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Quick disclaimer this episode contains a brief depiction of domestic violence early on. Also, there's more violence in the form of kind of a lot of stabbings. Please see the post on mythpodcast.com for more info. This week on Myths and Legends. It's a story from Celtic folklore where we'll see that deer earwax is the cure for what ails you, if what ails you is not being alive, and that if you're on an epic quest, you might want to check your pockets, especially if you have a witch's creepy son watching you sleep. On the Creature of the Week it's an epic showdown of Ohio cryptids between a swamp thing that doesn't have arms and an off brand orange eyed Bigfoot. This is Myths and Legends, episode 441. Dearly beloved, This is a podcast where we tell stories from mythology and folklore. Some are incredibly popular tales you might think you know, but with surprising origins. Others are stories that might be new to you but are definitely worth a listen today. Like I said, we're in Celtic folklore. Irish to be specific, but not that specific because it's more of a fairy tale and the story doesn't concern itself with time, place or history of any type. We'll jump in with a young man, Ian, meeting a stranger on the road. A stranger with a curious offer that Ian probably should not accept. When a strange man appears out of nowhere, puts his hand on your shoulder and offers to buy your horse for a bizarre assortment of items, you don't sell him your horse. What? Just because a stranger asks for something, he might be magic, or maybe he's not magic and you just weren't paying attention. Whatever it is, don't sell your horse. Especially when it isn't your horse to sell. But Ian, the son of the fisherman who in the months since his father drowned, had seen his mother struggled, looked up at the stranger. Each day and each month had been a slow descent into destitution. Here was something different. Here was a guy with a dog and a hawk holding a gun. Which, yes, does give the negotiations an uncomfortable vibe. But Ian turned those negotiations on their head by offering a trade. Would the man part with his gun? Dog and hawk for the horse deal, the man said, and unlooped the gun from his shoulder. So yeah, Ian smiled with his mom back at their cottage later on that evening. Now we have a gun, a dog and a hawk. Ian's mom looked at the young man. Okay, she was wondering if he thought about this at all. Did he know how to use A gun? Ian shook his head, but that was a good thing. He could learn. And you can make rounds. Gunpowder too? The mother asked also, do you know how to hunt with a hawk? How do you know that this thing, once you take that hood off, won't immediately go for our eyes? Ian was silent and then he said, well, we got a dog too. Oh, those things that are everywhere and you only need to leave a little food waste for a stray and then you basically can't get them to leave. Ian said he was sorry. Oh, you'll be sorry all right, the mother said and picked up the stick. Ian felt the teeth in his mouth, avoiding his bulbous lip as he lay staring at the thatched roof of his home. At the very least they were all there, the teeth, that is, and none of them were loose. His mother snored a few feet away. He was just trying to help. But Ian knew he messed up, that his mother took out her grief over his father, her rage at the world, over their circumstances, and her despair over her future on his face and hands and back. But that only brought more pain into the world, not less. They were in this together. But if he was gonna make things worse with his mistakes, and she was going to make things worse with her reactions to them, then maybe they were better off apart. He was just trying to do something, hope, even foolish hope, that the stranger was magic and the dog could talk and the gun could hit anything it shot and the hawk would return with gold and jewels was better than the wretchedness in which she was. The dog slept on her bed and the hawk sat hooded in the corner. Ian didn't need the dog and he would let her figure out the hawk as she made so clear. The gun was more a burden than a boon, so Ian looped it over his shoulder. It would be three days down the road before Ian, the swelling on his face finally retreating, realized that he didn't even look back on the night that he left. He also realized that he had no idea how to survive in the wild. He hadn't eaten for three days. Imagining that he had traveled far enough that the farmhouse ahead wouldn't know him or his mother, Ian approached and knocked. Hospitality was different back then. I mean, they had to be, because gun toting strangers could knock on your door and you could let them in without a second thought. The farmer couple begged Ian to come in and share their breakfast, and while he ate, inhaled whatever was put in front of him. The farmer made small talk, pointing to the gun in the corner that Ian had left the farmer said he couldn't help but notice the young man had a gun. This was fortunate indeed. Oh, Ian said through a mouthful of food. We have a deer that comes and eats my wheat and I cannot catch it. The farmer said. Bummer. I mean you are in the woods though. Ian said before guzzling the milk. The couple just looked at him. Oh, you want me to shoot it because I have a gun? Yes, that is something I know how to do. Mhm. Ian said he would need to wait until night though. So two more meals. Are you sure you know how to load that thing? The husband farmer asked. Absolutely. Why would I have a gun if I didn't know how to load it? I'm not a failure. Ian said. Alright. He tapped everything out of the muzzle. He was sure this time it was powder. First greased cloth and then pushed the round in with the little stick thing. When you say this time, the man said, but decided to drop it when everything was in. Ian pulled back the hammer and laughed. Boom. Take that, Mom. The farmer and his wife looked at one another. Hmm. Seemed like there was some stuff this kid needed to work through. But first he needed to work to earn those three fairly expansive meals that he ate. So that night Ian found himself out by the man's wheat fields. Well, fields was generous. It was barely a plot, which actually made the deer's nightly incursions all that more devastating. Sometime around midnight, the wheat awash and moonlight, Ian heard leaves crunching on the forest's edge. He looked up and it was the deer, presumably. I mean, how was he supposed to tell one deer apart from every other deer? But what he did know was that no deer was allowed here. He pulled back the hammer before remembering that he actually did. Back back in the house. And he had been waving a loaded cocked gun around for hours. Maybe he really didn't know how to use this thing. Steadying his hand on a rock, he looked down the barrel at the woman and wait there the deer in its place. As soon as Ian aimed the gun, it was not a deer anymore, but a woman. She stood, her face glowing and framed by long black hair and her eyes looking right at him. Ian sat up and she was once again a deer. And a deer that did what deer do it dashed off into the woods. Flinging himself to his feet, Ian looped the gun around his shoulder and took off after. As the gun bounced along Ian's back, he might have thought that there was a loaded gun bouncing along his back. But there was no time. He could barely keep up with her. Sometimes he had to simply follow the sounds of the deer. She slowed, though, as she came to a clearing, and in the moonlight Ian saw her leap to the top of a cottage, the thatched with heather, sitting there among the treetops. Wind carried the whispers from the roof, and Ian heard in the woman's voice, go in, fisher son, and eat and drink while you may. Having gotten used to eating again, Ian was actually kind of liking eating, so. Sure, yeah, he was feeling a little peckish. He didn't intend on shooting the deer now, so he may as well listen to her. He knocked on the door, but seeing as he had been invited in by the talking deer on the roof, he didn't see any issue with opening it, especially because it wasn't locked. A banked fire roared back to life when Ian piled the kindling and it illuminated the house. Stacked with beds in the back and a wide desk against the far wall, the cottage looked like it could hold two dozen people. There was a hatch that led down to the cellar, but what interested him the most was dinner. Wine, bread, salted meat, a stew that had been heated earlier, but whose pot over the fire was still hot to the touch. Ian gulped down as much food as he could and then packed in a little bit more. Reclining in the chair, he heard voices at the edge of the forest. I don't know. The way I see it, we have kings, but how did a king earn the right to take stuff from us? Wait. He was born to the right parents. Meanwhile, I was born to cobblers, but I'm allergic to shoes. And what am I supposed to do? Die? That's why I steal. It's a protest against society. One voice said, oh, not me, another guy said. I like. I just like stealing. Killing too. It's just so much fun. I mean, okay, I'm not so much down for the killing. What about, like, their families? The first voice said. Are they there? Can I kill them, too? That's my response to that. Objection. The second voice replied. Oh, I just, hmm. Hope you're in the minority here and that we're more high minded than that. The boss presumably shouted that they were not. They were all about killing and stealing for the pure thrill and any additional reason or justifications were up to the individual thief and not required or encouraged. The first voice, just outside the door now said that the only thing that made him feel like killing would be if someone ate his dinner. He got dangerously hangry and the door opened and the 20 men looked on. The dinner table bereft of food, save A few bread crusts and overly chewy, fatty pieces of meat. With all the talk of killing outside, Ian had the good sense to hide. But not the good sense to hide well. He had ditched the chair and rolled behind a nearby cask. But it was just a cask. The fire burned and illuminated the whole of the cottage and projected the shadow of a guy huddled behind a cask. Get him. The leader yelled, and four men stepped forward. Ian raised his gun and it clicked. It clicked and didn't fire. Oh, it turns out he didn't know how to load it. He caught a punch to the face and dropped to the floor, still a little dazed. He heard the orders. The four men were to take him to the edge of the forest and kill him. They had an early morning the next morning with all the stealing and killing. So don't make a show of it. Just get it done. They dragged Ian out to the trees, and the young man looked up to the roof where the deer had sat. She was gone. This wasn't how stories ended. There was a ferry, or one of the robbers had a change of heart. Or that thought was interrupted when the robber threw Ian down hard on the ground. And in that instant, sword out and glinting in the moonlight, Ian could see that this was how some stories ended. This was how his story would end. He wouldn't find his fortune. He wouldn't marry a princess. He was a lost young man jumping from tragedy to tragedy while the ground crumbled beneath him. And he would die here, not a hero with a grand destiny, but a nobody with nothing. The robber in front stabbed him in the chest, and pain rippled throughout Ian's body. He would have screamed, but something happened with his lungs and no sound came out as he writhed on the ground and his vision slowly darkened. The robbers looked at him. Did I get him? I should. Should I do it again? I don't want to do it again. The stabbing robber said. It looks like you got him. He's writhing and closing his eyes and stuff. Another one said. That's what they do, right? You're probably good. Probably does not mean dead. The stabbing robber said. If this guy crawled out to be revived at, like, a mill or something, they would be out here the following night. Well, then do it again, the second guy said. Why don't you do it? Yeah, okay. I can't, the second guy replied. Babies, the lot of you. I'll do it, one of the guys said and stepped forward. Ian, through his wincing and wordless screams, could see the man grimace. But glance over his shoulder at his compatriots. He lined up the sword with where he thought Ian's heart was. Being a medieval Irish robber, his anatomy knowledge was basically where he had seen other people get stabbed and die the fastest. Mouthing an I'm sorry, the robber closed his eyes and extended his arm. To Ian's horror relief, that was the spot. The son of the fisher died a few moments later, killed by the robbers on the edge of the forest. And that's it for the story. We're just all gonna sit quietly for the next several minutes and just like free period now. Just whatever you have to do, just hang out and do it. It's like study hall, but that will be right after this My first thought for the first few weeks of August was calm before the storm. But Quince mentioned August as sort of the Sunday of summer, which I like a lot better. Sort of a chill time to plan and get ready before the fall rush. It's too early to start wearing sweaters, but it's never too early to start thinking about wearing sweaters. I love sweater season. If you can't tell. I'm excited to get back to my Mongolian cashmere crewneck sweater from Quince. Quince really does fit that lazy Sunday feel. You go on there. You scroll through so many options and you find what's right for you. The best part? Well, aside from them only working with ethical factories and cutting out the middlemen, there is no sticker shock. It's more like Sticker delight. That sounds weird. You're like oh, I'm getting all this for that much really. And really, it is 50 to 80% less than similar brands. While we're in the waning days of summer though, I'll keep enjoying my Quint stuff. I'm actually wearing my merino wool all season short sleeve shirt right now and I don't know how it works that it's wool, but it's also this super smooth, soft and breathable short sleeve shirt. But I love it. Upgrade your everyday Download the Quints app for app exclusive offers or go to quints.com legends get free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. Now available in Canada and the UK too. That's Quincom Legends. You know how I just talked about how fall is coming? Well, fall is coming for us. That means school, after school activities, sports, our own stuff that we do once in a blue moon. Sports. Summer hasn't been lazy, but since we both work from home, it's been nice to have sort of a less structured schedule. The solution to that 6pm dinner panic home Chef When I say Home Chef makes cooking simple, I mean it. Say goodbye to meal prep. You just choose from over 30 meal options a week on their website. It can be delivered weekly so there's no last minute grocery runs. The recipe cards they send are so easy to follow. Everything for one recipe comes in a single bag so you aren't like rooting around a box for a green onion or something. And the meals are delicious and different and they know meals are not a one size fits all thing. They have 30 minute meals, oven ready trays, a quick microwave lunch. They have options for all sorts of dietary needs including calorie conscious and GLP1 friendly meals. And people really love it. Home Chef is rated number one by users of other meal kits for quality, convenience, value, taste and recipe ease. For a limited time, Home Chef is offering my listeners 50% off and free shipping for your first box plus free dessert for life. Go to homechef.com legends that's homechef.com legends for 50% off your first box and free dessert for life. Homechef.com legends must be an active subscriber to receive free dessert. Ian awoke with a gasp. The iron taste in his mouth was nearly matched with bitterness. The deer was above him, shaking her head, dripping her earwax. I'm gonna say deer wax into his open mouth. You're gonna want to eat all of that, she said, standing up straight. Ian was reluctant, but noticed that the deer wax did make him feel less stabbed, which was nice. Then he sat up. Wait. He died. He checked his chest. There was a slice in his shirt, but the skin underneath was unbroken. The deer wax had healed him. They've gone out to do their evil deeds, the deer said. Trust me and eat as you did before and no harm shall happen to you. With that she bounced off into the forest. Ian had two leave and still be lost in the dark forest but without the protection of the deer that had brought him back to life. Or two Go eat and trust the deer. Being dead apparently helps you to work up an appetite because Ian made his way back to the house in the cool of the morning. Now Ian did trust the deer, but he wasn't a fool. After he ate as much as he could and drank even more Ian, he dragged himself behind the cask he used to hide the night before because that worked so well and went to sleep again. He heard when he awoke to the door slamming on the far wall. Why does this keep happening? One of the robbers said, we worked really hard for that food and it was not that person's food to take. It didn't belong to them. I feel powerless and angry and oh my gosh, is. Is this what we've been doing to people? Still groggy and yeah, probably hungover, Ian saw the form of a robber standing over him. It's that kid again. The man growled. Ian sat up and gave him a little head nod. The leader of the robbers turned around and looked at the four men from the night before, remarking that they said they had killed that kid. I got better. Ian laughed, pretty confident in the deer's promise that he would not come to harm. The robber sighed. Okay, well, here's what they were gonna do. He pointed to four of the men. Four different men than the night before. They were going to go kill this kid. They grabbed Ian's shoulders and began dragging him out. The robber pointed to the four from the previous night as punishment, they were now on the planning committee. Yeah, they had to plan out that farm that all the robbers were gonna buy and live on together. Pointing to a third set of four men, the leader said that they were going to go out and take notes on the plan for the farm. This confused everyone except for a few of the men in that third set of the four. And Ian, as he was dragged out to the edge of the forest to nearly the same spot as the night before, heard the assassins from the previous night talking about the farm and all the cows and chickens they were going to buy. Things got real quiet after they talked about the rabbits eating alfalfa or something, but Ian had other things to focus on. Hey, I'm sorry in advance for what's gonna happen. Ian smirked. Your boss isn't gonna be too happy when I don't die. I have it on pretty good authority that no har. Ian didn't understand what was happening when on the first plunge of the dagger, the robber and yeah now murderer found Ian's heart. Unable to scream or even speak, Ian struggled for a bit before going limp. The son of the fisher died a few moments later, killed by robbers on the edge of the forest again. Ian gagged on the wax as life returned to his eyes. Still, he choked it down because it beat being dead. Sitting up and looking at his twice sliced shirt, Ian glared at the deer. You and I have very different understandings of the phrase no harm shall happen to you. Ian shouted. Trust me and eat as you did before and no harm shall come to you. The deer said again and bounded off again like actually no harm or what happened last night, dear deer. Ian called out and sighed. Facing the same choice as the night before, Ian reasoned that he was still in the same state that he had been in the previous morning. So technically no harm had come to him. Except for all the dead dying. So again he walked in and ate breakfast and lunch and an early light dinner. And a second heavy dinner. Will someone tell me why the food is gone again? And why this kid is alive again? Ian heard when he woke that night. The bandit leader rubbed his face with his hand. Okay. He pointed to four guys. You four take him out and kill him for real this time. He pointed to a different four. They should take the four from the previous night and do the farm thing. As Ian was led out to the now too familiar spot at the forest's edge, the guys who had murdered him the previous night asked how far this farm was because the guys from the other night still weren't back. It was then that a yell went up from inside the cottage. This is all the food we have left. It's mine. Followed by a crash. The foreman with Ian looked at one another before bolting back to secure whatever food and treasure they could for themselves. And the other eight guys were rushing back too. Ian sat down. 16 angry murderers in a mad dash for food and their formerly shared treasure hoard. Well, after some literal backstabbing and a lot of front stabbing too. The cottage grew quieter. Then one man limped out, clutching an armful of gold and jewels. Ian stood just as the man's eyes found Ian in the darkness. Something emerged from his chest. A sword point. As the first man dropped, the man standing behind him glowered at Ian. It was the bandit leader. This. All this was this kid's fault. He threw it on his sword and raised his flintlock pistol, cocked it. And then two gunshots. The man fell over. Behind him, a severely bloodied bandit holding a pistol of his own dropped. Ian felt a warmth in his chest. Maybe the deer was right. Maybe he could trust her. And oh, the warmth was blood. He had been shot with a loud seriously. Ian dropped to the ground dead again, Choking to life on deer wax. Ian sat up and looked at the quiet cottage. He rose to go eat, but realized that it wasn't the next morning. In fact, the sun was still setting. He had only been dead for a few minutes. Follow me, she said, and took off with a groan. Ian, taking a few steps back to pocket as much gold as he could and leaving the cottage full of dead bandits, followed the deer into the forest. Here I must leave you, the deer said when they reached the white cottage that glowed in the darkness of night. But tomorrow meet me at midday in the church that is yonder. As she jumped across the stream and disappeared into the forest, Ian couldn't help but notice that her voice seemed lighter, happier, and Ian legitimately did not know how to spend the night. Most of the nights on his journey so far he had spent dead, so this felt weird. Taking a deep breath and knocking on the door of the white cottage, Ian winced as it opened, waiting for a stab in the heart. Hello? Wizened and hunched woman asked. Oh, hi, ian replied. I'm not sure if you're supposed to kill me, but if not, can I sleep here tonight? She wasn't supposed to kill him, at least not to her knowledge. She was happy to let him stay the night if he didn't mind sharing a bed with her son. He didn't mind. This was a different time. Think like how in Moby Dick, Ishmael and Queequeg didn't mind sharing a bed and also doing some platonic spooning. And actually, some quick research for this little throwaway allusion seems to indicate that it's a little more nuanced than that between the two. It was not for Ian, though, and not just because the woman's son was a thin, sickly young man about Ian's age, or that he kept a consistent moistness about his face and body and intense stares. Or that he didn't say one word to Ian the whole night as Ian ate and told the story about the deer and his multiple deaths in the church. The next morning the next morning Ian awoke to the young man watching him. After getting up and dressing. Ian called around for the woman, but she was apparently gone since she left breakfast, if not a note. All well and good, actually, because Ian couldn't read anyway. He ate and left. It didn't surprise him that the thin, sickly young man watched to meet and then followed at a still creepy distance, ducking behind rocks and trees anytime Ian turned around. But still watching. Always watching. The last thing Ian remembered was scratching his leg on the doorway to the church. That was at noon. Why was it now? Dark, sitting up and still apparently young enough where he could sleep on the floor and wake up without aches and pains that remind him of his own mortality. Ian looked around. Did he miss her? Why did he miss her? Then he heard breathing like six inches away from his ear. He turned around and that weird, sickly lad was right there. He just sidled up next to Him. Ian shrieked and jumped back. I saw her, he half said, half breathed to Ian. She was here. What do you mean you saw her? She walked in. She was beautiful. Sad and beautiful. She tried to rouse you but you wouldn't wake, so she had to go. The words flowed from his mouth, not unlike a fistful of live slugs. He kept looking at Ian's armpit and snickering. Ian didn't understand. Why would he sleep so easily? It didn't make sense. My mother left a spike of hurt in the doorway to put you to sleep. I think she wanted me to speak to the beautiful woman and marry her. The beautiful woman will be back tomorrow, the creepy lad said. Wait, what? Ian looked up. The sickly lad neither confirmed nor denied anything, nor did he say another word that day, simply staying out of striking distance from Ian, but definitely within a distance so that Ian could hear him breathing. Above all, he was watching. Always watching. Ian had some money from the bandits so he could afford to sleep in front of a fire at a local inn. Regardless, he would not be going back to the house of the elderly woman. The sickly lad thankfully was tossed out of the inn after ordering two waters over the course of six hours and just being a weird dude, but no one cared to stop him from staring through the windows all night. By this point, Ian was used to it. Ian woke the following day and went to church at 7pm that night, Ian woke up again on the floor of the church. Wait. Again? He was careful to avoid scratching himself on the doorway, but something had pricked his hand. The creepy dude, likely as much of a sadist as his mother but more low key about it, only chuckled, saying that the woman remarked that she could come but one more time. Ian, to his credit, did try to avoid any possible spikes of hurt the following day. Either the elderly woman had a near prophetic understanding of human behavior or or the entryway to that church must have been mostly spikes that would put people to sleep with a touch, because Ian woke up once again at sunset. Hi, the priest said to Ian. I have been so lenient with you sleeping on the floor here the past few days, but your friend here has just been staring at you and laughing for like four hours now. He's not my friend. Ian sat up, despairing. I have lost her. But no, I will search the world over until I find her. That's okay. Great, the priest said. I don't have the history or context to understand that. And these are the Middle Ages. We all have weird, dangerous stuff going on as long as you searching means you two leaving, then? Yeah. Proud of you. You. You go to her or whatever. The sickly lad followed Ian, laughing until he got tired and a little hungry, which was even sooner than you'd think, and Ian was left alone. Sleeping off the road that night, he thought about where to go. The world was big, but he wouldn't see her again. By staying here the next morning, he just chose a direction and started walking. All hail Fisher's son, said she. I know what you are seeking. Enter in and rest and eat, and tomorrow I will give you what help I can and send you on your way. Ian squinted. Who did he know? She Her. He was so tired and hungry. You're not like evil, are you? Ian asked. But honestly, he could handle a little evil if it meant eating for the first time in almost a week. His feet were a bloody mess, too. He didn't know how long he had been walking, but it was long enough that Ian had completely worn through his shoes. He didn't have the money to buy more. He was pretty close to selling the gun when the strange old woman waved him down in the woods, almost calling him by name. If you're evil, I'll have you know I don't even care anymore, ian said as he walked into her house. If the food was poison, it would at least be nice to die with a full stomach. And if the bed did a Theseus thing where it was too small and the witch cut off his head, well, closing his eyes on a feather pillow where he couldn't hear the howls of wolves seemed like a fair trade. But none of those things happened. He ate his fill, eyeing the woman with a scowl while he did so, and his exhaustion didn't tarry long enough before pulling him into oblivion for him to notice. If the woman did make an attempt on his life, she didn't, and he woke up the following morning of the following morning, having slept for a day straight, once again famished. He looked down at the woman rubbing his feet. It's a salve. I don't have a thing. Well, I do, but it's not this, the woman informed him. Oh. Ian wiggled his toes. They actually felt way better. I'm sorry. I was half dead when I got here the other day. I had a bad experience with a spike that put me to sleep. I thought you were a witch, ian said as she finished up. Oh, I am, the witch said. I mean, magic foot cream. I knew your identity in quest when you were walking down the road. Oh, ian said. You're not going to like eat me. Are you? Look, witches are people. Like people can be all over the alignment chart. So it goes with witches also eat you. Don't be gross. You're a person. An adult human. We only lost children. The witch said, standing. Ian laughed. She didn't. After breakfast, the witch pointed toward the crossroads. If he went east there, that road would take him to the next stop on his journey. Her sister's house. Rising, Ian looked around. Wait, where were his shoes? Calling what Ian had been wearing shoes was charitable at best. It was like a Batman Halloween costume where the boots just go over the tops of your feet. She had these. So the story tells us about the magic shoes. Old brown shoes with holes all over them. And when I think about comfortable shoes with holes all over them that look like they could be cursed witch shoes. Look, I feel like the comparison to crocs here is not unwarranted. But these crocs were special. No, they still looked like crocs. But Ian could pull it off. He was that age where the kids wear it and it's cool. But if I wear crocs, I'm the dorkiest dad in Kroger. Anyway, when he made it to the witch's sister's house, he only needed to shake off the crocs, turn the toes back towards her, and they would find their own way home. Gotta wonder if she had a power sprayer or something though. Because if you've ever worn crocs without the socks on a long walk, you know they really lock in the juices. The walk should have taken a year and a day, but Ian made it in a few hours with the magic crocs. When he knocked on the sister's door and she answered, he took off the shoes, turned the toes back toward the first witch and went inside.
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We'll see what Ian finds down the road, but that will once again be right after this. Today's episode is brought to you by Vinted. So we moved last year after staying in the same place for a while and that prompted me to move my closet. Not surprising. I know a year on though, and my closet is still half stuff I haven't touched in a long time. Definitely because the style was different, not because I have changed shape in the past 15 years. Don't worry about it. Anyway, it felt wasteful to throw it away. And I've been to the local second hand shops and seen rows and rows of clothes that are never touched. So I'm going to try out Vinted. Vinted is a second hand app that makes it easy for sellers so us, you and me to sell pre loved fashion and earn some extra money. I pulled up Vinted to try it out and like I don't know, three clicks in and I'm already listing something. It's super easy. Anyway, I'm putting up a blazer that's too small by a few inches. 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At the House of the Third Witch because this is a fairy tale and I mean it's really followed so Far that they're three of everything. Ian took those crocs off and once again pointed them back the way he came. The third witch sister invited him in and he sat down for dinner. Can I rub your feet? She asked. Ian looked down. Actually, he was all healed up and those gross looking shoes were so comfortable. Healed? Yes, that's why I asked. Good, she said in a tone that did not imply it was in fact good. She the third sister had a son and the man came back from a hunt to sit down for dinner as Ian shared what was going on. Like the two women before her, the third sister had no idea where Ian could find his dear, dear beloved. Oh, I know who that is, the young man said. Both Ian and his mother turned. What? Yeah, I'm the Keeper of Birds. I make all birds go to sleep at night. Of course I know weird stuff about where deer women live. She lives in the kingdom under the waves. I can actually take you there if you want. Ian could almost weep, he was so happy. After months on the road and many false starts and even being killed a few times, he finally knew where to go. The process for getting there was strange. The Keeper of the Birds said it involved killing a cow and making a bag from its skin. But as Ian helped him through the hours of butchering, skinning and tanning, he thought that maybe this guy just wanted a steak dinner. A few days later the bag was complete, and while the Keeper of the Birds was doing a reverse sear on a couple of bone in rib eyes, he told Ian to get in the bag. Ian looked at the bag. Okay, he didn't mean to make this weird, but the Keeper of the Birds wasn't evil, was he? Ian hadn't asked in a while and frankly, his aunt's response when he asked her if she ate children was not heartening. Oh, she's trying to quit, if that's helpful, the mother chimed in. It's not. No. Ian said. Get in the bag, don't get in the bag. It doesn't matter much to me. You can do whatever you want since you have so many options to get to the kingdom under the waves that you definitely knew existed before I told you about it, the Keeper of Birds said. Ian looked at the bag. The man was right. Okay, one foot, then another entered the bag and Ian looped the string in after him, cinching the top. Now, the Keeper of the Birds is not evil. He's not exactly lawful good either. Because I feel like when you tell someone to cinch themselves into a bag, there's something of an unspoken contract that you're going to hold up your side of the bargain pretty immediately. I feel bad making people wait in the car for a few minutes if I have to run back in and find my wallet and phone. That being said, maybe Ian could have read the room a bit and realized that the Keeper of Birds who still had to sear his steak and then let it sit and lock in the juices. And I know I've used that phrase twice this episode in very different contexts. Anyway, maybe Ian could have waited. It was that same preoccupation with the stake that led the Keeper of Birds to completely miss that one of his own birds, an eagle, hopped in, grabbed the top of the bag, and took off with it after the most amazing, freshest, most perfectly cooked steak the Keeper of Birds had ever eaten. The man looked at the door. There was something he was supposed to do after dinner. The third sister, his mother, pointed to where the bag sat. Yeah, I've been trying to tell you. And he mom, please. Oh my gosh, I'm trying to remember what I was supposed to do. I can't even think in this house, the Keeper of Birds said and stormed out. Ian got away from the eagle pretty easily when the bird realized he wasn't a big bag of meat and that he would fight back. So Ian found himself on an island for the first time in almost a year. He knew where he needed to go, but he felt farther away than ever. Then he heard the knocking. Now, I know we're in a story where women apparently turn into deer, deer wax brings people back to life, and the nephew of two witches and the son of a third tells the birds to go to sleep at night. Suspension of disbelief is important in stories like this, but so is internal consistency. Ian seems reasonably intelligent, aware, and curious, so it's kinda hard to believe that he would somehow either not be aware that his beloved had slipped a box into his pocket way back in the church when he was knocked out, or if he was aware that he wouldn't have opened this strange box he found on his person until he had absolutely nothing else to do. Abandoned on an island. The knocking was more taps, but Ian inspected the carved wooden box, shrugged, and opened it. Three little birds hopped out, flying and flapping their wings, and Ian closed the box. Seeing as he had previously been the only living thing on this island, he was surprised to hear voices. Good master, is there anything we can do for you? Ian blinked. Um, hi. Hi, the bird said. They didn't have facial expressions, but seemed chipper enough, I suppose it's hard to not seem chipper if you're a tiny, chirping bird. You serve me? Ian asked. Wow, is that not what good master and is there anything we can do for thee means? The birds asked. No, it's just I Then maybe stop asking stupid questions and start telling us what we should be doing so we can get on with our lives. Unless you'd like to spend some time in a box called a coffin. Hey, did you tell him that we'd mess him up if he doesn't tell us what to do? The second bird asked the first chirp that he had conveyed the message in no uncertain terms, but based on this kid's apparent intelligence, it would be sometime around February until it worked his way through his head. Ian marveled that the birds apparently could be not chipper and asked if they knew where the kingdom under the waves was. After several minutes of exaggerated laughter, them asking, oh, he's serious. Several more minutes, two flapped up to his shoulders and one grabbed his collar. If Ian had known the birds could lift him bodily and carry him into the sky, he might have taken their threats a little more seriously. And yeah, it's like Cinderella, the movie version, not the real one, where the stepmothers and sisters have to cut off parts of their feet and have their eyes pecked out. But instead of little birds lifting Ian's clothes, they lifted his clothes and him up, over, and then into the sea. Ian panicked a bit with the lack of air and all, but soon they broke through another barrier and he landed hard on the street, looking up at the birds above him. He said that since they lifted him through air, they couldn't set him down gently on the ground here. Oh no, we could have, the bird said, hopped down, popped open the box, jumped back inside, and closed it behind them. There are a lot of stories where just under a fjord, like in the Scandinavian tale we told a few months back under the ocean, like in the story of Urashi Mataro from Japanese folklore, or under a lake like Avalon in the King Arthur Stories for The King, the podcast's first book, comes out December 1st. Pre order is available now. There exists a whole world underwater, and I'm not joking. No one ever attempts to explain any of it. Humans easily go down there and can breathe and walk in English. Major analysis talk. It obviously marks the boundary between the known and the unknown. Civilization in the wilds or something. But if I could go back in time and talk to one of these storytellers. How does the underwater world work? No Seriously, like what are the mechanics of it would be in my top five questions. Especially because water creatures are so prevalent, people could very easily drown in things. Anyway, that being said, in Ian's time and today, there are many things about the world we don't understand, but just have to roll with it. And if I think about it, I honestly couldn't explain electricity or gravity in enough detail to be satisfying to anyone, yet voluntarily and involuntarily respectively use both. So maybe I can't fault Ian for just rolling with it, or the storyteller for just hand waving it and moving on like we're gonna do. Ian, not curious about how there was light down there, wandered the streets until someone shouted at him. Accepting help from strangers was roughly 60% effective. The first woman delayed his quest by months for her creepy son. The three witches helped him, and the third witch's son let him get stolen by an eagle so that the guy could get a nice Maillard effect on the outside of his stake. Ian didn't think about any of this though when he answered the weaver's invitation that Ian, the obvious stranger in the land, come in and eat at his table. By coming in and eating at the stranger's table, also by sleeping in the bed at the corner of the house. Ian thought that this was a little too too convenient, but then thought about why the weaver might have an extra bed and a desire to help out a young man wandering by and thought that maybe they could help each other. The next day the weaver told him about the race. Ian looked up from breakfast. Race? Oh yeah, that's right. You're a stranger in this land. The king is having a race. Whoever wins can marry his daughter. Weird criteria for choosing who joins your family and rules your eventual kingdom. But what else are you gonna do? Choose based on personality and compatibility or even just baseline ability to rule? Nope, just who can make an animal run the fastest? What a time to be alive. The weaver couldn't accompany him, presumably had a lot of weaving to do, but Ian, as he felt the box in his pocket, said he was okay with that. Which way was the race? Oh great, it's you. You know, our box prison is the stuff of nightmares, but we vastly prefer it to even one moment spent looking at your face. The birds that lived in the box in Ian's pocket said I need the finest horse that was ever seen, the grandest dress and glass shoes. Ian said, not wasting time. They brought all those things though the shirt, pants, coat and shoes were either slightly too big or slightly too small. Whichever would be the most humiliating and or uncomfortable. Ian didn't care, though. He never had clothes that fit well anyway, he was a little rusty. The last horse he rode on, he sold for a gun, which started this whole mess. His destiny. So he brushed up on things before the race, and he absolutely crushed it. He won. The king and the princess waited for him to ride up, but no one arrived. Instead, he rushed back to the weaver's house after changing and asking the birds to put some gold in his pockets, which he gave to the weaver. I'll be real. I honestly do not know what Ian's game is here. The woman he's been seeking for nearly a year at this point is there and waiting to marry him for multiple reasons, which, according to the rules of the kingdom, he can do. Yet, instead of a wedding, the following day, they threw another race and Ian won and took off. When he did it the third time, the king was officially angry. Some people, though, had seen his face. And those people, after a number of days, were tasked with going after him and making sure he claimed his prize. The princess, who, yes, contrary to Disney niceties, was a prize to be won. And I'm kind of getting the impression that the storyteller just threw everything at the wall here and tried to see what stuck, because there was also maybe a serial killer on the loose. The story only tells us that there was a robber that went around and, quote, murdered ever so many people. So when they found a kid who matched the description of the winner in the house of the weaver. But this kid was dirty and smelly. Well, being dirty and smelly was apparently enough to put him away from murdering ever so many people. It made sense, too, why the winner didn't want to come forward. He would be identified as the killer and arrested. And by put him away, they mean in the ground. Because Ian was going to hang. I bet he wished he just came forward and accepted the princess's hand or went to go talk to her or anything else. So the headsman led Ian up to the gallows, where he was encouraged to make a speech for the people who were assembled, because public executions were a form of entertainment in those days, even in the kingdom under the waves. But Ian remarked that he did not fear death. He had died three times already for the one he loved and would die many more times if necessary. It wasn't necessary, but for multiple reasons, the first of which being that he could have just said something after any of the races, but we already mentioned that. The second reason was because the princess, when he Was unconscious. That last day in the church had left something behind. The creepy, sickly dude never told him about it because he was a budding sadist himself. But the princess had written a message to the prince, marking him in the event that he ever came to her, was arrested for being a serial killer, and then gestured wildly on the gallows, calling out his last words. On the inside of his arm, just under his armpit, she had written, the daughter of the king of the town under the waves. The princess called out to stop the execution. Ian, as he sat down with the king and his betrothed, wondered how this was possible. Was this like in that Ambrose Beer story where the man manages to escape home from his execution and goes to his family and live in freedom, only to have that be the last imagined thought he had between dropping and dying? Ian looked around. This didn't feel imaginary. The princess rose to address the audience in a magnificent room in the castle next to a washed and frankly, handsome Ian. The room was packed with men. She said by dying three times for her, Ian had freed her from the curse and she marked him should he ever come look for her. She told his creepy friend to pass along the message about where she was and the box that she had slipped into his coat. Sorry about the birds, by the way. They can be a bit much. There was an outcry from the assembled princes and kings. This was the son of a fisherman. They were princes. They could say more, but they shouldn't have to. The princess turned and with one look, quieted them. Oh, kings, if one of you were killed today, the rest would fly. But this man put his trust in me and he was killed three times. Because he has done this, I will marry him rather than one of you whose greatest achievement was who you were born to. With that, she turned and didn't say another word to them. Most of them took the hint and left. Ian, though, stayed and was accepted by the king, married the princess he had not only risked his life for, but given up his life for multiple times. And though the story ends with her chastising the assembled kings for not being as brave or as selfless as Ian, we can assume they lived happily ever after in the kingdom under the waves. Or at the very least, Ian didn't have to walk until his feet were bloody and then get murdered by robbers again. But if he did, there was always his wife's earwax to make him feel better. This was an interesting story. One of the things I actually liked was that Ian never went home. The physical abuse of the parent had consequences, and it's not like he felt any need to bring her to his castle. I also like how this somewhat subverts the principle of Chekov's gun. It's the idea that everything in the story should have a purpose, and the writer Anton Chekhov says something to the effect that if you have a gun hanging on the wall in the first chapter of the story, it must go off later, and if it's not going to go off, it shouldn't be hanging there. I say it somewhat subverts the idea because the gun did have a purpose in the story. That purpose, though, just wasn't what anyone thought it was. Finally, the ending of the story was bananas, and I really hope they ended up catching that killer. Next week we're back in our increasingly inaccurately named Monthly Olympian Stories, where we are getting around to Poseidon, who, despite his excellent pr, might be just as bad as his younger brother. As you might know, Myths and Legends has its first book coming out this year, and for less than the price of an adult shark blanket hoodie onesie. You can pre order the book and the book for the King is a lot of things like like the first installment of a faithful, comprehensive retelling of the King Arthur legend that breathes new life into the old stories, but it won't make people think you have a big sad shark hanging around your house like that onesie will. Sorry about that. We couldn't do everything Links to pre order the book in the show Notes thank you so much for your support. The creature this time is the Charles Mill Lake Monster from Mifflin, Ohio, just outside of Mansfield. What the state of Ohio lacks in natural beauty, walkable cities, public transportation, and control over aggressive gerrymandering, it makes up for encrypteds. We have the Loveland Frogman from my hometown of Loveland, Ohio, the Ohio Grassman Crosswick Monster, the Lake Erie Monster, the Melonheads, the Minerva Monster, and more. Someone who never cracks even a list of the top 10, though, is the Charles Mill Lake Monster, and that might be deserved. So the Charles Mill Reservoir was made when they dammed up the Black Fork of the Mohican river in 1935. I'm not sure if these names mean anything to anyone listening. They certainly don't to me, but I'm mentioning them because sometimes when you mess with nature, nature messes back in the form of an armless swamp thing that scares teens. One time, 24 years later, Denny Patterson, Wayne Armstrong and Michael Lane were hanging out by the reservoir on March 28, 1959. Before you start to think that they're up to something, as a once and future and also current Ohio residential, I can say that hanging out by stuff is basically our state's official pastime. It was after dark when the teens saw it. The Lake Monster. It rose from the water over 7ft tall. It had green, presumably glowing eyes, because how else could you tell the color of the eyes and massive webbed feet. The most noteworthy thing about it though was that it did did not have arms. The boys scrambled off in terror and allegedly got the sheriff to come who didn't see the monster, but only the tracks left behind tracks that looked like regular sized flippers that you wear, like when you're diving. And that's it. Apparently, being seen by some teens once at night was enough for a legend to grow. There was another possible sighting four years later in 1963, but that was later clarified to be something else. You see. Hoping to escape the big city and after being driven from its home in the Cleveland sewers, a Bigfoot like creature with orange eyes named Orange Eyes took up residence in the Charles Mill Reservoir. It had glowing orange eyes and seems to have slightly eclipsed the Charles Mill Lake Monster. I'm not sure how the Charles Mill Lake Monster feels about this interloper in its swamp. And once again, as an Ohio resident, I'll let you know if there's ever a showdown between the Charles Mill Lake Monster and Orange Eyes. Sort of a great value version of Godzilla versus King Kong. That's it for this week. Myths and Legends is by Jason and Carissa Weiser. Our theme song is by Broke for Free. And the Creature of the Week music is by Steve Colmes. There's a list of the other music we used in the show. Notes, thank you so much for listening and we'll see you next time.
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