The People of the Polar North/Chapter 20
A magician is a man who, by developing his faculties, has learnt to place himself in communication with one or several spirits, of whose supernatural powers he is enabled to make use; he thus becomes the intermediary between men and the forces that interfere with human destinies.
It is not every one who can become a magician, for it is not every one whom the spirits will serve; a special predisposition is necessary, and a sort of call. If a man, walking about alone, hears a sound which may emanate from a spirit, or sees a spirit in the flesh, he feels himself called to be an Angákoq (a subduer of spirits, a magician).
It is generally the best hunters who become magicians, men who are already in a position to command the respect of their fellows. For that matter, the magicians do not exercise any leadership, or exert any authority in the tribe, in an ordinary way, but only when danger of some sort threatens. In every village there is one, sometimes there are several Angákut. These men are very mysterious about their art, and usually turn off all questions with a jest. "Go out into the hills and learn it for yourself!" or "I have not the least idea how to call up spirits; it is all lies and cheating!" are the replies you receive if you ask for information in the presence of others. But if you go off with one of them, preferably on a seal-catching expedition, and then win his confidence, he will not object to telling you about it—under strict promise of secrecy, of course—"for the crowd, who do not themselves understand the hidden things, are so incredulous and so ready to mock." Add to this the fact that the various magicians are often prone to decry each other, since each one, as will be readily understood, claims to be the only prophet. This is why they protect themselves against I will give, in the following, a magician's own account of how he acquired power over his helping spirits. The narrator is a man who has already been alluded to in the foregoing—Otaq. He was at that time about twenty-five years of age, and one of the best hunters in the tribe.
His self-revelation and Confession of Faith, which is a very good summing up of what an Angákoq is, is here given in literal translation:—
I wanted to become a magician, and go up to the hills, far into the hills and rocks, very far, and sleep up there. Up there I see two spirits, two there were, two great hill spirits, tall, as tall as a tent.
They sang drum-songs, they went on singing drum-songs, the two great hill spirits. I did not utter one word; I kept silence while they sang drum-songs; I was ashamed and did not dare to speak to them.
The day after I went home; and then I was a little of a magician, only a very little of a magician.
But to the many I said nothing of it; I was ashamed to speak of it, because I was still only a very little of a magician.
Another time I started out again on a little ramble in the hills, hare hunting, as I had felt a longing for hare's meat. A great rock I climbed up over, and when I came to the top I laid me down to sleep. I was not sleepy, but I just lay down.
I lie there a little, lie and hear again the song of the hill spirits; it was the two great ones whom I had heard the last time.
The one now begins to speak, speaks to me, asks me for a ladle of wood.
I only heard that they sang and that they spoke to me; myself I said nothing.
When I came down to men, neither did I tell this time what I had seen. But I carved a ladle of wood, a very beautiful ladle of wood, with no dirt upon it.
The third time I heard the song of the hill spirits, I had not gone to the hills, that time it was in my house. Then they sought me of themselves, then I was beginning to become a magician, more and more, but men knew nothing of it.
When I saw the hill spirits again a great dog was running after them, a parti-coloured dog; it, too, became my helping spirit.
It was only when many people fell sick that I revealed myself as a magician. And I helped many who were ill.
My helping spirits know my thoughts and my will, and they help me when I give commands.
Once I was very ill, and then I lost a great deal of my magic power. My helping spirits began to despise me, they despised me because I fell ill. Now I am again a great magician. Even my wife can hear the spirits when they come to me, and I know when people are going to fall ill, and I know when they can recover.
"Seest thou, Meqo will perhaps die in the autumn, but perhaps I may help her. Meqo will be ill."
"Have you told her husband?"
"No, not yet; but I know it, my helping spirit has said it."
"Canst thou help her?"
"Yes, perhaps; I am a magician, you see, and my helping spirits do my will; but there are many who are far greater magicians than I."
Spirit worship among the Polar Eskimos is a very simplified affair if we compare it with that of the East Greenlanders, or the (now Christianised) West Greenlanders. For one thing, the Polar Eskimos no longer attach much importance to the dazzling juggling and ventriloquial arts which augment to such Moreover, it was a much more arduous probation through which the East Greenlander had to pass before he could "come forward" among his fellows. Amongst other things, he had to allow himself to be swallowed by a monster similar in appearance to a bear, which, only after having chewed him limb for limb, spat him out again. If he could survive such treatment in the presence of an old Angákoq, he was declared a genuine magician; such a one could fly up to heaven or dive down to the bottom of the sea.
The incantations themselves were carried on with far more apparatus, with extinguished lamps, to the accompaniment of the striking of stiff, wind-dried skins, which produced a mystic, thunder-like sound.
I myself met and for a long time lived with one of these East Greenlandic magicians, who declared to me that he had once been "spirit-hardened" by the teeth of a monster.
These East Greenlanders were likewise great extempore poets, and decided all differences by what one might call "skull-songs," during which, to the singing of insulting verses, they struck their opponents as many blows on the head as were required to "heal up the eye-socket," an expression used to imply such a swelling up of the cheeks that the forehead and temples and eyes could not be distinguished.
In comparison with these latter the Polar Eskimo magicians are exceedingly gentle and make but little ado. They themselves say that all the great ones are dead. Once upon a time it was customary among them, too, to fly up to heaven and down to the bottom of the sea in a soul-flight; a magician could take off his own skin and draw it on again, and in the hearing of many people the spirits would assemble, when the lamps were extinguished, just as on the East coast. Now this magic art is dead, together with the old men; the last of them was Sagdloq, who is spoken of in a preceding chapter.
Nevertheless,—even if their incantations are more gentle and their art not so developed as in past times,—now, as before, they are the masters of their helping spirits. The incantations take place in the winter in the houses, with lamps turned low, and in the summer in tents, by daylight. The pretext of a conjuration of spirits is either illness, continuous bad weather, or a bad fishing and hunting season.
When an Angákoq becomes "inspired," he groans, as if he were near fainting, begins to tremble all over from head to foot, and then suddenly springs out on the floor and strikes up the monotonous spirit-song, to a text which he improvises to fit the special case that he has to treat. He sings the chant loudly and more loudly, and gradually, as the conjuration progresses, he grows more and more unrestrained in his antics and his cries. He sighs and groans, as if invisible powers were pulling at him, and he often makes it appear as if he were being vanquished by a strong power.
But further than this, the auditors see nothing of the spirits. The Angákut themselves declare that they suffer agonies in every limb while the spirits communicate their prophecies to them. And, during the song, which is accompanied by beats on a little round drum, they sometimes work themselves up into a peculiar state of ecstasy, during which, with their closed eyes, long floating hair, and anguished expression, they sometimes produce an overwhelming effect on their auditors.
There is a legend
A petrel once took it into his head to marry a human being. He got himself a smart seal-skin, and, as he had bad eyes, made himself spectacles of walrus tusks. He was of course anxious to look his best. Then he went, in the shape of a man, away to human beings, got a wife and took her home with him.
Then the petrel would catch fish, called them young seals, and bring them to his wife.
One day it happened that his spectacles fell off, and then the wife saw his bad eyes and burst into tears, for she thought him so ugly.
But the husband began to laugh: "Oh! did you see my eyes, yah—hah—hah—hah!" and then he put on his spectacles again.
But the brothers, who missed their sister, came one day to see her. And as her husband was out hunting, they took her home with them when they went back.
The petrel was in despair when he came home, and, as he suspected that his wife had been abducted, he started after the fugitives. He flapped his wings with great force, and the beating of his wings raised a mighty storm; for you see he was a great magician.
When the storm broke out, the umiaq[1] began to ship water, and the wind increased in force as he redoubled the vigour of his flapping.
The waves rose white with foam, and the umiaq was in danger of capsizing, so when they perceived in the boat that it was the woman who was the cause of the storm, they took her and threw her out into the sea. She tried to cling to the edge of the boat, but her grandfather jumped up and cut her hand off.
So she was drowned; but at the bottom of the sea she became "Nerrivik," that is, "The Food Dish," the ruler over all sea-creatures. When men can catch no seals, the magicians go down to Nerrivik. As she has lost her one hand, she cannot arrange her hair herself; they do it for her, and in her gratitude she lets some of the seals and other animals free, for men to catch.
This is the story of the Queen of the Sea, and they call her "The Food Dish," because she sends food to men.
Told by Aisivak (of Agpat).
As a rule the assistance of the magicians is invoked by their fellows when something is the matter; and then, if they are not related to the person in question, they are paid for their incantations; after an incantation, a magician must not use a knife for a few days.
But it will also happen that magicians, inspired by their helping spirits, call up their fellow-villagers, nalúngisaqalitdlarângamik, that is to say, "when there is something that they know." While under the influence of an inspiration of this kind, they can hear people talking in villages several miles away.
If the helping spirit has communicated to them the name of a person who is threatened with illness or other danger, they never, during a public incantation, mention the actual name; they content themselves with allusions that can put their hearers on the right track; and when the latter guess the name of the person implied, the magician breaks out into moans, shouting—
"Yes, it is he. You spoke the name. Oh! I could not help it—I had to say what I knew!"
Sometimes a very eager Angákoq will adduce the most extraordinary causes for an illness. Once, I remember, Piuaitsoq's little child fell ill, and Alattaq was summoned to hold an incantation, to which the whole village was invited. He called upon his spirits and conjured them until far into the night, and discovered that the reason of the child's illness was that once, for fun, the little one's fox-skin breeches had been put on a puppy!
There is a special spirit language which is made use of during an incantation. Angákut must not mention people, implements of the chase, or the larger animals, by their usual designations. Here I will mention the principal special words employed.
Person: tau (shadow); the usual word, inuk. Children: niviarsiarqat, otherwise perâpaluit. Babies quajâtsiat, otherwise nâlungiarssuit. Head: kangeq, otherwise niaqoq; has a headache, kangerdlugpoq. Lungs: anerneqarfît (that with which one draws breath), otherwise puak.
Dog: pungo, otherwise gingmeq. Puppy: punguatsiaq, otherwise qingmerârssuk. Sledge: sisoraut (that with which you slide forward), otherwise qamutit.
Kayak: putsarigssat (floaters: that with which one keeps afloat), otherwise qajaq. Seal: qajuaq, otherwise puisse. Walrus: sitdlâlik, otherwise auveq. Bearded seal: magdlak (the violent), otherwise uksuk. White whales or narwhals: agdlagagssat, otherwise gilaluvkat. Bears: ajagpagtoq, otherwise nanoq. Reindeer: kumarugssat (louse, that is to say, of the earth), otherwise tugto. Fox: pisugkaitsiaq (the wanderer), otherwise teriangniaq.
Seal-skin thong: ninguaq (the strong), otherwise agdlunâq. The tusks of a walrus or narwhal: nutsat, otherwise tûgâq. The earth: nunarâq, otherwise nuna. The world or the air: silarâq, otherwise sila. Snow: anêjoq, otherwise aput. Ice: ulugssag (that which can be packed), otherwise siko. Wind: suvdluaq (that which makes a draught), otherwise anore. Stone: mangerit (the hard one), otherwise ujarak. The sea agitsoq (the soft one), otherwise imaq. Birds: gangatsautit (flyers), otherwise tingmíssat.
House: nuvdlik, otherwise igdlo. Larder: ilissivik (the place where one puts something), otherwise serdluaq. Food: aipatit, otherwise nerissagssat. Clothes: ánorssat, otherwise ánorât. Tent: napagaq (that erected), otherwise tupeq.
A magician does not always require spirit songs and vehement conjurations in order to call up spirits; in a less serious case he may content himself with placing a person on his back on the sleeping-place, binding a seal-leather thong round his head, and pulling it up and down, saying: "qiláka nauk?—where are my spirits?" When the tightly bound head is so heavy that the magician cannot raise it from the pallet, he says: "tássa qilaivagit!—it is my helping spirit!" and the latter is on the spot and inspires him with what he Both men and women can become Angákut, but women are rarely dangerous as such; they have not the courage to do evil, say the Eskimos. An Angákoq who can call down misfortune on his fellows is called an ilisîtsoq; without showing himself to his victim, he can kill him with a "tupilak," an animal made by the magician himself, as a rule a seal, which appears to the man against whom he bears a grudge. The tupilak can either capsize the man's kayak without allowing itself to be taken, or it can let itself be harpooned and killed. The man who kills a seal of this sort loses all strength out of his body and becomes a cripple.
As previously mentioned, Tâterâq had caught a tupilak; one autumn day, as they were making their way home from the chase, towing a walrus, a seal came to the surface just in front of the kayaks. Tâterâq was at once beside himself with hunting ardour, and shouted and comported himself generally like a madman. He rowed forward and harpooned the animal, and it was only after he had killed it that he grew calm again.
When they got home and cut it up, they discovered that the animal had been made by an Angákoq. The chest was like a human being's, and the rest of the bones had been taken from different animals.
A short time afterwards Tâterâq fell ill, and gradually his body died. He, who used to be one of the best seal-catchers, has now lain for several years paralysed and helpless on a sledge among the houses.
It was thought that it was old Qilerneq who had made this tupilak. He would have put the bones of various animals together, covered them with turf and clots of blood, and conjured the object into life by a special magic song.
Magicians are sometimes soul-stealers; the people affected then fall ill and die. Some little time before our arrival at Cape York a man named Kajorapaluk had been murdered "because he stole souls."
This is an account in brief of the magician system among the Polar Eskimos. The great majority of course believe blindly in the magician's capacity to make use of supernatural forces, and the few sceptics who, in an ordinary way, represent a certain opposition, are equally keen adherents of the mysteries at crucial moments.
The magicians themselves are undoubtedly self-deceived in the conduct of their incantations; I do not believe that they consciously lie. Otherwise, why should they, when they themselves fall ill, seek the help of the spirits?
But their magic arts are degenerating and growing more and more simplified. The Polar Eskimos are well-to-do folk; there are animals enough in the sea and meat in abundance; they are strong, healthy, energetic people, possessing a sufficiency of the necessities of life as demanded by an existence which is, according to their ideas, free from care. This state of things is doubtless the reason why the Angákoq system is not so highly developed there as, for instance, it has been on the East coast, where the struggle for existence seems to be much more severe, and where the failure of the fishery, and as a consequence famine, have been more frequent.
The Polar Eskimos do not require to make constant appeals to the supernatural powers, and that is why their magicians have gradually forgotten the magic arts of their fathers.
- ↑ A boat rowed by women.