Episode 46 – The Truth about Elves – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 46 Show Notes

Source: Scottish Legend

This week on MYTH, we’ll be spending time with some powerful, dangerous women. You’ll see that maybe you shouldn’t bother random women with requests for a kiss, that fairies aren’t as friendly as they seem, and that you should always bring snacks on a road trip. Then, in Gods and Monsters, you’ll see why dancing after dark can be deadly. This is the Myths Your Teacher Hated podcast, where I tell the stories of cultures from around the world in all of their original, bloody, uncensored glory. Modern tellings of these stories have become dry and dusty, but I’ll be trying to breathe new life into them. This is Episode 46, “The Truth about Elves”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
Looking back over the last three years of this podcast (has it really been that long already), I realized that we’ve never covered one of the classic staples of the fantasy and folklore worlds, so I thought it was time we rectified that oversight. Today, dear listeners, we go to meet the elves. Most of what modern audiences know about elves comes from JRR Tolkein’s classic fantasy epic The Lord of the Rings, but they are far, far older than that, and far darker as well. In Lords and Ladies, the inimitable Terry Pratchett gave what I think is the best description of the Fair Folk, and so we’ll lead off with that before we dive into this tale from the Scottish highlands. “Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder. Elves are marvelous. They cause marvels. Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies. Elves are glamorous. They project glamour. Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment. Elves are terrific. They beget terror. The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes, look for them behind words that have changed their meaning. No one ever said elves are nice. Elves are bad.”
The central figure of today’s story, Thomas Learmont, Laird of the Castle of Ercildoune in Scotland (now called Earlston), was a real person. He lived from 1220 to 1298 and survived beyond his death thanks to the medieval ballad Thomas Rhymer, as well as a few others. The version I’ll be using comes from Waverly Books collection of Scottish Folk Tales. He was a sensitive man with an artistic soul, fond of books, poetry and music (which were not nearly as popular in the Middle Ages as they are now), but most of all, he loved nature. He could, and did, spend entire days just wandering the wild lands around his castle and observing all of the birds and beasts and fishes that made their homes in the woods and the fields.
One fine May morning, just as spring was awakening in the land, Thomas left the castle and went wandering in the woods. On this particular day, he headed towards Huntly Burn, a small stream that tripped and burbled out of the Eildon Hills. All about him, the world seemed fresh and young and innocent, and he thought that this must have been what the Garden of Eden looked like in the first days of the world. The new leaves were just bursting from the formerly bare tree branches, covering them with a soft mantle of fresh green. The carpet of moss was soft under his feet, interspersed here and there with primroses and starry anemones creating a riot of color against the green backdrop.
In the trees around him, the little birds were singing their tiny hearts out, and he imagined it was all for his sake, that he was the only man in all of creation and all of this was for his eyes only. As he walked along the faint animal paths through the trees, he saw here and there the noses of foxes peering out at him from the brush, but they watched him pass without running off. It was so perfect, in fact, that Thomas found a large tree in a small clearing and sat down beneath it to lean back and watch the world go by around him.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been there before a new sound could be heard above the white noise of nature. He sat up, listening, and soon recognized the sound of a horse forcing its way through the heavy underbrush. There weren’t many who would bother trying to ride a horse in the deep woods in his little fiefdom, so he waited expectantly, curious as to who the rider might be. With a movement that was somehow both sudden and graceful, the horse pressed its way into the clearing and Thomas got his first look at the woman sitting on the horse.
She was the most radiant, exquisite woman he had ever seen, so beautiful that the sleek lines of her delicate gray palfrey faded into the background beside her. She wore a hunting dress of glistening silk the same pale green as the new spring grass just now beginning to rise from the dead earth of the winter past. About her shoulders, she wore a heavy mantle that matched her dress exactly, belted to frame her figure to great effect. Her hair flowed in rippling golden curls down her back, loose and wild, from beneath the silver diadem set with precious stones that flashed in the morning light. Her saddle was of pure ivory, set on a saddle-cloth of blood-red crimson satin. Her saddle girths were made of corded silk, and her stirrups were cut crystal. Her horse’s reins were made from beaten gold and hung with little silver bells that tinkled merrily as she went along, but was somehow also haunting and otherworldly. Thomas was certain that this could be no mortal maiden.
She was clearly in the middle of a hunt, for she carried a sheaf of arrows and a hunting horn. Beside her horse, she led seven greyhounds on leashes while at least that many more ran free alongside her, scenting the air and pointing the way. Her bells tinkled as she rode, somehow clear over the sounds of the horse and the hounds, and she sang along to it, a lilting bit of an old Scottish song. Thomas was torn between being frozen in awe and the desire to throw himself to his knees and worship this woman, for she could only be the Virgin Mary, descended from heaven to ride the earth a while.
Their gazes met, and the Lady seemed to understand what his awe-struck gaze meant. “Nay, sirrah, I am not the Blessed Virgin as thou thinkest. Men do call me Queen, but I rule not heaven, but Fairy Land. I, good sirrah, am the Elf Queen of the Fae.” Thomas had no doubt that she spoke truly. At her words, every fiber of his being, every morsel of his soul yearned for this incredible creature. He forgot all common sense or prudence in his burning, yearning desire for her. He knew that it was dangerous to meddle in the affairs of the Fair Folk, but his passion overrode the small voice in the back of his brain screaming that what he was about to do was bloody stupid.
“Please, fair Lady, honor me with a kiss! I am unworthy to even touch the hem of your dress, I know, but my soul burns for your touch!” At his words, her lips parted in what could possibly have passed for a smile, although it showed far too many teeth. Thomas cared not for how predatory that smile gleamed, for she had nodded at him and leaned down to grant him his one and only heart’s desire.
As soon as his lips touched hers, Thomas knew he’d made a terrible mistake. That small voice that had been gibbering in the back of his skull suddenly roared back to full volume as the enchantment her glamour and fairy music had cast on him broke. The magic melted away as her form twisted and changed, although that cruel, hungry smile never wavered. Her mantle and riding skirt of green silk faded to a long, gray robe the color of dying ashes. With it went her inhuman beauty, leaving in its place a woman old and worn but filled with a dark inner fire. Her golden hair withered and grew wiry, with half the golden fading to ash-gray to match her dress before his eyes.
The Lady saw the astonishment in his eyes, and she laughed, high and cruel. “I am not so fair as thou thought, am I sirrah? It matters not, though, for you have sold yourself to me, body and soul. You, Thomas, shall be my servant for seven years – this is the price of a kiss from the Queen of the Fae, my servant. Come! We go to Fairy Land!”
Thomas fell to his knees, weeping, and begged her to have mercy on his wretched soul, but it is with good reason that Keats called her La Belle Dame sans Merci – the Beautiful Lady without Pity. She laughed again at his piteous cries, reaching out one bony finger to taste his tears. She rode her dappled mare over to him, until she towered over his shivering form. “Thou didst ask for a kiss, and now thou must pay the price. That is the way of the fae, as thou well knowest, Thomas. Delay no longer, but mount up behind me. We ride!”
Thomas tried to continue to beg, hoping against hope to stir some tiny shred of decency in whatever passed for her soul, but the magical bonds that now chained him drove him to crawl up onto the horse’s back behind the Lady, though many a whimper of terror slid between his clenched teeth. As soon as he was mounted, the Lady took up the bridle and reins, and her gray steed galloped off.
They rode faster than any horse Thomas had ever seen, faster perhaps than the wind itself, and they soon left the lands that Thomas knew. On they rode, faster still, until they finally passed out of the lands of mortal men and entered the edge of a great desert, which stretched out in front of them, parched and barren and desolate, sprawling out beyond the horizon. To Thomas’ terrified eyes, the desert appeared endless, certain death to enter, even on this wondrous horse. He prayed that he and his new mistress were not about to venture into that wasteland where only death dwelt. Unfortunately, he had left the kingdom of his god behind, and there was no one to answer his desperate prayer but the Lady. She pulled on the reins, pulling her gray steed up short just inside the trackless waste.
She turned to look at him, spine twisting more lithely than a cat’s. “Here, thou must descend to the dusty earth, Thomas, and lay down like the dog you are with your head resting upon my knee, and I will show you things, Thomas – hidden things, beyond the understanding of mortal eyes.” That sounded like the last thing that Thomas wanted to do, but his desires no longer factored into his life, so down he climbed as bidden. He knelt down at her feet with his head resting on the Fairy Queen’s knee. As he did so, the desert shifted somehow. It was no longer empty and barren; instead, three roads led through it that hadn’t been there before, each different from the others. One, wide and flat, drove straight as an arrow through the heart of the desert and Thomas thought that no traveler upon it could possibly lose their way. The second was as different from the first as two roads could be. It was narrow and twisting, lined with a hedge of wicked thorns on one side and a hedge of dense, deadly briars on the other. Both grew huge and wild, reaching out into the path until they nearly choked it off entirely in places. Anyone who trod that awful trail would have one hell of a time reaching the end. The third was different from both of the first two. It was not broad and straight like the first, but wound between the hills and dales, and meandered along the bracken and the heather and the golden flowers. Thomas thought that this looked to be by far the most pleasant path to walk, gentle and varied.
“Now, my Thomas, I will tell you where each of these roads lead. The first, sirrah, is broad and even and easy, and many choose this road, but it leads to a bad end, and those poor unfortunate souls regret their choice until the end of their days, however brief that may be. The narrow road, lined with thorns and briars and nigh impassible, is one that few travelers bother to wonder where it leads, and fewer still to walk it. Perhaps more would try it if they knew that it led to righteousness. Then again, perhaps not. Ah, but the third road, my Thomas, bonny and fair, that road leads to Fairy Land and this is the road we will take.
“Mark me well, dog, if thou wishest to see thy precious Ercildoune again: mind thy tongue when we reach the end of our road, and speak no word to anyone you meet except for me, for any mortal foolish enough to rashly open his lips in Fairy Land can never leave it’s boundaries again, and must bide there forever and ever.” With an imperious gesture, she motioned Thomas back onto the horse, and they set off onto the third road.
Thomas soon learned that the road to Fairy Land was not as gentle and bonnie as it had first appeared. They had not ridden far when the path dropped into a deep ravine, which seemed to dive deep into the very bowels of the earth itself, and no errant shaft of sunlight survived the journey to the bottom. The air was heavy and dead and pressed upon his mind like his own mortality, made far worse by the impenetrable darkness (although it didn’t seem to hinder the Fairy Queen’s journey in the slightest). From somewhere up ahead came the sound of rushing water, distant at first, but swelling moment by moment until it was a deafening, crushing roar. Soon enough, the gray palfrey plunged into the icy water, and the deathly chill crept up Thomas’ feet and legs.
His courage, such as it was, had been cracking and wavering with each step of their harrowing journey into the darkness deep as the heart of Hell itself, but as the icy water seemed to leech the very fire of his life from his bones, he gave himself up as lost forever. He was certain that the Queen was simply tormenting him, and he would never survive to see the end of this awful ride she had forced him on.
Thomas fell into a daze, almost a trance, and had his hands not been locked in a painful death-grip on the Queen’s gray garment, it is entirely likely that he would have fallen off the horse and been swept away into the awful torrent to be lost forever in the sunless depths. His luck held, though, and after a timeless time, they left the terrible river behind and, soon, Thomas could even see a faint point of light far off in the distance. It grew as they rode until they broke out of the impossibly deep ravine and into the bright sunshine once more.
Life entered into Thomas’ hunted, haunted eyes once more, and he looked around at the country they now found themselves in. It turned out to be a lovely, sprawling orchard with every kind of delectable fruit he could imagine. From where they rode, he could see apples, pears, dates, figs, and wineberries in splendid abundance. He hadn’t noticed over the abject terror of their descent, but he had neither eaten nor drunk in he knew not how many hours. His stomach roared in protest, and his tongue was parched and dusty. He felt faint from hunger and thirst, and he ached for the sweet taste of just one bite of the succulent fruit to restore him.
He should have known better (and some part of him probably did), but he was parched and famished and he just didn’t give a shit anymore, so he reached out his hand to pluck some fruit from a nearby tree. Surprisingly, it was the Queen of the Fae who stopped him. “Stop it, you fool! Thou must not eateth of the food of Fairy Land. There is nothing safe for thee to eat here save a single apple tree. I suppose I must take thee to it presently, lest thou be bound to Fairy Land forever.” It took every ounce of strength in Thomas’ soul to pull his hand back from the succulent fruit, but somehow he managed the Herculean feat.
The pair rode for a time, with Thomas’s stomach gnawing on his backbone the entire time, and demanding that he ignore all warnings of trapped fruit and eat until he passed out, but eventually they came to a tiny tree nearly covered in plump red apples. The Lady reached down and plucked a single apple from the tree, then passed it back to poor starving Thomas. “Hungry, my Thomas? Then eat this apple, which I givest thou gladly. These, my Thomas, are the Apples of Truth and any who eateth of them will gain lips that will never again be able to speak a lie.”
Thomas wasn’t sure that was exactly a reward, but he also didn’t really give a shit. This was food that was safe (well, safe-ish), so he took the Apple of Truth and devoured it down to the core. Sure enough, from that day forward, the Grace of Truth was lodged inside his lips, leaving him unable to speak a lie and giving him the nickname True Thomas.
Thomas was lost in the ecstasy of eating after being famished, and by the time he looked up again, they had arrived at a magnificent castle, perched atop a hillside. The Queen gestured languidly towards the palace. “Yonder is my abode, my Thomas. There dwelleth my Lord the King and all the Nobles of the Fairy Court. My husband hath an…uncertain temper, and has no liking for strange gallants and wanderers he espies in my company. Therefore, I pray thee, for thy sake and for mine, speak no word to anyone who speaketh to thee. If anyone asketh, I shall tell them that thou art unable to speak, and thus thou wilt pass unnoticed in the crowd.”
Thomas was less than sanguine about this insane gambit, but he also knew that he wasn’t calling the shots in his life anymore, so he kept his lips wisely shut as the Lady raised her hunting horn to her lips. A piercing, stentorian blast issued from the instrument, echoing off the castle and the verdant hillside. As the sound bounded and rebounded across the countryside, a marvelous change came over the Lady. Her ugly ash-colored gown sloughed off her body, and the gray, wiry hairs on her head fell away. Beneath, she was once more the exquisitely enchanting young maiden who had stolen his heart upon their first meeting, complete with her gown the color of new spring grass.
He didn’t have time to ponder what that might mean, however, for a tickling, shivering sensation pierced his skull and skulked down his spine. A breathless eternity of a moment later, and Thomas found that his rough country clothes, suitable for a lonely hike, had been transformed into a suit of fine brown cloth, and his rough boots into satin shoes. Apparently, the Lady wanted to make sure that he was fit to visit the Court. Since he hadn’t exactly brought a change of clothes, this was probably for the best.
Before the golden sound of the horn had died away, the doors of the Castle sprang open, and out poured the Elf King of the Fairies, attended by a horde of inhumanly beautiful men and women. Some were dressed as Lords and Ladies, some as minstrels and pageboys, but one and all their faces bore the awesome, enchantingly glamored beauty of the fae. Such was the commotion at the Queen’s return that Thomas, who had slid off the palfrey before they were engulfed in the throng, was able to slip inside the Castle unnoticed.
From everything he heard as he threaded through the crowd of courtiers, everyone was delighted to have their Queen home again once more. Each noble wished to have a word with her, and she graciously allowed each to kiss her hand and bend her ear. Once everyone of note had been attended to, she and her husband passed through the masses and into the Castle proper, to a dias at the far end of the massive room inside. Two opulent thrones stood there, raised above everyone else, and there the royal couple seated themselves. Once they were situated, the king clapped his hands, signaling the beginning of the revels of the court of the fae.
It was a scene that few mortals have ever been lucky enough to witness, and Thomas, seated alone at a small table on the far end of the room, far from anyone the least bit important, knew that he was blessed to be one of those few (even if it was incredibly lonely being the only mortal in attendance, and forbidden to speak to another soul). Between his humble seat and the grand thrones of the King and Queen of the Fae danced the fairy court, with lithe, impossible grace. Lords, Ladies, Knights, and Courtiers all danced together, striving to outdo one another, while a group of huntsmen carried in massive deer after massive deer and threw them into a pile, apparently all slain that day on the hunt. Cooks took the carcasses off the pile, cutting up the meat and bearing away haunches and joints to be roasted for the feast.
It was a strange, marvelous, enchanting scene and Thomas was fascinated, enraptured by it. He sat, enthralled, as song after song after song played, and the beautiful, terrible fae danced their dance, and he spoke not a word to anyone. Three days passed this way, with Thomas silently watching the wild revels, before the Queen threaded her way through the crowd to where he was sitting. “Tis time to mount and ride, my Thomas, if thou wouldst ever see thy home again.” Thomas was surprised to say the least. “Not that I’m complaining, my Lady, but you said that I was bound to you for seven long years. It’s been but three days!”
The Lady laughed, and the sound made his soul ache and his skin crawl. “Time passeth quickly in Fairy Land, my Thomas. Thou thinkest it has been but three days when in truth, thou hast been here seven years. Now, it is time for thee to go, for I keep mine word. I would fain have thee at my side for longer yet, but I dare not, for thy sake. Every seventh year, an evil spirit cometh from the Regions of Darkness beyond our borders and he carrieth back with him one of our Court, whomsoever he desireth. As thou art a mortal, I fear that he will chooseth thee, which serveth not mine desires. Therefore, I will take thee back this very night.”
Once more, the gray palfrey was saddled, and Thomas and the Lady climbed aboard its back. As soon as they were both settled, the horse raced off, back the way they had come until they reemerged in the mortal world once more, near the Eildon Tree of the Huntly Burn. The Queen bade Thomas farewell, which caused Thomas simultaneous relief and despair that he would soon be parted forever from this enchanting creature. Before she could leave, however, Thomas begged a boon from her. “People will wonder where I have been these seven years, my Lady. Pray, give me something to prove to them that I truly have been in Fairy Land.”
The Queen arched one sculpted brow. “I have already given thee the Gift of Truth, my Thomas, but as thou asketh, I will also give thee the Gift of Prophecy and Poetry. Thou wilt be able to foretell the future in wondrous verse. Along with these unseen gifts, I shall also give thee a thing that mortals can see with thine eyes as proof – a Harp, fashioned by mine craftsmen in Fairy Land. Fare thee well, my Thomas. Some day, expect that I shall return for thee.” And, with those words both ominous and uplifting to Thomas’ confused soul, the Lady disappeared into the underbrush and was gone.
Over the years that followed, Thomas gave several prophecies, including that the English and Scottish crowns would be united, as they eventually were in 1603 with King James. 14 years passed from his journey and, truth be told, people had sort of forgotten that Thomas had been to Fairy Land and returned. They were reminded one day when the Scottish army, once more at war with the English, were resting by the banks of the Tweed, not far from Thomas’ castle. Seeing them camped there, he decided to hold a great feast, and invited all of the nobles leading the army to come and dine with him.
The meal was magnificent, but that’s not why the day entered into legend. No, it was after the food had all been eaten and Thomas took his place on a little dias at the front of the hall with a delicate, elegant harp. This being the Middle Ages, people initially kept right on talking as Thomas began to play, but from the first notes, a hush fell over the assembled men, and one and all, they sat spellbound as Thomas sang song after song of days gone by to the haunting strains of his harp.
Everyone cheered when he had finished, certain that they had never heard the like before and probably never would again. They were right, as it so happened, for that very night, the watchman on guard duty noticed a snow white Hart and a snow white Hind moving slowly and fearlessly down the road passed the camp. They were just animals, to be sure, but there was something so unusual, so unnerving about them that the soldier fetched his commanding officer to come and look as well.
He was grumpy as hell at having been woken up to look at some dumb-ass animals, but once he actually laid eyes on the pair, he shut the hell up. There was something strange about them at that. He woke his fellow officers, who called still others, and soon there was a small crowd gathered to follow the tiny, bizarre procession. Each noticed the strange solemn way the two animals moved, as though marching to some processional music that only they heard. This was just too weird, and it was soon decided to send for Thomas the Rhymer to determine whether this was some prophetic omen, being that he was a prophet and conveniently lived right there and all.
A messenger boy was sent from the army, and was immediately ushered in to speak to the Laird. His face grew pale and grave at the boy’s words. “Nay, boy. It is no omen, but a summons. The Queen of Fairy Land told me we would meet again, and it seems that today is the day. Truth be told, I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”
He stood and left the castle that very moment, taking nothing with him. He headed out into the night but, rather than joining the throng of men, he walked straight up to the Hart and Hind. They paused for a moment as he reached them, in what was clearly a greeting, then all three moved slowly down the road to the same unheard beat until they came to a steep bank that sloped down to the River Leader, which was raging in full flood. All three walked solemnly down the incline and were lost to the roaring waters. A careful search was made of the river downstream, but no trace of Thomas the Rhymer was ever found and, to this day, the locals believe that the Hart and Hind were indeed messengers from the Fairy Queen, and that Thomas returned to Fairy Land, never to return.
The tale of Thomas the Rhymer is typical of a lot of legends in that it mixes fact and fiction so thoroughly that it’s nearly impossible to sort out one from the other, especially from many centuries later. Little is known for certain about his real life, though he is referred to in a handful of surviving documents from the time, so he was definitely a real, living person. For all anyone knows, he may still be living with Queen Mab in distant Fairy Land, but there’s only one way to know for sure, and I’m not going to be the one to try and go check on him, which means it’s time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about the personalities and history of one of the gods or monsters from this week’s pantheon that was not discussed in the main story. This week’s monster is the baobhan sith (baa-van shee).
In keeping with our tale of dangerously beautiful fairy maidens, the baobhan sith is a deadly creature said to roam the Scottish Highlands in the form of a beautiful woman. Also known as the White Women of the Highlands, the baobhan sith are thought to be a form of fae, related to the much more famous succubus. Unlike their cousins, though, the baobhan sith tend to avoid fairy society, and had no interest in wealth, youth, or power. They cared only for the hunt and the kill.
They would lurk near trails in the wilder parts of the Highlands, luring young hunters and other travelers away from the relative safety of the path by offering to dance with them. The young men would take this as a prelude to some boot-knocking to come, and would oblige. One typical story was recorded by a hunter named Mackenzie, who was traveling with three other men on the hunt. They took shelter one night in a lonely hut. To pass the time, one of the men began to sing, and the others to dance. “This is fine and all, no homo, but it would be a lot more fun if we had some sexy ladies to dance with. And maybe other things once the dancing got them all hot and bothered,” commented the men.
As if on cue, four enchanting young women entered the hut, claiming to have followed the sound of their merriment. Three paired off with the dancers while the fourth sat beside the singer. The men lost track of time in the swirl of movement, but at some point, the singer noticed drops of blood being flung from the limbs of his dancing friends, snapping him out of the enchantment woven by the fairies. He rushed to his feet and tore ass out into the night, taking refuge among the horses. This was a lucky choice, since the fae are weak to cold iron, and their horseshoes may have kept her at bay. The woman who had been seated beside him gave chase, still beautiful in the way that a hunting panther is beautiful, but he was able to avoid her until sunrise.
As the first rays of the sun broke over the earth, his pursuer vanished, and Mackenzie returned to the hut. Inside lay all three of his friends, their throats ripped open and their chest split wide. All blood had been drained from their corpses. Mackenzie left their exsanguinated forms there and fled for home.
Traditionally, the baobhan sith wears a long green dress (green being the color of magic and the fae, which is why the Fairy Queen also wore a green dress), the better to hide the deer hooves she has for feet. Like other vampires, she drinks human blood to survive, and cannot abide the sunlight. At times, she had been known to take the form of a crow or raven and even at times a wolf. They do not have the traditional vampire fangs however. Instead, their pale, delicate hands become razor sharp claws, capable of slitting throats and ripping open chest cavities.
They typically target young men, although they do at times attack women as well, although female victims become baobhan sith themselves rather than dying a gruesome death. Most of them, though, are witches who managed to hang on to their power even after death, rising again as bloodthirsty fae. They speak any language, thanks to a magical telepathy, although survivors report that they have a strange accent in whatever language they speak. Almost every story reports that the baobhan sith only appears after their victims wished aloud for companionship, which may be linked to an old Scottish superstition that any wish made after dark without invoking God’s protection would be granted with some terrible ironic twist.
As mentioned, the only protection from these deadly creatures is cold iron, the bane of all fairies. They can also be trapped in the coffin that some stories say they sleep the day away in by building a stone cairn over their grave, which will prevent them from rising at nightfall. So if you find yourself bored one night while traveling in the Scottish Highlands, maybe think twice about wishing for some companionship because you just might get it.
That’s it for this episode of Myths Your Teacher Hated. Keep up with new episodes on our Facebook page, on iTunes, on Stitcher, on TuneIn, and on Spotify, or you can follow us on Twitter as @HardcoreMyth and on Instagram as Myths Your Teacher Hated Pod. You can also find news and episodes on our website at myths your teacher hated dot com. If you like what you’ve heard, I’d appreciate a review on iTunes. These reviews really help increase the show’s standing and let more people know it exists. If you have any questions, any gods or monsters you’d want to learn about, or any ideas for future stories that you’d like to hear, feel free to drop me a line. I’m trying to pull as much material from as many different cultures as possible, but there are all sorts of stories I’ve never heard, so suggestions are appreciated. The theme music is by Tiny Cheese Puff, whom you can find on fiverr.com.
Next time, we’ll be leaving the lush highlands behind for the arid African Savanna. You’ll discover that the dry season sucks, that not all zombies are bad, and that crocodiles can cry real tears. Then, in Gods and Monsters, you’ll discover why you should be very, very afraid of fireflies. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.