Appalachian Mountains
Chapter 7. Betwixt and between: the occurrence of petroglyphs between townhouses of the living and townhouses of spirit beings in northern Georgia and western north Carolina 200
Johannes Loubser, Scott Ashcraft, James Wettstaed
Environment, inferred similarities, relative sequence of application, and age range of petroglyphs ........................................................................ 201 Indigenous beliefs, practices, and experiences regarding rock surfaces and water 215
The significance of petroglyph locations and motifs in indigenous
Appendix: rock art sites
preface
When Julie gardiner of Oxbow Books contacted me and asked if I would do a book on Eastern Rock Art and the landscape, my first inkling was to say, “No, thank you.” I’d just finished pulling together the Picture Cave volume, a mean feat in itself, and was not looking for additional tasks at the time. However, I’d often thought of doing a book on Missouri rock art and how it “fits” into the landscape and what the data could tell us about the prehistoric people who created it. The more I thought about going ahead with this book, it became by necessity, an “edited volume!” There was no way that I could do justice to eastern rock art without involving my colleagues who have done extensive work in the several eastern states in which they work. Julie and her team kindly (if reluctantly, knowing the problems associated with edited volumes) agreed to allow an edited volume.
With that, I proposed the book to my colleagues and we agreed to meet at the International Rock Art Conference (IFRAO) in Albuquerque, New Mexico, spring of 2013. We had pulled together an eastern rock art symposium for that conference. Five of us met: Jan Simek (Tennessee), george Sabo (Arkansas), Mark Wagner (Illinois), Jim Duncan, and myself (Missouri). Our discussions, over Mexican cuisine in the Town Square, included various approaches to the volume. While my approach would have been more general, Simek suggested that we focus in on the “cosmograms” that are evident in much of the rock art. All involved agreed that we had sufficient data for our respective states to do this. In addition, it was decided that other eastern rock art scholars would be invited to contribute, to form a meaningful volume concerning rock art, the landscape, and the cosmograms in a substantial corpus of eastern rock art.
This approach can tell us much with regard to how prehistoric occupants viewed their landscape within the cosmos, how they altered their landscape, and in a rather indirect manner, reveal the importance of the boulders, bluffs, and mountains – but in general, the stone – the sacred stone that could contain stories, hold tight to information, and fulfill supplications. Judging from the oral traditions, beliefs, and rituals of historic populations of American Indians, we can surmise that prehistoric populations viewed the stone boulders and mountains as the most ancient entities on this earth, their Mother Earth. Stone, rocks, mountains, continue to be highly regarded by American Indians. The stone is sacred. By their antiquity alone, they demand respect and were (are) honored. They were used for prayers, blessings, any kind of favors. They were used to mark boundaries, record achievements, events, to illustrate oral traditions, tell stories, served as mnemonic devices to remember songs, rituals, and record data accompanying the appearance of asterisms or other celestial events.
The very act of painting or carving into the stone was also considered sacred and an act of consecration. Keep in mind that the earth was/is considered “our
Mother” and the stone “our Father.” In other countries on other continents, cultural groups continue to perform similar acts. Primarily, the symbolic acts of touching prayer containers, touching the lock on a sequestered sacred building or church, and into contemporary times, the “touching of wood” as an act of bringing one’s request or appreciation to wood that represents Christ’s crucifix (or crucifixion and sacrifice). These are all symbolic, sacrosanct acts. There is a great deal of symbolism even in our contemporary belief systems, and one can only imagine the beliefs of ancient times when explanations were more esoteric in nature.
Because of the antiquity and sacredness of the stone, it could be supplicated for special favors. That is, the stone could heal. The stone could grant favors in the form of health, children, victories in battles, good crops, good hunts, and the like. For this reason, the stone was always highly regarded and sought out. To carve or paint an image onto the stone was to consecrate it, in the process of asking it for a favor or recording a special event.
A phenomenon that could occur with the stone is a lightning strike. Although poorly recorded, and mostly speculative for prehistoric times, if lightning struck a tree and hit a stone escarpment below it, that stone would become demagnetized – or magnetized. Judging from the unsuccessful attempts to get a compass reading and detect magnetic directions at some of the rock art sites located in sandstone glades in Missouri, we know this event certainly occurred from time to time.
We know that rock art occurs in a variety of physical locations on the landscape: on bluff walls, bluff tops, small boulders, large boulders, at rock shelter entrances, deep within a shelter or on shelter ceilings, or at cave entrances, on walls deep with the cave, and at springs. The reasons for the placement of rock art by ancient American Indians are difficult, if at all possible, to determine. This is one of the most puzzling questions in rock art – the actual placement of ancient imagery. We often wonder why a particular location was chosen for the placement of a petroglyph or pictograph. Why was it placed in that specific location? Why did the ancient artist choose this or that particular boulder or façade as opposed to a similar one nearby? Rarely do we find rock art in predictable locations. At this point in our research, we are quite confident that rock art was placed for a number of reasons and for a variety of ritual activities that consecrated the rock surface on which it was executed. That is, it was not mere “graffiti,” but an act of honoring the ancient stone, the father, and in some cases, thanking the stone for a request granted or asking for a future favor or blessing.
As discussed in previous volumes (Diaz-granados and Duncan 2000; 2004; Diazgranados 2004) the reasons for ancient people placing rock art on the landscape can vary widely. As determined from the placement of rock carvings and paintings by indigenous groups around the world, and in examining the oral traditions and references to the “sacred stone,” we have come up with the following six category list:
• to illustrate a story, depict the cosmos;
• to mark an important event/occasion;
• to request a favor;
• to indicate a boundary or impart other information; or
• to honor/commemorate a guiding spirit.
Many of the symbols or motifs within the rock art, whether carved or painted, are interpretable through surviving oral traditions and ancient objects displaying symbolism that continued into historic times. Duncan and Diaz-granados employ their studies of oral traditions, along with interviews obtained from American Indian elders, to help interpret the meaning and significance in the iconography of the rock art, as well as its probable placement on the landscape.
This volume includes collaborative chapters by a leading group of scholars: Jan Simek, george Sabo, Mark Wagner, Scott Ashcraft, Alan Cressler, Jim Duncan, Jerry Hilliard, Jami Lockhart, Jannie Loubser, Kayeleigh Sharp, Jonathan Remo, Leslie Walker, James Wettstaed, and myself. These chapters cover rock art data and discussion on georgia, Illinois, Missouri, North Carolina, and also encompasses a synthesis of work done by Bart Henson (Alabama) and the late Dr. Fred E. Coy (Kentucky), synthesized by Simek.
Simek and Sabo have provided an introductory chapter offering a broad overview of a variety of New World cultures (and beyond) – their relation to the landscape and, in some cases, to the rock art. It details several specific North American cultures from the west to east, and from north to south including a Mesoamerican example. These reinforce the importance between ancient peoples and their landscape. Sabo and Simek call for a greater awareness of this methodology.
The second chapter by Duncan and Diaz-granados covers one of two areas west of the Mississippi River. It is a major rock art group in eastern Missouri, the chapter authors identify as “The Big Five.” These five major sites contain similar motifs, iconography, and style and are explained and interpreted with regard to their relationship to the landscape and the Dhegihan cosmos. Chapter 3, also by Duncan and Diaz-Granados, focuses on the “Old Woman” supernatural and her place on the landscape and in Dhegihan cosmology. This major being has an extremely important connection to the landscape.
Chapter 4, by Sabo, Hilliard, Lockhart, and Walker, begins with a history of Arkansas rock art. They review the Arkansas Rock Art Project, environmental issues, and include a discussion of transference of imagery and ideas, originating in Mesoamerica. Dhegihan Sioux spiritual beliefs are included. Sabo et al. make a point that their analysis is within the context of other site types and cultural features.
In Chapter 5, Wagner, Sharp, and Remo discuss a number of important rock art sites in Illinois and focus in on four of the largest that show evidence of an awareness of a tri-leveled cosmos. The importance of landscape within ritual activity is also addressed.
Chapter 6, by Simek, Cressler, and Henson, reviews the rock art in the southern Appalachian region. Simek uses his Tennessee Cumberland area and brings in Kentucky rock art (via the work of Fred Coy), and Alabama, using the work of B. Bart Henson.
Chapter 7, by Loubser, Ashcraft, and Wettstead, explicates a connection between known petroglyph sites and the old Indian trails or river corridors in northern georgia and western North Carolina. They connect these sites through various methods including ethnographic accounts from the Cherokee and Creek.
Throughout the process of editing this volume, there were discussions, hundreds of emails back and forth, and the usual glitches. In the end, the editors and authors believe that with all the hard work and delays, we have come up with a worthwhile volume containing substantial information and new analyses on eastern rock art. Some of the analyses are “high tech” while others are concerned with trying to comprehend meaning through oral traditions handed down through many generations. We hope that this book will serve to bring a fresh perspective to the understanding of rock art, help to encourage the preservation of these rare expressions of prehistoric ritual activity, and offer a deeper sense of rock art’s place on the landscape.
Carol Diaz-granados
Preface map: Mississippian region and area of rock art research covered in this volume
Grey = expanse of Mississippian Culture Orange = Region discussed in volume chapters (Map courtesy of Jan Simek).
Contributors
A. Scott Ashcraft is an archaeologist and Heritage Resource Program Manager for the Pisgah National Forest, and Director of the North Carolina Rock Art Project.
Alan Cressler is a noted caver, naturalist, and nature photographer from Atlanta, Georgia. He is a field hydrologist for the U.S. Geological Survey and a charter member of the University of Tennessee Cave Archaeology Research Team, where he serves as principal photographer.
Carol Diaz-Granados, Ph.D., is a Research Associate and Lecturer in the Department of Anthropology, Washington University, St. Louis, Missouri. Her specialty is New World Archaeology with a major focus on American Indian rock art. She earned her B.F.A., M.A., and Ph.D. at Washington University. This is her 5th book. Her research interests include American Indian petroglyphs/pictographs, iconography and oral traditions, and body art/body modification across cultures.
James R. Duncan, M.A., is a former director of the Missouri State Museum in Jefferson City. He has Osage and Cherokee heritage and has published extensively on American Indian iconography and oral traditions. His research interests include Midwest archaeology, American Indian and Frontier technology, and he is a master gunsmith of Early American flintlock rifles.
B. Bart Henson is a retired engineer from Huntsville, Alabama. Henson has done extensive research on the pre-contact rock art of Alabama and the Southeast, and he was the first to locate and document many of the rock art sites discussed in this volume. He published a booklet on Alabama rock art.
Jerry Hilliard earned his M.A. in Anthropology at the University of Arkansas. He is a Station Assistant for the Arkansas Archeological Survey, University of Arkansas, Fayetteville. His interests include rock art, prehistory in eastern North America, and historical archaeology.
Jami J. Lockhart earned his Ph.D. in the department of Environmental Dynamics, University of Arkansas. He is Coordinator of the Arkansas Archeological Survey’s Computer Services Program and Director of Archeogeophysical and gIS Applications. His research specializations include integrated data management, gIS, archeogeophysics, and study of human-environmental relationships through time. He works extensively with Survey personnel across the state of Arkansas and with University of Arkansas students.
Johannes (Jannie) Loubser, Ph.D./RPA, is an archaeologist and rock art specialist at Stratum Unlimited LLC in Atlanta, georgia from where he conducts cultural resource consultation work for agencies and foundations.
Jonathan Remo, Ph.D., is an Associate Professor in the Department of geography and Environmental Resources at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. His research is focused on rivers as coupled human and natural systems. His specializations within the field include fluvial geomorphology, hydrology, hydraulic modeling, and river management.
George Sabo III, Ph.D., earned his B.S., M.A. and Ph.D. degrees in anthropology from Michigan State University. He currently serves as a professor of anthropology and environmental dynamics at the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville, and became director of the Arkansas Archeological Survey in 2013. His research interests are human/environment relationships, Southeastern Indian art and ritual, and American Indian interactions with European explorers and colonists.
Kayeleigh Sharp is a Doctoral Candidate in Anthropology at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. Her research interests include quantitative methods and spatial analysis in archaeology, and prehistoric social relations in northern coastal Peru and the Midwestern U.S.
Jan F. Simek, Ph.D., is Distinguished Professor of Science, University of Tennessee, Knoxville, and President Emeritus of the UT System. He earned his Ph.D. in 1984 at State University of New York at Binghamton. His research interests include Paleolithic archaeology, landscape archaeology, rock art studies and cave archaeology of the Southeastern United States.
Mark J. Wagner, Ph.D., is Associate Professor in Anthropology and Director for the Center for Archaeological Investigations at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. His research interests include landscape and rock art studies as well asthe prehistory and history of Native Americans and Europeans in Illinois and the lower Ohio River Valley.
Leslie Walker Ph.D., received her Ph.D. in anthropology from the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville. She is currently the museum coordinator for the Linfield Anthropology Museum and instructor of anthropology at Linfield College in McMinnville, Oregon. Her research interests focus on the intersection of art, material culture and social change in frontier and colonial contexts.
James R. Wettstaed is the Forest Archaeologist/Tribal Liaison for the ChattahoocheeOconee National Forests in georgia.
Materiality and cultural landscapes in Native America
George Sabo III and Jan F. Simek
Cultural landscapes as frameworks for rock art study
Among the many approaches to studying prehistoric rock art, the use of cultural landscapes as a framework for evaluating subject matter and contextual significance has proven to be one of the most successful. A primary interest driving this approach is how and why past communities selected specific locations for transformation into culturally-charged places through the positioning of rock art. An important aspect of rock art is that its location is fixed and immutable, even though it might exist within a complex inhabited landscape comprising many symbolic referents, some marked and others not. The places where rock art is discovered and recorded today mark the locations of its original production; those locations cannot have changed over time via natural (taphonomic) or cultural (trade/exchange, loss/discard, and other means) influences. Place, then, is a fundamental, inherent property of rock art that can be employed in archaeological interpretation with a level of specificity not applicable to most other kinds of artistically decorated materials.
In addition to place, rock art also served as a form of communication, albeit one tied to location. To understand the communicative role of rock art within the cultural systems that produced it, we must work outward from careful and thorough consideration of the place at which each image was produced. Landscape approaches applied in the study of rock art around the world have demonstrated the strength of this approach. Geographical distributions of rock art images may, for example, comprise the signatures or footprints for belief systems, even if the ideological content of those systems remains obscure. Thus, boundaries that apparently separated social or political entities may also have had meaning in symbolic terms (e.g., Bradley 1997; Chippindale and Nash 2004). We also know (and will show in this chapter) that Native Americans almost universally view their landscapes as possessing strong ties to the sacred. Specific geographic places typically had importance in stories about how the world came to be, how it is organized, how the visible world relates to the spiritual world, and how people use spatial reference to engage sacred phenomena (Basso 1996; Nabokov 2006). Though
the reconstruction of such content from ancient thought systems is difficult (see Knight 2013 for a discussion of this prospect in New World archaeology), we do not believe that it is impossible, and we expect that the locational relationships among landscape modifications (including rock art) will resonate Native American religious beliefs and practices at a level amenable to detection.
Fortunately, from this point of view, we have rich archaeological, historical, ethnographic, and even textual records from across the New World that can provide quite detailed information about what particular peoples believed, how they related to the places where they lived, and in certain instances, exactly how the sacred was reflected on the visible landscape. These varied accounts show that cultural landscapes were central to many Native American religious beliefs, although the record itself varies depending on the nature of European contact (religious missionizing, for example, often resulted in aggressive European proselytizers recording aspects of native religious beliefs and practices in great detail, even if with a hostile attitude). The record also reflects the quality of early archaeology, and the amount of engagement native peoples had with western ethnographers. With respect to ethnography, trust was always an issue in the production of the record. Some ethnographers, the subject of suspicion and mistrust, were told little about the powerful aspects of a people’s faith while others could witness the most sacred of ceremonies because the community itself saw conservation, continuity, and the potential for future resiliency in an ethnographer’s recordings. One Native American culture, the Maya of Mesoamerica, invented writing, and records of belief and custom are preserved to this day in the voices of the adherents themselves.
As is true for many parts of the world where rock art is found, we unfortunately have few first hand or even ethnographic accounts of Native Americans making and/or using rock art. One such example, however, dates to the very beginnings of European contact in the New World. Fra. Ramon Pane, a Hieronymite monk who arrived on the island of Hispaniola in 1494 with Columbus’ second voyage, described zemis or idols made and used in religious ceremonies by the Taino peoples who populated the islands (Pane 1999). These sculptures of anthropomorph and animal characters in both wood and stone, were owned, curated and used by important political and/or religious figures in the community. Such zemis might also be found in isolated areas away from settlements, and many had identities or origin stories that linked them to spiritual narratives. Archaeological evidence in California from excavation at the Isabella Meadows Cave above Big Sur (Meighan 1955) showed an association between prehistoric pictographs on the ceiling of the cave and an archaeological record comprising processed hides cached in pits and a burial of a young child, probably a girl by the dress; various indications suggest an early 19th century date for use of the cave, including a leather strap used as a headband on the buried child, sheep hides among the cached materials, and various glass beads from late 18th and early 19th century contexts. Thus, rock art was probably being used, if not produced, in the California Mission period, at least according to this archaeological case. But in general, primary or even secondary evidence for rock art production and use in Native America is very rare.
In this chapter, we will try to illustrate Native American cultural landscapes and
the effects they had on archaeologically-visible material expressions by providing several specific ethnographic examples. Our cases concentrate in North America (since this is the focus of the rock art studies in this volume), but we also discuss instances from Mesoamerica. We examine a variety of cultural circumstances, from foraging societies to empires, to show that materialization of ideas transcends economy, politics, and social organization. In this chapter, we hope to demonstrate that the materialization of religious ideology was a hemisphere-wide practice, one that was ubiquitous in Native America. As will be seen, the focus and content of belief varies across the peoples we consider, but the practice of making beliefs visible is very common, if not universal. This survey will, we hope, demonstrate not just the utility but the imperative of including the cultural landscapes created by people in any attempt to understand the archaeology of ancient America. This imperative is perhaps obvious for considerations of prehistoric rock art.
Further thoughts on landscape archaeology in North America
We will present our ethnographic examples shortly, but before doing so, it will be helpful to review briefly some of the wider issues that have arisen in discussions of landscape archaeology to better assess the potential for employing cultural landscapes as contextual frameworks for North American rock art studies. During the late 20th century, the discipline of archaeology built productively upon earlier approaches to the study of landscapes that emphasized technological, economic, and social practices, referred to generally as “settlement archaeology.” One new development embraced a phenomenological framework that took as its starting point the experiences humans have within the landscapes they inhabit. Christopher Tilley, for example, pointed out that many studies of land use among small-scale societies focused on how those communities went about making a living, with little attention paid to human experiences of the world, e.g., the stories people tell about their environment or the meanings they attach to various landscape features. Likewise, myriad studies of religious belief and ritual among those same societies tended also to neglect discussion of environmental associations. Only recently have we begun to consider the cultural construction of environment as a framework for interpreting the world in which action takes place (Tilley 1994, 22–3).
One of the first collections of essays exploring this new perspective was Barbara Bender’s edited volume Landscape: politics and perspectives, which built upon the idea that landscapes are created from experiences people gain through “engagement with the world around them” (Bender 1993, 1). Landscapes, in other words, can be viewed as the product of people’s interaction with their surroundings, their “beingin-the-world.” As such, landscapes are highly contingent: they reflect experiences shaped by a variety of factors including memory, identity and social status, politics, interaction with both the natural and supernatural dimensions of existence, and even degrees of “rootedness” and the ways landscape perceptions change
as people arrive in new places via migration or another form of translocation (Bender 1993, 9).
In their edited volume on Archaeologies of Landscape, Ashmore and Knapp observe that among pre-modern and non-Western people, “landscape may have been regarded as largely mythic space, but one in which humans actively participated” (1999, 20); this notion is readily transferable, we hasten to add, to the Native American societies who produced the rock art examined in this volume. To characterize the many cultural dynamics and contexts that shape humanized landscapes, Ashmore and Knapp employ a framework in which three kinds of landscape are distinguished: constructed, cognized, and ideational landscapes. Constructed landscapes involve human modification sufficient to alter the visual character of the locality, whereas conceptualized landscapes are those upon which a community has endowed meaning or significance in relation to social or historical events or circumstances. Ideational landscapes, or “landscapes of the mind,” enshrine more esoteric sacred, symbolic, or emotional qualities (Ashmore and Knapp 1999, 10–13). The criteria distinguishing these three kinds of landscapes are nuanced, and Ashmore and Knapp point out that none is mutually exclusive of the others. The categories serve, rather, as an interpretive framework for organizing observational data (archaeological, historic, and ethnographic) for investigation of how landscapes may reflect different themes or phenomena including individual or community memory, identity, social order, and transformation. Essays in the Bender and Ashmore and Knapp volumes, along with those in similar collections (e.g., Hirsch and O’Hanlon 1995; Feld and Basso 1996; Bowser and Zedeño 2009), provide examples of how multi-layered and dynamic such landscape designations can be. The impact of these ideas on rock art studies are readily apparent in a series of edited volumes (e.g., Chippindale and Tacon 1998; Nash and Chippindale 2002; Chippindale and Nash 2004) as well as more in depth treatments (e.g., Bradley 1997; [A. M.] Wright 2014).
In his widely-influential volume of essays entitled The Perception of the Environment, Tim Ingold (2011) adds an interesting dimension to the “experiential” perspective on landscape with his observations on the role of skill in shaping experience. For Ingold, skill is not strictly an innate, or biological, capacity; neither is it acquired via purely cultural transmission. Rather, it is the product (part biological, part cultural) of direct, bodily interaction with the environment. Practices directed toward gaining or sustaining a livelihood, as well as those used to produce the technology required to “dwell” in one’s space, are part and parcel of the experience through which landscapes of meaningful places emerge. Understanding what people do, and how they do it, is thus an important part of the anthropological study of cultural landscapes.
We have arrived, at this point in our discussion, at a rather far remove from the hard evidence with which we are primarily concerned – rock art imagery in all its splendid forms and distributional patterns. How, then, do we get back to the work of operationalizing these notions about the landscape experiences of ancient people, and the way their senses of place are conveyed by rock art? We can begin with the places where rock art is found and make several immediate observations.
First, these places are characterized by actions, behaviors oftentimes carried out in specific sequences as in ritual; they were places that were made and used, not simply galleries where art was displayed. That this is true is witnessed by the range of contexts where rock art is found – deep in caves, on high and inaccessible rock ledges, on rock walls bordering communal trails. So, what were the actions that occurred at a place, what was the sequence of events, and how were those actions performed? In other words, what happened over time at those places? Next, what are the characteristics of those places? What are the locational and physiographic aspects of their placement on the landscape – what can be seen from the place and from what points of observation can those places be observed? In short, what is the local context for the sequences of actions recorded at that place? Finally, what relationships connect each rock art site to others, perhaps near and perhaps farther away? And to what other kinds of sites are those rock art sites connected? Put another way, what networks among places can we identify, and how are those networks materialized (that is, via commonly associated artifact types, shared imagery, shared locational characteristics, and the like)? By working outward from individual places of interest within past landscapes, we begin to assemble empirical evidence related to the subjective experiences of earlier inhabitants (Bowser and Zedeño 2009, 6). The resulting insights can indeed inform us on a significant range of landscape experiences, the breadth of which is evident in many of the studies cited here and, we hope, in the various studies offered in this volume.
With these considerations in mind, we turn now to several examples of how Native American peoples materialized their ideas on their natural landscapes, i.e., how they created and used cultural landscapes. Our examples are brief, but the common elements they exhibit are striking. Taken together, we believe they make the case that rock art in North America (and probably elsewhere) is one element in a widespread practice of creating cultural landscapes that linked the visible world of nature with realms of the human spirit. Explicating and taking into account these landscapes of human experience are essential if archaeologists are to truly understand the archaeology of rock art in North America.
Examples of cultural landscapes in North America
Crystals in the Sky (Chumash, California, USA)
The Chumash people were a group of Native American communities that lived along the California coast and in adjacent inland valleys at the time of the Spanish entrada. The Chumash peoples spoke an ancient language, distinct from many of their neighbors, and their communities dominated central and southern California. One group of these people, the Island Chumash, occupied the offshore Santa Barbara Channel Islands – San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, and Anacapa. The Chumash were the first native Californians encountered by Spanish invaders in Alta California when Juan Cabrillo landed within their territory near modern-day Ventura in October 1542 (Grant 1978a).
As the variety of their environments would suggest, the Chumash made use of the great diversity of resources available in ancient California, a habitat so rich that some of the largest aboriginal populations in North America made their living there by hunting and gathering wild resources at the time of contact. In the interior, Chumash people depended on a wide range of plant resources, including pine nuts from pinyon groves in the east and south (Pinus monophylla), berries, mushrooms, and a great variety of seeds, but the single most important plant food was the acorn of California live oak (Quercus agrifolia). This resource could be collected in tremendous quantities when ripe in the fall, and acorns provided a predictable, sustainable and storable wild food that could be used for bread, gruel, cakes, and soups. Terrestrial animal and avian resources were also diverse and abundant in ancient California, and they were hunted with several different projectile technologies as well as with traps and snares. Mule deer, rabbits, migratory birds including ducks and geese, rodents, and several predators were routinely procured and consumed. Along the coasts, an equal variety of marine resources were used, including large sea mammals like migrating gray whales (Eschrichtius gibbosus), seals, and sea otters, either obtained from stranded animals on the shore or hunted from seagoing canoes. Fish were abundant – sharks, bonito, halibut, and anchovy – and were hunted in coastal waters also from canoes. Numerous mollusks like mussels, several clams, and abalone (Haliotis spp.) were staple foods from the coast, and the shells of these animals were the basis of large refuse middens that mounded up around coastal villages and, at times, attained impressive heights. Chumash people across their range lived in settled villages made possible by the predictability of their resource bases. Villages were led by hereditary leaders that might be males or females (Grant 1978b, 510–11), and trade in regionally available foodstuffs and craft items, as well as in raw materials like abalone shell, chert, and asphalt, made resources from across the Chumash tribal region available to all.
As for elsewhere in California, Chumash religion included a variety of religious leaders, often called “shamans,” whose role was to interact with the celestial and spiritual realms on behalf of the people by performing dances and ceremonies designed to maintain balance with nature, predict climate and weather, and cure the sick (Blackburn 1974). These ritual specialists joined with other highranking community members, including political leaders in a religious/political organization called ‘Antap which was, in effect, a class of religious practitioners. Their primary responsibility was to interact with the celestial realm to preserve Chumash lifeways.
The Chumash believed that the universe was divided into three realms: a celestial realm above inhabited by powerful supernaturals, especially the sun who controlled life and death; a lower realm below inhabited by malevolent underworld denizens; and a middle world inhabited by people. The middle realm was held above the lower realm by two serpents whose movements caused earthquakes. The Middle World was perfectly positioned to influence both the upper and lower realms and so it fell to the Chumash to carry out this mediation role. Ritual and ceremony focused especially on the upper realm, the sky, and the celestial characters that resided there. The Sun was a central figure, as were the
Sky Snake (the Milky Way), two Thunders related to weather, and a Giant Eagle (Condor) who holds up the upper realm. The sky denizens could affect all aspects of the universe, but they could be capricious, even malevolent, so they had to be understood and propitiated by the Chumash “shamans” (Hudson and Underhay 1978). Interaction with the upper realm was a primary focus of Chumash ritual, and there was a strong geographic quality to ritual interaction. Ritual locations of various kinds were selected and/or prepared to be spaces where ‘Antap personnel would achieve interaction with celestial spirits. In this regard, Thomas Blackburn distinguished two types of ritual places used by the Chumash, purpose-built small ceremonial enclosures close to residential communities, and shrines located in remote places, often atop mountains, high ridgelines, or hilltops (Blackburn 1974). A third type of Chumash ceremonial location, one often located in remote and sometimes elevated locations, was rock art sites; the Chumash produced some of the most elaborate and beautiful rock art known from aboriginal North America (Grant 1965).
The mountain shrines were selected because of their natural elevation, bringing worshipers closer to the sky realm. The most sacred place of all was on the California mainland, atop modern Mount Pinos, where religious specialists “stood at the very center of the cosmos, and [were] capable of using this ideal geographic location to bring power into the Middle World from both the Upper and Lower Worlds, transcending time and space” (Hudson and Underhay 1978, 42). The shrines themselves were open areas swept clean to provide appropriate physical settings where the celestial spirits were addressed through ritual and where money (shells), seeds, bird down, and other sacred materials were left as offering to those spirits. In many cases, feathered poles were erected at these shrines as symbolic connections with the upper world. In her study of Island Chumash archaeology, Jennifer Perry (2007) documented elements of the sacred landscape used on Santa Cruz Island, focusing on mountain shrines (Fig. 1.1).
Fig. 1.1 Chumash mountain shrine site (CASCRI-399) on Santa Cruz Island, California (after Perry 2007, 116–17)
Among her material correlates on the landscape were piles of stones at open areas on top of mountains; these resulted from raising feathered poles as connecting pathways to the sky and fixing them aloft at mountain shrines (Perry 2007, 107).
Thus, the Chumash materialized their spiritual geography with sacred landscapes composed of ritual localities – shrines – positioned in remote places and high elevations so that the celestial spirits could be approached by ‘Antap specialists. These shrines were open and cleaned, with feathered poles erected to create contact with the upper world held in place by stone pavements. Communion with the sky spirits was the function of these sites, and the archaeological record associated with this activity is distinctive and dissimilar to what is found in community residential locations.
The Easter People (Yoeme (Yaqui) Indians, Sonora, Mexico and Arizona, USA)
The Yoeme, also known as the Yaqui, are a populous group of Cahita (Uto-Aztecan) speaking people who at the time of Spanish entrada inhabited the Sonoran Desert regions of northern Mexico around the Yaqui River. At contact the Yoeme lived in numerous small dispersed sedentary communities, of several hundreds of people each, along the fertile Yaqui River Valley (Spicer 1983). Despite their sedentary lifeway, the Yoeme roamed the vast deserts of the Southwest, trading with Puebloan peoples and Plains hunting peoples like the Comanche and Shoshone north of the Rio Grande River and with Toltec and Aztec communities to the south. The Spanish arrival in AD 1533 initiated four centuries of bitter warfare with the Yoeme that did not end until the 20th Century (Spicer 1983, 250). Over the course of the socalled Yaqui Wars, thousands of people died on both sides; Yoeme territory was redefined numerous times, both politically and spiritually; and many Yoeme were permanently displaced, including those who were transported as slaves to other parts of Mexico and some who moved permanently into what is Arizona today (Spicer 1983). And while these years of trial certainly produced dramatic changes in Yoeme lifeways and culture, the people maintained their collective identity with modifications imposed by history; in this, the land itself was part of that collective sense of community.
The Yoeme have been practicing river bottom agriculture for centuries, and they continue this subsistence to this day. Their techniques combined non-irrigation farming relying on the annual floods of the Yaqui River and, in areas where flooding was less predictable, ditch-based irrigation. Maize, beans, amaranth and squashes were the primary aboriginal food crops, and gourds and cotton provided useful commodities. Jesuit missionaries added wheat and several fruit crops to the mix. As was typical for indigenous American farmers, hunting and gathering of wild resources remained important aspects of the food economy. Because the fertile Yaqui River Valley often generated agricultural surpluses, the Yoeme traded both craft goods and foods with neighboring peoples.
The religion that underlay Yoeme culture before contact with European invaders is today difficult to describe (Shorter 2008). This is because near constant
interaction between indigenous practices and Catholic missionizing since the 16th century have blended Christian beliefs with traditional practices to produce a hybrid that reflects both Catholic and pre-contact influences (Spicer 1983, 255). At the base, however, is the belief that the natural and the spiritual worlds are closely linked and that those links are important determinants of human action. This view of the world goes back to origin times, before the ethno-genesis of the Yoeme themselves, to when animals and people were connected by spirit and could speak amongst themselves. The human-like members of this ancestral community were the Surem, small folk who inhabited the world before the Yoeme came to be. The world itself was multidimensional, composed of as many as nine realms or aniam: a dream world, night world, wilderness world, enchanted world, corn cob world, and flower world, along with heaven, hell, and purgatory, the latter concepts perhaps reflecting assimilated Catholic concepts (Shorter 2008, 1781). All of these worlds were inhabited by powerful spiritual entities, but one animal, the deer, crossed over among the worlds, being born in the enchanted world, living in the wilderness world, and dancing on behalf of the Yoeme in the flower world where life-giving forces like water and weather were located.
The deer is a central focus of the materialization of Yoeme beliefs about the structure of the world, as the deer dances across realms for the people and ultimately is materialized in several ways by the Yoeme themselves (Fig. 1.2). Yoeme ritual comprises numerous public and private dances, often employing a pantheon of masked characters today including animals wild and domestic, spirit beings, and Catholic saints and demons. The deer is among the most important, with dances and rituals devoted to materializing the deer’s pathway between worlds and articulating the spiritual knowledge that journey generates (Shorter 2008). A rich material culture is associated with the deer dances, including regalia and paraphernalia. Ritual space is consecrated and organized to reflect the structure of the realms entered and connected by the deer. After contact and the beginnings of Catholic conversion, the deer dance and other pre-contact ceremonies were
Fig. 1.2 Yoeme Deer
Dancer. After Maaso (1993). Used by permission of Journal of the Southwest.
conflated with Catholic calendars and rituals, and the deer dance began to be performed during the Lenten season as part of the Pasquola rites associated with Yoeme people today. This is why they are sometimes called “Easter People.” There are strong connections between the realms of the world past and present, the human and spiritual actors that inhabit and move through those worlds, and the cultural landscape of the Yoeme people.
In an important study of culture and landscape, Kirstin Erickson (2008) argues that the Yoeme homeland itself is integral to cultural identity because it is “saturated with the past … a space dually characterized by apprehension and longing, a landscape that is both enchanted and haunted” (Erickson 2008, 57).
The land is rife with memories, including locations and associations related to the 400-year cultural and military conflicts with the Spanish, but the connections go deeper into the past. Across the Yoeme homeland are numerous yohoarum, or “enchanted homes” which are gateways to other realms, portals to valuable esoteric knowledge that can be important to Yoeme material and spiritual wellbeing (Erickson 2008, 57). These places are located both in the wilderness beyond Yoeme settlements (specific caves, mountains, waterholes, and other locales) or in plazas, streets, buildings, within Yoeme communities. Thus, Yoeme beliefs are materialized both in ritual and its accouterments and by incorporating historical memories and cultural understandings into what Erickson calls “a landscape layered with intense cultural meanings” (2008, 57). Landscape for the Yoeme materializes religion in a phenomenological sense (Tilley 1994, 11); it is experienced as a palimpsest of natural features, magic spirits, enchantment, history, memory, and profane activity. It is not possible to examine Yoeme culture without taking their cultural landscape into account.
Beneath the Starry Arch (The Classic Maya, Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Belize)
Perhaps the most famous of all Native New World cultures is that of the Maya, who inhabited the tropical lowlands and adjacent highlands of southern Mesoamerica and who developed a civilization unsurpassed in its richness and complexity. Our understanding of Maya concepts about and experiences of the spiritual world is also richer than for any other Native American culture because they developed a writing system that was finally deciphered, after years of study, in the 1960s and 1970s (Proskouriakoff 1960; 1963; 1964). Maya writing recorded the culture’s very ideas about itself, its history, cosmology, philosophy, and hegemony (Schele and Freidel 1990), providing a rich basis for scholarship on Maya views about humanity’s place in the spiritual and natural world (Freidel et al. 1995).
According to Coe (2011), the Maya were at the base agriculturalists, although with the development of complex societies there were myriad other roles and activities incorporated into their economic systems including trade, scribes, military conquest and tribute, and manufacturing, i.e., the doings of civilized peoples. Maize was the most important crop, but the Maya grew a range of other plants as well. They had a varied agricultural technology that included swidden
agriculture in the forests, terraced fields in the highlands, and raised-bed farming with water-control canal systems in those lowland areas that saw frequent flooding. Along the coasts, Maya were a sea-faring people and exploited marine resources. In all areas, they also hunted for a variety of game and wild plant foods in the forests surrounding their settlements. Maya settlements, of course, were varied, ranging from small dispersed villages and hamlets to the famous massive urban centers that served as political and ceremonial foci for the surrounding hinterlands (Coe 2011). Ruled by dynasties of hereditary kings, these centers were organized into political alliances that rose and collapsed over time, were constantly in competitive flux, and were partial to military conquest (Schele and Freidel 1990). At the core of Maya politics and social organization, however, was religion, a focus that engaged all Maya and that served as the foundation and warrant for Maya life, including political structure, kingship, marriage and life history, activity organization and scheduling (Freidel et al. 1995).
We know from deciphered Maya texts that they,
“… defined the physical world as the material manifestation of the spiritual and the spiritual as the essence of the material. For them, the world of experience manifested itself in two complementary dimensions. One dimension was the world in which they lived out their lives and the other was the abode of the gods, ancestors, and other supernatural beings.” (Schele and Freidel 1990, 65)
Importantly, the two dimensions, natural and supernatural, were “interlocked,” with the denizens of each influencing actions and events in the other. The boundaries between the worlds were permeable, and the Maya kings could cross between the worlds on behalf of all Maya people to influence both sacred and profane events (Schele and Freidel 1990, 65–70 et passim).
The Maya cosmos was composed of three levels: the Starry Arch above that formed the celestial realm, the Middle World where the Maya lived and where their divine kings ensured productivity and abundance, and the Underworld, Xibalba, a watery karst realm of darkness that rotated into the sky at sundown to become the night sky. These levels were structured in three dimensions, with the cardinal directions providing the “fundamental grid” for the Middle World, each with its designated color and each terminating at a tree at the edge of the world. In the center, the “World Tree” grew out of Xibalba, through the Middle World, into the sky, an axis mundi that defined the relationship among the levels as threedimensional with each level having characteristics and structures like the others (Schele and Freidel 1990, 66–7). This tree, the wacahchan, could be materialized anywhere on the landscape, although it was most importantly, “materialized in the person of the king, who brought it into existence as he stood enthralled in ecstatic visions atop his pyramid-mountain” (Schele and Freidel 1990, 68). Thus, the supernatural landscape was joined to the natural landscape in various landforms and with various connecting pathways – mountains, caves, water sources, trees –and was materialized through rituals carried out by Maya kings.
According to Karen Bassie-Sweet, mountains were physical manifestations of specific primary gods (2008, 10), and mountains so-identified were combined with water and caves to materialize the Maya origin story, Popol Vuh (Bassie-Sweet
2008, 239 et passim) in one region of modern Guatemala. According to the origin narrative, there was a place of duality before the creation of the world, filled with still water and inhabited by the creator ancestors (Tedlock 1996). The earth rose from this pool, and the creator ancestors lived in a house at the center of the new world within the waters of the place of duality. Eventually, the ancestors rose into the sky, leaving their house with its three-hearthstone fireplace behind. Their children, who remained behind, are characters in subsequent parts of the Maya creation narratives.
Bassie-Sweet believes that the places described in the Popol Vuh creation have specific ties to actual locations in what today is highland Guatemala (Bassie-Sweet 2008, 241). For her, the pool of duality was Lake Atitlan, a lake surrounded by three volcanoes, Volcan Toliman, Volcan San Pedro, and Volcan Atitlan, which represent the three hearthstones in the abandoned dwelling of the creation ancestors. In the Popol Vuh, hearthstones shoot out of a fireplace to destroy one group of created beings, just as stones and fire spew from volcanoes when they erupt (Tedlock 1996, 236). Christenson (cited in Bassie-Sweet 2008, 242) says that the Maya living today around Lake Atitlan explicitly link the waters of the lake to the waters of creation from which all things emerged.
Bassie-Sweet goes on to argue that the materialized spiritual landscape of creation around Lake Atitlan is further transcribed through architecture in the ancient Maya city of Palenque (2008, 244–6). At Palenque, three temple pyramids form the “Palenque Cross Group,” and each of the pyramids represents a mountain and one of the three hearthstones of the creation ancestors’ house at the center of the world (Fig. 1.3). For Bassie-Sweet, the Temple of the Cross is linked by its aspect and position to Volcan Toliman, and the Temple of the Foliated Cross is similarly linked to Volcan Atitlan; the two mountains are linked in nature by a saddleback ridge and at Palenque by a terrace. Volcan San Pedro is separated from the other two volcanos by Lake Atitlan, and the Palenque Temple of the Sun is located away from the other two pyramids across the plaza. Bassie-Sweet suggests that when monsoon rains flooded the low-lying plaza, a pool or lake would have formed in the center of the three pyramids, replicating the natural situation around Lake Atitlan. As Schele, Freidel, Looper, and many others have argued, the ceremonial architecture itself was a stage for religious performances by kings who sought to connect with and cross the boundaries between sacred and profane worlds through ritual activities (Freidel et al. 1995; Looper 2009; Schele and Freidel 1990). These performances also recounted specific portions of sacred narratives through dance and music.
Thus, the Maya creation story was materialized by specific references in the natural world, and the natural world, in turn, was materialized in the configuration of sacred buildings. The reference to the creation story from the Popol Vuh cited here is only one aspect of Mayan sacred narratives, and many other aspects were materialized in architecture, given locations in nature, and sacred landscapes were formed by the conjoining of the two. Caves also had a host of mythical references and were also used by kings for ritual performances of engagement with the sacred realms (Bassie-Sweet 1996; Brady and Prufer 2005; Stone 1995). And the Starry Arch above had its own cast of characters, including the risen creator ancestors, who
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»Hyvin, hyvinpä tietenkin. Poika kasvaa ja varttuu. On kohta
Väylänpään
Eemelin kokoinen, vaikka on kolme vuotta nuorempi.»
»Vai niin vankka, vaikka seitsenkuisena syntyi.»
Leenastiina silmäsi Portaankorvaan, ymmärtäisikö tämä siitä mitään.
Mutta ei näyttänyt ymmärtävän.
»Taitaa pysyä isänsä näköisenä niinkuin ennenkin?»
Taas vilahti akan silmissä, ja Aapo rypisti vaimolleen kulmiaan, että: »ole tuossa!»
Portaankorva pääsi taas mieliaineeseensa: poikaansa kehumaan.
Ja hän selitti kaikki koulunkäynnit ja viimeksi sen, mitä Suomen maisterikin oli sanonut, — isänsä näköisenä oli pitänyt. Vielä selitteli hän, että aikoi pojan kouluttaa papiksi, piispa kun oli kehoittanut.
»Karoliina on vähän vastaan… kaiketi luulee, että varat kesken loppuvat, he-he-he…»
Hän nauroi sille niin että hytkyi.
»Taitaisi Karoliinan mieleen olla, että Oskarista tulisi Suomen puolelle pappi…»
Silloin Portaankorva tulistui.
»Ei, helvetti vieköön, tule minun pojastani Suomen puolelle pappia… ryssiä ja perkeleitä palvelemaan… sen minä sanon!»
Aapo heristi nyrkkiään akalle, ja akka ymmärsi pitää suunsa kiinni.
Huomisaamuna oli Aapon määrä tulla patoamaan. Portaankorva otti pulleasta lompakostaan setelin käsirahaksi Aapolle.
»Siinä on, jotta sitten on varma, että tulet.»
»Varma on», vakuutti toinen ja pisti rahan taskuunsa.
Portaankorvan ei ollut tapana joutilaana kauan kylässä viipyä ja nytkin hän alkoi päivitellä, että meni monta tuntia taas tällä matkalla… tässä jaaritellessa.
Sitten hän läksi kiireesti kävellen lauttahaminaan päin, johon oli veneensä jättänyt.
Kun Vankan Aapo vaimoineen oli jäänyt kahdenkesken, sanoi Leenastiina:
»Ei sillä ole aavistustakaan, kuinka asia on… Ettei se itse hoksaa ja näe…»
»Hyvä on, ettei näe… Taitaisi siinä tulla ikävä elämä Karoliinalle, jos Aapeli asian perille pääsisi.»
»On se Karoliina saattanut sen silmät pimittää ja yhä saattaa… eikä se siitä miehekseen olisi huolinutkaan, jos ei olisi varmaan tiennyt, että sen pettää saattaa…»
»Oli miten oli, mutta hyvä olisi, että rauha säilyisi… Äläkä sinäkään viittaa sinnepäin… Mitä se sinuun kuuluu.»
»Luuletko sen uskovan, vaikka suoraan sanoisin, että täytetyn puolikon otit, kun Karoliinan otit… ei uskoisi…»
»Ole siinä!»
»Ja kun se tihrusilmä ja räkänokka vielä kuvittelee poikaa näköisekseen! Varmaan sitä ihmiset miehissä valehtelevat…»
»Koko asia ei kuulu sinuun… Eihän siitä kylällä kukaan puhu…»
»Ei puhu, mutta kun puhe tulee, niin kaikki tietävät…»
»Siihen se unehtuu koko asia, kun vain sinä osaat pitää suusi kiinni.»
»Minun puolestani kyllä saapi olla, ja hyvä olisi Karoliinan ja pojankin vuoksi, ettei se koskaan saisi tietoonsa…»
»No niin. Ole sitten hiljaa äläkä ota puheeksi.»
* * * * *
Silloin kun Karoliina lopulta suostui Portaankorvaan emännäksi lähtemään, liikkui jo huhuja monenlaisia, ja kun sitten syntyi poika seitsenkuukautisen avioliiton perästä, uskoi moni, että pojan isä olikin kesällä Väylänpäässä majaillut maisteri. Eikä huhu ollut vieläkään vaiennut, vaikka asiasta hyvin harvoin puhuttiin. Näinä viime vuosina ei siitä juuri ollut puhuttu mitään, eikä Karoliina itsekään ollut siitä kuullut kuin joskus salaisen viittauksen.
Ruotsin puolelle ei huhu ollut sanottavasti levinnytkään.
Kotiin päin palatessa johtuivat Portaankorvan mieleen taas Vanten puheet. Mutta niin lujaan uskoon oli hän jo tullut siitä, että oli pojan isä, ettei hän sitä asiaa epäillytkään. Mutta hänelle johtui mieleen, että Karoliinalla niihin aikoihin oli ollut muitakin kosijoita, ja yksin jo se asia häntä harmitti. — Olisi tullut heti kun kävin ensi kerran
pyytämässä, ei olisi tätäkään… Karoliinan on syy… kun sitten lopulta kuitenkin suostui, taloon tuli ja sanoi: nyt pappilaan…
Kun hän pääsi puoliväylään, tapasi hänet villi ajatus, ja ensimmäinen epäilys sävähti hänen mieleensä. Se tunne tuli niin voimakkaana, että hän kiskoi airoista kuin mielipuoli.
»Saatanan helvetti… saatanan helvetti», hoki hän ja souti vastavirtaan, veneen mutkitellessa sinne tänne.
Ei kertaakaan ollut hän sitä tullut ajatelleeksi, ja poikaa oli hän niin rakastanut…
Mutta kun hän pääsi rannalle, oli hänen vihansa taas lauhtunut ja hän käsitti, että kiusasi itseään turhaan. Taikka piru kiusasi häntä, juuri niinkuin Jumalan sanassa sanottiin…
Ja turha kunnianhimo, joka häntä oli elähdyttänyt jo monta vuotta, sai voiton äskeisestä epäilyksestä. Ei, hänen se on poikansa, ja pappi siitä tehdään… Piispa ja nyt tämä kansakouluntarkastaja viimeksi siihen kehoittivat, olkapäälle taputellen. Oskari on ensimmäinen pappi, joka täältä rajamaalta…
Semmoista poikaa ei ole koko jokivarrella», oli piispa kehunut.
»Semmoisia miehiä juuri täällä rajalla tarvitaan.» — Ja kaiken hyvän lisäksi oli ehdottanut, että pojalle annettaisiin ruotsalainen nimi: Abelsson, se on Aapelinpoika. Ja Abelsson on nyt Oskari…
Muisti kuinka piispa poikaa hyvästellessä kätteli ja koko nimeltä puhutteli näin:
»Jaha, min gosse Oskar Gustaf Adolf Abelsson…»
Ja sitten hän vielä hymähti ja suomeksi sanoi Aapeliin kääntyen:
»Siitä pojasta on teille iloa ja kunniaa.»
Kaikki olisi ollut hyvin, mutta Karoliina ei ottanut osaa hänen eikä piispan iloon.
— Samanlainen lautapää kuin veljensäkin, Väylänpää.
Niin ajatteli hän silloin, ja piispan poistuttua hän sen sanoi vaimolleenkin, ja samoin nyt, kun kotiin päin mennessä asiaa muisteli.
Hän käveli rantapolkua pitkin, joka törmänhamaraa myöten johti kylältä.
Saunan luona oli kylän poikia harreja onkimassa, ja Oskarikin oli joukossa. Aapeli kuuli poikain puhuvan keskenään jostakin juhlasta, mutta ei saanut selvää mistä. Mutta yhtään ruotsalaista sanaa ei kukaan lausunut.
»Puhukaa te ruotsia keskenännekin, niinkuin opettaja on käskenyt, ettei kesän aikana unhotu», sanoi hän seisahtuen törmälle poikien onkimista katsomaan.
»Viis siitä, mitä 'Fyyfinska' käskee», murahti yksi pojista, mutta isäntä ei kuullut, mitä hän sanoi.
Pojat jäivät ongelle, isäntä käveli pihaan. Hänellä oli mielessään monenlaisia töitä, jotka koskivat huomenna alkavaa patoamista, ja hän mietti, mihin ensiksi ryhtyisi.
Hän kävi pirttiin. Siellä ei ollut ketään. Hän kaipasi emäntää ja lähti kamariin, mutta kamarin ovella tulikin Karoliina vastaan.
»Nytkö sinä jo palasit? Pianpa sinä…»
Karoliina käveli hänen ohitsensa pirttiin. Hän seurasi perässä. Yhtäkkiä hän taas muisti, mitä oli kuullut, ja hänen sisässään jo leimahti. Hän silmäsi emäntää. Karoliina tuntui näennäisesti tyyneltä, mutta katse, jonka hän mieheensä loi, oli vimmaa täynnä. Isäntä ei sitä huomannut. Huomasi vain sen, että Karoliina oli komea emäntä, lihonut paljon sittenkun tähän taloon, tuli.
»Tapasin meidän entisen Vantten lauttahaminassa», sanoi hän.
»Vai tapasit…»
»Tapasin. Ärsytteli minua ja sai niin suuttumaan, että hengen olisin ottanut, jos olisi ase sattunut käteeni…»
Karoliina alkoi aavistaa asiaa. Hänestä oli heti ensi silmänräpäyksellä näyttänyt miehen muoto erilaiselta kuin tavallisesti. Hän kuuli sydämensä lyövän nopeammin, mutta koetti kaikki voimansa panna liikkeelle, ettei hämmentyisi.
»Vai sillä lailla… se vanha kelmi…»
»Joo», sanoi isäntä pitkään. »Sakkoon sen siitä saisi, jos tahtoisi… Kun kehtasi sanoa, ettei Oskari ole minun tekemäni, että häälahjana on emäntä sen taloon tuonut…»
Ilme emännän kasvoilla ei muuttunut vähääkään, ja vaikka hän olisikin vähän punastunut tai muuten hämmästynyt, ei sitä isäntä olisi huomannut.
»No sen arvaa, että semmoinen mies kuin Vantte hoksaa vaikka mitä…»
Emäntä koetti nauraa ja ihmetteli itsekin, että se kävi niin luonnollisesti.
»No mitä sinä siihen?» kysyi hän ja katsoi nyt avonaisesti miestään silmiin.
»Hengiltä olisin lyönyt, jos ase olisi käteeni sattunut.»
»Olipa onni, ettei ollut toki asetta…»
Onnihan se kuitenkin oli», myönsi isäntäkin, mutta sanoi heti perään, sieraimet laajeten ja silmät välähtäen:
»Pilkkasi se muutenkin…»
»Tietää sen… Se on Vanttekin jo niin jätkän koulua käynyt, että on kaikki oppinut.»
»Niin on, vaan jos kohtaan, niin pään halkaisen…»
Mutta sitten hän yhtäkkiä näytti muistavan jotakin ja läksi ulos.
»Huomenna ruvetaan patoamaan!» sanoi hän ovella mennessään.
Emäntä pelkäsi hänen pian tulevan takaisin ja pääsevän villiin intoonsa. Hän koetti rauhoittua, mutta nyt vasta pelästyikin. Oikein häntä ihmetytti, että äsken oli saattanut niin tyynenä olla.
Mihinkähän se meni? Uskoikohan se vai eikö? Kuinka sen silmät pyörivät päässä ja leukalihakset tärisivät!
Emäntä kuunteli henkeään pidättäen, kuuluisiko hänen
askeleitaan…
Jotakin kolahti porstuassa…
»Herra Jumala! Nyt se hakee kirvestä! Tai jos hakee Oskaria!»
Hän alkoi vavista ja tunsi semmoista voimattomuutta, ettei koskaan ennen.
Korva kuunteli… sydän löi, eikä hän päässyt paikaltaan istumasta…
Silloin hän kuuli jonkun pihalla hakkaavan, ja kun silmäsi ulos, näki hän Aapelin veistämässä patovaajaa.
Hän rauhoittui, mutta vain hetkeksi.
Se, mitä Karoliina oli koko naimisissaolonsa ajan pelännyt, näytti alkavan toteutua.
Aapeli oli alkanut epäillä. Ja vaikka hän ei mitään ollut puhunut niinä päivinä, joina patoa lyötiin, näki emäntä, että hän iltaisin katseli Oskaria pitempään ja tarkemmin kuin ennen, ja kun aikansa oli poikaa tarkastanut, niin silmäsi sitten häneen.
— Vielä se ei usko, mutta sitä se miettii, ja jos vielä joku herjaa niinkuin Saviojan Vantte, niin ei tiedä, miten käy…
Emäntä teki huomioitaan joka päivä, mutta ilokseen hän havaitsi, että Aapeli alkoi poikaa hyväillä niinkuin ennenkin ja puhua papiksi tulemisesta.
Kun pato saatiin kuntoon ja lohia alkoi tulla, näytti Aapelilta kaikki unohtuneen.
Mutta sitä enemmän mietti emäntä. Hänellä oli, maisterin ollessa talossa, syntynyt ajatus, joka päivä päivältä oli varttunut ja vahvistunut ja päässyt oikein voimaansa nyt, kun tiesi mitä Aapeli mietiskeli. Joka päivä hän eli kuin tulisessa tuskassa ja säpsähti joka
kerta, kun Aapeli tuli näkösälle. Onneksi ei Aapeli lohenpyynnin aikana käynyt kertaakaan Suomen puolella ja hyvin harvoin kylälläkin, eikä talossakaan käynyt muita kuin outoja lauttamiehiä, jotka ostelivat karjan antia ja tuoretta kalaa.
Mutta emännän levottomuus ja pelko kasvoivat päivä päivältä. Hän ei uskaltanut istua yksin pirtissä eikä kamarissakaan aikeitaan miettimässä. Siellä oli liian ahdasta. Hän turvausi kesänavettaan, joka oli taloa alempana, lähellä Isoakoskea. Iltaisin hän lähti pyttyineen jo paljon aikaisemmin kuin lehmät tulivat, sanoen lehtiä suorivansa…
Navetta oli talvisinkin ollut hänen turvapaikkansa, jossa sai mietteensä miettiä, itkunsa itkeä. Mutta kesänavetalla oli lisäksi se etu, että siihen aivan navetan ovelle näkyivät Isonkosken valkoiset laineet ja kuului lakkaamaton pauhu ja tohina. Siitä näki suurien lauttain vajoavan kosken korkeihin laineisiin, niin ettei hetken aikaan näkynyt yhtään miestä. Joskus sentään vilahti kuohujen keskeltä punainen pusero tai musta hattu.
Se tohina ja se lakkaamaton pauhu helpottivat. Hänen oli helpompi miettiä, kun sitä kuunteli ja näki suoraan koskeen. Tohina ja pauhu hivelivät korvaa, silmää ilahdutti hyökyjen myllerrys ja levoton hyppely Ajatukset tuntuivat selvemmiltä, ja sydän ikäänkuin vahvistui.
Hän oli koko ajan aavistanut, että kerran se saa siitä tiedon, ja silloin… Sitä hän oli miettinyt kesät talvet, yöt päivät, ja miettinyt pojan pelastusta. Sillä hän aavisti, oli varmakin siitä, että poikaan se ensimmäisen vihansa kohdistaisi, poikaan, jota oli omakseen uskonut ja vaalinut ja rakastanut… Jahka se varmasti uskoo, ettei
poika olekaan hänen — vaan kenties kenen kulkurin — silloin sen viha ei rajoja tunne, ja murskaksi se pojan lyö…
Jos olisikin siitä varma, että se järjettömän vihansa kohdistaisi häneen eikä poikaan, sitten ei niin suurta pelkoa olisi… Mutta juuri se, että hän jo tunsi tuon kummallisen, vähäjärkisen miehen ajatusten juoksun, vahvisti häntä siinä uskossa, että se silmittömässä suuttumuksessaan ei muistaisi häntä, syyllistä, vaan puskisi kaiken hullun villivihansa viattomaan poikaan…
Mutta nyt hän luuli keksineensä pelastuksen. Se oli niinä päivinä, jotka maisteri majaili talossa, hänen mieleensä juolahtanut. Silloin juuri, kun oli maisterilla kuullut, että hän eli, oli virassa ja tuli hyvin toimeen. Mutta vasta näinä päivinä, nyt patoamisen aikana, oli se päätökseksi vahvistunut. Oli tehnyt mieli maisterilta paljon muutakin kysellä, mutta ei uskaltanut, kun ei tiennyt mitä mieltä maisteri oli. Olisi ehkä pitänyt hänen ajatuksiaan hulluutena, uhkarohkeana yrityksenä… olisi, kieltänyt eikä kehoittanut…
Nyt hän oli punninnut asiaa sinne tänne ja päätös oli kasvanut lujaksi.
Oskarin oli saatava tietää, kuka hänen isänsä oli, ja sitten salaa poistuttava, ensin Suomen puolelle, sitten pois — oikeaa isäänsä hakemaan…
Semmoinen oli hänen päätöksensä.
Nyt oli kuitenkin lisäksi tullut pelko siitä, että Aapeli voisi minä hetkenä hyvänsä kiljaista: Eihän Oskari olekaan minun poikani!
Siinä sitten olisi pojan loppu ja siinä hänenkin…
Vielä se ei uskonut, mutta sen silmistä näkyi, että sitä asiaa se mietti.
Onneksi oli padonlyönti käynyt hyvin, ja kalansaalis oli runsas. Isäntä puuhaili hyvällä tuulella ja näytti lavertelevan pojan kanssa niinkuin ennenkin.
Kun ei nyt kukaan sitä ärsyttäisi. Kun ei kukaan sitä herjaisi siitä. Kun se ei menisi Suomen puolelle eikä jätkien kanssa riitelemään.
Hän istui kivelle lähelle kesänavetan ovea. Siitä hän näki suoraan eteensä koskelle ja taakseen hymyilevään koivikkoon, jonka läpi karjapolku toi navetalle. Mutta talosta ei näkynyt mitään. Korea männikkö ja koivikko olivat siinä talon ja navetan välissä.
Tyyni oli ilta, Pohjolan loistavimpia, sillä juhannus alkoi olla käsissä.
Hän oli siinä istunut pitkän aikaa. Kuunteli ensin, kuuluiko kelloja metsästä, ja unohtui sitten mietteisiinsä. Merkillistä oli hänestä, että sittenkun hän oli saanut päätöksensä valmiiksi, hänestä tuntui niinkuin kosken ääni olisi muuttunut. Ei siinä enää erottanut semmoista valittavaa uikutusta kuin ennen, se tohisi ja huusi nytkin, mutta sen äänessä oli varmuutta ja itseluottamusta, niinkuin se olisi tiennyt, mistä tullaan ja mihin ollaan menossa. Ah! Se oli aivan hänen oman sydämensä ääni nyt! Se ei itkenyt puristettuna jään alle… eivätkä hänenkään sydämensä tunteet nyt sulloutuneet yhteen sopukkaan, vaan ajatukset risteilivät ja lensivät ympäri maailmaa.
Vapauteen Oskari, Suomeen, isänmaahansa!
Hänenkin oli sitten helpompi elää, kun tiesi pojan olevan turvassa.
Ja hän syventyi miettimään Oskarin pakomatkan yksityisseikkoja.
Kaiken täytyi olla edeltäpäin harkittua ja valmiina, kaiken tuli tapahtua kuin unessa…
Hänen kasvoillaan kuvastui päättävä ilme, ja jonkunlainen riemu täytti hänen sydämensä, kun hän mietiskeli yrityksen onnistumista.
Silloin hän kuuli tulevan askeleita ja puhelua koivikosta etempää, polulta päin, joka johti talosta navetalle, mutta tulijoita, jotka olivat vielä lehvistön peitossa, ei hän nähnyt.
Hän säpsähti ja nousi ja alkoi jotakin toimitella. Mutta tulijat olivatkin vain Oskari ja Manta. Oskari käveli edellä, ahavoituneena, punaposkisena ja iloisena.
»Isä käski äidin tulla kotia… on saatu monta suurta lohta… että Manta jääpi navetalle», sanoi Oskari.
Emäntä alkoi lähteä.
»Oliko keitään vieraita?» kysäisi hän mennessään Mantalta.
»Tuli sinne Suomen puolelta lohen ostajia», vastasi Manta.
Emäntä ja Oskari lähtivät. Oskari juoksi edellä.
Ei vielä! ei vielä! mietti emäntä. Vielä ei ole kaikki valmiina, mutta sitten vasta sanon…
»Oskari, Oskari!» huusi hän pojan perään. »Älä jätä!» Oskari seisahtui odottamaan.
»Onko isä ollut pahalla tuulella?» kysyi hän pojalta.
»Hyvänä on ollut… sanoi, ettei ole ollut näin hyvää lohensaalista moneen kesään…»
Kun he saapuivat siihen kohtaan, jossa polku poikkesi metsästä ihan törmälle, melkein Isonkosken niskaan, ja josta näköala avautui suomenpuoliselle rannalle, sanoi Karoliina:
»Katsos, tuolla on Suomi… Muistatko sitä laulua siinä laulukirjassa:
'Oi Suomi, isän, äidin maa…'?»
»Muistan minä», vastasi Oskari tullen äitinsä viereen seisomaan.
Aivan heidän jalkainsa juuressa pauhasi koski, pyörryttävän jyrkän rantatörmän alla.
»Etkö tahtoisi Suomeen?»
Hän katsahti poikaa silmiin. Poika loi häneen pitkän, kysyvän katseen.
»Tahtoisin minä, mutta isä ei päästä…»
»Ehkä pääsetkin Suomeen, mutta älä puhu mitään kenellekään… et mitään, mitä äiti sanoo…»
Oskari näytti ymmärtävän, virkkoi:
»Ettäkö ei isä saisi tietää…»
»Niin, ja muutenkin. Muista nyt!»
Pojan silmänurkassa vilahti jotakin semmoista ilmettä, josta äidin mieleen juolahti ajatus, että ehkä poika jotakin tai jostakin aavistaa.
Suuri tukkilautta samassa tulla keikkui, läheni rantaa siinä, missä he seisoivat, ja melkein hipaisi kalliota. Sivumennessä heilautti muuan hattuaan, airon ponnessa seisten, ja huusi jotakin. Karoliina ei kuullut, mitä hän huusi, mutta miehen hän tunsi: se oli Saviojan Vanne.
»Lähdemme nyt», sanoi hän, ja omituinen pelko taas kouristi sydäntä.
Kun he saapuivat pihaan, saivat he kuulla, että äskeinen lautta oli ollut laskemaisillaan suoraan patoon, mutta eivät olleet uskaltaneet, kun isäntä oli sattunut olemaan törmällä.
Kukaan ei ollut lautalla olevia miehiä tuntenut, eikä emäntäkään virkkanut näkemästään mitään.
Keskikesällä aikoivat Suomen puolen nuorisoseuralaiset viettää kesäjuhlaansa omassa talossaan »Nuorten mäellä». Siitä levisi tietoja Ruotsin puolellekin, jonka nuoriso oli hartaudella seurannut veljiensä ja sisariensa toimia ja usein ollut iltamiaan »Nuorten mäellä» viettämässä.
Perä-Pohjolankin nuoriso oli alkanut heräillä. Isänmaan asiat alkoivat olla silläkin huolena, ja se alkoi käsittää tehtäväänsä ja velvollisuuksiaan. Oma talo oli vähitellen saatu pystyyn, ja sen kurkihirren alla lämpenivät sydämet ja mielet virkistyivät.
Ruotsin puolen nuoret tahtoivat mukaan. Ja vaikka heille jäi arvoitukseksi ja hämäräksi se, mikä toisia yhteenliitti ja innostutti, viehätti yhdessäolo, leikit ja laulut, joista heitä vastaan lehahti lämmin tunne suloisin suomenkielin.
Aiotusta kesäjuhlasta oli jo kauan puhuttu Ruotsin puolellakin. Kerrottiin ohjelman tulevan rikkaamman ja vaihtelevamman kuin koskaan ennen. Puheen tuli pitämään kotikylän oma poika, seuran jäsen, vasta ylioppilaana kotia saapunut Väylänpään vanhin poika, Juhani. Hänestä kerrottiin paljasta hyvää sekä Ruotsin että Suomen
puolella. Koulun paras oppilas oli ollut ja loistavasti läpäissyt ylioppilastutkinnossa. Kuitenkin oli kelpo poika, jota ei joutava herruus vaivannut. Kesäisin oli aina kotonaan työtä tehnyt niinkuin muukin väki.
Ohjelmaan kuului lisäksi monenlaisia leikkejä, joita vartavasten oli juhlaa varten harjoitettu, kauniita kuvaelmia Kalevalasta ja Vänrikki Stoolista sekä paljon muuta hauskaa.
Väylänpään Juhani, joka nyt vasta oli ylioppilaslakki päässään kotiin palannut, ei ollut usein Portaankorvassa käynyt. Karoliina-täti ei ollut häntä nähnyt moneen vuoteen, vaikka nuorempi poika Eemeli oli usein kesälläkin soudellut Portaankorvaan ja välistä uistinretkellä viipynyt yötäkin talossa.
Elämä Portaankorvassa meni entistä menoaan. Isännällä oli omat kiireelliset työnsä, ja emäntä sai hoitaa rauhassa omia tehtäviään. Mitään semmoista ei ollut tapahtunut, josta isäntä olisi saanut uutta aihetta epäilyksilleen.
Hän näyttikin ne jo unhottaneen. Mutta emäntä oli pannut merkille, että hän vieläkin tarkasteli poikaa. Kerran yöllä, kun oli tullut kotia ja luullut emännän nukkuvan, oli mennyt pojan viereen, peitettä nostanut ja pitkän aikaa poikaan katsonut…
Emännälle ei hän kuitenkaan ollut mitään virkkanut, ja emäntä sai rauhassa pakoa varten toimittaa minkä mitäkin. Sillä päätöksestään ei hän enää millään hinnalla aikonut luopua.
Näinä päivinä oli isäntä ollut vallan hyvällä tuulella. Emäntä käytti kerran tilaisuutta hyväkseen ja otti puheeksi Suomen puolella
pidettävän kesäjuhlan. Sinne hänkin tahtoisi mennä ja viedä Oskarinkin…
Hän oli uskonut isännän panevan vastaan, mutta merkillistä kyllä suostui tämä heti Karoliinan pyyntöön.
»Sano sinä sille veljesi pojalle, Juhanille, että ylioppilas siitä tulee meidän Oskaristakin, mutta tälle puolen rajaa…»
— Vai siitä paikasta nyt kenkä painaa, — ajatteli emäntä ja ymmärsi nyt, miksi isäntä niin mielellään oli Oskarinkin luvannut päästää, vaikka ennen aina oli vimmastunut jo siitäkin, että hän joskus talvella oli aikonut.
»Ja saatatpa sanoa, jos kohtaat Väylänpään väkeä, että ei meidän tarvitse kyläläisiin turvautua, jos poika koulutetaankin… eikä lyhene rakennus silti…»
»Kyllä sanon… Kyllä sanon…»
»No niin. Mutta muistakin sanoa.»
* * * * *
Kesäjuhlaa suosi erittäin kaunis ilma.
Leppoisa, ihanan lämmin sunnuntai-iltapäivä oli, kun ruotsinpuoliselta rannalta alkoi veneitä soutaa Suomen puolelle. Korkealla mäellä näkyi uljas nuorisoseuran talo, lippujen ja lehtipuiden keskellä.
Lauttahaminassa hoilasivat tukkilaiset, ja lauttoja laskettiin paraikaa. Mutta ylipyrkijät soutivat maihin ylemmäksi lauttahaminaa,
josta tie lähti suorana nousemaan »Nuorten mäkeen». Tulijat olivat enimmäkseen nuorta väkeä, poikia ja tyttöjä. Jossakin veneessä näkyi jokunen vanhempi nainen, mutta ikämiestä ei monta. Portaankorvan emäntä ja Oskari olivat päässeet naapurinsa Pikkukorvan veneessä, jossa oli talon poika ja kaksi tytärtä. Heistä ei yksikään ennen ollut käynyt »Nuorten mäellä», mutta nyt sattui niin hyvin, kertoivat he Karoliinalle, että isä ja äiti olivat menneet
Järvikylään vierailemaan, joten heidän nyt sopi…
»Väylänpään Juhani kuuluu pitävän puheen», kertoi nuorempi tytöistä, Kaisu. »Lieneekö hyvinkin ylpistynyt, sittenkun herraksi on tullut?»
»Ei toki. Suomenpuolelaiset kertoivat hänen olevan aivan samanlaisen kuin ennenkin», tiesi toinen tyttö.
Karoliina istui keskituhdolla ja Oskari etukeulassa. Karoliina ei kuunnellut, mitä nuoret keskenään puhelivat; ajatukset askartelivat muualla. Oskarin silmistä loisti ilo, ja kun hän katseli äitiään, meni suu nauruun.
— Ajatteleekohan se, että nyt mennään Suomeen, juolahti Karoliinalle mieleen, ja hän hymyili takaisin pojalle, nyykäytti päätään, tarkoittaen: Nyt menemme Suomeen, eikä ole mistään pelkoa.
Karoliinan kaikki ajatukset olivat näinä viikkoina olleet niin yhteen ainoaan asiaan kiintyneinä, että tuntui oikein oudolta muuta ajatellakaan. Vähitellen hän kuitenkin alkoi kuunnella, mitä nuoret puhuivat, mutta silloin he juuri saapuivat Suomen puolelle.
Rannalla oli muutamia tuttuja isäntiä ja emäntiä, joita Karoliina kätteli.
»Eipä sinua enää näy koskaan tällä rannalla… niinkö oletkin syntymäkyläsi unhottanut», sanoivat he.
»Eipä sitä jouda kylässä kulkemaan», vastasi Karoliina vältellen.
Kaikki he katselivat uteliaasti Oskaria.
Karoliina huomasi sen ja punastui.
He lähtivät nousemaan maihin ja tulivat tielle. Liput liehuivat »Nuorten mäen» suuren rakennuksen katolla, ja koivujen ja köynnöksien keskellä liikkui siellä nuorta kansaa edestakaisin.
Juuri tielle tullessa saapui paljon väkeä ylempää, ja Karoliina tunsi joukon jälessä kävelevän veljensä, Väylänpään isännän.
Veljen ja sisaren tervehtiminen oli vilpitöntä, ja veli olikin ainoa, joka tiesi Karoliinan salaisuuden, tiesi, että sisar avioliitossaan oli sangen onneton, ja tunsi Portaankorvan luonteen ominaisuudet.
Sisarukset olivat hyvin yhteen näköön, ja helposti tunsi heidät veljeksi ja sisareksi samanvärisestä tuuheasta tukasta ja silmien syvästä katseesta.
Veli katsahti Karoliinan silmiin. Tämä ymmärsi veljen katseen ja virkkoi:
»Siinä ne ovat sentään päivät kuluneet… vaikka eivät ne ilonpäiviä ole… Tässä on Oskari…»
Oskari kumarsi enolleen.
