Not Deer -- Not Folklore, but Effective Horror

Matt,

Sincere thanks for continuing to contextualize the cultural and religious perceptions of the Anglo-Saxons – your parsing of the pre-Christian and Christian notions in The Dream of the Rood is lucid and enlightening.  This was my introduction to this poem, which I, too, find beautiful in its febrility.  The term rood (or rōd, as you mention) reminds me of the term used in the Greek New Testament, stauros (stake or cross).  The term is referenced in the debate among theologists: was Jesus Christ executed upon a ‘t’-shaped cross, or just stuck on long, vertical stick?  We know that the Anglo-Saxons pictured it as the ‘t’-shape, so, it's cool how, later in the poem, the term gealgan is used in the plural tense (correct me if I’m wrong), meaning ‘gallows’ or, literally, ‘poles’ – what do you think?

I digress.  Additionally, I thank you for establishing the tone and style with which we will correspond, exploring the wide and abundant variety of topics within our diverse shared bailiwick.  

Currently, the trendiest cryptid online might be the “Not Deer,” creatures that resemble the white-tailed deer of the Eastern U.S. yet are ostensibly not deer due to certain disturbing, grotesque features.  Popular on Reddit, YouTube, and TikTok, users share stories suggesting that Not Deer have legs that bend both ways.  Predatory, forward-pointing eyes.  Necks that are a little too long.  A penchant for bipedalism… 

Tales of the cryptid have been integrated into SCP lore; #notdeer enjoys 88 million views on TikTok as of June 2022.  Notably, Not Deer stories typically stress the creatures’ prominence in Appalachian folklore.  Tumblr user Will-O-The-Witch explains:

Anyone who spends decent amount of time in Appalachia knows the Not Deer. If you’ve gone on the Blue Ridge Parkway at night, you’ve probably seen him.

This sense-of-place is baked into the myth’s DNA to the point where it’s often referred to as the “Appalachian Not Deer” in internet media.  In fact, Not Deer’s folkloric origins are apocryphal – put simply, it’s not part of Appalachian folklore, rather existing comfortably and entirely within the confines of the internet.

The term Not Deer does not exist earlier than 2019, and reports of freakish deer prior to that (on cryptid forums, 4chan, etc.) are highly uncommon and, in my own opinion, probably represent the primordial rumblings from which the current trend springs, rather than evidence of any long history.  I’m not the first to notice this, as JD Sword, writing for The Skeptical Inquirer, and Tumblr user idohistorysometimes have outlined – as well as criticized -- the myth’s history and origins far more thoroughly than I intend to here.  Rather, I see it as an effective horror story and a ripe opportunity to examine what makes an urban legend spread online.

While creatures such as the Jersey Devil or Sasquatch maintain venerable positions in American cryptozoology, the Not Deer is a brand-new addition to the cryptid legendarium – perhaps we would consider it a “fake” cryptid, but as horror fiction, I find it really well-done!  Of course, claiming a horror story’s factual origins is a fundamental device in the genre.  And, while plenty of previous internet-born horror figures (Slenderman, for instance) capitalize on this ‘false backstory’ technique, the Not Deer appears somewhat unique in that the majority of readers, whether or not they ‘believe’ in the cryptid’s existence, are unaware that the creature’s position in American folklore is wholly nonexistent.  In my opinion, feigning this pre-existing history for the Not Deer serves two purposes: it makes it more effective as a horror story, playing off a sense of uncanniness or liminality; and it’s essential to the legend’s internet virality as creates a plausible and potent platform onto which internet users can connect their own stories – and, critically, creates a sense of participation.

The sense of liminality which defines contemporary horror is effectively established both by the Not Deer’s cervid form and the legend’s Appalachian setting.  Although deer (I’m talking about the real animal here) are ubiquitous in rural North America, for many, they are uncommonly witnessed.  Suburbanites may notice a doe and her fawns wandering through a backyard a few times each season.  Maybe, for many residents of American cities, deer are seen only during long drives as mangled roadkill, or as a taxidermized head on the wall of the dingy restaurant your grandmother used to take you to when you were a little kid.

Additionally, the choice to place the legend in Appalachia is a significant one.  Compared to the sardine-like population density of the east coast, Appalachia retains some of its “frontier” spirit from the early days of European settlement – a spiritual border between urban and rural.  Contemporary horror is often founded in the uncanny dissolution of borders between the familiar and unfamiliar, the real and unreal, and even the liminal and subliminal.  The Not Deer legend effectively capitalizes on this, creating a creature which serves as a ‘guardian of the threshold.’  The Not Deer personifies the disquieting, unnatural dividing line between comfortable, domestic life and the sense of wild otherness that lies beyond it.  This is what makes it so effectively terrifying.  This device is so central to the legend that it is reflected in its very name, “Not Deer” – something which, simultaneously, is and is not.

Perhaps by suggesting the Not Deer belongs a folkloric lineage, the sense of impermanence that frequently accompanies viral internet trends is largely dispelled.  The legitimacy created this way presents a uniquely inviting platform for internet and social media users to grasp the legend’s tropes and share stories of their own, and, although I can’t say what truly motivates internet trends, I wonder if part of the legend’s popularity can be attributed to this.

As I said before, I am thoroughly aware that the “based on a true story ;)” trope is as old as storytelling itself, and that the Not Deer is not the first creepy creature the internet has created this way.  But, I find it unique in that the majority of people who read the stories actually believe it’s a genuine part of folklore – that’s what interests me about it.  Thanks for reading.

Jesus is My Hero: The Dream of the Rood and Anglo-Saxon Ethics

 

Dear James,

            At the HSPC 2022, you asked me a question about Christian influences on Old English and Old Icelandic heroic literature. I gave a rambling, somewhat-satisfying answer (hopefully, at least). If I recall correctly, I alluded to a notion that Christian imagery, themes, and morals may be embedded in these texts, whose characters are pagans, in a way not unlike how I have been reading themes of comitatus, gender, and alterity vis-à-vis the model of “legendary” literature. A few nights ago, in the throes of an uneasy sleep, I had a disturbing dream reminiscent of one of my favorite Old English poems, The Dream of the Rood. The dream took place in some sort of post-apocalyptic trash-heap, where for some reason or other an all-too-human-looking sloth-beast had been crucified and shot through with a thousand arrows in a strange sort of Kafkaesque rejuvenation ritual. I don’t remember why, but the whole sequence reminded me so strongly of the poem that I just had to reread it. This time, it made me think of you and your constant curiosity about the interplay between Christian and pre-Christian elements in these old, dusty texts. So, I wish to explore the overlaps and interchanges between Christian and heroic ethics in The Dream of the Rood as a way of better explaining my answer to your great question.

            The Dream of the Rood survives in a manuscript called the Vercelli Book, named after the Italian city that houses it. The manuscript is notable for a number of reasons: it contains large amounts of prose in the form of the Vercelli homilies; two of its poems are attributed to Cynewulf, perhaps the most well-known named Anglo-Saxon poet; and it’s the oldest of the poetic codices, dating from the late 10^th century. In The Dream of the Rood, as you may expect, the narrator recounts for us a dream they had about the rōd, an Old English word for the crucifix, in which the cross speaks to the narrator about the passion of Christ. Excepting a poem about diddling the altar boys in the confessionals, you can’t get much more Christian than having a fever-dream about the damn crucifixion.

            Yet much of the language of the poem bears striking resemblance to Old English’s heroic poems. The men who built the cross, exiling the tree that birthed it from the forest, are feondas (“enemies”), and Christ approaches the cross with elne micle (“with great courage/strength”). The Frean mancynnes (“Lord of mankind”) climbs strang and stiðmod (“strong and brave-minded”) onto the passive cross, as it stands there and takes the punishment. Strang, although common in modern English, seems to have carried a much more restricted meaning in Old English poetry; in Beowulf, for example, the word strang is only ever used to describe the titular hero himself. The rood and Christ are portrayed as lone warriors, standing amidst an onslaught of sin not unlike a mythic battle. Gruesome and gory imagery, similar to that found in Old Norse-Icelandic, enhances the tense and dramatic atmosphere: the rood describes how it was pierced with deorcan næglum (“dark nails”) and how eall ic wæs mid blode bestemed (“I was all drenched with blood”). Sounds like a Silencer song.

            Christ’s passion follows the logic of heroic ethics, as he requires bravery to face his fate and carries out a duty in service of his own Lord, the Father, and this heroic sense of his passion is only enhanced by the violent and gruesome narration of the rood. But how could this be? If Christianity abhors the reckless pride of heroes, why would the rood celebrate Christ’s apparent heroism? There is a fundamental difference between the sacrifice Christ makes on the cross and the “sacrifice” Beowulf makes when he stays overnight to fight with Grendel, but each poet characterizes these actions in the same heroic vocabulary of ellen and strang.

            Let’s think about comic book superheroes for a second. In the popular imagination, comic book “heroism” entails fulfilling a duty to protect the weak and defenseless, a responsibility afforded by virtue of great power or might, like Superman. Supervillains, by contrast, having that same might, embody self-interest, caring only for themselves and their goals, regardless of the effects their power has on the weak or poor; think Lex Luthor. But American culture celebrates self-interest and rewards its pursuit above almost all else; just based on the number of people licking Elon Musk’s boots on social media, I’m sure that if Lex Luthor were real, America would love him. So why, then, do we root for Superman, if our real-world culture encourages Luthor’s mindset? Superman’s dedication to his heroic duty is inspirational, and his willingness to sacrifice himself for others out of kindness reflects the moral values many of us ought to strive for. We aspire to be like Superman because he reflects both who we want to be within the context of our own culture of the self—a great, powerful, and virtuous person that others love—and an idea of who we ought to be for the sake of the community. On a basic level, the Superman author shows us the value of kindness and selflessness when possessed of great personal power and within a broader culture that encourages self-interest and rewards us for being selfish.

            The way I’m reading it, The Dream of the Rood portrays Christ a bit like Superman: through his heroic actions, he embodies a value system critical of the broader heroic culture and its fascination with boasting, vainglory, and feud. The singularity of Christ’s heroic qualities—his strength and courage—highlights the positive attributes a man should aspire towards, while the selfless, kind way in which he employs those heroic abilities, contrary to Beowulf’s boasting and egomania, offers an alternative to reckless contests and feud that leads one to salvation. The poet, then, synthesizes Christian ethics and notions of heroism by adjusting the focus of the heroic endeavor from personal glory and self-interest to personal sacrifice and kindness. This adjustment offers a pathway to avoid destruction and feud, leading to a different kind of glory in the eyes of God, which, in the poem, the Christ and the rood achieve. The poet suggests that we, the audience, employ our own heroic prowess in ways like Christ, striving for goodness above our own gain in order to avoid feud and achieve spiritual satisfaction. The rood itself emphasizes this responsibility of the powerful: Ealle ic mihte feondas gefyllan, hwæðre ic fæste stod (“I could have slain all of the enemies, yet I stood fast”). Christ and the rood are not victims; their choice to heroically sacrifice themselves represents a value to which the poet dares us to aspire towards.

            Thus, I view The Dream of the Rood as neither Christian nor heroic, but each at once, for neither ultimately “wins out”. Rather, the poem synthesizes these two contexts by realigning the cultural means of heroism along an axis of Christian decision making. Instead of replacing heroic ethics with a system of Christian behavior, the poet emphasizes that Christ himself achieved his greatest self-sacrifice, his service to all mankind, through the same heroism that has led other heroes (like, say, Beowulf) astray down the path of feuding violence. The fundamental difference between Beowulf and Christ, then, lies more in their motivations and restraint than in their solutions to ethical dilemmas. The Dream of the Rood does not resolve a conflict between two systems of ethics, but rather witnesses how these two models of behavior inform each other, and how values in one context can be achieved through the means of another. Furthermore, I believe this interchange between Christianity and heroic culture goes both ways, that is, it is possible in the world of Anglo-Saxon poetry to achieve heroic goals and aspirations through Christian means and behaviors, such as penance, but that is a story for another blog post.

            I should mention, I’ve left out some things. There has been great work done on how the rood is gendered by the poet, so as to emphasize the sexual nature of Christ’s sacrifice, or to reinforce the heroic interpretation of his actions by masculinizing him vis-à-vis the cross’s femininity. All very interesting stuff, but I don’t want this to be a whole ass paper. I encourage you to look into the poem yourself if you’re interested. I hope that answered at least part of your original (now forever lost) question. 

Bestu kveðjur,

Matt                                                                                                                                                     

 

The Ruthwell Cross, a stone Anglo-Saxon cross monument from the 8th century. It is often connected with The Dream of the Rood due to its inscription, which bears similarities to the poem.