There comes a point, however, where dislike becomes disloyalty, and the proud mother had envisioned a greater future for her daughter than being exiled in a remote temple wearing dead women’s clothes. That the victorious Agamemnon returned from the war to be trapped in his wife’s net should surprise no one.
Iphigenia did not learn of her father’s fate for many years, until her brother Orestes was cast ashore at her temple under mysterious circumstances. As high priestess, Iphigenia presided over the slaying of refugees at the altar of Artemis, and during the pre-ceremonial interview learned of his identity.
What was Orestes doing in Tauris? Orestes admitted he was running from the horror of his actions. He had killed Clytemnestra, with Apollo’s approval, to avenge her murder of their father. After the filthy deed, Orestes was called to account before the Olympians, where Apollo spoke in his defense. The gods quarreled over his fate along political lines until the goddess Athena cast a vote with Apollo, tipping the verdict in Orestes’ favor.
An acquittal won through a brilliant defender and a stacked jury does not automatically erase the pangs of conscience, however, and Orestes had committed a horrendous deed. The Furies, sister deities who rule the conscience, tormented him for his crime until, driven to the edges of insanity, he consulted an oracle for a remedy. The oracle instructed him to steal the sacred statue of Artemis at Tauris and carry it to Brauron, where he was to build a new temple to the goddess. If he was unable to carry out this feat, Orestes declared, he might at as well die in Tauris; he could not go on living with this torment.
Surprisingly, Iphigenia decided to help her brother. She had grown tired of her exile and longed for the customs, faces and clothing styles of her native country. She told the Taurian king that Orestes and his companion were polluted by matricide and must be cleansed before sacrifice. That much was true; Orestes was not fit to have his throat slit on the altar of Artemis. She further told the leaders of her host country that she was borrowing the statue of the goddess for the purification rites. Iphigenia was certainly the double-crossing daughter of Agamemnon
Orestes consulting the oracle. Notice the snakes on the priestess hovering above the tripod. Photo Marie-Lan Nguyen/Wikimedia Commons.
Miraculously, with much adventure and intercession of the gods, the brother and sister eventually reached the ancient shrine in Brauron. A new temple was built, with the sacred image installed therein, and Iphigenia was named high priestess of the complex.
The presence of an important temple to Artemis so close to the city was an honor that made the Athenians nervous, as the wrath of Artemis had already sparked so many misadventures. Every family that could spare a daughter for a year sent the girl to Brauron to attend the goddess and learn the Brauronia ritual. The girls were called little bears and charmed the goddess with their dances. In this way, Artemis extended her healing side to Athens, protecting against plagues and enhancing the survival of infants and their mothers.
The heat of summer is full upon us, excruciating in parts of
the Northern Hemisphere, and this makes me think of scorpions. It’s a reminiscence,
not a vigilance, because I now live far enough north that I don’t have to check
my shoes every time I put them on. No wonder people in Arizona like sandals!
Selket greets the deceased as a woman with a scorpion on her head. Egypt, 1100 bce.
Scorpions are fascinating, multi-faceted creatures. They
embody mystery, in the sense that they become more intriguing the more you
learn about their secret world. They embody boundaries, in the sense that much
larger creatures are respectful of them and their venom. They embody
transformation, in the sense that their venom has huge effects on the human
body.
Scorpions are dangerous and live in a dangerous world, hunted continually by birds. Even mating is dangerous. Summer is scorpion courtship season, involving a dance pincer-to-pincer under the starry sky. That sounds sweet, but since both parties are heavily armed it can involve stinging. Some scorpions reproduce parthenogenetically, which seems like a better idea.
The Egyptians had a scorpion goddess, Selket, who was
called upon for protection against—you guessed it—scorpions. Selket was one of
the guardians of the “canopic jars,” the containers holding the pickled remains
of four vital organs of the deceased: liver, intestines, lungs, and stomach.
The heart, the all-important anchor of the soul within the body, was preserved,
wrapped, and returned to the body cavity. The brain was thrown in the trash.
Each of the four organs was guarded by a specific deity, and Selket protected
the intestines. The guardian deity was depicted on the outside of the jar along
with hieroglyphic prayers to invoke that deity’s protection. This label also
helped the expired prince remember which jars housed his various organs.
Labeling funerary objects was an important precaution: not only did the rich
take a lot of stuff with them, the world beyond had so many people—as many
people as had ever trod the earth—that mixups were a potential complication.
Thus everything was tagged, and clothing and bedding contained laundry marks.
This consistent attention to organizational detail in preparation for the final
voyage may strike some people as absurd, but think about it: would you want to
root around in someone else’s canopic jar by mistake? Selket was entrusted with
an important responsibility.
Selket’s other major role was helping the deceased draw
their first breath in the afterlife. Most “death goddesses” are really
death-and-birth goddesses, and breath is the fundamental connection to life.
Selket initiated breathing in both worlds. To emphasize this nurturing aspect
of Selket’s character, she was sometimes depicted without a stinger or as a
stingless Water Scorpion. The Water Scorpion is not an arachnid but an insect
in a family biologists call the “true bugs.” Water Scorpions are true bugs and
fake scorpions, and most of them don’t even faintly resemble scorpions, but
there are a few with pincer-like front legs and long tails that look vaguely
reminiscent. The “tail” is actually a breathing tube that sticks out of the
shallow water. The Nile species depicted in art has a double-breasted air tube.
Here is an excerpt from a longer article on scorpions in the anthology, iPagan:
Renaissance scorpion magic was unequivocally combative,
used surreptitiously for destroying personal enemies. Outside of hot climates a
scorpion would have been a scarce commodity, all the more so because there was
no use for the creature which enjoyed public approbation, and this must have
heightened the allure for those dedicated to intrigue. Picture a man in tights
with a ridiculously large shirt collar gazing down at a desiccated scorpion
while rubbing his hands together and saying “Hahahahaha.”
Black Fly season is in full swing where I live, and I wanted
to pen a tribute to these little monsters.
For those who don’t know what Black Flies are, they’re
little bugs the size of a gnat that swarm in the early summer and BITE. Each
bite swells up and itches. They hang around hikers in deciduous forests on long
days when the weather is nice, getting in eyes, noses, and mouths. My first
summer in the Adirondacks, I got a few dozen bites around my calves and ankles
during a hike, and I was woozy for a couple days from the poisons. For the next
ten years, a rash where I was bitten would reappear every time my legs got warm.
Female Black Flies bite mammals after mating to get a bit of
blood for their eggs. They lay their eggs in cold moving water, and after the
water reaches seventy degrees Fahrenheit, the eggs hatch. The larvae attach
themselves to rocks and debris as they cannot swim. There are many larval
stages. Eventually the larvae spin cocoons, and about a week later the young
flies emerge. In my experience, it’s usually about a week after they begin
swarming before they start biting. The life cycle repeats throughout the
season, but the large swarms are usually gone by early July, depending on
temperature and rainfall. As the weather grows warmer, the small streams harboring
the larvae dry up. As the weather cools, larval development enters a stasis until
the next spring.
Think of the Black Flies as the admission price for this.
Black Flies play an important role in the ecosystem at each
stage in their development. Fish eat the eggs and the larvae. The larvae eat
organic vegetable debris, breaking it down and filtering it for other organisms.
Once the adults emerge, they become food for fish, birds, toads, bats, and
other insects. The late spring swarms emerge at a particularly opportune time
for nesting birds. Black Flies feed on plant nectar and are important for
pollination.
While Black Flies make it unpleasant to be in the woods,
they also creep into the villages, albeit in smaller numbers, and make it
impossible to work in the garden (for me anyway). Most town districts use a
pesticide to reduce the population of Black Flies. In early spring a chemical
is released in streams that prevents Black Fly larvae from maturing. While this
chemical is highly selective, affecting only one other (non-endangered) species,
I don’t agree with this practice, since Black Flies are a critical foundation to
the overall ecology. Fortunately Black Fly control is a daunting task in a
place with as much water as the Adirondacks, and control efforts are always
incomplete.
Bug repellants don’t work well against Black Flies. DEET supposedly
works somewhat, but I wouldn’t know about that since I won’t use it. My
strategies for hiking in Black Fly season are 1) to walk quickly and stay ahead
of them, stopping only on open ledges where a breeze keeps them away; 2) to
hike midday when there are fewer swarming; and 3) to wear long pants, pack a lightweight
long-sleeve shirt, and bring a head net. A head net is a piece of nylon netting
worn over a ballcap and cinched at the bottom. It interferes slightly with
vision, but when the bugs are at their worst it’s worth the nuisance. I was
once with a group on Nun-da-ga-o Ridge where the Black Flies were so bad we had
to eat our sandwiches under our head nets.
Despite the consensus that Black Flies are a nuisance, many people
respect these creatures for their fierceness and tenacity. A local softball team
calls itself The Black Flies. A grueling mountain bike race calls itself The
Black Fly Challenge. A local nursery calls itself Black Fly Organics. Many
residents are proud of their ability to live with the Black Flies, viewing it
as a badge of toughness.
Black flies are picky about where they lay their eggs, so
the best thing about the early summer onslaught is what it tells us about the
ecosystem we share with them: that water is plentiful and very very clean.
I remember my mother one day giving me this very typical
(for her) advice: “Be sure to wash your celery good. I was reading the other
day that celery is extremely dirty and people should be more careful.”
To which I had to reply: “Where do you read these things?”
Well, I was reading the other day that termites like heavy metal music. Yes, I read it on the Internet, but there’s so much stuff on the Internet that you have to know what to look for.
Scott Bauer/USFWS
The article didn’t say whether termites show taste in heavy metal – whether they like Queen and Jethro Tull but hate KISS – but researches inferred that termites prefer this music since they chew faster when they hear it. According to Erlich Pest Control Blog, rock is ideal work music for termites due to “the frequency of 2.5KHz outputs for bass and electric guitars, which are distinctive of the rock genre.”
Mammals can have idiosyncratic tastes in music. Dolphins purportedly love Radiohead. In Tracking and the Art of Seeing, Paul Rezendes describes a raccoon who “would often come in when the man was playing Bach on his stereo. As soon as the record was over, the raccoon would leave.”
I used to have a cat who liked loud classical music, the kind with lots of horns and cymbals. She would lay next to a boombox playing Wagner or The William Tell Overture and cry if it was turned off. She’s dead now, but in Misha’s memory I would like to share this rendition of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, her favorite.
Trees are starting to bud where I live, and the birds have arrived. I went to Crown Point this week to watch the birds being banded. I’ve driven over the Crown Point Bridge hundreds of times but have never stopped here.
Banding a Rose Breasted Grosbeak. Birds are measured, then sex and age is recorded.
Savannah Sparrow.
It had rained early in the morning, and the cloud shapes were interesting.
After the long winters here, even dandelions are beautiful.
I liked this tree. Spring is unrolling slowly this year.
It has finally begun to feel like spring where I live, even though it was snowing this morning when I arose. The trees are not leafing yet, but the maples are budding, and animal life is conspicuous. In the past week, I have seen or heard the Barred Owl, Short-eared Owl, Cooper’s Hawk, Broad-winged Hawk, Osprey, Pileated Woodpecker, and the drumming wing feathers of the courting Ruffed Grouse.
One particularly welcome sight was a Little Brown Bat that
sailed by my left shoulder on a dirt road near the village. I haven’t seen spring
daytime bats in years. When the Little Brown Bat emerges from hibernation, she
hunts during the day for insects which are inactive at night in cool weather. I
used to see groups of bats flittering in the midday sun in early spring, but that
changed years ago. White-nose Syndrome was first discovered in upstate New York
in 2007 and has since spread throughout North America. A few species are
predicted to become extinct, though the Little Brown Bat has a chance since her
numbers were so high and her colonies so widespread to begin with.
Photo: US Fish & Wildlife Service
I hoped that this was a sign that the disease has run its
course and the Little Brown Bat is recovering, but my Internet search only
revealed that White-nose is spreading to places far from the original sighting,
like southern Texas. Still, I might be one of the first to notice signs of
recovery, if that is occurring. “One swallow does not a summer make,” and one
bat is not a colony, but I am hopeful.
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