A pair of necropants hanging in the
Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft
Photo: Sigurður Atlason
Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft
Photo: Sigurður Atlason
I. Opening Remarks
I suspect most people have a favourite piece in their wardrobe - a jacket, a shirt, a pair of trousers (or maybe even just a belt or tie) - that they like to wear in the belief it will bring them good fortune or provide protection in a potentially fraught situation (such as a job interview or first date).
Indeed, some would-be lovers like to have on their lucky underwear when going on a big night out, thereby magically increasing their chances of securing a sexual partner.
This belief in the power of enchanted clothing has deep roots in mythology; one might recall Aphrodite's magic girdle, Joseph's coat of many colours, or Thor's power-belt, for example. Even Jesus - the least stylish of all gods - had his favourite pair of sandals; items that were among the most important of holy relics in the Middle Ages and which are now displayed in Prüm Abbey, Germany.
But, as a thanatologist and philosopher on the catwalk, what really interests me are not Jesus creepers, but necropants, or, as they are sometimes termed, corpse trousers ...
II. Nábrók
These ghoulish garments are, as the name suggests, a pair of britches made from the skin of a dead man and believed within Icelandic folkore to guarantee the wearer an endless supply of money.
To make a pair is relatively straightforward, though probably not something your tailor will be overly keen to run up for you (and which also present a nightmare for drycleaners). Firstly - and this is crucial - you must enter into an agreement with a living subject to posthumously make use of his skin in this fashion. Without consent, the necropants will not work their magic.
Having got permission, you are then free to dig up the deceased's corpse and flay the skin from the lower-body, carefully ensuring that it's removed intact and in one piece. Then, just as carefully, you can step into your new necropants, which should fit like a glove - or a macabre pair of tights.
Next, in order to activate the grisly garment, you need to place a coin that has been stolen from a widow in the scrotum along with a piece of paper on which has been drawn a magical symbol that is called a nábrókarstafur and looks like this:
If everything has been done correctly, then you'll soon discover that the scrotum is full of money and can never be emptied, no matter how much you spend, providing the original coin is not removed.
The only problem is that in order to ensure the salvation of your soul, you must eventually remove the necropants. And in order to do that, you must first convince someone else to take ownership and step into them as soon as you step out - which, I assume, despite the financial rewards, might not be so easy.
After all, many people are creeped out by the thought of wearing a dead man's shoes and this takes things to a whole nother level ...
Note: readers might also be interested in a sister post to this one which discusses the revolt into magical style with reference to Salvador Dalí's veston aphrodisiaque (1936): click here.
But, as a thanatologist and philosopher on the catwalk, what really interests me are not Jesus creepers, but necropants, or, as they are sometimes termed, corpse trousers ...
II. Nábrók
These ghoulish garments are, as the name suggests, a pair of britches made from the skin of a dead man and believed within Icelandic folkore to guarantee the wearer an endless supply of money.
To make a pair is relatively straightforward, though probably not something your tailor will be overly keen to run up for you (and which also present a nightmare for drycleaners). Firstly - and this is crucial - you must enter into an agreement with a living subject to posthumously make use of his skin in this fashion. Without consent, the necropants will not work their magic.
Having got permission, you are then free to dig up the deceased's corpse and flay the skin from the lower-body, carefully ensuring that it's removed intact and in one piece. Then, just as carefully, you can step into your new necropants, which should fit like a glove - or a macabre pair of tights.
Next, in order to activate the grisly garment, you need to place a coin that has been stolen from a widow in the scrotum along with a piece of paper on which has been drawn a magical symbol that is called a nábrókarstafur and looks like this:
If everything has been done correctly, then you'll soon discover that the scrotum is full of money and can never be emptied, no matter how much you spend, providing the original coin is not removed.
The only problem is that in order to ensure the salvation of your soul, you must eventually remove the necropants. And in order to do that, you must first convince someone else to take ownership and step into them as soon as you step out - which, I assume, despite the financial rewards, might not be so easy.
After all, many people are creeped out by the thought of wearing a dead man's shoes and this takes things to a whole nother level ...
Note: readers might also be interested in a sister post to this one which discusses the revolt into magical style with reference to Salvador Dalí's veston aphrodisiaque (1936): click here.
