#can you tell I’m a southerner suffering through New England November

[lovely-v]

Boston vs Atlanta

New England is Dante’s Limbo and the Deep South is Dante’s purgatory I won’t explain

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 28: Making a Mark (Transcript) - 22nd February 2016

tw: graphic violence

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

I talk a lot about New England folklore. One of the biggest reasons for that is because the north-east part of the United States serves as a sort of cultural bridge between the old world and the new. It was there, more than anywhere else, where the old tales and superstitions first set root on American soil. The witch hysteria of the late 1600s was an aftershock of a larger tremor that shook Europe for decades. The American version of the vampire has roots in eastern European folktales and legends. Even holidays like Christmas and Hallowe’en were really just old-world injections into the cultural soft tissue of America, and the needle pierced us in New England first… most of the time. There are other parts of the country that played host to pioneers and adventurers as well, people who risked their lives and loved ones to travel across the cold Atlantic and build a new home here on these shores, and the age of colonization brought more than just settlers and supplies. It brought lore. Settlers up and down the east coast of what would one day become America came ashore with heads full of superstitions and a propensity to attach meaning to things we might overlook today. Put another way, they brought food for their journey, and the seeds to grow more here. They came with minds that were perfectly wired to build new folklore on the backs of old tales: new fears, new legends, new hauntings, and we can still find those creations in many places along the eastern seaboard - places like North Carolina. Before the vacation homes and sun-baked tourists crowded along the sandy shores of the Outer Banks, pioneers were attempting to carve out an existence there. Those that survived left behind more than buildings and descendants, though. Today, the Outer Bank is home to tales that still send shivers down the spines of locals and tourists alike, because folklore, whether its new or old, has a way of leaving its mark. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore. Brigands Bay sits on the northern coast of the southern part of Hatteras Island, between the towns of Frisco and Buxton. Hatteras is part of the Outer Banks, which, on the map, look like nothing more than a thin string of earth and sand a few miles off the coast of North Carolina. Imagine the island as a backwards capital L, hugging the coastline near the Pamlico River. But don’t let that thin strip of sand and stay-parks fool you – Hatteras, like many of the other islands out there, is still big enough for stories to take root, and that’s because it has a long history, longer than most parts of the country, in fact. Near the northern tip of the island, just to the west, is Roanoke Island, the site of England’s first settlement in the new world. Although the colony there disappeared sometime between 1586 and 1587, Europeans didn’t stay away long, and it was their constant activity in the region that gave rise to so much of the local stories, still told today. There’s a legend in Hatteras of the horrible deeds of one particular captain. According to the story, in 1710 an English ship crossed the Atlantic carrying refugees from Germany. They were known as “palatines”, and they had initially fled the middle Rhine area to settle in England, but there were so many that the English decided to help them move to the new world. When these refugees boarded the ship, they hid their valuables, afraid that they might be stolen by the ship’s crew. After a successful journey, the ship entered the waters inside the Outer Banks, heading toward New Bern on the coast. Their new home was in sight, and after such a long journey it must have been a relief to see it. Sensing they would soon disembark, the palatines removed their valuables from hiding and gathered them together for the final leg of their journey. Now, maybe it was the sight of all that treasure – the jewellery and coins and precious heirlooms – that triggered what happened next, or perhaps the crew had planned it all along. But here was their chance, and they decided to act. Claiming that the weather wasn’t good enough for a landing, they told the passengers to return to their cabins and wait until morning. During the night, the crew moved systematically throughout the ship, killing the sleeping refugees and stealing their treasures. After killing the passengers, the captain and crew set fire to the ship and headed to shore in lifeboats, but the ship didn’t sink. Instead, the legend claims that the flames grew higher and higher while the ship began to move forward into calm waters. Fearing for their lives, the crew abandoned the lifeboat and were never seen again. To this day, locals whisper of a ghost ship that can be seen under the first full moon of September. This ship, orange with flames, passes near the Ocracoke inlet three times, and then vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Another prominent local story involves the capture of the legendary pirate, Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard. Teach patrolled the Atlantic and Caribbean in his ship, Queen Anne’s Revenge, for a little over two years, and in the process became one of the most feared pirates of his day. As history records, Blackbeard was finally cornered by Lieutenant Robert Maynard and his men in November of 1718, just inside the Outer Banks near the southern tip of Hatteras. In a battle that was horribly bloody for both sides, the great Blackbeard suffered no fewer than 20 sword wounds and five gunshots before he was finally brought down. The English beheaded his corpse and tossed the body into the sea. His head, though, was kept. Maynard hung it from the bowsprit of his ship, and it was turned in later to collect his reward. Locals there near Ocracoke tell of a spot known as Teach’s Hole, where the legendary pirate once anchored his ship. If the stories are to be believed, Blackbeard’s ghost haunts the location – there are those who have claimed to see strange lights, both above and below the water there on the coast. They say it’s Blackbeard, swimming through the waters he used to patrol. Others say you can hear voices there. When storms blow in and waves crash against the shore, locals claim you can hear something besides the rain and thunder. It’s the sound of a man crying out in pain, the same words, over and over: “Where is my head?”

Hatteras is still popular with visitors today, though I would assume none of them are pirates. People still build homes there, they have streets and restaurants and parks and trees, tourists flock there every summer to take in the scenery, but right there on Snug Harbour Drive, near Brigands Bay, is a tree that’s called the island home for centuries. In fact, it was most likely ancient when the colonists first arrived hundreds of years before, and although most of the people driving by it are completely unaware, this tree has a story to tell. According to local legend, it starts with the arrival of a women near Frisco back in the early 1700s. They say her name was Cora, and she brought along a baby. They were always seen together, the child held tight to her chest or strapped into a sling. For an area frequented by sailors or widows of those who were lost at sea, this wasn’t an unusual sight. The Brigands Bay area was even more wooded then than it is now, and it’s said that she took up shelter in the forest there rather than in the small community that was forming on the coast. But it wasn’t living on the literal outskirts of society that earnt her a reputation as an outsider, it was her knack for the… unusual. Some have said that cows she touched would dry up and turn sick; when the fishing got rough and the nets were empty, Cora still managed to bring in enough to feed herself and the child; and when a local boy decided to poke fun at the baby, legend says that he got so sick he nearly died. Naturally, people talked. People always talk when things don’t fit the norm, and that talk spread. In an era when it didn’t take much more than an unpleasant disposition or off-colour comment to earn a woman a reputation as a witch, it seemed Cora was making it a little too easy for the locals to be suspicious.

The legend also tells of how during Cora’s stay, a ship called the Susan G ran aground off the northern coast of the island. The captain and his crew left the ship and came to town, and from there they made plans to repair it and continue their commercial journey. It sounds simple, right? Just repair the damage and move on – but doing so meant unloading all of the cargo, piece by piece, and bringing it to shore. The captain’s name, according to the legend, was Eli Blood. Now, that better have been his real name, because… come on, how perfect is that, right? Captain Blood. This captain enlisted the help of locals to move the cargo off his grounded ship and in the process, he got to know quite a few of them, which was a good thing judging by the repairs, he and his crew from Salem, Massachusetts, were bound to be there for a very long time - and it was during this long stay that he and his crew heard the stories of Cora and her baby. The heart of the rumours pointed to one, single, sensational conclusion: Cora was a witch, and the child she brought with her was her familiar, her supernatural pet. And, as it turned out, Captain Blood was probably the last person on earth that this mysterious Cora wanted to draw the suspicion of. The captain, it seems, was not just a sailor from Salem, Massachusetts. He claimed to know Cotton Mather, the puritan minister who was a passionate voice in support of the Salem Witch Trials. He had read Mather’s books, he was a student of Mather’s methods, and apparently shared the man’s intense hatred for the dark arts. So much so, in fact, that he considered himself a “white witch”, someone trained in combatting the forces of darkness with their own brand of magic. He claimed to have his own familiars, which he fed with drops of blood, and those familiars acted like spies for him, informing him of black magic nearby. Captain Eli Blood considered himself a witch hunter. Now, I realise this sounds incredibly hypocritical, which it is of course, but back then it was also heroic – it gave the people of the island a feeling of safety. At last, they might have said, we have someone here who can deal with Cora, the witch, if she gets out of hand. And that’s when the body of a man washed up on the beach.

The body wasn’t one of Captain Blood’s men, but it drew his concern nonetheless. It was the body of a young man from town, and although no makes could be found that pointed to the cause of his death, there were a number of other clues. Local legend tells of how the man’s face was twisted into a horrible expression of fear. His hands, they say, were clasped together, as if he had been kneeling before someone powerful, begging for his life. The man even had the numbers “666” carved into his forehead. The most damning evidence of all, however, were the footprints in the sand near his body. They were smaller than a man’s, and they moved away from the body in a clear, definable direction: the woods. Someone needed to investigate the man’s death, they said, and who better to do it than the witch hunter himself, Captain Eli Blood – he had little else to do while he waited on the ship’s owner to send help and supplies. This sounded like the perfect job for his idle mind. Captain Blood, for his part, agreed. He gathered his men, mostly slaves from Barbados who all had a healthy cultural fear of black magic, and together they went in search of Cora’s shack in the woods. When they found her, she was inside making breakfast for herself and her child; the men seized them both and brought them back to town. They accused Cora of witchcraft and murder, of course – how could they not, in a society governed by deep suspicion and intense fear of people who failed to fit in? Now, before you write them off as barbaric, remember that this is a flaw we have yet to overcome – we still fear those who are different from us. Maybe it’s genetic, or maybe it’s culturally ingrained. That fear is like a snake hiding in the bushes, always ready to strike, and it struck hard for Cora.

Captain Blood had her bound, left hand to right ankle, right hand to left ankle, and then carried her to the shore. There, he ordered her to be thrown into the water – it was a test, he said. If she floated, she was a witch, and seeing as how the tide was low and the waves were calm, of course she didn’t sink, how could she? Satisfied with the results, the captain moved on to his second test. Pulling his knife free, the man tried to cut a handful of Cora’s hair, but the blade failed to do its job. More proof, he declared, that she was, in fact, a witch… or at least proof that he needed to sharpen his knife, but hey, I’m no witch hunter. The final test was the most creepy and ambiguous of them all. Taking a bowl of seawater, the captain asked each of his crew to cut their fingertip and drip blood into the bowl. When they had all done so, he stirred this mixture with his knife until it foamed and swirled, and then he chanted words that no one else understood while staring hard into the bowl, and then raised his face in triumph. “She’s a witch,” he exclaimed, and then, as if needing a second opinion, he passed the bowl around to the others. Each of them, according to the story, saw two things in the bowl: the devil and the face of Cora. That was all the proof they needed – Cora was a witch, pure and simple, and now her execution would be completed.

The captain had his men gather firewood and branches and pile them at the base of a large oak tree near the bay, and then Cora and her child were tied to the tree, ready to be burnt alive. Now, what happened next will sound unusual. That’s the fingerprint of an old story – they sometimes take on a patina of oddities and otherworldliness. Sometimes, the patina adds texture, even value, to an antique – I’ll let you be the judge. According to the locals who tell the tale to this day, Captain Blood approached the tree with a lit torch in his hand, ready to set fire to the wood and burn the witch and her familiar alive, but another captain, a local man named John Smith, held him back, asking instead for Cora’s trial to go through the proper, legal channels. Smith, you see, being a sane man, wanted to do things right, but as the men argued, two things happened. First, the child in Cora’s arms twisted and writhed as it transformed into a large, black cat with shimmering green eyes. Second, a dark, ominous cloud began to gather overhead in an otherwise cloudless sky. Both men cried out in horror, and then Captain Blood lunged forward with the torch to ignite the kindling. It was at that very moment that the cloud overhead rumbled, and a lightning bolt flashed down, striking the tree and blinding everyone around it. When the smoke cleared, the tree was empty. The ropes were still there, as was the pile of branches and firewood, but the woman and the cat were gone without a trace. Well, that’s not true, there was one clue, and it’s difficult to believe. There, etched by lightning into the bark of the old oak tree were four, clear letters, which spelled out one single word: C, O, R, A. Cora.

The Outer Banks is just like any other place in the world on many levels. It has a history, and over the centuries that comprise that history, stories have been told. In a lot of ways, story is one of our greatest legacies. Wherever we’ve been, we’ve left story in our wake like footprints in the mud. Some stories are true and act like time capsules. Some are exaggerations of the truth and are meant to entertain later generations more than anything else. Some, though, serve to fill in the blanks, to answer those lingering questions or to explain the things we can’t wrap our minds around. Are there really fiery ghost ships and headless pirates haunting the Outer Banks? Was the word on the Cora tree, a word that you can still go see for yourself if you want, really carved into the bark by lightning? The chances are pretty good that it’s all just a collection of old, entertaining folktales, but some stories do both. Beneath their decorative paint and fantastical flourishes, they conceal a grain of truth deep in their core. The most famous local legend in the Outer Banks, by a mile, is the story of the lost colony of Roanoke. The island is located of the west coast of Hatteras island and, when the English settled there in 1585, they knew they were on the edge of the world. Building a settlement there took a lot of guts, but it came with a lot of risk and danger. When John White and a hundred new settlers landed in July of 1586, the first settlement was gone, so they stayed to investigate. They set up their own fort there, and also worked to establish relations with the local native American tribes: the Croatoan on what is now Hatteras and the Coree on the mainland. White left for England one year later to get supplies, but didn’t return for three years. When he did come back, no sign of the English could be found. He’d left them with a plan, though: if they were forced to leave, they’d been told to carve a cross into a nearby tree so White would know they’d been attacked, and he did find a carving, but it wasn’t a cross. It was a single word: Croatoan. This was good news because it meant they’d departed peacefully. White wanted to search Hatteras immediately, but when a terrible storm blew in, his men refused to stay. However painful it might have been – after all, White’s own granddaughter was among the missing – they left the very next day. It’s interesting to note that the Croatoan lived in southern Hatteras, in the area between modern day Buxton and Frisco, right by the Cora tree, and if it wasn’t really lightning that carved those letters, perhaps it was an actual human being. Sure, it could be nothing more than a centuries old prank or just a bit of lover’s graffiti, anything’s possible. Or maybe, like a myth with a grain of truth at its heart, this tree is the last hint in a chain of clues that point to the final destination of the settlers from Roanoke. You see, the Coree tribe on the mainland went by a few other names. Some called them the Cores, or the Coranine, or interestingly enough, the Cora.

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