Before I got into this whole folklore thing, I’d always wondered what a wurm was. I mean, just look at the darned things. Big, greasy snakes with button eyes and, not infrequently, a pair (at least) of darling horns. Some of them burrow through the earth on a constant quest for, well, earth (see Trench Wurm, Dirtcoil Wurm, Mungha Wurm, Fallow Wurm, and Ole Worm) while others, primarily those with horns that make burrowing impracticable, just muck about in the forest.
Wurms, as you’ve surely already guessed, are a part of Northern European folklore. The fact that Magic calls them wurms is, however, a bit misleading. In tradition, these fellows are simply worms or, the Nordic equivalent, orm. Three distinct categories of worms can be derived from tradition. The first of these, the fairy tale and mythological worm (in Danish, the famed Midgard Serpent is MidgÃ¥rdsormen), doesn’t really concern us.
The other two types of worm may well be physiologically identical to each other, but in folk belief, they play slightly different roles. The most common of these is the worm that settles itself around some object of value, typically a church or a well. Less frequent, at least in folklore of the last five hundred or so years, is the worm which roves around and eats things. It must be noted that, unlike Nordic-style Dragons (for example, Tolkein’s Smaug) and the non-monstrous fairies of folklore, worms possess no real intelligence. They’re just large, territorial predators.
Tradition holds that on my home island of Ærø, a folkloric worm of the first type once made a nuisance of itself in the village of Rise. What follows is an edited translation of the amateur folklorist Tove Kjærboe’s version of the tale:
“At the place where the church was erected, there lived a monstrous worm that breathed fire and glowing steam from its mouth and was a great plague to the people of the community. The church was built within its domain, and naturally, this caused problems. When the church’s graveyard started being used, the worm took up the most unappetizing of habits: At night, it dug up the fresh graves and ate the corpses. People tried to protect the dead by setting huge stones over the graves but this did nothing to hinder the monster. Eventually, the community decided that the worm should be killed. A long time passed before anything was done. Then, it became known that a number of farmers had, in the strictest secrecy, raised a bull calf to fight against the monster.” As it turns out, the bull overcame the worm with ease. Unfortunately, after the calf had slain its opponent, it turned its sights on its handlers and killed all three of them.
This story is a prime example of what’s called a migratory legend (that is, a precise piece of folk belief that exists in many unconnected places). Indeed, this same story with few variations can be told of any number of churches in Great Britain and Scandinavia. The fact that the bull which is to fight the worm is usually a pure white, flawless specimen of its kind suggests some connection with ancient sacrificial rituals centered around churches and wells, the two most sacred sites to Northern Eruopeans of the Middle Ages. This migratory legend is merely an example; the vast majority of legends are widespread and cannot be explained simply by communication of stories from one society to another. Today, the process by which pieces of folk belief become universal to a region is still unexplained.
The second category of folkloric worm, the roving monster, is not quite as arbitrary as the first. The dragon that Saint George killed was probably a worm of this type, and as hinted at by the numerous saints’ legends of dragon-slaying, the beasts were generally the offspring of societal sin. Probably the best known worm legend in this vein is that of the Lambton Worm. Briefly told, the young nobleman, John Lambton, foolishly went fishing on a Sunday, the holy day, in North England’s River Wear. He caught a small newt and, disgusted by it, he threw it into the well. After some years away with the crusades, John returns home to find that the newt has grown into a worm that terrorizes the community by eating farm animals and small children. In 1867, C.M. Leumane wrote a song about the legend that has been performed by a number of popular folk musicians, most recently The Tossers. The song, if you can get past the dialect, is quite amusing:
One Sunday mornin’ Lambton went a-fishing in the Wear;
An’ catched a fish upon he’s heuk
He thowt leuk’t vary queer.
But whatt’n a kind ov fish it was young Lambton cuddent tell-
He waddn’t fash te carry’d hyem,
So he hoyed it in a well
Chorus
Whisht! lads, haad yor gobs, An’ aa’ll tell ye aall an aaful story,
Whisht! lads, haad yor gobs, An’ Aa’ll tel ye ‘boot the worm.
Noo Lambton felt inclined te gan
An’ fight i’ foreign wars.
He joined a troop ov Knights that cared
For nowther woonds nor scars,
An’ ‘off he went te Palestine
Where queer things him befel,
An varry seun forgat aboot
The queer worm i’ the well.
Chorus
But the worm got fat an’ growed an’ growed,
An’ growed an aaful suze;
He’d greet big teeth, a greet big gob,
An greet big goggle eyes.
An’ when at neets he craaled aboot
Te pick up bits o’ news,
If he felt dry upon the road,
He milked a dozen coos.
Chorus
This feorful worm would often feed
On caalves an’ lambs an’ sheep,
An’ swally little bairns alive
When they laid doon te sleep.
An when he’d eaten aall he cud
An’ he had had he’s fill,
He craaled away an’ lapped he’s tail
Ten times roond Pensher Hill.
Chorus
The news ov this myest aaful worm
An’ his queer gannins on
Seun crossed the seas, gat te the ears
Ov brave an’ bowld Sor John.
So hyem he cam an’ catched the beast
An’ cut ‘im in twe haalves,
An’ that seun stooped hes eatin’ bairns
An’ sheep an’ lambs an’ caalves.
Chorus
So noo ye knaa hoo aall the foaks
On byeth sides ov the Wear
Lost lots o’ sheep an’ lots o’ sleep
An leeved i’ mortal feor.
So let’s hev one te brave Sor John
That kept the bairns frae harm,
Saved coos an’ calves by myekin’ haalves
O’ the famis Lambton Worm.
As far as the British Isles are concerned, nearly all folkloric creatures that we may be tempted to call dragons take the form of worms. That means that they’re simply monstrous snakes that rarely have wings or legs. In Scandinavia, the situation is more complex as both worms and dragons are native to tradition. Nevertheless, whereas winged dragons are primarily limited to mythology, worms are present in both Scandinavian mythology and folklore.
“And what,” you may ask, “about those Magic wurms that burrow through the earth? Those Crushes of Wurms? Where do they come from?” This one’s easy to answer: Frank Herbert.
Skål!
Adam Grydehøj
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