A New Year...

Well...now we are in March, so this new year is travelling very fast.  It has been a little while and more since I last wrote, but I have been busy.

When I last wrote, the 'Wolf Bride' was still fresh in my mind, after the performances at the Butter Factory Studios, a wonderful Artists' Collective of fantastic women.  And now, I'm one of them!  It's a very new and exciting adventure for me, I now have somewhere not only to show my work, but also a place, that's a little bigger than the tiny corner of our shed, to make that work.  I'm looking forward to all the possibilities this year presents.

But more on what I've been making and doing.  I had some fun a few weeks ago with scraps of fabric and onion skins.  I also decided it was high time I finished the Talesingr puppet.  I've had my small books of the Talesingr stories for sale in the gallery shop for a while, and it seemed the perfect time to bring the stories, the Talesingr's Children, and the Talesingr herself all together in one place.  So, I spent a few days sewing and stitching small scraps of naturally dyed silk and cotton, digging among my beads and bits and bobs collections, and bringing her to life.  I'm pleased with how she turned out, I think she is ready to tell stories now.  I hope I'm up to the challenge of collaborating with her.

The Talesingr sitting regally at the Butter Factory Gallery

I felt that it was time to give the Talesingr's Children a new lease of life.  I still have three of the five that I made, so I created new settings for them.  Here are two, together with the Talesingr at last.

The 'Tale of the Foolish Bird'

'The Tale of the Wolfbride'.  My first 'incarnation' of the story that became the songs, that became the poems, became the performance.

A couple of small, new pieces, currently in the gallery.  I'm working on a collaborative project with a friend that will become a performance for this year's Festival of Voice in June.  We are working with ideas of birds, flightpaths, flight, survival, migrations, refugees...and how to find home, a place of belonging...so feathers have been much in my mind.

And...I bought a new guitar!  A lovely Tanglewood steel string acoustic electric dreadnought.  I am loving it.

I'm busy, busy, busy with creative things.  The first project is taking up much of my mind and time, we only have 3 months.  The Butter Factory has a major exhibition opening in the middle of April, and I'm working on ideas for that right now.  Then there is a big, storytelling project happening in town over the next few months, culminating in several performances at this year's 'Brave New Works' festival in November.  And there is another story knocking on my door and refusing to leave me alone, so I am researching and thinking and scribbling and making mad and strange connections between things.  It might be something and it might be nothing, but I won't know until I've taken the journey.  

Strange how these projects overlap and meld, I look up something, follow a thread of thought for one, and find myself side-tracked, hijacked and led by the nose into another.  The fundamental interconnectedness of all things.  And I love a quest.

The Talesingr: The Tale of the Wolf Bride

The Tale of the wolf bride

In the time of ice when hunger bit deep, a hunter was tracking game along the sleeping white river. But the river yawned in its sleep and the hunter fell into its mouth. A wolf saw him fall and went to the edge and looked down. The wolf looked at the man and thought, “This man will make a fine meal, for my bones are rubbing my skin it is so long since I last ate.” And the man looked at the wolf and thought, “That wolfskin will make a fine coat, for my bones ache and I cannot remember what it is to be warm.” But the wolf could not get to the man, and the man could not get to the wolf. So both decided to bargain. The wolf said, “If you will give me meat, I will pull you out.” And the man said, “If you will pull me out, I will give you meat.” But the man was foolish and thought, “I will trick the wolf and when he pulls me close I will take my knife and I will have that skin.” So the man threw his rope up to the wolf, and the wolf caught it in his teeth. And the man held the end as the wolf pulled. When he was safely out, the man took his knife and stabbed, but he was clumsy and the knife did not kill. The wounded wolf could not fight the man, so he turned and ran, leaving a trail of blood and anguish at such betrayal. The man was cold and hungry and went home to find food and fire to warm himself.

When the man arrived at his tribe’s camp, he was welcomed for they had feared him lost or dead. And the hunter told them the story of his rescue, and laughed at how well he had tricked the wolf. And his son and eldest daughter laughed and told their father how clever his trick had been.

But the youngest daughter was silent, and she saw the look the Dreamspinnr gave her father, hooded and dark. And she thought, “My father has broken an oath, and no good will come of this.” So she went to her hut and packed her medicine bag, took her knife and bow, and in the dawn before the tribe stirred, she crept away. She found the river of ice, and followed the blood in the snow to the wolf’s den. And she found the wolf, cold and close to death. She wrapped it in her new reindeer skin coat, and dressed the wound with herbs and bark, and took her bow and went to hunt. She found a snow hare and brought it back to the den.  There, she cut the meat into small pieces and fed the wolf from her own hand.

In the days that followed, the wolf grew stronger. His eyes grew brighter, and the ribs that pressed against his skin were covered with flesh as the girl hunted for him. She made fire to keep them warm, and at night she lay beside the wounded wolf and wrapped them both in her coat. In this way, the wolf grew well, and grew to love the girl who saved him. In return, he taught her wolf ways and wolf lore. How to track, to sniff the wind and find game that men could not, to hunt like a wolf and how to sing the moon song when the curved moon grew fat.

One day the girl said, “Now you are well, I have righted my father’s wrong doing, and I must return to my people.” The wolf was sad to see her go, but she had saved him and he could not make her stay. And the girl returned to her people, who were overjoyed to see her but unsure why she had chosen to leave. She said nothing, but the Dreamspinnr knew and smiled, for the girl had averted the fate that might have befallen the tribe with the breaking of an oath.

But the girl could not settle, she no longer felt she belonged to the human tribe, she saw them through different eyes. She hunted strangely and they began to fear her success, for it seemed like sorcery. She could smell and hear things they could not. And she would sing the moon song when it rose full and fat, and it frightened them. She longed for the company of the wolf, for the smell and touch of his fur, his bright eyes that saw the wind, his loyalty and lack of human guile. And once again, she packed her belongings, and in the dawn before the tribe stirred, she crept away. The Dreamspinnr saw her go, and nodded. The girl followed her own tracks back to the den, and found the wolf waiting for her, for he sensed her coming. And she knew this was her home now.

And it is said by hunters who pass that way, that they have seen a wolf and a woman dressed in white fur running beside each other, swift as the wind. And their feet never touch the ground.

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All text and images © Christina Cairns 2011

‘The Talesingr’s Children’ is a story invented by Christina Cairns, and all accompanying ‘anthropological information’ was found hidden in an old wooden box with aged brass handles, in the attic in a corner of my mind that doesn’t get dusted very often. Or perhaps it’s all true...............................

I must share this, I love it!

This gorgeous illustration is by Lecte on Etsy!  It's called 'A Net for the Birds'.  Hmmm, does it ring any bells?!  How many birds are there?!  Lecte added me to her circle and so I popped over to her Etsy shop to have a look around, liked what I saw and something about the thumbnail for this piece jumped out at me and I clicked to have a closer look.  I looked at the picture, then noticed the title, it was all looking very familiar and I thought 'Oh my goodness, I must have read the 'Tale of the Seven Bird Spirits' somewhere and completely forgotten, I obviously didn't make it up at all!!!' (Well, aside from the fact that it's intentionally based on a fairytale that I hope people recognise, because if you believe my controversial...and fictional...Professor Woodford-Harding, the Talesingr's Tales could be the ancient prototypes upon which famous fairytales are based!)

So I quickly read through Lecte's description.  And NO, I haven't...it's actually an illustration of MY story!  How cool is that?  Someone all the way across the other side of the world was inspired to illustrate my little Talesingr's story.  And how cool is that drawing?  I love the dynamism in it, I love the strength in the Dreamspinnr's arms, I love that she is tattooed just as I imagined she would be.  It's just stunning, isn't it!

And I love the way the world wide web makes this kind of thing possible...it really is a kind of magic!

The Talesingr: The Tale of the Mountain Spirit and the Fire Bird

The Tale of the mountain spirit and the fire bird

Various, fragmented versions of this story survive. It appears to be a creation myth, though specifics differ between tribes, particularly in the geographical details, as one might expect from people so closely linked, and reliant upon, the landscape surrounding them. In some versions of the story, the fire bird comes from an island far out to sea and flies to the dark mountains. Clearly such geographical details are dependent on the location of the tribe, and what lies to the east and west of the land over which they journey. The mountain spirit is male in some versions, and female in others, and sometimes not considered to be either, or perhaps both. 

In the beginning times, the world was cold, dark and still. There was no light to wake the spirits, so they slumbered. Only the mountain spirit was awake, silent and watchful, for he was the oldest spirit. But the mountain spirit was lonely and wished for company. So he began to sing. And as he sang, the fired that burned deep inside his belly began to rise, and as it rose, its red glow could be seen, becoming brighter and brighter. And the slumbering spirits began to awaken to this new song and this new light. And still the mountain spirit sang the fire up, until at last it flew out of his mouth in the shape of a fiery bird, sweeping on great flaming wings towards the water-without-end. And all the spirits awoke and the world grew bright and beautiful and the spirits moved over its face and they began to join the song, singing all the peoples of the earth into being, the fur and feathered people, the human and scaled people, the green growing people, the small and large. And when the flames of the fire bird had faded and the world grew dark again, it crawled back into the mountain spirit’s mouth, to sleep and grow strong again. And the mountain spirit was so pleased with the beauty and brightness of this new world, that he has sung the fiery bird out of his mouth each day from that time to this.

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All text and images © Christina Cairns 2011

‘The Talesingr’s Children’ is a story invented by Christina Cairns, and all accompanying ‘anthropological information’ was found hidden in an old wooden box with aged brass handles, in the attic in a corner of my mind that doesn’t get dusted very often. Or perhaps it’s all true...............................

The Talesingr: The Tale of the Seven Bird Spirits

The Tale of the Seven Bird Spirits

There were once seven bird spirits full of self-importance. All believed that he or she was the most powerful, and they argued day and night driving away the peace of the forest. To decide once and for all who was the greatest among them, they proposed a contest. Because the bird spirits had power over the seven winds, they would each harness the strength of one and for a whole month would blow as hard and as fierce as wind has ever blown since the beginning times. At the end of seven months they would hold a council and each spirit would cast their vote.

First, the wind of the summer morning blew, bringing the smell of first greening, of fruit budding and herds returning. Then the wind of winter morning blew, bringing the smell of hardship and hunger, and the earth froze and the herds did not come. Then came the wind of summer afternoon, bringing the scent of the sea-of-sand and no-water, and melted the frozen earth and all was turned to mud and slush. And the wind of winter evenings, endless and cruel, froze the mud like rock and the trees were bare. Then the scorching wind from the home of the sun burnt all before it, and the trees burst into flame, till the blackened stumps were frozen by the wind of the tomb of the sun, bringing darkness and death. For six months the people of the forest, human and animal and growing thing, endured the contest of the winds. And the people knew if the seventh wind, the wind of the spirit place, was unleashed, all the spirits of the ancestors, good and bad, would be hurled into the world of the living. All was chaos, and the people feared starvation...or worse.

So a great council was called, and the chiefs and Dreamspinnrs of all the tribes, human and animal and growing thing, met in circle to say what must be done. And the oldest and wisest sat among them and listened and said nothing, as they shouted and argued for a whole journey of the sun. But in the end they fell silent, for none knew the answer. Then the oldest and wisest opened her eyes and touched two fingers to the geisan on her chin, and spoke. “I will dream.” She went to her hut and lay on the reindeer hides, and slept. And in her dream she wove seven nets, made of hair from all the people of the tribes, to make it strong as the tribes. And into the nets she wove the thorns of the Martuk tree. She spoke no word but the spell of net weaving. She did not eat, nor drink, nor could she lift her eyes from the work. And when she had finished, she bound a strip of cured fish skin across her mouth, for to speak one word would cause the nets to break. She tracked the bird spirits to their meeting place, and waited for them to sleep. And when the curved moon rose and the fire sank low, she threw the nets over the bird spirits. They woke and struggled to free themselves, but the harder they fought, the deeper the Martuk thorns bit into their skin and tore away their feathers. They begged and pleaded to be released but the oldest and wisest said nothing. When all the feathers had fallen away from their skin and with them the power over the winds, all that remained were strange creatures like wizened human children, and they crawled away into the caves of the snow mountains and were not seen again.

This was the dream of the oldest and wisest, this was done, and order was restored.

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All text and images © Christina Cairns 2011

‘The Talesingr’s Children’ 

is a story invented by Christina Cairns, and all accompanying ‘anthropological information’ was found hidden in an old wooden box with aged brass handles, in the attic in a corner of my mind that doesn’t get dusted very often. Or perhaps it’s all true...............................

For a stunningly beautiful illustration of 'The Tale of the Seven Bird Spirits', please visit Lecte's Etsy Store.

The Talesingr: The Tale of the Coming of Humankind (for Mo Crow!)

The Tale of the coming of humankind

Only a tiny fragment of this tale survives, a brief outline with little detail. Woodford- Harding collected it from a seafaring people he stayed with very briefly, most likely in 1904, but he recorded almost no information about the tribe itself, thus it is difficult to determine who exactly they were or even their exact location, though it is believed they were most likely people living along the coast of the Bering Sea in far Eastern Siberia.  Unlike modern western perceptions of killer whales (also known as 'Orca'), this tribe clearly thought very highly of them and considered them to be the ancestors of their people.

Two spirits eloped together, for the laws of their tribe forbade them to marry. To escape they turned themselves into fish and swam down river to the sea. There a Killer Whale came upon them. She was hungry but she could see they were spirits disguised as fish, so she said to them, “I am hungry. If you will give me the fish bodies you wear, I will hide you from your families.” So the fish swam into her mouth, and she swam far away from their angry tribe. And in her belly, the two spirits took off their fish bodies as they had promised. But they were afraid they would be found again and punished for breaking the law. So they stayed in the belly of the Killer Whale. And in the spring, she gave birth to a woman and a man, and they became the mother and the father of the first people. 

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All text and images © Christina Cairns 2011

Psst...a Talesingr and a few Wandering Souls have made it to my Etsy shop...

...Songs for Wandering Souls being the name I decided to give my other little hangers, as the Talesingr's Children were getting all the attention and glory!  More will be uploaded to Etsy later this week, but I want to post the Talesingr stories onto my blog first.  Stay tuned....

The Talesingr: A Brief History part 2

The meaning behind the Talesingr’s Tale

The fragments pieced together by Woodford-Harding, and more recent scholars using his raw data, tell a very simple tale of a tribal storyteller who has lost the ability to tell stories. While in today’s modern society this may not be considered a calamity, in an oral culture it has grave consequences. Many oral cultures, both past and present, have a designated storyteller, or bard, and their role goes far beyond mere entertainment. In a society where writing is unknown, such people are the source of vital information, the living, breathing libraries of their people. It is their responsibility to preserve the accumulated knowledge their tribe requires to survive, and to disseminate it when needed. What may seem to be simple ‘fairytales’ to the modern observer, in fact hold vast amounts of information on everything from the correct herb to use to heal an open wound, to the best moon phase to trap particular game, to applications of tribal law, blood connections in relation to marriage, migratory patterns of game, weather patterns for planting and harvesting, the care of the elderly, and so forth. These stories not only strengthened and unified groups in times of hardship (particularly for arctic dwellers during long, freezing winter nights when there was little to do other than huddle together for warmth around a fire), they also taught the younger members of the tribe all they needed to survive and become useful members of the group.

Thus the Talesingr’s story appears to be a cautionary tale, warning against the dangers of withholding information. The Talesingr has selfishly chosen to hold back certain stories in order to benefit herself alone, and as a consequence she loses the ability to tell all stories, simultaneously calling into question her place among her people and putting her whole tribe in danger. The Talesingr is shown the error of her ways, and to put the situation to rights she must sacrifice the very treasures she has hoarded. 

Inscription on back reads "Fitting in with the locals!  W.H"  The man on the far left is believed to be Woodford-Harding, circa 1907.  Woodford-Harding bequest. 

Professor Woodford-Harding's groundbreaking discovery and his controversial conclusions

Details of the Talesingr’s story emerged gradually over the course of Woodford-Harding’s researches. He began to take note of the ‘prologues’ often used by storytellers to begin a tale because he noticed similarities wherever he travelled. Phrases such as, “I found the bones of this story hanging in a tree…”
“The old woman left this tale in the snow when she passed long ago…”
“Crow found the bones of this tale, and whispered them to me…”
“I had this story from the wind, who took it from the Talesingr…”
Woodford-Harding presumed at first this was a standard phrase, much like our ‘once upon a time’, which simply indicated a story was about to be told and people should hush and listen. However he realised as he travelled more widely that the same, quite specific, details appeared again and again, and he began to ask storytellers not only about the stories they told, but also about the Talesingr motif used to introduce them. What emerged was a consistent, though highly fragmented tale. What also emerged was the indication that traditional storytellers from Finland to eastern Siberia used the ancient figure of the Talesingr as both a kind of muse, and a validation of the stories they told. Old tales known among many groups were often considered to be ‘Talesingr’s children’, stories passed down from storyteller to storyteller over aeons. But equally, a new tale would rarely be introduced as invented entirely by the storyteller her/himself. Rather they might say, “I was walking in the snow and I found the bones of story left by the Talesingr and I have sung new life into them.” Storytellers also told Woodford-Harding that the vast majority of the Talesingr’s tales had indeed been lost, many known only through tantalising snippets, sometimes no more that a story title or a character name. Woodford-Harding collected many of these, hoping that by piecing together these fragments he might be able to restore these lost tales as he had done the Talesingr’s story, an thus create a storehouse of some of the oldest stories known to man. Some of Woodford-Harding’s conclusions are considered controversial at best in this regard, particularly his insistence that many well known modern fairytales are the descendents of these lost tales. Given that there was (at the time) no knowledge of these fairytales among the people most familiar with the Talesingr, and in countries where the modern fairytale developed there is no evidence the Talesingr was ever part of oral folklore, this seems highly unlikely. Most modern scholars consider that Woodford-Harding’s belief this was the case led him to piece together story fragments to fit his preconceived ideas, rather than using rigorous and objective research to match parts together. Research is continuing in this area, using both Woodford-Harding’s raw data, and new research collected utilising modern anthropological methods. The outcome remains to be seen, but whatever truth is ultimately revealed, Professor Woodford-Harding’s contribution cannot be overstated.

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All text and artwork © Christina Cairns 2011

Old photos public domain (as far as I know!)

Success...in an unexpected manner!

Yesterday turned out to be something I wasn't quite expecting...fun!  I've never done an art show/expo/stall type thingy before, and thought I'd possibly be nervous...shy...uncomfortable...bored...but actually I was none of the above, once I'd managed to calm myself down and actually get the wing nuts done up holding my sign onto my table (very fiddly, and already responsible for one broken nail on my guitar plucking hand)!

What you can't see is my ugg boots...it was VERY cold yesterday (mind you, that's Perth cold, which of course isn't REAL cold!)  But it's OK, they are very swish ugg boots...purple with braid around the top, he he!

What was also unexpected was that I didn't sell any small items other than 1 print and a few cards, though lots of people showed a lot of interest in the wooden hangers.  But what I DID sell was 'Storm Spirit Moving', the large painting in the lower left of the photo.  I thought that the smaller and cheaper items would be the bigger sellers (seemed a logical assumption!) and didn't think it very likely that any of the big ones would be sold.  Not that I'm complaining!  I actually made a profit after taking out the $350 or so costs.  But I think it was a bit of a lucky fluke, the right people happened to come along, and if they hadn't I would be very out of pocket.  Has anyone else found this to be true, that market type situations often defy all your expectations and you end up with a most unlikely outcome?

But 'Storm Spirit' has found a new home, and it was rather wonderful too.  A lovely couple and their daughter came along, and admired all my work and we chatted for a bit.  Then they moved on to look at all the other stalls and I didn't think any more of it.  But a while later they came back and wanted to have another look at 'Storm Spirit', and then they said the magic words 'Yes, we'll take it, thank you!'  It turned out that their daughter turned 21 last year, and they'd promised her a painting for her 21st birthday, and she has been looking and looking for the right one.  I think 'Storm Spirit' whispered to her, and I wonder if perhaps she whispered back?  Perhaps the 'true' owners of a painting are the ones who know the painting's story and the painting senses it and whispers "you are the one who can tell me my tale, and only you."  What do you think?

Other unexpected things happened too.  I've long despaired that my work is so eclectic (or rather, all-over-the-place with no rhyme or reason!) that there doesn't seem to be any unifying theme or identifiable style.  And yet, I found myself telling people over and over yesterday that the one thing that appears in all my work is STORY.  It was only when I'd said it about 5 times that it dawned on me what I was saying and I realised, that's it, that's what holds my work together, whether it's a large acrylic, or a pencil sketch, or a stitched piece or a piece of wood and pyrography.  It has a story.

I also found myself being told very sternly that I am a writer!  I was chatting away to a lady who told me I should really do book illustrations, and I laughed and said it's a one-day dream and that I'm just a frustrated writer.  Then she listened as I chatted on (waving my hands around a lot as I do when I'm excited and enthusiastic), telling her the story behind the 'girl in the boat' paintings and 'Shipwreck Coast', and she listened as I talked about the Talesingr and all the little stories I'd written for her, and she flicked through my book of 'prints available' and asked me if I'd written the info and little 'blurbs' for each one.  And she said 'so you wrote this?'  Then she pointed to the flyers and sign about the Talesingr, "and you wrote that?'  Then she looked me right in the eye and very seriously said, "so you're ALREADY a writer, aren't you!"  Perhaps I am.

I even plucked up the courage to take Cordelia along, making sure my neighbouring stall holders were happy for me to play guitar.  And I plucked away (as well as I could with no decent fingernails!), and even sang a bit, very quietly.  And the lady in the stall next door told me it was lovely, and when I stopped and put Cordelia back in her stand for a bit, the lady opposite popped up and came over to tell me not to stop, that it was beautiful!

Perhaps the most surprising thing I learned is that I'm actually quite good at the 'chatting to the customer' thing.  Normally, I'm pretty shy and the idea of starting up a conversation with a complete stranger makes me nervous.  I'm just no good at all at small talk and general chit-chat, utterly hopeless at parties.  But if people stop and ask me about my work, I can chat away and tell them all about it and enjoy doing so.  I had some really interesting conversations with people, getting their impressions and ideas about my work too, which is always refreshing and interesting, and lots of people took my cards and pamphlets, so perhaps they might even pop in here.  So if any of you are people I met yesterday, thank you so much, I had a lovely day and enjoyed talking to all of you!

So while I DIDN'T learn what is a 'sure fire' seller at an Art market, I did learn lots of other things that may ultimately be more useful!

The Talesingr:The Tale of the Foolish Bird

the tale of the foolish bird

There was once a bird who wanted to make her nest the best and most beautiful. In the spring, all the feathered people of the forest returned to build their nests and lay their eggs. The forest was soon full of the chattering and cheeping and squawking of birds large and small collecting twigs and leaves and moss and fur cheekily stolen from the fur people. And the trees glittered with colourful plumage, and the leaves shivered as birds swooped and landed among them, weaving their homes to cradle their young.

And the foolish bird tried first one tree, then another, then another. But she was not satisfied. The first tree had thorns. “This will not do, for these thorns will scratch my little ones and I.” And so she tried the next tree. Its branches were young and thin. “This will not do, for these branches will bend and sway in the wind too much and my little ones and I will fall.” The next tree was small. “This will not do, this tree is too short, and the foxes can reach easily and devour my little ones and I.” She went to tree after tree, and each was no better than the last, and sometimes worse. “This tree is too tall, my little ones and I will be burnt by the sun and frozen by the wind.” “This tree is too far from the stream where I catch fish, my little ones and I will go hungry.” This tree is too close to the river, what if my nest falls in?”

All spring and all summer she did this, as all the other birds laid their eggs and raised their young. Then one day, she felt a cold breeze on her feathers, and with horror she realised that summer would end soon. She raced back to the tree by the river, but it was full of nests of other birds and there was no room even for one more. So she went to the tree far from the stream, but it was full too. She visited all the trees she had discarded, but all were full of nests, and the cheeping of half grown chicks trying out their new wings. Even the thorn tree was full. And as the leaves began to turn and the air grew cold, the foolish bird grew desperate. Finally, she found a broken sharp stick in a crevice in a granite rock, a cold place where the wind rushed through, where foxes and wolves could easily find her, overhanging the rushing river. And she built her nest there. And she laid her eggs as all the other birds were teaching their young to fly in readiness for the long journey to the winter home. And as the other birds began to leave, she sat and shivered and her eggs grew cold. And when the snows came, the foolish bird froze on her foolish nest, and turned to stone. And if you pass by that rock near the river, you may see the outline of her etched into the rock even today, and be reminded that the search for perfection must be tempered with common sense or it will lead only to emptiness and sorrow.

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All text and images © Christina Cairns 2011

The Talesingr: A Brief History

A Brief History of the Talesingr Stories and their remarkable discovery

Fragmented versions of the story of the Talesingr survive across the frozen north, from Finland in the west, across the breadth of Siberia to the east. There is some speculation it may have travelled further, into Alaska, as folklore there reflects elements found in the Talesingr’s story. If this is the case, it is likely the story found its way there with people who crossed the Bering Strait and settled the Americas. Suffice to say, it is an ancient story, though how old it is impossible to say.

What little we know of the Talesingr is mostly due to the work of Professor Albert Woodford-Harding (1876-1914?).  Although a Professor of Classics, Woodford-Harding was a passionate amateur folklorist who travelled to remote areas to collect folklore, songs and stories. He was particularly interested in the folklore of the indigenous peoples of Northern Europe, and lived with various groups in Finland and across Siberia for extended periods, documenting aspects of their everyday lives along with the stories and folklore that informed them. He also discovered pictorial evidence of the Talesingr’s stories in the form of ancient pictographs. He surmised that these pictographs served as mnemonic devices for tribal storytellers, as they remain enigmatic to the casual observer.

Woodford-Harding left behind a great deal of research and data, but very little was published and much remains uncategorized, due to his disappearance on a field trip to Siberia shortly before the outbreak of the World War One. It is known he and J.R.R Tolkien met at University when the latter was briefly a student of Woodford-Harding’s. It is interesting to speculate whether Woodford-Harding’s research influenced Tolkien’s later writing, most particularly the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

Woodford-Harding’s disappearance resulted in his work being lost for almost 60 years. His wife packed his research away and it was left forgotten in the family attic until her grandson found it while preparing the house for sale following her death in 1972. Modern scholars have been astounded at the amount of data collected, and although Woodford-Harding’s methods were not always exacting and disciplined, his contribution to the field cannot be underestimated. While details of individual peoples are sometimes sketchy and the depth of information collected is uneven, he was the first to document the similarities between the story fragments of many groups, thus showing the links between what up to that point in time had been considered to be individual folklore unique to individual ethnic groups. By demonstrating this clear link, Woodford-Harding was able not only to prove the connections between widely disparate ethnic groups, but also provided clear evidence of the survival of a myth over several thousand years, and vast migratory distances.

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All text and images © Christina Cairns 2011

The Talesingr's Children

The Talesingr’s Children

The Talesingr had lost her words.  She would open her mouth and nothing would come but the croaking of an old crow, the sound of wind on the bare hilltops in the bitterest winter.  Yet the tales were there, crowding inside her, jostling one against the other to be set free, to be loosed from her flesh and dripped like honey from her tongue.  They scratched behind her eyes and made them sore.  They camped in her stomach like legions of warriors before a battle, tense and sleepless, making her belly churn and ache.  The younger ones, more adventurous and indeed, thinner than their elders, squeezed down past her bony knees to try and find a narrower pass to freedom, succeeding only in making her feet throb with every step.  They howled in her head all day and all night and she was bereft of sleep.

In desperation she went to see the Dreamspinnr, bringing payment of an antler bone pendant and pine resin for the fire.  The Dreamspinnr looked at her through deep hooded eyes for a long time.  The tales cried and clawed their way up her throat when the Dreamspinnr opened the Talespinnr’s mouth and peered in, breathing smoke into her face.  But they could not climb out.  They scratched inside her skull and wailed, making her head ache as if it might burst, but the way was barred.  The Dreamspinnr sniffed at the Talespinnr’s breath, looked in her ears and grunted.  Then she sat down again.  And spoke.

“The oldest stories bar the way.  You have kept them too long, and they are afraid to leave.  You have hoarded your words, you have not been generous with them.  They are dying, becoming nothing more than rotted thought and leaf mulch, and they drag their feet and infect the young ones with their sickness and fear.”  And the Talesingr wept in regret, for it was true.  She had held back the stories she liked best, waiting for a time of great importance, not wishing to waste them on a day like any other, or a listener like any other.  Stories with which to regale a Queen who might one day visit, to win a contest with a fellow Talespinnr from another land…or to win a lover who might stay if the tale pleased him well.  Stories she had carried within her for so long she could not even remember how they began…or ended.  Stories that were no longer stories, so crippled they had become pushed deep inside her.  She had loved them too much and her love had deformed them, stopped them growing tall and true, turned them from tales into nightmares that snatched at her dreams and turned her hopes into ash.

The Dreamspinnr stoked the fire between them, sending fragrant sparks into the small space of the deerskin hut.  She said…”I will journey to find what you must do.  You and your story children must stay and keep the night with me.”  And the Talesingr, tears streaking her face, nodded silently as the stories inside her hushed and held their breaths for the first time in too long.

All night, as the Dreamspinnr danced and sang and beat her drum, the Talesingr watched.  Outside the wind howled and the snow lay thick on the ground.  It was the time when the Talesingr was most loved.  When her stories warmed frozen hearts and filled empty bellies.  And she could not speak.  If she could not speak, she was no Talesingr at all and she had no place among the people.

When the grey light of dawn filtered through the gaps around the deerskin door, the Dreamspinnr laid down her drum at last, and spoke.  “You will go out into the woods.  You must go towards the rising sun.  At the end of the second day, you will find a cave. You will enter the cave and light your fire.  And there you will stay.  For three days and three nights, you will spit the words of your broken stories into the fire, you will make the marks of their bones upon wood and cloth and hang them in the trees for the winds to find and take where they will.  You will give your twisted children a fine funeral, and set them free.  When the wailing in your head has ended, and the stories are gone, your voice will be returned to you.  Then you will return to your people, and new stories will come.  But you must not hold them back.  When they are born, do not seek to keep them locked inside you, set them free and tell them to whoever will listen.”

The Talesinngr nodded in despair, for she must lose forever the story children she had born, but there was no other way.  She took up her bow and knife to keep against the wolves, and walked towards the rising sun.  To farewell her children and leave nothing of them but ash and the scattered scratches of their bones hanging from the bare branches.  Who but the crows might hear their tales now? 

The Tale of the The Seven Bird Spirits

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All text and images © Christina Cairns 2011