Eskimo Folk-Tales

Front matter

ESKIMO FOLK-TALES

COLLECTED BY KNUD RASMUSSEN

EDITED AND RENDERED INTO ENGLISH BY W. WORSTER

Asalôq

ASALÔQ

ASALÔQ, men say, had a foster-brother. Once when he had come home after having been out in his kayak, his foster-brother had disappeared. He sought for him everywhere, but being unable to find him, he built a big umiak, and when it was built, he covered it with three layers of skins.

Then he rowed off southwards with his wife. And while they were rowing, they saw a black ripple on the sea ahead. When they came to the place, they saw that it was the sea-lice. And the outermost layer of skins on the boat was eaten away before they got through them.

Now they rowed onwards again, and saw once more a black ripple ahead. When they came to the place, they saw that it was the sea-serpents. And once again they slipped through with the loss of one layer of skins.

Having now but one layer of skins left, they went in great fear of what they might chance to meet next. But without seeing anything strange, they rounded a point, and came in sight of a place with many houses. Hardly had they come into land when the strangers caught hold of their boat, and hauled it up, so that Asalôq had no need to help.

And now it was learned that these were folk who had a strong man in their midst. Asalôq had been but a short time in one of the houses, when they heard the sound of one coming from outside and in through the passage way; it was the strong man's talebearer boy, and to make matters worse, a boy with a squint.

And now the people of the house said:

"Now that wretched boy will most certainly tell him you are here." And indeed, the boy was just about to run out again, when they caught hold of him and set him up behind the lamp. But hardly had they turned their backs on him for a moment, when he slipped out before any could move, and they heard the sound of his running footsteps in the snow without. And after a while, the window grew red with a constant filling of faces looking in to say:

"We are sent to bid the stranger come."

And since there was no help for it, Asalôq went up there with them. When he came into the house, it was full of people, and he looked round and saw the strong man far in on the big bench. And at the moment Asalôq caught sight of him, the strong man said in a deep voice:

"Let us have a wrestling match."

And as he spoke, the others drew out a skin from under the bench, and spread it on the floor. And after the skin had been spread out, food was brought in. And Asalôq ate till there was no more left. But as he rose, all that he had eaten fell out of his stomach. And then they began pulling arms.

And now Asalôq began mightily pulling the arms of all the men there, until the skin was worn from his arm, leaving the flesh almost bare.

And when he had straightened out all their arms, he went out of that house the strongest of all, and went out to his umiak and rowed away southwards with his wife. And when they had rowed a little way, they came to a little island, and pitched their tent on the sunny side. And when Asalôq then went up on the hillside to look out, he saw many umiaks coming from the northward, and they camped on the shady side. Then he heard them say:

"Now search carefully about." And others said:

"He can hardly be on such a little island."

And now Asalôq sang magic songs over them from the top of the hill, and at last he heard them say:

"We may as well go home again."

Now Asalôq stood and watched them row away, and not until they were out of sight did he set off again to the southward. At last they reached Aluk, and there their bones still rest.

Here ends this story.

Introduction

INTRODUCTION

THESE stories were collected in various parts of Greenland, taken down from the lips of the Eskimo story-tellers themselves, by Knud Rasmussen, the Danish explorer.

No man is better qualified to tell the story of Greenland, or the stories of its people. Knud Rasmussen is himself partly of Eskimo origin; his childhood was spent in Greenland, and to Greenland he returned again and again, studying, exploring, crossing the desert of the inland ice, making unique collections of material, tangible and otherwise, from all parts of that vast and little-known land, and his achievements on these various expeditions have gained for him much honour and the appreciation of many learned societies.

But it is as an interpreter of native life, of the ways and customs of the Eskimos, that he has done his greatest work. "Kunúnguaq"—that is his native name—is known throughout the country and possesses the confidence of the natives to a superlative degree, forming himself, as it were, a link between them and the rest of the world. Such work, as regards its hither side, must naturally consist to a great extent of scientific treatises, collections of facts and specimens, all requiring previous knowledge of the subject for their proper comprehension. These have their great value as additions to the sum of human knowledge, but they remain unknown to the majority of men. The present volume is designed to be essentially a popular, as distinct from a scientific work.

The original collection of stories and legends made by Knud Rasmussen under the auspices of the Carlsberg Foundation has never yet been published. In making the present selection, I have endeavoured to choose those which are most characteristic and best calculated to give an idea of the life and thought of the people. The clearest variants have been chosen, and vague or doubtful passages omitted, so as to render the narratives easily understandable for the ordinary reader. In many cases also, the extreme outspokenness of the primitive people concerned has necessitated further editing, in respect of which, I can confidently refer any inclined to protest, to the unabridged English version, lodged with the Trustees of the Carlsberg Foundation in Copenhagen, for my defence. For the rest, I have endeavoured to keep as closely as possible to the spirit and tone of the originals, working from the Eskimo text and Knud Rasmussen's Danish version side by side.

The illustrations are by native Eskimo artists. They are not drawn to illustrate the particular stories, but represent typical scenes and incidents such as are there described. In the selection of these, preference has been given to those of unusual character, as for instance those dealing with the "tupilak" theme, and matters of wizardry or superstition generally, which the reader would find more difficult to visualize for himself than ordinary scenes of daily life.

As regards their contents, the stories bring before us, more clearly, perhaps, than any objective study, the daily life of the Eskimos, their habit of thought, their conception of the universe, and the curious "spirit world" which forms their primitive religion or mythology.

In point of form they are unique. The aim of the Eskimo storyteller is to pass the time during the long hours of darkness; if he can send his hearers to sleep, he achieves a triumph. Not infrequently a story-teller will introduce his chef-d'œuvre with the proud declaration that "no one has ever heard this story to the end." The telling of the story thus becomes a kind of contest between his power of sustained invention and detailed embroidery on the one hand and his hearers' power of endurance on the other. Nevertheless, the stories are not as interminable as might be expected; we find also long and short variants of the same theme. In the present selection, versions of reasonable length have been preferred. The themes themselves are, of course, capable of almost infinite expansion.

In the technique of an ordinary novel there is a certain balance, or just proportion, between the amount of space devoted to the various items, scenes and episodes. The ordinary reader does not notice it as a rule, for the simple reason that it is always there. The Eskimo stories are magnificently heedless of such proportion. Any detail, whether of fact or fancy, can be expanded at will; a journey of many hundred miles may be summarized in a dozen words: "Then he went away to the Northward, and came to a place." Thus with the little story of the Man who went out to search for his Son; the version here employed covers no more than a few pages, yet it is a record of six distinct adventures, threaded on to the main theme of the search. It is thus a parallel in brief to the "Wandering" stories popular in Europe in the Middle Ages, when any kind of journey served as the string on which to gather all sorts of anecdote and adventure. The story of Atungait, who goes on a journey and meets with lame people, left-handed people, and the like, is an example of another well-known classical and mediæval type.

The mythical stories present some interesting features when compared with the beliefs and folk-lore of other peoples. The legend of the Men who travelled round the World is based on a conception of the world as round. There is the tradition of a deluge, but here supported by geological evidence which is appreciated by the natives themselves: i.e. the finding of mussel shells on the hills far inland. The principle of the tides is recognized in what is otherwise a fairy tale; "There will be no more ebb-tide or flood if you strangle me," says the Moon Man to the Obstinate One.

The constellation of the Great Bear is explained in one story, the origin of Venus in another. The spirits of the departed are "stellified" as seen in "The Coming of Men." There seems to be a considerable intermingling of Christian culture and modern science in the general attitude towards life, but these foreign elements are coated over, as it were, like the speck of grit in an oyster, till they appear as concentrations of the native poetic spirit that forms their environment.

We find, too, constant evidence of derivation from the earliest, common sources of all folk-lore and myth; parallels to the fairy tales and legends of other lands and other ages. There is a version of the Bluebeard theme in Ímarasugssuaq, "who, it is said, was wont to eat his wives." Instances of friendship and affection between human beings and animals are found, as in the tale of the Foster-mother and the Bear. Various resemblances to well-known fairy tales are discernible in such stories as that of the Eagle and the Whale, where the brothers set out to rescue their sisters from the husbands who hold them captive. Here too, we encounter that ancient and classical expedient of fugitives; throwing out objects behind to check pursuit.

The conception of the under-world, as shown in the story of Kúnigseq and others, is a striking example of this kinship with ancient and well-known legends. Kúnigseq comes to the land of shades, and meets there his mother, who is dead. But she must not kiss him, for "he is only here on a visit." Or again: "If you eat of those berries, you will never return." The under-world is partly an Elysium of existence without cares; partly Dantesque: "Bring ice when you come again, for we thirst for cold water down here." And the traveller who has been away from earth for what seems an hour, finds that years of earthly time have passed when he returns.

Spirits of the departed appearing to their kin upon earth do so with an injunction "not to tell." (In England we write to the newspapers about them.) Magic powers or gifts are lost by telling others how they came. Spirit gifts are made subject to some condition of restraint: "Choose only one and no more." "If you kill more than one seal to-day, you will never kill seal again hereafter."

The technique of the fairy tale is frequently apparent. One test fulfilled is followed by the demand for fulfilment of another. Qujâvârssuk, having found the skeleton as instructed, is then sent off to search for a lamb stone. This, of course, apart from its æsthetic value as retardation, is particularly useful to the storyteller aiming principally at length. We also find the common progression from one great or splendid thing to other greater or more splendid; a woman appears "even more finely dressed than on the day before." English children will perhaps remember Hans Andersen's dog with "eyes as big as saucers . . . eyes as big as Rundetaarn."

The use of "magic power" is of very frequent occurrence; it seems, indeed, to be the generally accepted way of solving any difficulty. As soon as the hero has been brought into a situation from which no ordinary way of escape appears, it then transpires—as an afterthought—that he is possessed of magic powers, when the rest, of course, is easy. A delightful instance of the extent to which this useful faculty can be watered down and yet remain effective is seen in the case of the village where no wizard can be found to help in time of famine, until it is "revealed" that Íkardlítuarssuk "had formerly sat on the knee of one of those present when the wizards called up their helping spirits." In virtue of which very distant connection he proceeds to magic away the ice.

There is a general tendency towards anthropomorphic conception of supernatural beings. The Moon Man has his stock of harpoons like any mortal hunter; the Mountain Spirit has a wife and children. The life and domestic arrangements of "spirits" are mostly represented as very similar to those with which the story-teller and his hearers are familiar, much as we find, in early Italian paintings, Scriptural personages represented in the costume and environment of the artist's own place and period.

The style of narrative is peculiar. The stories open, as a rule, with some traditionally accepted gambit. "There was once a man . . ." or "A fatherless boy lived in the house of the many brothers." The ending may occasionally point a sort of moral, as in the case of Ukaleq, who after having escaped from a Magic Bear, "never went out hunting bear again." But the usual form is either a sort of equivalent to "lived happily ever after," or a frank and direct intimation: "Here ends this story," or "That is all I know of so-and-so." Some such hint is not infrequently necessary, since the "end" of a story often leaves considerable scope for further development.

It is a characteristic feature of these stories that one never knows what is going to happen. Poetic justice is often satisfied, but by no means always (Kâgssagssuk). One or two of them are naïvely weak and lacking in incident; we are constantly expecting something to happen, but nothing happens . . . still nothing happens . . . and the story ends (Puagssuaq). It is sometimes difficult to follow the exact course of a conversation or action between two personages, owing to the inadequate "he" which is used for both.

The story-teller, while observing the traditional form, does not always do so uncritically. Occasionally he will throw in a little interpolation of his own, as if in apology: "There was once a wifeless man—that is the way a story always begins." Or the entertainer starts off in a cheerfully familiar style: "Well, it was the usual thing; there was a Strong Man, and he had a wife. And, of course, he used to beat her . . ."

Here and there, too, a touch of explanation may be inserted. "This happened in the old days," or "So men thought in the olden time.” There is a general recognition of the difference between old times and new. And the manner in which this difference is viewed reveals two characteristic attitudes of mind, the blending of which is apparent throughout the Eskimo culture of to-day. There is the attitude of condescension, the arrogant tolerance of the proselyte and the parvenu: “So our forefathers used to do, for they were ignorant folk.” At times, however, it is with precisely opposite view, mourning the present degeneration from earlier days, “when men were yet skilful rowers in ‘kayaks,’ or when this or that might still be done ‘by magic power.’ ”

And it is here, perhaps, that the stories reach their highest poetic level. This regret for the passing of “the former age,” whether as an age of greater strength and virtue, greater courage and skill, or as the Golden Age of Romance, is a touching and most human trait. It gives to these poor Eskimo hunters, far removed from the leisure and security that normally precede the growth of art, a place among the poets of the world.

W. W. WORSTER.

Isigâligârssik

ISIGÂLIGÂRSSIK

ISIGÂLIGÂRSSIK was a wifeless man, and he was very strong. One of the other men in his village was a wizard.

Isigâligârssik was taken to live in a house with many brothers, and they were very fond of him.

When the wizard was about to call upon his spirits, it was his custom to call in through the window: "Only the married men may come and hear." And when they who were to hear the spirit calling went out, a little widow and her daughter and Isigâligârssik always stayed behind together in the house. Once, when all had gone out to hear the wizard, as was their custom, these three were thus left alone together. Isigâligârssik sat by the little lamp on the side bench, at work.

Suddenly he heard the widow's daughter saying something in her mother's ear, and then her mother turned towards him and said:

"This little girl would like to have you."

Isigâligârssik would also like to have her, and before the others of the house had come back, they were man and wife. Thus when the others of the house had finished and came back, Isigâligârssik had found a wife, and his house-fellows were very glad of this.

Next day, as soon as it was dark, one called, as was the custom: "Let only those who have wives come and hear." And Isigâligârssik, who had before had no wife, felt now a great desire to go and hear this. But as soon as he had come in, the great wizard said to Isigâligârssik's wife:

"Come here; here."

When she had sat down, he told her to take off her shoes, and then he put them up on the drying frame. Then they made a spirit calling, and when that was ended, the wizard said to Isigâligârssik:

"Go away now; you will never have this dear little wife of yours again."

And then Isigâligârssik had to go home without a wife. And Isigâligârssik had to live without a wife. And every time there was a spirit calling, and he went in, the wizard would say:

"Ho, what are you doing here, you who have no wife?"

But now anger grew up slowly in him at this, and once when he came home, he said:

"That wizard in there has mocked me well, but next time he asks me, I shall know what to answer."

But the others of the village warned him, and said:

"No, no; you must not answer him. For if you answer him, then he will kill you."

But one evening when the bad wizard mocked him as usual Isigâligârssik said:

"Ho, and what of you who took my wife away?"

Now the wizard stood up at once, and when Isigâligârssik bent down towards the entrance to creep out, the wizard took a knife, and stabbed him with a great wound.

Isigâligârssik ran quickly home to his house, and said to his wife's mother:

"Go quickly now and take the dress I wore when I was little. It is in the chest there."

And when she took it out, it was so small that it did not look like a dress at all, but it was very pretty. And he ordered her then to dip it in the water bucket. When it was wet, he was able to put it on, and when the lacing thong at the bottom touched the wound, it was healed.

Now when his house-fellows came out after the spirit-calling they thought to find him lying dead outside the entrance. They followed the blood spoor, and at last he had gone into the house. When they came in, he had not a single wound, and all were very glad for that he was healed again. And now he said:

"To-morrow I will go bow-shooting with him."

Then they slept, and awakened, and Isigâligârssik opened his little chest and searched it, and took out a bow that was so small it could hardly be seen in his hands. He strung that bow, and went out, and said:

"Come out now and see." Then they went out, and he went down to the wizard's house, and called through the window:

"Big man in there; come out now and let us shoot with the bow!" And when he had said this, he went and stood by a little river. When he turned to look round, the wizard was already by the passage of his house, aiming with his bow.

He said: "Come here." And then Isigâligârssik drew up spittle in his mouth and spat straight down beside his feet.

"Come here," he said then, to the great wizard. Then he went over to him, and came nearer and nearer, and stopped just before him. Now the wizard aimed with his bow towards him, and when he did this, the house-fellows cried to Isigâligârssik: "Make yourself small!" And he made himself so small that only his head could be seen moving backwards and forwards. The wizard shot and missed. And a second time he shot and missed.

Then Isigâligârssik stood up, and took the arrow, and broke it across and said:

"Go home; you cannot hit." And then the wizard went off, turning many times to look round. At last, when he bent down to get into his house through the passage way, Isigâligârssik aimed and shot at him. And they heard only the sound of his fall. The arrow was very little, and yet for all that it sent him all doubled up through the entrance, so that he fell down in the passage.

In this way Isigâligârssik won his wife again, and he lived with her afterwards until death.

Kúnigseq

KÚNIGSEQ

THERE was once a wizard whose name was Kúnigseq.

One day, when he was about to call on his helping spirits and make a flight down into the underworld, he gave orders that the floor should be swilled with salt water, to take off the evil smell which might otherwise frighten his helping spirits away.

Then he began to call upon his helping spirits, and without moving his body, began to pass downward through the floor.

And down he went. On his way he came to a reef, which was covered with weed, and therefore so slippery that none could pass that way. And as he could not pass, his helping spirit lay down beside him, and by placing his foot upon the spirit, he was able to pass.

And on he went, and came to a great slope covered with heather. Far down in the underworld, men say, the land is level, and the hills are small; there is sun down there, and the sky is also like that which we see from the earth.

Suddenly he heard one crying: "Here comes Kúnigseq."

By the side of a little river he saw some children looking for greyfish.

And before he had reached the houses of men, he met his mother, who had gone out to gather berries. When he came up to her, she tried again and again to kiss him, but his helping spirit thrust her aside.

"He is only here on a visit," said the spirit.

Then she offered him some berries, and these he was about to put in his mouth, when the spirit said:

"If you eat of them, you will never return."

A little after, he caught sight of his dead brother, and then his mother said:

"Why do you wish to return to earth again? Your kin are here. And look down on the sea-shore; see the great stores of dried meat. Many seal are caught here, and it is a good place to be; there is no snow, and a beautiful open sea."

The sea lay smooth, without the slightest wind. Two kayaks were rowing towards land. Now and again they threw their bird darts, and they could be heard to laugh.

"I will come again when I die," said Kúnigseq.

Some kayaks lay drying on a little island; they were those of men who had just lost their lives when out in their kayaks.

And it is told that the people of the underworld said to Kúnigseq:

"When you return to earth, send us some ice, for we thirst for cold water down here."

After that, Kúnigseq went back to earth, but it is said that his son fell sick soon afterwards, and died. And then Kúnigseq did not care to live any longer, having seen what it was like in the underworld. So he rowed out in his kayak, and caught a guillemot, and a little after, he caught a raven, and having eaten these one after the other, he died. And then they threw him out into the sea.

Makíte

MAKÍTE

MAKÍTE, men say, took to wife the sister of many brothers, but he himself could never manage to catch a seal when he was out in his kayak. But his wife's brothers caught seal in great numbers. And so it was that one day he heard his wife say she would leave him, because he never caught anything. And in his grief at hearing this, he said to himself:

"This evening, when they are all asleep, I will go up into the hills and live there all alone."

When darkness had fallen, he set off up into the hills, but as he went, his wife's father, who was standing outside, saw him going, and cried in to the others in the house:

"Makíte has gone up into the hills to live there all alone. Go after him."

The many brothers went out after him, but when they had nearly come up with him, he made his steps longer, and thus got farther and farther away from them, and at last they ceased to pursue him any more.

On his way he came to a house, and this was just as it was beginning to get light. He looked in, and saw that the hangings on the walls were of nothing but reindeer and foxes' skins. And now he said to himself:

" Hum—I may as well go in."

But as he went in, the hinge of the door creaked, and then a strange, deep sound was heard inside the house, and it began to shake.

At the same moment, the master of the house came in and said:

"Have you had nothing to eat yet?"

Makíte said: "I will eat nothing until I know what are those things which look like candles, there in front of the window." Then the lone-dweller said:

"That is no concern of one who is not himself a lone-dweller. Therefore he cannot tell you."

But then Makíte said: "If you do not tell me, I will kill you."

And then at last he told.

"It may be you have seen to-day the great hills away in the blue to the south; if you go up to the top of the nearer hill, you will find nothing there, but he who climbs that one which lies farther away, and reaches the top, he will find such things there. But this cannot be done by one who is not a lone-dweller."

And not until he had said all this did Makíte eat.

Then they both went to rest. And just as he was near falling asleep, the lone-dweller began to quiver slightly, but he pretended to sleep. And before Makíte could see what he was about, the lone-dweller had strung his bow, and Makíte, therefore, seeing he was preparing to kill him, pretended to wake up, and then the other laid aside his bow so quickly that it seemed as if he had not held anything at all. At last, when it was nearly dawn, the lone-dweller fell asleep, and then Makíte tried very cautiously to get out, but as he was about to pass through the doorway, he again happened to draw the door to after him, and again it creaked as before with a strange sound. When he looked in through the window, the lone-dweller was about to get up.

Now Makíte had laid his great spear a little way above the house, and he ran to the place. When he looked round, he saw that the man from the house was already in chase. Then he came to a big rock, and as there was no help for it, he commenced to run round. When he had run round it for the third time, he grasped his harpoon firmly, and without turning round, thrust it out behind him, and struck something soft. He had struck the other in the side.

Having now killed this one, and as there was no help for it, he wandered on at hazard, and came to a great plain. And in the middle of the plain was something which looked like a house. And he went up to it and found it was the house of a dwarf, and no end of people coming out of it. One went in and another came out, and so they kept on. He tried to get into the passage, but could not even get his foot in.