Myth, Mythological Thinking and the Viking Age in Finland

SKS FLS Fibula, Fabula, Fact Laura Hirvi The Viking Age in Finland Edited by Joonas Ahola and Frog with Clive Tolley Studia Fennica Historica The Finnish Literature Society (SKS) was founded in 1831 and has, from the very beginning, engaged in publishing operations. It nowadays publishes literature in the ields of ethnology and folkloristics, linguistics, literary research and cultural history. he irst volume of the Studia Fennica series appeared in 1933. Since 1992, the series has been divided into three thematic subseries: Ethnologica, Folkloristica and Linguistica. Two additional subseries were formed in 2002, Historica and Litteraria. he subseries Anthropologica was formed in 2007. In addition to its publishing activities, the Finnish Literature Society maintains research activities and infrastructures, an archive containing folklore and literary collections, a research library and promotes Finnish literature abroad. Studia fennica editorial board Pasi Ihalainen, Professor, University of Jyväskylä, Finland Timo Kaartinen, Title of Docent, Lecturer, University of Helsinki, Finland Taru Nordlund, Title of Docent, Lecturer, University of Helsinki, Finland Riikka Rossi, Title of Docent, Researcher, University of Helsinki, Finland Katriina Siivonen, Substitute Professor, University of Helsinki, Finland Lotte Tarkka, Professor, University of Helsinki, Finland Tuomas M. S. Lehtonen, Secretary General, Dr. Phil., Finnish Literature Society, Finland Tero Norkola, Publishing Director, Finnish Literature Society, Finland Maija Hakala, Secretary of the Board, Finnish Literature Society, Finland Editorial Office SKS P.O. Box 259 FI-00171 Helsinki www.inlit.i Fibula, Fabula, Fact The Viking Age in Finland Edited by Joonas Ahola & Frog with Clive Tolley Finnish Literature Society • Helsinki Studia Fennica Historica 18 he publication has undergone a peer review. he open access publication of this volume has received part funding via Helsinki University Library. © 2014 Joonas Ahola, Frog, Clive Tolley and SKS License CC-BY-NC-ND 4.0 International A digital edition of a printed book irst published in 2014 by the Finnish Literature Society. Cover Design: Timo Numminen EPUB: Tero Salmén ISBN 978-952-222-603-7 (Print) ISBN 978-952-222-764-5 (PDF) ISBN 978-952-222-622-8 (EPUB) ISSN 0085-6835 (Studia Fennica) ISSN 1458-526X (Studia Fennica Historica) DOI: https://dx.doi.org/10.21435/sh.18 his work is licensed under a Creative Commons CC-BY-NC-ND 4.0 Internationa License. To view a copy of the license, please visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/ A free open access version of the book is available at https://dx.doi. org/10.21435/sh.18 or by scanning this QR code with your mobile device. Contents Preface฀฀ The฀Project,฀Goals,฀Methods฀and฀Outcomes฀฀8 Acknowledgements฀฀17 Introduction Joonas฀Ahola฀&฀Frog Approaching฀the฀Viking฀Age฀in฀Finland An฀Introduction฀฀21 Part I: Time Introduction฀฀87 Clive฀Tolley Language฀in฀Viking฀Age฀Finland An฀Overview฀฀91 Ville฀Laakso The฀Viking฀Age฀in฀Finnish฀Archaeology A฀Brief฀Source-Critical฀Overview฀฀104 Samuli฀Helama The฀Viking฀Age฀as฀a฀Period฀of฀Contrasting฀Climatic฀Trends฀฀117 Tuukka฀Talvio The฀Viking฀Age฀in฀Finland Numismatic฀Aspects฀฀131 5 Sirpa฀Aalto Viking฀Age฀in฀Finland?฀ Naming฀a฀Period฀as฀a฀Historiographical฀Problem฀฀139 Petri฀Kallio The฀Diversification฀of฀Proto-Finnic฀฀155 Part II: Space Introduction฀฀171 Jukka฀Korpela Reach฀and฀Supra-Local฀Consciousness฀in฀the฀Medieval฀฀ Nordic฀Periphery฀฀175 Mervi฀Koskela฀Vasaru Bjarmaland฀and฀Contacts฀in฀the฀Late-Prehistoric฀and฀ Early-Medieval฀North฀฀195 Jari-Matti฀Kuusela From฀Coast฀to฀Inland Activity฀Zones฀in฀North฀Finland฀during฀the฀Iron฀Age฀฀219 Teija฀Alenius Pollen฀Analysis฀as฀a฀Tool฀for฀Reconstructing฀Viking฀Age฀Landscapes฀฀242 Matti฀Leiviskä Toponymy฀as฀a฀Source฀for฀the฀Early฀History฀of฀Finland฀฀253 Denis฀Kuzmin The฀Inhabitation฀of฀Karelia฀in฀the฀First฀Millennium฀AD฀in฀the฀Light฀ of฀Linguistics฀฀269 Lassi฀Heininen,฀Joonas฀Ahola฀&฀Frog ‘Geopolitics’฀of฀the฀Viking฀Age?฀ Actors,฀Factors฀and฀Space฀฀296 Part III: People Introduction฀฀323 Sami฀Raninen฀&฀Anna฀Wessman Finland฀as฀a฀Part฀of฀the฀‘Viking฀World’฀฀327 6 Elina฀Salmela The฀(Im)Possibilities฀of฀Genetics฀for฀Studies฀of฀Population฀History฀฀347 Joonas฀Ahola Kalevalaic฀Heroic฀Epic฀and฀the฀Viking฀Age฀in฀Finland฀฀361 Kaisa฀Häkkinen Finnish฀Language฀and฀Culture฀of฀the฀Viking฀Age฀in฀Finland฀฀387 Johan฀Schalin Scandinavian–Finnish฀Language฀Contact฀in฀the฀Viking฀Age฀in฀the฀Light฀ of฀Borrowed฀Names฀฀399 Frog Myth,฀Mythological฀Thinking฀and฀the฀Viking฀Age฀in฀Finland฀฀437 Afterword Joonas฀Ahola,฀Frog฀&฀Clive฀Tolley Vikings฀in฀Finland?฀ Closing฀Considerations฀on฀the฀Viking฀Age฀in฀Finland฀฀485 List฀of฀Contributors฀฀502 Abstract฀฀503 Index฀of฀Cross-References฀between฀Chapters฀฀504 Index฀of฀Personal฀Names฀฀505 Index฀of฀Place฀Names฀฀507 General฀Index฀฀511 7 Frog Myth,฀Mythological฀Thinking฀฀ and฀the฀Viking฀Age฀in฀Finland M ythology holds an interest and relevance for many disciplines investigating prehistory. his is because mythology interfaces with numerous aspects of culture and cultural expression. he present chapter is intended to help non-specialists approach mythology and its utility in research on the Viking Age in Finland. It concentrates on folklore materials, limitations of the data and the navigation of problematic areas that arise from common assumptions about mythology or its sources. he Viking Age has held a special place in research on ‘Finnish’ mythologies. Referring to ‘Finnish’ mythology normally means FinnoKarelian or North Finnic mythologies generally. Not surprisingly, research in this area is the offspring of Romanticism, born in the heat of Nationalism. Alongside language, the longue durée of mythology established it as an area of research in discourse about cultural origins and heritage. Within this discourse, ‘mythology’ became a nexus of activity because it was viewed as a key to national ideologies. Modern identities were ‘Christian’ at that time: Europe had gradually become culturally and ideologically unified through Christianity with its enormous institutional mechanisms. National identitybuilding required an alternative model for unification, which was provided by turning to ethnic culture. he term nation, from the Latin verb nascor [‘to be born’], originally referred implicitly to common genetic origins. Romanticism took hold of vernacular mythology as a key to nation-building, providing resources from which the common and unifying ideology of the ethnos could be recovered and rebuilt – albeit rebuilt with a hat and tie rather than helmet and sword. Germanic cultures and scholarship provided a primary conduit through which Romantic ideals arrived in an emerging Finland. Along with these influences, the Viking Age became identified as a grand, illustrious era – an era of expansion and empire-building, when men were men, and women wore helmets too – and, indeed, the last era before the ethnos was smothered beneath a blanket of Christianity. 437 Frog Approaching฀Mythology he words myth and mythology are used in many ways, not all of them consistent. How these terms are used can affect how we think about things, especially when their meanings are taken for granted. Before turning to mythology in the Viking Age, it is worthwhile to preface discussion with an introduction to what this troublesome thing called ‘mythology’ actually is. A bit of space will be given to opening some problems and terms, and then to briefly outlining a semiotic approach to myth and mythology (semiotics being the science of signs and meanings) that allows these terms, handled loosely in popular discussion, to be defined and used for analytical discussion. he terms myth and mythology derive from Classical Greek. In spite of this noble heritage and global use, the terms are surprisingly young in most languages: myth is not attested as a word in English, for example, before the nineteenth century (OED: s.v. ‘myth’). he Classical Greek mythos [‘story’] and mythologia [‘story, storytelling’] did not mean ‘myth’ and ‘mythology’ as understood today. he Greek words were used for any stories or storytelling that was fantastic or for entertainment, and the category of mythos was opposed to the categories associated with truth, logic and knowledge (logos, historia). Modern derivatives of the term ‘myth’ are a product of Romanticism: ‘myth’ was taken up and reinvented as a term for a narrative about a god, gods, and/or otherwise describing the establishment or destruction of the present world order, that others mistakenly believe or once believed to be sacred truth. (See further e.g. Eliade 1963 [1968]: 1–2; Doty 2000: 4–30.) Put another way, the origin of the term ‘myth’ is rooted in a distinction between ‘us’ and ‘them’, between the authoritative, educated European elite who had Christianity – i.e. Scripture and sacred doctrine – and everyone else who only had ‘myths’ – untrue stories associated with their false religions. his basic paradigm soon developed a corresponding opposition of Eurocentric science versus ‘myth’ as the primitive alternative to science and scientific thinking – ‘us’ versus ‘them’. Quite simply, the term ‘myth’ was invented and constructed through Romanticism in order for Europeans to talk about ‘the other’. (See also Csapo 2004.) his is important to recognize because, although use of the term has significantly advanced in research, the ‘us’–‘them’ opposition remains embedded in the semantics of ‘myth’ in popular culture: ‘myth’ is used to refer to that which is ‘not scientific’ or ‘not Christian’; it is invariably bound up with a perspective of the user to refer to ‘a false belief that needs to be corrected’. his is particularly pronounced in the modern ‘myth of mythlessness’,1 which posits that ‘we’ have no myths today, and whenever ‘we’ discover myths that we do in fact have, these must be eradicated – a theme which has become the foundation of the popular television program Myth Busters. In research, the term ‘myth’ evolved in relation to philology and related disciplines of cultural studies. Owing to initial use of the term to refer specifically to ‘stories’ (Greek mythoi), the disciplinary development of ideal text-type categorization systems treated ‘myth’ as a genre like the fairytale, 438 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland belief legend, anthem or novel (see e.g. discussions in Bascom 1965; Honko 1989; Briggs & Bauman 1992). his approach was inclined to remove myth from communicative practices and correspondingly isolate or oppose ‘story’, as an ideal narrative, and ‘ritual’, as social activity, which together constituted ‘religion’. At the same time, the term ‘mythology’ advanced from variously a synonym for myth or a term for the art of interpreting myths (mytho-logy as ‘the study of myths’) to the term for a coherent collection of myths as texts, which could oten also include the supernatural and sacred aspects of the present world order. he Christian versus non-Christian opposition advanced to oppositions of science versus superstition and modern versus primitive, reinterpreting the fundamental ‘us’–‘them’ opposition from different (but still Eurocentric) perspectives. heories of mythology interpreted ‘myths’ as pre-scientific speculation, reflections of fundamental psychological tensions in society, and so forth, all in the search to explain it as a phenomenon (see Csapo 2004). his had the consequence that “religion was divested of its autonomy in human life and regarded as a mental illusion or as the product of social conditions” (de Vries 1967 [1977]: 221). It was seen as “essentially a human project to formulate a stable and meaningful dimension behind the accidental, chaotic, and shiting realities of human existence” (Bell 1997: 12).2 he latter half of the twentieth century brought comprehensive and revolutionary reassessments of these perspectives and approaches. Discussions on mythologies had started off with an inclination to reconstruct ‘myths’ as cultural heritage objects from the traces in diverse sources, reconstituting them from the dust of history. Identifying such reconstructions with a genre as an ideal text-type category was only relevant to a small part of any corpus or mythology and it was also focused on texts as objects removed from social realities. his led ‘myth’ to be used sometimes with reference to unattested stories that were only known through brief comments or allusions and presumed by scholars to have once been narrated. he academic production of a corpus of such myths was complemented by inclinations to see a mythology as a coherent system which included, for example, gods and cosmological images like the world pillar about which narratives were completely lacking. hus, ideas that a mythology was a system constituted of ‘myths’ (as stories) helped to reciprocally enable ‘myth’ to be used for any of a mythology’s constituents. Initially, this meant that, if a story was lacking, one could be reconstructed, but rather than simply talking about stories and rituals, increased attention began to be given to social practices and to how people think, perceive and understand. his approach highlighted mythological thinking, or how people think through a mythology. From this view, to adapt the phrase of Claude Lévi-Strauss (1962: 128), a mythology is constituted of things that are bonnes à penser [‘good(s) to think with’]. Early approaches to mythological thinking (e.g. Cassirer 1925) have been developed with attention to social processes and semiotics. In this light, mythology has been described as “a mode of signification” (Barthes 1972 [1957]: 109) or “idiom of expression” (Goodman 1993: 53) and “a form of knowing” (Doty 2000: 55–56, original emphasis). his corresponds 439 Frog to popular use of ‘myth’ to refer to beliefs of others that are untrue according to either mainstream thinking (e.g. it is a myth that there are honest lawyers) or scientific investigation3 (e.g. it is a myth that you can catch AIDS from a toilet seat). Narratives thus become only one small part of multiple interfaced systems of mythology that are used by people and socially negotiated (which includes e.g. ‘myth busting’). Rather than uniform ideal models, there is variation and even contestation in what are described as mythic discourse as the broad field of understandings and cultural activity of myths and the images, symbols, cultural practices and behaviours associated with them (Goodman 1993; Frog et al. 2012). Approaching mythology through mythological thinking and mythic discourse provides a valuable point of departure for relating mythology to data from different disciplines. Roland Barthes (1972 [1957]) described mythology in terms of naturalization – ‘myth’ is “overturning culture into nature or, at least, the social, the cultural, the ideological, the historical into the ‘natural’,” realizing “moral, cultural and aesthetic consequences […] as being a ‘matter of course’” (Barthes 1977 [1971]: 165). he vitality of a myth can be seen as the degree of naturalization, the degree to which the myth is simply an implicit understanding of physical, social and emotional realities (cf. Lakoff & Turner 1989; Doty 2000: 137–140) or “a set of unconsciously held, unexamined premises” (Jewett & Lawrence 1977: 17). Mythological thinking (i.e. thinking through myths) and analytical thinking can be considered extremes on a spectrum, a matter of degree between absolutes that can never be independently realized.4 his spectrum is connected to the vitality of myths and can be described in terms of a non-reflective apprehension of meaningfulness (i.e. when ‘recognizing’ something includes a package of valuations, associations, interpretations and possibly an emotional load) as opposed to objectified analysis and interpretation. According to this approach, myth can be broadly defined as a socially constructed nonreflective model for interacting with the world and interpreting experience (also used metonymically of those myths which have lost vitality), and ‘mythology’ can be used as general term for a dynamic cultural modelling system, constituted at the level of myths, that provides an essential core to cultural competence by infusing cultural practices with meaningfulness. In this broad sense, mythology can be considered a fundamental or foundational aspect of cultural identity. In other words, although there were continuities of language and culture through the process of conversion to Christianity, this model would suggest that Christian culture and so-called pre-Christian culture were also fundamentally different. his would also be consistent with evidence of diverse archaeological cultures that could simultaneously reflect a common language group (cf. Laakso; see also the discussion in Nordberg 2012). his approach has consequences for the use of terms: myth will not be used in the narrow sense of story; mythic will be used to qualify symbolic elements of the mythology that occur independent of narratives or in narratives and in other traditions that do not themselves belong to the mythology (e.g. legends, tales, rituals); the adjective mythological will be reserved for the sphere that exists outside of the present world order (e.g. 440 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland the creation of the world) and also for otherworld locations that cannot be accessed without supernatural power or assistance (e.g. the realm of the dead). his approach to myth avoids the issue of ‘belief ’, which is a personal, subjective interaction with the modelling system and not essential to effectively engaging a mythology nor even to manipulating it.5 It extends all of the way down to very fundamental levels of cognitive processing (cf. Lotman & Uspenskij 1976; Lakoff & Turner 1989: esp. 66), which can be practically distinguished as deep mythology. he inclusion of deep mythology in a coherent approach is important for several reasons. At the most basic, it provides a strong theoretical foundation for approaching the surface mythology – gods, stories, mythic images, otherworld topography, etc. A surface mythology can be approached according to the metaphor of a language: mythic images, motifs, figures, beings, locations, and narratives all (to the degree that they are mythically vital) provide a symbolic lexicon that can be used and combined according to rules and in constructions rather like a grammar. Anna-Leena Siikala (2012) has shown that local and regional variation in these symbols, their use and ways they are combined can be productively approached according to ‘dialects’ of mythology. A deep mythology’s conceptual modelling is essential to mythological thinking and interfaces with surface mythology, and yet it is easily marginalized and neglected in discussion – e.g. whether illness is caused by invisible arrows shot by witches, invisible beings called ‘viruses’ and ‘bacteria’ invading your body, or the loss of part of your soul. he symbolic ‘language’ of the surface mythology is both central to the broader mythology as a modelling system and also concretizes it in resources that can be utilized, manipulated and that can also be contested and negotiated. According to this semiotic model, mythological thinking at the level of deep mythology is a largely unconscious process, while mythological thinking through the surface mythology is an imaginal process which can be consciously engaged for a diversity of social, magical and personal purposes (see Doty 2000; Siikala 2002a; Tarkka 2012). he surface mythology constitutes the socially constructed symbolic worlds that inform the meanings of social and phenomenal realities. Sources he mythology in the Viking Age in Finland can only be approached in terms of its situation between different periods. his is necessary because there are no vernacular written sources from Finland in the Viking Age. Perspectives on the history of the mythology necessarily develop according to a relative chronology. Diverse data is triangulated in order to situate that relative chronology in relation to a fixed period on an absolute chronology. he diversity of data falls into multiple types which present diverse challenges. Synchronic evidence of mythology emerges in the archaeological record, which presents outcomes and by-products of cultural practices that engage both surface and deep mythologies. he problem is that, in semiotic terms, 441 Frog we recognize signifiers – images, motifs and so forth – that clearly carried mythic significance, but we lack access to their signifieds – i.e. we have no clear idea what they meant to the people using them or why they were important. For example, the use of pottery animal paws atop cremation remains in Åland (Callmer 1994) or either nailing coffins shut with spear points or casting spears into a grave (Wickholm 2006) were clearly strategic and meaningful acts – they can be reasonably supposed to engage a symbolic world of living surface mythologies (cf. Price 2012). However, without access to these symbolic worlds, the symbols speak in an unfamiliar language: we can recognize the importance of what is ‘said’, but the ‘words’ remain incomprehensible. Ritualized aquatic burials, for example, were likely interfaced with broader aspects of a mythology (Wessman 2009; 2010: 75), but the specific connection imagined between water and the otherworld remains a mystery. Rather than the symbolic world of the surface mythology, some burial practices may only reflect a much more fundamental ‘way of thinking’ about the individual’s identity in life or death at the level of deep mythology. Cremation cemeteries under level ground are characterized by distributing remains and grave goods among a more or less level stone-covered ground: these practices suggest conceptions related to individual identity in death or to the transition of becoming an ancestor (see Wessman 2010: 57–61). It is not always clear where evidence reflects symbols interfaced with the living mythologies of users or other aspects of physical and social realities. Evidence that a boat was used in a cremation burial is therefore not necessarily evidence that the boat was symbolically connected to ritual practice – wood treated with tar burns well and may have simply been a practical choice. Similarly, the symbol of the cross in the Viking Age suggests contacts with Christianity, but crosses may have been considered ornamental when the symbol first arrived or used as a practical attribute related to trade with Christians (cf. Wessman 2010: 80–81; Korpela). In the archaeological record, the Viking Age is marked by the beginning of the transition to inhumation burials. his is a radical change in practices even where there is a continuity in the place of burial – i.e. within a cremation cemetery under level ground. (Wickholm 2008: 91–92; Wessman 2010: 78–80.) Nevertheless, it is difficult to distinguish how changes in cultural practices that gradually advance to norms reflect changes in mythologies, or perhaps changes in emphasis or in the symbols applied within established mythologies (cf. Nordberg 2012). he challenge of such archaeological data is that it can only be interpreted in relation to other material. Written sources offering additional perspectives begin to appear in the thirteenth century, shortly ater the Viking Age. Medieval Church documents generally mention ‘pagans’ without interest in accounts of mythology or practice, and a statement in 1229 that the Church in Finland may take possession of pagan lucos et delubra [‘groves and temples’] (FMU 77) may be idiomatic (cf. the same Latin phrase e.g. in Isaiah 17:8) rather than making direct reference to vernacular practices. More detailed written accounts are from the perspectives of other (Christian) cultures. Old Norse 442 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland saga literature provides numerous accounts relevant to magical and ritual practices of Sámi on the Scandinavian Peninsula. However, their accounts of trading expeditions to territories associated with Finland and Karelia tend to represent these places as either being little different socially and culturally from Norway and Sweden or they tend to blur these territories with Norse imaginings of otherworldly realms inhabited by giants and other supernatural beings. A notable exception is the description of a raid of a temple of the so-called Bjarmians that supposedly took place in c. 1025 on or near the White Sea, according to Óláfs saga Helga [‘he Saga of Saint Óláfr’] (see Koskela Vasaru).6 his description mentions that the god of the temple was called Jómali and that Bjarmians mixed valuables with earth in the burial mound. Jómali is recognizable as a cognate of Finnish and Karelian jumala [‘god, supernaturally empowered being’] (Tolley 2009 I: 54). he description of a mound mixing earth and grave goods would be consistent with the cremation cemeteries under level ground mentioned above (although these would have been more flat than a mound per se). Similarly, the Russian Primary Chronicle describes a Christian’s encounter with a ‘Chud’ shaman that includes a description of the shaman’s use of an ecstatic trance and subsequent description of his journey in remote otherworld locations (see Tolley 2009 I: 80–81). hese accounts offer a number of indicators of familiarity with the mythologies and ritual practices of other cultures. hey are simultaneously problematic because they exhibit characteristics suggestive of legend traditions rather than objective ethnographic historical accounts. Although Óláfs saga may validly reflect popular knowledge of Finnic mythology and cultural practices, this occurs within a widely encountered narrative pattern about a raid on a heathen temple associated with the mytho-heroic and fantastic sagas (see Power 1985). In the saga, this information is not included with the aim of communicating accurate information about Bjarmian culture: it serves a rhetorical function of increasing the impression of a ‘true’ story in a historical king’s saga. he saga was written in Iceland two centuries ater the events, opening the possibility that the cultural information was not originally ‘Bjarmian’ (cf. Power 1985: 20). he description of the Chud shaman presents still more clearly some sort of Christian legend, in which the shaman describes his own gods through Christian images of demons in Hell and states that his gods fear the symbol of the cross. A legend of this type could be used to describe any culture in which there was something approximating shamanic practices. he thirteenth century also offers the earliest vernacular written source for mythology. his is found among the Novgorod birch bark inscriptions (in Cyrillic script). he inscription of Novgorod 292 appears to be a magic charm text about 50 letters long (Figure 1). It begins jumola[n]nuoli [‘God(’s) arrow’ or ‘magically empowered being(’s) arrow)’] and interpretation becomes increasingly problematic as the inscription progresses. he text appears to be a charm for healing harm caused by ‘magic shot’.7 he charm has been thought to be linguistically North Finnic, but phonetic evidence of the charm itself remains problematic. (See further Laakso 1999.) 443 Frog Fig. 1. Novgorod birch bark inscription 292. he transcription can be transliterated: jumolanuoli·I·nimiži noulisìh[l?]anoliomobou h[l?]oumolasoud’nii[p?]ohovi Photo reproduced courtesy of Prof. V. L. Yanin, Birch Bark Literacy from Medieval Rus: Contents and Contexts https://gramoty.ru/index.php?no=292&act=full&key=bb Vernacular written evidence does not otherwise begin to appear until the sixteenth century. In 1551, the first Lutheran Archbishop of Finland, Michael Agricola, published two lists of twelve false gods each in the preface to his translation of the Psalter (see e.g. Krohn 1932; Anttonen 2010: 48–57; 2012a). In 1553, Archbishop Makari of Novgorod complains that in Karelia children are taken to wielders of magic to be given a name before being taken to a priest for baptism (see Kirkinen 1970: 130–131). Additional, oten ambiguous evidence begins gradually to accumulate in seventeenth-century court documents reporting magical practices while a land register from 1618 lists one Mihaila Moisief wanha wäinämöinen [‘old Väinämöinen’] as living on the northeast coast of Lake Ladoga (Salmi, Manssila Village) (Kirkinen 1970: 129). In the eighteenth century, academic investigations develop an interest in these areas of culture with the rise of Romanticism. his led to the increasingly active and objective documentation of traditions. Epic Kalevala-meter poetry was particularly esteemed (Ahola), and especially documented in the era of nation-building when Finland was a Grand Duchy of the Russian Empire (1809–1917) – a political circumstance that allowed access to Russian Karelia where these traditions were still vital. here are now astounding quantities of data – c. 150,000 items of Kalevalameter poetry are indexed in the folklore archive of the Finnish Literature Society, in addition to vast numbers of prose accounts, sayings, taboos, belief traditions and enormous quantities of ethnographic data. his same era produced the majority of data on other Finno-Ugric and Uralic cultures. Data on these other populations provides essential contexts for considering earlier periods of language and culture among these groups. Rather than isolated glimpses, these more recent corpora present richly developed perspectives on the mythology and cultural practices at the time when they were documented, while the early scholars eagerly active in collection and research were zealously engaged in Romantic (and sometimes fanciful) attempts to reconstruct mythologies, histories and ethnic identities.8 444 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland Heavy criticisms of this earlier research and its methodologies led the whole direction of inquiry to become highly controversial and devalued across the latter half of the twentieth century. his early research was developed on weak (and sometimes intuitive) foundations of theory, low source-critical standards (NB: according to today’s standards), and was easily inclined to the selective handling of materials or allowed ideological ends to lead interpretations of the data (cf. Raninen & Wessman). his research also failed to recognize methodological challenges concerning what the corpora can and cannot inform us about the Viking Age. his early work nevertheless continues to provide some of the most interesting and significant resources for approaching mythology in the Viking Age, and it is therefore useful to have some cautionary foundations and basic strategies for approaching it. Cultures,฀Heritage฀and฀a฀Mythology฀Shift Mythology, as introduced above, is an essential aspect of culture. he distribution of languages and cultures in territories of Finland and Karelia were quite different in the Viking Age than when the majority of the sources were documented. his is particularly important to recognize because the territories where Finno-Karelian mythologies survived most vitally were in regions of Karelia, and especially those regions that, from the perspective of the Russian Empire, were a remote wilderness comparable to Siberia – they were places where religious and secular authority had long remained fairly superficial for the small, scattered communities (cf. Pentikäinen 1978: 100–104; Siikala 2002a: 329, 339). However, Finno-Karelian languages and cultures did not yet inhabit these territories in the Viking Age. his makes it necessary to address the change in the distribution of languages before turning to chronological gaps between the Viking Age and written sources. A broad outline will therefore be offered here of the changing distribution of linguistic-cultural groups across the Iron Age up to the time when sources were documented. his description nevertheless remains in many respects a fluid relative chronology because it is not possible to make precise and comprehensive correlations between intangible evidence of language and culture on the one hand and the tangible evidence of the archaeological record on the other (see further Ahola & Frog). Following Petri Kallio’s description of the spread and break-up of surviving Finnic languages, Finnic languages were probably spoken in communities along both coasts of the Gulf of Finland already in the PreRoman Iron Age (c. 500–1 BC). Germanic languages were likely spoken in at least some coastal areas of what is now Finland at when the Finnic populations arrived in the preceding centuries and there is no reason to believe that Germanic languages were not still present at that time. Finnic languages were otherwise concentrated in territories of what is now Estonia and to the east (see also Saarikivi 2006; Rahkonen 2011). Around that time, predecessors of Sámi languages had probably been neighbouring peoples inland of Finnic language groups and spread rapidly through territories of Finland and 445 Frog Karelia and further onto the Scandinavian Peninsula (Aikio 2006; Ahola & Frog, Map 2)). his expansion probably did not result in the displacement of all coastal populations on the Baltic Sea (cf. Aikio 2009; cf. Saarikivi 2004b: 173, Map 1). he majority of the territories were at that time probably inhabited by Palaeo-European linguistic-cultural groups that were gradually assimilated to Sámi and it remains uncertain whether any of these PalaeoEuropean languages may have survived into the Viking Age (Aikio 2006; 2009; Saarikivi 2004a; 2006; cf. Carpelan 2001). he Finnic language groups do not appear to have begun encroaching on inland territories of Finland and Karelia until the Migration Period. By the Viking Age, settlements had withdrawn from the coasts and North Finnic languages were likely established somewhat further inland, especially in Satakunta, Finland Proper (i.e. the south-western tip of Finland) and Häme (Salo 2004; cf. Wessman 2010: 30, map 19). here is no evidence for Germanic language areas in Finland at that time, although this does not mean an absence of multilingualism (Schalin). Sámi was the dominant language across the majority of territories of Finland and Karelia (see also Kallio; Kuzmin). A (probably South) Finnic language population or populations began migrating into the Northern Dvina River basin in this period (Saarikivi 2000; 2006: 295), and although the Chuds have been identified as a Finnic cultural group (e.g. Vepsians), recent toponymic research has presented compelling evidence that a main people called Chuds were not Finnic, but rather a distinct, if closely related Uralic language group (Rahkonen 2011). he Viking Age appears to be the period of a breakup of the North Finnic dialect continuum into distinguished languages (Kallio). Migrations of Finnic populations from western territories of Finland carried cultural influences into the Ladoga region and presumably cultural practices as well (Uino 1997), suggesting that distinctive cultural differences had already developed between these groups at that time. Although archaeological data allows the situation of evidence in an absolute chronology, other evidence presents outcomes of social and historical processes, and it is precisely these intermediate processes that remain obscure. Rather than absolute chronologies, only relative chronologies are possible from within that data of intangible culture. hese relative chronologies can then be correlated with one another and triangulated with evidence on absolute chronologies in order to assess the most probable historical processes which these reflect. By the eighteenth century, Finnish and Karelian were the main languages up to Lapland, with Slavicization encroaching on Karelian areas in the south, east and northeast. Earlier, Sámi populations in these territories had already undergone a ‘language shit’ – i.e. people gradually stopped using Sámi and increasingly relied on a Finnish or Karelian (and later also Russian) as a socio-historical process.9 Moreover, Sámi language(s) of these territories are now extinct and the preceding languages assimilated by Sámi have completely disappeared (cf. Kuzmin). he shit from Sámi in the Viking Age to Finnish and Karelian in the period of ethnographic documentation appears to have been far more comprehensive than simply one of language. he spread of Finnish and Karelian language areas was also a spread of Finno-Karelian mythologies and 446 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland cultural practices: this was not simply a language shit, but also a mythology shit. Correlating mythology documented in the nineteenth century with Viking Age archaeological cultures must take into consideration not only a historical gap between tangible and intangible evidence, but also the spread of language, mythology and cultural practices. The฀Viking฀Age฀on฀a฀Long-Term฀Continuum฀Model Earlier scholarship tended to assume that Finland and Karelia were ‘always’ North Finnic language areas. Furthermore, investigations into the history of the mythology tended to be unidirectional, beginning with nineteenth and twentieth century textual sources and attempting to project this back to a pre-Christian cultural environment with a pure and ideal reconstructed mythology. Since that time, incredible advances have been made in understanding how these and other traditions function, vary and develop, leading to many new perspectives on diverse aspects of these traditions and their sources, ranging from the text-criticism of individually recorded textual evidence to different traditions’ relationships to Uralic mythologies and linguistic-cultural heritage. Situating these perspectives in dialogue with one another allows multidimensional imaging of synchronic and diachronic processes in the traditions. Addressing synchronic and diachronic variation as social and historical processes will be prefaced here by introducing a rudimentary framework of a historical continuum model for the linguisticcultural traditions in question. A valuable tool for developing a continuum model is Lauri Harvilahti’s (2003: 90–115) ethnocultural substrate or ethnocultural substratum. his term describes the broad synchronic system of fundamental elements (language, poetics, images, motifs, figures, narratives, etc.) that are constitutive of cultural competence. It provides a valuable tool in developing historical perspectives by facilitating lateral indexing across a diversity of data and traditions (see Frog 2011c). his is a modelling strategy that presupposes contextualization in a comprehensive cultural milieu. An individual substratum emerges as an ideal hypothetical model negotiated around a ‘core’ of relevant indicators of changes that distinguish one substratum from those which precede and follow it (see Frog 2011c: 24–25, 32–34). he model produced is abstract, ideal and descriptive. It minimizes variation both within and between substrata in order to construct a frame of reference for analysis and the correlation of further data from different areas or disciplines (see Figure 2). Traditions, whether inherited or borrowed, always emerge in a present filtered through the semiotics and cognitive models of the contemporary culture. Sources from the nineteenth and twentieth century must be approached in this light, assessing meaningful elements and mythological thinking along a historical continuum. Each substratum presents an emergent heritage which adapts and changes in relation to internal developments and to outside influences. Together, these produce and become the next substratum. he emergent process of the historical progression of ethnocultural substrata can be 447 Frog Fig. 2. Simple visual representation of ethnocultural substrata (dark horizontal bands) as lateral indices across multiple continuum models (vertical stemma diagrams). Each ethnocultural substratum emerges around a ‘core’ of relevant indicators of change differentiating it from earlier and later periods while the transition between substrata remains largely undefined. ‘Deeper’ strata become increasingly broad and generalized because variation leads to increased abstraction along individual continuum models and the quantity of material relevant for indexing becomes increasingly limited. he decrease of identifiable material in earlier substrata does not reflect fewer traditions, but rather a much smaller percentage of the tradition ecology that can be discerned – normally the most socially and semiotically central. Comparative evidence may present certain otherwise unattested traditions in earlier substrata that were not maintained (e.g. that a certain god or word disappeared or certain practices ceased). approached on a historical continuum, although the chronology may remain relative (see Frog 2013a). Substratum models then provide a resource for addressing specific cases and discussing characteristics of change that may only gradually (or ambiguously) accumulate in the (potentially fluid) process of historical transition between distinguishable periods. Continuities through historical change are implied in traditions that reflect earlier cultural eras. No less implied are discontinuities owing to adaptations and revaluations by which the tradition could remain current and relevant. he ethnocultural substratum model helps avoid pitfalls of treating cultural and semiotic phenomena atomically or in isolation from one another. It also highlights that mythology is not an eternal and unchanging constant that was knocked out of place by Christianity, and thereby provides a frame for thinking about mythology in terms relevant to the particular period. As a continuum model is developed, it provides a resource in relation to which data can be approached, and specific data can also be approached in dialogue with the model. 448 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland When developing a continuum model for surface mythologies in a culture, it is useful to begin from the earliest discernible linguistic-cultural era as a base-line frame of reference – bearing in mind that some mythic images and core motifs of certain mythological narrative plots could have a much, much longer history (see e.g. Meletinskij 1997; Napolskikh 2012; Witzel 2012). For Finnic and Sámic cultures, this base-line is so-called Proto-Uralic, the hypothetical language from which all Uralic languages ultimately derive, and subsequently Proto-Finno-Ugric (following the separation of Samoyedic languages), each of which is correlated with a linguistic-cultural group of speakers. Strategies comparable to those employed in historical linguistics offer some general perspectives on these early periods through the examination of huge quantities of comparative data. What can be said concerning mythologies in these early linguisticcultural eras remains limited to a fairly narrow set of fields, as well as remaining hypothetical, highly abstract, and sometimes conditional on additional factors.10 For example, the mythology likely had a central dualist structure of a male sky-god and his antithesis, a dualist bird-diver motif as the narrative core of the world-creation, a vertically structured cosmology connected by a pillar or tree as the axis mundi with a water-barrier or hole separating the lower sphere, and a form of Central and Northern Eurasian or ‘classic’ shamanism.11 Although the term ‘shaman’ is now popularly used as an extremely broad and flexible term, classic shamanism is characterized by certain essential features. Among these is the conceptual model (deep mythology) of a separable soul, ecstatic trance-state rituals in which the shaman or his representative spirit-helpers take journeys (imagined in physical terms) as a representative of the human community, and also visit remote otherworld locations on these journeys in order to engage the inhabitants of mythic world.12 Certain features come into slightly sharper focus in Proto-Finno-Ugric: *Ilma [‘Sky’] was the name of the sky-god and *nojta was a probable term for a shaman who enters unconscious trace states and goes on soul-journeys.13 his frame of reference immediately reveals radical discontinuities between the linguistic-cultural heritage and the documented North Finnic traditions: the central dualist structure of sky-god and antithesis is only prominent in legend traditions concerning the thunder-god and his on-going struggles with an adversary (the devil / devils or the demon / demons);14 the earth-diver myth presents Väinämöinen without an accompanying figure in the role of the sky-god; the ritual specialist tradition was founded on verbal magic with a deep mythology that was fundamentally incompatible with classic shamanism because it rejects conceptual models of a separable soul in both ritual practice and illness diagnostics.15 his remarkable discontinuity is not paralleled, for example, in Sámi traditions – i.e. something changed. Of course, change is not surprising on a continuum model of c. 4500 years: this is only a point of departure. hese processes can be further clarified by distinguishing additional substrata, narrowing in on the Viking Age. Comparative evidence reveals a labyrinth of changes clearly connected to cultural contacts between Proto-Finno-Ugric and the recorded sources. 449 Frog he role of contacts makes it difficult to situate indicators of developments on a chronology, particularly in earlier periods. Some early influences are only identifiable through the mythological lexicon. For example, loanwords can provide relevant indicators of changes in mythological thinking, such as the Indo-Iranian loan *juma [‘god; sky’] apparently borrowed in a period before Finnic and Volgic branches of Uralic languages separated. his loan suggests a new way of thinking about supernatural beings, or other changes in the lexicon such as *Ilma [‘Sky’] of Proto-Finno-Ugric dividing in Proto-Finnic into the common noun *ilma [‘sky, weather’] and theonym *Ilma-ri [‘Sky-Being’] in parallel with *juma dividing into *juma and *juma-la [‘god, supernaturally powerful being’]. he latter process is also associated with cultural contacts that, for reasons unknown, spread through both Finno-Ugric and Indo-European cultures, in most cases displacing the theonym meaning ‘Sky’ with a common noun for ‘god’ derived from it (i.e. ‘one of the sky’) rather than distinguishing the term for the god from ‘sky’ by producing a new derivative as in Finnic languages (*Ilma>*Ilma-ri; *juma>*juma-la). In this case, the changes are not associated with words or word-forms borrowed from another language. (Summarized from Frog 2012b.) Consequently, it is not possible to tell which language groups this change may have started in. he same problem is met in the early adaptation of a world-egg motif into the Finno-Ugric earth-diver world-creation, which is found as a broad regional phenomenon in several Finno-Ugric cultures and also in IndoIranian.16 Caution is required in presuming that this is simply the case of one of these two cultures influencing the other. hese were not monolithic cultures but rather communities of language speakers in contact. Our ideal perspectives on earlier periods of language minimize the probably fluid variation in dialects across these communities. It is also necessary to consider that additional cultures may have been involved in these processes.17 here are no doubt numerous strata in these early periods but correlating and ordering them on even a relative chronology is highly problematic and conditional with relatively few exceptions (e.g. *juma was borrowed before the development > *juma-la). Mythology is not static: these terms, concepts, figures and narratives have been filtered and adapted through era ater era of transformations until it may only be possible to identify continuities rather than the earlier significance and relationships to a mythology in an early ethno-cultural substratum. Nevertheless, developing perspectives on different ethnocultural substrata on a continuum can offer frames of reference for concurrent mythologies that remain beyond the available sources but outside communities undergoing these changes, as will be discussed below. he closer developments are to the period of documentation, the fewer ethnocultural substrata through which the mythology has been filtered and the fuller the perspective that can be developed. For example, the introduction of iron-working technologies into Finnic cultural areas was “a technological quantum leap” (Salo 2006: 31), and this historical process presents a ‘core’ around which a broad ethnocultural substratum can be developed. he process appears to have begun in coastal communities 450 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland (which may have been linguistically Germanic) around 500 BC and spread in the following centuries. Archaeological evidence paralleled by Germanic linguistic loans suggests the technology was learned from Scandinavia (Hofstra 1985: 322–324; Salo 1992: 103–107; cf.: Salo 2006: 30–31). his is a technology which could not be assimilated independent of cultural practices, conceptual models and ideology (Haaland 2004). he technology gradually penetrated almost every area of cultural life. Iron-working technology had a tremendous impact on the semiotics of Finnic cultures and ways of thinking, taking a particularly prominent position in the surface mythology (Hakamies 1999; 2012; Salo 1992; 2006). hese technologies both carried new mythological conceptions and narrative material and also provided essential conditions for new mythological conceptions, symbols and narrative material to become established. Comparative evidence reveals that a system of surface mythology (including narrative material and world models) was passed cross-culturally in the Circum-Baltic region with this technology. his mythological material became connected to the dominant sky-god who had authority over thunder (see further Frog 2012a; 2013b). Here it becomes possible to identify a complex ‘package’ of influences, which may have assimilated and masked earlier material associated with bronze-working. At the same time, several of the mythic images including thunder and lightning as the sound and sparks of a smith hammering iron in heaven are specific to this technology.18 his ‘package’ became associated with *Ilmari in North Finnic cultures, who presumably had a continuity of centrality as a sky-god extending back to Proto-Finno-Ugric *Ilma. he discontinuity of conceptual models from classic shamanism noted above also appears to have been associated with the assimilation of a different technology – in this case, a technology of verbal magic that provided a new primary tool and medium for engaging the otherworld. his ethnocultural substratum is associated with another ‘package’ of developments bound up with the new language-based technology. he development is specific to North Finnic cultures where it is heavily indebted to Germanic models,19 and it had revolutionary impacts on mythological thinking. he assimilation of this new technology produced a new type of ritual specialist, the tietäjä [‘knower, one who knows’], who became “the heir to the role played by the shaman in ancient communities” and who “preserved shamanic models of thought” (Siikala 2002a: 42). However, these models of thought were integrated into the ideology imported with the new system (cf. Siikala 2002a: 320–349). he new language-based technology of incantations made it possible for the tietäjä to verbally actualize the otherworld directly without ‘going there’ on a soul-journey. his was rather like the Iron Age equivalent to introducing the cellular phone: wherever a crisis might be, it was no longer necessary to run up and down the world pillar like a shaman – incantations provided a direct line of contact with the sky-god, who could instantly supply mythic weapons, armour and aid. his new technology was comprehensively interfaced with both a surface mythology of images and narrative material and also with a deep mythology of conceptions of unseen forces in both this world and the other world, of the body and of 451 Frog illness and conceptions of how to interact with these. (his is not unlike the way modern medicine functions in relation to ideas of illness, the human body, fundamentals of chemistry and science as understood today.) Rather than complementing the established mythology and being assimilated to it, the assimilation of this new technology is associated with a comprehensive restructuring of the core of the surface mythology. Presumably on the basis of Germanic models, *Ilmari’s antithesis and adversary *Väinä became the cultural model for the new ritual specialist Väinämöinen (paralleling Germanic Odin). Whereas *Ilmari appears to have been the dominant sky-god when the ‘package’ of mythological material associated with ironworking technology was introduced, a thunder-god simply called ‘Old Man’ (Ukko, Äijä, etc.) appears in the later sources as the dominant sky-god and main supporter of the tietäjä specialist, while only scattered traces remain of Ilmari’s or Ilmarinen’s20 identity as a sky-god and he appears otherwise as a mythic smith subordinate to other figures. (See Frog 2012a; 2013b.) his change appears to have happened subsequent to the introduction of iron-working and identification of *Ilmari as the smith of heaven. It can be reasonably associated with the restructuring of the mythology with the emergence of the technology of incantations and the associated ritual specialist called a tietäjä. Anna-Leena Siikala (2002a) has offered an exposition of this tradition of ritual specialist and the many strata of images and motifs embedded in the tietäjä-mythology. he process of the institution’s emergence and especially the development of an essential ‘tool box’ of conventional poems and poetic resources for the associated language-based technology remains mysterious. his process seems to have taken place in the Iron Age and may have remained localized to a relatively small network of communities for centuries as it developed a socially stable form. he process of its spread is likely associated with the migration of groups from western Finland east to Karelia (mentioned above), when the North Finnic areas were relatively small. his situates the process centrally in the Viking Age. Following the break-up of the North Finnic languages, this language-based technology would have spread across territories of Finland and Karelia with the spread of the languages themselves. he spread and rise to dominance suggests that this technology, mythology and associated ideology interfaced in a practical and/or compelling way with cultural changes at that time. he transition should be considered as nothing short of a conversion process – a conversion to the tietäjä-ideology, mythology and associated ritual practices. he kalevalaic mythology is not simply comprised of narratives and images; this was a mythology of very conservative poems – not just ‘stories’ but very structured texts (that eventually became internationally familiar in a refurbished form through Elias Lönnrot’s Kalevala). he stories of these poems were only exceptionally narrated outside of that poetic form. his scenario best accounts for the fact that the core repertoire of central texts or poems, the poems at the heart of the mythology, were recorded across the whole broad area where the mythological narrative traditions survived – i.e. they spread not just as ‘stories’ but as poems, as texts. his also accounts for 452 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland the fact that the core repertoire is marked by western Finnish language and ‘Germanicisms’ (e.g. Borenius 1873; Kuusi 1949; Siikala 2002b: 39), and it is consistent with arguments that the tietäjä-mythology centrally developed and spread from the Häme region (see Siikala 2012: 441–451 and works there cited; cf. Kuusi 1994a; Frog 2011c: 34–35). Put simply, the specialist’s essential tool-box of mythology and incantations spread with the institution itself and (gradually) became the central Finno-Karelian mythology. he tietäjä-tradition exhibits an opposition and even villainization of ‘shamanism’ – a noita [‘shaman’] was an outsider, a dangerous and magically empowered ‘other’ – and the language shit of Sámi populations to Finnish and Karelian also involved a shit in mythology, a transition from shamanism to the tietäjä-tradition. Christianity and Christianization processes began penetrating these North Finnic linguistic-cultural areas within centuries of the (probable) initial spread of the tietäjä-institution. hus the spread of Christianity may have interacted with the tietäjä-institution while it was becoming established and presumably still competing with vernacular shamanism. Such interaction is manifested in the great enrichment of incantations and their images that appear to have been adapted under or through early Christianity (see Kuusi 1963; Siikala 2002a).21 More general influences from Christianity may have been, for example, making the thunder-god more of a deus otiosis, remote from the world like the Christian God (cf. Frog 2013b), while the Virgin Mary was engaged as a compelling figure, fusing with inherited images of an otherworld female being or goddess (Siikala 2002a: 199–203). Although the specialists may have considered themselves Christian or even representatives of Christianity in their own eyes (see discussion in Frog 2013b: 89–91), from a modern perspective, the Christian mythology remained in many respects complementary and almost secondary in its assimilation and dialogue with the earlier mythology (cf. Siikala 2002a: 342); Christian epics and mythic figures inhabiting them did not commingle with the vernacular figures of the Väinämöinen-centered mythology, which remained dominant. his rather simple continuum model, represented visually in Figure 3, illustrates the degree of stratification in the mythology and suggests that the Viking Age may have been a major turning-point in the history of North Finnic mythologies. Although there were clearly many potentially quite drastic changes through history, none seem to have brought such a radical restructuring as observed here with the displacement of the inherited skygod, who had a continuity extending at least as deep as Proto-Finno-Ugric. In addition, as these traditions spread and became dominant, they also displaced other mythologies among other North Finnic groups. In other words, kalevalaic mythology may be considered the outcome of a sort of ‘bottleneck’ in the history of the mythology. he core of that mythology or of the essential ‘tool-box’ of the specialist may primarily reflect mythology that developed, was current and transformed in a small system of communities during the establishment of a vernacular form of this language-based technology which had to be adapted from foreign models (see Frog 2013b). he spread of the technology then carried this repertoire of mythological 453 Frog Fig. 3. Continuum of currency through ethnocultural substrata. A continuity of any term, concept or tradition-phenomenon assumes that it maintained value and relevance (with probable adaptation and revision) through periods of cultural change. Periods more remote from corpora of data are therefore veiled behind more ethnocultural substrata through which they have been filtered. he opacity of many developments since Proto-Uralic problematizes assessing more than an abstract image of ethnocultural substrata prior to the Iron Age. texts and alternative forms were eclipsed in the process. Even if some local mythological traditions were assimilated (producing, for example, the different local or regional narrative accounts of the origin of iron or the origin of vipers), the core of the surface mythology appears to have been quite stable. hus, Agricola’s lists of gods from 1551 acknowledge cultural diversity and may even reflect regional variation, but later evidence does not support that comprehensively different systems of mythological figures were maintained in Häme and Savo, respectively. 454 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland Mythologies฀through฀Social฀Practice฀ A common modern myth about mythology is that it forms a single, coherent and uniform system. Oceans of academic ink have been spilled attempting to create this sort of united vision from a cacophony of sources. Presumptions that Finno-Karelian (a Finno-Ugric) mythology should follow the ideal Classical (Indo-European) model resulted in trying to hammer a round peg through a square hole. For example, basic conceptual categories of ‘gods’ and ‘heroes’ were simply inappropriate to the vernacular tradition, which is even apparent in the lexicon: the common noun for ‘god’ (jumala) can also be used to refer to other supernaturally powerful agents, including a living, powerful practitioner of magic or tietäjä (SSA I: 247; Anttonen 2012b: 174). Attempts to conform the sources to these models resulted in claims that the sky-god Ilmarinen and the sea-god Ahti coincidentally had the same names as a heroic smith and a Viking seafarer (e.g. Krohn 1932: 62–63, 65–66). he famed Sampo-Cycle provided the essential framework for Lönnrot’s construction of Kalevala but caused scholars endless headaches because it opens with the creation of the world by a giant demiurge and concludes with the same figure on a Viking-like sea-raid.22 Approaches especially to Uralic and Finno-Ugric mythologies have gradually changed.23 Scholars have become increasingly comfortable with the fact that mythologies change and adapt with historical processes and that they may vary between communities and regions within a larger linguistic-cultural group – what Anna-Leena Siikala (2012) describes as ‘dialects of mythology’. However, there may be variation in mythology or multiple mythologies within a single community. At the extreme, this might manifest as Christians and non-Christians, but there may also be variation by genre of folklore or cultural practice. A mythology or mythologies (whichever way it is described) can be systemic in the sense that the diversity of its parts and features may be distributed systematically across all different social practices. his should not be confused with considering the mythology to be uniform as a unified system (cf. Honko 1981a: 26). he structural interrelations and distribution of genres and cultural practices in social life can be approached through the biological metaphor of a ‘tradition ecology’,24 in which traditions are not randomly combined and changes within one tradition that is already established in a social environment will impact others. From an objective and analytical perspective, mythology may even appear chaotic and internally contradictory. his requires address because the mythology may appear quite differently from the perspectives of different disciplines according to the sources that are used and how those sources are approached.25 Mythology can only exist and be maintained through cultural practices: it is a social semiotic phenomenon, and surface mythology in particular can be practically approached in terms of tradition. All traditions only have reality at the subjective level of the individual and the emerging intersubjective spaces of small-group communities.26 Within that frame, tradition functions as an “enabling referent” (Foley 1995: 213). In other 455 Frog words, each individual handles and manipulates a tradition on the basis of a personal, subjective knowledge and understanding with expectations concerning the knowledge and understandings of others; others interpret expression on the basis of what they subjectively know and understand with expectations about the speaker or performer (hence ‘intersubjective’). hose subjective and intersubjective understandings develop through exposure to and participation in cultural practices across a full spectrum of cultural activity – from epic poetry and proverbs to parody and contesting discourse. he subjective reality of a tradition is therefore always bounded by both the space and time that describe the limits of an individual’s experience, and the negotiation of that understanding as a social process. his provides an essential frame of reference for both slow and rapid changes in the cultural activity of a tradition as those changes become socially conventional. Participants in the tradition may, of course, only be aware of contemporary conventions – conventions which they help to construct and maintain – with no concept of historical variation (cf. Gills 1996). Traditions function at the level of small-group communities and networks of those communities in interaction. Every tradition is maintained through social practices and has functions in a community (e.g. magical, ritual, socializing, entertainment; cf. Honko 1981a). Success in those functions does not demand reconciliation across them or even across different narratives on the same subject (cf. Frog 2011b: 11). Participants in a community more frequently accept them without awareness of incongruity or contradiction (see Converse 1964). In other words, most people do not think about them together – to use Barthes’ term, each is ‘naturalized’ to its particular social context. Within a community, a tradition is socially negotiated as an intersubjective referent. his is particularly apparent in the maintenance of a narrative as ‘mythological’ because the ability of a narrative to remain ‘mythological’ is necessarily in relationship to group identities, the semiotic system and ideological models, all of which adapt and change as a historical process (see also Frog 2013a: 105–106, 109–111; cf. Frog 2010a: 230–237). In mythological narrative traditions, historical variation of its core elements is normally connected to a) the emergence or assertion of a new function, interpretation or significance that becomes socially established and advances to the dominant form; or b) the loss of social relevance or dislocation from traditional functions. hese processes are frequently responses to contacts across communities or cultures that introduce new traditions, models for cultural practices and/or ideologies. Any ‘new’ tradition is always received in an established semiotic system, cultural environment (complete with ideologies and a full ‘ecology’ of traditions) and arenas of discourse. his is particularly significant for narratives and practices associated with (surface) mythology because of their interface with semiotic and conceptual modelling systems (deep mythology). Where those modelling systems do not align, that interface will not succeed in the new or emerging cultural environment (e.g. in conversion environments or when adapted from a foreign culture). As a rule, such traditions will not retain status and quality as ‘mythic’, ‘mythological’ or even ‘magical’ when entering a new cultural 456 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland environment unless a) the new cultural environment shares a sufficient common framework of mythology (e.g. Christianity as a common frame of reference); or b) the mythological narrative(s) are adapted in conjunction with changes in an ideology and/or understandings of social identity (e.g. as part of a ‘package’ of cultural material associated with a conversion process). Mythology must either adapt, be displaced or lose its mythic status in the wake of radical changes in concepts of group identity and ideologies. Adaptation into a new system is a social process of finding value and relevance in that context. hese processes are normally connected with and propagated through associated cultural practices and ritual specialists. Mythologies฀and฀Social฀Authorities he existence and maintenance of surface mythologies through cultural practices is centrally dependent on stable genres as a medium for communication and negotiation. Social institutions tend to be correlated with particular oral genres, such as the tietäjä-institution with kalevalaic epic and incantation, the Finnic lamenter with ritual lament or the Christian priest with sermon and Biblical exegesis. An institution (oten) maintains specialists in those genres central to cultural practices. Genres present conventionalized constellations of features – ranging from form and aesthetics to specific contents and ideologies. A specialist internalizes and constructs mythologies through genres and cultural practices to the degree of exposure to and interaction with them. In other words, those genres essential to his or her institution’s cultural practices may be most central in developing understandings of a mythology and mythologies. A specialist will also develop a much more sophisticated understanding of those mythologies than a non-specialist because of the on-going amount of time and practical considerations of working with them (cf. Converse 1964). Specialization provides these individuals with a particularly authoritative ‘voice’ in the process of social negotiation, with the possibility to influence social convention (cf. Siikala 1978: 13; Frog 2011d; Stepanova 2012). A nonspecialist is more likely to have a simpler understanding building from the most fundamental structures and that is centrally informed by specialists (cf. Wright 1998: esp. 72–73). As such, the institution presents a conduit of authority for the transmission of those genres, with implications for how those genres develop as a historical process. (Frog 2010a: 135–139.) he mythology propagated by an institution need not be reconciled with the ideologies and functioning of semiotics in genres outside the sphere of the institution (Frog 2011b). Consequently, genres associated with different institutions can reflect very different modelling systems, ranging from poetic features to representations of the otherworld. hus the central genres for the tietäjä, ritual lamenter and Christian priest may all maintain markedly different mythologies even where they coexisted in the same communities. Rather than existing in isolation, specialists in mythology of one institution will frequently develop non-specialist understandings of mythology of 457 Frog other institutions and negotiate with them from that perspective. (his is noteworthy because these are very oten precisely the fundamentals of beings, narratives, images and structures that are the most historically enduring in a mythology.) Institutions of ritual specialist (of which there are always many) therefore present authoritative nexuses of negotiation for mythology. he institutions of Christian priest and vernacular healer may individually play a central role in maintaining and systematizing very different networks of myths and mythological narratives. Radical changes in a traditional mythology frequently appear directly connected to an institution of ritual specialist as a conduit of authority for that tradition, rather like pillars in the process of social negotiation.27 (See also Frog 2014a) Conversion processes – whether conversion to Christianity or to the tietäjäinstitution – occur through these conduits and ritual specialists. he spread of the kalevalaic mythology was likely a spread and rise to predominance of a particular type of ritual specialist – i.e. the tietäjäinstitution. In other words, a contest for conversion may both actually and symbolically be a competition between social institutions of ritual specialists and/or social authorities. Rather than ‘converting’ individuals, the changes in social power structures lead the ‘new’ ritual specialist to assert authority and responsibility as a representative of the human community in the otherworld and as an otherworld intermediary in public social rituals and crisis situations. he incantation-wielding tietäjä-institution constructed an opposition to vernacular shamanism (for which *Ilmari was presumably still central) and to Sámi shamanism (which was discontinued with the language shit): these different traditions were not only founded on different deep mythologies; social ideologies may have made these tietäjä specialists more consciously resistant to assimilating models from the ‘other’ (cf. also Aikio 2009: 214 on corresponding language ideologies). ‘Conversion’ of a social or cultural group follows as a consequence of accepting that authority and non-specialist acceptance of the propagated mythology, first at the level of surface mythology (non-Christian gods are ‘bad’, and thus Jesus and Mary fill their roles in incantations), and progressively penetrating into the deep mythology (incantations are ‘bad’ or the ‘soul’ does not separate from a living body). However, no one specialist dominates all spheres of social activity and cultural practice, nor does the assertion of a specialist authority into an established sphere prevent the negotiation of roles within it. Christianity, for example, carried practices for structuring public social activities and behaviours, yet it did not come equipped with an infrastructure for concerns of personal physical health, personal or family luck, or more or less for anything connected with practicalities of livelihood: these stood outside of its sphere. Tradition ecologies were reshaped, but not completely displaced: local communities maintained specialists, genres and mythologies in those spheres essential to social realities but outside immediate Church authority. Similarly, the Church’s prescriptive attention to essential transition rituals (related to birth, marriage and death) generally remained only a few minimal elements. Rather than displacing complex social practices that were long established, Church prescriptions were 458 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland simply assimilated into them. As a consequence, established mythologies were maintained as complementary or even synthetically integrated in these and other areas of social life. Understandings are inevitably negotiated at the subjective level of individuals, but cultural realities enable the maintenance of dynamic syncretism according to which different mythologies may be engaged complementarily in relation to social practices, bound up with the genres of expression associated with those practices. Expression is always oriented to a function – someone always uses it to do something – and therefore it is never free of the intentions of individuals. he relationship of the ritual specialist to other institutions and ideologies may significantly impact conventions of use and representation in the genres associated with each institution. For example, a parish priest will represent vernacular gods very differently than a tietäjä; a tietäjä will represent Jesus and Mary very differently than a parish priest; a ritual lamenter may blur Jesus with the ancestral dead. Mythic figures develop and maintain systems of associations and roles as a historical process and they are oten rather like the main levers and gears in the negotiation of surface mythologies. hese include, for example, roles in particular narratives and associations across narratives, relationships to magical and ritual practices, associations with social identities (e.g. as identity-models) or phenomena in the natural world, etc. On the one hand, these associations and roles simultaneously define and construct the identities of mythic figures: they tend to form constellations around a semantic core or what Jens Peter Schjødt (2009: 17, 20; 2013: 12– 13) terms a “semantic center”, and they tend to resist significant innovation unless a) they have lost their vitality for users and are being adapted to new functions, or b) an innovation is more aggressively prompted in the assertion of certain mythic figures over others or to adapt the tradition to changing ideologies.28 When changes do occur, they will not necessarily extend to every reference or use of a mythic figure in every genre. his is frequently the case where the established uses are somehow dependent on the earlier conception. his appears to be the case in certain incantations which refer to the smith of heaven in riddles or summoning Ilmarinen to manipulate the weather as a sky-god (Harva 1948: 137–151). It also accounts for attributing Ilmarinen with the creation of the vault of heaven using iron-working technologies although only in a summary or reference as his ultimate feat of skill: this act is never ‘told’ as a developed narrative and has no integrated place in the cosmology.29 In this way, every ethnocultural substratum carries the marks of a long history, and the mythology may appear very diverse and incongruous across genres and functions rather than coherent and unified. In the documented era of tradition, Christian and non-Christian mythology were equally valid and relevant, yet Jesus and Mary do not mix with Väinämöinen and Ilmarinen in kalevalaic epics. his separation of mythic figures into groups is historically attributable to their connection to ideologies rooted in different ethnocultural substrata. Within the living tradition, these were simply different epic cycles with different functions but performed by the same singers. (See further Frog 2013b.) he tietäjäinstitution’s role as a conduit of authority in genres of kalevalaic poetry 459 Frog and mythology means that the relevance and functions of the mythology to this institution have shaped these traditions as a historical process – shaping it according to what was used and why (Frog 2010a: 135–139). As a consequence, what we see of Iron Age mythology is primarily through genres for which the tietäjä provided the conduit of authority, and this is essentially the mythology that was functionally relevant and interesting to the tietäjä as a historically functioning institution. At the same time, it is also necessary to consider functions of genres both for the institution and more generally in society when considering possible long-term continuities and relevance to the mythology. It should also be remembered that the traditions in the Viking Age were certainly no less stratified and multifaceted than when they were documented, although different strata would have greater prominence and significance at that time. he mythology was by no means limited to kalevalaic poetry. he majority of mythic figures actually lack any narration in kalevalaic epic at all. his does not mean that they were less significant to social realities. he thunder-god Ukko has a central position in mythological thinking, ranging from roles in magical and ritual practices to fundamental behavioural patterns (e.g. to avoid being struck by lightning). Nevertheless, there are no kalevalaic epics about Ukko and he does not interact with Väinämöinen and Ilmarinen as an epic hero (Frog 2013b), in spite of the fact that he and Väinämöinen are the two most central vernacular figures for the tietäjä-institution (Siikala 2002a). Narratives about Ukko belong to genres of legend and folktale (frequently oriented to entertainment) that both reflect and reinforce mythological thinking about thunder and devils’ fear of thunder. his simply indicates that narratives of cosmological proportions maintained through social practices were peripheral to the functions of Ukko. In contrast, Väinämöinen was associated with the creation of the world and provided a mythic model for the institution of the tietäjä, the acquisition and use of incantations, and so forth. However, Väinämöinen was not narrated outside of kalevalaic poetry, nor was he an object of ritual activity expected to directly act on the present world. he role of Väinämöinen within the modelling system of the mythology was characterized by narratives about him providing exemplars for identities (tietäjä, singer, musician), while the narratives had roles in ritual practices although Väinämöinen did not. (For discussion, see Frog 2013b: 75–83.) Other figures emerge as little more than names. In some cases, the figure may be archaic and the name has simply persisted in certain functional capacities. his seems to be the case of Tuoni, the figure governing the realm of the dead with probable roots in Proto-Finnic and who is mentioned across several genres but never actually described, let alone narrated.30 he same is possible for the forest-god Tapio, who was maintained in hunting incantations and rituals (Harva 1948: 349–354). Others were probably assimilated with function-specific cultural practices and were never associated with narratives or with other narrative figures at all – i.e. they were essential to the systemically integrated cultural mythology in the sense of covering an area of social activities that others did not, but they were not interfaced with 460 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland other areas of the surface mythology. An example of this may be Ägräs (e.g. Harva 1948: 209–220), the god of turnips and possibly of root vegetables more generally who does not appear interconnected with any other aspect of the surface mythology. his emphasizes that within a culture, mythology has always been a dynamic and diversified system bound, maintained and evolving in relation to genres, specialists (including e.g. agriculture, hunting and animal husbandry) and social functions. Different historical eras are reflected in the corpus, from those which are most central to those which were peripheral or popular and secular. When functions and genres are situated in dialogue with a continuum model, it is apparent that although all of this material may have had a place and even some form of vitality in the cultural mythology at different times, much of it was also secondary, peripheral or supplementary to dominant ideologies and cultural practices: it may have been important, but only within limited spheres and applications. Many figures may have actually been associated exclusively with particular contexts or functions and were no more developed, dynamic and narrated than the modern-day Easter Bunny. hus the god Ägräs and associated rituals may have been assimilated and developed in conjunction with particular agricultural practices concerned more or less exclusively with root vegetables and never extended beyond that sphere. In other cases, material may reflect much broader and more significant roles in earlier periods which had presumably already significantly narrowed (at least for the tietäjä-mythology) before the Viking Age. For example, references to Ilmarinen as the smith of heaven seems to have lost vitality as ‘myth’ but was maintained for entertainment in secular riddle traditions, and the feat of creating the vault of heaven was maintained functionally as an attribute of the mythic smith Ilmarinen’s skill and authority (although unconnected to the cosmology). Similarly, Ilmarinen appears removed from the role of skygod, except in the function-specific context of certain weather incantations. When considering the mythology in earlier periods, its most socially and cosmologically central elements prove the most historically enduring – i.e. those elements that are interfaced with the most areas of culture on the one hand while being the symbols of the surface mythology most frequently used in reference and manipulation on the other. he presentation of mythology here may appear to some readers as quite male-dominated. his is in part a function of the fact that the tietäjäinstitution appears to have had a historical role as the conduit of authority for the mythology that was marked as most socially central to the community. As emphasized above, this was a mythology constructed to reflect especially the interest, needs and identities of the tietäjä specialists, in which case, a male-dominated mythology is not surprising. It should also be observed that this socially central mythology is what can be best assessed in long-term perspective, and the farther into history one attempts to gaze, the more basic and central the elements that it is possible to observe. Within the symbolic structuring of kalevalaic epic, Matti Kuusi (1994b) has argued that women are more or less absent as active agents from the most archaic substrata of the mythology and only with the epic poetry linked with Viking themes (on the 461 Frog controversial nature of which, see Ahola) do women receive roles as active agents and dialogue participants. Women are also found in inhumation burials with swords otherwise thought of as male symbols of power or authority. Kuusi’s view remains speculative, but it presents a potential relevant indicator of changing perceptions and valuations of gender roles and gender relations – or that the restructuring of the mythology enabled changes that had already been established in the culture to penetrate the poetry as the semiotics of the tradition were restructured (cf. Ahola et al. 2015). Kuusi sees Christian poetry and its influences as a later layer of influence, yet this may be connected to the same process with the integration of the Virgin Mary as a central mythic figure in incantations, which is difficult to date. Interesting to observe, however, is that the influence of Christian tradition produced a kalevalaic epic cycle surrounding Mary that in later evidence seems to have belonged to a women’s singing tradition rather than being linked predominantly to male singers or the tietäjä-institution (Timonen 1994). Although it remains uncertain when this cycle developed, it can be considered to part of the tradition of mythology linked to women’s gender. his is more interesting because it raises questions about the role and position of women in the Christianization process, especially as the new religion in Sweden has been thought to have held particular appeal for women there at the end of the Viking Age, not least because it opened and restructured relations between gender roles and social power and authority, allowing women to become potentially significant actors in the public sphere (Gräslund 2001: 65–89). In other words, the alternative mythology and could hold appeal as a resource for changing one’s own social position or for restructuring patterns of relation in society more generally. Within this context, it warrants mentioning lamenters as a category of women ritual specialists with distinct genres and a distinct poetic system in parallel to kalevalaic poetry (Stepanova 2014; cf. Frog & Stepanova 2011). Within this poetic system, lamenters maintained a mythology associated with their own ritual practices which had distinctive differences from the mythology of kalevalaic poetry in the images, mythic topography and even the supernatural beings addressed (Stepanova 2012). Although they did not maintain mythological narratives, the lament tradition functioned through an essential modelling system of mythic images and motifs for actualizing the unseen otherworld, ensuring the transition of the deceased from the living community to the community of dead ancestors, and also for maintaining communication and relationships with that branch of the kin-group in the otherworld. In ritual practice, for example, the lamenter describes the essential features of the deceased individual’s journey to the otherworld, how the ancestors prevent the dog from barking, open the gates of the otherworld, meet the deceased with candles, and so forth. Although individual lamenters might have quite detailed understandings of the imaginal otherworld, these events in the unseen world are realized through clusters of images and motifs that do not offer a clear picture of it (nor was offering such a picture the purpose of lamenting per se). (See Stepanova 2014.) Some of the key differences between the mythology of laments and 462 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland of kalevalaic poetry are related to how and why they were used: the realm of the dead was a horrible and dangerous place for the tietäjä, who would banish illnesses there to suffer, whereas it was a positive utopian place for lamenters, whose most socially significant ritual role was integrating the deceased into the otherworld community and maintaining open channels of communication with the ancestral dead (Stepanova 2012; 2014). At the same time, the lamenter’s genres of practice may have stood outside of the restructuring of the mythology associated with the tietäjä tradition (cf. Frog 2014a; Ahola et al. 2015). his presents the possibility that certain aspects of the lamenter’s mythology may maintain more archaic features, such as conceptualizing the journey to the otherworld in terms of vertical rather than horizontal movement (Stepanova 2012: 262). his tradition has assimilated a significant range of images, motifs and even terminology from Christianity, yet Mary is completely absent from laments in spite of her prominence elsewhere (Stepanova 2012: 276). Differentiating ‘men’s mythology’ from ‘women’s mythology’ is really a question of differentiating the genders of conventional users. he absence of Mary from laments and her presence in incantations is not a question of which gender’s mythology Mary belonged to (as the probable women’s epic cycle surrounding Mary highlights). Instead, this gives us information about the historical structuring of different genres that may be associated with certain genders and potentially with gendered categories of specialist, and how those categories of individual related to Mary as a symbol. When looking at any tradition in long-term perspective, it is also essential to consider fields of use within the overall structure of the mythology and the possibility that changes in the mythology may nevertheless leave suspended certain context-specific or function-specific features from earlier substrata. Whether conversion to Christianity or to the tietäjä-mythology is in question, these occur at socially central positions in networks of social groups and they interact with and are negotiated in relation to other areas of culture with other specialists. Although they may come with essential ‘packages’ of mythology, those packages are not comprehensive and do not extend to all areas of culture. hus the competition between the tietäjä and the shaman (noita) as specialists can be regarded as a consequence of filling the same social functions within society: their roles were largely overlapping or equivalent within the tradition ecology. Quite simply, you would go to see both of these specialists for more or less the same reasons (illness, thet, sexual issues) although they worked through different technologies and different mythologies. It is almost inevitable that representatives of each institution would try to assert their own institution’s authority and mythology over that of the other. Within the social structuring of these institutional roles, the displacement of vernacular shamanism by the tietäjä-institution would potentially impact the roles and functions of ritual lamenters – at least insofar as the transition would touch on fields of activity of lamenters, requiring negotiation of each institution’s field of activity. he displacement of vernacular shamanism could also have let open areas of social practices in the tradition ecology resulting in ritual lamenters assuming additional roles 463 Frog or functions that would otherwise have been neglected, such as perhaps a role of psychopomp, ensuring that the deceased successfully accomplished the journey to the otherworld and was integrated into the community of ancestral kin (cf. Honko 1974: 158n.137; Stepanova 2012). On the other hand, the spread of North Finnic languages and the language-shit of Sámi populations was not related to only one category of ritual specialist. Language proves fundamental to many ritually-grounded institutions, and thus a change in language may likely require a change in other institutions reliant on verbal art. In other words, a male-dominated tietäjä-institution and associated magical technologies were unlikely to be the only institution and package of mythology and practices carried along with the spread of North Finnic languages. he female ritual specialist institution of lamenter was similarly reliant on language-bound genres and the continuity of this verbal art across Finnic cultural areas (Frog & Stepanova 2011: 204–209; Stepanova 2014) indicates that any corresponding Sámi lament tradition was superseded. As these are the two most prominent (and also quite broad) categories of vernacular ritual specialist and each is associated with one of the two predominating vernacular oral-poetic systems, it seems reasonable to suppose that other categories of specialist as well as non-specialist cultural practices followed a corresponding pattern in a broad culture shit. Approaching฀Mythology฀in฀the฀Viking฀Age฀in฀Finland he tietäjä-mythology cannot be considered generally representative of most Viking Age cultural environments of Finland and Karelia. he spread of the tietäjä-institution very likely involved its co-existence with inherited forms of North Finnic shamanism in the same and/or adjacent communities for some centuries. Most territories of Finland and Karelia were Sámi linguisticcultural areas and can be assumed to have maintained different mythology and cultural practices. hese can be assumed to have been a different reflex of the Finno-Ugric heritage, historically removed from Finnic mythologies. he spread of North Finnic languages through these territories likely augmented the opposition between these competing institutions with contrasts of Finnic and Sámi language, culture, cultural practices and mythologies. Approaching Sámi mythology is highly problematic. Perspectives offered by the conservative textual support of kalevalaic epic are lacking. Although it is possible to develop some general perspectives on Sámi shamanism (see e.g. Bäckman & Hultkrantz 1973), there is significant variation in the mythologies of different Sámi language groups (see Rydving 2010). his problematizes approaching Sámi mythology in most territories of Finland and Karelia which are generally unattested. hese mythologies likely developed historically from a common heritage of other Sámi mythologies rather than being identical to them. hey presumably developed differently owing to more intensive historical contacts with North Finnic groups and other cultures of these territories than with the uncertain cultures of Lapland in the north and Germanic cultures on the Scandinavian Peninsula. 464 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland he differences are more difficult to estimate because the majority of these areas appear to have been inhabited by a branch of Sámi languages that was completely assimilated (Kuzmin) – i.e. their historical relationship to attested Sámi languages would seem to go back to a period before the attested Sámi languages became distinct from one another.31 Different mythologies may also have been maintained in the majority of North Finnic cultural areas in the Viking Age. he ethnocultural substratum perceived through later evidence traces back to a localized bottleneck that eventually overlaid and eclipsed the mythologies of other North Finnic (Sámi, and perhaps also other) groups. hese other mythologies are now largely irrecoverable, although some perspectives can be gained when approaching them through a continuum model. Additional perspectives may become possible in the future through detailed examination of variation in less central mythological narratives, such as the origin of fire, that could (at least potentially) have persisted in local or regional cultures rather than being displaced by the corresponding narrative carried with the tietäjä-mythology. his provides an important area for exploration in future research.32 Perspectives on these mythologies require projecting back to an ethnocultural substratum prior to the emergence of the tietäjä-institution – i.e. approximations of the mythology that preceded its revolutionary restructuring. hese perspectives remain very general and hypothetical. hey also remain conditional on the degree to which the essential features of the mythology in the cultural environment where the tietäjä-institution emerged were generally representative of North Finnic mythologies. his information can be correlated with broader perspectives on cross-cultural patterns relevant to the Circum-Baltic area, such as thunder-god traditions (cf. Frog 2011a), smith of heaven traditions (Laurinkienë 2008; Frog 2012a; 2013b), and so forth. he lament tradition is also significant because this institution of ritual specialist was almost certainly current in the Viking Age. As a common Finnic heritage, the lament tradition likely had an unbroken continuity through the transition linked to the tietäjä-institution. It also participates in a broad Circum-Baltic cross-cultural pattern of lament traditions in which Baltic, Slavic and even Germanic cultures seem to have participated (see further Stepanova 2011: esp. 140). hese traditions have potential for insights into image systems and structures that may reflect constitutive elements of the mythology in earlier periods, although these will be only some aspects of earlier mythologies rather than offering a comprehensive picture and they should not be considered necessarily equivalent to those of other institutions.33 he bottleneck in the history of North Finnic mythologies problematizes approaching different sources, which must be situated in this light. For example, the jumola[n] nuoli of the Novgorod 292 inscription (see Figure 1, above) reflects a technology of verbal magic suggestive of the deep mythology of the tietäjä-institution. Moreover, use of the technology of writing with a magical language-based technology is almost certainly rooted in foreign models whether through Christian models or Germanic runemagic. his presents a fair possibility that Novgorod 292 reflects a mythology related to, 465 Frog or at least parallel to, the tietäjä-institution. However, this is not a metrical charm nor have verbal or structural formulaic parallels to the charm been identified. his could also reflect a parallel and independent assimilation of the technology that gave rise to the tietäjä-institution. In this case, it could be a reflex of the adaptation of the technology which evolved the structured form and repertoire of the tietäjä-institution in western North Finnic territories but which may have taken shape differently in its initial spread to other areas. It could also be a unique and local synthesis of charming technologies to a Finnic vernacular on the basis of Slavic of Christian models. he Novgorod 292 inscription is unique, making its broader significance highly ambiguous. he Old Norse description of a sacred site and naming a god Jómali can provide another illustrative example. Use of this term may reflect knowledge of Finnic traditions, but not necessarily of the tietäjä-mythology – especially if the theonym was indeed used by Bjarmians on the White Sea. Approached in dialogue with the continuum model, the evidence can be assessed in relation to ethnocultural substrata prior to the tietäjä-institution in order to consider whether outcomes of a corresponding linguistic-cultural heritage could produce this theonym through different historical circumstances. In other words, this may reflect the mythology and practices of a different Finnic culture that was not yet affected by the spread of the tietäjä-institution. his possibility would suggest a different culture in which a local reflex of classic shamanism would presumably be maintained. For the sake of discussion, some (extremely conditional) hypothetical alternatives may be explored. he term Jómali suggests a Finnic language because the development *juma > *juma-la appears specific to the Finnic language group. he appearance of the noun for ‘god, supernaturally empowered being’ as a theonym is curious and problematic. Ethnocultural substrata discernible through the evidence of the tietäjä-institution indicate that – at least in the environment where the institution developed its essential stable form – *Ilmari was the dominant sky-god and smith of heaven. here is nothing to suggest that this was not generally established in the networks of language communities that became Finnish and Karelian. his could simply be a confusion resulting during contact or even in later narrations of these ‘foreign’ cultures by Norsemen. However, if Jómali is not a confusion and renders a cognate of jumala as a primary theonym, this would suggest Finnic social groups in which the theonym *Ilmari had been superseded in use by a common noun, or replaced by a deity called ‘God’. his parallels the use of Jumala under Christianity, which could hypothetically reflect a local or regional vernacularization of Christianity (cf. Frog 2014a). However, this same shit to ‘God’ as a primary theonym happened as part of a broad (and mysterious) cross-cultural development in a fairly early ethnocultural substratum, potentially already a millennium or more before the Viking Age. he shit can be observed only in the lexicon, where it affected Baltic and Germanic languages, and also in the Volgic branch of Finno-Ugric languages. (Frog 2012b: 29–34.) hrough dialogue with the continuum model, the appearance of *Jumala rather than *Ilmari could suggest some connection with this process and 466 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland thus a more distant relation of this mythology to that which was local where the tietäjä-institution took shape. his could be consistent with the model that the Finnic populations which migrated to the Northern Dvina River basin were linguistically closer to South Finnic or to Kallio’s Inland Finnic, where the mythology may have developed quite differently – that is, if these were the Bjarmians and the Bjarmians indeed worshiped a god called Jómali (~ Jumala). However, the picture is more complicated because it cannot be certain that the *juma > *juma-la development was exclusive to Finnic languages. Developments in Sámi languages have erased evidence of this lexical development or its absence. More significantly, the continuum of Finno-Ugric languages between the Finnic and Volgic linguistic-cultural groups underwent a language shit before being documented. Whereas the *juma > *juma-la development is attested for Finnic languages but not the *Ilmari → *Jumala development, the *juma > *juma-la development is not attested in Volgic languages but the *Ilma → *Juma development is. If Jómali does indeed accurately represent a primary theonym, then it could potentially derive from one of these languages, such as Meryan, which was geographically adjacent to Volgic languages while linguistically closer to Finnic (on which see Helimski 2006). Meryans were not only prominent in the history of cultural contacts but a very direct and intimate cultural contact and exchange is evinced in the clay paw burial rite found in Meryan territories, where it appears to have been assimilated through contact with populations of the Åland Islands (Callmer 1992; Frog 2014a). When linguistic evidence of the *juma > *juma-la development for these other languages is lacking, identifying Jómali as a specifically Finnic loan must be recognized as a probability rather than as a certainty. When approaching mythology in the Viking Age, broad patterns, models, minimal symbolic ‘words’ of the mythology (images, motifs) and the mythological lexicon can be cautiously approached according to the highest degree of probable relevance. his presents highly abstracted perspectives on the relevant cultural environments (see e.g. the study of Siikala 2002a). he more complex the material, such as a whole narrative, the more caution is required, and this leads into areas in which non-specialists easily become entangled (cf. Figure 4). Part of this problem is related to an inclination to think of a mythology in terms of whole narratives, whether as invariable plots or textual poems, and failure to consider that these may have varied and adapted over time. Consideration of the maintenance of mythology through cultural practices should be taken into account immediately on addressing the sources, with particular attention to the degree of public centrality for the surface mythology and whether it is connected prominently and centrally to an institution of ritual specialist. Although it is possible for prose mythological narratives to maintain very long-term historical continuities (e.g. Frog 2011a), this material is oten problematic because prose traditions tend to be more flexible in reproduction and, in Finno-Karelian traditions, to have popular and secular functions that made variation according the situation more acceptable or even required. Kalevalaic narrative poetry is at the other end of the spectrum, characterized by extreme verbal conservatism. 467 Frog Content (photo) removed from the open access version of this book. Fig. 4. he mount of Solberga, a bronze buckle from Askeby in Östergötland, eighth century. Sune Lindqvist (1945–1946) interpreted this image as Väinämöinen fishing for Aino in Kalevala (cf. Harva 1948: 367). Insofar as the image can be assumed meaningful and recognizable, the interpretation is not improbable. However, the interpretation is based on Kalevala, in which Lönnrot identified the fish-maiden with Aino as an editorial decision with no foundation in traditional poetry. he episode in Kalevala was based on the epic song Vellamo’s Maiden, in which Väinämöinen has replaced an earlier protagonist (Kuusi 1963). However, only a single (ambiguous) motif is represented here, leaving the narrative whole uncertain. he narrative appears to have circulated cross-culturally in the Baltic Sea region (Aarne 1923), and therefore is not assuredly Finnic, nor even assuredly mythological. (Photo © SHM (Swedish History Museum), reproduced with permission.) 468 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland he core mythological poems of the tietäjä’s repertoire, such as the SampoCycle and adventure of the figure Lemminkäinen, were likely current in some form in the Viking Age (see Ahola). Some mythological poetry suggests still longer continuity although it may have been transformed through the interests and priorities of the tietäjä-institution in the restructuring of the mythology. his may have been the case for the creation of a woman through metal-working (associated with the earlier smith of heaven tradition) and the creation of the world (or at least parts of that narrative) (see further Frog 2012a; 2013b). his does not mean that all of the narratives of the tietäjä’s core mythology were current at that time: this remains only a probability for each individual poem. In general, this probability is greater for mythological epic poems attested across all tradition areas where mythological poetry was maintained. Poems preserved in only a few isolated examples (e.g. Ahti and Kyllikki) are very problematic to assess. Use of a mythological poem, episode, image or motif in comparison must consider this. Most challenging, however, is thinking in terms of variation. Continuity does not mean that these poems did not change and vary over time – especially when Christian models and ideologies had a gradual and increasing impact on the traditions. Nevertheless, as a rule, variation does not occur ‘just anywhere’ in a poem or story. Generally speaking, semantic, structural and functional cores of tradition tend to be relatively stable in historical transmission while variation tends to occur in semantically and structurally ‘light’ tissue between these. A general impression of local and regional variation and relative prominence of a particular mythological poem or incantation can be gained by even a superficial survey of examples of in the published critical edition Suomen Kansan Vanhat Runot [‘Ancient Songs of the Finnish People’] or SKVR (1908–1997), organizing more than 86,000 items of kalevalaic poetry first by region, then by genre, and then according to variants of the particular text type. It should be remembered that variation is an essential aspect of living tradition. Most variation has no direct impact on the intersubjective referent of the tradition and the majority of innovations never become established. Among examples of well-attested poems, it is oten quite easy to identify certain features or even uses of whole episodes as something localized to a community, network of communities or region. Early research sought to map these in great detail according to a so-called stemma, rather like a family tree of variation (cf. Salmela). However, it oten becomes difficult to determine which of two ‘deeper’ forms may have preceded the other, and the once-popular concrete reconstructions will inevitably produce falsifications: the farther back in time a tradition is projected, the more abstractly and conditionally it should be approached (cf. Figure 5). Cross-disciplinary uses of folklore material will generally require comparison across different modes of expression and different functions – e.g. in personal names (e.g. Saarikivi 2007), toponymy (Ahlqvist 2012), medieval iconography (Figure 4) or interpreting evidence of cultural practices exhibited in the archaeological record (Wessman 2010). It is therefore important to distinguish what precisely is being compared (see 469 Frog Fig. 5. Stick diagram comparison. A stemma model diagram can provide a valuable tool for visualizing contexts and relationships between materials under comparison, much as a stick figure can be used to indicate a hand, foot or eye in relation to other parts of a human being. It nevertheless remains an interpretation, and a minimal outline which may also be misrepresentative. Frog 2013a: 111–115). Historical comparison will usually be concerned with continuities in ‘content’ rather than representation as ‘text’, and crossdisciplinary comparison will frequently be concerned with a more abstract conceptual model for mythological thinking (cf. Frog 2011a). It is advisable to begin with the smallest meaningful units and structures as a foundation for discussion: the semiotic building-blocks of texts normally exhibit greater historical continuity and stability than narratives or sequences of ritual activity (cf. Siikala 2002a), even if these building-blocks are also the elements which can be most easily adapted to new contexts or transmitted cross-culturally and may have extremely long and rich histories (see e.g. Harvilahti 2009; cf. Krohn 1926). When such building-blocks or small groups of them provide a core for comparison, care should be taken before suggesting that the core elements warrant comparison with a full complex narrative or ritual sequence (cf. Figure 4). hese should be approached abstractly, remaining aware that continuities can be most reliably traced in terms compositional elements and their associations with one another and/ or with broad conceptual models. (Such a comparison does not exclude a relationship to a whole narrative, it is simply a more cautious strategy for approaching that possibility without over-hasty commitment to it.) he greater the number of elements and the more complex and interdependent their relationships in a parallel, the greater the probability of a relationship. Special care must be taken to consider whether examples under consideration exhibit socially conventional forms. Oten the examples that are most frequently presented and reproduced are selected precisely because they are exceptional in quality, development or detail, or because they are most relevant to a particular argument rather than because they most accurately reflect an average or are representative of norms (Bradley 2012). his sort of selectivity of sources has been problematic within research on kalevalaic mythology: it was only relatively recently that researchers began recognizing that talented performers not infrequently assert their own identities, authority and ideologies through variation (cf. Tarkka 2005: 179– 470 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland 182), and also that a more richly developed perspective on the tradition and competence in its use actually increases the likelihood that an individual will perceive relationships between traditions, attempt to reconcile incongruities or bring vernacular traditions into accord with a changed, predominating (e.g. Christian) worldview (cf. Converse 1964: 214–219). For example, one of the most famous Karelian singers who had great influence on Elias Lönnrot’s Kalevala omitted the world-egg motif from the world-creation and presented Väinämöinen calling on God to raise the first earth from the primal sea, more in accord with his own Christian worldview (see Frog 2010a: 226–229). Perspectives Mythology has a semiotically central position in cultures and cultural practices. It therefore holds great potential as a resource for many disciplines. It is simultaneously elusive and difficult to approach: many of its sources are problematic and still more are neglected or overlooked. he preceding discussion has concentrated on mythology in terms of social practices and institutions of ritual specialist that provide conduits of authority in the maintenance of surface mythology. Recognizing a relationship between mythology and practitioners is essential to any approach to mythology and its sources. In addition, the most promising areas for approaching continuities in mythologies are precisely where these are connected with continuities in practices and specialist institutions: the most extensive evidence of FinnoKarelian mythology relevant to the Viking Age is concentrated precisely in genres connected to institutions of ritual specialists with a continuity of practice extending back into the Iron Age; evidence of mythology is weakest for specialist institutions that did not survive, such as for shamanism. Mythologies in the Viking Age nevertheless remain very much removed and can centrally be approached only through quite abstract and generalized descriptions that offer better perspectives on patterns than on a specific repertoire of concrete narratives. Mythologies in the Viking Age also appear to have been highly diversified across both the same and different linguistic groups. he specialists and their mythologies can be presumed to have differed in North Finnic and in Sámi linguistic groups, while the diversity within each linguistic group remains uncertain. here may also have been additional groups with still other types of specialists, practices and mythologies. his may have been the case for Bjarmians as a possible South Finnic culture. he same questions surround Åland, which not only stood between Germanic and Finnic linguistic-cultural areas but also exhibits ritual practices connected with the remote territories of the Merya. here is even a possibility that in inland regions or in the remote north that there were additional communities of West Uralic speakers of unknown languages or even potentially as-yet unassimilated Palaeo-European groups. At some point during the Iron Age (i.e. ater the sky-god *Ilmari assimilated the smith of heaven identity and narratives), there was a 471 Frog fundamental restructuring of the socially central North Finnic mythology connected with the emergence of the institution of the tietäjä. his institution most likely spread through the relatively small North Finnic dialect continuum in the Viking Age and subsequently spread north with the North Finnic languages, presumably ater already assimilating Christian material. here were nevertheless diverse institutions of ritual specialist and these specialists no doubt played an essential role in the maintenance of the surface mythology within each smaller linguistic-cultural group and community. It remains uncertain how long the tietäjä-institution existed in parallel with vernacular shamanism. At the same time, the spread of these cultures was not exclusively linked to language or to the tietäjä-institution and seems to have been accompanied by other popular genres of expression in Kalevala-meter, lamenters as ritual specialists with their own genres and distinctive form of mythology, and countless other practices. When turning attention to potential interfaces between mythology and the evidence in different sources, such as archaeology or foreign literature, it is necessary to ask whose mythology may be reflected, variously in terms of language, culture, and even in terms of the categories of specialist who may be concerned. Acknowledgements: Research for this chapter has been completed within the framework of the Academy of Finland project “Oral Poetry, Mythic Knowledge, and Vernacular Imagination: Interfaces of Individual Expression and Collective Traditions in Pre-Modern Northeast Europe” of the Department of Folklore Studies, University of Helsinki. Portions of accounts of theory and method have been adapted especially from the extended discussion in “he Parallax Approach” (Frog 2013a, first edition 2012), and see also Frog 2011c, 2012a, 2012b and 2013b as well as advancements of this framework in Frog 2014a and 2014b; illustrative figures and captions appearing here or earlier versions of them have previously appeared in Frog 2013a and its 2012 edition and in Frog 2012b. Notes 1 2 3 4 5 his expression was coined by Jewett & Lawrence 1977; see Coupe 1997: 9–13; Doty 2000; Frog 2014b. he human meaning project hypothesis circulated in Christian discourses throughout the Middle Ages and can be traced back still further to Classical Antiquity where it shows up, for example, in Plato’s Phaedrus. Scientific truths of yesterday can become the myths of today, thus ‘erroneous’ here is dependent on only ascribing ‘myth’ to the ‘other’. Moreover, the separation of scientific truths and mainstream thinking above is illusory, because the authority of objective science in modern cultures is purely dependent on mainstream thinking. Or at least not be both independently realized and also be analyzable: see Lotman & Uspenskij 1976. he Christian model of conscious subscription to a ‘belief ’ tends to confuse this issue. Most living ‘beliefs’ are closer to tacit presumptions and intuitions rather 472 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland than a conscious subscription – people may not even be aware of them – or they function practically and socially, shaping individual behaviours. In most cases, there is actually no motivation to question or resolve whether one does or does not ‘believe’ let alone whether or not to consciously subscribe to it – it is simply a thinking process that may engage emotional responses. 6 he passage is the same in both versions of the saga: Johnsen & Jón Helgason 1941: 351; Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson 1941–1951: 294. 7 ‘Magic shot’ is the English term for magic arrows or darts that cause illness (cf. Finnish pistos), on which see further Honko 1959. 8 See Hautala 1968; see also discussions in Ahola; Ahola & Frog; Raninen & Wessman; Aalto. 9 Documents for White Sea Karelia in the north still show Sámi settlements covering more than half of the area in c. 1600, but these populations seem to have gradually adopted the local Karelian dialect (Pöllä 1999: 164, 168). No Sámi are indicated in the region Seesd’ärvi (Fin. Seesjärvi, Rus. Сегозеро; more or less in the center of Karelia) in sixteenth and seventeenth century documents (Mullonen 2001: 14), yet in south-eastern areas of this region, the linguistically Karelian population still refers to themselves as lappalažet [‘Sámi’] and to their language as lappi [‘Sámi’] (but call themselves карелы [‘Karelians’] in Russian). hey identify kajalažet [‘Karelians’] as being further south and refer to their southern neighbours as vepsä [‘Vepsians’]. (Konkka & Konkka 1980: 23–24.) When doing fieldwork in this region, folklore collectors asking for songs in Karelian (karjalaksi) would receive songs in Russian, and would have to request songs in Sámi (lapiksi) in order to get songs in Karelian. his seems to be an exceptional example of the maintenance of ethnic identity through the historical process of a language shit. 10 See for example Ajkhenvald et al. 1989; Napolskikh 1992; Siikala 2002c; Frog 2012a; 2012b; an accessible overview of Proto-Uralic mythology is available in Hoppál 2010: 28–37. 11 On the dualist structure, see Ajkhenvald et al. 1989; Frog 2012b; on the narrative core of the world-creation myth, see Napolskikh 1989; 1992; 2012; on the vertically structured cosmology, see e.g. Harva 1923; Hultkrantz 1996; Tátar 1996; Hoppál 2010: 29–31; cf. Eliade 1964; the term “classic shamanism” is taken from Siikala 1978: 14–15; on a form of classic shamanism as part of the heritage of Uralic cultures, see further e.g. Hultkrantz 2001; Siikala 2002a. In the Viking Age in Finland seminars, Clive Tolley emphasized that the identification of shamanism as a part of Finno-Ugric or Uralic heritage is extremely hypothetical because shamanism has been preserved among so few Finno-Ugric cultures and the form preserved in Sámi lacks certain characteristic features (see also Tolley 2009 I: 66–92; for an alternative approach to this problem, see Frog 2012a). A diverse range of evidence nevertheless suggests that a form of classic shamanism, or minimally something close to the shamanism encountered among the Sámi with a corresponding ideology, was established in North Finnic cultures by the beginning of the Iron Age (see e.g. Siikala 2002a). he present discussion is not dependent on that form of shamanism necessarily being rooted in a Proto-Uralic or Proto-Finno-Ugric ethnocultural substratum as opposed to being introduced through cross-cultural contact in an intermediate period prior to the Iron Age. It nevertheless seems probable that a form of classic shamanism was established already in those earliest ethnocultural substrata. It should also be observed that rejecting shamanism as a constituent of those early substrata implicitly presupposes that an otherwise unknown, unattested institution of ritual specialist and ritual practice of ‘notshamanism’ was current at that time. 12 See e.g. Vajda 1959; Hultkrantz 1973; Siikala 1978; on the aspect of physicality, cf. also Frog 2013b. 473 Frog 13 On *Ilma as the name of the sky-god in Proto-Finno-Ugric, see Frog 2012b and works there cited; on *nojta, see Haavio 1967: 313–314; Rédei et al. 1986–1988: 307–308. 14 Cf. Holmberg [Harva] 1927: 313–322. Finnic languages do not have articles (a or the in English) and consequently, piru or perkele and other similar terms can be variously interpreted as ‘a devil’, ‘the devil’, or even as a personal name ‘Devil’. 15 For a fuller discussion, see Frog 2012a; 2013b; for a developed discussion of parallels and differences between these traditions at the level of conceptual modelling and guided imagination, see Frog 2010b. 16 On the Finno-Ugric material, see Napolskikh 1989: 106; on comparison with Indo-Iranian, see Aalto 1975 [1987]: 85–86; see further also Valk 2000: esp. 154; Frog 2012a: esp. 213. 17 For example, the world-egg creation appears to be depicted in Neolithic petroglyphs of an unknown northern culture on the northeast coast of Lake Onega (Lahelma 2008: 155–157; 2010: 142–145), thus the earliest evidence of this mythological material may derive from a culture that is neither Uralic nor Indo-European, as first pointed out by Ülo Valk (2000). 18 On the possible underlying images of bronze-working, see Frog 2011c: 32, 35; on images specific to this technology, see e.g. Salo 2006: 30–31; on bronze-working as more peripheral in overall cultural impacts, see Hakamies 1999: 86–87; 2012. 19 See further Siikala 2002a: passim; Frog 2010a: 127–141; Frog 2013b. 20 he forms Ilmari and Ilmari-nen are equivalent and alternative as are the forms Väinä, Väinö, Väinä-mö and Väinä-möinen; the extended forms are especially associated with Kalevala-meter poetry where a four-syllable name like Ilmari-nen or Väinä-möinen is simply easier to use in a line. 21 Scholars’ relative valuation of different genres of folklore was accompanied by a corresponding relative valuation of ‘Christian’ themes versus the ethnicallybased mythology and epic traditions. As a consequence, this Christian material has not been as extensively studied. he general impression of the material is that the Christian substratum was interfaced with these traditions already at an early stage before Finnish and Karelian cultures began to spread significantly inland. If this is the case, the enrichment of the tradition by Christian material seems likely to have taken place when the contact networks between western Finland and Karelia were still vital especially in relation to this institution, whether toward the end of the Finnish Viking Age Proper (750–1050) or in the Later Finnish Viking Age (1050–1250). Following that period, the changing geopolitical situation affected contacts and the alignments of social identities with eastern and western nation-states and eastern and western Churches (Heininen et al.), reducing the probability that there would be a rich exchange of cultural practices during that time. On the problems and questions of the possible arrival and assimilation of Christian religion into vernacular culture in western Finland already in the tenth to the twelth centuries, see Frog 2014a. 22 On this epic and discussions surrounding it, see e.g. Setälä 1932; Harva 1943; Lid 1949; Kuusi 1949; Haavio 1952: 51–63, 208–212; Frog 2012a. 23 For a current collection of works and approaches, see Frog et al. 2012. 24 See e.g. Honko 1981b; 1985; for an overview of the concept and history of the term, see Kamppinen 1989: 37–46. 25 For example: a researcher of Kalevala-meter poetry will receive a different impression than a researcher of ritual laments, legends or sermons; ethnographic material on rituals gives a different impression than narrative traditions; a linguist can examine names and terms irrespective of whether these are attached to information about narratives, rituals or popular beliefs. 474 Myth, Mythological hinking and he Viking Age in Finland 26 he following is a usage-based model of tradition according to the theory of the Activating Power of Expression presented in Frog 2010a; see also Frog 2013a: 109– 111. For a usage-based approach to language, see Tomasello 2003. 27 See further Frog 2010a: 137, 232; 2011c: 32–34; on ‘conduits’ of transmission of traditions, see von Sydow 1948: 12; Dégh & Vázsonyi 1975. 28 For discussion of such identities in terms of ‘tradition dominants’, see Eskeröd 1947: 79–81; Honko 1981a: 23–24; 1981b: 35–36. 29 See e.g. Haavio 1967: 136–137; Kuusi et al. 1977: 524 and poems #7–8; Hakamies 2012; Frog 2012a. 30 Tuoni is fully integrated into the world of mythological narratives, incantations and laments, but almost nothing is known of Tuoni as a mythic being – even her(?) gender is uncertain (see e.g. Siikala 2002a: 145–153; Stepanova 2012). he etymology of the name has been traced back to an extremely early Germanic contact (SSE III: 330) probably meaning ‘Death’. Although not cognate with Old Norse Hel [‘Death’], the female being ruling the realm of the dead, this etymology would present a common semantic and structural basis for both names being rooted in the same culture, but the background nevertheless remains obscure. Although Tuoni does in fact appear in some narrative poems, it should be observed that in these cases Tuoni’s name has simply been inserted in a conventional narrative in the place of e.g. Hiisi [‘Devil’] and other names. his process seems connected to the increasing use of mythic figures, their names and mythological narratives in secular fantastic tales for entertainment. hese cannot be considered necessarily representative of Tuoni’s (earlier) identity in the mythology (beyond an identification with an otherworld location) when that identity is in no way distinguishable from other identities which more commonly fill the same role. 31 It may be interesting to note that the geographical scope and rate of the spread of language and culture could be a relevant factor here. Where the linguistic-cultural system has spread over a new area more quickly, its internal variation may be less pronounced. In contrast, long-term habitation in the same local areas may lead to greater diversity within those areas – much as language variation is far greater in a smaller geographical space in southern Estonia, in the area from which Finnic languages are thought to have spread, whereas they are far more uniform across large areas of Finland and Karelia. If the Sámi languages spread from territories of southern Finland and Karelia, Sámi languages (and perhaps mythologies) may have been far more diverse in this area during the Viking Age than in Norway and Sweden. 32 hese patterns of variation have been surveyed and discussed (e.g. Krohn 1924; Sarmela 1994), but these discussions have lacked a developed frame of reference regarding the historical spread of the tietäjä-institution and the spread of both Finnic and Sámi languages. 33 For example, certain aspects of the lament tradition and its images are dependent on changes in burial practices such as the shit to inhumation from cremation (cf. 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