A Medieval Brass Robot and the Unutterable Name of God April 12, 2014
Author: Beach Combing | in : Medieval , trackback
This account is given by William of Malmesbury in one of his histories. It is interesting for many reasons, not least because it supposedly came from a doctor in his monastery, who told it to William, when the future historian was a boy.
When I [William’s informant] was seven years old despising the mean circumstances of my father, a poor citizen of Barcelona, I surmounted the snowy Alps, and went into Italy. There, as was to be expected in a boy of that age, having to seek my daily bread in great distress, I paid more attention to the food of my mind than of my body. As I grew up I eagerly viewed many of the wonders of that country and impressed them on my memory. Among others I saw a perforated mountain, beyond which the inhabitants supposed the treasures of Octavian were hidden. Many persons were reported to have entered into these caverns for the purpose of exploring them, and to have there perished, being bewildered by the intricacy of the ways. But, as hardly any apprehension can restrain avaricious minds from their intent, I, with my companions, about twelve in number, meditated an expedition of this nature, either for the sake of plunder, or through curiosity.
It would be interesting to know where in Italy we are. I can find no reference to treasures of Octavian/Augustus in modern sources so this was presumably a medieval tale that withered away to naught. In any case, the doctor and his friends take the matter seriously.
Imitating therefore the ingenuity of Daedalus, who brought Theseus out of the labyrinth by a conducting clue, we, also carrying a large ball of thread, fixed a small post at the entrance. Tying the end of the thread to it, and lighting lanterns, lest darkness, as well as intricacy, should obstruct us, we unrolled the clue; and fixing a post at every mile [!!!!], we proceeded on our journey along the caverns of the mountain, in the best manner we were able. Everything was dark, and full of horrors; the bats, flitting from holes, assailed our eyes and faces: the path was narrow, and made dreadful on the left-hand by a precipice, with a river flowing beneath it. We saw the way strewed with bare bones: we wept over the carcasses of men yet in a state of putrefaction, who, induced by hopes similar to our own, had in vain attempted, after their entrance, to return.
So far we are still in our familiar world of fears, bats and Newtonian physics. Now though everything starts to get a little strange.
After some time, however, and many alarms, arriving at the farther outlet, we beheld a lake of softly murmuring waters, where the wave came gently rolling to the shores. A bridge of brass united the opposite banks. Beyond the bridge were seen golden horses of great size, mounted by golden riders… The mid-day beams of Phoebus darting upon them, with redoubled splendour, dazzled the eyes of the beholders.
A couple of points here. Brass is often the sign that magic is about to begin in tales: particularly brass heads (another post, another day). Then there is the question of how we square the eye-witness account with impossible events. Is the ‘doctor’ living in a fairy tale?
Seeing these things at a distance, we should have been delighted with a nearer view, meaning, if fate would permit, to carry off some portion of the precious metal. Animating each other in turn, we prepared to pass over the lake. All our efforts, however, were vain: for as soon as one of the company, more forward than the rest, had put his foot on the hither edge of the bridge, immediately, wonderful to hear, it became depressed, and the farther edge was elevated, bringing forward a rustic of brass with a brazen club, with which, dashing the waters, he so clouded the air, as completely to obscure both the day and the heavens. The moment the foot was withdrawn, peace was restored.
We have then a brass robot who comes and blows spray into the air?
The same was tried by many of us, with exactly the same result. Despairing, then, of getting over, we stood there some little time ; and, as long as we could, at least glutted our eyes with the gold. Soon after returning by the guidance of the thread, we found a silver dish, which being cut in pieces and distributed in morsels only irritated the thirst of our avidity without allaying it.
The treasure hunters decide now to get serious. Is the unutterable name of God Jewish?
Consulting together the next day, we went to a professor, of that time, who was said to know the unutterable name of God. When questioned, he did not deny his knowledge, adding, that, so great was the power of that name, that no magic, no witchcraft could resist it. Hiring him at a great price, fasting and confessed, he led us, prepared in the same manner, to a fountain. Taking up some water from it in a silver vessel, he silently traced the letters with his fingers, until we understood by our eyes, what was unutterable with our tongues. We then went confidently to the mountain, but we found the farther outlet beset, as I believe, with devils, hating, forsooth, the name of God because it was able to destroy their inventions. In the morning a Jewish necromancer came to me, excited by the report of our attempt; and, having inquired into the matter, when he heard of our want of enterprise, ‘You shall see,’ said he, venting his spleen with loud laughter, ‘how far the power of my art can prevail.’ And immediately entering the mountain, he soon after came out again, bringing, as a proof of his having passed the lake, many things which I had noted beyond it: indeed some of that most precious dust, which turned everything that it touched into gold: not that it was really so, but only retained this appearance until washed with water; for nothing effected by necromancy can, when put into water, deceive the sight of the beholders.
If this was told in the third person it would be neatly fileable in the medieval folklore file. But, as sometimes happens in medieval sources, we have a first person account via an apparently reliable author (in this case William). Again was the ‘doctor’ living a fairy tale? Or pulling the leg of a ten-year-old boy? drbeachcombing AT yahoo DOT com
