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 involuntary 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 battle. 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).
But the bear was the king of only the four-footed animals. The birds had their own king—it was not the eagle as one would think but the plain and simple wren.6 The amphibians, saurians, and other reptiles also had their own king: the white serpent that lived under the ancient elderberry bush of the homestead. The Grimm brothers recorded a tale that tells about a war between the king of the animals and the king of the birds:
Once when a bear and a wolf were meandering through the forest, they heard a bird chirping a lovely melody. The bear wanted to know what kind of a feathered creature it was that sang so beautifully. The wolf told him it was the wren, the king of the sky, and that one had to show him due respect.
The bear and the wren children
The bear definitely wanted to see the palace of the other sovereign and took a peek through the branches. When he saw the tiny nest, he could only laugh contemptuously. The skinny, naked royal children seemed pitiful to him. He did not even acknowledge them with a bow. “This is not a palace and you are not royal children, you are unworthy children!” he commented and left. The children were so upset that they did not even eat the worms that their parents brought in their beaks for them later.
The wren and his wife flew right away to the bear’s den and called out to him, “Hey, grouchy old bear, why did you chide our children? You will pay for that! We will fight it out in a bloody war.” The angry bird king called on all the animals that fly—birds, bees, mosquitoes, hornets, gadflies, and bugs. They formed a mighty summing, screeching army.
The bear also called upon all of his vassals and allies, the elk, wild boars, and others that walk on four legs. Because he was so clever, the fox was made a general. The general decided he should first go spy on the enemy and size up the situation. He was supposed to signal to the others with his red tail: If he put his tail up high, the order was “Attack!” But if he lowered his tail, danger was lurking and they should retreat.
However, their clever plan did not remain a secret. A tiny mosquito had hidden under a leaf at headquarters and heard everything. When the fox went off to scout out the situation, the wren sent out a platoon of hornets. They stung the fox so aggressively in the hindquarters that he had to tuck his tail and clear out. This signal started a panic with the animals. They thought all was lost, and they all ran in various directions as far away as possible.
The wren had won the war and the haughty bear had to eat humble pie. After he had apologized to the wren children, they began to eat again and were in good spirits.
The bear retreats in defeat.
The Chieftain of the Animals
For the North American forest peoples, the bear is the chief of all the animals. It is the strongest and quietest animal. It can even easily take already slain prey away from pumas and wolves. For the bear, this procedure is easier than the actual hunting—though for any other animal, it is an impossible endeavor.
Sioux medicine man Lame Deer highlights the bear’s status with a story from his childhood: His father, who had just gotten a handful of “green frog skins” (dollar bills) went into a saloon to try his luck at poker. The white owner of the joint had a pitiful bear cub chained onto the bar. The cowboys and gamblers were having a great time teasing the bear so that it would stand up on its back legs. A big, cigar-smoking white man came into the bar with a Great Dane. “Nice pet,” he said to the barkeeper, “but be careful that my dog doesn’t make him into mincemeat.”
“The bear can manage the dog,” said the barkeeper.
“I’ll bet fifty dollars that my dog will tear up your pet,” the man bragged. “Let’s have them fight!”
The white bear (drawing by Theodor Kittelsen)
By now everyone in the bar, whites and Native Americans, was interested in the bet. The whites all dug into their pockets and bet that the clumsy, slobbering Great Dane would win. The Native Americans, including Lame Deer’s father, bet on the bear because he is the chief of the animals. They made a ring of chairs and blankets outside and put the two animals in the middle. The little bear just sat there like an infant and paid no attention to the snarling, growling dog. It clawed some soil and rubbed it onto its head. The dog seemed to be smarter than its owner because, though it growled and barked like crazy, it did not dare attack the young bear. Only when its owner cussed and kicked him into getting serious did it lunge at the bear. With one blow of his paw that came as fast as lightning, the bear ripped the dog’s throat so that it fell down dead on the spot. “The bear made a sound, just a ‘hrmmpf’ like a Sioux does when he is angry,” Lame Deer commented (Lame Deer and Erdoes 1972, 116).
When the forest animals have a council meeting, a powwow, the bear takes the seat of honor at the west end of the teepee, or wigwam, so that the rising sun shines on its face. The chief of the bears is an albino bear because white is considered a sacred color.7
As already discussed, the Cherokee see bears as transformed humans. The chief of the bears lives in a “mulberry grove” on a high mountain peak in the Smokey Mountains. A magical lake is there, where wounded bears go to heal. In this wild, mountainous region, the bears gather in the fall and dance before they go into winter hibernation (Mooney 2011, 47). The following story is told in many variations in both the entire forested area and the bordering prairie. The story, “About the Origin of Disease,” tells of a white bear that leads the meetings of all the animal nations. This is the Cherokee version:
In earlier, long-forgotten times, human folk lived peacefully and harmoniously with all of the animal folk. But at some point, the humans invented bows and arrows and spears and knives. They began to slaughter animals, took their flesh and skin without thanking them, took the feathers from the birds, and stepped on and squashed small living beings, bugs, and worms out of pure carelessness. As it became ever more unbearable, the animal folk complained to the chief of the animals, the old white bear.
White Bear called all of the bears together in the mulberry grove. After they had heard enough about the outrageous doings of the humans, they decided to go on the warpath. Because they knew how effective the human weapons were, they decided to also fight with bows and arrows.
“What are bows and arrows made of?” asked the chief. One of the bears that had observed the humans very intently answered, “The bow is made from the young branches of the Osage orange tree and the bowstring is made of our intestines!”
So the bears gathered the wood and one of the bears offered himself so that bowstrings could be made of his intestines. It was very difficult for them to make the bows because the Osage orange tree is very thorny, but they finally succeeded. When they wanted to practice shooting, some problems came up. When they tried to shoot the arrows, their long claws got caught in the bowstrings.
“We should cut off our claws!” one of the bears suggested. But White Bear objected, “One of us has already died for the bowstring. If we cut our claws, we will all die. How will we be able to climb trees in danger, how will we dig up roots and larvae? These human weapons are unnatural and not for us to use!”
None of the other bears could think of anything else so the old chief ended the meeting. The bears meandered off into various directions and forgot the matter. Eating sweet forest fruits, licking wild honey, and cozily meandering through the woods was much more to their liking, anyway, than political business.
The story continues but now without bears:
The elk chief, Little Elk, took the bear’s place and led the council meeting of the forest dwellers. He was also angry, “Deer, elk, and other wild animals give their flesh and skins to the humans,” he explained, “but one never hears words of thanks, words asking for pardon! They murder us, but they neither cover up our bones, as would be proper, nor do they leave gifts and tobacco for the ones who remain. As long as I hear no words of thanks, I will punish the humans. I will send them rheumatism and pain in their limbs so that they will become helpless cripples.”
The snake spoke for the reptiles, the amphibians, and the saurians: “The humans disregard us, too, and treat us badly. We will appear to them in nightmares and wind around their bodies until they can’t breathe. We will breathe poisonous breath upon them and will paralyze them with our piercing look so that they lose their appetite, waste away, and die of starvation.”
The insects, worms, and other tiny beings were even angrier. “These cruel humans step on us and crush us. We wish they were all dead,” said their speaker. Thereupon they invented all of the horrible diseases and plagues that even still afflict humans today—and if they had had their way, humanity would surely have completely died out and become extinct.
Only the chipmunk that humans left in peace for the most part, tried to put in a good word for the two-legged creatures. But the other animals were so furious that they attacked the chipmunk and clawed him down the back, which is the reason that these tree rodents still have a stripe down their back.
The dog that liked to roam around the locations of the humans and enjoy leftovers, bones, and excrement found there was the only animal that liked humans. It was sad and stealthily left the council, going to the human settlement where it has remained to this day. The rest of the animals declared the dog crazy and excluded it from their community.
The trees, bushes, and wild plants, which were silently present during the council, had heard everything. They did not agree; they had compassion for the humans. Besides, they had not always had good experiences with the animals—too many of them had gnawed on their sprouting parts, clawed their bark, destroyed seeds, or destroyed young trees by rubbing their horns on them. So they held their own powwow and decided to help the humans. For each disease the animals sent, one of them would provide a healing medicine. One plant after another told what disease it could heal. They sent a dream to a medicine man in which they declared, “We, the green folk, will help you with any disease. But we are shy, you have to come to us and ask us for help when you are sick. You can also ask the bear because he best knows our qualities.”