The maiden kept a secret of what had happened and did not tell the goddess. But one day, as Artemis was bathing with the nymphs in a forest pool, Kallisto was hesitant to take off her cloak. When she did at last, her bulging belly revealed that she was expecting a child. The goddess was enraged, “Leave my circle of virgins immediately, you perjurer, and do not desecrate our water.” As punishment, she turned the girl into a bear, and the poor girl who still had a human heart and mind had to roam all alone as a shaggy, pregnant bear. Soon, she bore a strong son whom she named Arkas (the bear). Because his father was a god, he was a hero. He became the founder of the Arcadians, and the idyllic country praised by poets was named after him.
Very soon, fate separated small Arkas from his mother so that he could not remember her. The irony of fate also let him turn into a passionate bear hunter. One time, he encountered his mother in the dark forest. She recognized him and came up to him grumbling in a friendly way. But he did not recognize his mother who had given him his life. He only saw a wild animal and began to chase it mercilessly until they came to a sacred region of the Wolf’s Mountain where Zeus was worshiped as a wolf. Those whose shadow was seen in this sacred place were doomed to die and damned to go to the underworld into the realm of shadows. However, Zeus took pity on his lover and her son. He put Kallisto and Arkas up into the night sky in the most beautiful spot, as the big bear (Ursa Major) and the star Arcturus (in other versions as the small bear, Ursa Minor). Up there, the son is still stalking his mother, but he will never catch her.
However, Zeus’s jealous wife, Hera, did not grant the poor girl who had enjoyed her husband’s favor any pity. She arranged it so that Kallisto could never take a refreshing bath in Oceanus, the world stream that flows around the Earth and the seas; for that reason, the constellation of Ursa Major never dips below the horizon.
Bear hunter Arkas (Arcturus) in Booetes
The Once and Future King
All of the ancient indigenous peoples, the early hunters and gatherers of the northern hemisphere, saw a mighty bear circling the North Star in the night sky. In Neolithic times, when people became sedentary and started cultivating grains and building wagons, their imagery regarding the constellation changed. The Romans saw the seven main stars in Ursa Major as seven threshing oxen that unceasingly walk around the axis of the North Star. When they looked up into the night sky, the Germanics and Celts saw a huge wagon that slowly drives around the North Star. Three horses, or three oxen (the three stars of the shaft), pull the wagon. The small Tom Thumb, or rider, sits on the middle star of the shaft as a coachman (Fasching 1994, 102).
The pagan Swedes called this heavenly wagon “Thor’s Wagon.” But have we not just learned that Thor was also called “Bear”? Indirectly, the bear is still connected to this constellation for these peoples. These Swedes of long ago also believed that Thor sometimes came loudly clattering down close to the earth at midnight and that peace and fertility came in the wake of these nightly journeys.
In the early Middle Ages, this heavenly vehicle became hero king Dietrich of Berne’s hearse. When this Gothic king died, a wagon appeared and drove him up into the sky where he still sits in it circling the North Star. Christian zealots of the early missionary times tried to change this hearse to Elias’s or Paul’s coach of triumph, but it did not strike a chord with the only recently converted peoples.
In England and Scandinavia, Thor’s Wagon eventually turned into Charles’s Wagon (Charles Wain). This Charles is none other than mighty Charlemagne, and the wagon is his hearse in which he circles the North Star until his return. Like the Celtic King Arthur, Charlemagne is the great Rex quondam, rexque futurus, the once and future king, the archetypal universal king; he is not dead. He is only sleeping in the beyond, far removed. The beyond is in the stars, or, without it being a contradiction, deep in a mountain (such as for German King Friedrich Barbarossa and also Charlemagne) or on a faraway island (such as for King Arthur or Irish King Bran). It could also be a megalithic tomb, such as, for example, where the Bernese giant Botti rests. Botti sleeps in this grave and will only then awaken when the Bernese are in great need and call for him.
In these images of the faraway sovereign, we recognize the archaic legend of the bear king and his lover, the great goddess. Just like the king of the animals hibernates in the winter and returns in the spring, the human king withdraws until he rides down to earth again in a golden heavenly wagon, bringing a new time of happiness and justice. The Greeks called the Goths Amaxoluoi, “Men of the Wagon,” which may go back to the covered wagon, the vehicle in which this nomadic warrior people had arrived from the hyperborean north. But Amaxa is also occasionally used to describe the Big Dipper and Little Dipper. The Goths described themselves as descendants of a totemic bear. Fabled Berig (bear) is their ancestor, and their chieftains also called themselves Berige. The bear, the totem and coat of arms of the Goths, became the coat of arms of many cities that they conquered or founded, such as Bjorneborg, Hammerfest, Novgorod, or Madrid (Sède 1986, 63).
Chapter 13
The Warrior Bear
Close the door, there’s growling in the forest!
When the sun hid itself today
the weather was balled up on the riff,
and now one hears it seething and boiling.
Hush, hush, little one!
Do you hear? Beneath us, in the stall—hmm?
Do you hear? Do you hear? Clink, clink.
The werewolf is rattling his chain!
Annette von Droste-Huelshoff, Der Loup Garou (The Werewolf, author’s translation)
Nearly every tribal society has brotherhoods of wild warriors possessed of nearly superhuman strength and fierceness and who, fearing neither noose nor fire, lunge eagerly at any enemy. Here we are dealing with an asocial type of warrior, a warrior for whom the civilized manners of society do not count and who identifies with a wild beast of prey. The Cheyenne knew such a warrior as a “contrary warrior,” or hohnohka, because he said “yes” when he meant “no” and “right” when he meant “left” and only attacked when his comrades drew back. The Crow called them “crazy dogs that want to die,” and the Sioux called them “clowns.”
Similarly, in India, the naked ascetic (naga-sadhu) rubs cremation ashes from funeral pyres on his naked body, does not cut his hair or beard, and, roaming the countryside with a trident (not seldom used as a weapon of self-defense), steps aside for no one. Such a naga-sadhu does not heed any rules or laws of caste or society as he has already passed beyond this life and has already become one with the wild, ecstatic god Shiva. (See more on this topic in my book Shiva: The Wild God of Power and Ecstasy).
Berserkers and Ulfhedinn
As shown in the beginning of this chapter, we see that “bearskins,” the berserkers (from Old Nordic beri = bear and sekr = robe, garb) of the Germanic peoples, are not a singular phenomenon. They lived outside of society. They were ritually declared as already dead and beyond normal laws; therefore, they had no need to fear death as ordinary mortals do. The ecstatic god of death and magic, Odin (Wotan), had taken possession of them. He fanned their wrath, their inner embers, so that they plunged into the heat of battle with no protection, helmet, or shield, even often completely naked or only with a bearskin on. Their hair-raising looks—wild, matted hair, faces painted black like the color of death, crazed expressions, unrestrained behavior, bear-like roars, and wolf-like howls from a drooling mouth—made their opponents hesitate and become weak-kneed even before any physical violence had taken place.1
Berserker motif on a helm dress plate (Ölland, Sweden, seventh century)
Bronze plate from Torslunda, Sweden (sixth century)
In times of war, these berserkers and their comrades, the “wolfskins” (Ulfhedinn), were invaluable to their tribes, but in times of peace, they were more a disservice. They had neither homes nor fields, knew no family obligations, and just hung around. They lived off others as uninvited guests, squandering the goods of their involu
ntary host, and lazing around. Their behavior was always unrestrained, menacing, and erratic. They knew no bounds in eating and drinking, and sometimes they also molested the women. So, it is no wonder that decent citizens drove them off into the forests and often did not even let them enter the villages. There are even reports that they were occasionally chained up like vicious dogs. In German, “bearskin” (Baerenhaeuter) is even still an expression today for an ill-mannered bully.
Bearskins were so named because they did not wear tailored, sewed garments. For clothing, they only wore a bearskin, which usually came from a bear they had killed themselves, often with only a knife as a weapon. They also slept on this bearskin. According to archaic belief, those who did not cut their hair and wore the fur of an animal had the power of that animal. Thus, the long-haired berserkers had “become animals.” They had become one with the unpredictable, magical god, Odin-Grimnir, who constantly changes his shape and often likes to appear as a wolf, raven, or bear.
In the bearskin fairy tale from earlier, a distinct memory of the Germanic bearskin phenomenon lives on. The young man is a warrior, a soldier who fears neither death nor the devil, nor a wild bear. The pact of loyalty to Odin turns into a pact with the devil in the fairy tale. Seven years of wearing the bearskin—seven years of not washing, cutting or combing his hair, cutting his nails, praying, or working—remind us of the saying, “going berserk” (Berserkergang), the initiation of the wildest warriors that lasted for many years.2
Going berserk was originally part of an initiation for male youths (which was essentially no different from similar such rituals of tribal peoples the world over). To make pubescent boys into responsible men, they were separated from the rest of society and sent into the wilderness. Under the guidance of older bearskins or Wotan initiates, they learned to endure pain and deprivation. Often with the help of entheogen drugs—ethnobotanists presume marsh Labrador tea (Ledum palustre), belladonna, henbane, and fly agaric—they experienced, again under the strict guidance of the elders (as some of these plants are poisonous), the spiritual cosmos of the tribe and learned about their animal nature in order to grasp it and ultimately merge in harmony with it. During this time in the wilderness, they were regarded as “dead” and preparing for their rebirth as grown-up tribal members. After going berserk, which could last several years—the number seven in the Bearskin tale is magical rather than real—their hair and nails were cut, and the fresh initiates received new clothes. Now they could marry and lead lives as valiant, free, and weapon-carrying men, as it turned out for Bearskin in the tale.
In later times, during the commotion of the Migration Period in Europe and into the time of the Viking invasions, these youth initiations turned into regular warrior initiations. Going berserk became, just as knighthood did later, a regular “profession.”3 These wild, young warriors would often have metal rings forged around their joints and swore to only remove them after they had smashed in the skull of an enemy. Tribal chieftains and kings surrounded themselves with such young warriors clothed in bearskins. Even Harold Fair Hair (around CE 900), under whose rule Norway became Christian, had such warriors in his service. Those who had been part of such a confederacy and lived to tell about it were held in high esteem. Often such a daredevil became the founder of an entire clan.
Were-bear
Another probable instance of berserkers being recognized in society comes from the Alemannic tribes of olden times who gave tribal founders of a clan and farmstead owners the honorific title Bero (bear). These were probably men who had been berserkers, and the practice was based on the assumption that only he who knows well his own wild nature can comprehend the need to preserve the foundations of a peaceful, civilized society. But there are also reports about berserkers who completely gave in to the devil (Odin) and never returned from the wilderness. Ostracized by everyone, they developed into dangerous cannibals, werewolves, or were-bears, and it was believed they became real bears or wolves when they died.
In particular, the Alemannic tribes that conquered and settled the Swiss Alpine valleys and bordering areas in the course of the Migration Period regarded the berserkers as fighting bears. In Alpine winter festivals and carnivals, much “going berserk,” though fairly watered down, naturally still lives on. During Alemannic Fasnet (carnival) in southern Europe today, a lot of rather rough—but playful—tomfoolery goes on, and people dressed up as bears are hardly a rare sight.
In pre-Reformation Berne, Switzerland, where carnival days and nights were celebrated in excess, it was rumored that a bear once broke out of the bear pit and mixed in with the drinking, brawling crowd. The grumbling guest that grabbed a grilled fish and some fresh bread here and there and slapped this or that partying citizen on the back did not attract any particular attention. To the contrary, if he even stood out, it was only because he was politer than the other “bears”!
Bernese flag bearer (painting by Humbert Mareschet, 1585–1586)
More echoes of going berserk can be found into the modern era. Into the sixteenth century, when the Bernese went to war under their proud banner, the strongest warrior, wearing a bearskin, led the marching troop. The high bearskin hats of the palace guards in London, Stockholm, and Copenhagen originate from the tradition of bearskin warriors.4
The mountain men and rangers of the Wild West, who fought especially ferociously with the Native Americans, also tie into this tradition—possibly without being conscious of it; they liked to wear bearskins, and the legends of frontiersmen Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone tell that they had single-handedly slain a bear as children, armed with only a knife.
American frontiersman fighting a grizzly
Fylgia, the Follower Spirit
For primitive peoples, it is not uncommon for a human being—or a god—to sometimes take on the shape of an animal. For them, it is absolutely comprehensible that a human being can have an animal second soul, or totem soul, and that this soul shows itself in dreams or in trances. A bearskin has an especially strong animal soul—a bear soul. When such a person gets into a battle rage, the animal soul can completely take over the body. Then the fighter is no longer a human but a veritable bear.
Ethnologists and Carlos Castaneda readers know the animal doppelganger as a nagual. The Scandinavians called it a fylgia, a follower soul, and they believed it was a personification of the person’s power. In Norse mythology, a fylgja is a spirit who accompanies a person in connection to their fate or fortune. This soul helps the person have premonitions and warns of danger—nowadays, one would probably call it instinct. But this animal soul also leads its own life and occasionally roams through the forest as an incarnate animal. It can be inherited by the person’s children through the generations and protect the family.
This story from Scandinavia about Bodwar Bjarki (Bodwar Little Bear) tells about the fylgia:
Bodwar Bjarki was a warrior in King Hrolf Kraki’s entourage. Once, when riding out, the king was attacked by enemies not far from his hall. His accompanying warriors held up well against the superior power. Only Bodwar Bjarki was missing as he had missed the riding out.
Suddenly, in the midst of the raging battle, a huge bear appeared. It lunged into the battle. Protecting the king, it clawed and bit the attackers and tossed them from their horses and mauled them. Neither sword swipes nor spear jabs seemed to even faze the animal.
Hjalti, one of the king’s warriors, got angry when he noticed that Bjarki was not there. Because each sword was necessary, he hurried back to the king’s hall to see what was going on with Bjarki. It was not possible that Bjarki did not hear the ruckus and the yelling. When Hjalti jerked the door open, he saw Bjarki in a deep sleep on his bearskin. He roughly shook his lazy comrade awake.
“How can you lie here idly when your king is in dire straits!” he yelled. Bjarki only yawned, shook himself, and got up.
At that very moment, the fighting bear disappeared from the battlefield, and the situation got worse for King Hrolf. In the end, he lost the battl
e. The strange bear had been none other than the strong fylgia of Bodwar Bjarki. While sleeping on the bearskin in the king’s castle, his animal soul was fighting as a bear right next to the king.
As the new religion tried to replace Odin, Thor, and the other Aesir (gods), the belief in the animal doppelganger also dwindled. The bear fylgia only lives on in the lower mythology as a bear-shaped, spooky being.
The War of the Animals
The bear is the king of the animals. The northern peoples were convinced of that. In the southern countries, the Near East, and northern Africa, however, it was the lion. It was only much later in northern Europe and through the influence of antique Roman culture and Christianity that the lion challenged the status of the bear as the heraldic animal on various coats of arms. But in the northern woodlands, the bear remained king for a very long time. Some tribal leaders kept forest bears in their halls for this very reason, and many a king added the byname “bear” or “sacred bear” (Old High German Haleebern, Old Nordic Hallbioern) to his name.5 In any case, they surrounded themselves with bear warriors whether during feasts or in battle.
The lion questions the rank of the bear: François I as the lion king to whom the Swiss bear must bow (French miniature, sixteenth century).
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