Cunning folk

Lore & Background

In Scandinavia, the klok gumma ('wise woman') or klok gubbe ('wise man'), and collectively De kloka ('The Wise ones'), were usually elder members of the community who acted as folk healers and midwives as well as using folk magic such as magic rhymes. In Denmark, they were called klog mand and klog kone and collectively as kloge folk. Many Norwegian and Danish practitioners would have a copy of the 'Svartebok' (or 'black book'), a tome that, according to some, was written by Cyprianus, the Saint of Necromancers, and to others to have been the Sixth and Seventh books of the Bible left out of the official Old Testament. A formulary from a 'black book' recovered near Elverum contains formulas such as one f. Notably, the cunning woman Brigitta Andersdotter was hired by Queen Catherine Stenbock, not by Queen Margaret Leijonhufvud as sometimes misreported.

Reader's Guide

Cunning folk held a significant place in European society for centuries, bridging folk medicine, magic, and community needs. Their services—healing, divination, and thwarting witchcraft—were sought by common people who distinguished them from malevolent witches. Despite occasional legal actions, such as in Sweden where some were punished for 'superstition' rather than witchcraft, these punishments often backfired, increasing their fame and clientele. The persistence of their practices into the 20th century, until medical doctors became more accessible, underscores their role in rural healthcare and belief systems. Their legacy includes the transmission of folk remedies and magical traditions, such as the 'black books' in Scandinavia, which were carried by migrants to the Americas. The distinction between cunning folk and witches highlights the nuanced historical understanding of magic, where helpful practitioners were generally tolerated even as authorities sometimes condemned them. Their story reflects the tension between official religion, emerging science, and enduring folk traditions.

Did You Know?

• In Sweden, some cunning folk were punished for 'superstition' rather than witchcraft, and the sentences often increased their clientele.
• Many Norwegian and Danish cunning folk used a 'Svartebok' (black book), believed by some to be written by Cyprianus, the Saint of Necromancers.
• In 16th-century Sweden, Brigitta Andersdotter was often hired by Queen Margaret Leijonhufvud.
• In Norway, some women such as Mor Sæther, Anna Brandfjeld, and Valborg Valland achieved national fame, unusual for women of the time.

A Pan-European Phenomenon in Local Tongues

The label 'cunning folk' was originally a British coinage for folk healers and magic-workers, but it has since become a broad umbrella term covering analogous practitioners throughout Europe. What strikes the observer is the sheer density of local vocabulary. Danish communities spoke of kloge folk; the Dutch used toverdokters or duivelbanners; Finnish and Karelian people knew their tietäjät; the French drew a line between devins-guérisseurs and leveurs de sorts. Italian practitioners carried names like fattucchiere, guaritori, benandanti, or Segnatori. Portuguese speakers distinguished curandeiros, benzedeiros, and mulheres de virtude; Russians reached for znakhar, vedun, or vedmaka; Slavic communities used vedmaki; the Spanish called them curanderos; Swedes referred to a klok gumma or klok gubbe; Ukrainians said znahar; and the Welsh used dynion hysbys. Even within Jewish tradition, the Baal Shem filled a parallel niche as a practitioner of Practical Kabbalah and a thaumaturge. This linguistic mosaic across so many cultures and centuries reveals that folk healing, divination, and helpful magic were not a fringe curiosity but a deeply embedded thread running through nearly every European society from the Middle Ages well into the twentieth century.

The Black Book and the Craft of Everyday Remedies

In Norwegian and Danish communities, practitioners of folk magic and medicine frequently kept a copy of the Svartebok, a text some attributed to Cyprian of Antioch, the so-called Saint of Necromancers, while others held it to be the Sixth and Seventh books of the Bible that learned authorities had deliberately excluded from the official Old Testament so the common folk would not gain that knowledge. The formulas recovered from a black book found on a farm near Elverum reveal a remarkably hands-on, domestic approach to healing. One toothache remedy directed the user to inscribe the words 'Agerin, Nagerin, Vagerin, Jagerin, Ipagerin, Sipia' on a scrap of paper with a fresh pen, cut the paper into three small pieces, press the first against the aching tooth in the evening, and spit it into a fire the following morning, then repeat the sequence with the other two pieces. A charm for a woman trapped in a difficult labour simply required two white lily roots to be given to the mother to eat. These were not abstract rituals but concrete, step-by-step instructions that ordinary householders could carry out themselves, blurring the line between herbal medicine and spoken formula to the point where the two became practically indistinguishable.

Punishment as Unintended Promotion

A widespread assumption holds that the wise women and wise men of Scandinavia were prime targets of seventeenth-century witch trials, yet the surviving records do not bear this out. Those who were prosecuted were typically charged not with witchcraft but with 'superstition,' a distinctly different legal category in Swedish law. In the 1670s, Johan Eriksson of Knutby received seven strokes of the gauntlet under that charge, and nine more in the 1680s. Per Ericsson of Dalarna, who diagnosed illness by reading it in wine, was punished in both 1720 and 1726. Brita Biörn of Gotland, who told the court she had learned to heal after spending time in the underworld, was imprisoned in 1722 and again in 1737. Far from silencing these practitioners, the sentences operated as powerful advertising. Ericsson reported that his clientele swelled after each ruling and warned he would have to go into hiding simply to obey the court. In Biörn's case, a local vicar complained that people from across the country flocked to her, relying on her almost as a deity after her first sentence. Her daughter and her granddaughter's daughter also became healing women, suggesting the legal crackdown reinforced the practice rather than suppressing it.

From Royal Retainers to National Figures

The social standing of cunning folk ranged from the intimate to the almost legendary. In sixteenth-century Sweden, Brigitta Andersdotter was frequently hired by Queen Margaret Leijonhufvud, placing a folk healer squarely within the orbit of the monarchy. By the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, figures such as Ingeborg i Mjärhult, Kisamor, and Gota-Lena were recognized well beyond the borders of their home villages. In nineteenth-century Norway, every neighbourhood reportedly had at least one folk healer, and women like Mor Sæther (1793–1851), Anna Brandfjeld (1810–1905), and Valborg Valland (1821–1903) achieved a degree of national recognition that was highly unusual for women of that era. These practitioners served simultaneously as healers, midwives, and magic-workers, drawing on rhymes, herbs, and divination. Their customs endured until the medical doctor became widely accessible to the public. Norwegian migrants carried beliefs in folk medicine and black books to the Americas, though much of that knowledge faded in Norwegian-American communities by the 1920s, while in Norway itself the traditions lingered longer, even as widespread popular belief gradually waned.

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