The sound of the whistle

In his absolutely terrifying 1904 short story "Oh, Whistle and I'll Come For You, My Lad," British writer M. R. James tells us about a young professor named Parkins who is recovering from an emotional upset and decides to take a seaside R&R in coastal Suffolk.

Parkins is wandering the beach one day, and finds, half-buried in the sand, an ancient bronze whistle.  A historian himself, he is intrigued, and cleans it up, discovering upon inspection that it has two inscriptions, both in Latin: "Quis Est Iste Qui Venit?" ("Who is this who is coming?") and the more mysterious "Fur Fla/Fle Bis," which Parkins is unable to disentangle, but which James intended us to piece together as "Fūr: flābis, flēbis," which roughly translates to "Thief: if you shall blow, you shall weep."

Parkins, as it turns out, should have worked harder to figure out the second inscription.

Evidently not realizing that he is in a horror story, he blows the whistle, which is unexpectedly loud and shrill.  Nothing happens -- at least immediately.  But later that day, while out on the beach, he sees in the distance an "indistinct personage" who seems to be attempting to catch up with him, but never does.  The person moves in a strange way -- a kind of flapping, flailing motion, not at all like a human running.

Then he starts hearing noises at night, which at first he attributes to mice.  A bellhop has a panic attack while looking up at Parkins's room from the outside, saying that there was a "horrible face" in the window.  One of the maids complains that Parkins didn't have to pull all the bedclothes off the bed and throw them onto the floor in the morning -- when he'd done no such thing.

What the whistle had summoned was an incorporeal creature who fashions itself a body out of whatever happens to be handy -- in the case of the bellhop, for example, a twist of fabric from the curtains.  At the end of the story, as Parkins is lying in bed, sleepless, the light of the Moon coming in through the window, he sees the sheets and blankets on the other bed suddenly pull together into a crumpled humanoid form, and sit up -- then it reaches out its cloth arms, feeling around to try and find him.

It is one of the most flat-out terrifying scenes I've ever read.

I was put in mind of James's story (rather reluctantly) by a paper in the journal Nature Communications Psychology about a fascinating study of what are called "Aztec death whistles" -- ceramic whistles shaped like skulls, that when blown generate an unearthly sound that resembles a high-pitched human scream.

The study looked at human responses to the sounds, and found that one hundred percent of volunteers had "strongly aversive reactions," which is science-speak for "the test subjects nearly pissed their pants."  The researchers did fMRI scans of volunteers' brains, which showed strong responses in the auditory cortex and amygdala (the latter being central to the fear response).  The authors write:

All four skull whistle sound categories were rated similarly in terms of their high negative valence, and they revealed significantly the most negative valence compared with all other sound categories.  Skull whistles trigger significantly higher urgent tendencies than all other sound categories...  Skull whistles sounded more unnatural than original biological sounds (human, animal, nature) and exterior sounds, and they largely also sounded less natural than some musical sounds (music, instrument)...  The sound of skull whistles thus seems to carry a negative emotional meaning of relevant arousal intensity.  This seems to trigger urgent response tendencies in listeners, which is a typical psychoacoustic and affective profile of aversive, scary, and startling sounds.

The authors admit they have no idea what the whistles were used for, but suggest that they might have been played during human sacrifices.

Because those apparently weren't horrifying enough already.

Anyhow, naturally I wanted to hear these things for myself, so I clicked on the link that has clips of the whistles being blown.

I'd read the paper, so I should have been ready for it, but holy shit, those things are scary-sounding.  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.  I'm really sound-sensitive, so maybe I had a stronger reaction than you will; but it bears mention that when I listened to the clips, my dog Rosie was asleep on the papasan chair in my office, and she freaked.  Normally Rosie is the most placid of animals; she's very used to my having music going on my computer, as well as hearing voices and other sounds from things like YouTube videos, and ordinarily has zero reaction to any of it.  But when this thing sounded -- and I didn't even have the volume up very high -- she jolted awake, eyes wide, hackles raised, and looked terrified.

So whatever it is that these Aztec death whistles are doing to the brain, I can say with some confidence that dogs also have the same response (at least to judge by a sample size of one).

However, I'm happy to report that thus far, playing the whistle noises hasn't generated any other untoward effects.  I haven't seen any horrible faces in my office window, and I've yet to be chased around my house by an animated bedsheet.  So that's good.  But I don't think I'm going to listen to those whistle clips again.

Suffice it to say that, like M. R. James's character Parkins, I'm not eager to repeat the experience.

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Paradoxes and pointlessness

In his 1967 short story "Thus We Frustrate Charlemagne," writer R. A. Lafferty took one of the first looks at something that since has become a standard trope in science fiction; going back into the past and doing something that changes history.

In his hilarious take on things, some time-machine-wielding scientists pick an event in history that seems to have been a critical juncture (they chose the near-miss assassination attempt on Charlemagne in 778 C.E. that immediately preceded the Battle of Roncevaux), then send an "avatar" back in time to change what happened.  The avatar kills the guy who saved Charlemagne's life, Charlemagne himself is killed, and his consolidation of power into what would become the Holy Roman Empire never happens.

Big deal, right?  Major repercussions down throughout European history?  Well, what happens is that when the change occurs, it also changes the memories of the scientists -- how they were educated, what they knew of history.  The avatar comes back, and everything is different, but the scientists are completely unaware of what's happened -- because their history now includes the change the avatar made.

So they decide that Charlemagne's assassination must have had no effect on anything, and they pick a different historical event to change.  The avatar goes back to try again -- with the same results.

Each time the avatar returns, things have become more and more different from where they started -- and still, none of the characters inside the story can tell.  They can never, in C. S. Lewis's words, "know what might have happened;" no matter what they do, those alternate timelines remain forever outside their ability to see.

In the end, the scientists give up.  Nothing, they conclude, has any effect on the course of events, so trying to change history is a complete waste of time.

One has to wonder if Harvard astrophysicist Avi Loeb has read Lafferty's story, because Loeb just authored an article in The Debrief entitled, "The Wormhole Dilemma: Could Advanced Civilizations Use Time Travel to Rewrite History?"  Which, incidentally, is a fine example of Betteridge's Law -- "any headline phrased as a question can be answered with the word 'no.'"

Before we get into what the article says, I have to say that I'm getting a little fed up with Loeb himself.  He's something of a frequent flier on Skeptophilia and other science-based skepticism websites (such as the one run by the excellent Jason Colavito), most recently for his strident claim that meteoric debris found in the Pacific Ocean was from the wreckage of an alien spacecraft.  (tl;dr: It wasn't.)  

I know we skeptical types can be a little hard to budge sometimes, and a criticism levied against us with at least some measure of fairness is that we're so steeped in doubting that we wouldn't believe evidence if we had it.  But even so, Loeb swings so far in the opposite direction that it's become difficult to take anything he says seriously.  In the article in The Debrief, he talks about how wormholes have been shown to be mathematically consistent with what we know about physics (correct), and that Kip Thorne and Stephen Hawking demonstrated that they could theoretically be kept open long enough to allow passage of something from one point in spacetime to another (also correct).  

This would require, however, the use of something with negative mass-energy to stabilize the wormhole so it doesn't snap shut immediately.  Which is a bit of a sticking point, because there's never been any proof that such a something actually exists.

Oh, but that's no problem, Loeb says; dark energy has negative (repulsive) energy, so an advanced civilization could "excavate dark energy from the cosmic reservoir and mold it into a wormhole."  He admits that we don't know if this is possible because we still have no idea what dark energy actually is, but then goes into a long bit about how we (or well-intentioned aliens) could use such a wormhole to "fix history," starting with getting rid of Adolf Hitler and preventing the Holocaust.

A laudable goal, no doubt, but let's just hang on a moment.

[Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of artist Martin Johnson]

The idea of the altering of history potentially creating intractable paradoxes is a staple of science fiction, ever since Lafferty (and Ray Bradbury in his brilliant and devastating short story "The Sound of Thunder") brought it into the public awareness.  Besides my own novel Lock & Key, in which such a paradox wipes out all of humanity except for one dubiously lucky man who somehow escapes being erased and ends up having to fix the problem, this sort of thing seemed to happen every other week on Star Trek: The Next Generation, where one comes away with the sense that the space-time continuum is as flimsy as a wet Kleenex.  It may be that there is some sort of built-in protection in the universe for preventing paradoxes -- such as the famous example of going back in time and killing your own grandfather -- but even that point is pure speculation, because the physicists haven't shown that time travel into the past is possible, much less practical.

So Loeb's article is, honestly, a little pointless.  He looks at an idea that countless fiction writers -- including myself -- have been exploring ad nauseam since at least 1967, and adds nothing to the conversation from a scientific perspective other than saying, "Hey, maybe superpowerful aliens could do it!"  As such, what he's done is really nothing more than mental masturbation.

I know I'm coming away sounding like a killjoy, here.  It's not that this stuff isn't fun to think about; I get that part of it.  But yet another article from Loeb talking about how (1) highly-advanced alien civilizations we know nothing about about might (2) use technology that requires an unknown form of exotic matter we also know nothing about to (3) accomplish something physicists aren't even sure is possible, isn't doing anything but giving new meaning to the phrase "Okay, that's a bit far-fetched."

The whole thing put me in mind of physicist Sabine Hossenfelder's recent, rather dismal, video "Science is in Trouble, and It Worries Me."  Her contention is that science's contribution to progress in our understanding of the universe, and to improving the wellbeing of humanity, has slowed way down -- that (in her words) "most of what gets published is bullshit."  Not that what gets published is false; that's not what she means.  Just that it's pointless.  The emphasis on science being on the cutting edge, on pushing the limits of what we know, on being "disruptive" (in a good sense), has all but vanished.  Instead, the money-making model -- writing papers so you get citations so you get grants so you can write more papers, and so on and so on -- has blunted the edge of what academia accomplishes, or even can accomplish.

And I can't help but throw this fluff piece by Loeb into that same mix.  As a struggling writer who has yet to exceed a three-figure income from my writing in a given year, I have to wonder how much The Debrief paid Loeb for his article.  I shouldn't be envious of another writer, I guess; and honestly, I wouldn't be if what Loeb had written had scientific merit, or even substance.

But as is, the whole thing pisses me off.  It adds to the public perception of scientists as speculative hand-wavers, gives the credulous the impression that something is possible when it probably isn't, teaches the reader nothing most of us haven't already known for years, and puts another entirely undeserved feather in Avi Loeb's cap.

My general sense is that he was doing less harm when he was looking for an alien hiding behind every tree.

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Very like a mammal

"Prior to the End-Cretaceous Extinction, mammals were all small and shrew-like, restricted to skulking, scurrying forms because of competition from, and predation by, dinosaurs.  Once the dinosaurs were out of the way, the mammals were free to diversify and to grow larger."

How many times have we all heard this?  And it certainly sounds plausible; being large and obvious when there were hungry carnivores like Velociraptor around seems like a good way to be turned into dinner.

But the fossil record shows that the truth is more complicated -- and far more interesting.

Take, for example, Castorocauda lutrasimilis.  This animal was around fifty centimeters long and weighed in at around three-quarters of a kilogram.  It was sleek, streamlined, with a bullet-shaped head, a fine pelt of soft fur, and a flat, paddle-like tail.  Here's an artist's reconstruction:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Nobu Tamura (http://spinops.blogspot.com), Castorocauda BW, CC BY 3.0]

If you're reminded of something like a beaver or an otter, you're not alone; the scientific name means "beaver's tail and looks like an otter."  Surprisingly, it was closely related to neither one; in fact, it's not even a true mammal, but a docodont, which split off from other mammal-like forms (including our own ancestors) way back in the early Jurassic period -- while there were plenty of dinosaurs lumbering around the place.

The docodonts, and a handful of other groups of Mesozoic cousins to mammals, are mostly known from the exceptional fossil beds of the Tiaojishan Formation in northern China, where paleontologists have found a wealth of mid- to late-Jurassic fossils of mammaliaformes -- as they call Mesozoic mammals and their near relatives.  And amongst those fossils they not only find otter-like aquatic species, but ones that have adaptations an awful lot like moles, squirrels, and possums.

This adds another cluster to the list of cool examples of convergent evolution, where two only distantly-related species evolve to resemble each other superficially because of similar selective pressures.  (A famous modern pair is the North American flying squirrel and the Australian sugar glider; at a quick glance these two look very much alike, but a closer examination would show that they're not even in the same order.  The flying squirrel is a rodent, and the sugar glider a marsupial.)

The docodonts and other side branches of the mammaliaformes all disappeared by the middle of the Cretaceous Period, replaced by true mammals including multituberculates, monotremes, marsupials, and placentals.  Why this happened isn't certain; given that we know the non-mammal mammaliaformes from only a few isolated geological strata, our information on them is limited.  We do know, however, that the mammals who survived were mostly "small and shrew-like," so there's a grain of truth to the old model.

What's most fascinating is that after the End-Cretaceous Extinction, these survivors re-diversified, and "re-invented" a bunch of the adaptations the docodonts had a hundred million years earlier.  This has interesting implications, not only for the evolution of life on Earth but for the kinds of living things we might expect to find on other planets.  It's long been a fascinating question to me to what extent evolution is constrained -- what limitations there are on natural selection that might result in its generating the same patterns over and over because those are the features that work best in pretty much any environment.  There are a few that seem likely, such as having the main sensory organs near the mouth and at the anterior of the body; I'd expect those to be frequent no matter where you go.

But what Castorocauda and the other docodonts show is that other sorts of traits can repeat, too.  After all, there are only so many ways you can move around, find food, find shelter, avoid being eaten, and regulate your own body temperature.  It might be surprising at first that the otter-like Castorocauda (and the possum-like Borealestes and the squirrel-like Shenshou) "re-evolved" (as it were) over a hundred million years later, but it suggests that making a living requires the same toolkit pretty much regardless.  

So maybe when we find life on another planet, it'll be far more familiar than we expect -- and that "life as we know it, Jim" might be there to greet us when we arrive.

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Doomsday translation

In my Latin and Greek classes, I always warned my students to avoid Google Translate.

It's not that it's a bad tool, honestly, as long as you don't push it too far.  If you want to look up a single word -- i.e., use it like an online dictionary -- it's reasonably solid.  The problem is, it has a good word-by-word translation ability, but a lousy capacity for understanding grammar, especially with highly inflected languages like Latin.  For example, the phrase "corvus oculum corvi non eruit" -- "a crow will not pluck out another crow's eye," meaning more or less the same thing as "there's honor among thieves" -- gets translated as "do not put out the eye of the raven, raven."  Even worse is Juno's badass line from The Aeneid -- "Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo"  ("If I cannot bend the will of heaven, I will raise hell") -- comes out "Could be bent if you cannot bend, hell, I will move."

Which I think we can all agree doesn't quite have the same ring.

But today I found out, over at the site Mysterious Universe, that there's another reason to avoid Google Translate:

It's been infiltrated by the Powers of Darkness.

At least that's how I interpret it.  Some users of Reddit (where else?) discovered that if you typed the word "dog" into Google Translate twenty times and have it translate from Hawaiian to English, it gave you the following message:

Doomsday Clock is three minutes at twelve.  We are experiencing characters and a dramatic developments in the world, which indicate that we are increasingly approaching the end times and Jesus’s return.

Within hours of the message being reported on Reddit, it had vanished, which of course only made people wiggle their eyebrows in a significant fashion.

Which brings up a few questions.

1. Who thought of putting "dog" in twenty times and then translating it from Hawaiian?  It's kind of a random thing to do.  Of course, Redditors seem to have a lot of free time, so I guess at least that much makes sense.  But you have to wonder how many failed attempts they had.  ("Okay, I put in 'weasel' fifteen times and translated it from Lithuanian, but it didn't work.  Then I put in 'warthog' seventy-eight times, and translated it from Urdu.  No luck there either.  The search continues.")
2. Even if it's a valid message, what did it tell us that we didn't already know?  It's not like we haven't all just watched Donald Trump hand over the control of government agencies to a mob of incompetents, degenerates, lunatics, and the downright evil, and nearly all of the Republicans responding by issuing a stern rebuke ("Bad Donald!  Naughty Donald!  If you do that again, we'll have to roll over on our backs and piss all over our own bellies!  That will sure show you!")  So we're definitely not hurting for dramatic developments, with or without the message.
3. Even if the message was real, isn't it far more likely that it's the result of some bored programmers over at Google sticking an Easter egg into the code than it is some kind of message from the Illuminati?
4. Don't you think the fact that it vanished after being reported is because the aforementioned bored programmers' supervisor ordered that it be taken down, not because the Illuminati found out we're on to them?  I see it more like how the Walmart supervisors dealt with Shane:

So I'm not all that inclined to take it seriously.  Brett Tingley at Mysterious Universe, however, isn't so sure:

As always though, it’s an interesting thought to think that Google’s vast AI networks might be trying to warn us, finding obscure places to hide these warnings where their human overlords won’t find them.  When AI becomes self-aware and starts taking over, will we even know it before it’s too late, or will odd and seemingly meaningless stories like this serve as prescient warnings for those who know where to look?

Somehow, I think if AI, or anyone else, were trying to warn us of impending doom, they wouldn't put it online and wait for Steve Neckbeard to find it by asking Google to translate "dog dog dog dog dog etc." from Hawaiian.

So that's our trip into the surreal for today.  I still think it's a prank, although a fairly inspired one.  Note that I'm not saying the overall message is incorrect, though.  Considering this week's news, I figure one morning soon I'll get up and find out that Donald Trump has nominated Vladimir Putin to be the head of the Department of Homeland Security, and the Republican Congresspersons responded by tweeting that they're "disappointed" and then widdling all over the floor.

At that point, I think I'd be in favor of offering the presidency to Shane.

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The cabinet of Doctor MAGAligari

So Dictator-for-Life-elect Donald Trump has started to select his appointees for cabinet and other major government positions, and his choices are as appalling as they are unsurprising.  Apparently the only qualification for being selected is how fervently a prospective candidate has kissed Trump's ass.  Many of these are so awful they'd be funny if the consequences weren't so dire; the worst make replacing a distinguished jurist like Ruth Bader Ginsburg with the vapid Amy Coney Barrett seem like, "Eh, okay, that's not so bad."

Let's start with one that's so weird that when I first saw it posted, I thought it was a parody.  Alas, it isn't.  Trump has proposed a new department of the federal government, to be run by Elon Musk and Vivek Ramaswamy, called "The Department of Governmental Efficiency."  Or... DOGE.

I swear, sometimes the jokes write themselves.

It's unlikely that Trump can just declare the creation of a new department without Congress's approval, so it might be that this will be some sort of advisory board -- or considering the current Congress, maybe they'll just rubber-stamp it.  Whatever form it takes, Musk has already promised to cut two trillion dollars from the federal budget, which is going to be tricky because the discretionary budget is only around 1.7 trillion dollars.

But Musk's grasp on reality is such that he considers the loss of three-quarters of the users of Twitter since he took over a sign of his excellent business acumen, so why not?

What's most amusing about this one is that apparently Musk is already rubbing Trump the wrong way, and there are signs that his stay in the administration might be under half a Scaramucci long.  It's unsurprising when you think about it; there's no way in hell Musk and Trump could share the limelight.  There can only be one egotistical, sociopathic man-baby getting the praise, or else sparks start to fly.  What I wonder is what will happen when they have a serious falling out; Musk's way smarter than Trump (not that this is a high bar), and if he starts using his obscene amounts of wealth to sabotage Trump's agenda, things could get ugly fast.

Then there's the nominee for Secretary of Defense, Pete Hegseth.  At first, tapping Hegseth struck many people as a puzzling WTF moment; his sole qualification seemed to be that he'd been a host on Fox & Friends.  But further inquiry into Hegseth's background found that there's something darker behind this choice.  Hegseth has frightening ties to the Christofascist movement, especially the "Reformed Reconstructionists" (nicknamed the "TheoBros"), who advocate laws based on Christian supremacy, male dominance, and "building the Kingdom of God on Earth."  A sign of his beliefs is his tattoo someone found an image of:

"Deus Vult" ("God Wills It") was the rallying cry of the Crusaders, and has been taken over by the Christian Dominionists -- who want laws passed requiring Christianity as a prerequisite for holding elected office.

The Environmental Protection Agency is going to be run by New York State congressman Lee Zeldin, whose definition of "protection" is "deregulate the absolute fuck out of everything."  Zeldin has strong ties to the fossil fuel and auto industries, and basically wants to repeal any legislation holding back oil and natural gas drilling.  "While protecting access to clean air and water," Zeldin said, almost as an afterthought, although how he plans on doing both simultaneously is a mystery to everyone, probably including himself.

Then there's Mike Huckabee -- who stated "there's no such thing as a Palestinian" -- as ambassador to Israel.  Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has been nominated for Secretary of the Department of Health and Human Services; in a speech Trump said he was going to let RFK "go wild on health care."  The man is an antivaxxer, a conspiracy theorist who said that COVID-19 was genetically engineered to spare Jews and Chinese people, and promotes a whole shelf full of fringe-y "alt-med therapies."  He, in fact, seems simply to be an all-around general-purpose wacko, whose extreme anti-science views and determination to spread them was directly responsible for a measles epidemic in Samoa that killed dozens of children.  

And how about Tulsi Gabbard, who called media coverage of the January 6 coup attempt "sensationalized," and labeled Trump's 34 felony convictions as "persecution," who has been nominated for Director of National Intelligence despite having zero experience in intelligence (in both senses of the word).  Representative Abigail Spanberger, a former CIA officer, said about Gabbard, "Not only is she ill-prepared and unqualified, but she traffics in conspiracy theories and cozies up to dictators like Bashar-al Assad and Vladimir Putin.  As a member of the House Intelligence Committee, I am deeply concerned about what this nomination portends for our national security.  My Republican colleagues with a backbone should speak out."

But of course they won't, because no one questions Dear Leader.

Perhaps worst of all (at least so far -- heaven only knows what other hideous revelations await in this warped and surreal horror movie), there's the nomination of Florida Representative Matt Gaetz for Attorney General, which may have moved Trump onto shaky ground even with some of his supporters.  Gaetz has been the subject of investigation for having sex with a minor and for child sex trafficking, so putting him in the position of Attorney General -- the top legal advisor to the president, who oversees all issues of law enforcement nationally -- is a horrifying choice.  (I heard an interview with one Republican on the radio this morning who was one hundred percent supportive of Gaetz, and who said that one positive result of the nomination would be shutting down the investigation into Gaetz's actions -- further evidence that the majority of the GOP have more of a problem with a child being queer than they do with a child being raped.)  At least there were two Republicans, who (for obvious reasons) declined to be named, who said they were "stunned and disgusted" by the pick, and that "we wanted him out of the House, but this isn't what we had in mind."

Oh, and Republican Senator Susan Collins went so far as to say she was "shocked" by Gaetz's nomination, thus exceeding her previous most-overwrought emotional state, which was "concerned."  I'm sure she'll even make a frowny-face as she votes "yes" on confirming him.

What's coming?  I'd have said his next likely move was to put Marjorie Taylor Greene in charge of the Department of Education, but he's planning on closing that.  So MTG will have to cool her heels in the House of Representatives for a while longer.  Maybe the My Pillow guy can become the head of the Department of Homeland Security or Surgeon General or something.  I dunno.

The only glimmer of hope I can find in all this -- and it's a slim one -- is that his choices for cabinet members are, one and all, so dramatically unqualified that they're likely to resemble the Keystone Kops more than they do the Wehrmacht.  The problem is, as the entire mess implodes, it can do a lot of damage, depriving American citizens of services they depend on, and in the case of Kennedy and HHS, actually killing people.  As usual, the GOP is the Party of Small Government Until They Want Large Government.  Cutting services to ordinary Americans, defunding public education, destroying health services and medical care, deregulating industry, and killing environmental standards, that's all fine and dandy; but let's get the government into libraries, schools, and people's bedrooms, and along the way get the church into everything.

So those of you who voted for Trump -- I hope you're happy with the chaos that's about to descend.  It's grimly satisfying to know that with Republican control of the Executive Branch, the Senate, the Supreme Court, and (likely) the House of Representatives, you people at least won't have the option of blaming the Democrats when things go to hell.

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History by proxy

In a study from Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, we learn something simultaneously fascinating and alarming; humanity's fingerprint on the globe is so clear that it can even track our wars, famines, and plagues -- back twenty-five centuries or more.

The whole thing was done using proxy records, which involve using indirect sources of evidence about the past to infer what conditions were like.  A commonly-employed one is using the constituents of air bubbles in amber and ice to make inferences about the global average air temperature at the time -- a technique that shows good agreement with the measurements of the same variable using other methods.

Here, in a team effort from the Desert Research Institute, the University of Oxford, the Norwegian Institute for Air Research, the University of Copenhagen, the University of Rochester, and the Alfred Wegener Institute for Polar and Marine Research, researchers studied ice cores from thirteen different locations in the polar northern hemisphere, and found that the levels of one contaminant in the ice -- lead -- was enough to parallel all of the major plagues and wars that occurred in Europe and northern Asia back to 800 B.C.E.

What they found is that lead concentrations in the ice rose when things were quiet and prosperous, probably due to an expansion of smelting operations for items like lead seams for stained-glass windows and impurities in silver ore processing.  If the signature of wars was clear, the signature from plagues was blatantly obvious; the years following the Plague of Justinian (541-542 C.E.) and the two spikes of the Black Death (1349-1352 and 1620-1666 C.E.) were two of the lowest points on the graph.

"Sustained increases in lead pollution during the Early and High Middle Ages (about 800 to 1300 C.E.), for example, indicate widespread economic growth, particularly in central Europe as new mining areas were discovered in places like the German Harz and Erzgebirge Mountains," said study lead author Joseph McConnell of the Desert Research Institute.  "Lead pollution in the ice core records declined during the Late Middle Ages and Early Modern Period (about 1300 and 1680 C.E.) when plague devastated those regions, however, indicating that economic activity stalled."

Silver smelting plant in Katowice, Poland, ca. 1910 [Image is in the Public Domain]

The authors write:

Lead pollution in Arctic ice reflects midlatitude emissions from ancient lead–silver mining and smelting.  The few reported measurements have been extrapolated to infer the performance of ancient economies, including comparisons of economic productivity and growth during the Roman Republican and Imperial periods.  These studies were based on sparse sampling and inaccurate dating, limiting understanding of trends and specific linkages.  Here we show, using a precisely dated record of estimated lead emissions between 1100 B.C.E. and 800 C.E. derived from subannually resolved measurements in Greenland ice and detailed atmospheric transport modeling, that annual European lead emissions closely varied with historical events, including imperial expansion, wars, and major plagues.  Emissions rose coeval with Phoenician expansion, accelerated during expanded Carthaginian and Roman mining primarily in the Iberian Peninsula, and reached a maximum under the Roman Empire.  Emissions fluctuated synchronously with wars and political instability particularly during the Roman Republic, and plunged coincident with two major plagues in the second and third centuries, remaining low for >500 years.  Bullion in silver coinage declined in parallel, reflecting the importance of lead–silver mining in ancient economies.  Our results indicate sustained economic growth during the first two centuries of the Roman Empire, terminated by the second-century Antonine plague.

Of course, there's nowhere in the ice cores that has as high a level of lead contamination as recently-deposited ice does.  "We found an overall 250 to 300-fold increase in Arctic lead pollution from the start of the Middle Ages in 500 C.E. to 1970s," said Nathan Chellman, a doctoral student at the Desert Research Institute, and co-author on the study.  "Since the passage of pollution abatement policies, including the 1970 Clean Air Act in the United States, lead pollution in Arctic ice has declined more than 80 percent.  Still, lead levels are about 60 times higher today than they were at the beginning of the Middle Ages."

As an aside, the Trump administration v. 2.0 has already promised to drastically roll back regulations requiring industry to conform to reasonable pollution standards, including allowable levels of air pollution.  So look for the contaminants in ice -- and in your lungs -- to spiral upward once again.

But hey, if the price of eggs goes down, then fuck the environment, amirite?  

Of course I'm right.  Nothing to worry about.  MAGA FTW!

Ahem.  Back to reality.

As I've pointed out (repeatedly), what we are doing does have a measurable, quantifiable effect on the environment, and studies like McConnell et al. should be a significant wake-up call.  And as I've also pointed out, it probably won't.  It's all too easy for people to say, "Meh, what do I care about a little lead in Arctic ice?  So it bothers a few seals and polar bears.  Too bad for them."  And continue with our throw-away, gas-guzzling, conspicuous-consumption lifestyles.

It's cold comfort knowing that when the aliens come here in a thousand years to find out why the Earth is barren, they'll be able to figure it out by looking at the traces we left behind in the ice, soils, rocks, and air.

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The world of the trickster

Sometimes I run across a piece of research that is just so charming I have to tell you about it.

This particular one comes from the European University of St. Petersburg, where anthropologist and folklorist Yuri Berezkin has been working on tracking down the origins of trickster myths worldwide.  Every culture seems to have them -- characters from folk tales who are clever, wily, getting themselves into and then deftly out of trouble, often helping we humans out as they go (although we're the butt of the joke just as frequently; one of the persistent themes is that tricksters may be dashing and funny, but they can't be trusted).

I remember first coming across trickster myths when I was a kid, and had a positive obsession with mythology.  Loki, from Norse mythology, was a trickster of a more malevolent kind; the Greek god Hermes was the messenger of Olympus, but got his start as a small child stealing his brother Apollo's sacred cattle; and Coyote, a character in the stories of many Indigenous American cultures, one that was generally more benevolent to his human acquaintances.  When as a teenager, I read Richard Adams's amazing novel Watership Down -- in the characters' tales of the wise and daring El-Ahrairah (his name means "The Prince With a Thousand Enemies," translated from Lapine), I recognized the tropes right away.  El-Ahrairah is courageous, sometimes to the point of foolhardiness; out for his own gain and that of his friends, even if it means breaking the rules; not above taking every opportunity to make his foes look like idiots; fiercely loyal to the weak and powerless who call on him for help.

What Berezkin found is that trickster figures fall into three broad categories: fox/coyote/jackal, the most common, found throughout Europe, Siberia, East Asia, North Africa, much of central and eastern North America, and the Andes region down into Patagonia; hare/rabbit, found in the tales from southeast Asia and sub-Saharan Africa (from which it jumped to North America via the slave trade; thus the Bre'r Rabbit tales, and ultimately, Bugs Bunny); and raven/crow, found in northwestern North America and across central Canada, far eastern Siberia, and a few spots in east Asia and Australia.

Coyote the Trickster (Edward Curtis, ca. 1915) [Image is in the Public Domain]

What's fascinating is that it appears that as people moved, they carried their stories with them, but upon settling in new areas, simply applied the same stories to a different set of anthropomorphized animals, based on whatever wildlife lived in the new region.  (For example, as Indigenous Americans moved from the Northwest into the Plains, their stories remained similar in theme, but they substituted Coyote for Raven.)

Berezkin writes:

The existence of two major zones of trickster tales in Eurasia and Africa, one with the fox/jackal and another with the hare/rabbit, seems to reject the differentiation of Homo sapiens populations after entering Eurasia from Africa.  During the Last Glacial Maximum (LGM) the Pacific borderlands of Asia and the northern/continental Eurasia were isolated from each other by sparsely populated mountainous and desert areas.  Each of the major zones populated by modern people during the LGM produced its own cultural forms.  When the LGM was over, the bearers of both cultural complexes took part in the peopling of the New World.

Humans have been storytellers for a very long time.  If Berezkin is right, trickster stories go back at least to the Last Glacial Maximum, which is on the order of twenty thousand years ago.  How much older they are than that is anyone's guess, but given how widespread they are, and the commonalities between them worldwide, they might be twice that old or more.

So the next time you tell folk tales to your children, or read mythical accounts of the derring-do, cleverness, and craftiness of figures like Prometheus and Anansi and Kokopelli and Veles, you are participating in a tradition that far antedates written language, and has been passed down through the oral tradition back into a shadowy and unknown past.  You are helping to keep alive something that unites every culture on Earth.

I think Coyote would be proud.

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