Yesterday, with a speed that can only be chalked up to witchcraft, an ambulance parked at our local high school turned into Facebook rumors about hearsay about sightings of—well, I’m hardly the first to sound the alarm about the latest existential menace to law and order and basic human decency:
The frenzy was born in South Carolina in late August after unsubstantiated reports surfaced that clowns were spotted trying to lure children into the woods. The craze has since ignited a national phenomenon, with scary clown sightings reported in more than two dozen states from Alabama to Wisconsin. While many were hoaxes, a handful of the incidents resulted in arrests: in Alabama, at least seven people face felony charges of making a terrorist threat connected to “clown-related activity,” Rainbow City Police Chief Jonathon Horton told the Times-Picayune.
The incidents continue to stack up. Just this week, hundreds of students in Pennsylvania State University swarmed surrounding campus streets to carry out a mass clown hunt. A Connecticut school district said it is banning clown costumes and any “symbols of terror.” And an armed clown hoax temporarily put a Massachusetts college on lockdown.
The issue even made it all the way to the White House, where press secretary Josh Earnest was asked about the phenomenon on Tuesday.
One of the reasons I like being a medievalist is that it helps me distinguish the quirks of specific eras from timeless human folly. The former almost always sharpen into the latter when glimpsed through the lenses of distance and time.
In De Grandine et Tonitruis (“On Hail and Thunder”), Agobard, the ninth-century archbishop of Lyons, describes his encounter with a mob of rustics who had captured some “weather magicians” and were ready to stone them to death. He relates, grudgingly, a popular belief that men from a land called Magonia were stealing crops that had been knocked down by hail, which the weather magicians could summon and control, and flying away with the grain in their cloud ships. He also documents his investigations into a rumor that Duke Grimoald of Benevento, Charlemagne’s enemy, was sending men to sprinkle cartloads full of poisonous dust to kill the local cattle.
Agobard refrains from outright ranting, but his frustration is clear:
This story was so widely believed that there were very few to whom it seemed absurd. They did not rationally consider how such dust could be made, how it could kill only cattle and not other animals, how it could be carried and spread over such a vast territory by humans. Nor did they consider whether there were enough Beneventan men and women, old and young, to go out from their region in wheeled carts loaded down with dust. Such is the great foolishness that oppresses the wretched world.
The situation may be medieval, but Agobard’s inquiry into the ways of weather magicians is an evergreen example of what happens when you hack through hedgerows of rumor in a vain attempt to find the crooked byway to the weed-smothered outskirts of truth:
Often we have heard it said by many, that they knew that such things were certainly done in specific places, but we have never yet heard anyone claim that they themselves had seen these things. Once it was reported to me that someone said that he himself had seen such things. With great interest I myself set out to see him, and I did. But when I was speaking to him and encouraging him, with many prayers and entreaties, to say whether he had seen such things, I nevertheless pressed him with divine threats not to say anything unless it were true. Then he declared that what he had said was indeed true and he named the person, the time, and place, but nevertheless confessed that he himself had not been present at the time.
[translated by P.E. Dutton in Carolingian Civilization: A Reader]
I’d cite more of De Grandine et Tonitruis, but a leering figure just crept from the woods. I could be mistaken, but he’s hauling what seem to be a bag of kidneys and a Mexican rat. There’s a farm across the street; if the cattle keel over, we’ll know who to blame. Like peasants before me, I’ll scan the horizon—and chase floppy footprints through ages of dust.
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Did the weather magicians survive the attentions of the mob of rustics? (And I wonder why the cloud ships did not come sweeping down to frighten the rustics and rescue the magicians!) I love that story. Might have to steal that somehow.
We are living in the most absurdist time I can remember. Perhaps you need to give us a post that relates in the same sort of way to the campaign. It might be consoling.
I am told that somewhere there are learned treatises from sometime around the 13th or the 15th century pointing out that there can’t possibly be shape-changing witches, because the mass would have to go somewhere, otherwise that would be contrary to nature, and God in his wisdom has created a world of laws binding even unto himself etc. These days we get to have that kind of fun arguing about how Coruscant feeds itself, or debating the finer points of Sherlock Holmes cannon, without drifting into the foggy sea of metaphysics and witch-burnings.
Marly: If I’m reading the translation right, the accused “cloud magicians” appear to have survived, thanks to intervention from the archbishop. I’ll send you the excerpt!
As for the campaign, the best comparison I can come up with from my mental medieval library is the wonderful Njal’s Saga, in which two families feud as a result of a spat between the wives of two best friends, getting increasingly ruthless until the whole thing culminates in a courtroom brawl. It’s not really the best comparison, but there’s a sense of society flying out of control in the saga that feels very 2016.
Sean: Indeed! Although it might be nice if we debated the real world with the same relentless commitment to logic. We had an increased police presence at our local high school on Friday because it was the day the clowns threatened to attack. (Those treatises sound interesting. I always appreciate medieval thinkers doing their best with what knowledge they had.)
Jeff: I am tempted to dive into books on shape-changing in scholastic theology to see if I can find a source, but the dissertation (and several freelance projects) call.
I hope that nobody who lives through this year gives the ancients a hard time for believing in oracles. I am pretty sure that their success rate was at least as high as our modern political commentators, economic ‘experts,’ and pollsters (and there are websites out there very seriously discussing the proper magical response to the British referendum).
Ha! Oh yes—and at a time when video and transcripts make their failures so easy to document, it’s amazing, but so very human, that people persist in prognosticating at all. (I recall prayers for rain in either the American South or the Midwest a few years ago during a drought. I found the criticism of it rather sneering and pompous, since it’s not as if there was the possibility of any harm.)
And meanwhile, charges out of the =Secret History= of Procopius are being revived to stumble about our world: Caesar and their spouse are either demons or possessed by demons https://mediamatters.org/video/2016/10/10/trump-ally-alex-jones-i-was-told-people-around-clinton-shes-demon-possessed/213712 Like poor Thoth-mekri in “The Hour of the Dragon,” I fear that they will take one look at our world, turn around, and wander back into the quiet of their tombs.
Jeff, I loved the anapestic thumping ending of the October 6 entry.
Sean: Yes, it’s rather disquieting, isn’t it? Me, I just shake my head and read books instead.
Jeredith: Thanks—and thanks for noticing! The study of poetry enhances the reading and writing of prose in unexpected ways.