A single document containing three published articles: (1) “Recovering European ritual bear hunts: A comparative study of Basque and Sardinian ursine carnival performances”; (2) “Evidence in Favor of the Palaeolithic Continuity Refugium Theory (PCRT): Hamalau and its linguistic and cultural relatives, Part 1”; (3) “Evidence in Favor of the Palaeolithic Continuity Refugium Theory (PCRT): Hamalau and its linguistic and cultural relatives, Part. 2.”

Roslyn  Frank

In Central-Southern Italy, several cave sites yielded deposits dating back to MIS3, containing a Mousterian/Uluzzian/Proto-Aurignacian sequence. Changes within these sequences are synthetically examined on the basis of the main stratified sites. Subsistence strategies, raw material procurement, territory exploitation, production and behavioural activities and migratory movements are discussed. The Uluzzians can be considered, in many respects, economically and behaviourally closer to the Proto-Aurignacians than to the Mousterians. This pattern fully agrees with the recent attribution to AMH of two deciduous teeth from the Uluzzian layers of Grotta del Cavallo (Lecce, Southern Italy). Such a new insight directly involves the problem of the origin of the Uluzzian techno-complex. By integrating archaeological, genetic and demographic data, the hypothesis of dispersal from an East African source into Europe, through the so-called Southern route, is proposed. As for Southern Italy, the available data indicate that relationships between the indigenous Neandertals and the newcomers were most probably sporadic, given the possibly low demographic density of these populations and the limited time span of co-existence.

TheAldaietacemetery(6th–7thcenturyAD,BasqueCountry) provides an excellent opportunity for analysing the relationships between biology and culture. Culturally it presents material features whose origins lie in the Northern Pyrenean Frankish kingdom, while genetically it reveals greater afﬁnity to the present-day populations of the northern Iberian Peninsula. This raises the question of the degree of inﬂuence exerted by the large European kingdoms that emerged after the fall of the Roman Empire over the populations located on the fringes of their expansion. An analysis of the genetic constitution, both patrilineal (Y-chromosome) and matrilineal (mitochondrial DNA), of the individuals buried in the cemetery,togetherwithdemographicandculturaldata,points to a stratiﬁed or hierarchical society in which certain lineages were linked to family groupsof highersocialand/oreconomic status. This higher status, which seems to have been transmitted through family members, may have been attained by individuals who were involved in military activities with the Frankish army. It may be suggested that the major European kingdoms of Late Antiquity had not only a cultural inﬂuence but also some inﬂuence on the biosocial behaviour of the populations located on their peripheries.

Abtsract: Based on the morphology of two deciduous molars and radiocarbon ages from layers D and E of the Grotta del Cavallo (Lecce, Italy), assigned to the Uluzzian, it has been proposed that modern humans were the makers of this Early Upper Paleolithic culture and that this finding considerably weakens the case for an independent emergence of symbolism among western European Neandertals. Reappraisal of the new dating evidence, of the finds curated in the Taranto Antiquities depot, and of coeval publications detailing the site’s 1963–66 excavations shows that (a) Protoaurignacian, Aurignacian and Early Epigravettian lithics exist in the assemblages from layers D and E, (b) even though it contains both inherited and intrusive items, the formation of layer D began during Protoaurignacian times, and (c) the composition of the extant Cavallo assemblages is influenced in a non-negligible manner by the post-hoc assignment of items to stratigraphic units distinct from that of original discovery. In addition, a major disturbance feature affected the 1960s excavation trench down to Mousterian layer F, this feature went unrecognized until 1964, the human remains assigned to the Uluzzian were discovered that year and/or the previous year, and there are contradictions between field reports and the primary anthropological description of the remains as to their morphology and level of provenience. Given these major contextual uncertainties, the Cavallo teeth cannot be used to establish the authorship of the Uluzzian. Since this technocomplex’s start date is ca. 45,000 calendar years ago, a number of Neandertal fossils are dated to this period, and the oldest diagnostic European modern human fossil is the <41,400 year-old Oase 1 mandible, Neandertal authorship of the Uluzzian remains the parsimonious reading of the evidence. Riassunto: Sulla base della morfologia di due molari decidui e sulle date al radiocarbonio dei livelli D ed E della Grotta del Cavallo (Lecce, Italia), attribuiti all’Uluzziano, è stato proposto che questa precoce cultura del Paleolitico superiore sia da mettere in relazione con gli esseri umani moderni. Tale assunto di fatto indebolisce fortemente l’ipotesi di un autonomo emergere del simbolismo tra le popolazioni neandertaliane dell’Europa occidentale. Un riesame delle nuove datazioni, dei reperti custoditi presso la Soprintendenza alle Antichità di Taranto, e delle dettagliate pubblicazioni coeve agli scavi del sito effettuati negli anni 1963-66 mostrano che (a) esistono strumenti litici attribuibili al Protoaurignaziano, all’Aurignaziano e all’ Epigravettiano antico nell’industria litica rinvenuta negli strati D ed E, (b) sebbene esso contenga sia oggetti in posto che intrusivi, la formazione dello strato D è iniziata nel periodo definito Protoaurignaziano, e (c) la composizione degli insiemi litici noti al Cavallo è stata influenzata, in modo non trascurabile, dalla assegnazione a posteriori di alcuni manufatti ad unità stratigrafiche diverse da quelle originarie. Inoltre, un importante disturbo ha influenzato la trincea dello scavo del 1960 fino a raggiungere lo strato musteriano F. Questo importante dato è rimasto sconosciuto fino al 1964 e i resti umani attribuiti all’Uluzziano sono stati scoperti in quell'anno e/o l'anno precedente; si possono quindi rilevare numerose contraddizioni tra i dati descritti nelle relazioni di scavo, la prima descrizione antropologica dei resti, la loro descrizione morfologica e la definizione del livello di provenienza. Alla luce di queste grandi incertezze, i denti umani provenienti dalla Grotta del Cavallo non possono essere utilizzati per stabilire la paternità dell’Uluzziano. Dal momento che la data di inizio di questo complesso tecnologico è di ca. 45.000 anni fa e visto che un certo numero di fossili di Neandertal risalgono a questo periodo, mentre il più antico fossile riferibile ad esseri umani moderni europei è la mandibola “Oase 1”, datata a <41400 anni fa, la paternità Neandertal dell’Uluzziano rimane la lettura più equilibrata delle evidenze archeologiche.

This file contains three pre-publication versions of articles by Roslyn M. Frank which have appeared in Insula-3 (June 2008), Insula-4 (December 2008) and Insula-5 (June 2009). Several more articles are planned for the Insula series on related topics. 1. Frank, Roslyn M. Recovering European Ritual Bear Hunts: A Comparative Study of Basque and Sardinian Ursine Carnival Performances. Insula-3 (June 2008), pp. 41-97. Cagliari, Sardinia. http://www.sre.urv.es/irmu/alguer/ Recovering European Ritual Bear Hunts: A Comparative Study of Basque and Sardinian Ursine Carnival Performances Roslyn M. Frank University of Iowa E-mail: roz-frank@uiowa.edu Homepage: http://www.uiowa.edu/~spanport/personal/Frank/Frankframe.htm Everybody says, “After you take a bear’s coat off, it looks just like a human”. Maria Johns (cited Snyder 1990: 164) “Lehenagoko eüskaldünek gizona hartzetik jiten zela sinhesten zizien.” (“Basques used to believe that humans descended from bears”) Petiri Prébende (cited in Peillen 1986: 173)1 […] the word does not forget where it has been and can never wholly free itself from the dominion of the contexts of which it has been part. M. M. Bakhtin (1973: 167) Introduction My interest in the Mamutzones dates back to 2002 when I was contacted by Graziano Fois, a researcher from Cagliari, Sardinia. Using the Internet, he discovered that I had done considerable research on Basque folklore and culture and wanted to consult with me concerning a theory he had developed concerning the origin of the name of the Mamutzones. He had been investigating this Sardinian cultural phenomenon for some 1 The quote is from an interview conducted in the fall of 1983 with one of the last Basque-speaking bear hunters in the Pyrenees, Dominique Prébende, and his father Petiri. It was the latter who among other things said the following: “Lehenagoko eüskaldünek gizona hartzetik jiten zela sinhesten zizien” [“In times past Basques believed that humans descended from bears”] (Peillen 1986: 173). 2 time and was looking at the linguistic component of it. More specifically, he was attempting to identify the etymology of the root mamu-. As he pointed out, written documentation on the Mamutzones and s’Urtzu (the bear) will not take us further back than the 19th century where they are first mentioned. However, there is abundant toponymic evidence for this root across Sardinia, and especially in the central part of it, a zone considered to be somewhat more conservative in terms of the retention of older cultural elements. Therefore, while written documentation on this phenomenon has a relatively shallow time depth, the toponymic evidence suggests a different picture: a far deeper time depth, although not one that can be dated with any precision. Stated differently, one avenue that might provide further insights into the origins of the Mamutzones and s’Urtzu would be to trace the etymology of the root mamu-. Fig. 1. A typical Mamuthone. Source: http://www.tropiland.it/sardegna/Mamuthones.jpg. 3 Fig. 2. S’Urtzu. Source: Fois (2002) Graziano laid out his theory to me in a short essay called “Liason entre Basque et Sarde pour un possible racine *mamu /*momu /*mumu” (Fois 2002b). In it he compared a series of terms in Basque and Sardu which appeared to be cognate with each other, that is, their phonological shape and semantic meaning coincide closely. I found what he wrote quite intriguing, although until I read his article I had heard nothing about the Sardinian Mamutzones and their bear. By the time that I read Graziano’s essay, in 2002, I had already been investigating Basque traditional culture for more than a quarter of a century and was well aware of the etymology of the term mamu in Basque and its connection to a remarkable bear-like figure. In fact, the word mamu is only one of several phonological variants of the name of this ursine creature in Basque, while the names for the Carnival characters who appear to be structural equivalents of the Mamutzones (Mamuthones or Mamuttones) are referred to 4 by terms such Mamozaurre, Momotxorro, Mumuzarro, Moxaurre, etc., expressions which show similar phonological alternation in the root of the words (Frank 2005a).2 Fig. 3. Momotxorros of Alsasua, Nafarroa. Source: Tiberio (1993: 58). Photo by Luis Otermin. I would also include the Basque Joaldunak or Zanpantzarrak in the same category as the aforementioned ritual performers.3 The term joaldunak translates as ‘those who possess bells’, while zanpantzarrak is sometimes rendered as the “St. Pantzars”, although that etymology is somewhat questionable. The performers in question are from carnivals 2 The first presentation I gave concerning this topic was in Cagliari, in 2005, in collaboration with Graziano Fois. 3 With the advent of electronic media and the easy accessibility to digital photography and video, web pages have sprung up across Europe displaying local traditions and performance art, cultural artifacts that before were relatively inaccessible to researchers, except to regional specialists. As a result, in recent years the Basques, too, have paid more attention to what they see as the ritual counterparts of their own performers in other parts of Europe, including the Mamutzones. On January, 24, 2008, the newsletter produced by Dantzan.com, an organization composed of a large number of Basque dance groups, included a comparative study entitled “Joaldunak, Zarramacoak, Botargak eta Mamuthones-ak”. It contains several striking video clips of performances from four locations in the Iberian Peninsula as well as from Sardinia and Bulgaria. The video clips not only afford the viewer an opportunity to see the performers in action, they also contain valuable ethnographic data: http://www.dantzan.com/albisteak/joaldunak-eta-abar. 5 celebrated in the villages of Ituren and Zubieta in Nafarroa. The performers wear two large sheep-bells on their backs. Fig. 4. Joaldunak bells. Source: http://www.dantzan.com/albisteak/joaldunak-eta-abar. I should clarify that there are slight differences between the costumes of the Joaldunak de Zubieta and those of Ituren. The main difference is that the former do not wear the sheepskin over their shirts to cover their upper body, while those from Ituren do. Also two smaller bells without clappers are attached to the sheepskin costume of the performers from Ituren. These smaller bells are fixed to the back of the performer, slightly above the two large sheep bells. 6 Fig. 5. Joaldunak of Ituren, Nafarroa. Source: http://www.ituren.es/es/. Photo by Ernesto Lopez Espelta. Although the bells are not clearly visible in some of the photographs (below), the noise they make can easily be appreciated in the following video footage taken during the Carnival of Ituren and recorded on February 24, 2008: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x4hcqm_carnavalituren_parties as well as in the video footage of the same festival found at http://www.dantzan.com/albisteak/joaldunaketa-abar. As is obvious, these public performances take place during the day-time hours, rather than at night. Today none of the Joaldunak performers wear masks and therefore their identity is easily recognized. This contrasts with practices from times past where they would hide their identity behind a mask made of kind of black fabric and they often changed the timber of their voices. That way their identity was further disguised. In fact, previously, the performers did not remove their costumes, not even their bells, during the entire festival period, eating and sleeping with them on. When watching the footage, the characteristic jerky gait of the Joaldunak should be noted. As the folklorist and ethnomusicologist Juan Antonio Urbeltz (1996) pointed out, the performers place their feet on the ground in an odd, non-human way, that is, the way they walk imitates the rocking gait of a bear, i.e., a bear that is walking upright. By 7 watching the videos available at http://www.dantzan.com/albisteak/joaldunak-eta-abar, the odd gait of the Joaldunak can be compared to the stylized way of walking that characterizes the Mamutzones and the Botargak from the small village of Almirete, some sixty kilometers northeast of Madrid, Spain. In Almirete, they celebrate this festival on February 2nd, a date known across Europe both as Candlemas and as Bear Day.4 Fig. 6. One of the Joaldunak of Ituren. Source: Tiberio (1993: 38). Photo by Luis Otermin. 4 For a detailed analysis of ritual performances associated with Candlemas Bear Day, particularly performances encountered in the Pyrenean region, e.g., Zuberoa, cf. Frank (2001). 8 Fig. 7. Joaldunak of Zubieta. Source: Tiberio (1993: 35). Photo by Luis Otermin. Fig. 8. Procession of Joaldunak. Source: http://www.pnte.cfnavarra.es/kzeta/ituren_erreport.htm. 9 Fig. 9. Joaldunak in Ituren, Nafarroa. Source: http://www.ituren.es/es/. Photo by Ernesto Lopez Espelta. I would note that the Basque Bear or Hartza who is accompanied by these performers, also has “horns”, as can be appreciated in the following photos from the festival in Ituren. The costume is made out of sheepskin while the traditional headdress is constructed from the head of a ram and has the horns exposed (Tiberio 1993: 36).5 5 For more information on the Joaldunak, cf. http://basque.unr.edu/dance/pages/yoaldunak.htm. 10 Fig. 10. Hartza of Ituren, Nafarroa. Source: Visualiza.info/Zazu. Photo by Emilio Zazu. 11 Fig. 11. Hartza in Ituren, Nafarroa with its Keeper. Source: http://www.pnte.cfnavarra.es/kzeta/ituren_erreport.htm. Fig. 12. Hartza of Ituren, Nafarroa. Source: http://www.ituren.es/es/. Photo by Ernesto Lopez Espelta. Today these actors regularly perform in public and in broad daylight. Divided into two groups, they move along in single file, one after the other. They can also reverse direction, an act initiated by the two lead dancers. This can be seen clearly in the videos listed above. In other words, we are talking about a public performance constructed so that there are two roles: the active role of the performers and a passive role of the other participants, namely, the crowds of people who attend. On the other hand, even today the Hartza doesn’t respect these conceptual boundaries, and constantly attacks the spectators, young and old alike. 12 Fig. 13. Hartza in Arizkun, Nafarroa, chasing bystanders. Source: Tiberio (1993: 71). Photo by Luis Otermin. Fig. 14. Another “horned” Hartza from Ituren with its Keeper. Source: Tiberio (1993: 14). Photo by Luis Otermin. 13 In times past, however, the performances included what are called “good-luck visits” (Frank 2001, in press-a) where the actors in question, along with their bear, went about paying visits often to quite isolated farmsteads where they would ask for contributions, usually in the form of foodstuffs. Urbeltz describes the way that they would creep up on their victims: Para ello tapaban con yerba la boca del yoare [bell] al objeto de que no hiciera ruido. Caminando entre los campos conseguían entrar en la casa a través de la cuadra; una vez en la cocina, con sigilo, quitaban la yerba a los descomunales cencerros y comenzaban a caminar alrededor de la estancia con el consiguiente espanto de niños y mayores. (In order to do this they stuffed the mouth of the yoare shut with grass with the objective of keeping it from making noise. Walking through the fields they would manage to enter the house through the stable [on the ground floor]; once inside the kitchen, with great care, they would remove the grass plug from the huge sheep-bells and would begin walking about the room which ended up scaring the children and adults). (Urbeltz 1994: 230) This description allows us to imagine times past when these masked performers marching along single file, in the dark of night, accompanied by their Hartza, would have given a very different impression than they do today, that is, as they slowly move along the public roads and streets of Ituren and Zubieta, in broad daylight, and with their faces totally uncovered. In short, if we compare the performances from earlier times with those held today, we can see that the division between spectators—the audience—and the actors was far less rigid. Stated differently, the boundary between actor and spectator was totally dissolved through the direct physical interaction between both groups. The frightening, indeed, almost terrifying appearance of the intruders was emphasized by the strange black masks they wore and the way that they disguised their voices—speaking in a whisper in some locations, not speaking all or speaking in strange tongue that, supposedly, only they understood (Hornilla 1987: 24-27, 37-39). The intruders arrived at the farmstead, silently, often in the dead of night, appearing before the householders without warning. Thus, the sudden discovery of these wild, almost other-worldly creatures in their midst must have terrified the householders to no end, at least initially, and, consequently, the intimidating demeanor of the intruders must have left a deep and lasting impression on their hosts, that is, on those living in the house, children and adults alike. Another characteristic of these Basque belled-performers is the way that they emit a rhythmic, low animal-like huffing sound, “huh, huh, huh, huh”, produced by inhaling and exhaling rapidly, as they walk along. The sound itself is reminiscent of the characteristic huffing sounds that bears make in the wild, when disturbed, nervous or otherwise distressed (DeBruyn et al. 2004; Kilham 2008). It is often understood to be a sign of aggression; that the bear is about to launch an attack, whereas, in fact, it is associated 14 primarily with what is called a “bluff charge”, which is nevertheless extremely intimidating for any human, even if the person recognizes that the bear’s action is intended more as a warning: When a person gets too close to a mother with young cubs, the sow will usually display, letting the person know her intent without having to attack. If the person disregards her signals, she may kick it up a notch by cocking her ears, charging and vocalizing a face-to-face ‘huh, huh, huh, huh’. Often the sow will also use a greatly modified false charge or swat to the ground in an attempt to persuade an intruder to back away. These gestures constitute a motivational use of ritualistic displays. The intentional display is used to convey a message or prevent an attack. Bears have great success in using these displays to intentionally motivate people to drop food or knapsacks. […] The false charge is done in combination with other bluff displays, like chomping, huffing and snorting. Depending upon the situation, this usually reflects the bear's desire to delay or avoid direct confrontation. (Kilham 2008)6 Should a bear decide to attack, it is silent, although such attacks against humans are rare. While today very few spectators would be familiar enough with bear behavior to recognize the significance of this ritual “huffing” of the performers of Ituren and Zubieta, in times past when encounters with wild bears were much more frequent, the “huffing” sound would have been especially meaningful and would have added another indication of the ursine nature of the masked performers. Linguistic evidence for the Bear Ancestor: Hamalau In Euskal Herria (Basque Country) there is another aspect of the Hartza bear character that needs to be addressed, namely, the fact that this creature forms an integral part of a complex cosmogony of significant antiquity, one that holds that humans descended from bears, in short an ursine story of origins that places bears at the center of the creation process. As will be demonstrated in this study, in the case of Euskal Herria, the sociocultural embedding of this creature is so extensive that it affords us a mechanism for understanding or at least for exploring the potential meaning of the performances in which this character plays a major role. In addition, when examined with care the sociocultural situatedness of the Basque data opens up avenues for re-evaluating the meaning of the Mamutzones and s’Urtzu, their performances as well as the semantic content of other Sardinian linguistic artifacts sharing the same or a similar root, e.g., momotti. 6 Cf. also Kilman & Gray (2002). 15 Fig. 15. Mamuthones during the Feast of St. Anthony Abbot (January 17). Source: http://imagocaralis.altervista.org/index.php?mod=04_Soci/Fabrizio/Mamoiada&inscomm=1. Although this topic will be treated in considerable depth in the course of this study, at the point I would mention that in Basque there is strange bear-like being who goes by the name of Hamalau “Fourteen”, a compound composed of hama(r) ‘ten’ and lau ‘four’. As will be explained shortly, Hamalau plays a central role in Basque traditional belief and performance art (Perurena 1993: 265-280). For example, variants of this term are commonly used to refer to a frightening creature that parents call upon when their children misbehave, i.e., the counterpart of the “babau” or “spauracchio” in Italian. The dialectal variants of the word hamalau include mamalo, mamarrao, mamarro, mamarrua, marrau and mamu, among others (Azkue 1969; Michelena 1987-). All of these variants show “nasal spread”, that is, the word ends up having two /m/ sounds. In order to understand what has taken place with the phonological shape of the expression hamalau, we need to keep in mind that in many Basque dialects the letter /h/ is silent. Therefore, in these dialects hamalau would have been pronounced as amalau (as it is today in Batua, the Basque unified written standard). This means that because of the phenomenon of nasal spread, the word ended up with two /m/ sounds, the /m/ which starts the second syllable spread to the beginning of the word: amalau > mamalau. Also, I would remind the reader that since Basque has no gender, a variant form such as mamalo should not be interpreted through the grammatical lens of a speaker of a Romance language. In other words, while the -o ending on these variants might appear (to a 16 Romance speaker) to be indicative of masculine gender, in Basque this is certainly not the case. Then I would mention that in the case of the variant mamarrao, another common phonological change has taken place: the replacement of one liquid, i.e., /l/, with another, namely, with a trilled /r/, so that the last syllable /lau/ is pronounced as /rrao/. Finally, the variant marrau demonstrates further phonological erosion, i.e., the loss of the second syllable /ma/: mamarrao > ma(ma)rrao > marrao >marrau. In the instance of mamu, additional phonological loss can be detected: (h)amalau >mamalau > mamarrao > mam(arr)au > mamu.7 All of these linguistic processes will be treated in more depth in the subsequent chapters of this study and compared to the Sardinian examples. In the case of Sardinia, in addition to the Mamutzones and a variety of toponyms having similar roots, there are numerous other words that are of interest. These have essentially the same meanings but slightly different phonological representations. Here I refer to the fact that the stem of the word varies in its phonological shape, demonstrating roots in mamu-, momo-, momma- and marra-. In the case of the root form mamu-, there are mamuntomo: “spauracchio”; mamuntone: “fantoccio”; mamuttinu: “strepito”; mamuttone: “spauracchio, spaventapasseri”; mamuttones: “maschere carnevalesche con campanacci”; mamutzone: “spauracchio” as well as mamus “esseri fantastici che abitanoi nelle caverne”. In the instance of the variant of momo- we find: momotti: “babau, spauracchio”; mommai: “befana”; mommoi: “babau, befana, fantasma, licantropo, orco, pidocchio, spauracchio, spettro”; momotti: “babau, spauracchio”; marragotti: “befana, 7 In Basque, some of the phonological variants associated with the semantic field of hamalau also refer to small beings, tiny magical semi-human creatures, often helpful to humans but of a rather indefinite shape; they also appear incarnate in the form of insects, as if the former as well as the latter were viewed as capable of shape-shifting, undergoing metamorphosis, taking on a disguise, e.g., as a larva might be understood to shape-shift when it becomes a chrysalis and then turns into a butterfly. For example, mamutu carries meanings related to “putting on a masque” or otherwise “disguising oneself”; to “becoming enchanted, astonished, astounded” or “put under a spell”; more literally it means “to become a mamu” while the verb mamortu, from the root mamor-, means both “to become enchanted” and “to form oneself into a chrysalis” or “to become an insect” (Michelena 1987-, XII, 56-59). Hence, in the same word field, we find two types of magical creatures. On the one hand there are the large, strange beings that are sometimes invoked by adults to frighten children and get them to behave, and, on the other hand, another set of creatures, much smaller, usually helpful although at times mischievous. The latter are said to wear a red tunic or pointed hat and otherwise dress in black. Anyone familiar with the qualities of elves, pixies, fairies, brownies, and leprechauns which abound in Celtic folklore would see a resemblance. As mentioned, they also sometimes take on the shape of insects. They go by the name of mamures or mamarros in some Spanish-speaking zones; in contrast their Catalan counterparts, are called maneirós and appear as black beetles (cf. Barandiaran 1994: 79; Gómez-Legos 1999; Guiral, Espinosa and Sempere 1991). As Fois (2002) has observed, these semantic extensions are reminiscent of certain terms in Sardu, a topic that will be taken up in the next chapter of this investigation. 17 biliorsa, bilioso, fantasma, mangiabambini, mannaro, orco, ragno, spauracchio, spettro”(Fois 2002b; Rubattu 2006).8 Also, I would mention that the names used for the Basque ritual counterparts of the Mamutzones reveal similar phonological correspondences. Thus, in the case of the Basque and Sardinian materials, we have two types of data that can be compared. One type consists of the linguistic artifacts themselves, that is, lexical material found in each language, while the other type of data is embodied socio-culturally in traditional belief and performance art, again as manifested in Euskal Herria and Sardinia, respectively. The former data set is linked to the latter in the sense that the meanings of linguistic artifacts are “cultural conceptualizations”, socio-culturally situated and shared by a community of speakers. Thus the cultural conceptualizations should be understood to be “distributed” not only across the community of speakers at any given moment in time, but also across time and space, in the sense that they pass from one generation to the next. In other words, the aforementioned lexemes and their connotations provide us a means of reconstructing the ways in which they were used by speakers in times past as well as their prior cultural embodiment in social practices. Given that we are talking about linguistic artifacts, beliefs and performance art that have been transmitted orally, they have not been subjected to rigorous documentation or interpretation until quite recently. In short, the traces they have left in the written record are scant. Therefore, a different approach must be employed in order to develop a methodology that does not rely solely on written texts, but is capable, nonetheless, of reconstructing and interpreting the cognitive and material artifacts under analysis. In short, we are dealing with cultural conceptualizations that need an interpretative framework. So the first step is to see whether the comparative approach, originally proposed by Graziano Fois, can provide us with new insights into the Sardinian materials (Fois 2002a, b, [2002]). Naturally, at this stage in the research, our conclusions should be understood as tentative. With respect to the question of methodology, in the case of etymological reconstructions which deal with cultural conceptualizations and that are in turn socioculturally entrenched, we are faced with the task of tracing the evolutionary path taken by 8 The English counterparts of these terms are as follows: from the root mamu-, mamuntomo: “scarecrow”; mamuntone: “puppet”; mamuttinu: “racket, clamour, noise”; mamuttone: “scarecrow”; mamuttones: “masked performers wearing bells; masks”; mamutzone: “scarecrow”; mamutzones “masked performers wearing bells” as well as mamus “fantastic beings who inhabit caverns”; from the variants momo- and mammo-, momotti: “hag, witch, scarecrow”; mommai: “hag, witch”; mommoi: “bogey man, hag, witch, phantom, spectre, were-wolf, ogre, louse, scarecrow”; momotti: “bogey-man, scarecrow”; and from marra-, marragotti: “hag, witch, imaginary beast, phantom, baby-eater, were-wolf, ogre, spider, scarecrow, spectre”. 18 these artifacts over time, but without the aid of written sources. Stated differently, if examined with care linguistic artifacts can reveal the imprints of the collective thought processes of a given speech community, thought processes that shape and eventually give rise to the meanings associated with the linguistic artifacts at any given point in time. In other words, since language itself is a distributed form of cultural storage, every time a word is used it is used in a specific context, and often in relation to a particular type of event. This way the original meaning(s) associated with the word can be reinforced, or changed ever so slightly. Over time, a word can acquire new meanings, nuances that were not there in the beginning, while retaining its older meanings. Hence, by examining the semantic record it is sometimes possible to reconstruct these prior thought processes and the sociocultural embedding of the linguistic artifact. When the linguistic artifact also has a performance component, e.g., when it is also the name of a class of ritual performers, the performers and their actions become a kind of material anchor for the artifact: the meaning of the artifact is off-loaded so to speak onto the performer, his costume and actions. Thus, the meaning of the linguistic artifact can be transmitted across time by means of these ritual performances. In the same fashion, past technologies and even belief systems can leave their mark in the linguistic record, i.e., in the form of linguistic artifacts. For instance, today many people still use the word “icebox” to refer to a “refrigerator”, a clear reference to an earlier stage in which food was kept inside a “box” that contained large blocks of “ice”. Even though the referent of the term “icebox” is no longer literally an “ice-box”, i.e., a box for ice, the word has survived, attached to an analogically and functionally similar object. And because it has survived, even if we have never actually seen the prototype of an “icebox”, we can imagine what it must have been like because of the information provided to us by the word itself. In a similar manner, once the etymology of the dialectal variants of the word hamalau is identified, i.e., mamalo, mamarrao, mamarro, mamarrua, marrau and mamu, among others (Azkue 1969; Michelena 1987-), we are better able to explore the meanings associated with the term hamalau (Perurena 1993: 265-280), the socio-culturally embedded significance of the bear-like character called Hamalau and the performance art that is associated with him. In other words, the socio-cultural situatedness of the terms, including the variants of the terms and the way their meanings have been off-loaded, provides us a means of reconstituting the earlier meanings and socio-cultural significance of the expressions. Furthermore, if we find correspondences between the Basque terms and those found in Sardu, this comparative data will add another dimension to the 19 discovery process and another source of information for interpreting the word field in a more comprehensive fashion. At this juncture the following comments by Ammerman and Cavalli-Sforza (1984: 139) are relevant: “Confidence in [evolutionary] reconstructions is built by the development of multiple lines of evidence that generate independent support for a particular interpretation. Ultimately, it is the growth of new evidence in individual fields and the creation of expectations for findings in other fields that generate a dense network for evaluating a reconstructive hypothesis.” Therefore, before entering into a detailed discussion of the linguistic artifacts themselves, the first step is to outline the various lines of evidence that will be brought to bear on the problem, particularly those that will be treated in this chapter of the study. The Bear Ancestor: Hamalau When I first decided to do fieldwork in Euskal Herria it was evident to me that I would need to learn Euskara (Basque). Soon after I had gained enough proficiency in the language to carry on a basic conversation, a strange thing began to happen to me. People would take me aside and tell me the following in a low voice, as if they were sharing a very important yet almost secretive piece of knowledge: “We Basques used to believe we descended from bears.” The first time someone told me this, I had no idea what I should say in response. I found the statement totally amazing. Yet over and over again the same thing happened to me. People, who didn’t know each other, who had no contact with each other, ended up telling me the same thing. Finally, I came to the conclusion that I had come across a key piece of data. I just didn’t know what to make of it. Subsequently, I tried to find references to this Basque belief in bear ancestors. But all my attempts were futile. There was nothing in the literature; nothing written down anywhere. The belief seemed to have survived only orally, though oral transmission, passing from one generation to the next, without any outsider ever noticing it and writing it down. Later I would discover that the ursine genealogy was connected to a rich legacy of belief and cultural conceptualizations. It would not be until the late 1980s that I would come across a book with a concrete reference to this belief. In fact, the first written documentation of what my informants had been telling me was published in 1986, in a brief article by the French-Basque ethnographer Txomin Peillen (1986), entitled “Le culte de l'ours chez les anciens basques”. In it he reports on an interview he conducted in Zuberoa (Soule) with one of the last Basque-speaking bear hunters in the Pyrenees, Dominique Prébende, who was 48 20 years old at the time. Dominique’s 83 year old father, Petiri Prébende, was also present. Peillen begins by explaining the circumstances of the interview: Au cours d'une enquête sur la chasse traditionnelle, il y a deux ans, nous décidâmes d'interroger un des derniers chasseurs ayant participé à des battues d'ours brun des Pyrénées à Sainte-Engrâce, dans le Pays de Soule [Zuberoa] en Pays Basque. (Two years ago, while carrying out a survey of traditional hunting practices, we decided to interview one of the last hunters who had taken part in the brown bear hunts of the Pyrenees at Sainte-Engrâce [Santa Garazi], in the province of Soule [Zuberoa] in Euskal Herria [Basque Country].) (Peillen 1986: 171)9 Fig. 16. The seven provinces of Euskal Herria, the historical Basque Country, span France (light yellow) and Spain (rest of the map) Names in this map are in Basque. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basque_Country_(historical_territory). He then records the following comments of Dominique: Dominique Prébende nous déclara que son groupe de chasse, avait pratiqué fréquemment la battue à l'ours; il ne put ou ne voulut pas nous dire combien d'animaux furent ainsi abattus. Il protesta qu'il n'en avait pas tués personnellement, tout en ajoutant qu'il craignait moins l'ours que le sanglier. Poussé à 9 The term battue is used generically to refer to hunting, but it also refers to a particular hunting practice, e.g., for wild boar, which involves a group of hunters moving silently through the woods, often separated into two lines, moving along in single file. And then suddenly one group would begin to make all sorts of racket to flush out the game, driving it in the opposite direction, toward the other row of hunters. In times past, this was done using various kinds of noisemakers including bells (Caro Baroja 1973: 192-197). 21 s'expliquer sur cette chasse, il nous déclara que tuer l'ours porte-malheur "ür gaixtoa ekharten dizü" et que l'homme qui le fait ne donne rien de bon "eztizü deuse hunik emaiten", dit cet homme de 48 ans. (Dominique Prébende told us that his group of hunters had frequently taken part in bear hunts; he couldn’t or didn’t want to tell us how many animals [bears] were killed this way. He objected that he had never personally killed any, quickly adding that he feared a bear less than a wild boar. Pressed to explain more, the 48 year-old man confided in us, declaring that to kill a bear brought bad luck "ür gaixtoa ekharten dizü" [lit. “it brings you bad luck”] and that the man who did would receive nothing good from it "eztizü deuse hunik emaiten" [lit., “it doesn’t give you anything good at all”].) (Peillen 1986: 171) Peillen speaks of a special prayer that was recited by the hunters to protect themselves from the dangerous influence of bears: Toutefois il semble que les anciens savaient se protéger du maléfice précédent. Notre père […] nous racontait que les chasseurs d'autrefois disaient une prière avant de se rendre à la Chasse à l'Ours. Dominique Prébende, également, le vit faire à des hommes aujourd'hui décédés, et nous avons peu d'espoir de recueillir cette prière ‘Hartz otoitzia’ [The Bear prayer]. (However, it appears that the old hunters [hunters from before] used to know how to protect themselves from this curse. Our father […] told us that in times past hunters would say a prayer before setting off on a Bear Hunt. Similarly, Dominique Prébende witnessed men, now deceased, perform this supplication, though we have little hope of recovering the prayer today, i.e., the ‘Hartz otoitzia’ [The Bear Prayer]). (Peillen 1986: 171) While killing a bear, or admitting that one had killed a bear, brought bad luck, the bear’s paw was highly esteemed for it was said to bring good luck.10 Indeed, it acted to protect the person from the “evil eye” and other illnesses: Speaking of this practice of preserving the bear’s paws, Peillen adds this comment: Cette coutume de les garder est commune aux chasseurs d'ours sibériens et amérindiens, pour qui la patte est un porte-bonheur; de même manière inexplicite elle est gardée par les chasseurs basques. Ce rôle de la "patte à griffes" dans la magie basque s'observait au début du siècle, lorsque pour préserver les enfants du mauvais œil on suspendait à leurs cous des pattes de blaireaux. (The costume of preserving them [bear paws] is common to Siberian and Native American bear hunters, for whom the paw is a good-luck amulet; in the same inexplicit manner, it is preserved by Basque hunters. The role of “paws with claws” in Basque magic was observed at the beginning of the century [20th century], a time when protecting young children from the evil eye, involved hanging badger paws around their necks.) (Peillen 1986: 172) With respect to the prophylactic qualities attributed to badger paws, I would note that the etymology of the various terms used today in Basque for the badger goes back to hartz “bear”. The terms are nothing more than phonologically reduced or otherwise altered forms of (h)artz-ko, the diminutive form of (h)artz ‘bear’. Pronounced as (h)arzko, the compound term refers to a ‘small bear, little bear’. Given the characteristics of badgers, their fearlessness and willingness to defend their turf at any cost, this lexical choice would seem to be taxonomically appropriate. For example, Llande (1926: 94) gives the following variants for Zuberoa (Soule) and Lapurdi (Labourd) and 10 For a discussion of the widespread nature of this custom, cf. Mathieu (1984). 22 Nafarroa Beherea (Basse-Navarre): arsko(S, N), azku (S), azkuñ (S), hazkon (N), azkonarro (L) and azkoin (L, N) (cf. also Frank in prep.-a). Azkue (1969, I: 84) lists the Zuberoan word for “badger” as hartzku, which translates transparently as “little bear”.11 Later on in the interview, another aspect of the belief system comes into view: the human-like appearance and behavior of bears. Dominique Prébende nous déclara qu'il ne put manger de l'ours, qu'il y goûta et vomit au souvenir de l'animal qu'il avait dépouillé et qui lui semblait avoir une étrange morphologie humanoïde. Il nous apporta la patte qui se trouvait dans sa chambre, pour confirmer ses dires en ajoutant "dena jentia düzü", c'est tout à fait un être humain, et le père qui se trouvait assis à proximité commenta avec humour "latzxago", un peu plus rugueux. (Dominique Prébende told us that he couldn’t eat bear meat, that when he tastes it, he vomits at the thought [memory] of the animal that he had skinned and that it seemed to him to have a strange human-like shape. He brought us the paw that was kept in his room, in order to confirm what he had said, adding that "dena jentia düzü", it’s just like a human being, and his father who was seated nearby, commented with humor, “latzxago”, [but] a little more rough.) (Peillen 1986: 171) I would add in passing that in Basque the expression latzxago is the comparative form of the adjectival root latz. The meaning of this word is not limited simply to “rugueux” or “rough”, but rather describes something that is “terrible, frightful, fear-inspiring” as well as “powerful” and “extraordinary”. Hence, Dominque’s father is correcting his son, adding that the bear is not simply “like a human”, but rather more terrible, powerful and extraordinary than human beings. At this juncture, Peillen reveals the key factor that was motivating his informants to speak as they had about the bear, insinuating that it had human-like characteristics. And again, as we will see, the informant is reluctant to speak in public about this particular belief. In fact, it is only after the tape-recorder is turned off that he confides in his visitors, assuming that this way the secret knowledge he is going to share would be kept safe from the prying ears of outsiders. We need to remember that Petiri was speaking in Basque to other native speakers of Basque. Hence, it would seem that he waited to tell them the most important part until he felt confident that the knowledge would not be disseminated indiscriminately among those who were not Euskaldunak (Basque- 11 The protective powers of the “little bear” (badger) are discussed by Barandiaran: “En Ataun (Guipuzcoa), había costumbre de colocar pieles de tejón sobre los cuellos de los bueyes, que uncidos al yugo iban a ser expuestos al público, como al conducir el carro de boda y en otras ocasiones semejantes, pues existía la creencia de que así quedaban a cubierto de toda mala influencia de los aojadores” (“In Ataun (Gipuzcoa) there was the custom of placing badger furs over the neck of oxen that were yoked to be exhibited in public, for example, to the wedding cart or in other similar occasions, since there existed the belief that in this way they would be protected from all bad influences of those who might cast the ‘evil eye’” (Barandiaran 1973-1983, V: 292). For additional information on this and related topics involving the prophylactic properties of the “little bear” (badger), cf. Frank (in prep.-a). 23 speakers), i.e., he waited until they turned their tape-recorder off. Referring the belief in a bear ancestor, Peillen states: Cette croyance décrite pour les Amérindiens et les Sibériens, n'est pas décrite pour l'Europe à notre connaissance, bien que tous les éléments précédents la fasse pressentir. C'est ainsi qu'alors que nous avions éteint le magnétophone, terminé notre enquête, Petiri Prébende nous déclara tout de go: “Lehenagoko eüskaldünek gizona hartzetik jiten zela sinhesten zizien” (les anciens basques croyaient que l'homme descendait de l'ours). Prié de répéter ses propos il ajouta que l'homme est fabriqué à partir de l'ours. Il nous donnait la clef des croyances précédentes. (To our knowledge, this belief described for Native American and Siberian peoples hasn’t been described for Europe, even though all the preceding elements make one suspect its presence. There is also the fact that when we had shut off the taperecorder, ending our interview, Petiri Prébende suddenly told us: “Lehenagoko eüskaldünek gizona hartzetik jiten zela sinhesten zizien” (“Basques used to believe that humans descended from bears”). When we asked him to repeat his remark, he added that humans were created by the bear. He had given us the key to the previous set of beliefs.) (Peillen 1986: 173)12 The last statement by Petiri concerning the fact that humankind “est fabriqué à partir de l'ours” is probably a literal French translation of the Basque sentence “Gizona hartzak egina da”.13 The expression could also be rendered as: “The bear created humankind”. Or, expressed more somewhat more elaborately, “Our human origins go back to the bear who created us.” When examined more closely, this cosmogenic belief in bear ancestors resonates strongly with a hunter-gatherer mentality, that is, with what would be a Mesolithic mindset, and not with the agricultural world view characteristic of Neolithic pastoralists and farmers. Moreover, we see that the persistence of this ursine cosmology is found not only in the folk memory of Basque speakers who are no longer emotionally committed to the tenets of the belief system, but also in the minds of individuals like Petiri and his son Dominique whose comments suggest that at least a residual true belief in the Bear Ancestors still survived up to the end of the 20th century. In the sections that follow we shall discuss other evidence—other types of cultural survivals—relating directly or indirectly to this ursine cosmology. A Central Component of the Cosmology: Bear Ancestors and the Celestial Bear At first glance a cosmology that holds that humans descend from bears strikes one as odd, especially to those of us accustomed to having anthropomorphic high gods, i.e., to scenarios in which the divine being or beings are portrayed in human form. Nonetheless, rather than being particularly unusual, it is a common genealogy for belief in a bear ancestor has informed the symbolic order of hunter-gatherer peoples across the globe 12 The phrase l'homme est fabriqué à partir de l'ours offers challenges to any translator since a completely literal translation of it is rather difficult. It might be glossed into English in a number of ways: “man was formed/shaped from/by bears; “from the bear came mankind; “the bear created/forged humankind” or more loosely “humans descend from bears” or even “the lineage of humans sprang from the bear”. 13 Obviously, Petiri uses the term gizona which literally means ‘the man’, but in this context it means “humans” or “humankind”. 24 wherever ursine populations have been present.14 In Europe, where primates were absent, humans shared their habitat areas with bears and apparently saw themselves reflected in this intelligent creature, whose skinned carcass, i.e., divested of its fur coat, the bear’s body is remarkably similar to that of the body of a human being (Shepard 1995; Shepard and Sanders 1992). In fact, Finno-Ugrians affirm that, once its fur coat is removed, a female bear has the breasts, hips, legs and feet of a young woman (Praneuf 1989: 9), while in some locations elaborate ritual ceremonies accompanied the act of “undressing” the bear, most particularly the “unbuttoning” of its coat (Krejnovitch 1971: 65).15 In addition, the animal’s incredible memory of landscape and keen sense of smell and hearing gave it a distinct advantage over humans when it set out to hunt the same animals and plant foods as its human descendents. Indeed the bear's hearing is so acute that at 300 meters it can detect human conversation, and it responds to the click of a camera shutter or a gun being cocked at 50 meters. Also, we must remember that humans and bears are foragers, omnivorous creatures who have been stuck in the same ecological niche for hundreds of thousands of years, competing for the same food sources, salmon runs, berry patches and honey trees (Shepard and Sanders 1992). Undoubtedly humans were impressed not only by the bear's uncanny ability to overhear human conversations, but also by its small, almost human-like ears, facial expressiveness, ability to walk upright on the soles of his feet, as humans do, as a well as by the animal’s great manual dexterity.16 Also, in contrast to other temperate mammals, the female nurses her young holding them to her breasts, which are located on her chest rather than her stomach, just as a human mother does. In short, bears and native peoples lived together on the continent of Europe for thousands of years. Both walked the same trails, fished the same salmon streams, dug roots from the same fields, and year after year, harvested the same berries, seeds, and nuts. The natives came face to face with bears when both coveted the same berry patch, for instance, or when a hunter, bringing help to pack home an elk he had killed, discovered that a bear had buried the carcass and was lying on the mound. Sometimes the hunter fled, sometimes the bear. The relationship was one of mutual respect (Rockwell 1991: 1-2). 14 Among human populations who shared habitat areas not with bears, rather with primates, the latter were often seen as their ancestors (Mathieu 1984; Shepard and Sanders 1992). 15 Krejnovitch's meticulous fieldwork which he carried out in 1926, 1927, 1928, and 1931, shows the advantages that accrue when linguistic materials are utilized as tools of interpretative analysis. 16 Because of his mode of walking, the bear's footprints are remarkably similar to those left by human beings. For this reason, in the Pyrenees, the bear is often referred to as pedescaous (pieds nus), i.e., “he who walks barefoot” (Calés 1990: 7; Dendaletche 1982: 92-93). 25 However, among the indigenous peoples of Europe there is evidence that the relationship was far more complex. Bears were often central to the most basic rites of these groups: the initiation of youths into adulthood, the sacred practice of shamanism, the healing of the sick and injured, and the rites surrounding the hunt (Praneuf 1989; Rockwell 1991; Shepard and Sanders 1992; Sokolova 2000; Vukanovitch 1959). The striking parallels that traditional peoples have identified between humans and bears, traditions and practices found in many geographical regions of the world, have been studied at length, particularly by those who are concerned with the belief systems of hunter-gatherer societies. (Praneuf 1989; Rockwell 1991; Shepard and Sanders 1992). Yet little serious attention has been paid to the possibility that in Europe there are still survivals of this ursine genealogy, survivals that that might well date back to an earlier hunter-gatherer symbolic and cultural order; survivals that today take the form of traditions, oral tales and ritualized performance art. In the case of Western Europe some of the most profoundly ingrained spiritual traditions and folkloric survivals of this ursine belief system have been identified among the Basques as well as in the PyreneanCantabrian zone where ritualized bear hunts are still celebrated today. Indeed, as we have seen, Petiri Prébonde’s words reiterate what must have been a wide-spread belief in the not too distant past—at least among rural Basque-speakers: “Lehenagoko eüskaldünek gizona hartzetik jiten zela sinhesten zizien” (“The Basques used to believe that humans descended from bears”). Moreover, other evidence suggests that this highly entrenched belief system might have been widespread in other parts of Europe, for example, in Sardinia. Given that, until quite recently, this traditional lore has been transmitted from generation to generation almost exclusively through oral practices and performance art, Basque culture provides us with a remarkable window onto what appears to be a much older and more complex European symbolic order that was grounded in this ursine genealogy. In this respect, we need to recall that the significance of the elderly Basque man's comments about humans descending from bears is reinforced by those of his son who stated that, although a seasoned bear hunter, he had never been able to eat bear flesh. The mere smell of it made him want to vomit because “dena jentia düzü” (“it’s just like a human being”). Cognitive parallels from North American Indians provide further insight into these statements. In the Yukon, the Tlingit said: “Grizzlies are half human.” The Ojibwa often referred to bears as anijinabe, their word for Indians. Likewise, the Yavapai of Arizona said, “Bears are like people except that they can’t make fire”. Many plains and southwestern tribes, including the Yavapai, would not eat bear meat because they believed it was like eating a person's relative (Rockwell 1991: 3-4). We find a similar 26 sentiment expressed by the Native American story-teller Maria Johns who is cited in Snyder (1990: 164): “Everybody says, ‘After you take a bear’s coat off, it looks just like a human.’” Bears were humans, but they wore heavy fur coats. In fact, outside Europe we also find that many hunting tribes thought of bears as the shamans of the animal world and believed the animals’ hairy skin, paws and long claws possessed therapeutic virtues. According to Yavapai myth, at the dawn of time the first great shaman was Bear. Coexisting with these mythic narratives was a universal belief among northern hunters that bears possessed powers analogous to those possessed by shamans. Many said that bears changed their form to become humans, other animals, or even inanimate objects. And in turn, those shaman healers who had the bear as a spirit helper wrapped themselves in the skins of bears, wore necklaces of bear claws, painted bear signs on their faces and bodies, and smoked pipes carved in the shapes of bears. In their medicine bundles they kept bear claws and teeth and other parts of the animal. They used bear claws and gall and bear grease in their healing ceremonies. They ate the plants bears ate and used them as their medicines. They danced as they thought bears danced and they sang power songs to the animal (Rockwell 1991: 63-64). At the beginning of the 20th century, as we have noted, in the Basque region of the Pyrenees, bear paws were still highly esteemed as well as badger paws and claws, the latter animals being classified taxonomically in the Basque language as a “little bears”. Perhaps because of the difficulties imposed by the bear paw's large size and weight, in order to protect children from the “evil eye”, the small paws of badgers, remarkably similar in shape to bear paws, were hung from children’s necks as amulets (Peillen 1986: 171-172). Moreover, since contact with the bear itself was especially effective in terms of obtaining the benefits of its curative powers, until about fifty years ago, in the Pyrenees it was still common for the bear and his trainer to make annual visits to the villages where they were warmly welcomed. Parents brought their children so that they could be placed on the back of the bear who, under the care of the bear trainer, would take exactly nine steps. In this manner parents were able to protect their children from physical illnesses and, in addition, insure that they would be well behaved (Dendaletche 1982: 91). The belief that attributed similar curative powers to the bear also guaranteed the positive reception of bear trainers all across the Balkans (Vukanovitch 1959). In fact, there is evidence that these bear doctors even made regular house calls to cure the sick and protect the households from harm. In this sense, the visitation brought good luck to the household. However, there is reason to believe that similar rituals were performed— with real bears—across much of Europe and indeed there is documentary evidence that, earlier, even monasteries were directly involved in training young bears who would go 27 about with their trainers to conduct these healing ceremonies. In short, these activities formed part of what are called “good-luck visits”. The possible diffusion of these healing practices across Europe can be judged, at least to some extent, by the fact that schools were set up to train young bears to carry out their duties. For instance, in Ustou and Ercé in Ariège (Midi-Pyrenées) we discover two of the most well known of those institutions of higher learning where little bears were sent to be educated and trained, often at public expense. The schools continued to function into the 20th century, more concretely up until World War I. Indeed, earlier the teachers and future bear trainers constituted a highly structured fraternity based in the Pyrenean zone of Ariège, while their pupils ended up performing throughout Europe (Bégouën 1966: 138-139; Praneuf 1989: 67). Upon graduation the ursine pupils were brought to the town square for a remarkable public ceremony (Praneuf 1989: 68-69). From the descriptions of the feats that the young bears had to learn in order to graduate from these bear academies, we can see that the pupils were taught specific tricks, among them that of falling down dead on command and then jumping up once more, again on command. This feigning of death and subsequent resurrection of the bear was an essential component of the “good-luck visits”(Praneuf 1989: 69), a topic we will take up shortly. While the aforementioned examples of bear academies are based on data drawn from the Pyrenean region, in the northeast of France, in the Bas-Rhine at Andlau, there is documentation concerning training bears at a Christian site that was inaugurated in the ninth century, the Abbey of Andlau. Although nominally Christian, the legends connected to the location strongly suggest a deeply rooted belief in the sacredness of bears. The site in question is linked to a miracle about a bear. Supposedly, as a result of the miraculous event, those inhabiting the abbey began to house bears inside their quarters. The villagers of the area brought a loaf of bread each week to offset the costs of feeding the ursine lodgers. Up until the French Revolution, bear-trainers from this zone of Alsace also had the privilege of free lodging and a stipend of three florins and a loaf of bread. Even today, next to the crypt of the tomb of the officially recognized saint of the Abbey, Saint Odile, one can see the figure of a bear, carved in stone, resting on one of the pillars (Clébert 1968: 325-328). Yet one suspects that in earlier times the Christian saint’s silent companion may have played a more active role in the rites celebrated at that sacred site. In fact, one suspects that the location in question may have served as a breeding ground for tame bears and bear trainers, as a place were the members of the guild met and exchanged information (Gastau 1987). Perhaps further research would reveal the 28 existence of other religious sites, inhabited by bears and their keepers, scattered across Europe (such as the sanctuary of St. Remedio in northern Italy). It should be remembered that in Medieval Europe the bear-keepers often performed in the company of a troupe of masked actors, musicians and jesters, going from village to village to conduct their “good-luck visits”. Fig. 17. Bear leader and musicians. Source: engraving from Olaüs Magnus, Historia de gentibus septentrialibus. Rome 1555. Reproduced in Michel and Clébert (1968: 329) Another interview: Evidence for a belief in the celestial bear In the case of Europe, because of its physical appearance and great intelligence, the bear was, in fact, the animal that most closely replicated a human being. However, in contrast to its human relatives, the bear seemed to be capable of dying and being resurrected from a death-like sleep in the spring of each year. Evidence from many native peoples demonstrates that this ability has been perceived by humans as one of supernatural, even mystic, proportions. Among the Basques, belief in the sacredness of the bears as well as their role as ancestors of humans persisted into the latter part of the 20th century, as we have seen in the case of the 1983 interview with Dominique and Petiri Prébende. Similar documentation, perhaps of an even more remarkable nature, is encountered in another unusual interview conducted slightly over a hundred years earlier, in 1891. This time the informants are not Basque bear-hunters but rather two Basque bear-trainers. In the interview the informants speak of the special powers of bears and the sacred relationship holding between their ward, an earthly bear, and a Celestial Bear who is conceptualized as a sort of ursine divinity. This remarkable document consists of a brief report by an English folklorist by the name of Thomas Hollingsworth who was vacationing in the 29 French Basque region. There in the town of Biarritz he happened to run into two beartrainers, a man and his wife, accompanied by their bear. His published report documents the interview that he conducted with them (Hollingsworth 1891).17 The text sheds additional light on the conceptual schema underlying the belief in an ursine genealogy found among Basque people as well as on certain celestial aspects of the belief system itself. The informants were Navarrese Basques whose first language was Euskara (Basque). The Englishman communicated with the pair in Spanish since they knew no French. That the first language of the two informants was Esukera is a conclusion easily drawn from the introductory remarks of Hollingsworth who begins by addressing the readers of the English journal Folk-Lore: Can any reader of Folk-Lore throw any light on a superstition prevalent apparently among the Basques of Navarre and the Aragonese of the Pyrenees, to the effect that the bear acts as a sort of watch-dog to St. Peter at the gate of Heaven. My informants are two Navarese [sic] Basques, a man and woman whom I saw exhibiting a bear in Biarritz. I have no doubt that, if I could have spoken Basque, I could have extracted much more information than I did, but it was difficult for them to speak Spanish, the only language except their own with which they were at all acquainted.18 (Hollingsworth 1891: 132) Hollingsworth states that initially the couple was shy and reticent and that it required a good deal of persuasion on his part to win their confidence even in the slightest degree. The interview, as reported by Hollingsworth, provides information concerning the role of the Celestial Bear as the guardian of the Gate of Heaven. Through the comments of the two Basque informants, we see that bears were viewed as extraordinarily intelligent animals, so intelligent in fact that they once ruled the earth. Also, according to the two bear keepers, bears are capable of understanding human speech, even Euskara. In the interview Christianized celestial lore, mixed with elements from deeper strata of the conceptual schema relating to the veneration of a Celestial Bear, can be detected. The couple utilizes what Lienhard (1991) has defined as hybrid discourse where two different cultural codes or schema are manipulated simultaneously. One element drawn from the earlier schema is the emphasis placed by the bear trainers on the presence of wolves in 17 I am greatly indebted to Evan Hadingham for bringing this interview to my attention over twenty years ago. 18 The fact that the two had no knowledge of French suggests that they lived not on the French side of the border, but rather on the Spanish side or at least that at some time in the past they had had more contact with Spanish speakers. Otherwise, if they had resided on the French side of the border, it is more likely that they would have known some French and probably no Spanish. Another inference that might be drawn from the linguistic skills of the two Basque speakers is that they exhibited their bear primarily in locations where Basque was the language spoken, and consequently would have had little need for using either Spanish or French in their daily communication. 30 Hell. In fact, wolves are portrayed as adversaries of bears in the folk belief of the Iberian Peninsula (Díaz 1994).19 In Hollingsworth’s report the two bear guardians demonstrate profound respect for their ward, although they never overtly mention any belief on their part in a bear ancestor. Given the significance of Hollingsworth’s text, I shall cite the entire section in which he talks about the interview: They told me that their bear, when they were not travelling about, lived with them in their hut in the mountains, and that they were always careful to treat him kindly and feed him well. For example, if they had not enough of fish (which they looked upon as a luxury) for themselves and the bear, the latter must be fed and satisfied first. They declared that the animal understands all that is said about him, and observes and comprehends any household work, trade or occupation which may be going on; “and that is the reason that a bear who has lived with men should never be allowed to return to the forest and mountains, for he will tell the other bears of what he has seen and learnt, and they, being very cunning, will come down into the valleys, and by means of their great strength, added to the knowledge they have thus gained, will be able to rule men as they did before!” (Hollingsworth 1891: 132-133) [emphasis in original] Hollingsworth was unfamiliar with the meaning of the reference to this earlier time when bears supposedly ruled the earth. The reference to such a past epoch could refer to the mindset that humans must have had long before the invention of firearms, at a point in time when humans were far out-numbered by bears, yet shared mountain trails and salmon streams with them. Far from feeling superior to these furry and very intelligent creatures, humans must have been keenly aware of the possibility of an unexpected encounter and therefore probably paid close attention to the habits, territorial ranges and feeding patterns of their ursine cohorts. Moreover, according to field work conducted by Dendaletche (1982: 95), in the Pyrenean region of Barèges, popular belief holds that formerly the country was governed by five bears, each of which was in charge of a different district of the zone. Humans and other creatures were obliged to render homage to their ursine rulers, their ancestral kin. Undoubtedly the Basque bear-trainers' remarks, cited by Hollingsworth, hearken back to a similar preterit cognitive framework. Consequently, the reverent attitude of these two bear keepers underlines the fact that the bear was deeply respected among the Basques. He was treated with similar reverence across both America and Eurasia in times past, as is evidenced in the case of rites for the dead bear celebrated until recently in Lapland, Alaska, British Columbia and Quebec. “All across North America, Indians have honored bears. When northern hunting tribes killed one, they spoke to its spirit, asking for its forgiveness. They treated the carcass reverently; among these tribes the ritual for a slain bear was more elaborate than that for any other food animal” (Rockwell 1991: 2). As Shepard has observed, there is evidence 19 I am greatly indebted to Joaquín Díaz, Director of the Ethnographic Museum “Joaquín Díaz” of Urueña, Valladolid, Spain, for this insight. 31 of a wide and ancient distribution of bear ritual. It is present in virtually every country of Western and Eastern Europe, in Asia south to Iran, and among many of the Indian nations of the United States, even into Central and South America (Shepard and Sanders 1992: 80). With regard to the animal’s uncanny abilities, the Asiatic Eskimos, for example, held that during the festival of the slain bear, the bear’s shadow-soul could hear and understand the speech of humans and men, no matter where they were (Shepard and Sanders 1992: 86), while the Tlingit said, “People must always speak carefully of bear people since bears [no matter how far away] have the power to hear human speech. Even though a person murmurs a few careless words, the bear will take revenge” (Rockwell 1991: 64). Analogous beliefs are found among the Ket (Yenesei Ostyaks), an Ugricspeaking people of Siberia, with a rich tradition of bear worship, who believe that the bear is chief among animals, that beneath its skin is a being in human shape, divine in wisdom. For them the bear was invested with the capability of understanding the speech of all beasts as well as of man. Besides, they fancied that though the bear in summer was dull of hearing because of the rustling of leaves, in autumn or winter, however, it was a very dangerous to speak ill of the bear or to boast of successful bear hunting. ‘Should you speak badly of him one day or the other, and go hunting and find a good place, a bear will rise from behind a tree suddenly and grab you with his paw.’ (Alekseenko 1968: 177) Thus, the Basque bear keepers' words echo a similar belief in the bear's ability to understand human speech. And, far from describing him as a cuddly pet, the Basques' comments, represent the bear as a familiar yet awesome being, in a fashion comparable to that of northern peoples for whom he is “un animal intelligent, habile, humain, familier et redouté” (Mathieu 1984: 12). Among Finno-Ugric peoples and Native American groups, the bear is viewed as omnipotent and omnipresent. He has the power to hear all that is said. For this reason hunters would avoid mentioning the bear’s real name, choosing rather to address him with euphemisms. That these might have been the qualities attributed to the European Celestial Bear and his earthly representatives, appears to be demonstrated in social practice by the semantic taboo existing among Slavic and Germanic peoples. This led them to avoid mentioning the bear’s real name, an avoidance pattern which, in all likelihood, stemmed from a profound adherence to the tenets of this animistic cosmology. The substitute term utilized in Slavic languages was “honey-eater”, while Germanic tribes preferred to call him the “brown one”, an expression that gave rise eventually to the 32 English word “bear”, linked etymologically to the words “brown” and “bruin” (Glosecki 1988; Praneuf 1989: 28-32; Stitt 1995).20 Hollingsworth concludes his report with these pertinent revelations: I endeavored to learn when this sad state of affairs existed [when bears ruled humans], but could only ascertain that it was antes—before, in other times. “El Orso,” [sic] said his keepers, “es el perro de Dios, el perro de San Pedro [the bear is the dog of God, the dog of Saint Peter]; he is very wise and thoughtful; he sits beside the blessed saint at the gate of Heaven, and if those who seek to enter have been cruel and unkind to bears in this world, the saint will turn them away, and they will have to go and live in hell, with the devils and the wolves.” “Que hay más por decir!” concluded the woman, “el orso es el perro de Dios [the bear is the dog of God].” The bear's name was Belis. I spell it as it was pronounced. Throughout the conversation the peasants would constantly interrupt themselves to speak to the animal,21 assuring me that he perfectly understood all that was said. (Hollingsworth 1891: 133) [emphasis in original]22 These last remarks by the couple merit a closer analysis. As I have noted, we are dealing with a hybrid discourse where the tenets of Bear Ceremonialism are interwoven with those of Christianity. There is also a topological overlapping between the two systems: there is spatial configuration with a higher, afterworld, situated above, where the soul of humans goes and where the person’s actions here on Earth will be submitted to a final judgment, before the soul is allowed to enter heaven. In this case, the blending of the two belief systems ends up positioning the bear as “the dog of St. Peter” or as “the dog of God”, sitting next to the Saint at the gate of heaven. In other words, the “bear” takes on the characteristics of a “guardian”. However, when examined with more care, we see that the questions that St. Peter addresses to the new arrival deal with the way the person has treated bears. Thus, we might say that St. Peter is acting on behalf of the bear figure, sitting silently beside him, “very wise and thoughtful”. Stated differently, St. Peter is in charge of interrogating the new arrivals concerning whether they have treated earthly bears with proper respect. In this way the soul’s entrance into to Heaven is conditioned by the way the person has interacted with bears on Earth. Even though the bear is called “el perro de St. Pedro” or “el perro de Dios”, expressions that give deference to St. Peter or God as if these Christian actors were the superior figures, in reality, because of the 20 Specifically the PIE etymon is *bher-, “bright, brown”, gave rise to the Old English form bera, and eventually to the Modern English word bear. The word “bruin” is a cognate of this group, often used in English to refer not to the color “brown” but to bears themselves ([AHD] 1969: 1509). 21 Since the two Basques spoke Basque to their bear, at this juncture, what they were saying to the bear, that is, what they were telling it in Basque, was more likely a translation or at least a summary their ongoing conversation with Hollingworth. Or if we assume that they believed the bear was already following the conversation in Spanish—that is, the conversation between them and Hollingworth—they might have been directing additional comments to the bear, in Basque, and therefore including him in the conversation. From the text itself, this point is somewhat unclear. 22 From Hollingsworth’s attempt at a phonetic spelling of the bear's name as Belis, it appears more likely that the bear’s name was Beltz. To an English ear this might sound like belis, whereas in Euskara the word beltz means “black” and is a common nick-name for black animals. 33 way the scene is structured, ultimately, it is the silent figure of the bear that ends up determining whether the soul will be admitted to the Other World. This type of hybrid discourse is a rather typical result of what happens when two belief systems become fused; where the older system survives as a substrate element within the new system. In these circumstances, it is not unusual for the older spiritual figure to survive, but often only after being assigned a more peripheral role. The figure now shows up seated, silently, beside the new spiritual authority, or otherwise demoted to a lower level of importance, visible, nonetheless, to those who chose to reflect more upon the implications of the co-location of the participating elements. This situation is an example of a phenomenon called contested ritual agency. In recent years increased attention has been paid to this concept of contested ritual agency, particularly in cultural studies where two belief systems have been in prolonged contact with each other (Eade and Sallnow 2000). More specifically, the term refers to manner in which symbols of identity are often skillfully manipulated by a given cultural group. It is commonly employed to refer to the manner in which two opposing groups of ritual specialists interact, one group protecting the older belief system while the members of another group act as proponents of the new system. Over time this confrontation sets up a contest with respect to the manner in which meaning is assigned to the symbolic artifacts in question. Thus, the interpretation of the symbolic artifacts—which is at the center of this process of meaning-making—depends on the way that the different groups adjust to each other over time. In some instances, the older interpretation of the artifacts is retained, albeit in a modified form, although the old interpretation can also disappear from view entirely. Conflicts arising from contradictory allegiances to a given symbol are most apparent in the case of sacred sites, hermitages and other locations that are venerated by the local populace and whose origins date back to pre-Christian times. For instance, in the case of the Abbey of Odile, in times past more than one figure appears to have been venerated, one being the officially recognized Christian saint, and the other a pre-Christian ursine being, incarnate in the silent stone figure of a bear. In this way, the continued presence of the bear—whose figure was placed near the crypt of the official saint of the Abbey— would be an example of a compromise, a solution that resulted from a situation of contested ritual agency. Other related examples have been collected by Clébert who also discovered a curious custom associated with the church of Orcival: “les portes de l'église étaient recouvertes de peaux d’ours tués dans la region” (Clébert 1968: 326). Clébert alludes to another custom that is of interest to us: the association of certain sacred sites with saints named 34 Saint Ours (Saint Bear). He also mentions hagiographic traditions dating back to fifth century Europe that concern bishops and other shadowy figures also called Saint Ours and who sometimes are said to have founded monasteries: Il n'y a en France que trois Saint-Ours officiels (des communes, je ne relève pas les hameaux): un près de Meyronnes dans les Basses-Alpes, un près de Ponte-gibaud dans le Puy-de-Dâme, un près d’Albens en Savoie. On remarquera tout de même que tous trois se trouvent en territoire sauvage. Mais il y a aussi plusieurs Saint-Urcisse (ou Urcize) (Tarn, Lot-et-Garonne, Cantal) dont le patron est Ursicinus, ermite bizarre établi sur les bords du Doubs et vénéré en Suisse à Saint-Ursanne, où, dans la grotte de l’ermitage, il est représenté couché, un ours à ses pieds. Comme sainte Ursule, vénérée à Bâle... On ne trouve, dans l’hagiographie officielle, pas moins de six saints Ours, dont trois furent français: un évêque de Troyes, qui “florissait” au Ve siècle, un évêque d'Auxerre du temps de Clovis, et un abbé de Touraine qui au Ve siècle fonda le monastère de Loches. (Clébert 1968: 326) The above citation might be glossed as follows: In France there are only three official Saint Ours [Saint Bear], (I am not listing the non-official ones found in hamlets): one near Meyronnes in the Basses-Alpes, one near Ponte-gibaud in le Puy-de-Dâme, and one near Albens in Savoy. At the same time one notes that all three of them are found within wilderness areas. Moreover, there are also many Saint Urcisse (or Urcize) (in Tarn, Lot-et-Garonne, Cantal) whose patron saint is Ursicinus, a bizarre hermit who established himself on the banks of the Doubs River and who is venerated in Switzerland at Saint Ursanne, where, in the grotto of the hermitage, he is represented lying down with a bear at his feet. Like Saint Ursule, who is worshipped at Bâle... In the official hagiography there are at least six Saint Ours, of which three were French, a bishop from Troyes who ‘flourished’ in the fifth century, a bishop from Auxerres from the time of Clovis, and an abbot from Touraine who in the fifth century founded the monastery of Loches. Whether any of these monasteries also housed bears as was done at the Abbey of Andlau is not known. In sum, the presence of hermitages dedicated to bear-like saints provides an additional avenue for identifying a substratum of popular belief in a more primitive bear-deity in this part of Europe. Taken alone and, therefore, in isolation from other evidence, these sites could be interpreted in many different ways. However, when other converging lines of evidence are brought into view, the logical conclusion seems to be that residual belief in the older bear-deity has survived in the material and linguistic artifacts associated with these sites. Furthermore, the geographical distribution of these sites could be brought into play as a way of mapping the locations of sacred sites, albeit tentatively, where the veneration of bears was once practiced. In this respect, I would like to bring up two other examples of solutions that have resulted from complex processes of contested ritual agency in which the indigenous role of the bear has been altered as a result of contacts with a new religious narrative. Both examples come from outside Europe and are described by Labbé (1903: 231) in his work on Bear Ceremonialism among Altaic peoples. First, there is the case of the Mongols: “De pauvres Mongols, qui pratiquent la religion bouddique, m'ont dit que l’HommeDieu, incarnation vivante de Bouddha, vit dans un monastère du Thibet, et élève un ours, 35 dont il écoute les conseils” (“Concerning the poor Mongols, who practice the Buddhist religion, they have told me that the Man-God, the living incarnation of Bouddha, lives in a monastery in Tibet, and raises a bear who gives him advice”).23 This scenario is quite similar to the one we have just documented where the bear is portrayed as “el perro de Dios”, as if it were a subservient figure. Yet at the same time, it is the treatment of the bear that determines whether the soul enters heaven. That is, whereas the bear sits beside St. Peter, and is therefore inserted into a Christian narrative, because of the way it is portrayed, the bear still retains the authority assigned to it in the earlier symbolic order. The second example cited by Labbé shows a more disturbed or disrupted situation with respect to the value attributed to the earlier ursine belief system. Rather than still retaining his ritual autonomy, the bear has been demoted. That process of demotion might also reflect the socio-political and economic inequalities experienced or at least sensed by the indigenous population in question vis-à-vis the outsiders, the proponents of the new symbolic regime. Labbé speaks of the Orotchones, a small tribe occupying a zone of eastern Siberia along the Upper Amour river Amour, and how they recontextualized the indigenous norms of their Bear Ceremonialism: “Certains Orotchones considèrent l’ours comme un dieu déchu, qui fut vaincu par un dieu plus fort” (“Some Orotchones consider the bear a fallen god, who was conquered by a stronger god”) (1903: 231).24 All of the above examples of merged imagery appear to contain a level of contradiction and ambiguity which probably masks past tensions between opposing groups of ritual specialists and conflicting allegiances to very different cosmological systems, one that was animistic and yet another that tended to portray the divinity in human form. While there are many factors that lead to the retention or rejection of indigenous norms, the survival of the older meanings seems to be related to the level of significance assigned to the symbolic artifacts themselves in terms of their role as markers of identity for the group in question. Generally speaking, the more a group’s identity is invested in a given artifact, the more likely it is that the artifact in question and the symbolism attached to it will be respected, even viewed as something sacred. And, consequently, the more resistant it becomes to change. Thus, the better chance there is that the symbol’s older meaning(s) will survive, albeit in slightly modified but still recognizable form. Moreover, those who remain most attached to the older cultural network—whose lives and/or livelihoods are most closely linked to it—are most likely to be those whose belief 23 24 Here the phrase “pauvres Mongols” refers to the sad state of the Mongols, their misfortune. Cf. Bayley (1994) for other historically attested examples of contested ritual agency. 36 system more clearly reflects the tenets of the older system. This appears to be the case with: 1) Dominique and Petiri Prébende interviewed in 1983; 2) the two Basque Basques with their trained bear interviewed in 1891; and 3) perhaps more importantly, at least in the context of this study, the way that the older system has been kept in the performance art associated with the Basque Mamoxaurres, Momutxorros, Marraus, etc. and the Sardinian Mamutzones. In both instances, the resilience of the performances has been controlled by the conceptualization of their centrality to processes of identity formation and the felt need to reaffirm that identity, although in a few locations there is an incipient tendency to orient performances not to the community itself, but rather to outsiders, as a way to attract tourists (and their money) to the town. The Bear Son and Hamalau “Fourteen” Extensive fieldwork conducted over the past thirty years in the Basque region of the Pyrenees led to the discovery of the existence of an archetypal hero, half-bear, halfhuman, called Hartzkume in Basque whose name means “Little Bear” and a set of stories that narrates his exploits. The name Hartzkume derives from hartz “bear” and (k)ume “infant, baby, little one”, literally translated, “bear-baby”. In the eastern dialects of Basque, the main character is also known as Hartzko (Harzko), “Little Bear”, a diminutive form of hartz “bear” which we mentioned earlier in reference to the magic powers of “badger paws”. But what concerns us here is other name by which this character is known, specifically, Hamalau which, quite curiously, translates as “Fourteen”. When I began doing fieldwork in the Euskal Herria, some thirty years ago, my focus was on exploring various aspects of traditional Basque culture, including Basque metrological practices. That line of ethnomathematical research led me to realize that certain Basque numbers had connotations that struck me as, frankly, rather bizarre, especially the expression hamalau which means “fourteen”, a compound composed of hama(r) “ten” and lau “four”. Later I would discover that the term hamalau was used in a variety of settings, not merely as the name of a character in a folktale. In short, I stumbled across Hamalau and the ursine cosmogony quite accidently. Because of the way that the Basque linguistic data, collected through field work and interviews with Basque-speaking informants, ended up providing important information concerning the meanings associated with term Hamalau, I will lay out the discovery process that led ultimately to the revelation of the belief in bear ancestors and the ursine cosmogony itself. At the same time, I have chosen to provide this more detailed narrative of the discovery process, rather than a mere summary of its results, in order to illustrate 37 the means by which similar linguistic information embedded in Sardu might also be recuperated, by paying close attention to the socio-cultural embedding of the words themselves. When first I began to analyze the semantic field surrounding the word hamalau, I was confronted with a very diverse set of meanings. First, I would emphasize that my fieldwork was done in the province of Gipuzkoa. There I discovered, initially, that for many native-speakers of Basque the number fourteen refers to the notion of “infinity”. For example, one informant indicated that hamalau was the greatest number that could be imagined, even though the individual in question worked as an industrial engineer for a large corporation, that is, he was someone who dealt with large numbers and Western mathematics on a daily basis. In fact, the association of the word hamalau with the notion of “infinity”, or at least the use of “fourteen” to refer to an infinite amount of something, appears to have been relatively commonplace among speakers of the Gipuzkoan dialect of Basque (Perurena 1993: 265-280). It was soon obvious to me that whatever the connotations were for the word “fourteen”, they weren’t restricted to its meaning as a number. It was something that a person, a least a male person, could compare himself to, and in this case, in a positive sense. Moreover, there was an additional problem with this aspect of my research: I soon discovered that the term hamalau was being used with unfamiliar and unexpected referents. Indeed, the first time I heard the following exchange between two elderly males, both native-speakers of Basque, I was taken aback: Zer moduz? (How are you?). Ondo, hamalau bezain ondo! (Good. Just as good as ‘fourteen’) After that incident, I kept my ears pealed and soon afterwards I came across another example: “Zein uste du, hamalau alkandoraz?” (“Who does he think he is, ‘fourteen’ with a shirt on?”). This exchange allowed me to perceive another aspect of the term: whatever it referred to, the being in question didn’t normally wear human clothes. (Urbeltz 1994: 315-316). In 1991, Antxon Ezeiza, a Basque filmmaker, offered other examples. Although Antxon was not himself a Basque-speaker, his mother was. Nonetheless, she spoke to her son in Spanish. He recalled that she would use the word hamalau to reprimand him when he was misbehaving. Antxon recalled the context in which this occurred as follows: “Sí, ahora me acuerdo. De niño me madre solía regañarme diciendo: Qué te crees? Hamalau?” (“Yes, now I remember. When I was a child my mother used to scold me saying: ‘Who do you think you are? Hamalau?’”). Another common expression that she 38 used was: “Todos los vizcaínos se creen hamalau” (“All the people from Bizkaia think they are hamalau”) (Ezeiza 1991). In order to understand the implications of her words we need to recall the following: Antxon’s mother was from the province of Gipuzkoa, a province with a predominantly rural Basque-speaking population. Traditionally Biscayans (especially people from the metropolitan area of Bilbao) have been stereotyped by Gipuzkoans as people who exaggerate and think they are superior to the rest of the Basques. Thus, her words refer to a kind of friendly rivalry that exists between Gipuzkoans and their neighbors to the west, the inhabitants of Bizkaia. Because of the contexualization of the word in these examples, I could see that the term was had to refer to someone who held a position of authority and therefore inspired respect. Therefore, when someone was putting on airs, pretending he was more important than he really was, the term was used ironically: “Who does he think he is, fourteen?” In other words, the individual in question was acting inappropriately, that is, in an arrogant fashion. Stated differently, the person was attributing to himself powers that were not his, acting as if he were in a position to exercise authority over others, that he was more important than the others when he was not. Further research demonstrated that all of these sayings represent linguistic residue, fossilized semantic traces linked to the earlier ursine cosmology that centered on the Bear Ancestor as well as to socio-culturally situated practices. Returning now to the topic of the sequence of events that led to discovery process itself, once I was finally convinced that in addition to referring to a number, the word hamalau had to refer to a human-like creature, or at least human enough to be used as a term of comparison for human beings, I began asking Gipuzkoan speakers if they could describe Hamalau to me. This approach turned up another significant piece of evidence. One of my informants offered the following description: “Hamalau is kind of a clown, a trickster of sorts, who eats and drinks a lot and has a good time. He is also bigger and stronger than most men25. Eventually, the explanation for this last characterization of Hamalau would come clearly into view. When interviewing one of my Basque informants, she said this characterization of Hamalau as a larger than regular humans, as a kind of glutton, eating and drinking to his fill, had a simple explanation: that Hamalau was the main character in a Basque folk tale, although not one that everyone remembered anymore. She told me that in the tale Hamalau is portrayed as half-bear and half-human and, as such, he is much bigger and stronger than other children; and when he grows up he is a voluminous eater (as are all 25 Cf. Perurena (1993: 265-280) for many additional examples. 39 bears especially in the late summer) and because of his mixed-parentage he is endowed with superhuman strength. Naturally, this is because in the stories, Hamalau’s father is a Great Bear while his mother is a human being. Finally, I should cite the conclusion reached by Patziku Perurena, another researcher who has done extensive work on the word fields and connotations of Basque numbers, especially “fourteen”. In a radio interview, dating from 2000, he stated that perhaps the best interpretation of the figure of Hamalau would be to compare him to the Christian notion of God. In short, Perurena suggested that Hamalau might be understood best in following way: that for Basques this creature was their pre-Christian deity (Hamalaua, gure Jaingo “Fourteen, our god”). His conclusion was based, in part, on the remarkable attributes that the number “fourteen” has in terms of its “infinite nature” and “omnipotence” as well as the related socio-cultural embedding of Hamalau in Basque folk belief (Perurena 1993: 265; 2000). Although outside the scope of this preliminary discussion of the connotations of the term hamalau, I would mention in passing that there is also other evidence for the sociocultural situatedness of the term, namely, that the term hamalau formed in part of the title of an actual judicial official, the Hamalau-zaingo, whose duties included watching over the community in question. In other words, this individual was charged with keeping track of those members of the community who misbehaved in some way, violating the community’s norms. In the case of Zuberoa, the individual who held this office even had immunity from prosecution as indicated in the law codes from the same zone: “Rubrique II, Art. VI: 'Nul homme auquel tombe la charge de fermance vesialère qui au langage du pays est appelé sainhoa ou zaingoa, ne puet être jugé en la cour de Lixarre ni en autre cour de Soule’” (“No man to whom the office of fermance vesialère falls, [an office] that in the language of the country is called sainhoa or zaingoa, can be judged in the court of Lixarre or in any other court of Soule [Zuberoa]”) (Haristoy 1883-1884: 384-385). Speaking of the office of zaingoa Haristoy adds that: Les besiau vesain (vecini) désignaient les habitants d'une localité, vivant sous le même régime et constituant la communauté. Le fermance (en basque bermea caution) veizalère ou vezalière était la cautión communnaie: charge héréditaire que faisait de celui que en était investi le responsable des autres voisins, le surveillant, l'huissier de la communauté. (Haristoy 1883-1884: 383 ftnote) Haristoy’s discussion can be glossed as follows: “The besiau vesain (‘neighbors’) referred to the inhabitants of a given locality, living under the same regime [legal code or form of government] and constituting the communauté [‘community’]. The fermance (in Basque bermea [‘security, bail, bond, collatoral’]) veizalère or vezalière was the cautión communnaie [a charge relating to the exercise of oversight or supervision with respect to 40 the other members of the community], a hereditary office that made the individual who was invested with it the one who was responsible for [monitoring the behavior of] the other neighbors, [the person acted as] a guardian or inspector, as the bailiff of the community [watching out for infractions of communal norms and law].” Other evidence suggests that this office was not originally hereditary, but rather was renewed annually and rotated through the households making up the community or auzoa. Furthermore, there is reason to believe that among the duties that fell to the Hamalau-zaingoa was that of acting as a kind of judge, determining the seriousness of the infraction or crime and perhaps also imposing the appropriate punishment and seeing that it was carried out. Bear Ceremonialism and the Bear Son narrative Although I initially believed that the Bear Son narrative was restricted to the Pyrenean region, subsequent research revealed a very different reality. The figure of the Bear Son, born of a Great Bear and human female, far from being exclusive to the Pyrenean zone, is identified with a cycle of stories and related ritual performances found throughout Europe (Cosquin 1887: 1-27).26 The latter performances include what are called “good-luck visits”. Variants of these visits and related ritual practices have survived surprisingly intact into the 21st century. Indeed, they form part of rich legacy of popular performance art whose cognitive roots and cultural conceptualizations reach back to a much earlier worldview that draws its meaning from what now appears to be an archaic pan-European belief that humans descended from bears: that bears are our ancestors (Frank 2005b). As we shall see, the “good luck visits” themselves have acted as a vehicle for the cultural storage and preservation as well as the oral transmission of the tenets of the earlier European belief system, through reiterative mechanisms typical of oral cultures. The Bear Son tales represent the most common motif found in European folklore (Cosquin 1887: 1-27; Espinosa 1946-1947: 499-511; 1951; Fabre 1968; Frank 1996, 2007). While folklorists did not recognize the significance of the European stories in terms of their possible linkage to this much older ursine cosmogony, the widespread distribution of the Bear Son tales eventually did catch their eye. And while the tales have not been an object of serious investigation by ethnographers and anthropologists, by the end of the 19th century folklorists were taking a second-look at them. However, at that time they focused their efforts mainly on the task of classifying the motifs and variants that showed up in them (Cosquin 1887). 26 As stated, the pan-European hero is known as Hartzkume, Hartzko and Hamalau in Euskara, while he goes by the name of Juan el Osito in Spanish, Jean l'Ours in French, Giovanni l'Orso in Italian, Hans Bär in German and Ivanuska in Slavic languages. 41 By 1910 Panzer had documented 221 European variants of the 301–story type, the descent of the Bear Son hero to the Under World (Panzer 1910). In a study published in 1959, 57 Hungarian versions of the tale are mentioned (Kiss 1959) and in 1992, Stitt, in his study Beowulf and the Bear's Son: Epic Saga, and Fairytale in Northern Germanic Tradition, recorded 120 variants of the Bear Son story for Scandinavia alone (Stitt 1995). The cycle of oral tales is present in all the Indo-European language groups of Europe as well as in Basque and in Finno-Ugric languages, e.g., in Finnish and Saami and also in Magyar (Hungarian) and it is even among the Mansi (Voguls). Moreover, the most complete and least disturbed versions of the tales—ones containing the most archaic structural elements—come from former Basque-speaking zones of France and the Spain or from the Basque-speaking region itself. In short, generally speaking, a cline from west to east can be detected in the tales with the most archaic variants being found in western Europe, especially in the Pyrenean zone and its immediate environs. Nonetheless, throughout Europe still today we encounter abundant examples of the cultural practices and performance art that implicate the previous veneration of bears and the bear ancestor. The widespread distribution of the motif is best understood once we recognize that we are dealing with relatively archaic materials emanating from this much earlier European cosmology, this earlier European story of human origins. In fact, for Europe there is reason to suspect that the Bear Ancestor, progenitor of humans, was linked symbolically to the Great Bear (Ursa Major) constellation (Frank 1996, in press-a; Frank and Arregi Bengoa 2001; Shepard 1995, 1999; Shepard and Sanders 1992). Paul Shepard has referred to this earlier worldview as a kind of “trophic metaphysics” where the complex network of food-chain relations is understood and articulated in narrative and social practice. Furthermore he has suggested that initially the image of Ursa Major, the “sidereal bear”, was projected on the upper world as “the mythic celestial equivalent” of these relations in the earthly world (Shepard 1995: 6; 1999: 92-97). Gary Snyder, on the other hand, speaks of the process of “re-inhabitation” where the separation and alienation between human and animal is removed; the dichotomy between “man and nature” is erased and the boundaries between culture and nature become ambiguous (Snyder 1990: 155-174; 1995). In sum, the assumption that we descend from bears ruptures more familiar modern day hierarchical and anthropocentric modes of thought, e.g., that “man is superior to beasts” (Frank 2003, 2005b; Hartsuaga 1987). Residual Bear Ceremonialism in Europe Evidence for the residual practice of Bear Ceremonialism in Europe is demonstrated in many forms, including ritual reenactments of the bear hunt and folkloric performances 42 portraying scenes from the Bear Son saga itself (Alford 1930, 1937). Perhaps the most elaborate reenactments of the bear hunt are found today in the Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone and, I should emphasize, also in Sardinia. In the Pyrenean region, the performances held each year in Arles-le-Tech are probably the most structurally complex, leaving aside the complexity of the Basque Maskaradak of Zuberoa.27 However, there are a number of other locations in the Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone where ritual bear hunts and/or performances involving a bear actor take place each year. Fig. 18. Sites of Candlemas Bear Day celebrations in the Pyrenées. Source: Gastou (1987: 20). 27 In making this statement, I would note that the Basque Maskaradak performance does not include any direct reference to a “bear hunt”, although it has kept many other elements that seem to have been lost or misplaced in the Arles-le-Tech performances, most significantly the complexity of the dances themselves and their musical accompaniment, a topic that will be taken up at a later date. 43 Fig. 19. Winter Bear Carnival Sites in Cantabria, Spain. Source: Molina González & Vélez Pérez (1986: 134) In similar folk performances found across much of Europe, the Bear Son intermediary often appears dressed as a bear (Frank in press-a). As noted, ritual bear hunts are still performed in the Franco-Cantabrian region and the Pyrenees, where today they are acted out publicly during the period of Winter Carnival.28 For example, in Andorra the Festa de l’Ossa is celebrated both on December 26 and during Spring Carnival (Praneuf 1989: 62). The Bear Festivals appear to be reenactments of real bear hunts that took place in times past: a ritual celebration of them. In other words they are performances that could be interpreted as portrayals of the hunting, death and resurrection of the earthly bear who, in turn, was seen as an ancestor. Earthly bears needed to be treated with great respect since the primordial bear (ancestor) was also seen as the “keeper of souls”. There is a Pyrenean belief that in the Fall of the year the bear gathers up the souls of all creatures of nature, and puts them in its belly (womb) where they are kept until Spring when they emerge once again. If properly treated, the bear releases the animal and plant souls so that its human offspring can live abundantly. Assigning this function to the bear seems to correspond to the concept of a supernatural master or guardian spirit of all species of animals as well as the rest of the natural world, a common belief encountered among many native peoples (Brightman 2002; Hallowell 1926; Hämäläinen in prep.; Sarmela 2006). There is also evidence that upon its death, the earthly bear’s soul was sent back to heaven so that it could report to a higher authority, a kind of Celestial Bear figure, concerning the behavior of its human offspring. A positive report card guaranteed the 28 For a discussion of similar public re-enactments and “good luck visits” conducted on Candlemas Bear Day (February 2) and understood to form part of the World Renewal Ceremonies associated with the Spring Carnival period, cf. Frank (2001). 44 health and well being of the Celestial Bear’s human descendants. If the ceremonies were properly performed, in the Spring of the year the bones of the earthly bear would take on flesh anew in the form of bear cubs; and, as has been mentioned, the souls of all the other beings would be released by the bear (or perhaps by the Celestial Bear itself) in the Spring when it awoke from hibernation (Chiclo 1981; Elgström and Manker 1984; Fabre 1968; Lebeuf 1987; Tiberio 1993). Hence, there was a highly interactive and yet very practical component embedded in the ursine belief system and the social practices emanating from it. The celebration of ritual hunts—including ritual performances that mimed the hunt—was a way of insuring that the community would enjoy good luck (and good hunting) during the rest of the year. Similarly, the celebration of an abbreviated form of the ritual performance was part of the “good-luck visit” itself, where the performers would go from one farmstead to the next with their “bear” or would move through the streets of the village, stopping at designated locations to perform the same play. The latter regularly involves the bear dancing about, chasing and attacking the inhabitants, then being captured and killed; sometimes the instrument used in the play is a gun, in other cases a knife or a spear. The important part comes next. The bear feigns its own death, falling down on the ground, but almost immediately—and on cue—it jumps up (resurrected) to begin dancing once again. And the troop moves on to the next house. At this juncture, I should mention that in many cases, the performance is concluded with a ribald and often biting social critique of those present (as well as local authorities and other entities who exercise power or attempt to exercise power over the community). In Basque, this element is called the predika. Moreover, the social critique that is built into this part of the performance seems to be analogous to another central element of Bear Ceremonialism, as it has been documented among circumpolar peoples. It was believed that if they treated the earthly bear with respect, killed it and honored it properly, disposing of its bones in the proper fashion, when the earthly bear’s soul reached heaven, it would give the Celestial Bear a positive report. If not, as the Basque bear-trainers suggest, the consequences could be dire. In times past, the “good luck visits” were clearly understood to have specific purposes and to confer benefits on the individual households that were visited and on community as a whole, (Giroux 1984).29 For instance, they were perceived as having a cleansing, healing or otherwise prophylactic function. Therefore, they were considered of fundamental importance: they guaranteed the health and well being of the household 29 For a detailed discussion of the typology of the “good luck visits”, cf. Halpert (1969). 45 visited and all its inhabitants. At the same time, the “good luck visits” acted as a complex mechanism for inculcating and reinforcing the importance of proper behavior, i.e., of behaving according to the tenets of Bear Ceremonialism itself. Thus, there was a pedagogical component involved in such visits.30 Far from being restricted to the Pyrenean region, in other parts of Europe, as we have noted, once at their destination the Bear actor and his helpers, along with the other masked figures, perform a kind of an abbreviated play in which the bear’s hunt, death and resurrection are often reenacted, even though the meaning of the play is not always entirely clear to all of the participants. In some cases a rather raucous report critiquing the householders’ behavior is read or sung by a member of the troupe of actors and musicians.31 Afterwards, the actors are treated to food and drink by their hosts.32 Traditionally, the latter “passion play” was reenacted before each farmstead (or even inside it) as an integral part of a cleansing ritual intended to protect the family, animals and crops from harm throughout the rest of the year. One of the reasons behind the performances is the fact that the motley crew of masked actors along with their live bear or a man dressed as a bear was (is) believed fully capable of carrying away with them the maladies and misfortunes of their patients (Frank 1996; Vukanovitch 1959).33 In the case of the Pyrenean-Cantabrian region, this belief is still alive and well. And at the same time the singing of a social critique is an integral part of the village-wide performances, e.g. in the Vijanera Winter Carnival, in Silió, Cantabria,34 30 As is well known, veiled, even overt forms of social protest were frequently associated with the “tricks” carried out on All Hallow’s night and during the Christmas “mumming” season when the performances were utilized as a mechanism for enforcing community norms of behavior and an opportunity to punish those who digressed with relative impunity. Certainly, the butt of these satires was often the Church and civil authorities, a fact that brought about repeated ecclesiastical and civil condemnations of the mummers and their plays (Alford 1930; Caro Baroja 1965; Halpert 1969; Le Roy Ladurie 1979; Miles [1912] 1976; Szwed 1969). 31 For a discussion of contemporary samples of such “reports”, cf. Fabre (1968) and Fernández de Larrinoa (1997). 32 For additional bibliography and a discussion of modern versions of the performance, cf. the collection of essays in Halpert and Story (1969). 33 Some of the most archaic versions of these performances have survived in the Pyrenean region. Among them, the Basque Maskaradak is undoubtedly the most complete performance piece in terms of its robust repertoire of dances, songs and associated characters, although the bear hunt motif is now missing. The prototypical performance piece where the bear feigns death, is resurrected and dances once more, also appears to have a somewhat more learned counterpart in the English Mummers’ Play and Morris Dances, in the “St. George” dramas and “Soulers’ Play”, performed on or near All Souls’ Day, as well as in the continental “St. Nicholas” plays. The German “St. Nicholas” plays appear to be more Christianized and sophisticated forms of the prototypical folk-drama in question (Alford 1978; Bishop in prep.; Halpert 1969; Miles [1912] 1976: 298-301; Siefker 1997). 34 The social critique which is sung at the Vijanera bear festival can be seen in the following video which documents the festival itself as well as the singing of satirical coplas at the end: http://video.google.com/videosearch?q=vijanera&hl=en&sitesearch=#ADD LINKS. 46 while in the Basque region of Zuberoa, the “proclamation” or predika is read at the conclusion of the Maskaradak. And in Sardinia, a similar set of beliefs and ritual practices have survived well into the 21st century in which the “death and resurrection” of the bear, s’Urtzu, plays a prominent role (Fois 2002a).35 Fig. 20. Scene of the “death before resurrection” of s’Urtzu. Source: Fois (2002). In summary, it was believed that the earthly bear’s report served to inform the Celestial Bear of the details of the behavior of its human offspring. A positive report card guaranteed the health and well being of the Celestial Bear’s human descendants. If the ceremonies were properly performed, in the spring the bones of the earthly bear would take on flesh anew in the form of bear cubs, while the souls of all the other beings would be released by the bear in the spring when it awoke from hibernation, thus guaranteeing an abundant food supply for all (Chiclo 1981; Elgström and Manker 1984; Fabre 1968; Lebeuf 1987; Tiberio 1993). In this way, by closing the “good-luck visit” with a social critique, the latter served to reinforce the traditional norms and values of the community in question. Celestial imagery: Death and Resurrection Before concluding this section, I would like to address a final point: the celestial imagery associated with the birth of the primordial bear among Nordic populations, 35 More detailed discussion of the different variations on this theme can be found in the Sardinian performances, (cf. Associazione Pro-Loco di Mamoiada [n.d.]; Naseddu 2002). 47 particularly Finno-Ugric speaking groups and the way that this imagery can be compared to the European materials we have discussed so far. Also, there is the issue of how this celestial origin impacts the concept of the earthly bear’s death and resurrection. Fig. 21. Geographic span of Uralic languages today. Source: http://www.verbix.com/languages/ugric.asp. As Sarmela has observed: In the mythologies of many Nordic peoples, the bear was believed to be of celestial origin, even the son of a god […]. The bear appears as the original hero of nature, with a kind of a special position among other animals, or it has been the embodiment of the supernatural guardian spirits of the forest […]. Ritual bear hunting is likely to have begun from a myth of the bear’s birth, which in Finland has survived as a verse in old metre. (Sarmela 2006) The narratives relating to the birth of the Finno-Ugric bear justify the structure and symbolism of the rituals that have been observed by Finno-Ugric peoples, including the obligation to facilitate the return of the bear’s soul back to heaven. The extant Finnish birth poems are usually brief, but contain the fundamental motifs of the narrative, 48 namely, that the bear was born in the sky above, in Ursa Major, and was sent down to earth. Some variants describe how the bear was lowered to the top of a pine or spruce tree in a cradle suspended from golden chains (Sarmela 2006). Similar stories and traditions are found among speakers of Ugric languages. Data available from the Ob River people of Siberia, a population speaking languages distantly related to Hungarian,36 demonstrate a wide variety of ritual activities reflecting a deeply ingrained belief in Bear Ceremonialism. In this region bear shamanism is still practiced along with ritual song and dance in honor of their supreme deity Numi-torum, often conceived as an ursine being, a Celestial Bear, and his delegate to the world, Little Bear (Aleskseenko 1968; Kálmán 1968; Milkovsky 1993; Shepard and Sanders 1992). Among the Khanty (Ostyaks), hunting the earthly representative or incarnation of the Celestial Bear is still done for real, rather than being purely ceremonial and/or pantomimed as it is today in other parts of Europe, particularly in the Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone where the brown bear (Ursus arctos) is on the verge of extinction (Dendaletche 1982; Mabey 2007; Peillen 1986).37 For this reason, of particular interest are the narratives of Finno-Ugric peoples. The Finns, Khanty (Ostyaks) and Mansi (Voguls) tell a story of the earthly bear's origin on a cloud near the Great Bear constellation. The bear comes down to earth to establish the Bärenfest ceremony, and then returns to the sky. Like other bears since then, which are killed, the bear’s spirit was to be sent home in accordance with the ceremony that it had taught humans at the beginning of time (Shepard and Sanders 1992: 62). In a fashion reminiscent of the actions attributed to the main character of the Finno-Ugric tale, we find that in the Basque version, one day when Father Bear goes out to hunt, Little Bear manages to remove the stone blocking the entrance to the bear cave, breaking the lock so to speak, and he then heads off to explore the outer world, but without the explicit permission of his father, the Great Bear. In the Khanty sacred tale, there is an explicit spatial dimension to the tale, a vertical axis so that when the tale begins the main character, a bear cub, is portrayed as inhabiting 36 Along with Hungarian, these two language groups, Khanty and Mansi, make up the Ugric (or Yugric) branch of the Finno-Ugric family. Geographically speaking, the Hungarian language also originated from the same area, the southern Ural Mountains. 37 One of the unanswered questions concerns the origins of the dancing bear and its human counterpart, the actor who dresses as a bear. A simplistic response would to be for us to assume the following: at some point in the past people started to capture bear cubs and raise them to perform healing ceremonies and then later when bears were no longer easily available the custom of having humans dress up as bears came into fashion. While this explanation might seem an obvious solution to the enigma, other evidence suggests that there was a shamanic component in the ursine ritual performances and consequently, dressing as a bear might well date back to much earlier epochs and to a hunter-gatherer world view. This topic will be treated in depth in later chapters of this study. 49 a hut in the Upper World. At this point in time bears still lived in heaven. Then, one day Father Bear goes out on a hunt. While he is absent, the little bear manages to break the lock on the hut and enters the courtyard of heaven.38 But being an ungainly cub, his paw sinks deep through the floor of the Upper World, and, looking through the hole, the little bear glimpses Middle Earth and the people who inhabit it. He is so pleased by what he sees that he pleads with his father, Numi-torum, to allow him to visit the world below, and finally convinces him. However, he receives permission only after being instructed by his father to reward the good people and punish the wicked. He is also told to explain to humans how to conduct the bear ceremony, letting people how they are to act, and to communicate to them the meaning of ceremony’s ritual components (Shepard and Sanders 1992: 63). Upon its demise, the slain bear’s soul was said to return home where it would convey the details of its death and the feast held in its honor to a chief or animal master, the Guardian of the Animals who, in turn, appears to have been identified with or otherwise connected to the Celestial Bear. Shepard summarizes the Khanty beliefs, saying: For the Ostyaks [Khanty], the bear serves as a delegate from the world of the supernatural, the world beyond man. The feast of the bear is intended to make clear the connection between the holy places where the ceremony was performed and heaven itself. By enacting the feast, the Ostyaks ensure that their souls will wander to that holy spot where the fate of humans is finally decided. In a sense, then, their lives rest in the hands of the bear. (Shepard and Sanders 1992: 63) In contrast to the Finno-Ugric mythic traditions, the European Bear Son is born of a human female and a great bear. When he is seven years old he tells his mother that he wants to go out into the world, and gains her permission, sometimes saying that he wants to do so in order to play with human children. After the hero manages to remove the stone that serves as a lock on the bear cave, he takes off along with his mother, although soon afterwards she disappears from the story. While in these extant European Bear Son narratives there is no explicit mention of an association between the Bear Son’s father and a Celestial Bear, there is other evidence that supports such a conclusion, that is, there are other indications of a residual belief in a celestially conceived ursine deity, e.g., “the dog of God” that the two bear-trainers talk about or, for instance, the presence of bear imagery at sacred sites, alongside Christian saints who have a celestial projection. Sarmela compares the Finno-Ugric ursine cosmology to religious belief systems found in other parts of Europe, religions that are characterized, too, by the veneration of a deity that dies, is buried and then is resurrected. 38 Because of the strong matrifocal nature of Khanty (Ostyak) society, female shamanism was prevalent (Nahodi 1968). For this reason in the Khanty texts, the figure of Little Bear is actually female rather than male. There is evidence for a female-oriented interpretation of the European materials, also. 50 Hunters would have invested their hopes in the bear who was born high in the heavens, descended to earth, died and was buried, but would be resurrected to live again as the first among all game animals or perhaps of all creation. The bear living in heaven had to descend and die, like people and all creatures on earth. […] The bear cult would thus manifest early hunters’ ideas of immortality, the continuation of eternal life. Each bear hunting drama would recreate the primeval mythical event and reinforce the order of life determined at that time, the natural cycle of life [and death]. (Sarmela 2006) The proper performance of the bear rituals insured the availability of the forest game, and turned humans into key actors within this cosmic drama. Rather than being passive bystanders, humans become active participants and their behaviour as individuals is viewed as directly impacting the material and spiritual well-being of the community as a whole and, indeed, nature itself. If we were to view the Finno-Ugric bear rituals in through the prism provided by the ursine genealogy we have documented in this study, the bear would have been conceptualized as a form of human being, while for humans the opposite also would have been true: they would have formed part of bearkind. In short, we find that among these hunter-gatherer peoples “there was no great distinction drawn between man and animals. The bear may have also been the redeemer of man’s resurrection. The hunt drama would reflect man’s struggle to solve the mystery of life and death” (Sarmela 2006). Conclusion: A preview I would like to conclude this chapter by briefly examining some of wider implications of the data. First there is the fact that the Basques are distinguished genetically as an “outlier” population which added to the distinctiveness of their language (Bauduer, Feingold and Lacombe 2005; Gamble et al. 2005; Piazza and Cavalli-Sforza 2006; Semino et al. 2000) points to the possibility that they may have retained traditional beliefs and ritual performance art that date back to a much earlier cultural regime based on the belief in the descent of humans from bears. The following map shows the extent of the Basque-speaking region that can be documented securely at this stage: 51 Fig. 22. Basque-speaking Zone, first century A.D. Source: Salvi (1973); Bernard & Ruffié (1976) Similarly, the recognized genetic and cultural isolation of Sardinia, as reflected in the genetic structure of its population, it status as a genetic “outlier” (Sanna 2006: 173-184) as well as certain distinct characteristics of its language, could be an indication that the Mamutzones and their bear might form part of this more archaic belief system.39 Indeed, there are remarkable similarities holding between the genetic makeup of Sardinians and Basques which set them apart from other European populations, that is, in the sense that they appear to have retained elements of the older European genetic substrate which was once common to much Europe and which dates back to at least to the Mesolithic if not the Upper Palaeolithic: The previously categorized Sardinians, Basques, and Saami outliers share basically the same Y binary components of the other Europeans. Their peculiar position with respect to frequency is probably a consequence of genetic drift and isolation. […] Furthermore, a substantial portion of the European gene pool appears to be of Upper Paleolithic origin, but it was relocated after the end of the LGM [Late Glacial Maximum], when most of Europe was repopulated. (Semino et al. 2000: 1159) 39 As has been emphasized by Fois ([2002]), one of the most curious aspects of the Sardinian data is the fact that there is no archaeological record for the indigenous presence of bears on the island. That is, although at some point bears may have been brought to the island to perform, there were not originally part of the indigenous fauna of this geographical region of Europe. 52 Recent work in the field of molecular genetics dealing with the genetic makeup of populations of European descent, particularly the frequencies of certain Y-chromosomes (which are transmitted through the male line) and mitochondrial DNA or mtDNA (which is transmitted through the female line), has suggested that at the end of the Last Glacial Maximum, there was an expansion of populations out of the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium. Over time these groups moved north and east to repopulate territory that had been depopulated during previous glaciations. For example, in 1998, Torroni et al. (1998: 1148) proposed the following patterns of repopulation based on the distribution of haplogroup V.40 As can be appreciated in the figure reproduced below (fig. 23), the limits proposed for the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium overlap closely with boundaries of the geographical extent of the Basque-speaking zone (as shown in fig. 22). Fig. 23. Map of Europe depicting the most likely homeland of haplogroup V and its pattern of diffusion. Source: Torroni et al. (1998: 1148). Similarities between the populations of the Euskal Herria and Sardinia are also identified in the case of classic genetic markers of ABO blood types, i.e., the prevalence of high O blood type (Bauduer, Feingold and Lacombe 2005; Bernard and Ruffié 1976; Cavalli-Sforza 1988; Piazza et al. 1988; Piazza and Cavalli-Sforza 2006). In summary, today three populations demonstrate particularly high frequencies of the Y-chromosome 40 The findings of Torroni et al. (1998) are congruent with those of subsequent investigators (e.g., Achilli et al. 2004; Gamble et al. 2005; Richards et al. 2000; Richards 2003; Rootsi et al. 2004; Rootsi et al. 2006; Semino et al. 2000). 53 and mtDNA haplogroups which are associated with the western refugium zone: Basques, Sardinians and Saami. Fig. 24. Distribution of ABO in the western part of Europe and the Mediterranean. Source: Bernard & Ruffié (1976: 671). In addition to the haplogroup V, work on the subhaplogoups H1 and H3 of haplogroup H demonstrate similar patterns, as Sanna notes: L’analisi della distribuzione degli aplogruppi H (subaplogruppi H1 ed H3) e V del mtDNA (DNA mitocondriale) confermerebbe la possibilità di un populamento della Sardegna da parte di gruppi umani provenienti dall’area rifugio Franco-Cantabrica tra il Paleolitico superiore ed il Mesolitico, la diffusione di H1, H3 e V sarebbe avvenuta all’incirca 10–12 mila anni fa, mentre l’origine di questi aplogruppi risalirebbe a 11,5–16 mila anni fa (Achilli et al. 2004: 914-915). (The analysis of the distribution of haplogroup H (subhaplogroups H1 and H3) and V of mtDNA (mitochondrial DNA) would confirm the possibility of Sardinia being populated by human groups coming from the Franco-Cantabrian refugium zone between the Upper Palaeolithic and the Mesolithic, the diffusion of H1, H3 and V would have arrived around 10-12 thousand years ago, while the origin of this haplogroup would date back to 11.516 thousand years ago (Achilli et al. 2004: 914-915)). (Sanna 2006: 142) The putative Sardinian contribution to the prehistoric genetic landscape of Europe and to attempts at mapping the proposed postglacial population expansions out of the Pyrenean- 54 Cantabrian refugium has been treated in significant detail by Sanna (2006: 173-184).41 Here I will site only his conclusion: Dunque, in base agli studi genetici più recenti e considerando anche i dati scheletrici e “culturali”, sembra potersi affermare che i Sardi attuali o quantomeno larga parte di essi discendano da gruppi umani insediatisi nell’Isola tra il Paleolitico superiore ed il Mesolitico. (Therefore, based on the more recent genetic studies and also taking into consideration skeletal and “cultural” data, it appears possible to affirm that the Sardinian people of today or at least a large part of them descend from populations who settled the Island between the Upper Paleolithic and the Mesolithic.) (Sanna 2006: 140) In Sanna’s summary statement he mentions “cultural data” as well as genetic and skeletal remains. However, in doing so he is not taking into consideration the possible significance of the material and cultural artifacts associated with the Mamutzones and their bear, that is, in terms of their importance as an another method of documenting the proposed postglacial geographical expansion of populations out of the PyreneanCantabrian refugium. This working hypothesis will be the explored in far greater depth in the second part of this investigation. In summary, when viewed from this perspective the symbolic order that we are discussing might serve as another type of marker for identifying population movements: the geographic diffusion of what must be viewed as a hunter-gatherer mentality, centered on the idea that that humans descended from bears. As we have noted, it is highly unlikely that such a belief system would have originated among pastoralists and farmers: it does not have the characteristics one would associate with a Neolithic mindset.42 On the other hand the ursine cosmology resonates strongly with historically attested huntergatherer cultures in other parts of the world where Bear Ceremonialism has played a major role in the ecological and religious belief system of the community (Brightman 2002; Sarmela 2006). Consequently, the distribution of artifacts related to the ursine cosmology could become another mechanism for charting postglacial colonization routes. Hence, the task of identifying and documenting the locations where ursine performance art and associated beliefs have survived is particularly important especially in the case of the more elaborate forms of such performances encountered in the Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone and locations immediately adjacent to it, e.g., zones in which Aragonese and/or Catalan are spoken today. These cultural artifacts can then be 41 42 Cf. also Grimaldi et al. (2001). One of the noteworthy investigations of this Mesolithic to Neolithic cognitive transition is that of Sarmela (2006). His is one of only a few studies that actually compare the way that the hunter-gatherer mindset is altered by the arrival of agriculture. Indeed, Samela’s observations are especially pertinent for they show the way that a shift in the mode of sustenance is accompanied by profound changes in social practices, affecting other parts of the belief system, not just practices and beliefs relating to the way that bears are treated and hunted. 55 compared to those found in Sardinia which is the second genetic “outlier” and finally all of these cultural survivals can be compared to the much more elaborated forms of Bear Ceremonialism that have been documented for the Saami, a circumpolar population where the bear has had an analogous role in the symbolic order. In this process, the hypothesis put forward by Fois (2002b) concerning the linguistic similarities between the Sardinian and Basque semantic artifacts becomes central to our argumentation. In other words, if it can be proven that the same semantic root is shared by both data sets, i.e., the Basque and the Sardinian ones, then this conclusion becomes a converging line of evidence for the hypothesis put forward by geneticists. It would reinforce the assumption that a linguistic and cultural substrate can be identified in Sardinia that is of significant antiquity. Moreover, the results of these cross-cultural and cross-linguistic comparisons could have remarkable implications: they might shed light on preterit patterns of cognition, cultural conceptualizations and perhaps social organization that until now have not been accessible to us. They could serve as a means of recuperating complex patterns of behavior, cultural and social processes that in turn will allow us to reconstruct much earlier patterns of belief, albeit in a tentative fashion. In short, the careful exploration of these materials can serve to reveal the socio-cultural and linguistic mechanisms by which these networks of belief have been transmitted to us, orally and through performance art, across many millennia. Therefore, the question comes down to the following: can charting the distribution and parallels between different types of residual evidence for Bear Ceremonialism among these three populations provide another type of data by means of which gene flows, population movements and related social processes proposed by these other disciplines might be compared, tested and mapped? At this juncture, attempts to reconstruct the prehistoric landscape of Europe have focused primarily on data drawn from genetics, archaeology and comparative phlylogeography. Up until now support for the Palaeolithic Continuity Refugium approach has been constructed using three types of data: 1) the findings of classic and molecular genetics; 2) archaeology including the distribution of sites that have been carbon-14 dated; and 3) investigations that have charted the climatic conditions in Europe.43 To date none of the approaches employed has been able to develop a methodology that would allow us to move back in time by focusing on extant cognitive artifacts, e.g., performance art, linguistic remains and residual archaic patterns 43 Palaeolithic Continuity Refugium Theory is the currently subject of a book-length study, cf. Frank (in prep.-b). 56 of belief, such as the ursine cosmology and associated artifacts that have been discussed in this study. In conclusion, although this topic will be taken up in considerable detail in the next part of this study (which is scheduled to be published in Insula-4), I felt it was important at this time to provide the reader with a preview of it and outline, albeit however briefly, the nature of the hypothesis that will inform subsequent discussions of the material and cultural artifacts of these three groups, a discussion consisting first of comparisons between the Basque and Sardinian materials and then of the Saami materials which will be employed as illustrative of circumpolar Bear Ceremonialism. Hopefully, this introductory investigation has laid out the basic groundwork for a more fine-grained analysis of the linguistic data as well as the performances themselves. At this stage we have explored only a few of the implications resulting from the correspondences between the Sardinian Mamutzones with their bear and their Basque counterparts. Once we compared both of these cultural complexes and situated them firmly inside the interpretive framework of an ursine cosmology, the fundamental tenets of Bear Ceremonialism came into view and were made much more accessible to the reader. In this sense, the first step in understanding the meaning of these cultural artifacts has been for us to learn to move outside of the anthropocentrically-oriented world view that is conventionally ascribed, quite unconsciously, to this type of European performance art and to the interpretative codes that until now have been used to decipher its meanings. Acknowledgements: I would like to express my sincere appreciation to Graziano Fois and Patrick Mabey for their suggestions and comments on an earlier draft of this chapter. 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Frank University of Iowa E-mail: roz-frank@uiowa.edu […] the word does not forget where it has been and can never wholly free itself from the dominion of the contexts of which it has been part. M. M. Bakhtin (1973: 167) Everybody says, ‘After you take a bear’s coat off, it looks just like a human’. And they act human: they fool, they teach their cubs (who are rowdy and curious), and they remember. Maria Johns (cited in Snyder1990: 164) Every language is a vast pattern-system, different from others, in which are culturally ordained the forms and categories by which the personality not only communicates, but also analyzes nature, notices or neglects types of relationship and phenomena, channels his reasoning, and builds the house of his consciousness. Benjamin Whorf (1956: 252) 1.0 Introduction In the first chapter of this study we examined the linguistic and structural linkages holding between Sardinian performers called Mamuthones (Mamutxones) and their Basque counterparts, e.g., the Momutxorros (Frank 2008c). That examination included a 62 review of the cosmology associated with the well-documented belief among Basques that humans descended from bears. In addition, it was asserted that the name of the prototypical half-human, half-bear ancestor, called Hamalau in Euskara, provides a semantic anchor for exploring other cognitive artifacts belonging to this same cultural complex, one infused with the belief in ursine ancestors, and a cosmology that clearly antedates any Neolithic mindset. Stated differently, I alleged that the animistic nature of this belief system where the identity of human beings is fused with that of bears harkens back to the mentality of hunter-gatherers, and hence to the Mesolithic: it is not consonant with the mindset of a population of pastoral-agriculturalists. In this sense, the cognitive artifacts and social practices under analysis could date back ultimately to practices and beliefs of the hunter-gatherers who inhabited the same zone in times past and whose ursine belief system was not entirely obliterated by the gradual imposition of the sociocultural norms of a Neolithic pastoral and agriculturally-based society. In the final section of the previous study I pointed out the importance of recent work in the field of molecular genetics dealing with the genetic makeup of populations of European descent, particularly investigations concerning the frequencies of certain Ychromosomes (which are transmitted through the male line) and mitochondrial DNA or mtDNA (which is transmitted through the female line). The results of these research initiatives suggest that at the end of the Last Glacial Maximum, there was an expansion of populations out of the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium. Investigations carried out by teams of geneticists and archaeologists also indicate that these groups gradually moved north and east to repopulate territory that had been depopulated during previous glaciations. For example, the patterns of repopulation proposed by Torroni et al. (1998: 1148) and based on the distribution of haplogroup V, radiate out of the geographical zone defined as the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium. Here we shall use the term Palaeolithic Continuity Refugium Theory (PCRT) to refer to the general approach developed by researchers who subscribe to this interpretation of the genetic and archaeological data. 63 Figure 1. Map of Europe depicting the most likely homeland of haplogroup V and its pattern of diffusion. Source: Torroni et al. (1998: 1148). The limits of the refugium homeland, in turn, coincide closely with boundaries of the geographical extent of the historical Basque-speaking zone as best it can be reconstructed for the first century A.D. (Figure 2). 64 Figure 2. Basque-speaking Zone, first century A.D. Source: Salvi (1973); Bernard & Ruffié (1976) Upon closer examination, the map of Torroni et al (1998: 1148) implicates a larger geographical area than is suggested by the phraseology of the expression: PyreneanCantabrian refugium. For this reason, our analysis will include representative samples of linguistic and ethnographic artifacts drawn from this larger geographic area. Stated differently, the area sampled should include Catalunya, extend westward across Cantabria and, as we did in the first part of this study (Frank 2008c), bring into focus Sardinian materials. Furthermore, linguistic and ethnographic survivals relating to the ursine cosmology in question are not confined to this zone but rather show up in other parts of Europe, for example, in Germanic-speaking regions of Western Europe, as will become evident in sections 6.0 and 7.0 of this study when we begin to sample ethnographic and linguistic artifacts from that region. 2.0 Questions concerning the linguistic landscape of Europe in prehistory As is well recognized, until the 1990s studies dedicated to modeling the linguistic landscape of Europe in prehistory concentrated mainly on the problem of locating the homeland of the “Indo-Europeans” (i.e., the putative population that once spoke ProtoIndo-European (PIE) or dialects of an early stage of it) and determining the pathways they followed. According to this narrative, these speakers moved westward across Europe and in the process transmitted their Indo-European language(s) to the indigenous populations that they encountered along the way. The traditional model used by IndoEuropean linguists argued that Proto-Indo-European dates back to 4000 BC, and, for most scholars, e.g., those who subscribed to the Bronze-Age Kurgan theory of Marija Gimbutas, the migration pattern assigned to the original Indo-European speakers had them moving across Europe from east to west (Gimbutas 1973). Subsequently, in the 1980s Colin Renfrew introduced a different scenario which moved the time frame back to the Neolithic and linked the introduction of Indo-European languages to the migration of farmers who brought, along with their knowledge of agricultural techniques, their knowledge of Indo-European languages (Renfrew 1987). More concretely, by shifting the time frame backwards, Renfrew’s scenario proposed a migration route that brought groups of Neolithic pastoral-agriculturalists into contact with Mesolithic hunter-gatherers. Since Renfrew’s theory has the Proto-IE speakers moving out of Anatolia, once again the path of migration is by necessity from east to west. It should be noted, also, that in coming up with his theory, Renfrew was attempting to integrate genetic evidence concerning the Near Eastern component encountered in European populations, as set forth earlier by Ammerman and Cavalli-Sforza (1984). In 65 short, Renfrew traces the Near Eastern genetic component—the Near Eastern cline identified among modern populations of European descent—back to a cohesive population of Proto-IE speakers and their descendants, moving across Europe from east to west. However, in both versions of the narrative, the scenario put forward by Gimbutas as well as by Renfrew, the Basques themselves play no explanatory role: they are silent bystanders. And until recently they did not attract much attention from anyone. Yet when considering the importance of these Mesolithic populations of Europe, we find that “the Basque region, which was an outlier in the PC [Principal Component] analyses of both mtDNA and classical markers, has the lowest Neolithic component, at around 7%. The Basque outlier status may therefore be partly the result of reduced Neolithic penetration, as well as considerable genetic drift due to isolation and small population size” (Richards 2003: 153). Hence, we might view them as more representative of the earlier stratum, that is, the Basques may be viewed as a kind of Mesolithic relict, more so than any other European population. What is perhaps most intriguing about all of these attempts at revising the traditional IE research paradigm is the way that the most recent findings of molecular genetics are impacting them; the way that the directional orientation of these “migrationist” scenarios might be affected by the genetic data. On the one hand we have the traditional IE explanatory narrative and its modern variants, e.g., as proposed by Gimbutas and Renfrew, where the direction of migration is consistently westward with the western and northwestern parts of Europe being affected last. Renfrew’s model attempts to link a hypothetical transmission of IE linguistic artifacts to the progressive Neolithization of these zones and, therefore, to the archeological record which demonstrates the spread of agriculture from Anatolia. That expansion period dates back to between 8000 and 9500 years ago. On the other hand, more recently we have the findings of molecular genetics which set up a counter-movement. The latter movement is estimated to have taken place toward the end of the Late Glacial Maximum and consisted of a population expansion into Western Europe that emanated out of the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium, fanning northward and eastward from the refugium zone (Gamble et al. 2005; Torroni et al. 1998). Because of the time depth assigned to these waves of out-migration (and contraction) or “pulses”, they antedate the hypothetical westward movement of IE speakers out of Anatolia and eventually into the western extremes of Europe by only a few thousand years (i.e., as in the thesis put forward by Renfrew). More remarkably perhaps is the fact that the initial stages of agricultural dispersal out of Anatolia coincide in time with the last “pulses” of 66 the population expansions out of the western refugium. Stated differently, we have evidence of two migration streams—two types of demic and cultural diffusion—moving in essentially opposite directions. Although the significance of the findings of genetics is multifaceted, in the context of this chapter there are specific aspects of the research that need to be highlighted. As I mentioned earlier, the Near Eastern genetic component, associated by many investigators with processes of demic diffusion, is no longer considered to be as statistically significant as it was when Ammerman and Cavalli-Sforza (1984) first published their results. Instead, the genetic makeup of Europeans is now viewed as having two main components, one older than the other. Moreover, as noted, investigators argue that a major population expansion occurred in Western Europe during the Late Glacial (c. 1116,000 years ago) as the ice sheets retreated and unglaciated areas further north became available for re-settlement. Phylogeographic analysis using molecular evidence assigns 60% of European mitochondrial DNA lineages (Richards et al. 2000), and an even higher proportion of Western European Y-chromosome lineages (Semino et al. 2000) (Semino et al. 2000), to a population bottleneck prior to an expansion from southwest to northern Europe (Achilli et al. 2004; Pereira et al. 2005; Rootsi et al. 2004; Torroni et al. 1998; Torroni et al. 2001). (Gamble et al. 2006) Gamble et al. (2005: 209) sum up the implications of these genetic studies for Renfrew’s Anatolian model: The growing evidence that the major signal in European genetic lineages predates the Neolithic, however, creates serious problems for the agriculturalist perspective. If western Europe was, to a large extent, repopulated from northeast Iberia [Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone] then, since place-name evidence suggests that people in this source region spoke languages related to Basque before the advent of Indo-European, the obvious corollary would seem to be that the expanding human groups should have been Basque speakers. If we take this last statement by Gamble et al. seriously, it elicits to two inter-related questions. The first was formulated recently by the geneticist Richards (2003: 135), namely, who are the “Europeans”? The second one was posed initially in the nineteenth century: who are the “Indo-Europeans”? From one point of view, the first question has no linguistic counterpart. But keeping in mind the recent findings concerning the PyreneanCantabrian refugium, there is a hint that the Basque language could shed light on these deeper time depths. In the case of the second question, for most researchers today the term “Proto-Indo-European” is no longer conflated with some unified linguistic system; nor is it equated with some cohesive population of reified speakers, dating back to the Bronze Age or beyond. For example, Zvelebil and Zvelebil (1988) have emphasized that “Indo-European” should be considered to be a construct, not a demonstrable reality for it is nothing more than a convenient abstraction referring to a set of features that are 67 assumed to be held in common by IE linguistic systems, a fact that cannot be stressed enough in the context of this study. In sum, “both prehistoric archaeology and, subsequently, classical population genetics have attempted to trace the ancestry of modern Europeans back to the first appearance of agriculture in the continent; however, the question has remained controversial” (Richards 2003: 135). As we have noted with respect to evolution of Renfrew’s model, [c]lassical population geneticists attributed the major pattern in the European gene pool to the demographic impact of Neolithic farmers dispersing from the Near East, but archaeological research has failed to uncover substantial evidence for the population growth that is supposed to have driven this process. Recently, molecular approaches, using non-recombining genetic marker systems, have introduced a chronological dimension by both allowing the tracing of lineages back through time and dating using the molecular clock. Both mitochondrial DNA and Y-chromosome analyses have indicated a contribution of Neolithic Near Eastern lineages to the gene pool of modern Europeans of around a quarter or less. This suggests that dispersals bringing the Neolithic to Europe may have been demographically minor and that contact and assimilation had an important role. (Richards 2003) In conclusion, there appear to be two narratives with slightly different casts of characters. In one of them the main characters are the putative Indo-Europeans who conquer (or colonize) essentially all of Europe, at least linguistically.44 And in that scenario the Basques are viewed as unimportant, as nothing more than outsiders. In the other narrative, supported in particular by the recent findings of molecular genetics, the Basques—or more precisely those populations ancestral to modern day Basque-speakers who resided in the Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone—become major players. In one narrative we have reified Indo-Europeans invading or homesteading their way across Europe from east to west; whereas in the other narrative—whose assigned time-depth antedates that of first narrative by several millennia—the migration pattern moves from west to east. Until now, the linguistic implications of the reorientation of the axis of migration—from west to east—as well as the much deeper time-depth associated with the narrative have not been explored. 2.1 Paleolithic Continuity (PC): A third narrative The possibility that the two narratives are more interwoven than they might appear at first glance is highlighted by the fact that there is a third competing narrative that emphasizes the contributions of hunter-gatherers to the linguistic landscape of prehistoric Europe. Here I am referring to the work of the Italian linguist Mario Alinei and his colleagues, members of the Working Group on Palaeolithic Continuity theory (Alinei 2004a, b, 2006; 44 This statement refers to the PIE narrative itself rather than to a finer grained analysis of the linguistic map of Europe, one that would need to take into consideration the documented survival of non-IE languages as well as Finno-Ugric languages (cf. Frank in prep.-b; Robb 1993; Zvelebil and Zvelebil 1988). 68 Costa 2001, 2004). First, I would note that the position endorsed by these researchers does not take into consideration the possible linguistic and cultural significance of the western Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium for their model. Rather they address the need to assign a far greater time-depth to IE languages and in the process they establish a narrative that calls for a much more in situ explanatory framework for the development of IE languages, as opposed to one that relies solely on demic and/or cultural diffusion, such as is the case with Renfrew’s model. In this respect, I would emphasize, along with Richards, that in the past “the assumed model of surplus-driven population growth and expansion led both groups [of researchers, geneticists and archaeologists alike] to tend to play up the role of the Neolithic newcomers at the expense of the indigenous Mesolithic peoples. After all, it was the newcomers who had won in the end” and that at “the deepest level, as Zvelebil (1996) argues, this amounted to a founding myth for European culture and civilization that placed extraordinary emphasis on the Neolithic—a myth that idolizes farmers at the expense of hunting and foraging ways of life” (Richards 2003: 135). After reviewing criticisms that have been leveled at Renfrew’s Anatolian theory, e.g., in terms of the over emphasis on the Neolithic transition in Europe (Alinei 2004b; Costa 2001; Zvelebil 1995a, b, 1996, 2002; Zvelebil and Zvelebil 1988, 1990), Alinei, one of the leading proponents of the Teoria della Continuità, makes the following observations: Su questa base due archeologi (Häusler 1998; Otte 1994, 1995) e un linguista (Alinei 1997, 2000), tutti e tre l’uno indipendentemente dall’altro, hanno propost un’altra teoria delle origini IE, secondo la quale gli Indoeuroepei non sarebbero arrivati né dall’Ucraina come guerrieri né come coltivatori dal Medio Oriente, ma sarebbero gli eredi delle popolazioni che si trovano in Europa da sempre, cioé da quando, nel Paleolitico Medio, Homo sapiens sapiens, provenendo dall’Africa, si è diffuso nei vari continenti, del Vecchio Mundo. [On this basis two archaeologists (Häusler 1998; Otte 1994, 1995) and a linguist (Alinei 1997, 2000), all three independently of the other, have proposed another theory of IE origins, according to which the Indo-Europeans would not have arrived from the Ukraine as warriors or as farmers from the Middle East, rather they would be descendents of populations that were always found in Europe, that is, since, in the Middle Palaeolithic, Homo sapiens sapiens, coming from Africa, dispersed across various continents of the Old World.] (Alinei 2001)45 He goes on to express an autochthonous thesis for the development of IE languages that in turn appears to define these putative “Indo-Europeans” as the indigenous inhabitants of Europe. Si assume quindi che gli Indoeuropei siano popolazioni autoctone dell’Europa e dell’Asia, cosi come si ammette che gli Africani lo siano dell’Africa, i Cinesi della Cina, gli Aborigeni australiani dell’Australia, e così via dicendo. Di conseguenza, i primi coltivatori del Neolitico provenienti dall’Asia occidentals sarebbero invece non-IE, e il loro contributo linguistico sarebbe stata l’introduzione di influenze non-IE sulle lingue IE autoctone. [One assumes, therefore, that the Indo45 Unless otherwise indicated, all translations of quotations are my own. 69 Europeans were autochthonous populations of Europe and Asia, as it is admitted that Africans are of Africa, the Chinese of China, the Australian aboriginals of Australia, etc. Consequently, the first farmers of the Neolithic coming from western Asia would be, instead, non-IE, and their linguistic contribution would have been the introduction of non-IE influences on the autochthonous IE language.] (Alinei 2001) Although there are different versions of the Teoria della Continuità—or as it is referred to in English, the theory of Paleolithic Continuity (PC)—, the unifying thread is one that stresses continuity: that the archaeological and genetic record of Europe does not demonstrate abrupt transitions or evidence of the intrusion of a cohesive population so significant that it left a deep imprint in the genome of Europeans. Rather the theory of Palelolithic Continuity, as its name implies, argues for archaeological and genetic continuity across time with no significant ruptures so that the last significant incursion of a new population into this geographical zone from the east would date back to 40,000 BC or even somewhat earlier to the appearance of modern humans, H. sapiens sapiens. As a result, the foundational premise of PC theory has a corollary that confronts and challenges several aspects of the canonical IE narrative, particularly with respect to the time depth assigned to it. Some proponents of the PC model argue that in order for IE languages to have achieved the level of differentiation that they already demonstrated early on (e.g., Sanskrit), a much deeper time depth needs to be assigned to them. That is, for the languages to have differentiated as much as they already had by the time we encounter documented evidence for them, i.e., as demonstrated in the earliest attested sources, at a minimum the clock needs to be set back not merely to the Early Neolithic as in Renfrew’s narrative, but rather to the Mesolithic, while the PC approach alleges that some linguistic features could date back to the Upper Paleolithic (Alinei 2004b; Costa 2001). In short, the PC narrative argues for an essentially in situ development of IE and for linguistic continuity between these earlier stages and later ones. By setting up an in situ evolution for IE languages, a curious thing happens with respect to Western Europe: the Basque language can no longer be classed as “pre-IndoEuropean”, but rather must be seen as evolving alongside IE languages. Naturally, it is not possible to date the Basque language itself. Nonetheless, most geneticists would argue that there is every reason to assume that there has been genetic continuity within the Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone, and therefore, that, as Gamble et al. (2005) have proposed, at this juncture it might be appropriate to put forward the following hypothesis: that the language(s) spoken in this zone in prehistory might well have been those that are ancestral to modern Basque. In Table 1 we can see how the time-scales of the traditional IE narrative and that of Renfrew relate to Alinei’s model of development, specifically as it applies to Italy and 70 more indirectly to the development of the Romance languages. At the same time, this model makes no mention of the possible linguistic influence of languages spoken in the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium zone on the development of Proto-IE or the Romance languages. Periodo Teoria tradizionale Teoria di Renfrew Paleolitico Mesolitico Neolitico Pre-IE Pre-IE Pre-IE Pre-IE Pre-IE PIE e protoitalico Etá del Rame PIE e protoitalico Etá de Bronzo Etá del Ferro Protolingue italiche Latino, venetico, osco-umbro, etc. Dialetti Protolingue italiche; latino, venetico, oscoumbro, etc. Dialetti 1 millennio D.C. Teoria della continuità PIE Protoitalico Protolingue italiche; latino, venetico, oscoumbro, etc. Dialetti Table 1. Three theories concerning the development of Proto-Indo-European (Alinei 2001: 16) Although proponents of PC often make reference to the expression “palaeolithic continuity” in their investigations, their research is far from homogeneous in terms of the time depth assigned to Indo-European languages, that is, there are significant variations in the way that the origins of this language family are discussed.46 Among the various proponents of PC theory there are those who explicitly push the IE migrationist scenario back in time—that is, the initial spread of Indo-European languages. For example, there is the case of Adams and Otte (1999) who focus attention on the possible impact of climate changes associated with the Younger Dryas and the Holocene on the dispersal of IE languages, and, consequently, on establishing the time period in which the expansion of these speakers might have taken place. The period of the Younger Dryas, 12,500 ± 200 years ago, shows a transition to a cold and dry climate, followed by a transition to a warm and moist climate characteristic of the onset of the early Holocene, 11,500 ± 200 years ago: If one takes Renfrew’s view that linguistic dating of language history is unreliable, then an earlier divergence relating to hunter-gatherer recolonization after the Younger Dryas may be more plausible for a spread of Indo-European language by this type of mechanism [i.e., a population expansion associated with warming conditions during this period]. […] There is also a possibility […] that the population increase causing the initial spread of the Indo-European languages occurred at the earlier warming event at the end of the Last Glacial Maximum (about 14,500 years ago), with 46 For a critique directed towards Alinei’s PC work on Romance languages, especially in the Italian Peninsula, cf. Adiego (2002). 71 the onset of the Younger Dryas itself, or perhaps at an even earlier event. (Adams and Otte 1999: 75) These researchers go on to elaborate the following hypothetical series of events: “An initial early Holocene sparse-hunter-gatherer wave spread of the Indo-European languages might have been followed by a period of relatively long-distance cultural and linguistic exchange (with the possible spread of innovations in the language, continually updating aspects of the general substratum of Indo-European languages […] by relatively mobile hunter-gatherer groups and later farming and warrior groups” (Adams and Otte 1999: 75). As is obvious, these remarks are based on the assumption that there was once a unified Proto-IE language spoken by a relatively homogeneous group of hunter-gatherers who, for reasons not explained, spread across Europe (from east to west) during the early Holocene. Once again, this model represents a continuation of the earlier explanatory paradigm: the characters of the earlier IE narrative remove their Bronze Age or Neolithic clothing and reappear dressed as a cohesive group of Upper Palaeolithic/Mesolithic hunter-gatherers. In short, while the PC hypothesis is intriguing, it is still controversial for a number of reasons. For example, in its current formulation one of the frequent criticisms leveled against it, and quite appropriately, is the fact that there seems to be no objective way to cross-check whether or not a PIE item belongs to a Mesolithic lexical set. In that sense, it suffers from some of the same defects that have been pointed out by others in the case of attempts to reconstruct Proto-IE society and culture (Arvidsson 2006). Likewise, as Arvidsson observes, reconstructions proposed in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, were often totally contradictory, e.g., the reified IE people were first portrayed as noble, industrious and peaceful farmers, i.e., sedentary agriculturalists; later on their society was redrawn to make them patriarchal chariot-driving warrior nomads, etc. Most of us are familiar only with the most recent (re)constructions of Proto-IE society and culture and the debates surrounding them (e.g., the twentieth century competition between the models of Gimbutas and Renfrew).47 Therefore, we are less familiar with the details surrounding the way that reconstructions of etymons relating to one domain or another were used in times past as evidence for identifying and assigning one concrete feature or another to Proto-IE society and culture in the period before the so-called “IndoEuropeans” (extrapolating once again from “language” to “race”) began to expand out of their putative homeland. Similarly, over the past several hundred years, this homeland 47 For example, in the review article by Diamond and Bellwood (2003) which includes significant discussion of genetics, the only models mentioned with respect to Indo-European are those of Gimbutas and Renfrew. 72 has been sedulously repositioned by investigators and as a result has ended up in quite different locations (Koerner 2001; Mallory 1997). Yet all of these attempts to reconstruct the deepest chronological layers of the putative Proto-IE society and culture are grounded in fundamentally the same kind of proofs: linguistic ones. A lexical item found across several different branches of IE languages is viewed as a good candidate for these reconstruction efforts, even more so if the semantic item in question could have referred to an element found in the conceptual toolkit of Bronze Age peoples, or, in the case of the PC model, to an item encountered in the conceptual toolkit of Mesolithic or Upper Palaeolithic hunter-gatherers. However, in both cases the proof is based on a reconstruction, a putative etymon, which is assumed to correspond to a cultural conceptualization of significant antiquity (most especially if the etymon in question can be linked to material remains found in the archaeological record and/or ecosystems existing at the particular time period in question). In this sense, the research models share a common denominator: that over significant periods of time the meaning of the reconstructed etymon remained stable. Moreover, the assumption that the meaning assigned to the reconstructed item was similar, if not identical, to its meaning(s) in historically attested IE languages can be regarded as a theoretical and methodological cornerstone of the IE model. This approach to the data reflects the background assumption according to which stability and orderliness are seen as natural or given properties of the meaning-making process (Frank 2008b). In this respect, we need to keep in mind the following: that the time frame assigned to the reconstructed item is 4000 BC, according to the traditional IE paradigm, or thousands of years earlier, according to the PC model. In either case, this kind of dating of the original object of inquiry requires the investigator to make a judgment call concerning what happened to the semantic item during a period of several thousand years for which there is literally no written evidence. Thus, the underlying assumption is that during this period of time the meaning of the term was so stable that meanings associated with it thousands of years later can be used reliably to reconstruct its much older original meaning. Although this approach, one that is intrinsic to the methodology of historical linguistics, is not fundamentally flawed when it is applied to reconstructions, particularly to those for which we have a great deal of data and do not pretend to speak to great time depths, when it is applied to the task of reconstructing elements from a Mesolithic lexicon, at a minimum there needs to be some other kind of external anchor by means of which the lexical data can be grounded.48 Ideally this grounding would be accompanied 48 In other words, I do not believe that the methodology of historical linguistics is flawed in and of itself, rather only when it is applied—without further supporting extra-linguistic evidence—to reconstructing at 73 by some non-linguistic means to access, cross-check or otherwise document the nature of the much earlier Mesolithic world-view. More concretely, we need to bring into play a methodological approach that will allow the lexical data to be linked to a Mesolithic mindset and validated by it. 2.2 PCRT hypothesis: Linguistic and ethnographic evidence Until now the PCRT approach which favors an alternative narrative based on postglacial colonization out of the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium, has been buttressed primarily by genetic and archaeological data. PCRT researchers explicitly subscribe to an interdisciplinary approach to solving the problems with which they are confronted. As a result, researchers working within this framework have come together from a variety of fields, e.g., genetics, especially molecular evolutionary genetics, geography and more recently phylogeography, evolutionary and population biology and ecology, evolutionary psychology, archaeology and its subfield of cognitive archaeology. However, until now the fields of historical linguistics and ethnography have not been brought into play in support of the PCRT narrative. That is, so far evidence from these fields has not been applied directly on the PCRT model in order to validate its central hypothesis concerning early population expansions out of the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium. Consequently, given that the ursine cosmology under discussion here could date back to a Mesolithic mindset, a careful analysis of the distribution of artifacts relating to it—both linguistic and ethnographic in nature—could become an additional mechanism for charting postglacial colonization routes emanating out of the proposed Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone. Hence, the task of identifying and documenting the locations where ursine performance art and associated beliefs have survived is particularly important especially in the case of the more elaborate forms of such performances encountered in the Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone and locations immediately adjacent to it, e.g., zones in which Catalan is spoken today. Furthermore, the cultural artifacts under study can also be compared to those found in Sardinia which is the second genetic “outlier” (Sanna 2006: 142; Semino et al. 2000: 1159). From this perspective, the current investigation deals with the recuperation of what appears to be an earlier worldview, dating back possibly to the Mesolithic, a cosmology that still today is deeply entrenched in European performance art and a variety of related the socio-cultural practices (Frank 2008c). deep time depths where, by necessity, one is left to speculate concerning the stability of the etynom’s original meaning. 74 When attempting to reconstruct the normative concepts that undergird this belief system we are aided by the fact that concrete linguistic evidence can be extracted, namely, from an analysis of the semantic field of the term hamalau “fourteen” along with the dialectal variants of this expression found in the geographical region of Euskal Herria. Here we are talking about locations that coincide with the western refugium where Euskara is still spoken as well as zones where the language has died out, but leaving behind recognizable phonological variants of the term hamalau. In other words, there is a trail of linguistic and ethnographic clues that point us in the direction of what appears to be an ursine cosmology rooted in a worldview characteristic of hunter-gatherers, rather than pastoralists and farmers. 3.0 Methodological issues and instruments of analysis At first glance we might assume, erroneously, that these residual linguistic data and related social practices are restricted only to this refugium zone of Western Europe. However, such an assumption would be false. As was demonstrated in the first chapter of this study (Frank 2008c), the striking level of structural and linguistic correspondences between Basque and Sardinian cultural artifacts suggests that there is a commonality of belief underlying the performance art encountered in both locations. And while there is little question that Euskal Herria is the zone having the densest network of reflexes of the term hamalau, i.e., phonological variants of the term, similar reflexes can be found outside what is today the Basque-speaking zone, a topic that will be taken up in detail in the next section of this study. Furthermore, as we begin to examine these reflexes, we need to keep in mind that the ursine cosmogony itself antedates the implantation of Neolithic agricultural practices. Thus, we are confronted with a set of interrelated methodological problems. • How do we go about determining the original location of the linguistic and cultural artifacts in question? • What evidence is there, if any, that would allow us to chart the pathways taken by these cultural artifacts as they moved out of the initial western refugium? • Does the diffusion of the linguistic and cultural artifacts related to the ursine cosmology allow us to map the development of the cultural complex over time? The instruments of analysis that will be marshaled in order to probe these deeper cognitive layers will be the linguistic and cultural artifacts themselves, specifically those that are linked directly to the ursine cosmology. Tracing these artifacts across space and time will allow us to explore the linguistic and cognitive pathways laid down by them. In 75 other words, the linguistic data will guide us as we attempt to reconceptualize the dialectal variants of the ursine cosmology encountered in the geographical region defined by Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium, as well as in zones adjacent to this region. By tracing the diffusion of this data set and its variants across space and time we should be able to develop a better grasp of the way these variants developed and, likewise, how the study of the socio-cultural entrenchment of these artifacts might allow us to reconstruct, albeit hypothetically, different components of this earlier symbolic regime. In order to bring into clearer focus the various components of the ursine cultural complex we will employ the cross-linguistic and cross-cultural approach that was discussed briefly in the first chapter of this investigation, namely, a methodology that emphasizes the transformation of the cognitive processes under analysis. In summary, as noted in the first part of this study (Frank 2008c), the results drawn from such crosscultural and cross-linguistic comparisons could have remarkable implications: they could shed light on preterit patterns of cognition, cultural conceptualizations and perhaps even social organization and socialization practices that until now have been invisible or at least inaccessible to us. In short, this approach could serve as a means of recuperating complex patterns of behavior, cultural and social processes that could allow us to reconstruct, albeit hypothetically, much earlier patterns of belief. 3.1 The semantic field of Hamalau In order to gain access to the cultural conceptualizations associated with the earlier cosmology, our investigation will focus on the semantic field generated by name of the bear-like creature known as Hamalau “Fourteen” (a compound composed of hama(r) ‘ten’ and lau ‘four’). This expression will act as a valuable tool of inquiry as we begin tracing and anchoring the linguistic and cultural artifacts under discussion and exploring their socio-cultural embedding.49 As has been explained, the term hamalau is a multifaceted concept that plays a central role in Basque traditional belief and performance art (Frank 2008c; Perurena 1993: 265-280). For instance, we need to remember that Hamalau is the name of the main character of the “Bear Son” tales, the half-human, half-bear, born of a human female and a great bear who functions symbolically as a kind of intermediary between humans and bears (Frank 1996, 2001, 2005b, in press-a). Dialectal variants of the word hamalau include mamalo, mamarrao, mamarro, mamarrua, marrau and mamu, among others (Azkue 1969: II, 11-12, 19; Michelena 1987: XII, 52-53, 57-60). And at this juncture I should also point out that 49 In order to provide coherence to the linguistic sections of the second part of the investigation, I have included a certain amount of material presented initially in the first part of the study (Frank 2008c). 76 dialectal variants of the expression hamalau, most particularly marrau and mamu, are commonly used to refer to a frightening creature that parents call upon when their children misbehave, i.e., the counterpart of the “babau” or “spauracchio dei bambini” in Italian. All of these Basque variants show “nasal spread”, that is, the reflexes end up having two /m/ sounds. I would mention that in the case of the variant mamarrao, another common phonological change has taken place: the replacement of one liquid, i.e., /l/, with another, namely, with a trilled /r/, so that the last syllable /lau/ is pronounced as /rrao/. Finally, the variant marrau demonstrates further phonological erosion, i.e., the loss of the second syllable /ma/: mamarrao → ma(ma)rrao → marrao →marrau. Also, we have variants in mamarro and marraru. In the instance of mamu, additional phonological erosion can be detected: (h)amalau → mamalau → mamarrao → mam(arr)au → mamau → mamu. As we have seen, in Sardu in addition to the performers called Mamutzones and Mamuthones, there are a number of toponyms demonstrating a similar root stem (Fois 2002a, b, [2002]). There are numerous other words that appear to derive etymologically from the same root. These items have essentially the same meanings but slightly different phonological representations. By this last statement, I refer to the fact that in Sardu the stem of the word varies in its phonological shape: roots appear in the shape of mamu-, momo/mommo-, momma- and marra-. In the case of the root form mamu-, we find mamuntomo “spauracchio”; mamuntone “fantoccio”; mamuttinu: “strepito”; mamudinu “Belzebù, demonio, diavolo, strepito, zurlo” mamuttone “spauracchio, spaventapasseri”; mamuttones “maschere carnevalesche con campanacci”; mamutzone “spauracchio” as well as mamus “esseri fantastici che abitanoi nelle caverne”. In the instance of the root stem of momo-/mommo-/momma-, we find: mommoi “babau, befana, fantasma, licantropo, orco, pidocchio, spauracchio, spettro”; momotti “babau, befana, spauracchio”; mommai “befana”; and from marra-, marragau “orco, gruccione”50, marrangoi “babau, 50 The dialectal variants of the stem in marra- are particularly interesting in that there appear to be two unrelated sets of meanings associated with the term marragau. On the one hand, in some dialects marragau has meanings overlapping with those of marragotti “befana, babau, mostro, spaurrachio” (“hag, bogeyman, monster, scarecrow”), while on the other hand it carries the meaning of “gruccione” (“a small beeeating bird; Lat. Merops apiaster”). Then given that we have mommoi producing mommotti, it could follow that from marragau we could get marragotti. The difficulty that arises with marragau has to do with explaining its meaning of “bee-eater” and how that relates to notions such as “bogey-man”. Perhaps the most parsimonious explanation is to argue that underlying the two sets of meanings are two separate etynoms, whose phonological representations ended up being so similar that the two sets of meanings fell together. For example, in other dialects the expressions meaning “bee-eater” are represented as: apiolu, abiolu, abriolu, abiargiu, abiargo, miargiu and miargu. Therefore, the latter reflexes (especially, abiargiu, abiargo, miargiu and miargu) could have become intertwined phonologically with the pre-existing lexeme marragau. This interpretation of events suggests that marragau did not originally mean “bee-eater”, but 77 mostro, spaurrachio”; and marragotti “befana, biliorsa, bilioso, fantasma, mangiabambini, mannaro, orco, ragno, spauracchio, spettro”(Fois 2002b; Rubattu 2006).51 4.0 Hamalau and the socialization of children In the first chapter of this study (Frank 2008c) we focused almost exclusively on the Sardu variants of mamutzone and mamuthone as they are applied to bear-like performers who have their counterparts in Basque performance art. That is, the emphasis was on documenting the performances and how they relate to the ursine cosmology. In this chapter the focus will shift to another set of meanings attached to these terms, specifically, the fact that many of these words also refer to a fantastic being who is often invoked by adults to scare children into behaving properly, going to bed on time, not crying and, in general, obeying their parents. In this instance, the being in question acts as an enforcer, as the entity that will punish the child for misbehaving. For example, the frightful nature of the being in question is summed up in the expression mangiabambini which is associated with expressions such as marragau and marragotti: Paulis (1997: 173) comments that in Cagliari and Bosa, “ai bambi si dice, per intimorirli: ‘se non stai zitto, ti faccio mangiare da su Marragau’”[to childen they say, if you aren’t quiet, I’ll have you eaten by the Marragau]. Fois (2008) has collected several of these sayings: “Fai a bonu, asinunka di vattsu bappai de su Marragau!” [Be good, if not I’ll have you eaten by the Marragau!]. Similarly, the term Mommoti is used to refer to this frightening creature: “Si no fais a bonu, beni Mommoti e ti furada” [If you misbehave, the Mommoti comes and takes you away”]; “Si no ti cittis, beni Mommoti e ti pappada” [If you aren’t quiet, the Mommoti will come and eat you!]. Thus, we find that the expressions Marragau and Mommoti are used interchangeably. The belief complex also makes reference to the method by which this being carries off children who rather acquired that connotation because of the way that the variants for “bee-eater” eventually converged phonologically on it. This would explain why among the meanings associated with marragotti we don’t find “gruccione”. In short, marragotti would reflect the original meaning of marragau. (cf. Amades 1951: 59-60; 1952: 597-598; Frongia 2005: xxxii-xxxiii; Paulis 1997: 172-174). 51 The English counterparts of these terms are as follows: from the root mamu-, mamuntomo “scarecrow”; mamuntone “puppet”; mamuttinu “racket, clamour, noise”; mamudinu “Beelzelbub, demon, devil, racket, clamour”; mamuttone “scarecrow”; mamuttones: “masked performers wearing bells; masks”; mamutzone “scarecrow”; mamutzones “masked performers wearing bells” as well as mamus “fantastic beings who inhabit caverns”; from the variants momo-/mommo-/momma- we find mommoi “bogey man, hag, witch, phantom, spectre, were-wolf, ogre, louse, scarecrow”; momotti “bogey-man, witch, scarecrow”; mommai “hag, witch”; and from marra-, marragau “ogre, bee-eater (orinth.)”, marrangoi “bogey-man, ogre, monster, scarcrow”; marragotti “hag, witch, imaginary beast, phantom, baby-eater, were-wolf, ogre, spider, scarecrow, spectre”. 78 misbehave: the creature is equipped with a sack or basket into which the culprits are stuffed (Fois 2008). In section 9.0 of this study we shall examine traces of other possible phonological variants of this cultural conceptualization located within the western refugium zone, particularly in Catalunya. These variants refer to creatures with similar characteristics and functions, specifically, ones that belong to the category of beings called asustaniños or espantachicos (“that which scares children”) and that fall under the broader rubric of L’Home del Sac (The Man with the Sack), a frightening being frequently equipped with a sack or basket and/or otherwise portrayed as a dangerous enforcer who takes away disobedient children. For example, the Catalan Marraco has been compared phonologically and functionally to the Sardu Marragau (Amades 1951: 59-60; 1957: 268-270; Paulis 1997: 173). At the same time, other meanings associated with the word field in Sardu (e.g., “babau, befana, fantasma, licantropo, orco, pidocchio, spauracchio, spettro”) indicate that the being in question was feared—at least at some point in the past—by adults, as well as children. Similarly, in Euskal Herria there is a creature who plays an analogous role as an enforcer. Today the being in question is invoked using phonological variants of Hamalau (“Fourteen”). As was explained in the first chapter of this study (Frank 2008c) , the term hamalau is associated specifically with the figure of a half-human, half-bear ancestor, the cosmological intermediary between humans and bears (Perurena 1993: 265-280). In times past it appears that this “enforcer” had a flesh and blood counterpart in the individual who held the office of Hamalau-Zaingo in the community, discussed in Frank (2008c), a term that translates, literally, as “Guardian of Hamalau”, or, more loosely, as “the one who is in charge of watching over and caring for Hamalau”. In Euskara the variants of this term, e.g., marrau and mamu, are commonly used to refer to the creature that parents call upon when their children misbehave, i.e., the counterpart of the “babau” in Italian and the aforementioned marragau and mommoti in Sardu. However, the meanings associated with marrau and mamu no longer show any obvious trace of the meanings attached to the original etymon hamalau. In other words, today when Basque speakers use the expression marrau or mamu, they are no longer consciously aware of the etymon hamalau “fourteen” that stands behind the term. In short, speakers have lost track of the etymological relationships holding between the words. However, there is a third phonological variant that allows us to establish a semantic bridge between the first two variants (marrau and mamu) and the root form of the latter concepts: hamalau. 79 Stated differently, in Basque there are three basic phonological variants which are used to refer to the being that is said to take away ill-behaved children. First, there are the variants in mamu and marrau which we have already discussed. Then we have the variant hamalauzanko, also recorded as hamalauzaku (Azkue 1969: I, 36; Michelena 1987: I, 874) All three of these terms have their semantic counterparts in Basque performance art. These three reflexes are clearly derived from hamalau, while the variant hamalauzanko or hamalauzaku, from hamalau-zain-ko, demonstrates the presence of two additional morphemes zain “guardian, keeper” and -ko/go “of, pertaining to”, as well as a certain degree of additional phonological erosion, i.e., zain-ko → zainko → zanko, producing hamalauzanko; and then from zain-ko → zaiko → zaku, producing in turn hamalauzaku.52 Thus, there is a connection between the name of the fearsome being invoked by parents and the expression hamalauzaingo which in times past referred to an office held by members of the community, a topic that we shall return to shortly. The development of a wide range of phonological variants from the term hamalau is not at all surprising, particularly in socio-cultural situations of orality where the collective memory embedded in the language reflects these earlier meanings only vaguely and where, consequently, there is no tradition of writing to stabilize the expression’s meaning. Therefore, once the socio-cultural frames of reference for the term hamalau no longer anchored it fully, that is, in when its primary meaning was no longer coupled contextually with its other meanings, the resulting phonological variants could wander away from their parent stem, namely, hamalau. In other words, once the true etymology of the word is no longer understood by speakers, the fact that the expression also means “fourteen” is forgotten: the phonological shape of the word is no longer anchored in that etymology. Therefore, the speaker no longer recognizes the individual components of hamalau; she can no longer identify hama(r) as “ten” and lau as “four”. At this point the term’s phonology can become unstable and gradually begin to loose its original shape. We need to recall that we are talking about the oral transmission of an expression that came to refer to a kind of abstraction, some sort of vague being. If the you didn’t know that hamalau meant “fourteen”, it would be hard for you to remember how to pronounce it. None of its components would be meaningful to you. And it would be even more difficult if the multi-syllable expression didn’t conform to the phonology of your native language. As a result, the stability of its phonological shape could be affected. In such a situation of orality, a degree of doubt enters the equation: the speaker is not entirely certain of what she has heard or, for that matter, exactly how to repeat it. And, 52 In most dialects of Basque the first element of the morpheme -ko voices after /n/, and ends up being pronounced as -go. 80 consequently, as the term is transmitted from one generation to the next, from one dialect or language to another, what can result are phonological approximations of the original word. In this cumulative process of multiple oral transmissions, at each juncture the speaker tries to capture the correct phonology, imitating what she thinks she has heard. I should point out, however, that at certain junctures in time, this process of oral transmission can lead to the stabilization, albeit momentary, of a given phonological shape of the original term; or it can undergo further phonological shifts—phonological re-shapings—often resulting in further phonological reduction of the expression, as is demonstrated in the case of the highly reduced variants of hamalau-zaingo, mentioned earlier. Indeed, the latter compound has an even more phonologically reduced dialectal form in azaku/asaku ([Ihauteriak] 1992). In summary, when there is no meaning attached to the individual morphemes that compose the expression, the possibility of its phonological shape being altered is particularly great. As is well known, one of the most common ways that a word is adjusted is through the elimination of one of its syllables, what is called phonological erosion, that is, one of its morphemes is removed. In the various dialects of Basque we have seen this sort of reduction going on in the case of marrau and mamu where the three syllables of the original word are reduced to two and at the same time we can detect other subtle modifications in the original phonological shape of the expression. Naturally, as these transmissions occur, gradual changes in the expression’s meaning can also take place: the term is repeatedly re-contextualized, adapted and modified to fit the ever changing socio-cultural environments experienced by the speakers. 4.1 Hamalau as “night visitor” and “guardian” of communal norms Research carried out by the Basque ethnographer J. M. Satrústegui at the end of the twentieth century reveals that at that juncture in time the belief in the supernatural powers of this being had not totally disappeared among Basque-speakers. The particular way that this belief manifests itself involves the reflexes of Hamalau cited above, (e.g., Mamu, Marrau, and Hamalauzanko/Hamalauzaku). Satrústegui interviewed a number of Basques who said that they had been visited by the Mamu or the Marrau at night. As an aside, I would mention that in those instances when the creature called Mamu is mentioned or addressed directly, the citation form is often used: Mamua. The nocturnal visits, as documented by Satrústegui, involve the following scenario. The experience regularly occurs either just as the individual is falling asleep or just upon awakening. What is significant is that the individual is not fully asleep but rather semi-conscious. What 81 regularly triggers the experience is the fact that the person suddenly senses an ominous, foreboding presence in the room, often described as totally terrifying; then a heaviness or pressure is felt, first on one’s legs. The sensation begins to move up the body, as if another being were pressing down on upon the victim. The weight can become particularly oppressive as if the Mamua were lying down on top of the person and pressing down forcefully on his chest, provoking difficulty in breathing and/or a sensation of suffocation. At the same time the afflicted party becomes paralyzed with fear; he cannot cry out; he cannot move at all. In short, the “night visitor” described by Satrústregui’s informants is the source of the classic concept of the “night-mare”, where the second element in the expression -mare refers not to a female horse, but to the terrifying creature who comes to people in the dark of night. More concretely, in terms of its etymology, the second element of the English expression “night-mare”, i.e., -mare, is the English equivalent of the German word mahr “nightmare” (Grimm and Grimm 1854: 1166) while the latter is related to phonological variants in mârt, mârte, mârten.53 These German reflexes, as well as other etymologically linked-terms found in Slavic languages, such as the Wendish expression Murraue (Ashliman 1998-2005; Kuhn and Schwartz 1848: 418-420), all refer to this supernatural being: a disturbing night visitor, often described as an ominous “presence” or “intruder” (Cheyne 2001, 2003; Cheyne, Newby-Clark and Rueffer 1999; Hufford 2005). Viewed from this vantage point, we can see that the English term derives from Germanic compounds containing mârt mârte, mârten, and more specifically from compounds such as Nachtmärt (the Night-Mare), discussed at length in Thorpe: “Under all these denominations is designated that spectral being which places itself on the breast of the sleeping, depriving them of the powers of motion and utterance” (Thorpe 1851-52, Vol. 3: 154). At the time when Satrústegui initially carried out his research, he was convinced that what he had discovered was a uniquely Basque phenomenon. Later, in 1995, when I visited him at his home he repeated this conviction. He also explained that he had given a presentation in Pamplona, Spain, before a group of cultural anthropologists, psychologists and psychiatrists who were particularly intrigued with the data he had collected (Satrústegui 1980, 1987). Satrústegui seemed unwilling to accept the observations of the other investigators present at the colloquium who stated that the nocturnal experience that Satrústegui had recorded was not unique to the Basque region, as Satrústegui seemed to believe, but rather well documented among human populations 53 Dialectal variants also include mare (Germany), mahrt (Pommerania) and mahrte (North Germany). 82 in general where it is known as “sleep paralysis” (SP) or, more properly, “sleep paralysis with hypnagogic and hypnopompic hallucinations”, where the terms “hypnagogic” and “hypnopompic” refer to hallucinations occurring during two periods, at the onset of sleep and when one is waking up (Cheyne 2000, 2001; Cheyne, Newby-Clark and Rueffer 1999; Cheyne, Rueffer and Newby-Clark 1999). Over the past decade research into this phenomenon has emphasized the fact that the experience itself lasts only few seconds or minutes, although occasionally longer. However, the brief duration of the hallucinatory experience does not diminish in any way the profoundly disturbing nature of the event. Sleep paralysis is a condition in which someone, most often lying in a supine position [face-up], about to drop off to sleep, or just upon waking from sleep realizes that s/he is unable to move, or speak, or cry out. People frequently report feeling a “presence” that is often described as malevolent, threatening, or evil. An intense sense of dread and terror is very common. The presence is likely to be vaguely felt or sensed just out of sight but thought to be watching or monitoring, often with intense interest, sometimes standing by, or sitting on, the bed. On some occasions the presence may attack, strangling and exerting crushing pressure on the chest. (Cheyne 2002b) The International Classification of Sleep Disorders reports that sleep paralysis is frequent in about 3 to 6 percent of the rest of the population; and occurs occasionally as “isolated sleep paralysis” in 40 to 50 percent (Blackmore 1998; Thorpy 1990).54 Although statistics concerning those who have or have had this condition vary considerably, it can be conservatively estimated that 25 to 40 percent of the overall population have had at least one experience of SP during their lifetimes while a somewhat smaller percentage have repeated experiences of it (Cheyne 2002a). Moreover, the statistics point to a somewhat higher frequency among adolescents and young adults as well as to the fact that the onset of the symptoms is most common among these younger age groups.55 Left in isolation with no explanatory cultural resources available, the person who suffers from these symptoms must search on her own for an explanation and a way of determining the identity of the “intruder” or “sensed presence”. And, that attempt, as is well documented, often gives rise to significant levels of anxiety and the suspicion that the person is under direct attack by the supernatural forces or when the substantive reality of these forces is rejected, that the person is in danger of losing her mind (De Blécourt 54 According to Blackmore (1998), other estimates for the incidence of isolated sleep paralysis include those from Japan: 40 percent (Fukuda et al. 1987); Nigeria: 44 percent (Ohaeri 1992); Hong Kong: 37 percent (Wing, Lee and Chen 1994); Canada: 21 percent (Spanos et al. 1995); Newfoundland: 62 percent (Ness 1978); and England: 46 percent (Rose and Blackmore 1996). 55 For more detail on the statistics and age of onset of the symptoms, cf. Cheyne (2002a). 83 2003; Harris 2004; Hinton, Hufford and Kirmayer 2005; Hufford 1982, 2003, 2005; Liddon 1967). Cheyne (2001: 133) describes this condition as follows: A “sensed presence” often accompanies hypnagogic and hypnopompic hallucinations associated with sleep paralysis. Qualitative descriptions of the sensed presence during sleep paralysis are consistent with the experience of a monitoring, stalking predator. It is argued that the sensed presence during sleep paralysis arises because of REM-related endogenous activation of a hypervigilant and biased attentive state, the normal function of which is to resolve ambiguities inherent in biologically relevant threat cues. Given the lack of disambiguating environmental cues, however, the feeling of presence persists as a protracted experience that is both numinous and ominous. This experience, in turn, shapes the elaboration and integration of the concurrent hallucinations that often take on supernatural and daemonic qualities. It is not surprising, therefore, that in reports written by those who have experienced SP perhaps the most common descriptive adjective employed to communicate what the experience provokes in them is “terror”, even when the individual suffering from the condition is totally familiar with the official scientific definition and explanation of it: At this point, having had so many of these experiences, I usually realize I am having an episode and try to remain calm. But trying to remain calm never works. Never. That’s the “thing” about Sleep Paralysis that is amazing—no matter how many times you go through it and know what is happening (more or less) the fear and terror are so undeniably great that it overpowers every rational thought you try to have. The feeling of impending doom is just too real and the terror is undeniable. All the while I try to wake myself up—but I am paralyzed. ([Furzdurzelette] 2008) Indeed, one of the recurring themes is the the profound sense of panic produced by the conviction that the “presence” intends to carry off its victim: “[…] more specifically, it feels like something is coming to get me and carry me away […]. I fell into this dream world, and again I was panicking. I was getting really sick of these dreams, more specifically the terror and anxiety (that something was coming for me)” (Timothy 2001). In contrast to the socio-culturally unmediated experience of people in contemporary Western cultures (Fukuda et al. 1998; Fukuda et al. 1987; Hinton et al. 2005), other cultures have well instantiated explanatory paradigms: narratives that explain how to interpret who or what the “sensed presence” is. Where there is such an explanatory paradigm, the experience itself situates the person inside a culturally approved framework. Even though the experience itself is experienced in solitary, the identity of the visitor is recognizable as fitting into a collective narrative. In most cases, though, the identity of the “intruder” has a negative valence, coinciding with the sense of terror and awe that the numinous, ominous presence evokes. The culturally approved interpretive frames, therefore, can act to mitigate the negative effects of the experience by integrating them into a larger more encompassing cultural narrative. Keeping these facts in mind, what appears to be unique about the Basque linguistic and cultural data is that they allow us to make the following connection: that the Mamua 84 “intruder” (also known as Marrau and Hamalauzango/Hamalauzaku) who appears in the guise of a night-visitor is linked directly to the spectral being that parents call upon to scare their own children into behaving. And this in turn brings into view elements from the older culturally mediated narrative. We have two tiers of belief. In one version it is the child who is subject to attack; in the other it is primarily the adult who identifies as the victim. This intriguing connection will be treated in more detail in a future chapter of this investigation, i.e., in Insula-6. For the moment let it suffice to say that the fact that this “night visitor” attacks adults could help to explain another aspect of the semantic field of the Sardu examples, e.g., the meanings associated with terms such as marragau, marragotti, momotti, mommoi, etc, and therefore, the identification of the mangiabambini with entities such as “babau, spettro, fantasma” which because of their meanings are more oriented toward the culture of adults than that of children. Satrústegui gives the following examples of adults invoking this frightening being as a way of chastising children: Haur txikiak isilarazteko esames jostagarriak izan dituzte herri guztiek. Mamua, zer bildurgarri baten izena da. Errazuko jaio-berriak, ez dakit ulertuko zuen arrazoibide hori. Mamuseneko etxeaurrean negarrez bataiatzera zihoan haurrari hala esan omen zion bere aitaxik [All peoples have playful sayings to get little children to be quiet. What a frightening being’s name Mamua is. I don’t know whether a new-born of the village of Errazu would have understood this logic. In front of the house called Mamusen, it is said that a godfather said the following to his godchild who was crying on the way to being baptized.] “Xo, Xo! Mamuseneko atarian, badare mamuak!” [Shhhh, Shhhh (be still, don’t cry) at Mamusen’s threshold, there are mamuak about!!] (Satrústegui 1975: 196) Caro Baroja defines the Mamu in the following way: “‘Mamu’ es actualmente un personaje análogo al Coco, con cuya presencia se amenaza a los chicos pequeños cuando lloran" (“’Mamu’ is today a character analogous to the bogey-man, whose presence is used to threaten small children when they cry”). The Coco is the Spanish (Castillian) language equivalent of the asustaniños (Caro Baroja 1986: 320).56 56 http://encina.pntic.mec.es/agonza59/europeos.htm#Coco Cf. also http://www.celtiberia.net/articulo.asp?id=1470. and 85 Figure 3. “Que viene el Coco”. An etching by Francisco de Goya.57 Figure 4. “El ogro más famoso y temido, 'El Coco'”. Source: www.fundacion-cajarioja.es.58 Then, alongside Mamu, Satrústegi lists a second phonological variant by which this creature is known: Marrau. Gauzekin konturatzen hasten diren garaian, aurpegia perekatuz, hau esaten zaie Luzaiden [In the village of Luzaide when children begin to understand things, they say to them while caressing their faces]: Marrau! [Marrau!] Jan zak haur hau! [Eat this child!] Gaur edo bihar? [Today or tomorrow?] Gaur, gaur, gaur. [Today, today, today.] (Satrústegui 1975: 196-197) In this latter example there is a kind of playfulness on the part of the adult. While the parent is calling upon the Marrau to “eat” the child, at the same time the adult is expressing affection and hence treating the child in a loving way. Thus, two signals are being communicated at the same time: we could say that the status of the Marrau is 57 58 [“The Coco is coming!”] [“The most famous and fearsome ogre, the ‘Coco.’”] 86 morally ambiguous. It stands as a frightening and stalwart “guardian” of the social order, functioning as an ally of parents in their efforts to bring up their children properly: the Marrau is called upon to intercede and make the child behave. Yet, love is also being expressed, mitigating the seriousness of the threat to the young child. At the same time when the child gets older, he comes to realize that he, too, will have the opportunity to dress up as a Marrau, as is the case each year in the Basque villages of Mundaca and Gernika where the Marraus still parade about. And, by extension, in times past it is highly probable that children would have immediately identified the frightful creature (that their parents has already spoken to them about) with these performers. In this interpretive process, children would have been aided by semantic signals accessible to them because of their knowledge of the Basque language itself: the names attached to the bizarre performers taking part in these public rituals were the same or remarkably similar to the name of the creature that their parents invoked, repeatedly, to get them to behave properly. In conclusion, the similarities holding between the Sardinian and Basque linguistic and ethnographic and linguistic data suggest, once again, that we are looking dialectal variants drawn from the same cultural complex. At this juncture in the investigation the main difference between the two data sets lies in the fact that only in the Basque data set do we find clear evidence that the character in question was also thought to appear in the form of an “intruder” or “night visitor” who attacks not just children but also adults. In this respect, we can appreciate why the Marrau or Mamu has been viewed as a fearsome being whose presence causes great anxiety among both age groups. 5.0 Methodological considerations Before taking up the next group of linguistic and ethnographic artifacts, we need to outline the methodology that will be applied to them. In recent years increased attention has been paid to the concept of contested ritual agency, as it has been applied in the field of cultural studies, particularly by researchers who are exploring what happens over time when contrasting belief systems come into prolonged contact with each other (Eade and Sallnow 2000). The concept refers to a particular kind of cultural contact and interaction: how belief systems that are in close contact over long periods of time end up interacting with each other. Briefly stated, contested ritual agency refers processes whereby the meaning of rituals and symbols, as well as linguistic artifacts, are contested as they come under pressure from different groups. Based on the way that the members of each group contextualize and interpret these artifacts, their actions can be understood as attempts to assert authority or agency over the meaning assigned to the artifact, and in this fashion 87 their actions serve to direct and control the way that the symbol or ritual is received and interpreted by others. What is being contested is the individual’s right as well as his ability to define and therefore control the meaning of the artifact in question. In general there are two principal groups who contest the meaning of a given symbol or ritual: one defending, consciously or unconsciously, the older meanings and another promoting a revision of them. At the same time, we must keep clearly in mind that the process of contestation does not necessarily manifest itself as a conscious decision on the part of the individual members of the social collective(s). Quite the contrary, the transformation of the meaning of the artifact is often slow, so slow that those involved are often not fully aware of the changes that are taking place. In other words, it is frequently a very subtle cumulative process, constituted by a myriad of decisions taken by individuals—over several generations—and distributed across a given community. Thus, contested ritual agency refers to manner in which symbols of identity are manipulated by a given cultural group, even though the cognitive processes involved are not always consciously recognized while they are occurring, much less fully understood by the individual members of the collective in question. In other instances, when the imposition of one belief system upon another is rapid, even violent, conflict can arise where the two groups consciously defend their turf and their right to control the meaning of the artifact, symbol or social practice. This process regularly pits those defending what they view as the traditional (indigenous) meaning of the artifact against those attempting to alter its meaning, by appropriating the artifact and inserting it into a different interpretive framework or suppressing it entirely. By recontextualizing the ritual object—whether it be an aspect of traditional performance art, a material or a cognitive artifact—its meaning changes. Sometimes these shifts in meaning are quite minimal while at other times the recontextualization can alter the original meaning of the artifact in dramatic ways. Over time the cumulative process of these minimal shifts in meaning—recontextualizations of the artifact—can render the original meaning of the entity opaque, almost unrecognizable, unless the investigator can find what we might call dialectal variants of the same entity or even earlier variants of it that have not undergone the same process(es) of recontextualization. In this sense, the process of “meaning-making” and the shifts in the meaning of these artifacts is quite similar to the often highly complex processes that take place as words acquire new meanings: over time they are socio-culturally recontextualized by speakers and as a result their meanings can shift. Generations of language agents or speakers are constantly interacting with their socio-cultural environment, adjusting their linguistic 88 tools to the needs of the changing norms and requirements of their surroundings. In the case of language, these processes of semantic shift are almost imperceptible, that is, as they are actually taking place. Indeed, the speakers themselves are rarely fully aware that by their minimal choices, they are contributing ultimately to changes in the meaning of a given term, changes that might take centuries to become instantiated in the lexicon of all speakers of the language. Yet, when viewed in retrospect, evidence can be collected pointing to how these shifts took place, evidence of new applications of the term: the way that the artifact has been being inserted into new contexts and hence over time acquires slightly different meanings. What might have been the term’s primary meaning can be replaced by another meaning because of the frequency with which the term is being applied to a new object. At other times what was once the primary meaning of the linguistic entity merely slips in rank, becoming not the first meaning of the term that comes to mind, but rather a secondary or tertiary meaning (Frank 2008b). Finally, if, let us say, the object to which the primary meaning of the term was originally attached slowly disappears from the socio-cultural repertoire of the speakers (i.e., it is no longer represented in the socio-cultural environment and hence no longer available to be named), what was the primary meaning associated with the object can eventually disappear from sight, moving down further and further in the ranking of meanings until only the eldest speakers can recall the entity to which it was originally applied. Given that cultural knowledge is differentially distributed among the various members of a given cultural community, in this gradual process of semantic shift, there are stages in which the primary meaning of the term is still present, i.e., when its frequency of occurrence is high enough that it might hold the second place for centuries, only to fall to last place and/or disappear entirely centuries later. What governs these shifts appears to be a kind of complex, distributed interaction between speakers and their environment, an interaction that often can be reconstructed only after the fact, i.e., after the word has undergone major semantic shifts and, generally speaking, only in those cases where there is sufficient written documentation so that the processes involved earlier can be charted. The aforementioned similarities holding between the nature of semantic shift and the kind of changes that take place over time in the case of ritual practice and belief allow us to develop a methodological approach that takes advantage of both types of shift. By this statement I refer to the fact that the current research project focuses on the meanings associated with the Basque term hamalau “fourteen” and the way that these meanings can be traced across space and time, the way the linguistic artifact has been socio-culturally 89 situated and the way that it has generated a set of interlocking cultural conceptualizations (Sharifian 2008). Thus, we need to keep in mind that the term hamalau projects a semantic field consisting of a number of interrelated meanings: it has a number of referents. Furthermore, it is deeply entrenched in Basque social practice, occupying a central place within an archaic belief system, one that holds that Basques descended from bears. Naturally, as has been asserted, this ursine cosmology is more congruent with an environmental setting of hunter-gatherers. Therefore, if this assertion is correct, we are looking at a cultural complex that has been affected—recontexualized repeatedly over time—by several different kinds of symbolic orders, including the worldview of pastoralists and agriculturalists, characterized by the domestication of animals and the eventual rise of the human-nature dichotomy. In this new symbolic regime we find the downgrading of non-human animals and the subsequent elevation of human animals to the category of an entirely separate class of beings (Frank 2003, 2005b; Ingold 1995). Consequently, it would not be surprising to discover that at some point a confrontation took place between the ursine cosmology and the emerging anthropocentric framework that dominates today, and that over time these encounters or interactions between the opposing worldviews would have set up a contest with respect to the manner in which “meaning” was assigned to the symbolic artifacts in question. Thus, the interpretation of the symbolic artifacts—which is at the center of this process of meaning-making— depends on the way the different groups adjusted to each other over time and came to (re)negotiate the meanings assigned to the disputed object(s). In some instances, the older interpretation of the artifact is retained, albeit in a modified form. In other cases the older interpretation fades from view or disappears entirely. In short, rather than being a monolithic process the end result of these contacts can vary significantly. There are three principal ways in which processes of contested ritual agency can alter the tenets and framework of the original belief system, the linguistic artifacts associated with it and the ritual practices supporting it: hybridization, marginalization and generational down-grading. In the sections that follow we shall look at examples of these three types of interactions, exploring how they relate to the cultural complex emanating from this ursine cosmology and how the meanings associated with the main figure of Hamalau have been reframed, although leaving behind a dense network of interlocking linguistic and ethnographic clues. 5.1 Hybridization Hybridization is brought about when elements from competing belief systems collide and then partially or totally fuse. In the process competing interpretations can become 90 attached to the same cultural artifact. Thus, hybridization represents a kind of fusion of two competing belief systems. In this process of conceptual reorientation the interpretive framework that contextualizes the artifact slowly shifts and there is a moment in which the artifact becomes ambiguous in its meaning: some people will still interpret it using the older interpretive framework, while others, supportive of the newer interpretation, are able to appropriate the artifact and attempt to make it fit with their own belief system. In short, over time a kind of compromise is reached in which the artifact in question stubbornly retains aspects of its older meaning even after being inserted into the new interpretive context. For example, as we observed in the first chapter of this study, Christian saints who become attached to a pre-existing sacred spot often have names that retain in some fashion a reference to the entity venerated previously at the same site. A more concrete example is that hermitages with linkages to bears often have a saint assigned to them such as St. Ursula, i.e., the hermintages become associated with names of saints that resonate linguistically the former occupant of the site (Frank 2008c). In these cases the transition or shift in ritual meaning leaves behind a linguistic trail, a trail that is often reinforced by other types of artifacts, legends binding the saint in question to a bear who helped him or her in some way and/or material artifacts that speak to the same, e.g., a bear carved in stone who sits at the foot of the tomb of the saint (Pastoureau 2007: 131151). In short, this kind of hybrid discourse is a rather typical result, one that occurs when two belief systems become fused; where the older system survives as a substrate element within the new system, indeed, where it is fused to and/or absorbed into the new symbolic regime. In these circumstances where hybridization is operating, it is not unusual for the older spiritual figure to survive, but often only after being assigned a more peripheral role. The figure now shows up seated, silently, beside the new spiritual authority, or is otherwise demoted to a lower level of importance, a side-kick, visible, nonetheless, to those who chose to reflect more upon the implications of the co-location of the participating parties. This situation is one of the possible results of the phenomenon called contested ritual agency. However, hybridization is often accompanied by another type of reinterpretation: marginalization. 5.2. Marginalization Marginalization is a process that can contribute to hybridization as in the examples cited above, or contrarily it can allow the artifact to develop pretty much on its own, subject to the changes in the socio-cultural norms of the time, but without the artifact being 91 appropriated directly into the emerging dominant belief system, e.g., as might occur through processes of hybridization. When this type of marginalization takes place, the artifact or social practice in question is frequently classified as belonging to the “folklore” of the community in question. Stated differently, for some reason it is not integrated into the dominant belief structures of the group. Rather the artifact is left to develop on the margins, peripherally, outside the dominant discourse. As such it acquires a somewhat ambiguous status in terms of its value as a legitimate symbol of the group’s identity. On the one hand, such folkloric survivals are constantly invoked as signs of identity, while, on the other hand, it is not unusual for beliefs associated with such residual practices to be looked at askance by certain sectors of the society, especially by those who no longer share the older value system and/or world view. Again, in this process of marginalization, among any given population we can usually detect at least three levels of conviction in relation to a particular belief or social practice: 1) the group that sincerely believes the practices should continue because the latter are needed to bring about some result, e.g., wearing a bear claw amulet protects the person from harm; 2) the group that continues to support the practice in question because they see it as a kind of continuation of a custom, an engrained habit or entrenched tradition which is justified as a sign of group identity, however, without the individuals in question truly believing in the efficacy of the practice; and 3) the group that frowns upon the social practice as an example of a belief associated with the uneducated lower or rural classes of the society and, therefore, not to be venerated or held to be sacrosanct. Indeed, the custom can end up being denounced as nothing more than a worthless superstition. In turn, the latter group tends to be the group that is most willing to make changes in the social practice or artifact in question. 5.3 Generational down-grading The term generational down-grading refers to another wide-spread, if not universal process, by which social practices which once formed part of adult culture shift downwards and are taken up by children. Again this transformation of cultural artifacts is the result of the effects of contested ritual agency. The process called generational downgrading regularly combines elements associated with the two aforementioned processes: hybridization and marginalization. More specifically, generational down-grading is a process that takes place gradually, usually over many generations. It involves a shift with respect to the nature of the agents who take part in a given social practice. Initially, the practice is performed only by adults. Naturally, as children grow up, they slowly become 92 aware of the meaning and purpose of the social practice and come to recognize that once they are adults, they, too, are expected to take part in it. However, over time the socio-cultural environment changes and as a result the practice comes under pressure. As the socio-cultural norms shift, the practice in question becomes demeaned, down-graded and eventually it is considered inappropriate for adults to participate in it in the same capacity as they did before. But at the same time, because there is a strong attachment to the practice itself, it is not abandoned. Rather the agents involved are the ones who are replaced. In short, when a generational down-grading takes place with respect to a given ritual practice, rather than adults, children now carry it out. In other words, while belief in the efficacy of the specific practice and its associated cultural complex is no longer acceptable as part of the dominant mindset of adults, the belief and related social practices are passed on to children who are encouraged by their parents to believe in the “reality” of the belief in question and the efficacy of performing the ritual acts associated with it. In this fashion adults impress upon their offspring the importance of carrying out certain ritual practices that they themselves no longer perform or believe in. In this case, there is a sort of collusion between two generations. On the one hand, although the parents portray themselves as believers in front of their offspring, they themselves are situated, cognitively, on the outside, and from that vantage point they view the belief and/or activity as appropriate for children but not for adults. In this respect, there is a kind of tacit collaboration on the part of the parents in terms of conserving the belief and social practices related to it. While the parents no longer represent the agents who believe in the efficacy of carrying out the social practice, they continue to be active participants in the sense that they insist on fostering the belief in their own children. Naturally, over time even the participation by children can become further demeaned, e.g., consumerized where the material trappings of the practice and/or purely its entertainment value become the focus of the performance. As we shall soon see, a typical example of this is represented by the degeneration of the phenomenon referred to as “good-luck visits”, discussed earlier (Frank 2008c), where groups of adults wearing masks, often accompanied by a “bear”, moved through the community, visiting one household after another, in an action that was considered to bring “good-luck” and protect the householders and their farm animals against evil influences. In other words, in times past the “good luck visits” were performed by adults 93 with specific purposes in mind.59 As we have noted, the visitations were understood to have a cleansing or healing function and it was not unusual for the “bear” character to be played by a flesh and blood bear. Indeed, one of the principle reasons behind the persistence of such performances is the fact that the motley crew of masked actors along with their earthly bear or a man dressed as a bear was believed to be fully capable of carrying away the maladies and misfortunes of their households visited and/or the entire community (Frank 1996, 2005b; Vukanovitch 1959). Consequently, the performances were considered to be of fundamental importance to all members of the community: a method of insuring the health and well being of the social collective. At the same time, the “good luck visits” acted as a complex and resilient mechanism in terms of their ability to insure the storage and transmission of the ursine belief system from one generation to the next, even though over time the full understanding of the significance of the underlying tenets of that belief system was increasingly obscured. Stated differently, the “good-luck visits” have functioned as a means of off-loading the tenets of the ursine belief system by embodying them in the performances themselves. The performances also acted to communicate and reinforce the importance of proper behavior, as was pointed out in the first chapter of this study (Frank 2008c). Once at their destination the troupe of performers performed an abbreviated play that regularly concluded with ribald report which served to evaluate and critique the householders’ behavior, the former being read or sung by a member of the troupe of actors and musicians.60 Afterwards, the actors were treated to food and drink by their hosts. As will be demonstrated in Part 2 of this study which will appear in Insula-5, in some locations this performance which was conducted originally by adults for adults, although with children in the audience, so to speak, later came to be focused more and more on children, to such an extent that it was the evaluation of the behavior of children that become the central focus of the “good-luck visitors”. References Achilli, Alessandro, Chiara Rengo, Chiara Magri, Vincenza Battaglia, Anna Olivieri, Rosaria Scozzari, Fulvi Cruciani, Massimo Zeviani, Egill Briem, Valerio Carelli, Pedro Moral, Jean-Michel Dugoujon, Urmas Roostalu, Eva-Liis Loogväli, Toomas Kivisild, Hans-Jürgen Bandelt, Martin Richards, Richard Villems, A. Silvana Santachiara-Benerecetti, Ornella Semino and Antonio Torroni. 2004. The molecular 59 For a detailed discussion of the typology of the “good luck visits”, cf. Halpert (1969). 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Insula-5 (June 2009), pp. 89-133. Cagliari, Sardinia. http://www.sre.urv.es/irmu/alguer/ Evidence in Favor of the Palaeolithic Continuity Refugium Theory (PCRT): Hamalau and its linguistic and cultural relatives Part 2 Roslyn M. Frank University of Iowa E-mail: roz-frank@uiowa.edu 1.0 Timing of the performances In Europe, “good-luck” performances tended to take place during the period from the beginning of November to early January. In New World locations such as Newfoundland and Labrador, the practice continued to involve adults and persisted until quite recently. In contrast, in the United States the period in question contains only three days— separated in time—in which masquerading is accepted and commonplace, i.e., when disguised characters regularly walk about the streets, namely, All Hallow’s Eve, Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. Moreover, in most parts of the United States, the customary “good-luck visits” associated with Halloween are no longer carried out by adults wearing masks (Halpert and Story 1969). The same is not true, however, in the case of the Advent period when homes are regularly visited by an adult disguised as St. Nicholas or Santa Claus. 100 In the latter instance although it is an adult who dresses up as St. Nicholas or Santa Claus, children are the targets of the performance. Yet at the same time adults, in general, play a role by actively encouraging their offspring to believe in the reality of the “night visitor”. Then at Halloween, the practice of conducting house visits has became generationally down-graded so that today in the United States, we find only children dressed up in outlandish costumes going door to door, repeating the saying “trick or treat”.61 Again, in the case of this type of generational down-grading there are often transitional periods in which at one geographical location adults are still the primary instigators while at other locations it is only children who take part in what is essentially the same ritual. Originally it would seem that these “good-luck visits” and attendant performances took place throughout the year, motivated by the specific needs of the patient, household or community in question. In this sense, the performers along with their flesh and blood dancing bear (or its human counterpart) would have functioned much in the same way as the members of the Society of False Faces of the Iroquois and the heyoka of the Sioux whose fierce masks were intended to frighten away the evil spirits that were causing the illness or misfortune. These Native American medicine men and women were the “contraries” or sacred clowns who performed when needed, in the homes of the afflicted (Speck 1945). In the sections that follow we will examine the case of Europe (and the United States) where it appears that the prophylactic healing powers associated with the performers and their bear underwent a tripartite process of hybridization, marginalization and generational down-grading. This process of change came about gradually as the ursine symbolic order was repeatedly recontextualized, losing some elements while gaining others. At the same time, and perhaps most remarkably, we shall discover that certain core features have remained relatively stable across time. That said, what contributed, at least in part, to the stability of these features seems to be, quite ironically, the prolonged contacts between groups defending opposing symbolic orders, the recontextualizations that resulted and the subsequent embedding of the older animistic cosmology inside a Christian interpretive framework. In what follows we will trace the development of these “good-luck visits” and the way that the portrayal of the ursine main character has evolved over time. In doing so we shall examine the changes that have occurred using an 61 In the United States even though Halloween parties for adults are commonplace, it is frowned upon for adults or even teenagers to go “treat-or-treating”, i.e., to take part in the door-to-door house-visits. When adults do accompany children on these house visits, the adults do so only as chaperons not as active participants in the begging ritual. 101 approach grounded in the concepts of hybridization, marginalization and generational down-grading. 2.0 Hybridization: The dancing bear Martin, “He who walks barefoot” As we noted, one of the fundamental structural elements of the ursine cosmology has been the phenomenon of “good luck visits”, a social practice that has contributed directly to the cultural storage, preservation and stability as well as the transmission of the tenets of the earlier ursine cosmology, across generations, by bringing into play mechanisms, reiterative and redundant in their nature, typical of oral cultures. Nonetheless, in some parts of Europe under the influence of Christianity the central role of the bear was modified slightly and some of its functions reassigned by the Church to a specific saint even though it appears that both the clergy and the general populace were often well aware of the adjustments that were taking place, at least initially. In order to illustrate more clearly how this process of symbolic hybridization works, we will look at a concrete example: that of the transference of the functions of the bear to a particular saint, namely, St. Martin, while the role of his trainer was taken over by the figure of a bishop. As was usually the case with such hagiographically-based legends, the bishop chosen was one whose historical origins were remote, shrouded in the mists of time. St. Martin, Bishop of Tours, was finally consecrated by the Church in the fifth century, and turned into the central character of a great Church festival, Martinmas, celebrated on November 11th. A curious story was propagated about this Martin. Indeed, there is reason to believe that the legend itself was a conscious attempt to link the saint’s name and performances conducted in his honor directly to those of the dancing bears. In order to understand this process we need to recognize that in the Middle Ages across much of Europe a common nickname for any bear brought in to conduct a cleansing ceremony was Martin. In fact, this name was frequently modified by adding the phrase “he who walks barefoot,” e.g., as in the expression Mestre Martí au pès descaus, literally, “Bare-Foot Martin” or “Martin, he who walks barefoot,” while the phrase “he who walks barefoot” was used to refer to bears in general (Calés 1990: 7; Dendaletche 1982: 92-93). The Church spin-doctors concocted a series of pious legends that would seek to stitch the two belief systems together. Apparently the stories were an attempt, although quite an unsuccessful one, to counter the wide-spread belief in the efficacy of performances conducted by bear trainers and their dancing bears or at least to give them an air of legitimacy within the framework of Christian belief. The legend propagated by the Church with respect to St. Martin shows the ingeniousness of its authors, particularly with respect to the way in which they managed to elaborate such a truly convoluted plot 102 for the story itself. It was one that told of the generosity of the Bishop of Tours, a man named Martin. When visited by his disciple and friend Valerius, a fifth-century bishop of Saint Lizier in the Pyrenees, Martin gave him an ass so that Valerius would no longer have to laboriously traverse the rugged mountainous terrain on foot and, consequently, would be better equipped to spread the good word. And Valerius, in turn, named his ass Martin. However, just when Valerius reached the path that would lead him to the Pyrenean town of Ustou, darkness overtook him.62 The next morning much to his chagrin Valerius discovered an enormous bear standing next to the tree where he had had left his ass tied the night before. Realizing the beast was devouring the last remains of his pack animal, Valerius called out to him, “The Devil take you! No one will ever say that you have kept me from spreading the good word across these mountains. Since you have eaten my friend Martin, you will take his place and carry me about.” The bear approaches Valerius and sweetly agrees to do what he has been asked. When they arrive in the village of Ustou, the inhabitants crowd around Valerius and his bear. And at this point after being given a bit of honey, in a sign of his appreciation the bear Martin takes the bishop’s walking staff in his paw, raises himself up on two feet and begins to dance, according to the text, “the most graceful of dances ever executed by a bear” (Bégouën 1966: 138-139). But there is more. Because the villagers are so impressed by Valerius and his dancing bear Martin, they decide to set up their own school where little bears could be taught to dance. Moreover, the pious story could be understood equally to be one utilized to explain and legitimize the prestige, indeed, the European-wide reputation of the Bear Academy that was established in the Pyrenean village of Ustou (Praneuf 1989: 66-70). Such pious legends need to be examined more closely in terms of their psycho-social intentions as well as their actual consequences. For instance, this legend, in all likelihood promoted by the Church and locals alike, also gave the clergy a Christian-coded explanation for why bears were called Martin.63 In addition, it sought to identify the bishop in question, Valerius, with the person of the bear trainer. Even the dancing bear’s long pole, the standard prop of all bear trainers, was attended to narratively and reinterpreted as the bishop’s walking stick, his staff of office.64 As a result of these symbolic reinterpretations, the legend ended up providing the populace with an ingenious 62 Saint Lizier is located some 35 kilometers from Ustou. For additional discussion of this legend and similar ones associated with other saints, cf. Lajoux (1996: 213-220), Pastoureau (2007: 53-69) and Lebeuf (1987). 64 From a comparative standpoint, the bishop’s staff corresponds morphologically to the pole carried by bear trainers. The trainer would give the pole to the bear who was then better able to support himself in an upright position while he executed his dance steps (Dendaletche 1982: 89-91). 63 103 justification for conducting “good luck visits”: the narrative became a means of justifying deeply ingrained patterns of belief while slightly modifying them. At the same time by associating the dancing bear with a given saint’s day, those wishing to carry out “good luck visits” were given a green light. Indeed, in many locations the performances continued to be conducted with relatively little interference from the Church authorities. For example, today in many parts of Europe on the saint’s day in question, November th 11 , an actor appears in the guise of the bishop St. Martin. But, more importantly, when the individual dressed as a bishop does appear, he continues, as before, to be accompanied on his rounds by a bear-like creature, his pagan double. In short, these ursine administrants, in recent times merely ordinary human actors, perform their duties authorized by a kind of Christian dispensation that permits them to continue to preside, quite discreetly, over the festivities (Miles [1912] 1976: 208). In turn the bishop in question takes over the role and attributes of the bear trainer through this process of symbolic hybridization. Thus, the meaning of the bishop’s companion, the masked figure representing the bear, is transparently obvious once one understands the mechanisms of hybridization involved in the renaming processes themselves.65 In short, any attempt to discover the identity of the furry, often frightening, masked figures associated with St. Martin’s day must take these facts into account (Figure 1). Figure 1. Names of the gift-bringers on St. Martin’s Day (November 11). Adapted from Erich and Beitl (1955: 509). 65 In addition to the Pyrenean zone, across much of France and the rest of Western Europe the dancing bear is called Martin; in the Carpathian region of Romania among its nicknames are Mos Martin (Old Martin), Mos Gavrila (Old Gabriel), as well as Frate Nicolae (Brother Nicholas). In other parts of Europe the bear is often called Blaise. The name is linked to the date of February 3 and to the figure of St. Blaise, the patron saint of bears. In addition, this saint’s day coincides neatly with the day after Candlemas Bear Day, the latter being celebrated on February 2. In the Balkans, however, it is St. Andrew who is presented as the patron of bears (Lebeuf 1987; Praneuf 1989: 32, 61-71). 104 Moreover, in case there were any doubts concerning the real identity of the bishop’s companion, in Germanic speaking zones his side-kick was referred to not as Martin, but rather as Pelzmärte, a term that could be interpreted as “Furry Martin” or perhaps “Martin with a Fur Coat”. In fact, the Pelzmärte frequently appears alone, without his bishop, on St. Martin’s day as well as on Christmas Eve. With respect to the Pelzmärte we should recall that in some parts of Europe the “good luck visits” conducted on St. Martin’s day (November 11th) eventually came to be transferred to the winter solstice (Miles [1912] 1976: 161-247; Rodríguez 1997: 97-105). As has been noted previously, “Martin” was a common name for a “dancing bear” in France and Germany. However, the etymology given for the German expression Pelzmärte, one that interprets the second element of the compound märte as if it referred to a proper name, i.e., “Martin,” is probably nothing more than a folk-etymology. At the same time, the erroneous folk explanation for the meaning of märte—interpreting it as if it were a proper noun—was probably reinforced by the celebration of the “good-luck visits” on St. Martin’s Day. As was shown in the narrative relating to how St. Martin acquired his bear and began to travel about with it, the introduction of a Christian saint served as a pretext for continuing the highly entrenched practice of “good-luck visits”. In short, it was a Christianized rationalization—the result of hybridization—that served to legitimize the pre-existing tradition. Given that the belief in the supernatural healing powers of the bear and its retinue harkens back to a pre-Christian cosmology, to expect an unconscious or inadvertent reanalysis of pre-existing terminology would not be unusual. For example, there are two 105 terms in German for the furry visitor that include the same prefixing element: pelz- “fur, furry”. We have the expression Pelznickel66 where the second element -nickel is equated with a kind of “demon”; then, if we continue with the same semantic logic, we have the compound Pelzmärte where the second element would also refer to a “demon” or some other sort of supernatural creature. And as we noted earlier, the Germanic term -märte is linked the modern German word mahr “nightmare” while the latter is related to phonological variants in mârt, mârte, mârten, and consequently to the frightening “night visitor”, discussed previously (Frank 2008a). In addition to the term Pelzmärte, in Germany we also find other similar compounds for the “gift-bringer”: Nufssmärte, Rollermärte, Schellenmärte as well as Märteberta (Erich and Beitl 1955: 509), while in the latter case, the second element Berta refers to an ominous pre-Christian female figure, also referred to as Pertcha (Weber-Kellermann 1978: 19-23). 2.1 St. Nicholas and his furry dark companion In the case of St. Nicholas, said to be a fourth century bishop from Myra in Turkey, his saint’s day was celebrated in the spring until the thirteenth century. From the thirteenth century to the time of the Protestant Reformation in the sixteenth century, the individuals who dressed up as this bishop made their house calls on the sixth of December (Figure 2). 66 Similar examples of visitations by disguised inquisitors are found in the North American German customs of Nova Scotia, the state of Virginia and particularly the nineteenth-century Pennsylvania Dutch where it is called “belsnickling” (Halpert 1969: 43), obviously a verb derived from a phonological reinterpretation of the German expression Pelznickel (Bauman 1972; Cline 1958; Creighton 1950). Indeed, there is evidence of further attempts to make sense of the name given to these actors who were referred to as “belsnickles” and “bellschniggles”, by reinterpreting the term as two separate words: “Bell Snickles” (Siefker 1997: esp. 17-26). Here the folk reinterpretation appears to have been motivated by the ox bells and other noisemakers employed by the mummers (Creighton 1950: 58-59): “It was the custom of young people [....] to organize Bell Schnickling parties in October and November of each year...” (cited in Halpert 1969: 40-41). By 1827, as Nissenbaum (1997: 100) points out, in the Philadelphia Gazette “the Belsnickle was being compared to Santa Claus” and we see that the Belsnickle described in this newspaper article was made up in blackface: “Mr. Bellschniggle is a visible personage. […] He is the precursor of the jolly old elf ‘Christkindle,’ or ‘St. Nicholas,’ and makes his personal appearance, dressed in skins or old clothes, his face black, a bell, a whip, and a pocket full of cakes or nuts; and either the cakes or the whip are bestowed upon those around, as may seem meet to his sable majesty” (cited in Shoemaker 1959: 74). Cf. also Nissenbaum (1997: 99-107). 106 Figure 2. Names of the gift-bringers on St. Nikolaus’s Day (December 6). Adapted from Erich and Beitl (1955: 564). It wasn’t until after the Council of Trent (1545-1563) that the figure of Christkind or, in its diminutive form, das Christkindel, the Christ child, was introduced.67 He, too, was supposed to distribute gifts, but on Christmas Day.68 That practice eventually led St. Nicholas to change the date of his “good luck visits” to December 25th, while, somewhat ironically, the expression das Christkindel, originally intended to designate little Jesus, evolved into Kris Kringle, one of the Germanic terms for Father Christmas (Rodríguez 1997: 99-103). In the Netherlands, the bishop in question is accompanied, nonetheless, by Black Peter (Zwarte Piet), his faithful servant, whose role included carrying off misbehaving children in his giant sack or a large straw basket, while today Zwarte Piet 67 For a detailed and eminently erudite discussion of the various and sundry efforts, often frustrated, on the part of the Church to establish the date for celebrations associated with the birth of Christ, cf. Tille (1899: 119-137). Based on Tille’s discussions, it should be noted that in Britain even into the sixth century there was significant confusion concerning whether the third of the three great Christian festivals, the first two being Easter and Pentecost, was Epiphany or Christmas. Indeed, for many centuries competing dates for Christ’s birth were November 17 and March 28 (Tille 1899: 119). 68 Nonetheless, in the United States, as in many other European countries, even into the early nineteenth century, if presents were exchanged at this season it was usually done on New Year’s Eve and they were exchanged between adults rather being given to children. “In the 1840's there was an increasing emphasis on Christmas Day. This seems to have happened for several reasons. The press—which now reached a far wider audience with its cheaper production costs and consequently wider circulation—stressed the fact that Christmas Day was the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Birthdays had always been a day for giving presents and it was a natural step to celebrate Jesus’s birth by giving gifts on that day. [...] By the end of the century Christmas Day was firmly fixed—in England at least—as a children’s festival and the day on which presents were given” (Chris 1992: 87-88). Similarly, in the United States, the gift-bringing aspect of the celebration of St. Nicholas’ day (December 6th) was eventually reassigned to Christmas Eve. 107 has been converted into an innocuous helper of a kindly child-loving Sinterklaas (Figure 3).69 Figure 3. Dag, Sinterklaasje (Hello, Sinterklaas). Source: Vriens (1983). Illustration by Dagmar Stam. In addition, we find that historically St. Nicholas himself has a semantic counterpart in the Pelznickel, an expression that could easily have been interpreted or justified, albeit erroneously, as either as “Furry Nicholas” or “Nicholas with a Fur Coat”. The fierce Pelznickel goes by many other names, for example, in Austria the creature is known as the Krampus while in other parts of Germany two of the most popular names are Hans 69 For a particularly cogent analysis of the “bellsnickles” and Christmas mumming as well as the connections between the “bellsnickles”, Zwarte Piet and the Caribbean counterparts of this furry figure, cf. Siefker (1997: 7-39), particularly her Chapter 3, “His Clothes Were All Tarnished With Ashes and Soot”. Also there is the reproduction of a curious painting with the heading: “The Black Pete figure that accompanied Saint Nicholas on his Christmas expeditions also accompanied women saints on their gift-giving rounds, as shown above. Black Pete’s role was to threaten misbehaving children and rattle his chain”(1997: 11). In short, Siefker suggests that Black Pete was an accepted companion for female saints, not just bishops like St. Nicholas. Unfortunately, no source is provided for the painting. 108 Trapp and Knecht Ruprecht (Miles [1912] 1976: 218-221, 231-232; Müller and Müller 1999; Rodríguez 1997: 103-104) (Figure 4).70 Figure 4. St. Nikolaus Eve. Source: Weber–Kellermann (1978: 27). The Krampus is a rather scary creature who appears either alone or in the company of an individual dressed as a bishop. The latter wears a long flowing robe or coat trimmed with fur and carries a staff. In zones where the two characters appear together, the pair plays the role of “white and black inquisitors” (Halpert 1969: 43) (Figures 5 & 6). 70 For further discussion of these characters as well as excellent illustrations of them, cf. Weber–Kellermann (1978: 24-42). 109 Figure 5. Painting by Franz Xaver von Paumgartten: Christmas Eve and St. Nicholas with the Krampus. Vienna 1820. (Museen der Stadt Wien). Reproduced in Weber–Kellermann (1978: 26). Figure 6. Krampus. Austrian postcard from circa 1900. Far from being a long forgotten tradition, the customary visits by the Krampus and his Bishop are alive and well, indeed, thriving in modern-day Austria, where Krampus troupes have sprung up across the land. For instance, in places like Salzburg, Krampus performers number, quite literally, in the hundreds (Figures 7, 8 & 9). Once again I would emphasize that the creature they call the Krampus, albeit furry and horned, is not viewed—at least not consciously—as a bear or bear-like being. 110 Figure 7. Krampus Group. Salzburg, December 2002. Source: http://www.krampusvereinanras.com/home.htm. Figure 8. Nikolaus und Krampus. Pettneu am Arlberg, December 2003. © Karl C. Berger.71 71 For a remarkable contemporary enactment, cf. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSn4KBA_XPI. 111 Figure 9. A very large Krampus. December 2002. Source: http://www.luehrmann.at/BildderWoche/2002/02-12-04-krampus.jpg. In other instances, the fur-clad horned creature known as the Krampus takes on a somewhat more child-friendly appearance (Figures 10 & 11). 112 Figure 10. Waidhofen Station: Krampus performers preparing to catch a special steam locomotive that will take them to Ybbsitz, Austria. December 2, 2006. Source: http://www.ybbstalbahn.at/nostalgie__alt.htm. Figure 11. Entrance of Nikolaus and the Krampus in Dorplatz, Austria. December 2, 2006. Source: http://www.ybbstalbahn.at/nostalgie__alt.htm. In other contemporary European versions of this performance piece, for example, in Amsterdam, the Christian bishop Nicholas called Sinterklaas, dressed in white or red, enters first, followed by Zwarte Piet (Black Peter), his dark-faced companion (Chris 1992). The former would interrogate the children and in the case of a good report, distributes gifts. Meanwhile his black-faced counterpart would stand at the door, poised, if need be, to administer punishment, lashes, leaving whips, rods or chunks of coal behind for the misbehaving children. Or he would simply stuff them into the sack that he carried for that purpose. 113 Fig. 12. St. Nicholas and his Servant - St. Nikolaas en zijn knecht by J. Schenkman]. Amsterdam: J. Vlieger, [ca.1885]. Source: http://www.kb.nl/uitgelicht/kinderboeken/sinterklaas/sinterklaas-ill.html. In the case of Hans Trapp he sometimes accompanied a female figure called Christkind, although his role was similar to that of the other dark intruders. Figure 13. Christkind and Hans Trapp in Elsace 1850. Reproduced in Weber-Kellermann (1978: 35). 114 It should be noted that when only one figure appears, e.g., the Pelzmärte or Pelznickel, Hans Trapp or Knecht Ruprecht,72 he is in charge of distributing both punishments and rewards, although he too strikes fear into the hearts of children (Figures 13 & 14). In this sense, the characteristics associated with these figures correspond more closely with the older profile of this fearsome creature. Figure 14. Franz von Pocci (1807–1876): Der Pelzmärtel, 1846. Reproduced in Weber–Kellermann (1978: 32). The menacing nature of the eighteenth and nineteenth century portrayals of the Pelznickel and Knecht Ruprecht provides us with a way to gauge, albeit indirectly, the kind of the discourse employed by adults at that point in time, as they explained to their offspring the dangers of misbehaving: failure to obey could result in a frightening punishment; the child might be stuffed into the sack (or basket) of this night visitor and carried off to meet a horrible fate (Figure 15). 72 For an interesting discussion of Knecht Ruprecht http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Companions_of_Saint_Nicholas. and his European counterparts, cf. 115 Figure. 15. Franz Regi Göz. Knecht Ruprecht 1784. Reproduced in Weber–Kellermann (1978: 32). Moreover, there is every indication that the fur-clad horned creature was even more frightening in times past, as is suggested by representations of his Austrian counterpart, the Krampus. 2.2 Good-luck visits and ritual cleansings In the Mittelmark the name of de hêle Christ (“the Holy Christ”) is given strangely to a skin- or straw-clad man, elsewhere called Knecht Ruprecht, Klas, or Joseph (Figure 15). In the Ruppin district the man dresses up in white, with ribbons, carries a large pouch, and is called Christmann or Christpuppe. He is accompanied by a Schimmelreiter and a troupe of Feien with blackened faces.73 As the procession goes round from house to house, the Schimmelreiter enters first, followed by Christpuppe who makes the children repeat some verse of Scripture or a hymn; if they know it well, he rewards them with gingerbreads from his wallet; if not, he beats them with a bundle filled with ashes. Then both he and the Schimmelreiter dance and pass on. Only then are the Feien allowed to enter; they jump about and frighten the children (Miles [1912] 1976: 230-231) (Figures 16, 17, 18). Indeed, the ritual of smearing ashes on the faces of those encountered, as well as the fact that ashes form an integral part of the make-up of the performers themselves, are recurrent features of the performances. As such, the use of ashes may have been a 73 The Schimmelreiter is a character associated with the rider on a white or dapple horse, while other masked celebrants called Feien appeared attired as women, similar to the Kalends maskers condemned by the early Church. This centaurus-like figure shows up in other parts of Europe and should be considered one of the characters who regularly take part in these “good-luck visits” (cf. Frank in press-b). 116 fundamental component of the “good-luck” healing ceremonies themselves. There are many examples of the old European belief in the “good luck” conferred by ashes, blackening one’s face with them and black creatures in general (Alford 1930: 277 ff; Barandiaran 1973, II: 375; Creighton 1950: 20-21; Frank 2005b) Figure 16. St. Nikolaus with his companions in Berchtesgaden, Bavaria 1958. Photo Wolf Lüking. Reproduced in Weber–Kellermann (1978: 33). 117 Figure 17. St. Nikolaus with his companions in Bavaria 1958. Photo Wolf Lüking. Reproduced in Weber–Kellermann (1978: 29). Figure 18. Oscar Gräf (1861–1902). Perchtenlaufen Festival in Salzburg 1892. Reproduced in Weber– Kellermann (1978: 21).74 74 For more on the Krampus and Perchten runs, cf. the YouTube videos at http://video.google.com/videosearch?hl=en&q=Krampus%20runs&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wv# and for a recent video clip from Pongau, Saltzburg, showing the variety of masks employed and the remarkable similarity between the Krampus performers and the Sardinian Mamuthones, cf. 118 At the same time, while at first glance leaving behind chunks of black charcoal would appear to carry a purely negative connotation, Miles ([1912] 1976: 251-260) has demonstrated that charcoal was originally viewed in a positive light. Specifically, pieces of charcoal from the Yule Log were highly valued for their prophylactic characteristics as were the log’s ashes which were carefully collected and utilized for a variety of healing purposes.75 Moreover, it has been argued that the ethical distinction between good children and bad children along with the consequent distribution of gifts or blows, “is of comparatively recent origin, an invention perhaps for children when the customs came to be performed solely for their benefit, and that the beatings and gifts were originally shared by all alike and were of a sacramental character” (Miles [1912] 1976: 207). Further evidence for structural inversions in gift-giving comes from the fact that in other parts of Europe it is a troupe of young adults along with their bear (or bears) who visits the households and expects, in return for their services, to receive, not give, “treats” of food and drink (Alford 1928, 1930, 1931, 1937; Praneuf 1989).76 In Europe the ritual cleansings that formed part of the “good luck visits” included fumigations, incensing by smoke, and flailing the person with aromatic branches. Such ceremonies recall similar healing techniques involving smudging with the sacred smoke of juniper branches, still performed today by Native American medicine men and women (Brunton 1993: 138). Hence, from a diachronic point of view the European whipping customs are perhaps better understood not as “punishments, but kindly services; their purpose is to drive away evil influences, and to bring to the flogged one the life-giving virtues of the tree from which the twigs or boughs are taken” (Miles [1912] 1976: 207). Indeed, wands were often constructed for this purpose from a birch-bough with all the leaves and twigs stripped off, except at the top, to which oak-leaves and twigs of juniper pine were attached along with their bright red berries. Devoid of decoration, these rods or http://www.aeiou.at/aeiou.film.o/o189a, the wide variety of videos at http://www.brauchtumspflegevereinanras.com/content/view/25/50/, as well as these pictorial representations of the Krampus: http://www.galavant.com/krampus/. The regional variation of the costumes and masks is noteworthy, while performers dressed in straw with blackened faces also are commonplace, e. g., the St. Nikolaus day characters called Perschtln in the Austrian Tirol. 75 In zones where only one character clad in skins or straw examines children, distributing blows and gifts alike, e.g., in the case of the Christpuppe or Knecht Ruprecht, ashes play a major role. For example, in Mechlenburg where he is called rû Klas (“rough Nicholas”), he sometimes wears bells and carries a staff with a bag of ashes at the end. Hence the name Aschenklas is occasionally given to him. One theory connects this aspect of him with the Polaznik “first footer” visitor of the Slavs. On Christmas Day in Crivoscian farms he goes to the hearth, takes up the ashes of the Yule log and dashes them against the cauldron-hook above so that sparks fly (Miles [1912] 1976: 231, 252). 76 In the United States, it is common for parents to have their children leave out a plate with cookies along with a glass of milk for Santa. Naturally, the next morning the food offering has disappeared and nothing but a few crumbs remain on the plate. 119 switches became broom-like devices that were used to sweep away unhealthy influences. Pig bladders attached to poles were also used in such prophylactic flagellations. In short, blows delivered by the switches and bladders were believed to insure good health, promote fertility in animals and humans alike as well as the fruitfulness of crops: they were intended to bring about prosperity in general. 3.0 Marginalization: The transformation of the New World “good-luck” visitor In the United States a series of transformations would take place, altering the European template of these “good luck visits” and the cast of characters involved in them, transformations that would lead to the creation of the modern day consumer Santa, familiar to people around the world. In this process, the dark ursine companion would be increasingly marginalized. Although there were many forces at work which, acting in consonance, brought about this situation, a close examination of the facts allows us to recognize that many of the most familiar aspects of the American Santa Claus are products of the fertile imaginations of four remarkable individuals: Washington Irving, Clement C. Moore, Thomas Nast and Haddon Sundblom. First, we have Washington Irving (1783–1859) who in his Knickerbocker’s History of New York (1809) divested St. Nicholas of his bishop’s garb and severe inquisitorial demeanor, took away his bear companion, leaving behind a quintessentially good-natured bourgeois Dutchman contentedly smoking his long clay pipe. Indeed, in a very short time Washington Irving’s writings managed to turn the popular Sinterklaas or Sinter Klaas of Holland into the tutelary guardian of New York (Chris 1992: 37-41; Rodríguez 1997; Webster [1869] 1950).77 The next step in the metamorphosis of the European character was undertaken by Clement C. Moore, the biblical scholar who, in 1822, wrote his now famous poem “An Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas” in which Santa acquired a sled and reindeer.78 This poem, in turn, was illustrated by the political cartoonist Thomas Nast in a series of vignettes published in Harper’s Weekly between 1863 and 1886 (Nast St. Hill 1971). 77 For a much finer grained cultural analysis of the evolution of the American Christmas holiday as well as evidence of European traditions subsisting, especially among the lower classes, cf. Nissenbaum (1997). 78 Composed for his own six children’s diversion, Moore’s poem first appeared in The Troy Sentinel of New York on December 23, 1823. 120 Figure 19. Brown furry-suited Santa. Source:Webster 1869 version of book cover ([1869] 1950). However, the artist, born in Bavaria, brought with him to New York fond memories of the Pelznickel whose furry brown body and paws reappear quite clearly in his early drawings (Nast [1890] 1971: 53) (Figure 19).79 Nast’s Santa has been categorized as “a direct descendent of Pelz-Nicol [sic], the counterpart of St. Nicholas ... [and] the beaming, wholesome Santa Claus of today with his baggy costume gradually evolved from the more sinister appearing Santa with his furry skin tight costume” (Webster [1869] 1950).80 Finally, in 1931, we find Haddon Sundblom, a publicist for Coca-Cola from Chicago. It is Sundblom who should be given credit for giving the American Santa his final form, for crafting that jovial consumer Santa so familiar to children and adults the world over.81 And in a stroke of genius, from 1931 forward the official colors of Coca-Cola®, red and 79 In Nast’s drawings frequently the creature is shown as elf-like, far smaller than a human being. First published about 1870, Webster’s poem “Santa Claus and his Works”, loosely based on Moore’s poem, was also illustrated by Nast, while somewhat earlier, in 1863, in the Christmas edition of Harper’s Weekly it was Nast’s drawings that illustrated Moore’s poem and showed Santa with his sleigh and reindeer much as Moore had described him (Nast [1890] 1971: 6-7). 81 According to Chris (1992: 57), although “most of the United States did not legally recognize Christmas until the latter half of the nineteenth century, by the 1840's it was already being seen very much as a children’s festival...”. For a more finely grained analysis of the socio-cultural and economic factors affecting the transformation of these European traditions into the American version of Christmas, cf. Nissenbaum (1997). 80 121 white, would be identified year after year with the bright colors of Santa’s suit (Chris 1992; Rodríguez 1997: 107-132). The Chicago artist reworked Nast’s chubby bear-like Santa into a taller, ever smiling and more humanized version, the ideal grandfather, basing his paintings initially on the face of his friend Lou Prince and upon the death of the latter, on his own. One of Nast’s illustrations provides us with a particularly a good example of how entrenched customs can be modified, if not erased. That is, the way that (unconscious) beliefs and as well as other circumstances can come into play in order to make the past appear to conform more closely with the present. In this instance, we have the example of the original cover page from the 1869 edition where Nast’s childhood memories of the furry Pelznickels are clearly evident in the brown tones of the creature’s fuzzy costume and paws (Figure 19). However, when this book was reprinted, in 1950 (Webster [1869] 1950), a decision was taken with respect to the cover of the new edition to alter the colors of the earlier illustration, remove the Peltznickel’s brown paws, and replace them with furry white mittens (Figure 20). That choice brought the color-coding of the book’s cover into greater conformance with what was, by the 1950s, the conventional view of the colors associated with the Coca-Cola Santa, namely, red and white. Quite possibly those in charge of deciding on the packaging of the book were doing nothing more sinister than attempting to make it as visually marketable as possible. Luckily, those in charge of the reprint also decided to include a color reproduction of the original cover from the 1869 edition, in the 1950 edition of the book. 122 Figure 20. Red-colored cover of Webster’s book of Nast’s drawings. Source: Webster ([1869] 1950). Almost every year from 1931 to 1964 Sundblom painted new illustrations for CocaCola and their annual Christmas advertising campaign. These advertisements appeared in Saturday Evening Post, Ladies Home Journal, National Geographic, Life, etc., as well as on billboards and point-of-purchase store displays. As Berryman (1995) has noted: “The Coca-Cola Company’s large advertising budget ensured that Sundblom’s distinctive vision of Santa received massive exposure across the country and around the world.” Unquestionably the jolly, fully human Santa figure popularized by Coca-Cola was a successful ambassador of feel-good consumerism and optimism and, like Moore’s Santa, he was plump and grandfatherly with twinkling eyes and a hearty laugh.82 In short, the massively successful publicity campaigns surrounding these illustrations, still used by Coca-Cola today, are undoubtedly one of the major reasons for the rapid diffusion of the image of the American Santa Claus throughout the world (Chris 1992: 108-132; Rodríguez 1997) and the consequent loss from our collective consciousness of the European bear ancestor. In the United States the sack is stuffed not with terrified children, but with candies and toys. By this point, we might argue that the conversion of the animal-like creature into an inoffensive, child-friendly bearer of consumer goods is 82 For a large sampling of representations of Sundblom’s Coca-Cola Santa as well as an analysis of the publicity campaign associated with them, cf. http://www.angelfire.com/trek/hillmans/xmascoke.html. 123 nearly complete, while the “good-luck visits” have ended up having primarily children as their beneficiaries, rather than adults, at least in the United States. Yet this fact should not lead us to the naïve conclusion that the transformation has been uniform or that the only image left is that of the rosy-cheeked American Santa. Rather, for example, as has been indicated in this study, in Austria still today we discover the older horrific image of the Krampus, the creature who goes after innocent passersby, often striking fear in the hearts of misbehaving children, all of which is another sign of the continuing strength of this ancient and quite indigenous ursine tradition of Europe. 4.0 Generational down-grading: A different perspective In the previous sections of this study we documented the fact that there has been a generational down-grading with respect these customs: those who believe in the reality of the furry creature and the importance of behaving properly in order to get a good report card are now primarily children. Yet, even in the case of Santa Claus which is the most recent manifestation of the older belief complex, every child goes through a phase of believing that Santa is omniscient and will judge them. These supernatural powers are inculcated in the child by means of parental collusion as well as by popular culture. For example, everyone in the United States knows the words to the song called “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”, played endlessly during the Christmas holidays. Since 1934, the words of this song have impressed on children the magical powers attributed to this night visitor: Oh! You better watch out, You better not cry, You better not pout, I'm telling you why: Santa Claus is coming to town! He's making a list, He's checking it twice, He's gonna find out who's naughty or nice. Santa Claus is coming to town! He sees you when you're sleeping, He knows when you're awake. He knows when you've been bad or good, So be good for goodness sake! Granted, the American version of the main character projects a more child-friendly and far less threatening personality than its European counterparts, the disturbingly ominous semi-bestial creatures who continue to form part of European performance art. Still, even the most recent version of the belief complex requires the assumption that the 124 being in question is endowed with supernatural powers: that it is omniscient, capable of knowing exactly what the child has been doing throughout the year. Building on this assumption, adults have invoked the name of the character in question in order to get the child to behave. Thus, the generational down-grading makes children the target of the moral scrutiny of the character in question: young people are the ones interrogated and whose actions are watched over, so to speak, by this tutelary guardian being. 4.1 Hamalau-Zaingo: Interlocking meanings Speaking of the process of generational down-grading, there is reason to believe that earlier the actions of adults were also subject to a similar type of scrutiny. This conclusion is based to the strong possibility that in times past there existed a flesh and blood counterpart of this guardian figure, concretely, an official who was in charge of guarding the social norms of the entire community. Here we need to keep in mind the linkages holding between the term hamalau and the title that was conferred on the judicial official known as the Hamalau-Zaingo, whose duties included watching over the collective in question. In short, this individual appears to have been charged with keeping track of those members of the community who misbehaved in some way, violating the community’s norms. Furthermore, there is reason to believe that the duties that fell to the Hamalau-Zaingo included acting as a kind of judge, determining the seriousness of the infraction or crime; imposing the appropriate punishment as well as perhaps seeing that it was carried out properly. In the case of Zuberoa, the individual who held this office even had immunity from prosecution as indicated in the law codes from the same zone (Haristoy 1883-1884: 384-385). In other words, in Euskal Herria we find evidence pointing to the existence of a kind of judge, a guardian figure whose title included the term hamalau. Likewise, Azkue (1969: I, 36) explains that the being known as the amalauzaku (hamalauzaku) is "el Bú, fantasma imaginario con que se asusta los niños" (“the fantastic being, the imaginary phantom that is used to frighten children”). Then in the Diccionario Retana de Autoridades de la Lengua Vasca (Sota 1976: 251) under the variant of amalauzanko we find a similar definition: Bú, fantasma. '–Uraxe bai izugarri! Benetan, é! Espiritu bat ikusi nian. –Bai zea! Amalau zankoa?" [“A fantastic being, phantom. ‘–That one is awful frightening! Really, don’t you agree? I saw a ghost. – Really!! Was it Amalau zankoa?’] Finally, another example of the same phonological variant, namely, (h)amalauzanko, is listed in Michelena (1987, I, 874): 125 Baita umiak izutzeko askotan aipatu oi diran izen. Amalauzanko, Prailemotxo, Ipixtiku eta beste orrelekorak, lehengoko deabru, gaizkiñ edo jainkoizunen oroipenak izan bear dute. [Also the names that are commonly used to frighten children. Amalauzanko, Prailemotxo, Ipixtiku and other similar ones must be recollections of devils, demons or gods of times past.] In short, these phonological variants of Hamalau-Zaingo refer to the guardian figure who is invoked today by adults to threaten children. Furthermore, we find variants of the compound expression hamalau-zaingo showing up as (h)amalauzanko and (h)amalauzaku in the name given to a class of performers. In this case, the phonological reduction of the compound hamalau-zaingo has been accompanied by a reanalysis of the phonologically reduced form itself. Here I refer to what has happened in villages such as Lesaca where there are colorful, albeit rather grotesquely proportioned, figures that go by the name of azaku-zaharrak, where the second element is the plural of zahar “old”.83 The phonological erosion suffered by the expression might have developed as follows: hamalau-zaingo-zaharrak > *(hama)lauza(in)ko-zaharrak > *lauzaku-zaharrak > azaku-zaharrak. It was not until the 1970s that these characters were recuperated in Lesaca and their name re-introduced, after nearly a forty year hiatus, given that during the Franco period the characters were absent.84 Today the performers’ appearance is manipulated so as to make them appear extremely bulky, larger than life, similar to En Peirot of Catalunya, a character we will examine in more detail shortly. In order to achieve this effect, the actors stuff their costumes with straw, while the costumes themselves are made out of gunny sacks. As a result, the expression azaku-zaharrak ([Ihauteriak] 1992) has undergone further phonological erosion and semantic reanalysis, being reduced, at least by some writers, to zaku-zaharrak, and interpreted, erroneously, as meaning “sacos viejos” (“old sacks”) as if the first element corresponded to the old gunny sacks used to make the costumes. 83 84 Cf. http://www.flickr.com/photos/dantzan/724061073/ Even earlier, there was no specific date for when the zaku-zaharrak were supposed to appear, rather from January 6th until the beginning of Carnival the various groups of performers would take turns coming out into the streets. Then on the Monday of Carnival all the groups of performers would come together, which could produce rivalries between the zaku-zaharrak of the various wards of the village ([diariodenavarra.es] n.d.). 126 Fig. 21. Lesaka Zaku Zaharrak, 2007. Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dantzan/724934332/in/set72157600656899313/ In summary, in the case of the compound hamalau-zaingo we find three intertwined meanings that, in turn, reveal three distinct yet interlocking aspects or characteristics that are closely associated with the entity in question. First, the phonologically eroded variants of hamalauzanko and hamalauzaku appear to be reflexes of the name of the official who was in charge of watching over the community and insuring that its norms and rules of conduct were observed; second, we note that it is the name assigned to the fantastic being invoked to make children behave; and finally, it shows up in the name of a bizarre bear-like masked performer, the hamalauzaku. Stitching these clues together we discover a clear pattern, one that illuminates yet another dimension of the Hamalau cultural complex: that in all likelihood the individual who was in charge of watching over the community was also the individual who dressed in a particular fashion, not like the other members of the community, and was also expected to take an active part in public rituals, if not preside over them. Therefore, it would not have been illogical for adults to invoke the name of this official when telling their children that if they didn’t behave they would be carried off and punished by him (or her). Yet at the same time, standing behind the official in question was a more terrifying creature of supernatural dimensions, the half-human, half-bear figure of Hamalau, the intermediary between humans and bears, identified as well with the ominous “night visitor” or “sensed presence”. In addition, keeping in mind the processes involved in generational down-grading, if we attempt to combine all of these characteristics into a single coherent narrative we are confronted once more with the strong possibility that the attribution of omniscience to this creature on the part of adults, i.e., when speaking to children, reflects an earlier belief held by adults themselves: a belief on their part in the supernatural powers of this being. 127 In short, to assume that in times past the cultural conceptualization in question was equated with a particular notion of divinity would not be too far-fetched. This leads us back to Perurena’s suggestion that Hamalau might be best understood as a kind of preChristian deity (Hamalaua, gure Jaingo “Fourteen, our god”) (Perurena 1993: 265; 2000). As is well recognized, Western concepts of divinity tend to be informed by the notion of transcendence and moral authority, that is, a conceptual framework that projects a distant, otiose high god, physically removed from the world of humans and nature, although judgmental, nevertheless. In contrast, the ursine cosmology embodies a more animistic framework, grounded much more in the here and now, in nature itself. Thus, the source of authority seems to more immediate, less remote and more accessible. Both humans and bears are implicated as is, by extension, the rest of nature. Thus, rather than projecting a lofty high god, a transcendent being separate from humans and nature, the ursine cosmology seems to incarnate a radically different and more all encompassing vision of reality, self and other. In conclusion, when analyzed from the perspective of generational down-grading, we see ample evidence of adults being fully complicit in terms of transmitting and promoting the belief in this supernatural being, actively endeavoring to inculcate the belief in the minds of their children. Yet adults themselves no longer actually share the belief. In other words, what we find are adults and children operating with different interpretive frameworks. However, as has been stated, there is every reason to assume that the belief system implicated by the actions of the adults represents a residual pattern of belief once held by the wider community. Likewise, although adults are no longer the target of the modern day interrogations, e.g., as carried out by St. Nicholas and his furry companion, it would appear that in times past the adult members of the community were not exempt from moral scrutiny. For instance, we have the example of the comic critique which still forms part of the structure of “good-luck visits”. That component clearly is directed at evaluating the behavior of those visited, albeit in a satiric fashion. This suggests that a similar component could have been present earlier and that it once formed an integral, even obligatory, part of the ritual. Finally, we are left with two additional questions, neither of which has a clear answer. The questions concern the nature of the relationship holding between the individual performing the role of Hamalau-Zaingo and the figure of Hamalau. First, we might ask how we should characterize this relationship if we assign a supernatural dimension to Hamalau. And the second question that we might ask is how that relationship impacted 128 the way that human animals viewed their ursine non-human brethren. Again, even by drawing on all the information collected to date neither of these questions has an easy answer. 5.0 Cross-cultural comparisons: Artifacts from the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium When we compare the path taken by the various linguistic and cultural artifacts under analysis we find a curious pattern. On the one hand, in certain locations the “bear” character has essentially disappeared from view, being supplanted by St. Nicholas and/or his more modern counterpart Santa Claus. Undoubtedly, Christianity has played a role in these transformations. Yet, at the same time, in Germanic-speaking zones we find the older figure standing, quite literally, alongside the modern Christianized character. In other words, the original figure has not been erased. Quite the contrary, the Austrian Krampus is still a very frightening creature. In the case of the linguistic and cultural artifacts drawn from zones inside the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium and/or closely linked to it, e.g., the Sardinian materials, we find a different symbolic regime operating where the main character did not undergo the same sort of Christianization. Here I refer to the Basque figure of Hamalau itself and its variants (e.g., in Mamu, Marrau, Hamalauzango/Hamalauzaku, etc.) as well as the Sardinian conceptual equivalents (e.g., variants in marragau, marragotti, mommotti, mamudinu, mamuthones, etc.) on the one hand, and on the other the frightening creature encountered within the geographical reach of the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium, referred to generically as L’Home del Sac and, more specifically, embodied in figures such as the Catalan Marraco, as it was originally understood.85 What is unusual is the fact that in this region of Europe the belief and associated performance art survived on the margins of Christianity. In all probability part of the reason for this lies in the fact that the Church managed to promote a different biblicallybased Christianized identity for the gift-bringers, namely, the Three Kings who were in charge of bringing presents to well-behaved children on January 6th. That strategic choice on the part of the Catholic Church, whether fortuitous or deliberate, allowed the belief in the older more ambivalent guardian figure to continue to operate on the margins of the dominant cultural discourse. There the character went on fulfilling its role as an asustaniños even though with time adults would invoke its name less frequently. Nevertheless, as we shall soon discover, in locations such as Catalunya, just as in Germanic-speaking countries, the Christianization process was incomplete and in some 85 In this respect I would mention the Basque figure of Olentzaro who will be discussed in detail in the next chapter of this investigation. 129 locations the furry creature continued to appear along with its Christianized brethren into recent times. 5.1 Iberian “bogey-men” Writing in 1950s, the renowned Catalan ethnographer Joan Amades prepared a series of studies exploring what he called “ogros infantiles”. He uses this term to refer to the same class of monstrous beings invoked by adults to frighten their offspring that we have been discussing throughout this chapter (Amades 1951, 1952, 1957). Among the most popular of these figures is En Pelut which translates as the “Hairy One” or the “Shaggy One” and which Amades describes as the “asustachicos catalán”: En Básquera, Montagut, Tortellá y por otros lugarejos de la Garrotxa, en vísperas de Navidades intimidan a los chicos traviesos con el Pelut o Peludo, hombrón alto y fornido cual un roble, negro como el hollín y peludo cual un oso, que habla estentórea y bruscamente, el cual ronda en busca de chicos traviesos, que carga en un enorme saco que trae a cuestas para celebrar con ellos unas buenas Pascuas. [In Básquera, Montagut, Tortellá and other localities of Garrotxa, on the evenings preceding Christmas they intimidate mischievous children with the Pelut or Peludo, a very large man, tall and muscular as a oak tree, black as soot and shaggy as a bear, who speaks in a brusque stentorian fashion, and who goes about looking for mischievous children, who he carries off in an enormous sack that he has on his back in order to enjoy with them a sumptuous feast.] (Amades 1957: 274) Amades goes on to say: A veces, para dar más efectividad a la farsa, un vecino bien alto y robusto, cubierto con pieles de carnero negro, que algún día debieron ser de oso, cargado con un saco repleto de paja al hombro, al anochecer visita los hogares donde hay chicos díscolos, vociferando que viene a por ellos para zampárselos en Nochebuena. Los ruegos de los mayores y las súplicas de los amenazados le convencen de que se vaya, lo cual hace muy a regañadientes. [Sometimes, in order to make the farce more effective, a tall and robust neighbor covered in the skins of a black ram, skins that earlier were probably those of a bear, bearing a sack filled with straw on his shoulder, visits around nightfall those households where there are disobedient children, crying out that he will be coming to get them, to swallow them up on Christmas Eve. The entreaties of the adults and the pleadings of those threatened convince him that he should leave, which he does very unwillingly.] (Amades 1957: 274-275) Supposedly, one of the other functions of En Pelut was to give a report to the Three Kings concerning the conduct of children. In contrast to the way this was set up in Germanic-speaking countries where St. Nicholas would often arrive accompanied by his dark furry companion, here we have a bear-like creature arriving alone, well ahead of the Three Kings, and operating autonomously. Also, we see that it is En Pelut who is in charge of determining whether the children have misbehaved and, supposedly, later transmitting that report to the Christianized three-some of “gift-bringers” (Mano Negra 2005). In this sequence of events there is a kind of discrepancy in that the date assigned for the definitive punishment—when the creature says he will return—is Christmas Eve, i.e., the Winter Solstice, not January 6th. 130 While there are significant parallels with respect to the way that the Catalan representation of the creature has evolved alongside Christianity, what is perhaps most remarkable about this Catalan custom is the recognition on the part of Amades that in all likelihood in times past the person dressed up in a bear skin. Although Amades does not directly associate En Pelut with a bear, he does add these comments: Por los valles altos pirenaicos de la región leridana se había acudido asimismo al oso, y en Andorra, a su hembra, la osa, mucho más temible aún que éste. La representación del oso danzarín había sido muy frecuente en Carnaval; y, cual En Peirot o el Marraco, los niños lo miraban con pavor, no como un fiero animal, sino en su condición de traganiños traviesos. [In the high Pyrenean valleys of the region of Lérida, they have also resorted to the bear, and in Andorra, to the female bear, which is even more fearsome than the former. The representation of a dancing bear is very common during Carnival; and, like En Peirot or the Marraco, children looked at it with terror, not because it was as a wild animal, but rather because of its condition as a devourer of disobedient children.] (Amades 1957: 269-270) In the example above, we find that the conflation of the two meanings is complete: the frightful being invoked by adults is identified precisely with the performer dressed as a “bear” (Figure 22). Figure 22. “Mascarada del Oso.” Xarallo.—L’Allars. Source: Amades (1957).86 In the traditional festivals of the town of Solsona four “bears” took part, performers whose presence terrified of the children of Solsona, Vall del Hort and Ribera Salada, meanwhile their parents would repeatedly speak to their offspring about the “bears” to in order to make them obey (Amades 1957: 270). Based on the only photo I have found of them, today they look like harmless Disney-like characters, 86 From a drawing made by Amades based on a work of J. Noé located in the Museo de Industrias y Artes Populares del Pueblo Español in Barcelona. 131 indeed, looking more like mice than bears. However, in times past there was a dearth of images other than those found in one’s own everyday environment, no television, no magazines, no Internet. So any unfamiliar creature, especially a strange unnatural masked one, would have given any child goose-bumps. Also, we do not know how these four “bears” dressed centuries ago (Fig. 23). Figure 23. “Los osos.” Solsona-Solsonès. Source: Amades (1957). In the passages cited above Amades mentions another performer known as En Peirot. According to Amades, the characteristics of this “ogre” appear to replicate those of the Sardinian Marragau, although its name, En Peirot, bears no resemblance to any of the phonological variants of Hamalau we have discussed so far. It is noteworthy that geographically speaking this performer also inhabits the region of Lérida where in a certain sense it must have competed (or co-habited) with performers dressed as “bears”. Amades describes the participation of this actor as follows: Por las altas comarcas leridanas, el terror de la chiquillería era el Peirot, que durante el Carnaval salía a danzar a la plaza al son de una canción dedicada a él […]. Para dar la sensación de que estaba enormemente gordo, a causa del gran número de criaturas malas que se había tragado, el disfrazado escondía un par de almohadas debajo del vestido, con lo que adquiría un aspecto deforme y grotesco. La chiquillería quedaba aterrorizada al verle por sus propios ojos, dándoles una sensación de realidad que daba gran eficacia a la palabra de los mayores cuando le invocaban. [In the high districts of Lérida, what terrorized the crowds of small children was the Peirot, who during Carnival would come out to dance in the plaza to the sound of a song dedicated to him […]. In order to give the sensation that he was enormously fat, because of the large number of bad kids that he had swallowed up, the masked figure would hide a pair of pillows under his costume, with the result being that he took on a deformed and grotesque shape. The crowds of children were horrified upon seeing him with their own eyes, which gave them the impression that he was real, a sensation that made the words used by their elders when they invoked his name extremely effective.] (Amades 1957: 275)87 87 Although Amades explains that the custom of stuffing the performer’s costume with pillows to give it more bulk was explained by the wanting to give the impression that he was fat from eating so many 132 Amades (1957: 270) also points out that a figure called Peirotu appears in this capacity of a tragachicos on the French side of the Pyrenees. In spite of the fact that the names Peirot and Peirotu bear no resemblance to the phonological variants of Hamalau studied so far, the characteristics attributed to Peirot and Peirotu are remarkably similar in many respects. In the town of Lérida we find a carnival performer called Marraco, quite comparable to En Peirot, whose body size was also exaggerated by stuffing pillows inside the actor’s costume. This was the case before the towns-people decided to construct a new, highly elaborated version of the fearsome yet amorphous being called Marraco (Amades 1957: 275). Indeed, we discover that the ursine connections of the character were essentially eliminated when the decision was taken to give a concrete physical shape to the Marraco, the creature that devoured children. According to Amades (1957: 268-269), at one point the officialdom of Lérida decided that they wanted to construct an impressive animal-like figure of monstrous proportions in order to enhance the visual appeal of the local Carnival festivities. After some discussion, it occurred to them that the best choice would be to give plastic form to the fabulous Marraco. Apparently, as adults, those in charge of making this decision still remembered the fear they had experienced as children when their parents reprimanded them, in short, the abstract sense of terror that the Marraco had aroused in them. However, by this point in time it is clear that the authorities in question were seeking to devise not some horrendously frightful creature, but rather something that would be an attractive addition to the local festivities, a source of entertainment for the community. In other words, the belief in the Marraco was losing its grip. As a result, they ordered the construction of an enormous animal and had it mounted on a chassis with wheels so that it could move through the streets. The antediluvian creature was equipped an enormous mouth. That way children could enter though this aperture and by means of a special internal device, they were moved along gently inside the bowels of the creature so that upon emerging from it, they ended up being deposited, quite safely, on the ground (Amades 1957: 268-269). The first Marraco, made of cardboard, fell apart and was substituted by another incredibly bigger one. While the new version was also mounted on wheels, it no longer was capable of swallowing up the little ones as its predecessor did. In short, the “childeating” Marraco that previously had inhabited every child’s imagination, albeit with an children, this explanation might well be false. Instead, there is reason to believe that the bulky nature of the costume was, at least in part, a desire—in times past—to make the performer take on a bear-like appearance. 133 amorphous shape, was now given a concrete plastic representation and, consequently, deftly converted into an innocuous object of entertainment (Figure 24). Figure 24. The Marraco of Lérida. Source: Amades (1957) 5.2 Another linguistic variant Finally, in other zones still within the geographical limits of the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium or quite nearby we find that the menacing asustachicos goes by several names quite similar to each another, suggesting that they share a common etymology. For instance, we have the Papu which in Catalunya has been perhaps the most popular name for this character. Also, in many regions of Catalunya the word papu means “worm, insect or any little non-flying animal” (Amades 1957: 255). The latter meanings coincide closely with meanings found in Sardu for a number of words based on the stem of mamu, e.g., mamusu; it also has parallels in Euskera in meanings associated with the terms mamu, mamarro, mamorru, mamurru, mamarrao and mamor, namely, “worm, insect, very small animal” (Michelena 1987: XII, 37-38). In Basque this definition may well be rooted in an animistic belief that attributed to these beings special transformative spiritual powers. The word field comprised by these terms also includes small beings, tiny magical semi-human creatures, often helpful to humans but of a rather indefinite shape. As such, they appear incarnate in the form of insects, as if the latter were capable of shape-shifting, undergoing metamorphosis, taking on a disguise, e.g., as a larva might be understood to shape-shift when it becomes a chrysalis and then magically turn into a butterfly. For example, in Euskera mamutu carries meanings related to “putting on a mask” or otherwise “disguising oneself”; to “becoming enchanted, astonished, astounded” or “put under a spell”; more literally it means “to become a mamu” while the verb mamortu, from the root mamor-, means both 134 “to become enchanted” and “to form oneself into a chrysalis” or “to become an insect” (Michelena 1987: XII, 56-59). In some Spanish-speaking zones these magical beings are called mamures or mamarros (cf. Barandiaran 1994: 79; Gómez-Legos 1999; Guiral, Espinosa and Sempere 1991). 5.3 Exploring etymological origins of Romance terms Amades (1957: 255) suggests that names like Papu and Babau (as well as Papao found in Portugal), Bubota and Bubú that we find the Baleares, all of which are associated with the figure of L’Home del Sac, might be explained by their association with the verb papar “to suck, to swallow without chewing”, that in turn is linked etymologically to Castilian papo and Catalan pap “throat, lower part of an animal’s neck”. In passing, we need to mention that as far west as Portugal we find Papao and at the same time there is Babau which is especially well known in the Pyrenean region of Roussillon, including Rivesaltes.88 Finally, the latter term would appear to coincide with the Babau of the Italian Peninsula. While Amades tentatively links the etymology of Papu and the others to papar, there is another way of approaching the problem. First, we need to return to our Sardinian linguistic evidence. Examining the dialectal variants of momotti “babau”, we find bobbotti “babau”; similarly, we find that mommoi has a variant in bobboi, both words meaning “mangiabambini, mannaro, spauracchio, insecto” (Rubattu 2006). From this it is evident that we have an alternation in /m/ and /b/. Furthermore, since we have argued that the forms in /m/ are quite archaic, it would follow that the words with /b/ are phonological variants of the latter. Hence, we can apply this phonological shift to the examples cited above, e.g., Papu, Babau, etc. However, before we do so, we need to look at one more dialectal variant of Mamu, namely, Mahu which in turn is regularly duplicated as Mahu-Mahu in the region of Valcarlos in Low Navarre. The latter is also a proper noun, the name of the “night visitor” and hence should be added to our list composed of Mamu and Marrau as well as Hamalauzango/Hamalauzaku. In the following saying which Basque-speaking parents 88 In the case of the monstrous “child-eater” of Rivesaltes it, too, was eventually turned into a dragon-like animal. Its presence is justified by a charming yet highly elaborated local legend: an allegedly ancient account about how the Babau, “a monster, if not a dragon, […] breached the defences of the town and devoured several infants” (cf. http://www.perillos.com/babau.html). What is perhaps most striking about the legend is the way it assigns to the tragic event the dates of February 2 and 3, namely, to Candlemas Bear Day and the day after whose patron saint is St. Blaise. And as is well recognized, in France traditionally the bear or bear-hunt has been associated with the feast of Candlemas and the day after, when the feast of St. Blaise is celebrated, while the latter saint is renowned both for his healing abilities and his role as the guardian saint of bears. 135 used with their children, we find that the creature being addressed is called mamu, marrau as well as mahumahu. Satrústegui (1987: 17) points out that as the parent would say these words to the child, the adult would clench her fingers to form claws and gesture as if trying to seize the child. Consequently, this gesture served to further impress upon the child the kind of fate that awaited her as well as illustrate the fearsome nature of the creature being invoked by the parent. Mahumahu! [Mahumahu!] Jan zak haur hau [Eat this child.] Bihar ala gaur? [Tomorrow or today?] Gaur, gaur, gaur. [Today, today, today.] (Satrústegui 1987) In sum, we see that in this Basque-speaking zone mamu developed a variant in mahu. Drawing on the alternation /m/ to /b/, it would not be difficult to imagine a developmental pattern where there was an initial alteration or competition between two forms, namely, mamu and mahu and/or between mamu and babu. This in turn could have led to to a developmental path such as: mamu → mahu → babu → papu. Or one could imagine an even simpler developmental sequence: mamu → babu → papu. Consequently, it would follow that the expressions papu, babu, papao, and babau are nothing more than phonological variants based on the same etymological template and belonging to the same lineage. Therefore, they should be viewed as deriving ultimately from hamalau. The logic of this reconstruction is reinforced by the fact that the referent evoked by these expressions is essentially identical: it is the same fearsome creature, instantiated socioculturally in a very similar fashion across the entire geographical region. In short, there has been significant stability in the nature of the referent itself. 5.4. Exploring a final Basque variant: Inguma Among the phonological variants of hamalau, e.g. marrau and mamua, Satrústegui also cites the following expressions encountered in Valcarlos, Low Navarre: mahumahu, mahu-mahuma, mahoma, mahuma and inguma. The terms mamua, mahuma, etc. are listed as synonyms of inguma (Lhande 1926: 512). The form inguma appears to represent a much later, more specialized phonological development of the term hamalau since it, too, is applied to the “sensed presence” or “night visitor” (Satrústegui 1981a, b, 1987). In the case of inguma, the word has no obvious root-stem in Basque. This fact suggests that there are two possible paths for its etymology: 1) it is a borrowed term from an unknown source or perhaps from Lat. incubus, as Trask (1999) once suggested; or 2) it is an indigenous term whose etymology has become obscured. Given that inguma is used to refer to the “sensed presence” or “night visitor” we have been discussing, its semantic referent and content is synonymous with that of mamua, marrau, etc.. Hence, perhaps the 136 most logical etymological choice would be one based on the following set of phonological shifts: hamalau > *mamalau > mahumahu > mahuma > *maguma > inguma. In discussing the various terms that exist in Euskara for “butterfly”, Trask made the following comment: Inguma (G) (1745). This curious word does not look like an expressive formation. But the same word is recorded from 1664 as 'incubus, succubus'. We may therefore surmise a possibly unattested Late Latin *incuba 'female incubus, succubus', which, if borrowed into Basque, would regularly yield the attested inguma. The motivation is not obvious, but I have seen pictures of the night-demons portraying them as perched on top of the bodies of their sleeping victims, so maybe the butterfly's habit of perching is the motivation. (Trask 1999). In contrast to Trask’s proposed etymology, based on an unattested Late Latin form, I would argue that another argument in favor of preferring an indigenous etymology is the fact that inguma refers both to the “night visitor”and to a “butterfly”. That same semantic linkage is found between other phonological variants of hamalau, that is, connections between hamalau and insects, particularly shape-shifting insects, as has been pointed out previously in this investigation. Thus, that the same word has both of these meanings makes the case even stronger: that inguma belongs to the same lineage, the same word field as the other variants, and, therefore, that it derives ultimately from hamalau. Viewed from this perspective, the replicated version mahumahu gave rise to a phonological variant in mahuma and then over time mahuma underwent further reanalysis, producing inguma. As noted, the latter expression also refers to a “butterfly”, the “night visitor” as well as to the incubus-succubus phenomenon. Obviously, if all one had to work with was the final phonological shape of inguma it would not occur to a linguist to trace that word’s etymology back to hamalau. Yet there is little doubt about the phonological track followed by the expression inguma, as one earlier variant form after another underwent phonological transformation, bringing about phonological and semantic reduction. When I speak of “semantic reduction” I am referring to the loss of the original meaning of the term hamalau; the fact that it is a number: that it originally meant “fourteen”. Indeed, it would appear that this meaning exists only at the head of the semantic chain, i.e., occupying the top node of the etymological lineage leading to the formation inguma, while the immediate ancestral forms of inguma, i.e., mamu, mahuma, etc. would have already lost that basic numeric meaning, leaving a more restricted semantic field in place here only the notions of the “night visitor” and “insects” were operating. It is also quite possible that these processes of change were influenced by dialectal variants repeatedly coming into contact with each other, a process that would 137 have contributed to the loss of recognition of the underlying semantic contents of the expressions. Finally, inguma was used not just a common noun, but also as a proper name, concretely, a form of address used when talking to the mysteriouos being itself. This fact further supports an indigenous evolution of the term and its original derivation from hamalau: it reinforces the assumption that inguma belongs to the same lineage. For example, this obviously ritualized bedtime prayer addressed to Inguma is found in the Labourdin dialect: Inguma, enauk bildur, Jingoa ta Andre Maria artzen tiat lagun; zeruan izar, lurrean belar, kostan hare, hek guziak kondatu arte ehadiela nereganat ager (“Inguma, I’m not afraid of you, I take refuge in God and the Virgin Mary; stars in the sky, [blades of] grass on the ground, [grains of] sand on the beach, until you have counted all of these, don’t present yourself to me.”) (Azkue 1969, Vol. 1, 443). As Satrústegui points out, in some cases these prayers and folk sayings insert the term inguma when addressing the being in question, while in other cases the same prayer or folk saying employs the term marrau or mamua. Thus, we can see that these three terms (marrau, mamua and inguma) are synonyms: phonological variants of each other. This line of evidence would also suggest that two sets of phonological variants of the term hamalau might have branched off from the original etymon of hamalau and then distanced themselves from each other: one set situated in more eastern dialects and another in more western ones.89 At the same time we can see that once Christianity arrived, people came up with discursive ways to dissuade the frightening “night visitor” from paying them an unwanted visit. Thus, these formulaic sayings and prayers represent another example of the kind of hybridization that took place when the two belief systems came into direct contact with each other. One only wonders what this night-time prayer would have sounded like before the arrival of Christianity: were children instructed to talk to Hamalau before going to sleep, in order to tell the creature to keep busy with other things, like counting the stars, rather than paying them a visit? And, in the case of adults, were they, too, accustomed to addressing this being each night before falling asleep? As Satrústegui has observed, it is noteworthy that the prayers are not directed to God, Jesus Christ or the Virgin Mary, seeking their intervention, but rather the discourse scenario has the individual speaking directly to Hamalau, albeit under the variant names of Marrau, Mamu, Mahumahu, Mahuma, Inguma, etc. 89 For a much more detailed ethnographic discussion of the western variants cf. Satrústegui (1981a; 1981b: 365-375) 138 Also, according reports by Donostia based on the fieldwork he carried out in the same region, his adult informants said that the creature was an animal: “como una especie de animal sedoso que oprime al durmiente” [like a kind of silky animal that presses down on the sleeper], while the general opinion of the informants was the “el Ingume es una especie de animal, suave, de mucho peso, que se desliza por el pecho apretándolos” [the Ingume is a kind of animal, smooth, very heavy, that slides onto their chest, gripping them tightly] (cited in Satrústegui 1987: 22). Another clue concerning the nature of the creature comes from the verbal syntax encountered in the prayers and sayings. In Euskara there is a type of dialogic addressivity associated with certain verb forms which requires the speaker to mark the gender of the person being spoken to, i.e., the presence of the addressee is integrated into the structure of the conjugated verb. Because of this fact, we can determine, based on the sampling of prayers and sayings collected, that the informants addressed the creature using the male gender marker, e.g., ez niok hire beldurrez; enuk hire beldur, etc. That said, it is also true that the collection of prayers and sayings is not extensive. Hence, the examples of dialogic addressivity which mark male gender might not be representative of the discursive style of all speakers. For example, in discussions of the collection of prayers and sayings, the gender of the informant is not indicated. Therefore, we do not know for sure whether men and women always addressed the being if it were male.90 Also, we need to keep in mind the ambiguous, indeed, amorphous nature of the entity being addressed and the fact that it was often viewed as an animal. In some cases the prayers addressed to the creature, seek protection for the daytime hours as well as at night, repeatedly indicating that the individual is not afraid of the fearsome being at anytime: 90 In passing I should mention that there is evidence for a female-oriented interpretation of the main character, a topic that is, however, outside the scope of this study. Briefly stated, this feminine orientation may be reflected in the figures of the pre-Christian Basque goddess Mari and her animal helpers, the Italian Befana and most particularly the Germanic Percht(a)/Bercht(a). In the case of the latter figure we should keep in mind that the etymology of the term (and its phonological variants such as precht and brecht) takes us back to the etymon of Germanic words for “bear”, namely, *bher- “bright, brown” which also shows up in the name Hans Rupert/Ruprecht: “Das Wort percht entspricht althochdeutsch peraht/beraht und bedeutet strahlend, glänzend, und es ist in dieser Bedeutung in Eigennamen wie Berchthold, Albrecht, Rupprecht/Rupert bis heute erhalten. […] Mit der Etymologie des Namens Bercht(a)/Percht(a) hat man sich seit dem frühen 18.Jahrhundert beschäftigt: Er wurde einerseits mit dem bereits erwähnten althochdeutschen Wort peraht/beraht in Verbindung gebracht; demgemäß würde er also entweder die Leuchtende, Strahlende meinen—oder aber die 'Frau der Perchtnacht'” [The word percht comes from Old High German peraht/beraht and means ‘bright, shiny’, and it survives in this meaning in names such as Berchthold, Albrecht, Rupprecht/Rupert. […] The etymology of the name Bercht(a)/Percht(a, has been studied since the early18th century: It [the name] was being related, on the one hand, to the Old High German word peraht/beraht already mentioned; accordingly, it would mean either ‘the luminous, bright’ or the 'Woman of the Perchtnacht’] (Müller and Müller 1999: 450). 139 Mahuma, gaur enuk hire beldur [Mahuma, today I do not fear you] Loan ez ihartzarrian. [neither sleeping nor awake.] Jinkua diau aita, [God is our father,] Anderedena Maria ama, [Virgin Mary [our] mother,] Jandonahani gazaita, [[Saint John [our] godfather,] Jandone Petri kusi, [Saint Peter [our] cousin,] Horiek denak ditiau askazi, [they all are our relatives,] Loiten ahal diau ausarki. [we can sleep abundantly.] (Satrústegui 1987: 17) And this one which again emphasizes that creature’s presence was sensed in some fashion throughout the day and night. Mahuma, enuk hire beldur, [Mahuma, I’m not fear you,] Etzaten nuk Jinkuaikin [with God I go to sleep] Jiekitzen Andredena Mariaikin [with the Virgin Mary I awake] Aingeru ona sabetsian [with the good Angel at my side] Jesus ene bihotzian [Jesus in my heart] janian, edanian, loan, ametsian. [when eating, drinking, sleeping and dreaming.] (Satrústegui 1987: 17) Then in reference to the daytime presence of the creature, writing in 1987, Satrústegui (1987: 20) recounts what was told to him by a woman from the district of Gainekoleta, a zone in which rock-slides were relatively common because of the mountain nearby. The woman said that when a rock-slide happened her mother would comment to her: “It’s Mahuma”. Similarly, when the informants spoke to Satrústegui about their experiences with the “night visitor” they did not doubt the reality of the creature’s existence: that it had actually come to see them. Then there is the folk belief that any hematoma—the blue-black mark left on the skin that is associated with a bruise—was caused by Mahuma having pinched the person, i.e., Mahumaren zimikoa (Satrústegui 1987: 21). Granted, today that concept is understood as nothing more than a mere folk saying. In sum, the replicated version mahumahu gave rise to a phonological variant in mahuma and then over time mahuma was reanalyzed, producing inguma. The latter expression found in Basque today refers to a “butterfly”, the “night visitor” and is used as well as to refer to the incubus-succubus phenomenon. The latter association suggests the possibility that somewhere along the way the Catholic Church and/or Inquisitional authorities played a role in popularizing the variant of inguma. And as I have mentioned, quite obviously, if all one had to work with was the final phonological shape of inguma, it would not necessarily occur to a historical linguist that the word’s etymology should be traced back to hamalau. Yet the path taken by the expression inguma is a relatively straight forward one, as one variant form after another underwent phonological transformation and was rehaped, each building on the shape of the previous form, with resulting phonological and semantic reduction being helped along the way by exchanges and criss-crossing of dialectal variants over a period of hundreds if not several thousand years. 140 6.0 Conclusions At the beginning of this study I suggested that the linguistic and cultural artifacts under analysis could provide support for the PCRT approach to prehistory, that is, an approach that argues—primarily on the basis of genetic and archaeological evidence—that at the end of the last Ice Age there were a series of migrations out of the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium. Eventually, these population expansions would take the inhabitants of this zone and their descendants northward and eastward into other parts of Europe. Until now this version of events has been grounded in the findings of molecular genetics, archaeology, evolutionary and population biology and related fields of inquiry. As such, even though the evidence collected to date is compelling, in order to be totally convincing, the PCRT narrative is still in need of additional proofs. Moreover, until now the fields of historical linguistics and ethnography have not been forthcoming in terms of supplying data sets that could be marshaled convincingly in support of this narrative of European population dispersals. In the course of this study I have proposed that the ursine cosmology is best understood as a symbolic order that reflects the world view of hunter-gatherers, although we cannot predict precisely what time-depth should be assigned to the individual linguistic and cultural artifacts under analysis. Certainly some features associated with them are quite modern, while others may be significantly older. The belief that humans descended from bears, however, would logically antedate the Neolithic world view, the latter being characterized generally by its emphasis on domestication and the control of nature rather than celebrating a spiritual reciprocity between human animals and nonhuman animals (Bird-David 1999; Ingold 1995). Hunter-gatherers do not, as Westerners are inclined to do, draw a Rubicon separating human beings from all non-human agencies, ascribing personhood exclusively to the former whilst relegating the latter to an inclusive category of things. For them there are not two worlds, or persons (society) and things (nature), but just one world—one environment—saturated with personal powers and embracing […] human beings, the animals and plants on which they depend, and the landscape in which they live and move. (Ingold 1992: 42) With respect to the antiquity of the linguistic artifacts, during the course of this investigation I have kept in mind the commentary of Gamble et al. (2005: 209), namely, their argument that there could be a linguistic component to the PCRT narrative. If Western Europe was, to a large extent, repopulated from the Pyrenean-Cantabrian refugium, we could hypothesize that people in this source region spoke languages related to Basque. Consequently, the obvious conclusion would seem to be that the expanding 141 human groups would have been speaking languages related to ancestral forms of modern day Basque. Earlier when discussing the methodology that would be applied in this study, I posed three questions. First, how do we go about determining the original location of the linguistic and cultural artifacts in question? At this stage we can reply that by tracing the linguistic and cultural artifacts associated with Hamalau we have been able to determine that it is in the Pyrenean-Cantabrian zone where the clearest understandings of the word’s meaning(s) are found. Then there was the question concerning the evidence we have, if any, that would allow us to chart the pathways taken by these cultural artifacts as they moved out of the initial western refugium. Again, although in the course of this investigation only a small sampling of the phonological variants of hamalau has been treated, they have allowed us to follow a trail laid down by a set of linguistic and cultural artifacts that appear to derive ultimately from the same ursine cosmology. In other words, the linguistic artifacts dove-tail with the cultural data. Finally, the third question I asked at the beginning of this study is the following: does the diffusion of the linguistic and cultural artifacts related to the ursine cosmology allow us to map the development of the cultural complex over time? At this juncture it would seem that, at a minimum, they permit us to formulate a series of hypotheses concerning the way that the various components belonging to the ursine cultural complex fit together as well as how they evolved along parallel paths. Likewise, the application of a broad cross-linguistic and cross-cultural approach to the data provided a basis for reconstructing a set of cultural conceptualizations pertaining to much earlier stages of the belief system, albeit in a highly tentative fashion. In short, tracing these artifacts across space and time allowed us to explore the linguistic and cognitive pathways forged by them and to tease out features of the underlying interpretive framework, again, in a provisional fashion. 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