The Legend

The story of the Edessan Image is related in a mid-fourth-century Syriac manuscript, The Doctrine of Addai. It tells how King Abgar of Edessa (now Urfa in south-central Turkey), afflicted with leprosy, sent a messenger named Ananias to deliver a letter to Jesus requesting a cure. In the letter (according to a tenth-century report [qtd. in Wilson 1979, 272–290]), Abgar sends “greetings to Jesus the Savior who has come to light as a good physician in the city of Jerusalem” and who, he has heard, “can make the blind see, the lame walk . . . heal those who are tortured by chronic illnesses, and . . . raise the dead.” Abgar decided that Jesus either is God himself or the Son of God, and so he entreats Jesus to “come to me and cure me of my disease.” He notes that he has heard of the Jews’ plan to harm Jesus and adds, “I have a very small city, but it is stately and will be sufficient for us both to live in peace.”

Abgar, so the story goes, instructed Ananias that if he were unable to persuade Jesus to return with him to Edessa, he was to bring back a portrait instead. But while Ananias sat on a rock drawing the portrait, Jesus summoned him, divining his mission and the fact of the letter Ananias carried. After reading it, Jesus responded with a letter of his own, writing, “Blessed are you, Abgar, in that you believed in me without having actually seen me.” Jesus said that while he must fulfill his mission on earth, he would later send one of his disciples to cure Abgar’s suffering and to “also provide your city with a sufficient defense to keep all your enemies from taking it.” After entrusting the letter to Ananias, “The Savior then washed his face in water, wiped off the moisture that was left on the towel that was given to him, and in some divine and inexpressible manner had his own likeness impressed on it.” Jesus gave Ananias the towel to present to Abgar as “consolation” for his disease.

Quite a different version of the story (see Wilson 1979, 277–278) holds that the image was impressed with Jesus’ bloody sweat during his agony in the Garden of Gethsemane (Luke 22: 44). (This anticipates the still later tradition of Veronica’s Veil, wherein Veronica, a woman from Jerusalem, was so moved by Jesus’ struggling with his cross on the way to execution that she wiped his face on her veil or kerchief, thus imprinting it with his bloody sweat. Actually, the term veronica is simply a corruption of the Latin words vera iconica, “true images” [Nickell 2007, 71–76].) In this second version of the story, Jesus’ disciple Thomas held the cloth for safekeeping until Jesus ascended to heaven, whereupon it was then sent to King Abgar.

Significantly, the earliest mention of the Abgar/Jesus correspondence—an account of circa ad 325 by Bishop Eusebius—lacks any mention of the holy image (Nickell 1998, 45). Also, in one revealing fourth-century text of The Doctrine of Addai, the image is described not as of miraculous origin but merely as the work of Hannan (Ananias), who “took and painted a portrait of Jesus in choice paints, and brought it with him to his lord King Abgar” (qtd. in Wilson 1979, 130).

Historian Sir Steven Runciman has denounced all versions of the legend as apocryphal: “It is easy to show that the story of Abgar and Jesus as we now have it are untrue, that the letters contain phrases copied from the gospels and are framed according to the dictates of later theology” (qtd. in Sox 1978, 52).

The Mandylion’s Journey

Nevertheless, Runciman adds, “that does not necessarily invalidate the tradition on which the story was based ...” (qtd. in Sox 1978, 52). The best evidence in the case would be the image itself, but which image? There have been several, each claimed to be the miraculous original. Obviously, only one could be authentic, but does it even still exist?

The Mandylion has a gap in its provenance (or historical record) of several centuries. It was reportedly transferred in 944 to Constantinople, capital of the Byzantine Empire, along with the purported letter from Jesus to King Abgar. The image may once have been incorporated into a triptych of the tenth century. Its side panels, now reposing in the monastery of Saint Catherine on Mount Sinai, illustrate the pious legend of Abgar receiving the image. Interestingly, the panels portray Abgar as having the features of Byzantine Emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitos.

After the Venetians conquered Constantinople in 1204 during the Fourth Crusade, the Mandylion was reportedly transferred to the West, where its history becomes confused. Three traditions develop, each associated with a different “original” of the image:

1. Parisian Mandylion. Allegedly obtained by Emperor Baldwin II and sold or donated by him in 1247, this image was eventually acquired by King Louis IX (1214–1270), who had it installed in the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. It was lost in 1792, apparently destroyed during the French Revolution (“Mandylion” 2008; Wilson 1991, 129).
2. Genoese Mandylion. Although this image reportedly can be traced back to the tenth century, its verifiable history dates from 1362 when then Byzantine Emperor John V donated it to Genoa’s Doge Leonardo Montaldo. After Montaldo died in 1384, the Mandylion was bequeathed to the Genoese Church of St. Bartholomew of the Armenians, arriving in 1388. It remains there, displayed in a gilt-silver, enameled frame of the fourteenth-century Palaeologan style. The image itself is on a cloth that has been glued to a wooden board (“Mandylion” 2008; “Image” 2008; Wilson 1991, 113–114, 137–138).
3. Vatican Mandylion. This image (figure 1) has no certain history before the sixteenth century, when it was known to be kept at the convent of San Silvestro in Capito. In 1517, the nuns were reportedly forbidden to exhibit it, so it would not compete with the church’s Veronica. And in 1587 it was mentioned by one Cesare Baromio. In 1623 it received its silver frame, donated by Sister Dionora Chiarucci. It remained at San Silvestro until 1870 when, during the war that completed the unification of Italy, Pope Pius IX had it removed to the Vatican for safekeeping. Except when traveling, it still reposes in the Vatican’s Matilda chapel (“Mandylion” 2008; “Image” 2008; Wilson 1991, 139–140).

These are the three Edessan Mandylions that have been claimed as original. Others—such as a seventeenth-century Mandylion icon in Buckingham Palace in London, surrounded by painted panels (Wilson 1979, 111)—need not concern us here.

Image Analysis

The Vatican now concedes (in the words of the official Vatican Splendors exhibit catalog [“Mandylion” 2008]) that “... the Mandylion is no longer enveloped today by any legend of its origin as an image made without the intervention of human hands....”

In the summer of 1996, the Vatican Museum’s chemistry and painting restoration laboratory analyzed their Mandylion. It was taken out of its baroque reliquary and removed from its silver-sheet frame (made in 1623). Glued to a cedar support panel was the linen cloth on which the face of Christ was clearly “painted,” although the non-destructive tests were insufficient to specifically confirm that the painting medium was tempera.

While “the thin layer of pigment showed no traces of overpainting,” there were nonetheless “alterations in the execution of the nose, mouth, and eyes” that were “observed in the x-rays and thermographic and reflectographic photographs.” Specifically, the nose had once been shorter, “so that the image originally must have had a different physiognomy” (“Mandylion” 2008, 57–58).

The museums’ scholars learned (according to “Mandylion” 2008, 56):

The version in the Vatican and the one in Genoa are almost wholly identical in their representation, form, technique, and measurements. Indeed, they must at some point in their history have crossed paths, for the rivet holes that surround the Genoese image coincide with those that attach the Vatican Mandylion to the cut-out sheet of silver that frames the image. ... So this silver frame, or one like to it, must also have originally covered the panel in Genoa.

Iconography

The Mandylion clearly has been copied and recopied, as if the different versions were just so many “icons” (as they are now called). It is not surprising that many of them appeared. According to Thomas Humber (1978, 92), “Soon the popular demand for more copies representing the ‘true likeness’ of Christ was such that selected artists were allowed or encouraged to make duplications.” Indeed, “there was, conveniently, another tradition supporting the copies: the Image could miraculously duplicate itself.”

Because icons were traditionally painted on wood, the fact that both the Vatican and Genoese Mandylions are on linen suggests that each was intended to be regarded as the original Edessan Image. That image was described in the tenth-century account as “a moist secretion without coloring or painter’s art,” an “impression” of Jesus’ face on “linen cloth” that—as is the way of legend—“eventually became indestructible” (qtd. in Wilson 1979, 273).

While the original image appears lost to history, Ian Wilson (1979, 119–121) goes so far as to argue that the Edessan Image has survived—indeed, that it is nothing less than the Shroud of Turin, the alleged burial cloth of Jesus! To the obvious rejoinder that the early Mandylions bore only a facial image whereas the Turin “shroud” bears full length frontal and dorsal images, Wilson argues that the latter may have been folded in such a way as to exhibit only the face. Also there is an eighth-century account of King Abgar receiving a cloth with the image of Jesus’ whole body (“Image” 2008). Unfortunately, the Turin cloth has no provenance prior to the mid-fourteenth century when—according to a later bishop’s report to the pope—an artist confessed it was his handiwork. Indeed, the image is rendered in red ocher and vermilion tempera paint—not as a positive image but as a negative one, as if it were a bodily imprint. Moreover, the cloth has been radiocarbon dated to the time of the forger’s confession (Nickell 1998). (Another image-bearing shroud—of Besançon, France—did not come from Constantinople in 1204 as alleged but was clearly a sixteenth-century copy of the Turin fake [Nickell 1998, 64].)

The evidence is lacking, therefore, that any of these figured cloths ever bore a “not-made-by-hands” image. Instead, they have evolved from unlikely legend to Edessan portrait to self-duplicating Mandylions to proliferating “Veronicas” to full-length body image—all supposedly of the living Jesus—and thence to imaged “shrouds” with simulated frontal and dorsal bodily imprints. Finally, modern science and scholarship have revealed the truth about these pious deceptions.

Acknowledgments

My wife Diana Harris accompanied and assisted me on this investigation. I am also grateful to Alan Zoppa for computer enhancement of the photo, which was taken under extremely low-light conditions.

References

• Humber, Thomas. 1978. The Sacred Shroud. New York: Pocket Books.
• Image of Edessa. 2008. From Wikipedia, available online at http://enwikipedia.org/wiki/Image_of_Edessa; accessed September 5, 2008.
• Mandylion of Edessa. 2008. Vatican Splendors: From Saint Peter’s Basilica, The Vatican Museums and the Swiss Guard. Vatican City State: Governatorato, 55–58.
• Nickell, Joe. 1998. Inquest on the Shroud of Turin: Latest Scientific Findings. Amherst, N.Y.: Prometheus Books.
• Sox, H. David. 1978. File on the Shroud. London: Coronet Books.
• Wilson, Ian. 1979. The Shroud of Turin: The Burial Cloth of Jesus Christ? Revised ed. Garden City, N.Y.: Image Books.
• —. 1991. Holy Faces, Secret Places: An Amazing Quest for the Face of Jesus. New York: Doubleday.

After consuming a table full of artery-clogging delights and good conversation at Hunt’s Battlefield Fries, we walked around town. I was excited to show our friend Ken Biddle (author of Orbs or Dust, a book about false positives) the newest ghost-themed tourist traps. It is always entertaining to watch him display his photo analysis skills to the orb-mongers and camera-strap aficionados who line Baltimore Street like some alternate universe version of the boardwalk, minus the ocean. The tour guides stand in front of the shops hawking their tours with overly enthusiastic salesmanship typically reserved for the red light district in Amsterdam. Somehow, the scene along this street appears even seedier. At least after you pay for a hooker and she closes her velvet curtains to hide you from the street, you have a reasonable expectation of some form of satisfaction. Here, you are only guaranteed to feast from a platter of overcooked fallacies, badly seasoned photography, and greasy charlatanism that inevitably leads to mental indigestion.

We wandered away from the more crowded area to Ecto Hauntings, one of the newest ghost tour companies in town. The shop, which suspiciously smelled of cat urine and wet dog, offered a variety of goods, including reenactment clothing and accessories, tickets for ghost tours, and paranormal paraphernalia. The front wall was lined with photos of dust, pollen, rain, hair, and camera straps, all known in certain circles as proof positive of the afterlife. I was immediately drawn to the counter, where they were selling a single bead tied on a string for $16.95. This item was packaged in a plastic bag with a little brochure titled “IT—Intuition Technology.” The front of the brochure claimed that one could use this item to detect spirit energy. Um, okay. I saw the rest of the group standing at the front of the store chuckling at a homemade, stapled-together booklet. As I approached, I heard Kenny say, “Everything you need to know to begin paranormal investigation ... and it’s only six pages long.” Wow. Everything you need to know, all in six pages ... a veritable bargain at the price of $6.95. And you don’t even need to be able to read very well. I figured it couldn’t get much worse than that, and we all exited the shop giggling like a gaggle of schoolgirls.

We walked around the corner to a shop with no name. There was signage, but it was written with a sharpie on cardboard. It advertised “Nightly Ghosts Talks” (figure 1). What kind of grammar is that? I looked at the sign on the very bottom of the door, underneath the very clear and professionally placed decals that showed that they accept MasterCard and Visa, reading “Come in and enjoy our FREE (museum)” (figure 2). Priorities, I suppose.

A self-proclaimed grammar Nazi, I am always on the lookout for printed and posted material that does not adhere to the established conventions of the English language. I am annoyed and fascinated by such blatant errors and always obtain some sort of masochistic satisfaction from noticing them and pointing them out to those around me. Was I to ascertain that we were going to enjoy something called a “free”? Was the museum an afterthought or a further explanation of what “free” meant, as his use of parentheses would indicate? Unsure of what to expect, we walked in the door.

Upon entering, we figured out that the owner claims to have two haunted objects in his museum. The rest of the objects are there as distracters in a modified game of Where’s Waldo, where guests are supposed to guess or “sense” which objects have spirits attached to them. Anyone sensing correctly is entered into a monthly drawing for a K-2 meter. I wondered why someone so sensitive would need a K-2 meter. And then I wondered how the owner determined which two objects were haunted in the first place.

From my own personal experiences I’ve had while teaching in faith-based schools, I’ve seen that religion and skepticism can coexist. I’ve attended skep-

tic conferences where skeptical people happily discuss their faith (Christianity, Juda­ism, etc.) over dinner; I’ve even heard the responses of those same people when presenters on a skeptic conference stage think they’re talking to atheist-only skeptics! Sure, the demographic of any sample-size of skeptics at a skeptical gathering will most likely contain plenty of atheists, but we cannot claim that those who hold religious beliefs don’t stand along with them.

My first experience with the “deist skeptic” question came from attending The Amazing Meet!ng 3 back in 2005. I recall some of the discussions that stemmed from that time—Penn Jillette made inflammatory comments about religious people from the stage, Julia Sweeney discussed her own journey of faith, and we spoke in person with the very approachable Richard Dawkins. Naturally, the question of whether skeptics could believe in God came up again and again, long after TAM3 ended, among skeptics online and in personal discussions.

There was even a panel discussion at TAM4 about deist skeptics—a podcast episode featuring Hal Bidlack on deist skeptics was presented on Skepticality. I’m certain that there are more and more people over time who will point out that Martin Gardner, the late Jerry Andrus, Harry Houdini, and even employees and forum moderators of the James Randi Educational Foundation believe in the existence of a god. I probably don’t have to point out the millions of blog entries online that approach skepticism with atheist leanings, but where are the blogs that acknowledge “the other side”? Where are the blogs that talk about how atheism and skepticism are not one and the same?

When it came to writing about religious and deist skeptics, I couldn’t resist writing to my friend Mark Henn about our shared experiences. He attended TAM3 and 4, was selected as a Fulbright scholar in 2008, and is a professor of psychology in New Hamp­shire. You can see his contribution to the first Skeptic Zone podcast episode as the interviewer of Mark “Gravy” Roberts, who presented a post-mortem of the “9-11 truthers” movement.

Kylie: A few years back, we attended the Amaz!ng Meeting 4, where there was a debate all about “deist skeptics.” I had heard one criticism of that presentation was that it only featured emotionally-based arguments for “believing in god and yet being a skeptic.” Can one actually be a skeptic and a deist due to other reasons?

Mark: Of course! Skepticism is a process, not a conclusion. The conclusions we reach through critical evaluation must necessarily depend on the evidence that is there for us. American culture, as an example, is thoroughly saturated with belief in god. A skeptical thinker (I am picturing a child, adolescent, or even a young adult) could ask the people known to be trusted and legitimate authorities in his or her community for evidence and opinion and be provided with information that is biased toward belief in a god. How is this person supposed to know better? Given the information provided to this person (and that information alone), perhaps a good skeptic would be forced to conclude that a god does indeed exist!

After that, the same belief perseverance mechanisms that we all have kick in. Once a belief is accepted, a skeptic will be willing to abandon it for another if evidence insists …  but frankly, it would not be terribly adaptive for us to have our fundamental beliefs flap with each breeze. There is a reason for the requirement that “extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence,” and evolution found that out before Carl Sagan did. We do not change our fundamental beliefs easily; many of us do not change them at all.

I know many skeptics who pooh-pooh religious belief but who simultaneously have no problem believing in a causal free will. Indeed, they will actively defend this utterly irrational belief and belittle me for my correct stance!

Kylie: Yes, that’s something that is often said by the likes of Skeptic.com’s Michael Shermer and Junior Skeptic’s Daniel Loxton—that “skepticism is a process.” Sometimes I wonder if it’s said enough! I’ve occasionally come across a rather “gung-ho” approach of “we must challenge religious beliefs, that’s what skeptics are about: critical thinking equals skepticism equals atheism” that often seems more limiting than productive. Does that really get religious people, let alone people sympathetic to those who believe in a god or even just open to the possibility, on our side?

Mark: Of course, critical thought is not a requirement for atheism at all!  Atheism is simply the privative condition, the negatively defined “none of the above” category designating no particular religious faith.  An individual may choose to be an atheist based on a great deal of critical thought, very little thought, or no thought at all!  All it takes is not being a member of any of the positively-defined belief categories (Muslim, Jew, Christian, etc.).

Critical thinking is not a prerequisite for atheism, nor is a lack of critical thinking required for any religious belief.  There may be correlations, but the assumption you are examining is that of identity—that all atheists are critical thinkers and that no religious believers are.  That, of course, is just plain wrong.

Kylie: ah, I see.…

Mark: We must also bear in mind that it would be extraordinarily rare for one’s religious beliefs to actually, meaningfully, be challenged. Deistic belief is often criticized (by the atheist skeptics you speak of) as being unfalsifiable, which of course it is. Modern deism posits a “hands-off” god, a god that therefore never strongly contradicts one’s work in chemistry, physics, biology … let alone plumbing, programming, or politics. A superfluous god is not problematic in the way that an interventionist god is, and while such a god may not be a necessary element to one’s work, neither is such a god obviously contradicted by one’s everyday observations (“hand me the pipe wrench and offer up a burnt offering to Thoth, and we’ll have that leak fixed in no time!”).

Our perceptual systems are geared toward seeing correlations—seeing what goes with what (this is arguably the basis for a good many superstitions, such as the belief that the full moon is responsible for … any number of things, actually). We are much worse at seeing what does not go with what (“it’s not what you did; it’s what you didn’t do”). A god who does nothing is not noticed but is not actively contradicted by observation. In the absence of such a challenge, it is not surprising that there is little change in belief.

Kylie: After attending a local atheist meeting, I had someone question me about whether the former Australian Skeptic of the year, Dr. Karl, had an opinion about faith and science—so I took the opportunity to ask him for the Skeptic Zone podcast. He spoke on a recent episode about how a well-known scientist in Australia (Laurie Peak) divides his views on faith and science. He said that in his view faith and science were “orthogonal and separate”—and he could not see why a population saw a conflict between evolution and religious belief. So, what is the big issue?

Mark: There is a conflict because not all religious beliefs are orthogonal to science. Religious belief varies tremendously, and while some (by some accounts, the vast majority of) religious believers hold views that are indeed independent of science, some hold beliefs that are in clear opposition to the knowledge base of science. This number may be a small percentage of believers, but in some places they hold disproportionately great political or social influence.

Different areas of science, too, differ in their independence from or relevance to religious belief. Experimental psychology, for instance, with its subject matter of sensation, perception, memory, cognition, belief, learning, and more, is uniquely suited to evaluate the sorts of individual, personal experiences that many claim as the reason for their belief.

Kylie: We’re sometimes presented by ex­tremist views of faith—that it’s “damaging and dangerous,” perhaps akin to a form of abuse to expose children to religion. Can deist skeptics really challenge what is rapidly becoming a popular stereotype of “skeptic equals atheist” and contribute to promoting science and reason despite an assumption that “their beliefs come first/will trump skepticism”?

Mark: Can one? Certainly. There is no reason to exclude such a person. There should be no reason to specifically include this person, either, because non-deist skeptics should understand the psychology that can lead to the tremendous variety of skepticism and belief. (I suppose a deist skeptic could be just as blind to that, come to think of it. Far more important than some nominal category is the ability to understand that list above … memory, cognition, belief, etc.…)

Kylie: With that last question, I admit that I’ve taken the position that a skeptic must contribute to “science and reason.” Are there really any “requirements” for one to be a skeptic anyway? After all, there’re plenty of people who care about frauds, scams, who fight for consumer awareness and rights, and their religious beliefs don’t get in the way of this.

Mark: There must be—otherwise it would be synonymous with “human.” We always say, “skeptics say ‘show me the evidence,’” don’t we? Skeptics are not merely cynics; skeptics don’t say “I don’t believe it!” They say “what is the evidence for it?” and if there is sufficient evidence, they change their belief. This is why, in question 1, it is not at all difficult to allow for skeptical deists.

Just as “believing” does not imply belief in any and every god, “skepticism” can only be applied to the topics we apply it to. If we have no reason to doubt a particular fundamental belief, why should we actively examine it? A person may be the best at applying skeptical thought to, say, the methodological flaws in Sheldrake’s “sense of being stared at” protocol and yet have never once had reason to critically re-examine her or his belief in a god. Beyond this, there are the social reasons to remain a member of a religious group, above and beyond belief with every tenet that group holds. I suppose these are similar reasons to remain a member of skeptical groups.…

Kylie: Finally, what, in your view, would be the best way for skeptically minded people to view religion? Is it really our “job” to limit skepticism and its reach?

Mark: Religion is … human. It is not any more (or less) fundamentally human than any number of other social activities. There is, as William James wrote, a variety of religious experience; any simplistic explanation of belief will at best explain only a portion. On the other hand, we should not shrink from studying religious belief; it makes a wonderful lab rat. We believe any number of things that are not true; here we have the luxury of self-identified samples that systematically believe a similar set of things. And of course, skeptical individuals who happen to be religious may have a unique and valuable perspective. For example—at what point in her odyssey did Julia Sweeney cross the line from believer to skeptic? My answer—she started being a skeptic very early on and quit being a believer very late in the process. Most of the journey, she wore two hats.

Lake monsters: they’re not just for Loch Ness anymore! Honestly, if Lake Champlain can have one, why can’t Cayuga Lake? Even Seneca Lake, just one finger over, reported a sighting of a lake monster around 1900. The captain of the paddle-steamer rammed it and killed it, according to all the passengers, but when they tried to haul it aboard, the rope broke. Can we believe such a story, knowing that the alcohol content of the combined passengers’ blood could have sanitized every Ozzfest Tour porta-john?

Luring a lake monster away from another lake is going to be tough enough, so let’s simply take every lake monster sighting as true and not let any facts that could make things harder get in the way.

To be blunt, anyone who works for the Museum of the Earth should stop reading immediately. You’re not going to be much help in enticing a lake monster to Cayuga by telling us how a prehistoric creature, such as a plesiosaur, simply could not live for millions of years in a freshwater lake without being found or that a family of twenty would be necessary to prevent extinction or that the fish population in the lake couldn’t support a family of monsters or that monster sightings are probably tricks of the light, logs, giant eels, sturgeon, standing waves, boat wakes, or outright hoaxes, regardless of how true those arguments likely are.

So, we’ve determined now that lake monsters exist based on the fact that we want one for Cayuga Lake ... not the most scientific approach, but science has failed to prove lake monsters exist for eighty-plus years now, so that approach isn’t helping us. Hey, listen, I told you Museum of the Earth people to stop reading two paragraphs ago. Just use your Occam’s Razor to slice this page out of the paper and recycle it. For your information, a world-famous, justly beloved astronomer who lived right here in Ithaca never once wrote the exact words “I absolutely do not believe in the Loch Ness monster or other similar lake creatures” in most of his books! (Hey kids—with a few deft word choices, you can make any claim appear to have support!)

Now then. We’ll never get Nessie to jump Loch, she’s got way too good of a gig going over there. If we look somewhat more local, we might be able to seduce “Champ” away from Lake Champlain. While he also has a modicum of fame, it’s nowhere near Nessie’s, and he’s also very close by. That could backfire, however, since Lake Champlain is just a few hours northwest of us. If we got him to abandon Champlain for Cayuga, our neighbors near Champlain would be furious for the loss. They’d have to rename all their Champ-themed bars and team mascots, and it’s only a short drive down to here where annoyed Champlainians could come and spread a rumor that a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows with the original, unreleased ending is in the lake (in this version, Harry plays the “got your nose” trick on the wicked Voldemort, refusing to return the “nose” until he renounces evil).

What we’ll end up having to do is put together a great package to seduce a monster away from a lake where it feels unappreciated. And one of the main things that’ll help attract a monster to Cayuga Lake is a spectacular nickname, something catchy and memorable, something a monster would want to be called. The nickname is what often makes the difference between “local tall tale” and a money monster. “Nessie” rolls right out of the mouth and is quickly associated with Loch “Ness.” It also is just cute enough to be marketed as a stuffed animal. Lake Champlain went with “Champ.” That’s so-so, because it’s also an actual word that could be confused in conversation, as in: “I saw Champ!”

“Which one? Mohammad Ali? Kasparov? Navratilova? The Feldman’s dog?”

Cayuga Lake doesn’t provide much to offshoot in terms of names, though. “Cayugie” sounds like a nickname for a ballplayer from the 30s. “Cay” is a tad too short and ripe for misspelling with a “K.” “Cayugiathan” is a bit over-the-top dramatic.

So what will we do? If we don’t incorporate some part of “Cayuga” into the name, the market won’t associate the monster with “Cayuga Lake.” We can’t just name it “Mark” or “Eileen.” [Ok, maybe “Eileen.”]

Ithaca has been home to the famous before, and that might help convince a monster that we can handle the pressure. We welcomed the previously mentioned world-famous astronomer whose name I dare not write in such a vacuous story, both out of respect and for fear of pissing off the actual universe, which is bigger than me and might “get all hadron epoch” on my ass. We also hosted 1952 Ithaca College grad Gavin McLeod, who, as Captain Stubing, stole our hearts and let us find love for the price of a Princess Cruise. And Ricki Lake was an IC student for a short time in the late 80s, so we’ve even had prior experience with monsters.

Hang on a second.

I’ve just had a little look around the Internet, and it seems that there are hundreds of lakes claiming to have monsters. Looks like almost any body of water deep enough to float a rubber duck on is packing a plesiosaur. Scotland alone has eleven in addition to Nessie. Lake monsters are reported to ply the depths of lakes in Britain, Canada, the U.S., Argentina, Chile, Australia, China (seen as recently as June 17 in Sailimu Lake), Turkey, Sweden, Iceland, Ireland, Norway, Japan, Russia, Malaysia, Scotland, and even Kazakhstan, just for starters.

I’d thought lake monsters were rare, that one would make a lake exclusive, inimitable. But it turns out just the opposite is true: a lake without a monster is the rarity. So while Cayuga Lake does still possess the requisites to sustain Eileen, the lake is more unique without her. Wow. I feel like the kid in the movie who searches the world for something (love, home, the true meaning of a holiday) only to find out it was right where he began all along. A valuable lesson has been learned by that child, but what have I learned?

Cayuga Lake needs no monster to make it any more appealing. Mysterious creatures who vanish as quickly as they appear, leaving only an occasional fuzzy photo as evidence, probably bring more frustrating questions than thrilling intrigue and curiosity. But Buttermilk Falls would be an ideal home for a Bigfoot.

This piece originally appeared in the Ithaca Times newspaper in 2007 and is reprinted with kind permission.