The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey: From Prehistory to the Present 9781350267985, 9781350268005, 9781350268012, 1350267988

Table of contents :
Cover
Halftitle page
Series page
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
CONTRIBUTORS
INTRODUCTION Robert J. Wallis
References
PART I THE MATERIALITY OF HUMAN ENGAGEMENTS WITH BIRDS OF PREY
CHAPTER 1 RAPTORS AS COMPANIONS: DEEP-TIME FORAYS IN MULTISPECIES ARCHAEOLOGY Shumon T. Hussain
Introduction
Agricentrism, forager phenomenology and companion species
Being-with raptors: a comparative perspective
Conclusion
References
CHAPTER 2 GODS, KINGS AND OFFERINGS: RAPTORS IN ANCIENT EGYPT Salima Ikram
Introduction
Raptors in religion, iconography and text
Animal cults and raptors
Sacrificial raptors
Sourcing the birds
Ancient Egyptians and raptors in relationship
References
CHAPTER 3 GHOSTHAWK WORLDINGS: RAPTOR HARUSPICY DURING THE NORTH EUROPEAN BRONZE AGE Joakim Goldhahn
The Beak People
Meeting the birds halfway
Goshawk alias Grey-Foot
The archaeology of Grey-Foot
The Hvidegård I pebbles
The transmorph of Grey-Foot
Discussion and concluding thoughts
References
PART II VISUALISING HUMAN RELATIONS WITH RAPTORS
CHAPTER 4 GOLDEN EAGLES: RAPTOR IMAGERY BIOGRAPHIES IN KAZAKHSTAN DURING THE EARLY FIRST MILLENNIUM BCE Kenneth Lymer
Introduction
Moving beyond the ‘animal style’
Shilikty-type raptors
Raptor object entanglements
A biography of raptor objects
Rock art entanglements
Towards biographies of raptor imagery
References
CHAPTER 5 VISUAL HYBRIDITY, POLITICAL POWER AND CULTURAL CONTEST: KITAN LIAO (916-1125 CE) AND JURCHEN JIN (1115-1234 CE) TEXTILES WITH FALCONRY-RELATED IMAGERY Leslie V. Wallace
Introduction
Kitan and Jin textiles, dress and personal adornment
Category 1: Fully-developed chunshui imagery
Category 2a: Paired raptors
Category 2b: Paired geese
Category 3: Scenes of predation
Category 4: Mounted falconer
Conclusion
Notes
References
CHAPTER 6 ‘THE FALCON-CLOAK WHISTLED’: BIRD FIBULAE, FALCONRY AND POWERFUL WOMEN IN SEVENTH-CENTURY SCANDINAVIA Kristina Jennbert1
Introduction
The bird fibulae
The archaeology of falconry
The bird brooches and falconry
The bird fibulae and their women
Fibulae, female falconry and Freyja
Conclusion
Note
References
PART III POSTHUMANIST ONTOLOGIES OF HUMAN–RAPTOR RELATIONS
CHAPTER 7 RELATING TO RAPTORS: THE ‘UPPER PART OF A HAWK’S HEAD AND BEAK’ IN A CHALCOLITHIC/EARLY BRONZE AGE ‘BEAKER’ GRAVE, DRIFFIELD, EAST YORKSHIRE Robert J. Wallis1
Introduction
Grave C38, Driffield
The ‘upper part of a hawk’s head and beak’
The copper-alloy knife-dagger
The beaker
The amber beads/buttons
The stone wrist-guard
Conclusion
Note
References
CHAPTER 8 RAPTORS IN PRE-COLUMBIAN NORTH AMERICA: AN ONTOLOGY OF ART Max Carocci
Introduction
Inventories and their current interpretations
An ontology of art
Sacred materials
Conclusion
References
CHAPTER 9 BIRDS OF PREY IN ANCIENT AMAZONIA: PREDATION AND PERSPECTIVE IN CERAMIC ICONOGRAPHY Cristiana Barreto and Marcony Alves
Introduction
Amazonian ontologies of predation and birds of prey
Birds of prey in ancient Amazonia
Birds of prey in Marajoara funerary urns
Birds of prey in Santarém ceramics
Conclusion
References
CHAPTER 10 ‘NOW I AM A BIRD, AND NOW I AM A MAN’: POSTHUMANISM, RAPTORS AND THE RUS’ Neil Price1
Introduction
Raptors in late Iron Age reality
Raptors in the late Iron Age mind
Raptors and the Rus’
Völundr’s feathers and Óðinn’s wings
More-than-human in the Viking Age?
Conclusion
Note
References
PART IV INDIGENOUS KNOWLEDGES OF BIRDS OF PREY
CHAPTER 11 BIRDS OF PREY, ‘OUR MOTHERS’ AND WOMEN OF POWER: THE ‘SPIRIT BIRD OF NIGHT’ MASQUERADE IN YOR Ù B Á ART AND THOUGHT Henry John Drewal
Introduction
E`∙fè/Gè∙lè∙dé∙ and E∙ye∙ O`∙ro`∙/Orù
E`∙fè · – nocturnal performances
Spirit Bird of Night (E∙ye∙ O`∙ro`∙/Orù)
Yorùbá beliefs about female and male differences
Conclusion
Notes
References
CHAPTER 12 POUĀKAI: ROCK DRAWINGS OF HAAST’S EAGLE OR NEW ZEALAND’S LEGENDARY BIRD? Gerard O’Regan, Emma Burns and Te Maire Tau1
Introduction
Ecological understanding
Rock art imagery identified as eagles
Rock art imagery ascribed as ‘birdmen’
Traditions of Poua¯kai as a bird
Birdman traditions
Conclusion
Note
References
CHAPTER 13 ANCESTORS, MESSENGERS AND ‘GOOD COUNTRY’: BIRDS OF PREY, ROCK ART AND INDIGENOUS KNOWLEDGE IN THE KIMBERLEY, NORTHWEST AUSTRALIA Ana Paula Motta and Martin Porr
Introduction
Birds of prey representations in Australian rock art
Case study: the northeast Kimberley
The Irregular Infill Animal Period (IIAP)
Gwion
Wanjina
Birds in Kimberley rock art
Birds in the Kimberley zooarchaeological record
Birds of prey and traditional knowledge in the Kimberley
Conclusion
Note
References
INDEX
Plates

Citation preview

THE ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY OF HUMAN ENGAGEMENTS WITH BIRDS OF PREY

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Also available from Bloomsbury BEASTLY QUESTIONS: ANIMAL ANSWERS TO ARCHAEOLOGICAL ISSUES by Naomi Sykes ECOLOGY AND THEOLOGY IN THE ANCIENT WORLD: CROSS-DISCIPLINARY PERSPECTIVES edited by Ailsa Hunt and Hilary F. Marlow ENLIGHTENED ANIMALS IN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY ART: SENSATION, MATTER, AND KNOWLEDGE by Sarah R. Cohen

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THE ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY OF HUMAN ENGAGEMENTS WITH BIRDS OF PREY FROM PREHISTORY TO THE PRESENT

Edited by Robert J. Wallis

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BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2023 Copyright © Robert J. Wallis & Contributors, 2023 Robert J. Wallis has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editor of this work. Cover design: Terry Woodley Cover image © Sandro Vannini/Laboratoriorosso All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN:

HB: 978-1-3502-6798-5 ePDF: 978-1-3502-6800-5 eBook: 978-1-3502-6801-2

Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk Printed and bound in Great Britain To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations List of Contributors Introduction Robert J. Wallis

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Part I The Materiality of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey 1

Raptors as Companions: Deep-Time Forays in Multispecies Archaeology Shumon T. Hussain

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Gods, Kings and Offerings: Raptors in Ancient Egypt Salima Ikram

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Ghosthawk Worldings: Raptor Haruspicy during the North European Bronze Age Joakim Goldhahn

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Part II Visualizing Human Relations with Raptors 4 5

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Golden Eagles: Raptor Imagery Biographies in Kazakhstan during the Early First Millennium bce Kenneth Lymer

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Visual Hybridity, Political Power and Cultural Contest: Kitan Liao (916–1125 ce ) and Jurchen Jin (1115–1234 ce ) Textiles with Falconry-Related Imagery Leslie V. Wallace

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‘The Falcon-Cloak Whistled’: Bird Fibulae, Falconry and Powerful Women in Seventh-Century Scandinavia Kristina Jennbert

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Part III Posthumanist Ontologies of Human–Raptor Relations 7

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Relating to Raptors: The ‘upper part of a hawk’s head and beak’ in a Chalcolithic/Early Bronze Age ‘Beaker’ Grave, Driffield, East Yorkshire Robert J. Wallis

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Raptors in Pre-Columbian North America: An Ontology of Art Max Carocci

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Birds of Prey in Ancient Amazonia: Predation and Perspective in Ceramic Iconography Cristiana Barreto and Marcony Alves

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10 ‘Now I Am a Bird, and Now I Am a Man’: Posthumanism, Raptors and the Rus’ Neil Price

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Contents

Part IV Indigenous Knowledges of Birds of Prey 11 Birds of Prey, ‘Our Mothers’ and Women of Power: The ‘Spirit Bird of Night’ Masquerade in Yorùbá Art and Thought Henry John Drewal

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12 Pouākai: Rock Drawings of Haast’s Eagle or New Zealand’s Legendary Bird? Gerard O’Regan, Emma Burns and Te Maire Tau

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13 Ancestors, Messengers and ‘Good Country’: Birds of Prey, Rock Art and Indigenous Knowledge in the Kimberley, Northwest Australia Ana Paula Motta and Martin Porr

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Index

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ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures 1.1

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Tanglegram of the general ecology of Neanderthal–raptor relations during the European Middle Palaeolithic. Special emphasis is put on the structure of relationships between different types of hominin killsites, prey exploitation, transport decisions, carrion availability, affordances and species-specific signalling as well as the collection and transformation of particular animal body parts. Silhouettes redrawn from http://phylopic.org/ (original silhouette credits: © Public Domain, Zimices, Anthony Caravaggi, Peileppe, Birgit Lang, Margot Michaud, Jan A. Venter, Herbert H. T. Prins, David A. Balfour, Rob Slotow, T. Michael Keesey, Mason McNair, DFoidl) Tanglegram of the general ecology of forager–raptor relations during the Mesolithic of Southern Scandinavia and Northeastern Europe. Special emphasis is put on the structure of relationships between coastal and inland boreal-lakeland environments, ecological facilitation by non-human actors, the sharing of key resources such as fish and waterfowl and the role of raptor material culture and burial inclusion. Silhouettes redrawn from http://phylopic.org/ (original silhouette credits: © Public Domain, Steven Traver, Juan Carlos, Milton Tan, Carlos Cano Barbaci, Sean McCann, Rebecca Groom, Gabriela Palomo Munoz, Xavier Giroux Bougard, Margot Michaud, Timothy Knepp, Timothy J. Bartley) Tanglegram of the general ecology of forager–raptor relations during the Epipalaeolithic and earliest Neolithic (PPNA) of the Eastern Mediterranean Levant. Special emphasis is put on the structure of relationships between hunting stations and more permanent habitation sites, animal attractors including an emerging human-anchored commensal niche, seasonal bird harvesting and intensified ungulate economies, animal burial inclusion and a diverse raptor assemblage as feather provider. Silhouettes redrawn from http://phylopic.org/ (original silhouette credits: © Public Domain, Lauren Anderson, Gabriela Palomo Munoz, Liftarn, Ferran Sayol, Anthony Caravaggi, Mathieu Plissi, Gopal Murali, Ferran Sayol, Rebecca Groom) King Khafre (c. 2570 bc) with the Horus Falcon behind his head. The falcon’s wings cradle the king’s head in a gesture of protection, and the positioning of the falcon identifies the king with the god (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, CG 14/JE 10062), photo A. Dodson A granite statue of the god Horus standing behind Ptolemy XV Caesar (Caesarion, the son of Cleopatra VII and Julius Caesar) in the temple of

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Edfu. The massive image of the god in his falcon form is supporting the king and legitimizing his rule, photo S. Ikram One of Tutankhamun’s many gold collars (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, JE 61914); this one in the form of a Horus falcon holding the shen, symbol of eternity, that protected the neck and chest of the mummy. © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford Falcon mummy with a cartonnage mask (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, CG 29685), photo Anna-Marie Kellen, reproduced with permission of the author Examples of Transmorphic Beak People Beings during the Bronze Age (Courtesy of www.hallristning.se; www.shfa.se; Montelius 1917; Sprockhoff and Höckmann 1979, Cat. No. 192 and 317). Not to scale. Above; model illustrating the need of various manifold sources in zooming in on past worldings, and, below; model illustrating how Bird Beings and their intra-action can help us unfold past worldings (author) The Hvidegård burial, the belt-purse and some of its objects. Source: Herbst 1848 (copyright expired) An aroused transmorphic Beak Person and his paralysed prey, rock art from Kville 189 in Bohuslän, Sweden (Courtesy of the Swedish Rock Art Archive, www.shfa.se) Examples of Shilikty-type and related raptor decorations (illustration by K. Lymer): a) Shilikty kurgan 5; b) Shilikty kurgan 7; c) Shilikty kurgan 16; d) Shilikty-3 kurgan 1; e) Taldy-2 kurgan 2; f) Uigarak kurgan 39; g) Zuevsky cemetery, Urmurtia; h) Mashenka-1 kurgan 1, Altai Krai (after Shulga 2008: fig. 35) Raptor decorations from Taksai-1 kurgan 6 (illustration by K. Lymer after Lukpanova 2015: fig. 3): a) example of a golden plaque featuring fourheaded raptor design; b) bronze mirror with raptor images on a gold-leaf handle Shilikty-type raptor petroglyphs (illustration by K. Lymer): a) ZhaltyrakTash (after Sher et al. 1987: fig. 5, 5); b) Novoberezovka (tracing by K. Lymer); c) Eshkiolmes eagle scene 1 (tracing by K. Lymer); d) Eshkiolmes eagle scene 2 (tracing by K. Lymer); e) Arzhan-2 plate 4/01 (after Chugunov 2015: table 13, 1) Figure 5.1a Map of the Liao Empire by Thomas Lessman. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0, Unported license; Figure 5.1b Jin Dynasty 1141 by Ian Kiu. Creative Commons Attribution 3.0, Unported license Figure 5.2a Line drawing of a fragment of the upper part of a Liao skirt in the China National Silk Museum (Inv. No. 1998.3.2) that depicts four raptors and a circle enclosed by a pearl roundel. Silk samite fragment (10th–11th centuries ce ) (after Zhao 2004a: 207); Figure 5.2b Line drawing of a textile pattern of raptor roundels and quadrifoliate decoration on a silk samite fragment (fragment: 23 × 43 cm) (after Kennedy 1997: fig. 1); Figure 5.2c

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Line drawing of a pattern on a Liao damask skirt with raptors and deer in an interlocking coin frame (after Zhao 2004a: 80). All line drawings by Scott Mann Figure 5.3a Line drawing of decoration on a fragment of an embroidered robe from the tomb of Yelü Yuzhi (941); Figure 5.3b Line drawing of the pattern on an embroidered leather bag with damask border in the Mengdiexuan Collection, 21 × 19 cm (So 2004a: Cat. No. V:21); Figure 5.3c Line drawing of a sutra wrapper depicting a falconer with two birds, Liao dynasty, 1049 ce , White Pagoda, Qingzhou, Balinyou Banner, Inner Mongolia (after Zhao 2004a, fig. 166). All line drawings by Scott Mann Typological classification of the bird fibulae (redrawn by the author, after Ørsnes 1966, figures 47–58) Bird fibula, Bækkegård, Østerlars parish, Bornholm, Denmark, Grave 157, length 5.8 cm, NM C2615-26 (drawing Lars Jørgensen, National Museum, Copenhagen) Bird fibula U263, Uppåkra, Uppåkra parish, Skåne, Sweden, length 5.5 cm, LUHM 31 000:263 (photo Bengt Almgren, Lunds Universitets Historiska Museum [Historical Museum at Lund University], Lund, Sweden) Plan of ‘Sepulchral remains from tumuli near Driffield, Yorkshire’ (Denison 1851–52: 258) Copper-alloy knife-dagger (length 87 mm, width 38 mm, thickness 2 mm; BM 1879,1209.1981), © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved Shell mask, Buffalo Site, West Virginia (16th century). Hawk’s forked eye here turns into a lightning/tear motif from the war/vision quest complex (drawing by the author, adapted from Galloway 1989) ‘Bird-man’, copper plate repoussé, Etowah, Georgia (13th century). The figure wears a conch shell pendant reminiscent of archaeological specimens (drawing by the author, adapted from Galloway 1989) Falcon-man, Mississippian, Craig style, Brooklyn Museum (1350–1450 ce ). The figure may be the manifestation of an other-than-human being (drawing by the author, adapted from Galloway 1989) Birds of prey in the archaeology of the Amazon: a) Harpy eagle painting in the rock art from Monte Alegre, lower Amazon (height: 40 cm; Drawing: Edithe Pereira); b) Harpy eagle head ornament from Pocó-Açutuba tradition (Collection: Museu de Ciência e Tecnologia, Pontifícia Universidade Católica do Rio Grande do Sul, Photo: Marcony Alves); c) Representation of vulture in a multiperspectival stone carving from lower Amazon; from top down: bird, human face, and feline; height: 9.3 cm (Collection and photo archive: MCTI/Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi); d) Ornament in the shape of vulture and owl heads on lids of Amazonian Polychrome tradition funerary anthropomorphic urns from the Tefé area (urn height 70 cm) (Collection: Instituto Mamirauá; Photos and artwork: Erêndira Oliveira)

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Map of lower Amazon with Marajoara and Santarém archaeological areas. (Graphic art: Marcony Alves) The helmet from Vendel boat grave XIV, with a diving raptor nasal. Photo: Sören Hallgren, Swedish History Museum, Creative Commons Tenth-century sword chapes of the falcon type, shown as Androshchuk’s Type 3a–c (line drawing after Androshchuk 2014: fig. 71) The developing forms of the ‘Rurikid Sign’ (line drawing after Edberg 2001: fig. 8a) E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù’s raptorial form is simple and bold – a long, narrow and sharply pointed beak painted blood-red, beady eyes and a female crestedcoiffure on the top of the head, S·awonjo, Nigeria. Photograph by Henry John Drewal, 1978, EEPA 1992-028-0006, Henry John Drewal and Margaret Thompson Drewal Collection, Eliot Elisofon Photographic Archives, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù’s form is simple and bold – a long, narrow and sharply pointed beak left unpainted (white), beady eyes and a crested head, Ibes·e, Nigeria. Photograph by Henry John Drewal, 1977, EEPA 2019-017-1310, Henry John Drewal and Sarah K. Khan Collection, Eliot Elisofon Photographic Archives, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution A diviner’s iron staff with a finial of a bird identified as a hawk or kite (às·á) is known as an Osùn babaláwo. The staff is a spiritual weapon that strikes quickly like a hawk. Photograph by Henry John Drewal, c. 1986, EEPA 2019-017 Binder 1988-86.12, Henry John Drewal and Sarah K. Khan Collection, Eliot Elisofon Photographic Archives, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution Haast’s eagle skeleton, OMNZ AV7473 Photograph: Kane Fleury © Tūhura Otago Museum. Inset showing the comparative size of New Zealand’s extinct Haast’s eagle and Eyles’ harrier with the extant kahu or Australasian swamp harrier. Adapted from Brathwaite (1992) and Prehistoric-wildlife. com (2013) Archaeological reproductions of South Island rock art recorded by Anthony (Tony) Fomison c. 1960. An index card showing an ‘eagle’ figure from Waipata Creek in North Otago (above) (Canterbury Museum 2011.115.356), and tracing with crayon on plastic sheet of the ‘birdmen’ and a fish at Te Manunui Rock Art Site, South Canterbury (below) (Canterbury Museum 1969.312.595). Note the disjointed head of the figure on the viewer’s right reflects exfoliation damage at the time of tracing. © Photographs reproduced courtesy of Canterbury Museum Map of Australia with reported bird images across different rock art regions, with study area highlighted in light grey (line work by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions)

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13.2 Classification of bird motifs into groups based on their body shape (after Motta 2022: 139, with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions)

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Tables 1.1

Compilation of evidence for Middle Palaeolithic raptor talon and feather extraction (only cut-marked bone evidence considered for the latter). Ethological profile is only provided for species with evidenced talon targeting 4.1 Burial context of Shilikty-type raptor decorations (data sources: Beisenov 2013; Chernikov 1965; Toleubaev & Zhumaraev 2016; Toleubaev 2018) 13.1 Summary of sites containing bird remains across the Kimberley

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Plates 2.1

2.2 2.3

3.1 4.1

4.2 5.1

5.2

5.3

The combined corslet, collar and pectoral of Tutankhamun with ‘feathers’ covering the torso (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, JE 62627), photo Sandro Vannini/ Laboratoriorosso A broad collar with falcon terminals from the tomb of Tutankhamun (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, JE 61880), photo Sandro Vannini/Laboratoriorosso A breast ornament in the form of a falcon with a solar disc on its head, holding shen signs, symbols of eternity, in its talons. The red in the shen echoes the solar disc (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, JE 61893), photo Sandro Vannini/ Laboratoriorosso Grey-Foot, the northern goshawk (Accipiter gentilis) (Courtesy of Per Nilsson) Golden eagle decoration from Shilikty-3 kurgan 1 (photograph used with the kind permission of Professor Abdesh Toleubaev – image rotated and scale bar added) Raptor petroglyph scene from Eshkiolmes (photograph by author) Attributed to Chen Juzhong, Detail of Lady Wenji’s Return to China ᮷လ↨╒െ. Hanging scroll, ink and colours on silk. Entire scroll: 147.4 x 107.7 cm. National Palace Museum, Taipei. Open Government Data License, version 1.0 Textile depicting a Swan Hunt. Jin dynasty, late 12th–13th century. Plain-weave silk brocaded with gold-leaf wrapped leather strips. 58.5 × 62.2 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art (1989.282). CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) Public Domain Dedication Pair of Boots. Liao dynasty, 1000–1125. Compound twill, silk; tapestry, silk and gold; tabby, silk; gauze, silk; silk batting; leather. Overall: 34.9 × 25 cm (13 3/4 × 9 13/16 in.). Cleveland Museum of Art (1992.349). CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) Public Domain Dedication xiii

Illustrations

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Bird fibula U560 Uppåkra, Uppåkra parish, Skåne, Sweden, length 5.6 cm, LUHM 31 000:560 (Photo Paul Pettersson Eklöv, Lunds Universitets Historiska Museum [Historical Museum at Lund University], Lund, Sweden) Surviving grave goods from the Driffield ‘beaker’ burial, © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved Amber V-perforated beads or buttons (the most complete measures length 29 mm, thickness 20 mm, width 22 mm; BM 1879,1209.1982-3), © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved Stone wrist-guard (length 127 mm, thickness 6 mm, central width 28 mm, terminal width 33 mm; BM 1884,0520.1), © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved Marajoara anthropomorphic funerary urn: a) Front and profile of urn showing the split representation of the body and vulture heads at the joining of two ‘fronts’; b) Detail of lateral vulture heads surrounded by an applied string forming the arms of the human body. (Collection: MArquE/UFSC; Photos: Lucas Bueno) Marajoara funerary urns depicting ‘humanized’ harpy eagles or owls: a) Large Marajoara urn showing bird wearing earspools, tassels and necklace with pendant (height: 86 cm) (Collection: MCTI/Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi; Photo: Maurício de Paiva); b) Variations in the composition of the humanized bird figure. (Drawings: Cristiana Barreto. Collection: Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia, University of São Paulo); c) Four sides of the same urn. (Drawing: Cristiana Barreto. Collection: Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia, University of São Paulo) Variations of king vulture themes on Santarém vases: necked vessels (left) and caryatid vessels (right). Sequences of king vulture body metamorphosis of Great Vulture [a–d] and Little Vulture [e–i]. (Photos and drawings: Marcony Alves. Collections: MCTI/Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi and Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia, University of São Paulo) The Birka bird-man sword chape. Photo: Gabriel Hildebrand, Swedish History Museum, Creative Commons The winged figure from Uppåkra, Skåne, Sweden, shown during conservation with half of the original gilded surface revealed. Photo: Lovisa Dal, courtesy of Lund University Historical Museum. With all lights extinguished, excitement fills the gathered crowd as Spirit Bird of Night comes in darkness, moving bent over in a slow, gentle dance (ijó jé·jé·), matching her careful steps with the drum rhythms, Ilaro, Nigeria. Photograph by Henry John Drewal, 1978, EEPA 1992-028-0004, Henry John Drewal and Margaret Thompson Drewal Collection, Eliot Elisofon Photographic Archives, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution The herbalist’s distinctive emblem, the ò· pá is typically surmounted by a circle of sixteen birds surrounding a larger central one. The encircling birds represent the potentially rapacious bird-women (àjé·) with whom human beings must cope.

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Herbalist’s staff ( ò· pá Òsanyìn), 76-3-4_S20140005. Unknown artist, late 19th to mid-20th century, iron, stone, H: 71 cm, Gift of Ambassador and Mrs Benjamin Hill Brown Jr, Photograph by Franko Khoury, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution Cave of the New Zealand Eagle – Te Ana Pouākai – (previously known as Cave of the Wedge Tailed Eagle) at Craigmore Station, South Canterbury. The central black image produced with a charcoal or soot pigment is the recognizable bird motif reproduced as the eagle in a 1989 New Zealand Geographic illustration. Photograph by Matthew Hill, © Ngāi Tahu Māori Rock Art Trust Te Rereka – The Flight is a theatrical performance that has re-invigorated the Pourakahua tradition using animated flatso puppets based on South Island rock art imagery. Encouraged by the Ngāi Tahu Māori Rock Art Trust, artistic developers and performers Jeffrey Addison and Whaitaima Te Whare (pictured) first, and subsequently the Taki Rua theatre company, have shared with thousands of children a modern re-telling in which Pourakahua is depicted as one of the pouākai rock art figures. Photograph: Viv Sherwood Overview to main rock art styles in the Kimberley region. (1) Cupules; (2) Irregular Infill Animal Period; (3) Gwion; (4) Static Polychrome; (5) Painted Hand; and (6) Wanjina (illustration by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions) Examples of bird images in IIAP style, including a bird of prey. Left to right: an emu with a hatched pattern, a brolga with extended wings, and eagle with curved beak and toes, with prominent talons (illustration by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions) Examples of bird images in Gwion style: top left is a composition of parrots with strong short and curved beaks and tri-digit claws, top right is a cormorant with wings extended depicted next to several small macropods, and below is a pair of storks with elongated necks and prominent beaks (illustration by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions) Birds of prey in Wanjina style in the northeast Kimberley. Top left to right depicts two owls and an eagle, and bottom photograph illustrates a group of four owls with different body shapes (illustration by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions)

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CONTRIBUTORS

Marcony Alves is a doctoral student in Archaeology at Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia, University of São Paulo, Brazil. His research interests are ceramic technology and iconography in precolonial Amazonia and the history of museum collections. He has published on Konduri and Santarém iconography and trade networks, most recently the article ‘Revisiting alter egos: superimposed figures in Konduri iconography and its relationship with shamanism’ (2020). Cristiana Barreto is Research Associate at the Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi, Brazil. Her research interests focus on the study of collections, ceramic iconography and cultural identity in precolonial Amazonia. She has curated exhibitions about Amazonian art and has recently published on representation of the body, agency and ritual objects. Among the books she has edited with colleagues are Unknown Amazon (2001), Cerâmicas Arqueológicas da Amazônia (2014), and Koriabo – from the Caribbean Sea to the Amazon River (2020). Emma Burns is Curator Natural Science at Tūhura Otago Museum, Dunedin. Her work focuses on developing and unlocking natural history collections for communities through collections research and creating informal learning experiences. She has research interests in museology, preservation and the role of natural history collections in society. Emma has family affiliation to the Ngāti Porou tribe of the East Coast of the North Island. Max Carocci is Adjunct Professor of Art History and Visual Studies at Richmond, the American University in London. His research interests focus on Native American visual communication at the intersection between New Materialism and Animism. He has published on Native American arts and cultures. His latest book co-edited with Stephanie Pratt is Art, Observation, and an Anthropology of Illustration (2022). Henry John Drewal is the Evjue-Bascom Professor Emeritus, Departments of Art History and Afro-American Studies, University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA. His published works include: Yorùbá: Nine Centuries of African Art and Thought (1989); Beads, Body, and Soul: Art and Light in the Yorùbá Universe (1998); Mami Wata: Arts for Water Spirits in Africa and Its Diasporas (2008); and Striking Iron: The Art of African Blacksmiths (2019). Much of his work explores the role of the senses and sense-abilities in shaping arts, persons, cultures and histories using his approach called Sensiotics. Joakim Goldhahn holds the Rock Art Australia Ian Potter Kimberley Chair at the Centre of Rock Art Research + Management at the University of Western Australia. Goldhahn has produced twenty-eight monographs and anthologies, including Birds in xvi

Contributors

the Bronze Age (2019), and over 200 scientific and popular sciences publications. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Open Archaeology and on the editorial board of The Archaeology of Prehistoric Art series of BAR Publishers (UK). His research focuses on Australian and North European rock art, the European Bronze Age, the history of archaeology, burial rituals, landscape and monumentality, and ritual specialists. Shumon T. Hussain is Assistant Professor in the Department of Archaeology and Heritage Studies at Aarhus University. He is interested in the evolution and logic of early stone artefact technologies, multispecies theory, the epistemology of archaeological knowledge production and the deep history of human–animal relations. He has published on Middle and Upper Palaeolithic archaeology and more-than-human perspectives on Pleistocene and early Holocene forager lifeways. Recent publications include Paleoenvironmental Humanities: Challenges and Prospects of Writing Deep Environmental Histories (with Felix Riede, 2020) and Gazing at Owls? Human-strigiform Interfaces and their Role in the Construction of Gravettian Lifeworlds in East-Central Europe (2019). Salima Ikram is Distinguished University Professor, Egyptology Unit Head, American University in Cairo. Her research interests and publications focus on the daily life of the ancient Egyptians, foodways, animals, mummification, funerary archaeology, rock art, and the presentation and preservation of cultural heritage. Her most recent book is The History of World Egyptology (2021). Kristina Jennbert is Professor Emerita in Archaeology at the Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, Lund University, Sweden. Her research interests focus on human– animal relations, ethics, the archaeology of religion oriented towards Scandinavian preChristian religion and landscape archaeology. Her publications include Animals and Humans: Recurrent Symbiosis in Archaeology and Old Norse Religion (2011), the coedited anthology Old Norse Religion in Long-Term Perspective: Origins, Change and Interaction (2006) with Anders Andrén and Catharina Raudvere as the final publication of their project, Roads to Midgard, and most recently several articles on landscape archaeology in the Kullen area in southern Sweden. Kenneth Lymer (PhD) is an Independent Scholar based in Hampshire, UK. His main research interests include Central Asian archaeology, rock art and religious studies. He has published numerous articles on topics ranging from rock art and lived religion in Kazakhstan and the laser scanning of cupmarks at Cotherstone Moor to Greek griffins and Mongolian deer stones. Ana Paula Motta is Honorary Research Fellow at The University of Western Australia (UWA). She has recently completed a PhD at UWA, where she looked at social identity and human-animal relations in Kimberley rock art, Australia. Her research interests include multispecies studies, social identity, heritage conservation and relational ontologies among hunter-gatherer societies. She has worked across Australia, Argentina, England and France for the past twelve years. Her most recent publication is ‘Relational Ontologies and Performance’ published in the Journal of Anthropological Archaeology. xvii

Contributors

Gerard O’Regan (PhD) is Curator Māori at Tūhura Otago Museum, Dunedin. His research and writing focus on southern Māori archaeology, Indigenous community heritage management and Māori rock art across New Zealand. He was the principal investigator of a Royal Society of New Zealand Marsden Fund project, ‘Initiating a Māori archaeology of threatened North Island rock art’. Gerard is Ngāi Tahu, a tribe of the South Island of New Zealand. Martin Porr is currently Associate Professor of Archaeology and a member of the Centre for Rock Art Research + Management at the University of Western Australia (UWA). He has published widely on Palaeolithic art and archaeology as well as general theoretical aspects of archaeological and rock art research. He has conducted fieldwork in Germany, Thailand, Australia, India and the Philippines. He is currently engaged in active field research in the Kimberley, Western Australia. His research has so far concentrated on aspects related to decolonizing approaches in archaeological research, Palaeolithic archaeology, the Palaeolithic art of Europe and Australian rock art. Neil Price is Distinguished Professor of Archaeology at the University of Uppsala, Sweden. Specializing in the Viking Age and the pre-Christian religions of the North, his primary research interests focus on explorations of identity, world-view and interaction across the Viking diaspora. His publications have appeared in twenty languages, and he is a frequent consultant and contributor to television and film. Neil’s most recent books are The Viking Way: Magic and Mind in Late Iron Age Scandinavia (2019) and Children of Ash and Elm: A History of the Vikings (2020). Te Maire Tau is Pou Whakarae at the University of Canterbury Ngāi Tahu Research Centre, Christchurch. As a tribal scholar he researches history, oral traditions, myth, indigenous development and philosophy of knowledge. He is author of Ngā Pikitūroa o Ngāi Tahu, The Oral Traditions of Ngāi Tahu (2003). As a tribal leader of the South Island’s Ngāi Tahu tribe, Professor Tau writes and advocates on Indigenous property and resource rights, and related political representation. Leslie V. Wallace is Associate Professor in the Department of Visual Arts at Coastal Carolina University. Her research interests include hunting-related visual and material culture, dress and bodily adornment, and mortuary art of the borderlands in early and medieval China. Her most recent publication is ‘The Role of Dwarfs in Tang Postmortem Elite Life’ in Disability and Art History (2022). She is currently working on a book about visual representations of falconry in China. Robert J. Wallis is Lecturer and Staff Tutor in the Department of Art History at The Open University. His research interests focus on the archaeology and anthropology of art and religion, human–raptor relations, and the re-presentation of the past in the present. Recent publications include a co-edited special issue of Religions journal on ‘Art, Shamanism and Animism’ (2021), chapters in Ontologies of Rock Art (2021) and Visual Culture, Heritage and Identity (2021), and articles for Religions (2019) and Cambridge Archaeological Journal (2020). He is a passionate falconer and currently preparing a monograph on the art and archaeology of falconry. xviii

INTRODUCTION Robert J. Wallis

Of all avian groups in the world, birds of prey are singled out for particular attention in many human societies. They are depicted as powerful beings in visual art, they figure prominently in Indigenous cosmologies, their body part are active agents in religious rituals and their faunal remains are found intentionally deposited in the archaeological record. This volume explores the diverse, ongoing and changing dynamic between raptors and ourselves as evidenced in the intersecting fields of art, archaeology and anthropology, across a wide range of cultures, from earliest prehistory to the present. The contributors demonstrate that human engagements with birds of prey have been significant through deep time and across the world, and this is the first book to examine the topic by looking beyond the culture–nature dichotomy and human-centred accounts to explore multispecies, relational and other posthumanist thinking on human–raptor ontologies and epistemologies. Alongside recent scholarly projects examining people–raptor interactions in falconry cultures (e.g. Gersmann & Grimm 2018; Grimm & Gersmann 2020; Hadjinicolaou 2020; Wallis 2017, 2020), natural histories of birds of prey continue to proliferate (e.g. Jameson 2013; Cobham 2014; Macdonald Lockhart 2016), and the entanglement of human and raptor lives has been inspirational in award-winning fiction and non-fiction since Shakespeare (e.g. Harting 1871; White 1951; Baker 1967; B. Hines 1968; R. Hines 2016; MacDonald 2014; Hammer 2020), not to mention a rich film (e.g. Kes 1970; Kiran Over Mongolia 2005; The Eagle Huntress 2020) and documentary (e.g. H is for Hawk 2017) tradition. But scientific scholarship on birds of prey tends to take a speciesist approach which strictly delineates between people and animals along Cartesian, biological and evolutionary lines, in thinking which artificially bifurcates culture and nature, the wild and the domestic, and has traditionally influenced Western thought across the arts, humanities and social sciences, until very recently (e.g. Sykes 2014 [2015]; Chandler et al 2016; Goldhahn 2019; Kost & Hussain 2019; Albarella & Baker 2020). Taking innovative posthumanist approaches and generating new avenues of research into the varied ways in which human–raptor interstices have been configured visually, materially and relationally, this book makes a significant and original contribution to the interdisciplinary literature on human-animal, multispecies and coexistence studies (e.g. Haraway 2003, 2008, 2016; Anderson et al 2017; Schroer 2021a). Many Indigenous societies recognize a wider-than-human world in which all beings are interdependent and respectful relations between human and other-than-human beings is an important aim and ambition (e.g. Harvey 2005, 2014; Astor-Aguilera & Harvey 2018). This relational (e.g. Watts 2013; Harrison-Buck & Hendon 2018) understanding disrupts human exceptionalism and demands a reconsideration of human–raptor relationships as driven exclusively by human choice, with emphatic 1

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

recognition of raptor intentionality. This book aligns with wide-reaching theoretical implications across disciplines, and the burgeoning literature on the inter-related ontological (e.g. Holbraad & Pedersen 2017; Porr & Moro-Abadía 2021; Crellin et al 2021) and species ‘turn’ (e.g. Haraway 2008; Pilaar Birch 2018). This thinking has considered, for example, dogs as companion species (Haraway 2003), plants-as-persons (e.g. Haberman 2013; Kohn 2013; Wall Kimmerer 2013) and the agency of fungi (e.g. Tsing 2015; Sheldrake 2020), but surprisingly there has been very little treatment of the uniqueness of the raptorial case from the perspective of posthumanism. The key thinkers to highlight here are Thom Van Dooren (e.g. 2010a, 2010b, 2011, 2016) who explores the ‘knotting together’ of vultures with living and dead people in India and the impact of anti-inflammatory drugs on vulture extinctions which are now so devastatingly disruptive to the health and continuity of ‘multispecies communities’ in the Subcontinent; and Sara Asa Schroer (e.g. 2015, 2018, 2021b) who has examined falconry practice as ‘a hunting companionship’ in which falconer and bird ‘learn to hunt in cooperation’ (2015: ii), the nuances of which involve ‘a process of relational becoming or mutual making’ (2015: 272). The ways in which humans and raptors interface is in many cases a matter of, to use Donna Haraway’s (2008) phrase, ‘becoming-with’ significant others. Many of the contributors to this book tackle this sort of posthumanist thinking head on and take it in innovative directions informed directly by the specificities of human–raptor relations as evidenced in art and archaeology. In contrast to generic conversations about birds and other animals, the topic of human engagements with raptors is particularly relevant and timely, and in many ways rather unique. These birds are defined by naturalists as apex predators at the top of the food chain and in many societies humans have aligned themselves with raptors’ powerful, majestic and predatory characteristics, from their agency as persons in Amerindian ritual and co-operative hunting partnerships with them in falconry cultures, to the insignia of the Roman Empire and many modern nations. And yet by turns we have competed with them for food and habitat resources, defined them as pests and attempted to eradicate them, and through chemical use unintentionally caused their near extinction. By re-framing these human–raptor entanglements in new ways, the contributors to this book make a major contribution to the widespread interest in birds of prey. Avoiding the limits of chronological and geographical framing, the book is organized into four broad themes. In part one, The Materiality of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey, three chapters examine the archaeology of human–raptor relations in deep time. Shumon Hussain disrupts the Eurocentric naturalizing of ontological divisions between ‘wild’ and ‘domestic’, ‘nature’ and ‘culture’, to consider the meeting of Neanderthals and large eagles as ‘companion species’ (to use another of Donna Haraway’s [2008] terms) in Western Eurasian landscapes, which enabled both to succeed in predatory and scavenging behaviour. Hussain extends the value of this approach to consider engagements between large eagles and Mesolithic societies in Northern Europe, and Epipaleolithic and early Neolithic societies in the Levant. This deep-time, multispecies and comparative approach facilitates a nuanced ‘disentangling’ of ‘the co-becoming of human societies and their significant raptor others’. 2

Introduction

In her chapter, Salima Ikram turns to the rich visual culture of birds of prey in artwork and texts, and the many thousands of mummified raptors in the archaeology, of ancient Egypt. The prominence of such raptors as falcons in the mythology of Horus and other solar deities, and their depiction on the garments and jewellery of kings, such as Tutankhamun, are well-known, treated in terms of symbolism, religion and ritual. But Ikram contextualizes this evidence alongside recent excavations at Thebes and Quesna which suggest such raptors as kestrels (Falco tinnunculus) were captive bred to facilitate the worship of live raptors as the manifestation of deity, and serve as sacrificial and mummified offerings enabling the renewal of the king and his power. Ikram further theorizes how the visual forms of raptors wrapping human bodies served as ‘ontological aids’ to transform divine kings into raptor-deities. Part one closes with a contribution by Joakim Goldhahn who offers an idiomatic exploration of human engagements with ‘beak people’, specifically northern goshawks (Accipiter gentilis), in the Bronze Age of Northern Europe. He draws upon Descola’s (2010) concept of ‘worldings’, denoting people’s lifeways, cosmologies and ontologies, to consider how humans and goshawks intra-acted in the co-shaping of shared experience. Goldhahn re-examines the Hvidegård I burial from Zealand, Denmark, where the paraphernalia of a ritual specialist suggests goshawks as interlocuters in practices of extispicy. He considers this find within wider folklore evidence in which goshawks are recognized as transmorphs, marking an association between raptor and ritual specialist as intermediaries, and the significance of ‘killing an auguring Bird Being in order to take auspices’. Part one sets the tone for how posthumanist approaches to archaeological material evidencing human–raptor relations enable fresh perspectives on societies of the deep past. Part two takes the theme of Visualizing Human Relations with Raptors, with three papers focusing on human–raptor encounters in archaeological art. The first, by Kenneth Lymer, discusses imagery of eagles among the early nomads of Central Asia during the first millennium bce , focusing on gold objects sewn into funerary garments excavated from kurgans (burial mounds) and rock art imagery located in the landscape, in Kazakhstan. Lymer argues that the traditional focus on iconographic style and chronology neglects the distinctive archaeological contexts of the images and their active agency in social life. His approach is informed theoretically by the biography of objects (e.g. Kopytoff 1986; Joy 2009), re-positioning the miniature gold artefacts found in kurgans as ‘sensual expressions and understandings’ in the lives and afterlives of the people who were so intimately associated with them, and the rock art in its lofty, eyrie-like mountain location as embodying encounters with other-than-human-beings and intangible powers of the landscape within which it is embedded. Leslie Wallace is interested in the roles of falconry and other elite social practices in East Asia, and here examines the role of the spring hunt (Chunshui) in the Liao and Jin dynasties of China in the tenth to thirteenth centuries ce . She traces how imagery of hawks and falcons hunting swans and geese evidences a hybridized visual culture derived from preceding Tang dynasty, and Central Asian and Steppe nomadic traditions. Wallace approaches the art of falconry in these designs as a distinctive ‘visual vocabulary’, which 3

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

‘articulated and embodied social hierarchies and political power’, highlighting the way in which human esteem for birds of prey translates into sophisticated, historically contingent ideologies. The final chapter of part two examines the case of the eponymous ‘bird brooches’ which briefly flowered during the seventh century of Late Iron Age Scandinavia. Kristina Jennbert moves beyond traditional stylistic analysis to consider how the integration of decoration and object form can be approached as a ‘pictorial language’ expressing the distinctive qualities of raptors, as well as the strappage associated with falconry practice. Jennbert considers the brooches in their archaeological context of female graves and the way in which the wearing of the brooches displayed gendered agency and political power, within a sophisticated cosmology involving the deities associated with falcons and ‘falcon-cloaks’, in order to negotiate female identity at a time of significant social change. The chapters in part two, then, re-examine imagery of raptors from three very different locales which has been largely confined to discussions over artistic style and dating, to consider the importance of social context and especially to highlight raptors as agentive beings in negotiating human identities and inter-species relations. Posthumanist Ontologies of Human–Raptor Relations form the theme for part three, with four chapters. Robert Wallis re-examines the rare inclusion of a hawk’s head in a Chalcolithic/Early Bronze Age ‘beaker’ inhumation burial in the Yorkshire Wolds of England. Traditionally these graves have been interpreted in terms of the high status or rank of the individual ‘warrior-chief ’ interred, with raptor remains indicating ritual sacrifice, ‘totemic’ thinking, or falconry practice. Wallis takes a material, multispecies and relational approach to the things afforded attention in the assemblage, arguing that their individual properties and qualities by ‘proximity’ (Zedeño 2009, 2013) to one another present a highly charged ‘bundle’ (Pauketat 2013) pertaining to themes of predation and transformation. This distinctive funerary rite may have enabled the construction and negotiation of new localized identities at a time when concepts of individuality and community, human and other-than-human, were being reconfigured. Two papers then explore human-raptor interfaces in the Americas. Max Carocci explores the many artworks incorporating raptors in the Mississippian period (900–1700 ce ) of North America which traditionally have been interpreted in terms of iconography, style and form, in light of the material properties of the objects they are conjoined with, in tandem with ethnographic sources. His thinking is informed by recent theorizing on animisms and personhood, to consider the ontological status of raptor images/objects, how they articulated human–raptor relations and in particular the accessing and manifesting of ‘intangible spheres of experience’, ‘beyond imagery’. In tune with Carocci’s approach, Barreto and Alves’ paper draws upon Indigenous ethnography to analyse images of harpy eagles, king vultures and owls in Marajoara (400–1400 ce ) and Santarem ceramic traditions in lower Amazonia as more than simple representations. The respective societies recognized these raptors as ‘active modifiers of life and death in ritual contexts’, expressing thinking in which ‘sociability is built around principles of predation’ and embedded in perspectival ontologies. 4

Introduction

The theme of predation continues in Neil Price’s essay where he focuses on visual expressions of martiality among the Rus’, the eastern Scandinavian diaspora, in the Viking Age. Price approaches images of a diving raptor and of human–falcon hybrids, often on weaponry, from a posthumanist perspective, looking further than established art historical and mythological readings which render inter-species encounters in terms of naturalized taxonomies. He highlights the disturbing ontological implications of ‘somatic/genomic/cognitive boundaries that are genuinely fluid’, and how such ‘morethan-human truths’ may have been ‘weaponized’ by the Rus’. All four chapters in this section, explore human-raptor intersections in diverse contexts according to common themes of transformation and predation, bringing fresh insights to their respective fields. In part four, three chapters explore Indigenous Knowledges of Birds of Prey. Henry John Drewal discusses his extensive ethnographic fieldwork with Yorùbá-speakers of Nigeria and the Republic of Benin, focusing on the E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù, ‘Spirit Bird of Night’ mask, in the shape of a raptor’s head, worn during the secretive ceremonies of the È·fè·/ Gè·lè·dé· masquerade society. These ceremonies celebrate awo·n ìyá wa, ‘our mothers’, who gather at night in the form of birds of prey upon the sacred ìrokò tree. Drewal contextualizes the mask and its performance within Yorùbá concepts of gender and ontology, according to which women are superior in their ability to conceal orí inú, the ‘inner/spiritual head’, and so concentrate and manifest às·e· , vital force or performative power, in both constructive, transformative and destructive ways. E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù and the celebration of awo·n ìyá wa, enables men’s negotiation of the awesome mystical powers of women. In their chapter on rock art and Indigenous Knowledge in Aotearoa New Zealand, Gerard O’Regan, Emma Burns and Te Maire Tau interrogate rock art imagery of raptors interpreted variously as Haast’s eagle (Hieraaetus moorei), pouākai (an enormous bird of Māori legend), the ‘birdmen’ of pan-Polynesian tradition, and Pou (an ancestor who flew to New Zealand on a gigantic bird). Their eloquent synthesis and critical analysis of previous scholarship demonstrates how the imagery has been naturalized in terms of species taxonomies, ascribed to pre-Polynesian settler artists, or interpreted according to generic myths, all of which elide traditional Māori knowledge. Rather than arrive at a definitive interpretation of the rock art, the authors’ conclusions are ‘tentative and question marked’. Their approach to the rock art in light of traditional knowledge enriches understanding and recognizing the importance of passing on these traditions, they offer ‘exciting questions for future generations’. The anthology closes with a chapter examining the depiction of raptors in rock art from the north-east Kimberley of Northwest Australia, in which Ana Paula Motta and Martin Porr challenge anthropocentric interpretations focused on identification and quantification. Where rock art scholarship has emphasized the locating of raptor imagery within chronology and style, the understanding of these birds and images among Traditional Owners permeates across ‘archaeologically determined stylistic periods’. Indigenous Knowledge surrounding totemism and Dreamtime beings recognizes rock art images of birds of prey, such as eagles and owls, as linked to Ancestors, creation and ‘good country’, ‘where beings and things inhabiting the world are all interconnected 5

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

through kinship’. By taking seriously the relational ontologies manifested in Indigenous Law, Motta and Porr ‘expand what it means to be human and bird in the Kimberley’. The three chapters in this final part of the book demonstrate how Indigenous Knowledge disrupts Western ways of knowing and being, and presents sophisticated human–raptor intra-actions which expand what it means to be ‘human’ and ‘bird of prey’. All of the authors in this book are interested in how visual and material sources evidence the varied ways in which humans and raptors intersect. They recognize that human–raptor relationships are not driven exclusively by human intentionality and that when these species meet, they relate-to and become-with, one another. This raptor-withhuman focused approach re-frames our questions about human-raptor interstices, enables fresh thinking on old evidence, offers inspiration for our present and future intra-actions with birds of prey, raises questions and sparks debate, as we navigate new routes forward and creative ways of relating to other species, in the precarious Anthropocene. The idea for this book began with a session held at the Art, Materiality and Representation conference of the Royal Anthropological Institute, co-hosted by the Department of Africa, Oceania and the Americas of The British Museum and the Department of Anthropology at the School of Oriental and African Studies, 1–3 June 2018. The session was chaired by the editor and included four papers (Carocci, Jennbert, Lymer, Wallace). The original participants would like to thank the conference organizers and hosts for enabling the project to take shape. The editor and authors extend their thanks to Georgina Leighton, Lily Mac Mahon and all of the team at Bloomsbury for their support and guidance during the production of this book. We also thank the many colleagues across the world who graciously supplied images for the book (most, free of charge), particularly Sandro Vannini for his wonderful cover photo. The printing of the colour plates was kindly funded by a generous grant from The Falconry Heritage Trust. The editor extends his thanks to colleagues in the Department of Art History at The Open University for their enthusiastic support during the preparation of this book.

References Albarella, U. and P. Baker, eds (2020), ‘The Archaeology of Human-Bird Interactions’, Quaternary International, 543. Anderson, D., J. P. Loovers, S. Schroer and R. Wishart (2017), ‘Architectures of domestication: on emplacing human-animal relations in the North’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 23 (2): 398–416. Astor-Aguilera, M. and G. Harvey, eds (2018), Rethinking Relations and Animism: Personhood and Materiality, London: Routledge. Baker, J. A. (1967), The Peregrine, London: Collins. Chandler, K., W. Field Murray, M. N. Zedeño, S. Clements and R. James (2016), The Winged: An Upper Missouri River Ethno-ornithology, Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Cobham, D. (2014), A Sparrowhawk’s Lament: How British Breeding Birds of Prey are Faring, Princeton: Princeton University Press. 6

Introduction Crellin, R. J., C. N. Cipolla, L. M. Montgomery, O. J. T. Harris and S. V. Moore (2021), Archaeological Theory in Dialogue: Situating Relationality, Ontology, Posthumanism and Indigenous Paradigms, London: Routledge. Descola, P. (2010), ‘Cognition, perception and worlding’, Interdisciplinary Science Reviews, 35 (3/4): 334–40. van Dooren, T. (2010a), ‘Pain of Extinction: The Death of a Vulture’, Cultural Studies Review, 16 (2): 271–89. van Dooren, T. (2010b), ‘Vultures and their people in India: equity and entanglement in a time of extinction’s, Manoa, 22 (2): 130–145. van Dooren, T. (2011), Vulture, London: Reaktion Books. van Dooren, T. (2016), Flight Ways: Life and Loss at the Edge of Extinction, New York: Columbia University Press. The Eagle Huntress (2016), [Film] Dir. Otto Bell, Italy : Wonder Pictures. Gersmann, K. -H. and O. Grimm, eds (2018), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism Throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale (4 volumes), Kiel: Wachholtz. Grimm, O. and K. -H. Gersmann (2020), Raptor on the Fist: Falconry, its Imagery and Similar Motifs Throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale (2 volumes), Kiel: Wachholtz. Goldhahn, J. (2019), Birds in the Bronze Age: A North European Perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haberman, D. L. (2013), People Trees: Worship of Trees in Northern India, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hadjinicolaou, Y., ed. (2020), Visual Engagements: Image Practices and Falconry, Berlin: De Gruyter. Hammer, J. (2020), The Falcon Thief: A True Tale of Adventure, Treachery and the Hunt for the Perfect Bird, New York: Simon and Schuster. Haraway, D. (2003), The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People and Significant Otherness, Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press. Haraway, D. (2008), When Species Meet, Minneapolis: Minnesota University Press. Haraway, D. (2016), Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene, Durham: Duke University Press. Harrison-Buck, E. and J. A. Hendon, eds (2018), Relational Identities and Other-Than-Human Agency in Archaeology, Louisville: University Press of Colorado. Harting, J. E. (1871), The Ornithology of Shakespeare, London: John Van Voorst. Harvey, G. (2005), Animism: Respecting the Living World, London: Hurst and Co. Harvey, G. (2014), The Handbook of Contemporary Animism, Durham: Acumen. Hines, B. (1968), A Kestrel for a Knave, London: Michael Joseph. Hines, R. (2016), No Way But Gentlenesse: A Memoir of How Kes, My Kestrel, Changed My Life, London: Bloomsbury. H is for Hawk: A New Chapter (2017), [TV programme] BBC2, 19 October. Holbraad, M. and M. A. Pedersen (2017), The Ontological Turn: An Anthropological Exposition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jameson, C. (2013), Looking for the Goshawk, London: Bloomsbury. Joy, J. (2009), ‘Reinvigorating object biography: reproducing the drama of object lives’, World Archaeology, 41 (4): 540–56. Kes (1970), [Film] Dir. Ken Loach, UK : Kestrel Films. Kiran Over Mongolia (2005), [Film] Dir. Joseph Spaid, France: Bulk Films. Kohn, E. (2013), How Forests Think: Toward an Anthropology Beyond the Human, Berkley : University of California Press. Kopytoff, I. (1986), ‘The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process’, in A. Appadurai (ed.), The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 64–91. 7

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Kost, C. and S. Hussain, eds (2019), ‘Archaeo-Ornithology: Emerging Perspectives on Past Human-Bird Relations’, Environmental Archaeology, 24 (4). MacDonald, H. (2014), H is for Hawk, London: Jonathan Cape. Macdonald Lockhart, J. (2016), Raptor: A Journey Through Birds, London: Fourth Estate. Pauketat, T. (2013), An Archaeology of the Cosmos: Rethinking Agency and Religion in Ancient America, London: Routledge. Pilaar Birch, S. ed. (2018), Multispecies Archaeology, London: Routledge. Porr, Martin and Oscar Moro-Abadía, eds (2021), Ontologies of Rock Art: Images, Relational Approaches and Indigenous Knowledges, London: Routledge. Schroer, S. A. (2015), ‘ “On the Wing”: Exploring Human-Bird Relationships in Falconry Practice’, PhD diss., Department of Anthropology, University of Aberdeen. Available online: https:// ethos.bl.uk/OrderDetails.do?uin=uk.bl.ethos.646099 (accessed 21 May 2021). Schroer, S. A. (2018), ‘Breeding with Birds of Prey’, in H. A. Swanson, M. E. Lien and G. B. Ween (eds), Domestication Gone Wild: Politics and Practices of Multispecies Relations, 33–49, Durham: Duke University Press. Schroer, S. (2021a), ‘The Arts of Coexistence: A View From Anthropology’, Frontiers in Conservation Science 2. Available online: https://doi.org/10.3389/fcosc.2021.711019 (accessed 13 April 2022). Schroer, S. A. (2021b), ‘Jakob von Uexküll: the concept of Umwelt and its potentials for an anthropology beyond the human’, Ethnos, 86 (1): 132–52. Sheldrake, M. (2020), Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds, and Shape Our Futures. London: Vintage. Sykes, N. (2014 [2015]), Beastly Questions: Animal Answers to Archaeological Issues, London: Bloomsbury. Tsing, A. L. (2015), The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Wall Kimmerer, R. (2013), Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants, Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions. Wallis, R. J. (2017), ‘ “As the falcon her bells” at Sutton Hoo?: Falconry in Early Anglo-Saxon England’, Archaeological Journal, 174 (2): 409–36. Wallis, R. J. (2020), ‘The “northwest Essex Anglo-Saxon ring”, falconry and pagan-Christian discursive space’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 30(3): 413–32. Watts, C. (2013), Relational Archaeologies: Humans, Animals, Things. London: Routledge. White, T. H. (1951), The Goshawk, London: Jonathan Cape. Zedeño, M. N. (2009), ‘Animating by Association: Index Objects and Relational Taxonomies’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 19 (3): 407–17. Zedeño, M. N. (2013), ‘Methodological and Analytical Challenges in Relational Archaeologies: a View from the Hunting Ground’, in C. Watts (ed.), Relational Archaeologies: Humans, Animals, Things, 117–34, London: Routledge.

8

PART I THE MATERIALITY OF HUMAN ENGAGEMENTS WITH BIRDS OF PREY

9

10

CHAPTER 1 RAPTORS AS COMPANIONS: DEEPTIME FORAYS IN MULTISPECIES ARCHAEOLOGY Shumon T. Hussain

Introduction Many extant birds of prey are apex predators and avian keystone species in their respective ecosystems (Donázar et al. 2016; Jacques-Coper et al. 2019), and many are intimately enrolled in varied and multilayered ways in human histories, lifeways and material cultures across the globe (Jones 1998; Wallis 2017; Negro 2018; Sax 2021). Raptors also played fundamental ecological and cultural roles in the human past (Serjeantson 2009; Watkins & Stockman 2010; McMahon 2016; Gersmann & Grimm 2018; Mynott 2019; Goldhahn 2020). Together with other representatives of Aves, they emerged as recurrent – and sometimes focal – targets of cultural practice and conceptualization, especially from the Holocene onwards (cf. Kost & Hussain 2019) – the present warm period (onset c. 11,800 cal. bp ) soon to be superseded by the nascent ‘human epoch’, the so-called ‘Anthropocene’ (Steffen 2021). The involvement of raptors in – and possible contribution to – the deep past, which canvasses the vast majority of the human experience, has so far primarily been examined through a humanist lens, however. This human-focused impetus of most current and traditional archaeological scholarship on human–raptor relations unnecessarily (and to some extent misleadingly) narrows our view on, or tacitly foregrounds, the Anthropos and thereby makes it difficult to chart and understand how people and birds of prey interfered with one another’s affairs and co-shaped each other over millennia (or not). This contribution in response re-centres scholarly attention to the subjectivity and ecological agency of raptors themselves and interrogates the resulting history-making capacity of these charismatic birds of prey vis-à-vis human forager societies of the Palaeolithic, Epipalaeolithic and Mesolithic. I argue that raptor-related patterns of material culture and raptor-directed human behaviour are inscribed into historically situated human–raptor interpositions, and thus reverberate specific negotiations of the human–raptor interface. I draw on multispecies theory, in particular Haraway’s (2008: 164–5) notion of ‘companion species’, to re-map the role of diurnal raptors as significant Others for Eurasian Middle Palaeolithic Neanderthals and compare them with raptors’ relationships with Mesolithic hunter-gatherers of the North European boreal zone as well as complex foragers of the Eastern Mediterranean Epipalaeolithic. The focus thereby lies on Accipitriformes – in particular eagles and larger hawks – because these birds have 11

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

rarely been examined from the perspective of species co-living and interspecies worldmaking. The aim of this approach is to carve out key aspects of broader multispecies systems that mediate the coming together of humans and raptors in these changing contexts. My argument is that past human–raptor relationships and their material articulations can only be unpacked if one scrutinizes what might be referred to as the ‘dual ecology’ of human–raptor interstices: humans and raptors are capable to mould each other’s place in the world – their Umwelt (sensu von Uexküll 2001: 120) – and both humans and raptors promulgate ‘ecosystem services’ which can emerge as a key context for the historical agency and world-making capacities of the respective other. It is through unravelling situated human–raptor naturecultures, in other words, that we may arrive at more nuanced and period-sensitive understandings of why and how particular raptors (and not others) mattered to specific human societies (and not others).

Agricentrism, forager phenomenology and companion species The wild-domestic dichotomy has offered a powerful interpretive matrix to split human prehistory in a ‘before’ and ‘after’. Post-Neolithic societies – often hastily assumed to be synonymous with the successful human appropriation of nature – stand for the emancipation and alienation of human labour and cognition from animals deemed quintessentially ‘wild’ (Tsing 2018). Fuelled by economic and instrumentalist prejudice on foraging people, the latter are often regarded to index the sorts of predator–prey relationships among humans and other animals supposedly characteristic for over 93 per cent of human pre-Neolithic history. As such, these and similar views typically subscribe – cognizantly or not – to broader progress narratives (Lien et al. 2018). The current surge of interest in questions of early dog domestication in Late Pleistocene forager communities for example follows a broadly similar logic (e.g. Germonpré et al. 2009; Baumann et al. 2021; Shipman 2021; but see Bethke & Burtt 2019), partitioning deep prehistory into ‘with’ and ‘without dog’ and in turn giving rise to influential origin stories argued to deliver an explanation for the ultimate success of Homo sapiens as a global species and the demise of other hominins such as the Neanderthals (Shipman 2017). The problems here are multiple and they weigh heavily on how we study, assess and interpret the variegated and inescapably coupled prehistories of humans and other animals. Even Hodder’s discourse-making The Domestication of Europe (1990) – despite not being able to fully escape Eurocentrisms and anachronisms – identified the polarity between ‘wild’ and ‘domestic’ as a consequence, and cultural symptom of, Neolithization rather than as a universally valid, superhistorical form of categorization or a default structure of reality. This recognition calls for caution and undermines any attempt of ‘naturalizing’ these supposed ontological divisions. The most readily accessible and intuitive human–animal taxonomies tend to be born out of the immediate lifeworld context of the investigating subjects – in Europe in most cases Western capitalist, 12

Raptors as Companions

industrial state sociality primed in Cartesianism. Building on Arnold (1992), renderings such as ‘work animal’, ‘livestock’, ‘pet’, ‘pest/vermin’ and even ‘game’ therefore always intercede the strong suspicion of being agricentric, and thus threaten to grossly distort the manifold and diverse non-agricultural, non-pastoralist and non-horticultural human– animal pasts. This leads us directly to an additional issue in the study of deep-historical human–animal relations: our pre-theoretical understandings of ‘hunter-gatherers’ and ‘foraging’ people. In the wake of archaeological processualism and its many footholds – including Economic Prehistory (Dennell 1985), Paleoeconomy (Higgs 1975) and Behavioural Ecology (Surovell 2009) – hunter-gatherers have largely been reduced to, and thereby frequently reified as, a specific environmental adaptation, way of food-getting, or ‘mode of production’. In contrast to Neolithic and post-Neolithic societies, hunter-gatherers are supposedly characterized by extractive subsistence economies, and the external constraints on which foraging adaptations are predicated are typically considered austere (cf. Lee & DeVore 1968; Binford 2001). This foregrounding of the economic has arguably clouded our view for the phenomenological qualities and consequences of huntergatherer lifeways. Yet terms such as hunter-gatherer, forager, or the German expression Wildbeuter – despite their problematic connotations and historically in-built architectures of assumption – coevally flag particular ‘modes of existence’ and beings-in-the-world with implications for how people intersect with their animate and inanimate surroundings and perceive or make sense of their worlds (Ingold 2000; Magnell 2006: 84–5; Nadasdy 2007). Developing hunter-gatherer archaeologies as a distinct strand of investigation, knowledge production and critique (Warren 2021) thus arguably requires to take stock of these larger modalities and logics of ‘being-forager’ and to render them consequential for how we examine, interpret and/or ‘logo-type’ human–animal dynamics in deep prehistory. Haraway’s (2008) flexible notion of ‘companion species’ may offer a productive way out of agricentric thinking and simultaneously provides a timely opportunity to re-consider the historical specificity of past forager–animal relations. Haraway tables ‘companion’ as an alternative to situated and ultimately closed categorizations such as ‘pet’ or ‘game’ in order to move beyond traditional eating, using and thinking paradigms that have long dominated Western scholarship on human–animal interaction. The notion of companion species inscribes into a broader life-oriented turn in the humanities and cultural sciences and accordingly seeks to foreground the shifting conditions of multispecies life as they pertain to the construction, conceptualization and perpetual negotiation of human–animal interfaces. From the perspective of multispecies theory, life is an irreducible dimension of how species meet and relate to, and living-with other beings consequently emanates as a prime vector of the unfolding of deep human prehistory. As Tsing (2012: 141) has perceptively noted, ‘being human is an interspecies relationship’ (emphasis added), and the human past is thus also always ‘more-than-human’. Companion species, then, can be viewed as those mutable non-humans with whom historically situated humans share their lives in significant and ultimately meaningful ways, with whom their movements and cultural practices intersect, to whom they return to with their senses and in cognition, and with whom their behaviours resonate materially 13

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

and immaterially. Companion species form cornerstones of human lifeworlds and are thus recovered by experience, yet at the same time transcend merely culturally-sponsored horizons – they are found to be historically generative. Wrapped in interspecies relationships, the making of companion species ‘draw[s] evolution back into history because they depend on the contingencies of encounter’ (Tsing 2015: 142): it is the spatio-temporal, ecological and social agency of non-human candidate species that we have to take into account in order to discern the expositions and intersections that actually matter in a given human deep-time context (Hussain in press). Human life is never lived in seclusion and companion species are those non-human animals who occupy a privileged position in human endeavours and world-making efforts. They are at the centre of individual and/or collective ‘horizons of concern’ (sensu Bird-David 2017) because of how they relate to and interfere with the spatio-temporal scheduling and nature of human activities. In small-scale forager societies, they are often an integral part of lived and imagined communities (Anderson 1991) – which are to this effect often multispecies (cf. Bird-David 2017: 169–72, 223–8) – and they motivate specific forms of material engagement that implicate or reference them and the quality of their intersection with humans. Companion species are made through the interweaving of human and non-human affairs and they unclose consequential ‘mutual ecologies’ (Fuentes 2011) at the human–animal confluence. The study of companion species hence throws the changing imbrication of animal others into past forager lifeways into clearer relief and helps to better chart and understand the contribution of these animals to human (material) cultures, adaptations and livelihoods. In the purview of the present contribution, companion species help disclose a productive perspective on how being-forager and being-alloanimal interpenetrate and co-condition each other in specific ecocultural settings, and how these interstices are materially negotiated and expressed.

Being-with raptors: a comparative perspective Principal case study: Neanderthals and large eagles in Pleistocene Western Eurasia Recognizing raptor-incorporating material culture and raptor-directed human behaviour as praxes of interspecies engagement and relational signification opens up understandings of Neanderthal–raptor interfaces that do not sit comfortably with the dominant ‘modernity’ discourse by which raptor material culture of the European Middle (and Initial Upper) Palaeolithic is commonly framed. Rather than speculating about the cognitive capacities of Neanderthals and their presumable Sapiens-likeness (Finlayson 2019; Finlayson et al. 2019; Frayer et al. 2020), we can begin to ask questions about the role of raptors in Late Pleistocene lifeworlds, how Neanderthal and raptor behaviours intersected in the landscape, and why raptors (and not other animals) mattered. That Neanderthals – and possibly other penecontemporary hominins – paid special attention to some larger birds of prey, notably eagles and vultures, is for example reflected 14

Raptors as Companions

in the deliberate removal of raptor feathers and talons and the manipulation of the latter including their co-optation as personal ornaments, adornment or amulets (Wragg Sykes 2020: 256–9). This material engagement with specific raptor Others is hardly coincidental: it is arguably rooted in the ecocultural association between these avian predators and their Neanderthal landscape co-inhabitants, their unique dual ecology and the biosemiotic and phenomenological consequences of encounter and interaction that emerge from the latter (Hussain et al. 2022). To unpack this situated interface of raptors and Neanderthals, we have to examine the ecological agency of them both and interrogate how, why and where they met in the landscape. Carrion ecology provides an intriguing and hitherto underexplored perspective on these questions. The ecosystem services of birds, and in particular birds of prey, have recently garnered increasing attention (Donázar et al. 2016; Peisley et al. 2017; Graña Grilli et al. 2019), not least because bird–ecosystem interactions were often neglected or only cursorily treated in the past, for instance due to mammal-oriented research agendas. This ‘mammal bias’ is perhaps especially pronounced in palaeoecology and Pleistocene zooarchaeology, where scholars traditionally focused on ungulates and proboscideans since these animals allegedly constituted the primary source of calories and raw materials for early hominins (cf. Starkovich 2018). Yet many birds are integral to ecosystem functioning and raptors in particular were an important part of past predator-scavenger guilds. Predation and scavenging are key ecosystem services: the former enacts top-down ‘trophic cascades’ and regulates population dynamics among primary consumers, while the latter removes carcasses from the landscape or makes them available to/opens them up for other scavengers. The majority of the currently known raptor species having received special attention from Neanderthals are both top predators and facultative scavengers (Table 1.1), with the notable exception of a set of cinereous vulture talons recovered at Les Fieux indexing an obligate scavenger (Laroulandie et al. 2016). Two species of diurnal eagles dominate the Neanderthal talon assemblage: the golden eagle and white-tailed eagle (cf. Table 1; Soressi et al. 2008; Morin & Laroulandie 2012; Romandini et al. 2014; Radovčić et al. 2015; Laroulandie et al. 2020). The recent identification of a modified claw from an imperial eagle at the Châtelperronian site of Cova Foradada in Spain is notable, yet presently remains an isolated case (RodríguezHidalgo et al. 2019). These eagles clearly rank among the largest avian predators in their ecosystem and they are known for their opportunistic scavenging behaviour, which varies seasonally in importance. During the winter months, white-tailed eagles are for instance known to adopt a subsistence strategy primarily centred on medium- to largesized animal carcasses, but as with most apex predators, variation in foraging behaviours among individuals should also not be underestimated. As Finlayson and Finlayson (2016) have shown, raptor assemblages in the European Middle Palaeolithic are generally dominated by relatively high-ranked carrion birds, and the eagles and vultures apparently targeted for their claws are also among the species recurrently and abundantly represented in Neanderthal-associated avifaunal deposits. The zooarchaeological evidence points beyond a narrow interest in raptor talons, however. Neanderthals were also concerned with obtaining specific raptor feathers, most 15

16

Table 1.1 Compilation of evidence for Middle Palaeolithic raptor talon and feather extraction (only cut-marked bone evidence considered for the latter). Ethological profile is only provided for species with evidenced talon targeting. Site

Layer Country Marine Isotope Stage

Conditions Period/ Technocomplex

Species

Hominin focus of interest

Behaviour/ Ecology

Combe Grenal

XV

France

MIS 3

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic (Mousterian)

Golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos)

Phalanges and talons

Fumane

A12

Italy

MIS 3

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic (Levallois)

Golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos)

Phalanges and talons

France

MIS 3

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic

Golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos)

Phalanges and talons

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic

Golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos)

Phalanges and talons

Apex predator; occasional diurnal scavenger of larger animal carcasses; Golden eagles are sometimes killed by wolves, wolverines or larger cats while preying on ground carcasses; ravens are kleptoparasits of nesting Golden eagles

Grotte de L‘Hyene Rio Secco

7

Italy

MIS 3

Mandrin

E

France

MIS 4/3 Glacial

Neronian

Golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos)

Phalanges and talons

Pech de l‘Azé 4 I

France

MIS 3

MTA

Golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos)

Phalanges and talons

Glacial

Comments

References

Morin & Laroulandie 2012 Romandini et al. 2014 Morin & Laroulandie 2012 Romandini et al. 2014 Layer E has recently Romandini et al. 2014 been attributed to H. sapiens based on newly recovered teeth (morphology) and the hitherto singular ‘Neronian’ lithic technology Soressi et al. 2008

Grotte du Renne

IX-X France

MIS 3

Glacial

Châtelperronian White-tailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla)

Phalanges and talons

Les Fieux

France

MIS 3

Glacial

MTA

White-tailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla)

Phalanges and talons

Krapina

Croatia MIS 5

White-tailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla)

Phalanges and talons

Interglacial Middle Palaeolithic

Les Fieux

I/J

France

MIS 4/3 Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic (Denticulate)

White-tailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla)

Phalanges and talons

Les Fieux

Jbase France

MIS 4/3 Glacial

MTA

White-tailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla)

Phalanges and talons

Apex predator; highly opportunistic yet seasonally varied diurnal predatory behaviour; White-tailed eagles are known for their perch-hunting style and in winter often live largely as scavengers, following or watching for other similarly feeding birds such as corvids, vultures and other smaller birds of prey

Laroulandie et al. 2020

Laroulandie et al. 2016; Morin & Laroulandie 2012 Radovčić et al. 2015

Laroulandie et al. 2016; Morin & Laroulandie 2012 Laroulandie et al. 2016; Morin & Laroulandie 2012 (continued)

17

18

Table 1.1 Continued. Site

Layer Country Marine Isotope Stage

Conditions Period/ Technocomplex

Species

Hominin focus of interest

Les Fieux

Ks

France

MIS 3

Glacial

MTA

White-tailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla)

Phalanges and talons

Les Fieux

Ks

France

MIS 3

Glacial

MTA

Cinereous vulture (Aegypius monachus)

Phalanges and talons

Behaviour/ Ecology

Comments

References

Laroulandie et al. 2016; Morin & Laroulandie 2012 Solitary bird aggregating at large carcasses or other ‘natural’ feeding sites; specialized carrion-feeder of all carcass types; powerful bill to tear open thick carcass skin; often dominant over other vultures and scavengers in its range; known to adapt well and flexibly to human carrion landscapes (including human burial grounds and similar places)

Laroulandie et al. 2016; Morin & Laroulandie 2012

Grotte du Renne

IX-X France

Pech de l‘Azé 8 IV

France

Châtelperronian Eurasian eagle Phalanges and talons owl (Bubo bubo)

MIS 3

Glacial

MIS 5

Interglacial Middle Palaeolithic

Phalanges Unknown medium-sized and talons raptor

Largely nocturnal predator; tends to be highly sedentary and maintains a well-defined territory/hunting ground throughout most of its adult life; extreme longevity; daily flight is usually caused by human interference or mobbing crows. In Iberia, Eagle owls have evolved within a predatory guild, alongside large eagles, largely feeding on rabbit

Laroulandie et al. 2020

Dibble et al. 2009 (continued)

19

20

Table 1.1 Continued. Site

Layer Country Marine Isotope Stage

Conditions Period/ Technocomplex

Cova Foradada

IV1

Glacial

Spain

MIS 3

Species

Châtelperronian Imperial eagle (Aquila heliaca)

Hominin focus of interest

Behaviour/ Ecology

Comments

Phalanges and talons

Apex predator; occasionally pirates food items from other birds of prey or predators; generally highly opportunistic diurnal predator; pair-hunting, especially during winter, is not uncommon; often feeds on corvids

References

RodríguezHidalgo et al. 2019

Fumane

A9

Italy

MIS 3

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic (Discoid)

Feathers Bearded vulture (Gypaetus barbatus), cinereous vulture (Aegypius monachus), spotted eagle (Aquila clanga), merlin (Falco columbarius), red-footed falcon (Falco vespertinus)?, long-eared owl (Asio otus), short-eared owl (Asio flammeus)?

Romandini et al. 2016

Les Fieux

Ks

France

MIS 3

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic (Denticulate)

Golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos)

Feathers

Morin & Laroulandie 2012

France

MIS 3

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic (Discoid/ Levallois)

Unspecified falcon (Falco sp.)

Feathers

Mourre et al. 2007

Noisetier

21

(continued)

22

Table 1.1 Continued. Site

Layer Country Marine Isotope Stage

Vanguard

Gibraltar MIS 3

Conditions Period/ Technocomplex

Species

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic (Mousterian)

Feathers Eurasian sparrowhawk (Accipiter nisus), griffon vulture (Gyps fulvus) Bearded vulture (Gypaetus barbatus)?, red-footed falcon (Falco vespertinus)

Fumane

A5-A6 Italy

MIS 3

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic (Levallois)

Ferrassie

L3a

MIS 3

Glacial

Bearded Middle/ vulture transitional (Gypaetus Upper barbatus)? Palaeolithic/ Châtelperronian?

France

Hominin focus of interest

Behaviour/ Ecology

Comments

References

Finlayson et al. 2012

Feathers

Romandini et al. 2016

Feathers

Laroulandie 2004

Gorham’s

IV

Gibraltar MIS 3

Fumane

A3-A4 Italy

MIS 3

Glacial

Middle Palaeolithic (Mousterian)

Glacial

Uluzzian

Golden eagle Feathers (Aquila chrysaetos), griffon/maltese vulture (Gyps melitensis/ fulvus), black kite (Milvus migrans), red kite (Milvus milvus) Golden eagle Feathers (Aquila chrysaetos)

Finlayson et al. 2012

Romandini et al. 2016

23

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

clearly demonstrated in layer A9 from Fumane cave in Northern Italy, where raptors, in contrast to other birds, are only represented by butchered wings, and the material residues of processing these wings are spatially separated from other activities (Peresani et al. 2011; Romandini et al. 2014, 2016; Fiore et al. 2016). Neanderthals at Fumane and other Middle Palaeolithic sites were interested in feathers (Finlayson et al. 2012), and perhaps even fully articulated wings, from specific raptors including the greater spotted eagle, merlin, lammergeyer and black vulture. Another notable avifaunal pattern in the Neanderthal record is the strong recurrence and frequency of various corvid species including chough, jackdaw, magpie and raven (Finlayson and Finlayson 2016: Table 2). As Wragg Sykes (2020: 370) has pointed out, these and other animal-related patterns allow us to explore ‘how [the Neanderthal] focus on hunting particular species went beyond simple availability’. Wragg Sykes perceptively raised the possibility of a link between the status of these birds and their familiarity to Neanderthals, especially in the broader interspecies context of Neanderthal killsites, and she (2020: 259) explicitly frames these birds as ‘familiars’ – even if only in a metaphorical sense. From the perspective of carrion ecology, Neanderthal killsites are potential multispecies hotspots and vibrant meeting places because of the availability of animal carcasses and foraging residues. This carrion affordance of Neanderthal subsistence behaviour and landscape agency is likely augmented by the at times extreme selectivity of Neanderthal carcass processing (White et al. 2016). Generally speaking, Neanderthals – in contrast to the dominant pattern in early Upper Palaeolithic Homo sapiens (Richter 2018: 202) – did not often exploit full animal carcasses and/or skeletons, in this way providing feeding opportunities for various scavengers and perhaps especially for osteophagic animals (osteophagy: bone consumption) such as hyenas, bears and larger predatory birds including hawks and owls (Myhrvold 2012). It is noteworthy that bearded vultures for example are specialized bone-eaters, with bones sometimes contributing up to 90 per cent of the birds’ diet (Botha et al. 2017: 28). Taken together, data on Neanderthal hunting tactics, cadaver choice and meat transport decisions suggest that the activities of these hominins cultivated a rich and diverse carrion landscape primarily comprising larger-sized ungulate species of considerable scavenging value. Although there is pronounced regional variation in Neanderthal prey preferences and broader subsistence strategies (Gaudzinski-Windheuser & Kindler 2012; Churchill 2014), these hominins do not generally seem to have pre-selected and/or carefully isolated specific prey targets, but often favoured opportunity-driven hunting modes such as ambushing entire herds or larger groups of animals in advantageous settings (Gaudzinski 2006; Churchill 2014; Gaudzinski-Windheuser et al. 2018). Based on careful forensic analysis of a number of prototypical Neanderthal killsites, White et al. (2016) have shown that they were often ‘picky’ and fairly ‘discerning’ diners, who – because they were proficient tacticians and ethologists and not despite of it – frequently killed more animals than they properly exploited. The authors recall Spiess’ (1979) proclamation that ‘[prey] selectivity is a luxury known only to more recent hunter-gatherers armed with guns or powerful bows’ and argue that Neanderthals only decided how and which carcasses to process and which to ignore after the hunt was completed, and not the other 24

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way around. This ‘negative normativity’ of Neanderthal hunting would have greatly promoted the carrion fingerprint of these hominins. Consistent with their generally high-trophic rank occupancy in the ecosystem as inferred from stable isotope studies (Bocherens 2009; Jaouen et al. 2019), Neanderthal ‘top-level carnivory’ (Richards & Trinkaus 2009) can then perhaps be framed as a key ecosystem service for other scavenging animals and may have been an indispensable and stabilizing factor for the exceptionally large scavenger guilds of MIS 5-3. Recognizing the role of Neanderthals in structuring the carrion ecology of their carnivore co-inhabitants not only throws new light on Neanderthal environmental agency, but also provides novel perspectives on how these hominins might have coconstructed and curated ‘mutual ecologies’ with other species (Hussain et al. 2022). The unique and non-analogue community structure of terrestrial animal ecosystems in the Late Saalian and Weichselian and their elevated ungulate biomass productivity and turnover even under interglacial conditions (Kindler et al. 2020) – paired with scheduled carrion ‘overflow’ linked to Neanderthal predatory behaviour – would have rendered scavenging, and necrophagy more generally, a highly viable and effective feeding strategy. Some of the main avian beneficiaries would have been vultures and larger eagles who scavenge when ecological conditions facilitate and invite such behaviour. Many raptors who are classified as facultative scavengers in reality eat more carrion than is often assumed, also because traditional analyses of pellet or prey remains tend to underrepresent carrion intake (DeVault et al. 2016: 240). Modern ecological studies, moreover, show that a broad range of avian apex predators – albeit they can also suffer from proximity to intensely settled human spaces – regularly take advantage of feeding opportunities opened up by human activity such as road kills (Lambertucci et al. 2009) or sport hunting (Sánchez-Zapata et al. 2010). The biosemiotic and ecological relationships between different bird species in Neanderthal inhabited, carrion-rich landscapes are also worth considering: killsites draw in vultures, eagles and hawks but also a range of corvid species who are among the typical ‘early visitors’ at carrion sites (Dean & Milton 2003). Eagles often rely on clues from corvids to detect carcasses (Grubb et al. 2018; Orr et al. 2019) and eagles, in turn, alert vultures (Kane et al. 2014). This scavenging sequence draws attention to the intimate ecological intersection of these birds and suggests that the association of large raptors and corvids in Neanderthal faunal assemblages had a dynamic lifeworld correlate. In fact, the cultural importance of corvids and raptors – as obligate and facultative scavengers – structurally mirrors and thus reproduces the mutualism between the involved species and points to the lived significance of predator–scavenger networks and the co-associated avian scavenger assemblages for hominins. As Moléon et al. (2014) remind us, ‘as humans evolved from carcass consumers to carcass providers, the overall relationship between humans and scavengers shifted from competition to facilitation’. Some of the bird-related patterns in Neanderthal material culture and zooarchaeology might thus be better understood as cultural expressions of living-with and intersecting with the specific avian others in the landscape, notably in the context of meaningful activities such as hunting (Figure 1.1). Neanderthals were unique ‘hyperkeystone’ species 25

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

Figure 1.1 Tanglegram of the general ecology of Neanderthal–raptor relations during the European Middle Palaeolithic. Special emphasis is put on the structure of relationships between different types of hominin killsites, prey exploitation, transport decisions, carrion availability, affordances and species-specific signalling as well as the collection and transformation of particular animal body parts. Silhouettes redrawn from http://phylopic.org/ (original silhouette credits: © Public Domain, Zimices, Anthony Caravaggi, Peileppe, Birgit Lang, Margot Michaud, Jan A. Venter, Herbert H. T. Prins, David A. Balfour, Rob Slotow, T. Michael Keesey, Mason McNair, DFoidl).

(sensu Worm & Paine 2016) of their time and their avian archaeology presents itself as a ‘microcosm’ of lived ecological relationships tied to their role in the complex scavenger communities of their time. Taking into account and empirically reconstructing situated carrion ecologies from the distant past can therefore greatly enhance our understanding of human–animal relationships. An integrated, carrion-oriented view suggests that raptors mattered to Neanderthals not because of a detached ‘symbolic’ rationality but because of the behavioural resonance of the two agents and the phenomenological quality and context of their encounter and interaction. Raptors were at the core of Neanderthal horizons of concern and their significance derives from their association with and imbrication in Neanderthal foraging landscapes and the emergent spatial experience and interspecies attunement. The world of Neanderthals was simultaneously 26

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‘raptor country’, and raptor-evoking material culture such as claw ornaments and feathered gear can come into view as culturally-mediated negotiations of this human– raptor nexus. Raptors were prominent agents in Middle Palaeolithic lifeworlds and, facilitated by anthropic agency, interfered with key hominin activities and locales and therefore emerged as consequential companion species in some parts of the Neanderthal world. It may therefore be misleading to qualify the significance of raptors as a reflection either of ‘symbolic’ or ‘nutritional’ concerns, and we should rather emphasize how companionship and perhaps kinship emerged from the unique ways Neanderthals and raptors met and exhilarated each other in the landscape, co-mingled and possibly co-fed, so that raptors became inextricably bound to the experience and phenomenology of Neanderthal landscapes. Comparative outlook: raptor interfaces in Late Glacial and early Holocene landscapes of Northern Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean Levant Mesolithic woodland foragers of the North European Plain, the Baltic and Northwestern Russia have also made use of hawks and eagles, but the ecological and social contexts of human–raptor engagements differ substantially from the Middle Palaeolithic settings discussed before. Whereas the Neanderthal record, notably in MIS 3, stands out by a broad array of larger-bodied eagles with an emphasis on open steppe/grassland and transitional/mixed country birds and some vulture species, North European foragers of the early Holocene are primarily associated with two species: the white-tailed eagle and the osprey. Both are fish-eaters and thrive in mixed boreal environments with riparian components, wetlands and open bodies of water. The white-tailed eagle benefits from saltwater–freshwater interfaces and apart from taking fish, often subsists on water birds, so that the availability of the latter can be a locational factor for the species. Against the backdrop of the dramatic ecological transformations brought by the transition from the Pleistocene to the Holocene in higher latitude Europe, including reforestation, lake and wetland formation, and the activation of dynamic and often extensive river systems, it is perhaps not surprising that the bones, and sometimes talons, of white-tailed eagles are frequently found in Mesolithic sites in close proximity to the coastline in what today is the Netherlands, Denmark and the Baltic countries. Some of these coastal or near-coastal sites have yielded notable numbers of raptor bones and previous work has interpreted some of them as indicative of prestige hunting. Yet, as Amkreutz & Corbey (2008) have noted with reference to the Dutch evidence, the available body-part data is ambiguous and suggests that wings and claws were also sought-after. Generally speaking, the invoked ‘microcosms’ of human–raptor engagement focalize the aquatic ecology of both agents as well as the resulting behavioural references and phenomenological intersections: fish-getting was an integral component of the involved Mesolithic foodways and adaptations, and waterfowl played an important role in human diets but also in the figurative art of the Eastern Mesolithic (Lozovskaya 2021), as well as in Danish, Swedish and Latvian burial practices of the period (Grünberg 2013: 242). 27

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

White-tailed eagles and ospreys thereby joined multispecies assemblages constituted by humans, fish and water birds: the activity of these raptors overlapped and aligned with forager subsistence in the landscape, so that the respective Mesolithic humans and raptors co-implicated each other in their foraging grounds and mobilities. The conditions of encounter and interaction in the mosaic and hydrodynamic environments of Northern Europe, in other words, likely contributed to the development of human–raptor interfaces that highlighted the importance of white-tailed eagle and osprey in negotiating notions of place and landscape identity. Being hunter-gatherer-fisher and being raptor met in such a way that powerful piscivore raptors emerged as significant proximate avian Others, whose contextual complementarity and ‘Otherness’ supplied a focal register of material engagement, spatial experience and cultural sense-making. The role of these birds as vehicles of place-making and ‘identities of dwelling’ is perhaps most vigorously reflected in the incorporation of their materiality into Mesolithic burials across northern latitudes (Tresset 2005; Mannermaa 2008; Grünberg 2013: 243). At the extensive, long-term burial ground of Olenij Ostrov in the middle of massive lake Onega in Northwest Russia (Ravdonikas 1956), osprey is by far the most numerous bird species associated with Late Mesolithic burials (Mannermaa et al. 2008; Mannermaa 2013), pointing to the special significance of this predatory bird in the lakeland huntergatherer landscapes of Northeastern Europe. It is notable that white-tailed eagles seem to be the salient raptor Others where coastal lifeways and resources played key roles in human endeavours, while the osprey is often foregrounded in inland boreal-lake ecologies where aquatic freshwater resources were of central importance for Mesolithic forager adaptations. It is by virtue of their situated landscape companionship, then, that these birds made a lasting contribution to early Holocene hunter-gatherer cultures across Northern Europe (Figure 1.2). Eagles and hawks are also implicated in the zooarchaeology and material culture of complex hunter-gatherer societies in the mountainous and open landscapes of the Levantine Epipalaeolithic with interspersed wetlands (Martin et al. 2013). A key find is the wing tip of a golden eagle associated with the exceptional burial of a female ‘shaman’ at the Natufian site of Hilazon Tachtit in present-day Israel (Grosman et al. 2008). The broader transitional period from the Epipalaeolithic to the earliest Neolithic in the Eastern Mediterranean with its intensifying hunting and gathering economies including ‘low-level’ food production (sensu Smith 2001) and incipient forms of animal management (Munro et al. 2018) and husbandry (Redding & Rosenberg 1998) indeed provides an interesting context for comparative forays into rapidly transforming human– raptor relations. At the Epipalaeolithic–Neolithic interface, raptor remains seem to feature in two different types of forager sites: they are either found at 1) aggregation sites of quasisedentary broad-spectrum hunter-gatherers, or at 2) short-term hunting locales adjacent to biodiversity hotspots. The zooarchaeological raptor-related patterns tend to differ among the two. Sites that signal the development of hunter-gatherer sedentism after the climatic deterioration brought by the Younger Dryas such as Hallan Çemi frequently yield high numbers of bones from larger facultative scavengers such as the steppe eagle (Zeder 28

Raptors as Companions

Figure 1.2 Tanglegram of the general ecology of forager–raptor relations during the Mesolithic of Southern Scandinavia and Northeastern Europe. Special emphasis is put on the structure of relationships between coastal and inland boreal-lakeland environments, ecological facilitation by non-human actors, the sharing of key resources such as fish and waterfowl and the role of raptor material culture and burial inclusion. Silhouettes redrawn from http://phylopic.org/ (original silhouette credits: © Public Domain, Steven Traver, Juan Carlos, Milton Tan, Carlos Cano Barbaci, Sean McCann, Rebecca Groom, Gabriela Palomo Munoz, Xavier Giroux Bougard, Margot Michaud, Timothy Knepp, Timothy J. Bartley).

& Spitzer 2016). Short-term hunting stations are exemplified by sites such as Jilat 22 at the outskirts of the vibrant Azraq basin, characterized by a more diverse and seasonalityspecific raptor assemblage containing larger eagles but also kites and especially buzzards (Martin et al. 2013). The exceptional avifaunal evidence from the early Neolithic site WF16 in Wadi Faynan (White et al. 2021) occupies a somewhat intermediate position between the two site-types, as Accipitridae, in particular steppe buzzards, by far dominate the bird record and contextual data suggest that the site acted as a hub for seasonal huntergatherer aggregations linked to the focused interception of buzzards, passing through the area in large flocks in the thousands in spring and autumn (Mithen et al. 2022). It is thus likely that different factors have contributed to the formation of these raptor assemblages. Near-permanent hunter-gatherer settlements with their intensified 29

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

Figure 1.3 Tanglegram of the general ecology of forager–raptor relations during the Epipalaeolithic and earliest Neolithic (PPNA) of the Eastern Mediterranean Levant. Special emphasis is put on the structure of relationships between hunting stations and more permanent habitation sites, animal attractors including an emerging human-anchored commensal niche, seasonal bird harvesting and intensified ungulate economies, animal burial inclusion and a diverse raptor assemblage as feather provider. Silhouettes redrawn from http://phylopic.org/ (original silhouette credits: © Public Domain, Lauren Anderson, Gabriela Palomo Munoz, Liftarn, Ferran Sayol, Anthony Caravaggi, Mathieu Plissi, Gopal Murali, Ferran Sayol, Rebecca Groom).

ungulate economies and evidence for an increasing role of early adopter commensals such as foxes (Yeshurun et al. 2009) provide attractive foraging ecologies for opportunisticgeneralist raptors such as steppe eagle, golden eagle or buzzard. Biodiversity hotspots such as the extensive Azraq wetlands, by contrast, constitute key landmarks for migrating birds (Yeomans 2018), especially waterfowl, and would have therefore similarly attracted predatory birds, thereby drawing human foragers and raptors together in the landscape at particular times in the year. In both cases, it is nonetheless the dual ecology of humans and raptors that have rendered the latter a notable target of Epipaleolithic and early Neolithic cultural practices. Raptors intersected with domestic life in human settlements and they signalled the scheduled arrival of particular seasons and other migratory birds, themselves a key resource for Epipalaeolithic foragers (Simmons & Nadel 1998; Yeomans & Richter 2020; Figure 1.3), thereby possibly also modulating forager fission-and-fusion dynamics and thus shaping human social organization (Mithen et al. 2022). Hunting 30

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these birds, and possibly consuming them, would then have been a significant act in itself and arguably contributed to the cultural reproduction of the societies engaging in these raptor-related practices. Raptor companionship, although structured and negotiated varyingly across contexts, in this way emanated as a potent society-making force for early prehistoric hunter-gatherers in different parts of the world.

Conclusion The comparative archaeo-ornithological perspective sketched here points to the importance of examining the context-dependent interposition of humans and raptors if we seek to better understand raptor-related patterns in the archaeological record such as the proclivity of specific raptor species in avifaunal assemblages or the ways in which these birds were rendered in visual culture and personal ornamentation. Why certain species mattered in different ecological and cultural settings must not remain a matter of speculation or naïve back-projection, but can systematically be investigated by taking stock of the intersectionality and ‘dual ecology’ of humans and raptors in any given behavioural and material context. A deep-historical, multispecies and comparative research orientation helps to elucidate how changing human–raptor expositions enacted material and social consequences, and draws attention to the importance of carefully disentangling the co-becoming of human societies and their significant raptor Others. The discussed archaeological examples showcase how situated modes of being-in-the-world as huntergatherer draw together humans and raptors in particular historically-specific ways, thereby foreclosing distinct forms and practices of relating to these powerful predatory birds. These various ways of ‘being-with’ raptor Others illustrate the need to recognize these birds of prey as persuasive companion species and to begin studying human–raptor relations in the deep past beyond narrow Eurocentric and agricentric frameworks.

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CHAPTER 2 GODS, KINGS AND OFFERINGS: RAPTORS IN ANCIENT EGYPT Salima Ikram

Introduction Ancient Egyptian art, archaeology and textual sources demonstrate that the Egyptians had an intimate relationship with a variety of non-human animals. They feature in scenes depicting the environment, in representations of daily life, as decorative elements on clothing, furniture and jewellery, and are closely associated with the divine: deities were not only depicted as animals, but they also had living representatives, for example in the form of raptors, on earth. Raptors in particular figure prominently in all aspects of Egyptian art and life. Major deities, such as Re, Horus and Montu appear as raptors, and the king, manifestation of Horus on earth, is also represented as a raptor in both image and text. In the last phase of pharaonic history (c. 650 bce to 280 ce ), animal cults associated with Re and Horus featured offerings of raptors in the tens if not hundreds of thousands, suggesting the capture and possibly intensive breeding of different types of raptors. This chapter offers an interdisciplinary exploration of some of the symbolic and practical roles that raptors played in ancient Egyptian life using the evidence of representations, texts, artefacts and archaeozoological remains. All ancient Egyptian solar deities were associated with raptors; these birds dominated the sky, had keen eyesight, strong talons, powerful beaks and were fast and successful hunters, which were among the attributes of these deities. The birds’ striking plumage of different shades of yellow, dark orange, brown and white was associated with different aspects of the sun. Some raptors have a distinctive yellow, orange or even red iris, eye ring or cere which is also mimetic of the sun and many have yellow or orange legs and feet with contrasting dark talons which, when extended, are reminiscent of the sun with its emanating, blinding rays. The image of a falcon was used to signify ‘god’ in some early Egyptian texts (Altenmüller 1977: 95–6, n. 5), suggesting that the earliest divinities were related to solar worship and associated with raptors. Raptors frequently surmounted royal standards and falcons (bik in ancient Egyptian) were most closely identified with the Egyptian state, be it in the form of the state gods or the king. From the ancient past to the present, raptors and particularly eagles are often chosen to symbolize the spirit of a nation; the flags of nine countries, including Egypt, feature eagles of some sort today.

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Raptors in religion, iconography and text The ancient Egyptians were keen observers of animals (Evans 2010), so the animal associated with a deity was chosen based on its manifestation of traits that were identified with that god. Thus, the African sacred ibis (Threskiornis aethiopicus), with its curved beak resembling a pen and its habit of scratching the soil with it, was associated with Thoth, the god of writing and seeker of wisdom; the cat, elegant, self-indulgent, always grooming and a good mother was the animal of Bastet, goddess of beauty and motherhood. Isis and Nephthys, in charge of mourning and aiding in resurrection, were associated with kestrels (common kestrel, Falco tinnunculus and lesser kestrel, F. naumanni) (Houlihan & Goodman 1986: 45–6) and kites (black kite, Milvus migrans, black-winged kite, Elanus caeruleus) (Houlihan & Goodman 1986: 36–7), because while both kestrels and kites are capable hunters, they are also often found scavenging carrion (i.e. the dead) and have very distinct calls that evoke the cries of mourning women. The most prominent of the raptor deities was Re (Ra), the sun god, associated with the falcon. He held the position of chief – and state – god throughout Egyptian history, for some 3,000 years and was syncretized with different deities over time, most notably Amun (c. 1930 bce , creating Amun-Re whose cult endured until the advent of Christianity) and Horakhty, who dominated the two horizons of sunrise and sunset, and who was partially responsible for the sun’s daily cycle being safely completed for all eternity. The other prominent deity manifested as a raptor was Horus, also associated with the falcon, whose name can be translated as ‘The One on High’. Horus was the son of Osiris, the god of the underworld, and his wife, Isis, a creator goddess. Horus was identified with the reigning king (Figure 2.1), having dominion over the land of Egypt, both physically and metaphysically (Loret 1903; Mercer 1942). One of the king’s titularies was ‘Son of Re’, thus identifying him with the sun god. Montu, god of war, was also seen as a form of a falcon, having all of his attributes of speed, strength and ferocity, while Sopdu, shown as a crouching falcon, was the god guarding the eastern frontier (Wilkinson 2003: 211), where the sun rose. Sokar, a funerary deity, was allied with the dead king and was represented with his wings folded as a raptor at rest (Wilkinson 2003: 209–10). Qebehsenuef, who guarded a mummy’s intestines, was falcon headed, possibly because falcons often start feeding from the belly area, pulling out the viscera, and conversely the god was recognized as protecting against such a fate. All of these gods could be shown in avian form, but also were frequently shown as humans with raptor heads, and for the most part, the deities shown as raptors were closely identified with some form of falcon. It should be noted that, with vultures included in the definition of raptors, then Nekhbet, titulary goddess of Upper Egypt and guardian of the king, as well as Mut, consort of Amun, and protector of women and children, who was closely allied to motherhood, are featured on royal headgear and also figure prominently in the Egyptian pantheon. However, not all raptors that are related to deities can be identified as a particular species. This is most apparent with the Horus Falcon. This bird is a hybrid, idealized or super-raptor, often shown with traits of four falcon species that constitute a special 39

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Figure 2.1 King Khafre (c. 2570 bc) with the Horus Falcon behind his head. The falcon’s wings cradle the king’s head in a gesture of protection, and the positioning of the falcon identifies the king with the god (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, CG 14/JE 10062), photo A. Dodson.

divine bird: Eleonora’s (F. eleonorae), Lanner (F. biarmicus), Hobby (F. subbuteo) and Peregrine (F. peregrinus); sometimes the Horus Falcon is shown with non-naturalistic colouring, perhaps emphasizing the bird’s otherworldliness (Houlihan & Goodman 1986: 46–9). As a result of their associations with different deities, raptors figured prominently in Egyptian iconography, particularly that associated with royalty. The royal name, set in a serekh, a hieroglyph showing the palace, is often surmounted by the Horus Falcon, indicating that the king was associated with Horus and that Horus was master and inhabitant of the palace. One of the king’s titles was ‘Golden Horus’, emphasizing his solar nature and reflecting the vibrant colours of a falcon’s plumage. 40

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Horus (and Nekhbet) feature commonly in temples and royal tombs with one or both wings outstretched, holding the circular hieroglyph for eternity (shen) and hovering protectively over the king. They also appear with wings outspread at key points in a temple as guardians. In statuary, in addition to a myriad of images of single falcons from different periods of Egyptian history (for example, Brooklyn Museum L65.2, 70.89.2, Art Institute of Chicago 2002.632; Cleveland Museum of Art 1940.615), the Horus Falcon stands behind the king’s head, his wings spread out, both protecting the king as well as identifying the king as the Living Horus (for example, that of Khafre, Egyptian Museum CG 14/JE 10062 [see Figure 2.1] and that of Neferefre, Egyptian Museum JE 98171). A variation on the theme is common into the Ptolemaic and Roman periods (Figure 2.2). Raptors also feature in many royal accessories. A falcon with spread wings is affixed to the top of a particular type of crown (Brunner-Traut 1971: 22–5; figs. 8–9), emphasizing the king’s identification with Horus, and his attributes of a strong warrior and omniscient ruler, as well as putting him under the god’s protection. Several of the king’s garments mimic the plumage of a bird, probably a falcon (such as Tutankhamun’s corselet, Egyptian Museum JE 62627 [Plate 2.1]; Amenhotep III’s kilt (J 838) in the quartzite statue in the Luxor Museum’s Cachette Hall; Ramesses III at Medinet Habu, Epigraphic Survey 1930: pl. 25b). Tutankhamun also had a sash with a falcon depicted on it so that the bird wrapped around the king’s body (Vogelsang-Eastwood 1999: Fig. 3.7), guarding his viscera, and another where the wings of the bird wound around his shoulders, folding forward on the chest, protecting the king (Vogelsang-Eastwood 1999: Fig. 6.9), an ontological aid serving to transform the king into a raptor, with his head taking the place of the falcon’s. Many items of jewellery also feature falcon-head terminals (Tutankhamun had several: Egyptian Museum JE 61878-61881 Plate 2.2), or represent the entire bird (Tutankhamun’s Egyptian Museum JE 61913 and JE 616914, Figure 2.3 and Plate 2.3), thus the wearer was both protected by and identified with the falcon god. A select few royal mummiform coffins of the Twenty-Second Dynasty (c. 943–716 bce ) had falcon heads, emphasizing the deceased’s protection by as well as identification with and/or transformation into Horus and Sokar (Broekman 2009). Raptors were also prevalent in hieroglyphs and texts; they were the most common type of bird featured in the hieroglyph repertoire, accounting for 24 per cent of bird glyphs, with many of the images emphasizing their divine connections (Gardiner 1979: 467–73). Areas were named for them, such as District of the Two-Falcons (Lichtheim 1973: 28) or Hawk City (Lichtheim 1973: 39). In literature the king is frequently equated with a falcon or a hawk. Two of the king’s titularies (‘Golden Horus’ and the Horus surmounting the serekh containing his Horus name) feature falcons. The heir apparent is referred to as Horus-in-the-nest (Forgeau 2010) and the king himself is frequently referred to as the divine (or just plain) falcon (Kitchen 1983: 17, l. 7–8; Gardiner 1905; Lichtheim 1973: 224) or ‘lord of the wing who seizes what he sees according to his desire’ (Shonkweiler 2014: 21). He is frequently likened to a falcon when a battle is being described, for example: ‘I will charge them as a falcon pounces’ (Lichtheim 1976: 69), ‘I charged their ranks as a falcon’ (Lichtheim 1976: 70) and ‘see your majesty as 41

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Figure 2.2 A granite statue of the god Horus standing behind Ptolemy XV Caesar (Caesarion, the son of Cleopatra VII and Julius Caesar) in the temple of Edfu. The massive image of the god in his falcon form is supporting the king and legitimizing his rule, photo S. Ikram. 42

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Figure 2.3 One of Tutankhamun’s many gold collars (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, JE 61914); this one in the form of a Horus falcon holding the shen, symbol of eternity, that protected the neck and chest of the mummy. © Griffith Institute, University of Oxford.

falcon-winged’ (Lichtheim 1976: 37). Many parts of the Pyramid Texts, funerary compilations which aided the king on his journey from this world to the next, mention his transformation into a falcon and a hawk – an uber-raptor: ‘Grown are his falcon wings, Plumes of the holy hawk’ (Pyramid Text 245, Lichtheim 1973: 33), or liken him to one: ‘[the king] is the divine hawk, the great hawk of hawks, Whom he finds on his way he devours whole’ (Pyramid Text 273–4, Lichtheim, 1973: 37), ‘He wrests his arms from you as a falcon, He tears himself from you as a kite, [the king] frees himself from the fetters of earth’ (Pyramid Text 573, Lichtheim 1973: 50). These transformations are echoed in a later funerary text, the Book of the Dead or the Book of the Coming forth by Day (Book of the Dead 77, Lichtheim 1976: 122). It is clear that raptor imagery features prominently in Egyptian art and texts, especially those relating to the king. 43

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Animal cults and raptors A notable feature of Egyptian religion in the twilight of the pharaonic era, from the Twenty-sixth dynasty through to the early Roman period (c. 664 bce to 350 ce ) was the worship of a live animal as the manifestation a respective deity (Smith 1974; Kessler 1986; Ray 2001; Ikram & Iskander 2002; Ikram 2015a). Thus, one particular animal, the Sacred Animal, remarkable for its special markings or some event associated with its birth, was identified as the manifestation of the god, with the idea that part of the divine spirit would inhabit the body of that particular creature. At the animal’s death, the spirit would pass into the body of another similarly marked creature that would take its place, with the dead animal being mummified and buried with great pomp in a special catacomb. The idea is akin to what is believed about the Dalai Lama’s migrating soul (Ray 2001; Ikram 2015a). These cults were supported by Egypt’s rulers well through the Ptolemaic Period – on the Rosetta Stone, for example, Ptolemy V asserts that he, like the pharaohs before him, supported the animal cults (Scalf 2012: 37). Associated with these cults was the instigation of a new type of votive offering: that of a mummy of the animal that was affiliated with the god (Smith 1974; Ray 2001; Ikram and Iskander 2002; Ikram 2015a). These votive mummies were purchased by the faithful, consecrated to the god and buried in large tombs (often catacombs) belonging to the temples that hosted the animal cult. Millions of mummies were deposited as part of this tradition and are found throughout Egypt (Ikram 2015b; Ikram 2019; also Kessler 1986). Many of the animals were deliberately killed then mummified, making these offerings even more potent as they were blood sacrifices for the god, and more effective as they had been actual living creatures, rather than images of wood, stone or metal which hitherto had been the more common sort of votive offering. One scholar has posited that the millions of mummified animals were not dedicated to the gods that they resembled, but were part of a ritual associated with the renewal of the king and his power (Kessler 1989: 299–303; 2010: 269–70). Insofar as the king was associated with a multitude of gods, and most particularly the sun god, it is feasible to interpret these offerings as ones being made to the god in question, together with the king in his association with that particular deity. Raptors featured prominently in these animal cults, with the cult of Horus (and Re) being the most popular. Some pharaohs, such as Nectanebo II (r. c. 360–343 bce ) went so far as to establish a royal cult dedicated to ‘Nectanebo-the-falcon’ (Scalf 2012: 37), thus emphasizing the king’s identification with Horus, with all the attributes of a falcon: ferocity, speed, strength and powerful eyesight, the divine/regal ability to see all. Thus, votive offerings in many of the Horus cults were dedicated not only to the god, but also, by extension, to the reigning king who was the manifestation of Horus on earth. The many cult centres and cemeteries affiliated with Horus and the king are found throughout Egypt, specifically: Taposiris Magna (Abusir), Sais (Sa el-Haggar), Quesna, Buto, Abu Rawash, Arab al-Tawila, Giza, Saqqara, Abusir al-Malik, Hawara, Sharuna, Bahnasa, Akoris (Tihna al-Gebel), Tuna al-Gebel, Zawiet el-Maitin, al-Shutb, Akhmim, Abydos, Hu, Dendera, Thebes, Armant, Edfu, Kom Ombo, Elephantine, and Kharga and 44

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Dakhla oases. The temples not only had the usual sacerdotal staff, but also possessed additional personnel particular to these cults: caretakers of the animals and embalmers. Priests held titles such as that of Nesshutefnut of Esna, who was ‘priest of the living falcons in the tree’ (Scalf 2012: 38). Nesshutefnut not only cared for the birds, but also administered the fields belonging to the falcon that provided its personal and temple wealth. Another notable priest was Djedhor of Athribis who was responsible for the living and the dead falcons associated with the cult of Horus Khenty-Khety at Quesna, as related on two of his statues (Oriental Institute, Chicago 10589; Egyptian Museum JE 46341). He even invented new ways of mummifying the dead birds using very specific balsams (Sherman 1981). These temples and the high-level personnel in them wielded religious, social and economic power, both locally and nationally. A study of the millions of mummies offered to the gods shows that the quality of mummification varies. In traditional mummification, birds are eviscerated, then desiccated using natron, a naturally occurring combination of salt and baking soda found in the Wadi Natrun and in the vicinity of El Kab, after which they are anointed with resins and oils and then wrapped in linen bandages. In many cases, however, an expedited process removed the evisceration stage, and in some instances the birds are also not desiccated, but instead simply dipped into vats of resinous material after which they are wrapped (Nicholson 2015; Ikram & Iskander 2002: 12–13, CG 29681). This method has proven very effective none the less, with raptor mummies in general being very well preserved. The most striking feature of the raptor mummies are their wrappings, cartonnage masks and containers. Some mummies are very simply spirally wrapped in linen bandages, while others sport complex herringbone or coffered patterns (Ikram & Iskander 2002: 13–15, CG 29682, CG 29685, CG 29881; Lortet & Gaillard 1903: 114–17, 146–58) (Fig. 2.4). While some were just placed as wrapped packages in their burial places, many were placed in containers before being deposited in their catacombs. At Saqqara, many were placed in ceramic vessels before being interred (Davies & Smith 2005: pls. XX–XXIII), while some were put in wooden boxes (Davies & Smith 2005: pls. LVa, LVIIb) or limestone sarcophagi (Davies & Smith 2005: pls. XXVIIa,b, LXc,d). Fewer were set into hollow bronze images of Horus (Davies & Smith 2005: pls. XXXVI, LXVII) or bronze alloy boxes surmounted by a figure of a falcon, often wearing the double crown of Egypt (Davies & Smith 2005: pls. XXXVII–XXXIX, LV, LVII). Fragmentary examples of these have been found at Quesna (personal observation), but none in the Theban Tombs (TT) 11 complex. Clearly, the production of mummies that involved a variety of materials (the birds themselves, salts, oils and bandages), including imported ones (resins) had considerable economic significance, as did the production of their coffins, with the metal ones being the costliest.

Sacrificial raptors To date, no burials of Sacred Animals, embodiments of the gods, have been identified with certainty, with the exception of those associated with bull cults (Dodson 2015). This 45

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Figure 2.4 Falcon mummy with a cartonnage mask (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, CG 29685), photo Anna-Marie Kellen, reproduced with permission of the author.

46

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is because such interments are difficult to identify in the heavily pillaged sepulchres that held both the sacred and votive bird mummies (Baber 2019). Discoveries of what are incontrovertibly sacred raptors would help to identify a particular species with a specific deity, unless, of course, the god was Horus, who clearly was depicted as an amalgam of attributes from different falcons. Perhaps, though, the votive mummies show some relationship with the god to whom they were offered. It is impossible to evaluate the data from all the raptor cults found throughout Egypt as the animal remains from the majority of these sites have not been systematically studied. This paper will discuss the following examples of particular importance: a deposit from the cult area of the Ibis (Thoth) and the Falcon (Horus) established within Theban Tombs (TT) 11, 12 and -399-, near modern day Luxor, (Bosch-Puche & Ikram 2021; Di Cerbo & Jasnow 2021; Ikram & Spitzer 2022), together with remains from the mud brick animal mummy tombs at Quesna, in the Delta (Rowland et al. 2013; Ikram et al in preparation), and some examples of published bird mummies from museum collections. Based on the fact that Horus was comprised of different falcons, one would expect falcons to dominate the assemblage of mummified birds dedicated to him, and indeed this is the case. In the Theban Tombs (TT) 11 group, a 40 cubic litre sample yielded 3,687 identifiable bones from a single context of a vast range of birds dedicated to Horus and Thoth (Ikram & Spitzer 2022). Discounting the birds associated with Thoth (ibises, primarily), the number of raptor bones is impressive, numbering 905. While the majority of bones came from mature birds, a small percentage of the falcons seemed to come from immature specimens. In the mature specimens, the most commonly identified are falcons, yielding a count of sixty-eight individual birds from at least six falcon species: lanner (Falco biarmicus), merlin (F. columbarius), kestrel (F. tinnunculus) and lesser kestrel (F. naumanni), hobby (F. subbuteo) and peregrine (F. peregrinus). Next prominent in number were the twenty-four vultures, including griffon (Gyps fulvus), lappet-faced (Torgos tracheliotus) and Egyptian (Neophron percnopterus). There were also fifteen kites (Milvus sp.), including the black-winged kite (Elanus caeruleus), as well as eighteen buzzards (Buteo sp.), seven eagles (Aquila sp., including African fish eagle [Haliaeetus vocifer]), eleven hawks (comprising Levant sparrowhawk [Accipiter brevipes], goshawk [A. gentilis], Eurasian sparrowhawk [A. nisus]), plus harriers (Circus sp.), at least one osprey (Pandion haliaetus) and one honey buzzard (Pernis apivorus). Presumably some of the raptors were incidental inclusions of animals that had died in the sacred precincts and thus been awarded a special burial (Kessler 1989), or had been included as they were raptors associated with sky deities in general. The number and diversity of falconiformes is significant, though, as these are the birds that are combined to create Horus, the super-raptor. In a smaller sample from the galleries containing raptor mummies at Quesna, the cemetery associated with the temple of Horus Khenty-Khety at Athribis, Megan Spitzer and this author identified over 1,100 bones to species (Ikram et al in preparation). A larger sample that had been examined before by Lisa Yeomans consisted of 11,711 bones, yielding a total of 391 birds (Rowland et al. 2013). The diversity of raptor species identified at Quesna by Lisa Yeomans, Megan Spitzer and myself was far more limited 47

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than what was found in Thebes, with 99 per cent coming from falconiformes. The falcon species found at Quesna that dominated the assemblage was kestrel (F. tinnunculus), with a few examples of lanner (F. biarmicus) and peregrine (F. peregrinus) constituting the finds, together with some falcons that were not identified to species (Falco sp.). Other raptors that were represented in small number were Eurasian sparrowhawks (Accipiter nisus), black shouldered kites (Elanus caeruleus) and a few examples each of harriers (Circus sp.), black kites (Milvus migrans), buzzard (Buteo sp.), eagle (Aquila sp.), and a single specimen of an Egyptian vulture (Neophron percnopterus). The limited species range in comparison with what was found in Thebes is not due to environmental factors as almost all the bird species identified from the Theban Tombs (TT) 11 complex were also to be found in the environs of Quesna in the past (Goodman & Meininger 1989). Thus, the huge numbers of kestrels must have been a deliberate choice, suggesting that the form of Horus who was revered here, Horus Khenty-Khety, was primarily manifested as a kestrel. However, while falcons dominate the Theban assemblage, the diversity found there is curious and might suggest that a less well-defined avian manifestation of Horus was worshipped there.

Sourcing the birds The vast number of votive raptor mummies (Ikram 2015a; Altenmüller 1977) begs the question as to how the birds were sourced. The low numbers of certain species (osprey and other eagles, vultures and, to a lesser extent, hawks) suggests that these birds were opportunistic inclusions which might have been found dead in the sacred space and therefore have been mummified and buried as an act of piety (Kessler 1989; Ray 2011: 271–3; for an ibis that met a similar fate, see Spiegelberg 1928). It is possible that the birds were found dead elsewhere, and as they were raptors, and of the ‘group’ of the divine bird, that they were given as an offering to the temple (Kessler 1989) by those who wished to make a more economical offering, possibly without the purchase of the bird, just the payment for mummification. But how can one explain the vast number of falcons, particularly kestrels? The sheer number of these birds might argue for a breeding programme (Martin 1981: 27), as opposed to trapping. Deliberate breeding for sacrifice appears to have been the case for other animals, particularly dogs (von den Driesch et al. 2005; Ikram et al. 2013; Nicholson et al. 2015; Ikram & Bertini 2021). For ibises, texts exist that support the idea of maintaining and caring for flocks of birds (Ray 1976) and this was possibly also the case for certain raptors that are successful breeders in captive/tamed situations. Kestrels can breed successfully in captivity: the American kestrel (F. sparverius), for example, is commonly bred for use in laboratory experiments, and can also be easily raised and farmed when acquired from the wild and tamed. This should also be true for the common kestrel (F. tinnunculus) (Bird 1982) and perhaps other falcon species, such as lanner (F. biarmicus), several examples of which were found in the small Theban sample (Ikram & Spitzer 2022). A kestrel mummy (SACHM 2575) from the Iziko 48

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Museums of South Africa in Cape Town showed evidence of force-feeding, a possible indication of human management and possibly a breeding programme (Ikram et al. 2015). Certainly, by the end of the Ptolemaic era the Egyptians were renowned for their egg incubators, albeit for domestic fowl (Diodorus 1985: 74), as well as clever ways of incubating eggs using dung being noted from earlier times (Aristotle 1887: VI.2). Thus, during the height of the animal cults, incubation of eggs would have been a wellestablished practice in Egypt. It is, then, probable that the ancient Egyptians successfully bred kestrels for the specific purpose of producing mummified offerings.

Ancient Egyptians and raptors in relationship The ubiquity of raptors in Egyptian religion, iconography, artefacts, texts and mummified remains all emphasize their importance in the sacred and secular life of the ancient Egyptians. Raptors were very much part of the physical landscape, especially in the earliest eras of Egyptian history. During this time, the Egyptians’ observation of the birds’ physical appearance and habits led to raptors becoming crucial to the two components that were fundamental in the creation of Egyptian ideology that formed the foundation of the Egyptian state for over 3,000 years: religion and kingship. Because of the striking empyreal colouring of their plumage, eyes, legs and feet, as well as their ability to soar into the heavens and, after spying their prey, to plunge, bullet-like, toward the earth, raptors were identified with a variety of solar deities – from Re, Horus in his many manifestations, Montu and Harakhty, to Sokar, Sopdu and Nepty, as well as the divine king himself. While other raptors, primarily kites and vultures, were significant in the Egyptian pantheon, falcons were the most important as evidenced by the formative role that they played in Egyptian religious discourse, notably as related to the narrative and cult surrounding kingship, and thus the creation of royal iconography. The very essence of a falcon was physically incorporated with and embodied by the king, from head to toe: the crown surmounted by a falcon, the birds’ plumage echoed in his garments, and parts or the whole of his jewellery, thus transforming him into a living falcon, and ultimately, the Living Horus. The king’s titles further emphasized his identity as a falcon or falcon god, as did his epithets and the descriptions of his bravery on the battlefield. In the twilight of Egyptian history, during the zenith of animal cults, raptors and particularly falcons were offered to Horus who was also identified with the king. Captive birds must have been cared for, fed and reared by dedicated keepers who would have formed some sort of bond with them, and the evidence attests to the management of a quasi-wild raptor population. To the modern mind, sacrificing a living image of the god might seem heretical at worst and paradoxical at best. However, in the eyes of the ancient Egyptians, the multitude of sacrificed falcons would gain eternal life in the presence of their god, and act as eternal and potent agents for those who dedicated them. Thus, raptors served not only as images of the solar gods, but as emissaries to them while playing a significant role in the Egyptian economy by being key players in the temple cult, and played a dominant role in the ancient Egyptian construct of divine kingship. 49

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Gods, Kings and Offerings Sky: Proceedings of the International Symposium of Animals in Ancient Egypt, 179–92, Amsterdam: Sidestone. Ikram, S. and L. Bertini (with contributions by D. Hurley and S. Vann) (2021), ‘The Fauna’, in P. Nicholson (ed.), The Catacombs of Anubis at North Saqqara: An Archaeological Perspective, 135–88, British Museum Publications in Egypt and Sudan 12, Leuven: Peeters. Ikram, S., P. Nicholson, L. Bertini and D. Hurley (2013), ‘Killing man’s best friend?’, Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 28 (2): 48–66. Ikram, S., R. Slabbert, I. Cornelius, A. du Plessis, L. C. Swanepoel and H. Weber (2015), ‘Fatal force-feeding or gluttonous gagging? The death of kestrel SACHM 2575’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 63: 72–7. Ikram, S. and M. Spitzer (2022), ‘The Cult of Horus and Thoth: A Study of Egyptian Animal Cults in Theban Tombs 11, 12, and -399-’, in J. Daujat, A. Hadjikoumis, R. Berthon, J. Chahoud, V. Kassianidou and J.-D. Vigne (eds), Archaeozoology of Southwest Asia and Adjacent Areas XIII: Proceedings of the Thirteenth International Symposium, University of Cyprus, Nicosia, Cyprus, June 7–10, Bristol, CT: Lockwood Press: 245–55. Ikram, S., and N. Iskander (2002), Catalogue Général of the Egyptian Museum: Non-Human Remains. Cairo: Supreme Council of Antiquities. Ikram, S., M. Spitzer and N. Woodman (in preparation), ‘The Animal Cults of Horus KhentyKhety’. Kessler, D. (1986), ‘Tierkult’, in W. Helck and W. Westendorf (eds), Lexikon der Ägyptologie 6, 571–87, Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz. Kessler, D. (1989), Die Heiligen Tiere und Der Konig, I, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Kessler, D. (2010), ‘Ibis-V gel mit Eigennamen: Tiere des Festes und des Orakels’, in H. Knuf, C. Leitz, and D. von Recklinghausen (eds), Honi soit qui mal y pense: Studien zum pharaonischen, griechisch-r mischen und spätantiken Ägypten zu Ehren von Heinz-Josef Thissen, 261– 72, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 194, Leuven: Peeters. Kitchen, K. A. (1983), Ramesside Inscriptions, Historical and Biographical, Oxford: Blackwell. Lichtheim, M. (1973), Ancient Egyptian Literature, Volume I: The Old and Middle Kingdoms, Berkeley: University of California Press. Lichtheim, M. (1976), Ancient Egyptian Literature, Volume II: The New Kingdom, Berkeley: University of California Press. Loret, V. (1903), ‘Horus-Je-faucon’, Bulletin d’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale, 3: 1–24. Lortet, L. and C. Gaillard (1903), La faune momifiée de l’ancienne Egypte, serie 1, Lyon: Musée d’histoire naturelle. Martin, G. T. (1981), The Sacred Animal Necropolis at North Saqqara, London: Egypt Exploration Society. Mercer, S. A. B. (1942), Horus, Royal God of Egypt, London: Grafton. Nicholson, P. (2015), ‘The Sacred Animal Necropolis at North Saqqara, the Cults and Their Catacombs’, in S. Ikram (ed.), Divine Creatures: Animal Mummies from Ancient Egypt, 44–71, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Nicholson, P. T., S. Ikram and S. Mills (2015), ‘The Catacombs of Anubis at North Saqqara’, Antiquity, 89 (345): 645–61. Ray, J. D. (1976), The Archive of Hor, London: Egypt Exploration Society. Ray, J. D. (2001), ‘Animal Cults’, in D. B. Redford (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, 345–48, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ray, J. D. (2011), Texts from the Baboon and Falcon Galleries: Demotic, Hieroglyphic and Greek Inscriptions from the Sacred Animal Necropolis, North Saqqara, London: Egypt Exploration Society. Rowland, J., S. Ikram, G. J. Tassie and L. Yeomans, (2013), ‘The sacred falcon necropolis of Djedhor(?) at Quesna: recent investigations from 2006–2012’, Journal of Egyptian Archaeology, 99: 53–84. 51

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Scalf, F. (2012), ‘The Role of Birds within the Religious Landscape of Ancient Egypt’, in R. Bailleul-LeSuer (ed.), Between Heaven and Earth: Birds in Ancient Egypt, 33–40, Chicago: Oriental Institute. Shonkweiler, R. L. (2014), A Study of Horus the Behdetite from the Old Kingdom to the Conquest of Alexander, PhD diss., Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, University of Chicago. Available online: https://oi.uchicago.edu/sites/oi.uchicago.edu/files/uploads/shared/ docs/SHONKWILERDISSERTATION.pdf (accessed 20 February 2022). Sherman, E. J. (1981), ‘Djedhor the Saviour Statue Base OI 10589’, Journal of Egyptian Archaeology, 67: 82–102. Smith, H. S. (1974), A Visit to Ancient Egypt: Life at Memphis and Saqqara c. 500–30 bc, Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Spiegelberg, W. (1928), ‘Neue Urkunden zum ägyptischen Tierkultus’, Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-philologische und historische Klasse, Abteilung, 3: 14–17, Oldenbourg: De Gruyter Verlag. Vogelsang-Eastwood, G. M. (1999), Tutankhamun’s Wardrobe: Garments from the Tomb of Tutankhamun, Rotterdam: Barjesteh van Waalwijk van Doorn and Co. Wilkinson, R. H. (2003), The Complete Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Egypt, London: Thames and Hudson.

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CHAPTER 3 GHOSTHAWK WORLDINGS: RAPTOR HARUSPICY DURING THE NORTH EUROPEAN BRONZE AGE Joakim Goldhahn

To be alive is to be a living soul. An animal – and we are all animals – is an embodied soul. John Maxwell Coetzee (1999: 45)

The Beak People Most of the time, the past feels innocuous. Take the north European Bronze Age, for instance, which seem so familiar to our modern eyes and ears. Monuments and art. Travels and innovations. Warriors, chiefs and farmers. Wool and flax. Gold and status. Ritual specialists. Horses and cattle. Sex and gender. Alluring amber. And more. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, and now and then when I am asleep, I can see some of the people in front of me, primarily those I have written about in my research, alive and well, as you and me now, when you read these words. Most of them seem reasonably ordinary. Some are tall, others short. There are also thin and fat ones. Bold and meek. Happy and sad. Youngsters. Soft hands. Warriors in war canoes. Young mothers with crying babies. The grey people, sitting around waiting for the ancestors to come and get them. Jealous lovers. Children playing and fooling around. Lowered heads around a pyre. Longing and dreaming souls. In short, people like us. Yet, there are estranging moments when we do not fully recognize the past. Once again, during the Bronze Age, we encounter the ‘Beak People’, some merged into bronze, others emerging from stones (Figure 3.1). Many of these Beak People present themselves as ‘transmorphs’ (Robinson 2013), ingeniously Bird Beings blending human and non-human traits (Goldhahn 2019a), presenting themselves as more-than-bird, more-than-human. They are harder to grasp. Some would even say they are – intangible. Yet, there they are, urging us to make sense of them. But what shall we do with these Nested Beings? People with wings? Birds with human feet? The Beak People afford an exquisite challenge to the naturalism that guides our ‘worldings’, a notion that Descola (2010) uses to denote people’s life-worlds, cosmologies, and ontologies (see Goldhahn 2019a), and the academic discipline we learned to discern as archaeology (Goldhahn 2019b). Take the transmorphs dancing on the Kallsängen rock panel in Bohuslän in Sweden (Figure 3.1, top right), for example, which

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Figure 3.1 Examples of Transmorphic Beak People Beings during the Bronze Age (Courtesy of www.hallristning.se; www.shfa.se; Montelius 1917; Sprockhoff and Höckmann 1979, Cat. No. 192 and 317). Not to scale.

seem to be depicted with different beaks, maybe unfolding different Bird Beings. Or the eternal row of entopic Beings on the hanging bowl from Biesenbrow in northern Germany (Figure 3.1, centre). What do they want? The bird-whisper on the bronze buckle from Lundforlund on Zealand, Denmark? Or the celestial Bird Being from Glasbacka in Halland, Sweden (Figure 3.1, bottom left respectively right). Can we even start to comprehend these 54

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animated Beings? Or, one of my favourites, the battling Bird Beings on the Tegneby panel from Bohuslän, Sweden (Figure 3.1, top left). What honourable cause brought this duel on? They give me no rest, all these Beak People. They appear close to impossible to comprehend. Part of the problem seems to be our situated Beings, our perspectivism. Helplessly, we are trying to express the ontology of other Beings through wordings that do not seem to carry more weight than that they are bringing us back to ourselves, contesting the popular aphorism that archaeology studies past worlds to understand the future, though, in the end, we all seem to be trapped in the present – embodied in our naturalism. Yes, when thinking about it, we all appear spellbound with our own ‘costumes’ (Viveiros de Castro 2012), with our worldings (Descola 2013), because, in the words of Anaïs Nin (1961: 124): ‘We don’t see things as they are; We see them as we are’. Nin’s words resound. I find them true. Many times, our interpretations of the past say more about ‘us’ than ‘them’ (Goldhahn 2021: xv). Yet we try. Sometimes hard. We turn to theory to guide us. So did I, battling some years to deal with the new animism (Ingold 2000). I found some air under my wings by learning about Amazonian perspectivism (Viveiros de Castro 2012), by getting entangled with the relationship between humans and things (Hodder 2012), and the relentless plea for more symmetrical archaeology (Olsen 2010). I truly intra-acted with Karen Barad (2007) and her agential realist ontology, not to mention her discussion about Niels Bohr’s insight that our observations of the behaviour of the atom do not reveal anything about its nature per se, as it is, but that it is our microscopes and other instruments that intra-act and unfold our understandings (see Barad 2007). I became somewhat wiser through such efforts. Many times, though, my only comfort was Piet Hein’s cryptic ‘grook’ (aphorism) stating that ‘Art is solving problems that cannot be formulated before they have been solved. The shaping of the question is part of the answer’ (quoted in Hein 1969). Indeed, approaching and trying to rethink the transmorphic Bird Beings from north European Bronze Age in a meaningful way, verified this well-known quote. Another of Hein’s grooks, ‘Problems worthy of attack prove their worth by fighting back’ (quoted in Hein 1969), is also revealing. Indeed, the Beak People do fight back!

Meeting the birds halfway Early on in my struggle with understanding the Beak People, I came to realize the need to assemble archaeological source materials in more challenging ways (Goldhahn 2007). One strand of evidence, like rock art, is not enough if we want to start to encounter other people’s worldings, and challenge our own, a necessary practice to be able to act as a moral being. If we never mix, we never worry. Our naturalism prevails. To be able to unfold the past in new ways, to enable us to see new things and learn new things about the present-past, and other people’s worldings, we need to be more creative, trying to contest our worldings, by bringing together and nesting our thoughts through analysing various kinds of material culture. In my attempt to picture Bird Beings and Beak People in the Bronze Age, I made use of finds from settlements, burials, bronze ‘iconography’ 55

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and rock ‘art’ (Figure 3.2, above), and more, which allowed me to see similarities and contesting patterns between my own and different kinds of Bronze Age worldings (Goldhahn 2019a). I mixed and worried, but it was not enough. The Beak People were still fighting back. They had me in their talons. Down at nine. Part of my conundrum was that I found it devious to manoeuvre between my inherent naturalism and an increasing, sometimes agonizing, awareness that Bird Beings do intra-act with humans and participate in the shaping and reshaping of our shared worldings. After all, we are relational beings, alive, as all animals, embodied with living souls (sensu Coetzee 1999: 45). If we continue to protect and nourish our naturalism, and a firm boundary between human and non-human beings, we will remain despairingly trapped in the ontology of the modern Western world – anthropocentrism. And vice versa. If we obliterate or blur the boundary between ourselves and other non-human beings – anthropomorphism – we end up denying other creatures of their own unique Beings (Russell 2012: 2–3). To meet the birds halfway, with a nod to Barad (2007), I started to explore the multifarious birdlore from northern Europe in my quest to understand Bird Beings and Beak People in the Bronze Age (Figure 3.2). I found this lore being built on peoples’ sincere and thorough observations of bird behaviours (e.g. Nilsson 1858(I):169; Grundtvig 1883:9; Tillhagen 1978; Svanberg 2013: 58; Ryd 2017), paying close attention to their seasonality, shapeshifting, communication skills, colourful costumes, and more. That is, their Giss, which stands for ‘General Impression of Size and Shape’ – a term used by bird-watchers or ‘birders’ to identify bird species based on their behavioral traits and movements, and Geist, their ‘spirit’ or Being. My findings were not clear cut, though, not easy to put in a box. In this bird lore, few Bird Beings embody any firm symbolic or iconographic meaning. Their significance is more fluid and ambiguous. To paraphrase David L. Clarke (1968: 13): An eagle, is not an eagle, is not an eagle (i.e. Goldhahn 2020). For instance, many birds were used in folk medicine. You could use the same ingenious Bird Being to heal or harm. Your encounters with a Bird Being would not give you a plain insight or answer but present you with a manifold of probes and questions. Depending on its behaviour, enactment, or intra-action, the same Bird Being could bring you good or bad auguries. They could also inform you about the present-past, or what will happen in the near future to come. It could also be an Ancestral Being coming to talk to you. Or it could be just another bird, fooling around. You have to stop, sit down for a while, pause, and ask the bird what she wants. You have to meet our feathered friends halfway. Suppose she wants to tell you something. You have to intra-act, and let her intra-act. That said, in the end, it was the avian creatures themselves that changed my heart and pursuit to understand Bird Beings and the Beak People in the Bronze Age. As soon as I began to open the door to my cage. When I stopped asking and started listening, Bird Beings began to intra-act. In fact, it was the Bird Beings who came to seek and sort me out. They looked through my windows to see what I was up to. They started to talk to me. Follow me around. Danced on my window sill. Warned me about deadly snakes. Asked me to open my cage. In the end, I had to let go. I had to let them in. The goshawk, or as I prefer to address her – Grey-Foot – was one of the first Bird Being to pay me a visit. The following will reveal some of our findings and intra-actions. 56

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Figure 3.2 Above; model illustrating the need of various manifold sources in zooming in on past worldings, and, below; model illustrating how Bird Beings and their intra-action can help us unfold past worldings (author).

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Goshawk alias Grey-Foot There is something about the goshawk (Plate 3.1). It is one of the Bird Beings in northern Europe known by many names, such as Grey, The Grey-One, or Grey-Foot. Other names include Long-Tail and, more surprisingly, Pig-Man. These ‘taboo’ or noa-names are because people in traditional farming communities thought that the bird’s proper name should be avoided. If you call out its proper name, it will attract the Bird Being in question, who would come and visit you, potentially leading to a loss in livestock and domesticates (Hunters and herders in the far north of Europe had other names for GreyFoot, see Ryd 2017). As the following quote from the first ethnographic study of northern Europe reveals, Olaus Magnus’ major opus from 1555, Description of the Northern Peoples (here quoted from a Swedish translation, Magnus 2010, see also Magnus 1996–1998 for an English translation), people even saw Grey-Foot as a threat to small children: ‘They fly to the cradle and cut their talons so firmly in the children’s eyes and nose that they can hardly unleash them when they want to fly away again’ (Magnus 2010: 873, my translation). As with other fearful, yet enchanting, Bird Beings with intriguing birdlore, such as magpies, crows, ravens, owls, buzzards and eagles, the malicious goshawk were used in sympathetic magic (Tillhagen 1958, 1978). Sometimes, they were killed and displayed to scare away unwanted avian creatures and other spiteful spiritual beings. This could be achieved by nailing the carcasses of a dead bird on your house or barn. A dead bird could also be exposed close to a Being that needed a magical guardian (Tillhagen 1978; Svanberg 2013: 98, 154–6, 161; see also Falk 2008; Hagberg 2015). For example, Magnus depicts a scene in his 1555 study where a dead raptor – probably a hawk – was hung over a horse that needed magical protection from evil forces (see Goldhahn 2019a: 304). Much of the distress caused by Grey-Foot, in human terms, at least, seems to be associated with its vicious behaviour and admired hunting skills (e.g. Marcström et al. 1990; Kenward 2006). These elusive birds are brave and bold. Goshawks are highly territorial creatures, and they keep other birds as well as other goshawks away, often killing other raptors with which they compete. They are totally fearless. A goshawk does not hesitate to attack a human within its territory when breeding and in order to protect its nest. The hunting skills of goshawks, their speed and agility in the air, particularly in woodland, are unmatched by any avian creature of their size, which is why Grey-Foot is one of the most sought-after raptors for falconry (Michell 1959; Kenward 2006: 252–76; Walker 1999, also Macdonald 2006, 2014). This is discernible in the archaeological record from northern Europe, where goshawks are the most common raptor in high-status Iron Age and Early Medieval burials associated with this practice (Ericson & Tyrberg 2004: 47; see also Sten & Vretemark 1988; Vretemark 2013). Goshawks are also depicted in the art from this period, most splendidly materialized in the gold cloisonné jewellery from Sutton Hoo in Suffolk, England (Carver and Evans 2005, for its relation to falconry, see Wallis 2017). Grey-Foot is a determined and malicious predator, even known to kill and devour their own kin which, while not exclusive to Goshawks among other raptors, adds to the 58

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lore on their ferocious nature. They often hunt as a pair and using their ears as well as their renowned superior eyesight. Goshawks can, it is believed, paralyse their prey through pure fear. They usually catch their prey in the air, sometimes swooping from great heights, sometimes chasing in a characteristically fast, horizontal pursuit. It is not uncommon that they take their prey by surprise, often camouflaged by the sun’s blinding rays. It appears as if the goshawk emerges from the sun – a heavenly sight. As with cats, Goshawks are known to play with their prey. They skilfully match the movement of their prey in the air when they pursue their target. This might be a way to learn, practice, play, memorize and ‘think’ like their prey before striking them with full force. If the prey happens to escape, a goshawk does not hesitate to pursue it on the ground, running in an ungainly bipedal fashion, as a human, in order to weave through foliage. Immediately when the prey is caught, the goshawk starts to ferociously pluck and devour it, often starting the feast by ripping and tearing up the soft parts below the chest, most likely, brutally, when the victim is still alive. This practice is widely recognized and already described with some disdain by Magnus in 1555: The hawk consumes with a penchant for the blood, heart and breast of its prey and thereby becomes bold and desiring to hunt. Sometimes it is only its innate pride and lust, rather than need, which makes the hawk zealous to hunt and kill. There are also hawks that, after they have torn up the victim’s breasts with their beak, only consume the heart. Magnus 2010: 872, my translation His anthropomorphizing of Grey-Foot aside, Magnus seemed to possess deep knowledge about the behaviour of these hawks. He comments on their great speed and agility, the shape of their wings, their moulting, their preying on their own kind, and on the art of falconry. He also notes some of Grey-Foot’s odd behaviours as noted in the folklore: ‘The hawk also has the peculiarity that when it catches a bird in the evening, it holds it in its claws against the chest to warm itself, and releases it gently in the morning without chasing it again’ (Magnus 2010: 872, my translation). There is certainly something highly mysterious about Grey-Foot. Even if it is relatively easy to find traces of their leftover meal in the woods or open fields – look for the scattered feathers and carcasses – it is nearly impossible to catch sight of the bird, which is why even experienced birders use notions like ‘the ghost-bird’ about goshawks (e.g. Jameson 2013). Often, it is the absence of other birds, such as nesting crows and ravens, which indicates the presence of Grey-Foot. It is a stealth bird. A goshawk detects your presence long before you can spot it. This is especially true during the nesting, incubation, hatching and fledging periods, which usually start in April and end in mid to late July. Most goshawks are first spotted after their offspring fledge, which – as will be highlighted in the following – might have some significance for our understanding of Bronze Age bird worldings.

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The archaeology of Grey-Foot The birdlore associated with Grey-Foot is as fascinating as her appearance in the archaeological record of the north European Bronze Age (Goldhahn 2019a). Finds of goshawks are common from the Atlantic period, throughout the Mesolithic and Neolithic era, revealing that Grey-Foot was one of the most familiar raptors during the Holocene (Ericson and Tyrberg 2004: 106–7). Finds from the Bronze Age are scarce but reveal a set of intriguing find contexts. I only know of one find of goshawk bones from a settlement context – Apalle, situated just east of today’s Stockholm in the Mälar Bay area in Sweden (Ullén 2003), a settlement where at least thirty-six different Bird Beings have been documented (Ericson et al. 2003; Goldhahn 2019a: Table 3). However, no find context has been published for the goshawk or the other bird bones from Apalle (Goldhahn 2019a: 150–2), which make it hard to understand the find. There are a few possible depictions of raptors engraved in stone, but none of them can be firmly determined to bird taxa (perhaps one of the transmorphic warriors from the Tegneby panel depicts Grey-Foot?, see Figure 3.1). The same can be said about the bronze ‘iconography’ (Goldhahn 2019a: 45, 113–21). Most of these Bird Beings appear on razors and in relation to figures with cosmological connotations (see Kaul 1998, 2005). In the Solsemhula Cave from the middle part of today’s Norway, GreyFoot bones were deposited, sprinkled even, in a secluded area adjacent to some rock paintings depicting transmorphic Human-Bird Beings. Tellingly, these bones were mixed with bones from other Bird Beings, such as great auk, white-tailed sea eagle, rock dove, willow grouse, great black-backed gull, murre and little auk, as well as domesticates, fish and human bones. The latter originated from at least three individuals, belonging to three distinguished age-sets (see Goldhahn 2019a: 314–16). Only our perspectivism can advocate if the birds were transmorphing into humans in this and other similar caves with paintings, or vice versa. Grey-Foot is also present in the renowned monument Bredarör on Kivik, a large cairn (seventy-five metres in diameter) with around fifty rock art figures engraved in its central stone cist (Goldhahn 2009a, 2013: 486–8; Randsborg 1993). Some of the anthropomorphic Beings on slab 7 seem to be depicted in a bird costume, resembling swans or birds of prey – or both, exploring bird perspectivism in a transmorphic costume and state of being. However, the goshawk bone from Bredarör has not been analysed with the radiocarbon method, so its age cannot be estimated. The most informative find originates from a burial mound on Zealand in Denmark (Fig. 3.3), Hvidegård I (Herbst 1848; Goldhahn 2009b, 2019a). It was excavated under the lead of the eminent Christian Jürgensen Thomsen and consisted of a warrior-attributed burial mixing inhumation and cremation burial practices. The cremated bones from three individuals were wrapped up in a piece of cloth and placed inside a cloak, sometimes also referred to as a cape. This was a high-prestige costume (Bergerbrant 2007; Randsborg 2011), sometimes depicted as rock engravings in relation to other figures unfolding Bronze Age cosmologies (Goldhahn 2005; Goldhahn et al. 2012: 65). On the rocks, several winged Bird Beings might have used such capes as wings (see Figure 3.1, and Goldhahn 2019a: 215–34). 60

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Figure 3.3 The Hvidegård burial, the belt-purse and some of its objects. Source: Herbst 1848 (copyright expired).

Attached to a well-preserved sword and its girdle was a decorated belt-purse of leather (fourteen by five centimetres) containing a curious range of objects and ‘ritual or ‘magical’ paraphernalia comprising: a flint dagger that was used as a strike-a-light (Figure 3.3:1); a bronze knife wrapped in a leather sheath (Figure 3.3:2); a bronze razor with a sculptured handle in the form of a horse’s head (Figure 3.3:3); bronze tweezers (Figure 3.3:4); a fragmented amber bead (Figure 3.3:5); a little red stone (not included in the figure); a small piece of flint (not included in the figure); a small cone shell known only from the Mediterranean Sea (Conus ventricosus), which had been perforated so it could be worn as a talisman or amulet (Figure 3.3:6); some tinder and touchwood that could be used to create fire (not included in the figure); multiple roots of various kinds (not included in the figure); a square piece of wood (Figure 3.3:7); bark (not included in the figure); the talon of a goshawk (Figure 3.3:8); and the tail of a young snake (Coluber laevis) that showed traces of deterioration and use, perhaps after being used in healing ceremonies or rituals (Figure 3.3:9). Inside the belt-purse, there was also a small bag made out of intestines or bladder (Figure 3.3:10) in which additional objects were found: the mandible of a young squirrel (Sciurus vulgaris) (Figure 3.3:11); some small pebbles (Figure 3.3:12); and an additional piece of intestines or bladder that contained additional pebbles (not included in Figure 3.3). 61

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The items from the belt-purse have been interpreted, not without critical attention, as the ritual paraphernalia belonging to a ‘medicine man’, a ‘warrior-shaman’, a ‘sorcerer or priest’, or a ‘shaman’ since the mid-1800s (Herbst 1848; Glob 1974; Randsborg 1993:122; Kaul 1998: 16–20). I prefer the more neutral notion term of ‘ritual specialist’ (Goldhahn 2009b, 2019a). The most modest finds of the paraphernalia, I propose, reveal some of the oldest traces of haruspicy in Europe, and possibly in the world.

The Hvidegård I pebbles Few archaeologists have tried to explain why the pebbles were kept in the belt-purse (Figure 3.3:12), and for what purpose, the exception being Bror Schnittger, who interpreted them as the ritual paraphernalia of a medicine man: ‘They may have been used as ritual paraphernalia for taking omens, or used at incantations, for touching, or as fetishes, merely on account of their unusual appearance’ (Schnittger 1912: 105, my translation). He went on to suggest that the pebbles could have acted as ‘seeds of sickness [removed by the medicine man from the patient], that the medicine man brought with them as ritual paraphernalia when he performed his practice’ (Schnittger 1912: 105, my translation). What Schnittger did not know when he presented his interpretation was that the osteologist and renowned ornithologist, Herluf Winge (1904), had reassessed the content of the belt-purse. He identified the talon of the raptor as a northern goshawk. From his vast ornithological experience and knowledge (see Böving 1924), he found it plausible that the lower mandible of the squirrel originated from the entrails of a raptor, and he argued that the small pebbles should be understood as ‘gastric stones’. Within the field of ornithology and ornithoarchaeology, similar pebbles are known as ‘gizzard stones’, ‘gastroliths’ or ‘gizzard grit’ (Serjeantson 2009: 32–4). Falconers term them ‘rangle’ (Walker 1999: 112) and have historically offered them to trained hawks and falcons in order to purge the digestive system, known as ‘enseaming’ (Walker 1999: 29). Lacking teeth, most bird species ingest stones to aid their digestion. Larger birds use larger gizzard stones; some bird species carry several kilograms of stone to help their digestion. Species that feed on fibrous plant material demand more and larger stones, whilst carnivorous birds use fewer and smaller pebbles, or even cope without them. Following Dale Serjeantson (2009: 34), gizzard stones might ‘develop a polished surface from the chemical action and the physical grinding up of food’, a characteristic trait that Winge was able to identify in 1904 on both the squirrel bone as well as on the pebbles from the Hvidegård I belt-purse. I re-analysed the gizzard stones in 2008, together with Flemming Kaul at the National Museum of Denmark in Copenhagen, which confirmed Winge’s interpretation. Following Winge, the squirrel bones and the pebbles from Hvidegård I must originate from the entrails from a raptor and, in this case, one or both of the assemblages of pebbles might have originated from Grey-Foot. I have suggested that the gizzard stones were used in divination rituals by examining animal entrails – extispicy. This is a genuinely cross-cultural phenomenon documented in historical sources stretching back several 62

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millennia (Jannot 2005: 27–8, 215; Russell 2012: 127–30; Goldhahn 2019a: 53–70). The Hvidegård I burial, belongs to the earliest archaeological evidence known globally. But why was the Goshawk chosen for the haruspicy practice in the first place? To answer this question, we need to recognize the intra-action of Grey-Foot and acknowledge that she is an agential Being (Plate 3.1, Figure 3.2).

The transmorph of Grey-Foot We have already seen how human beings transmorphed into Bird Beings, the Beak People, maybe so that they could explore their perspectivism (Goldhahn 2019a). As shown in my earlier research about Bronze Age bird worldings, birds were also thought to transmorph into humans, indicated by anthropomorphic Beings engraved in stone with human feet and transmorphic iconography, and Bronze Beings (Figure 3.1). This transformative character is also evident in burials with bird bones from this era, which often shows sets of different objects that archaeologists use to engender the past, revealing a hybrid identity expressing both male and female worldings (Goldhahn 2019a: 153–91; 2020). For instance, this is evident in the Hvidegård I burial, presented above. Among the warrior-attributed objects, we find a textile bronze knife (Figure 3.3:2) in the beltpurse, mostly found in female attributed burials (cf. Bergerbrant 2007). While both female and male objects do sometimes occur in some individual Bronze Age burials, such mixing or ‘blurring’ of engendered objects is far more frequent in burials with bird bones (see Goldhahn 2019a: 153–91). This transforming character is also evident in the local birdlore that pictures GreyFoot as a transmorphic Being. Following Tillhagen (1978: 229) the birdlore of northern Europe did not make any clear or sharp distinction between different species of hawks. In contemporary Swedish, the word for hawk, ‘hök’, rhymes with the word for the common cuckoo (Cuculus canorus), ‘gök’. The similarity in the names is more than a coincidence. For example, in 1555 Magnus (2010: 932) stated that these creatures were related and of the same kin. This is manifested in the birdlore from vast areas of northern Europe, which states that hawks and cuckoos shape-shifted annually (Nilsson 1858[I]: 169; Grundtvig 1883: 9; Svanberg 2013: 58; Tillhagen 1978). These birdlores are grounded in the circumstances that these avian creatures share some fundamental Giss, if not Geist, such as their flight (especially in wooded areas), the shape of their head and wings (cuckoo wings are falcon-like in being pointed, but goshawks have slightly more rounded wing tips), and the pattern of their plumage (Plate 3.1) – traits that are reinforced by the fact that these creatures also inhabit the same ecosystems. The well-spread birdlore about the annual transmorph of the hawk to cuckoo and then back to hawk – from hök to gök to hök – seems to reflect the explicit intra-action of these avian creatures. When the cuckoo arrives around early May, during the time when goshawks incubate and are largely silent, in ‘stealth mode’, the cuckoo male sings out loudly and clearly. The hök transmorphs into gök. The call is a way to establish and mark territory so that the male cuckoo can begin charming possible spouses. The call is 63

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continuous and the territory is actively withheld as long as the female remains and lays eggs in other birds’ nests. The brood parasite goes silent when the female has laid her last egg for the season. The cuckoos then head south again. Mission accomplished! This usually occurs around mid to late July in northernmost Europe. Or, as the saying goes in today’s Sweden, the cuckoo goes silent when it spots the first haystacks (Magnus 2010: 932; Nilsson 1858[I]: 160–70; Svanberg 2013: 58–9; for a recent account on the biology and seasonal rhythm of cuckoos, see Davies 2015). During most of this time, goshawks have been in stealth mode within their established territories, occupied with taking care of their eggs and hatchlings. The timing of the departure of cuckoos coincides with the fledging of young goshawks. Hereafter, GreyFoot’s presence becomes more obvious to humans. The gök transmorphs back into hök. After the youngsters leave the nest, many goshawks, not least the young ones, leave their territories in search of prey. Some even follow migrating birds on a southbound trip, only to return to their old breeding grounds the following spring (see Nilsson 1858[I], 39–43; Marcström et al. 1990; Kenward 2006).

Discussion and concluding thoughts How might these findings relate to the traces of extispicy in the belt-purse from Hvidegård I? As I have argued here and elsewhere (Goldhahn 2009b, 2019a), this find can be understood as the paraphernalia belonging to a ritual specialist – a mantis, i.e. Greek for ‘seer’, who specialized in taking omens from birds’ gastric contents, who was probably also an expert in watching and intra-acting with other kinds of Bird Beings (cf. Tacitus 1999: 81; Goldhahn 2019c). The belt-purse was attached to a harness that included a bronze sword, indicating that this knowledgeable person was an active agent in war, warriorhood, and structured violence. The analysis of some of the bones from the belt-purse exhibited some corroded surfaces, which is also noticeable on the small pebbles (Figure 3.3:12, see Goldhahn 2019a: Plate 3.1). According to Winge (1904), this indicates that these pebbles and some of the bones had been taken from the entrails of a bird, conclusively from a goshawk, which were examined by an auspex – i.e. Latin for bird diviner. Though pebbles were found in two containers, it could be argued that the belt-purse contained traces of at least two such divinations. Similar intriguing objects from belt-purses seem to belong to an exclusive group of ritual specialists of war and warriorhood (see Goldhahn 2007, 2009b, 2013; Kaul 1998), who assembled animated objects used as ritual paraphernalia we struggle to fully comprehend. However, in the case of the Hvidegård I burial context, the traces of extispicy can be further understood through analogical thinking and reasoning linking different transmorphic Beings to each other through their intra-actions. To begin, there are some striking features in the intra-actions of goshawks that seem to make this avian creature especially attractive for an auspex in connection to war, warriorhood, and structured violence – death. As warriors, goshawks are killing machines that sometimes prey on their own kind. The camouflage of their plumage make them hard to detect, and before 64

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you know it, they attack you. They can frighten their prey into dejection, indolence and apathy, which is a well-known physical reaction among warriors in battles; others talk about feelings of excitement or even feelings of sexual arousement (cf. Figure 3.4). As with the Bronze Age Beak People, goshawks regularly transmorph into other ‘costumes’ to explore the perspectivism of other Beings – from hök to gök, which turns back into hök. The Beak People documented the same practice, most significantly expressed in the form of alluring rock engravings, but also in form of transmorphic bronze objects and its iconography (Figure 3.1, see Goldhahn 2007, 2019a). Finally, and most importantly, goshawks are one of few avian creatures that take auspices from other Bird Beings. After efficaciously capturing their prey, goshawks quickly start to pluck them, rupture their chest and stomach, to gain access to the entrails to find out what the future might unfold. The attributed warrior in Hvidegård I, had seen, listened to, and followed this practice. He was an intra-acting disciple of Grey-Foot. Considering that Grey-Foot is one of the few obvious augurs among Bird Beings, a habit that would not go unnoticed by Bronze Age people, the capture of one of these transmorphic Beings to take an augury would prove a powerful act with great significance. This intra-action would carry a very strong momentum. It would be like consulting a fisher to catch fish, a healer to heal, an assassin to kill someone, or in this case – killing an auguring Bird Being in order to take auspices. Given the unambiguous warrior attribution of the Hvidegård I burial, something that is also true for other belt-purses

Figure 3.4 An aroused transmorphic Beak Person and his paralysed prey, rock art from Kville 189 in Bohuslän, Sweden (Courtesy of the Swedish Rock Art Archive, www.shfa.se).

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with ritual paraphernalia (Goldhahn 2007, 2013, 2019a), it is highly likely that the auspices were sought in relation to raids, war, and/or structured violence. We will never be able to find out whether this was done in connection to a hiera (sacrifices conducted by ritual specialists prior to battle) or sphaiga (sacrifices conducted on the battle line) (see Goldhahn 2019a: 53–62). All we know is that the last imperative augury that the person we learnt to know as Hvidegård I took, was an inauspicious omen. We might all wonder if Grey-Foot already had revealed what was coming . . .

References Barad, K. (2007), Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning, Durham: Duke University Press. Bergerbrant, S. (2007), Bronze Age Identities: Costume, Conflict and Contact in Northern Europe 1600–1300 BC, Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 43, Stockholm: Stockholm University. Böving, A. G. (1924), ‘Herluf Winge, 1857–1923’, Journal of Mammalogy, 5 (3): 196–9. Carver, M. and A. Evans (2005), Sutton Hoo: A Seventh-Century Princely Burial Ground and its Context, London: British Museum. Clarke, D. L. (1968), Analytical Archaeology, London: Methuen. Coetzee, J. M. (1999), The Lives of Animals, Princeton: Princeton University. Davies, N. (2015), Cuckoo: Cheating by Nature, London: Bloomsbury. Descola, P. (2010), ‘Cognition, perception and worlding’, Interdisciplinary Science Reviews, 35 (3/4): 334–40. Descola, P. (2013), Beyond Nature and Culture, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ericson, P. G. P., A.-S. Kjellberg, A. Åkermark and B. Wigh (2003), ‘Osteologisk Analys av Djurbensmaterialet’, in I. Ullén (ed.), Bronsåldersboplatsen vid Apalle i Uppland, 243–316, Uppsala: Riksantikvarieämbetet, Avdelningen för Arkeologiska Undersökningar, UV Uppsala Rapport 1997: 64. Ericson, P. G. P. and T. Tyrberg (2004), The Early History of the Swedish Avifauna: A Review of the Subfossil Record and Early Written Sources, Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets, Historie och Antikvitets Akademiens Handlingar, Antikvariska Serien 45. Falk, A. B. (2008), En Grundläggande Handling: Byggnadsoffer och Dagligt liv i Medeltid, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Glob, P.V. (1974), The Mound People: Danish Bronze-Age Man Preserved, London: Cornell University Press. Goldhahn, J. (2005), ‘Kosmologiska mantlar – strödda tankar kring hällristningsforskningens primitiva arv och epistemologi jämte bronsålderns kosmologi’, In Situ, 2003: 9–42. Goldhahn, J. (2007), Dödens Hand: En Essä om Brons- och Hällsmed, Göteborg: Göteborg University, Gotarc Serie C, Arkeologiska Skrifter 65. Goldhahn; J. (2009a), ‘Bredarör on Kivik: a monumental cairn and the history of its interpretation’, Antiquity, 83 (320): 359–71. Goldhahn, J. (2009b), Om Krigens Minnen och att Minnas Krig: Hvidegårdsgraven Revisted#2, Kalmar: Kalmar University College, Kalmar Studies in Archaeology V. Goldhahn, J. (2013), Bredarör på Kivik: En Arkeologisk Odyssé, Kalmar: Kalmar University College, Kalmar Studies in Archaeology IX. Goldhahn, J. (2019a), Birds in the Bronze Age: A North European perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goldhahn, J. (2019b), ‘Unfolding present and past (rock art) worldings’, Time and Mind: The Journal of Archaeology, Consciousness and Culture, 12 (2): 63–77. 66

Ghosthawk Worldings Goldhahn, J. (2019c), ‘The Wings of Skedemosse: Traces of Bird Divinations’, in C. Ljung, A. Andreasson Sjögren, I. Berg, E. Engström, A.-M. Hållans Stenholm, K. Jonsson, A. Klevnäs, L. Qviström and T. Zachrisson (eds), Tidens Landskap – En Vänbok till Anders Andrén, 108–9, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Goldhahn, J. (2020), ‘To bring back some eagleness to eagles: on bird worldings during the Bronze Age’, Current Swedish Archaeology, 28: 47–73. Goldhahn, J. (2021), ‘Thinking Images Through’, in C. Tilley, Thinking Through Images: Narrative, Rhythm, Embodiment and Landscape in the Nordic Bronze Age, xiii–xx, Swedish Rock Art Series 7, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Goldhahn, J., R. Wikell, S.-G. Broström and K. Ihrestam (2012), ‘Bronsålderns hällbilder i Tjust’, Tjustbygden, 2011: 35–68. Grundtvig, F. L. (1883), Fuglene i Folkets Digtning og Tro, Kjøbenhavn: Karl Schønbergs Boghandel. Hagberg, L. (2015), När Döden Gästar: Svenska Folkseder och Svensk Folktro i Samband med Död och Begravning, Stockholm: Ersatz. Hein, P. (1969), Grooks, London: Hodder and Stoughton. Herbst, Ch. F. (1848), ‘Hvidegaards Fundet’, Annaler for Nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie, 1848: 336–52. Hodder, I. (2012), Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things, Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Ingold, T. (2000), The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill, London and New York: Routledge. Jameson, M. C. (2013), Looking for the Goshawk: A Quest in Search of an Elusive Bird of Prey, London: Bloomsbury. Jannot, J.-R. (2005), Religion in Ancient Etruria, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Kaul, F. (1998), Ship on Bronzes: A Study in Bronze Age Religion and Iconography, Copenhagen: Publications from the National Museum of Denmark, Studies in Archaeology and History 3: 1/2. Kaul, F. (2005), ‘Bronze Age tripartite cosmologies’, Praehistorische Zeitschrift, 80 (2): 135–48. Kenward, R. (2006), The Goshawk, London: T & A D Poyser. Macdonald, H. (2006), Falcon, London: Reaktion Books. Macdonald, H. (2014), H is for Hawk, New York: Grove Press. Magnus, O. (1555), Historia de Gentibus Septentrionalibus, Romæ. Magnus, O. (1996–98), Description of the Northern Peoples, Rome 1555 / Historia de Gentibus Septentrionalibus, Romæ 1555, London: Hakluyt Society. Magnus, O. (2010), Historia om de Nordiska Folken, Hedemora: Gidlund. Marcström, V., R. Kenward and M. Karlbom (1990), Duvhöken och dess Plats i Naturen, Norrköping: Vidar Marcström. Michell, E. B. (1959), The Art and Practice of Hawking, London: Holland Press. Nilsson, S. (1858), Skandinavisk Fauna: Foglarna I-II, Lund: C. W. K. Gleerups Förlag. Montelius, O. (1917), Minnen från Vår Forntid. 1, Stenåldern och bronsåldern, Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt och Söners Förlag. Nin, A. (1961), Seduction of the Minotaur, London: Owen. Olsen, B. (2010), In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects, Lanham: AltaMira Press. Randsborg, K. (1993), Kivik: Archaeology and Iconography, Munksgaard: Acta Archaeologica No 64 (1). Randsborg, K. (2011), Bronze Age Textiles: Men, Women and Wealth, Bristol: Bristol Classical Press. Robinson, D. W. (2013), ‘Transmorphic Beings, Corresponding Affect: Ontology and Rock Art in South-Central California’, in B. Alberti, A. M. Jones and J. Pollard (eds), ‘Archaeology After Interpretation’, 59–78, Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press. 67

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Russell, N. (2012), Social Zooarchaeology: Humans and Animals in Prehistory, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ryd, Y. (2017), Doahkke – Fågelflock: Samiska Fågelnamn och Myter, Skellefteå: Ord&visor. Schnittger, B. (1912), ‘En trolldosa från vikingatiden: Ett bidrag till kännedom om ormens betydelse inom folkmedicinen’, Fataburen, 1912: 98–109. Serjeantson, D. (2009), Birds, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sprockhoff, E. and O. Höckmann (1979), Die Gegossenen Bronzebecken der Jüngeren Nordischen Bronzezeit, Bonn: Kataloge Vorund Frühgeschichtlicher Altertümer Band 19. Verlag des Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseums in kommission bei Rudolf Habelt Mainz, Verlag G. M. B. H. Sten, S. and M. Vretemark (1988), ‘Storgravsprojektet – osteologiska analyser av yngre järnålderns benrika brandgravar’, Fornvännen, 83 (4): 245–56. Svanberg, I. (2013), Fåglar i Svensk Folklig Tradition, Stockholm: Dialogos. Tacitus, C. [c. 91] 1999, Germania, edited by J. B. Rives, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tillhagen, C.-H. (1958), Folklig Läkekonst, Stockholm: Nordiska Museet. Tillhagen, C.-H. (1978), Fåglarna i Folktron, Stockholm: LT Förlag. Ullén, I., ed. (2003), Bronsåldersboplatsen vid Apalle i Uppland, Uppsala: Riksantikvarieämbetet, Avdelningen för Arkeologiska Undersökningar, UV Uppsala Rapport 1997: 64. Viveiros de Castro, E. (2012), Cosmological Perspectivism in Amazonia and Elsewhere: Four Lectures Given in the Department of Social Anthropology, University of Cambridge, February– March 1998, Chicago: HAU Monographs, Masterclass Series 1. Vretemark, M. (2013), ‘The Vendel Period Royal Follower’s Grave at Swedish Rickeby as Starting Point for Reflections about Falconry in Northern Europe’, in O. Grimm and U. Schmölcke (eds), Hunting in Northern Europe until 1500 AD: Old Traditions and Regional Developments, Continental Sources and Continental Influences; Papers Presented at a Workshop Organized by the Centre for Baltic and Scandinavian Archaeology (ZBSA) Schleswig, June 16th and 17th, 2011, 37986, Neumünster: Wachholtz Verlag. Walker, A. (1999), The Encyclopedia of Falconry, Shrewsbury: Swan Hill Press. Wallis, R. J. (2017), ‘ “As the falcon her bells” at Sutton Hoo?: Falconry in early Anglo-Saxon England’, Archaeological Journal, 174 (2): 409–36, DOI: 10.1080/00665983.2017.1297153 Winge, H. (1904), ‘Om fugle fra Bronzealderen i Danmark’, Videns. Meddel. fra den naturb. Foren. i Kbnhvn, 1904: 313–18.

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PART II VISUALISING HUMAN RELATIONS WITH RAPTORS

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CHAPTER 4 GOLDEN EAGLES: RAPTOR IMAGERY BIOGRAPHIES IN KAZAKHSTAN DURING THE EARLY FIRST MILLENNIUM BCE Kenneth Lymer

Introduction There have been numerous finds of objects with raptor iconography in the Republic of Kazakhstan deriving from the Early Iron Age during the first half of the first millennium bce . One of the most evocative motifs is the Shilikty-type featuring a stylized bird of prey in profile with its head turned onto the body (Plate 4.1). Golden ornaments were first found during the excavation of kurgan 7 in the Shilikty valley of East Kazakhstan province conducted by Sergei Chernikov in 1949 (Chernikov 1951). He returned to the same area in 1960 and excavated kurgan 5 that contained even more golden raptors of the same template (Chernikov 1965: 33–4). These were heralded as outstanding examples of the so-called Scytho-Siberian ‘animal style’, zoomorphic decorations found in the material culture of early nomadic societies across Eurasia. More discoveries of the Shilikty-type raptor in other early nomadic burials within recent years have confirmed it is primarily found within the contemporary geopolitical boundaries of Kazakhstan. Funerary gold, however, is not the only medium in which it was executed. Corresponding renditions have also been engraved into natural stone at two rock art sites in Kazakhstan. This placement of petroglyph imagery in the landscape has led to this researcher’s re-evaluation of the nature and role of the iconography in its different contexts. Scholarship to date has treated these raptor motifs primarily as a chronological marker – the ‘animal style’ – that identifies and classifies Scytho-Siberian archaeological cultures of the Eurasian Iron Age. Their discovery at an archaeological site leads to analyses that privilege the form of the bird of prey imagery over the original social processes they were embedded in. These raptor representations, however, were not only executed in different kinds of material culture but their iconography was also deeply entangled in people’s lives from past societies.

Moving beyond the ‘animal style’ The concept of the Scytho-Siberian ‘animal style’ arose at the beginning of the twentieth century as scholars classified artefacts featuring animals and zoomorphic decorations 71

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recovered from archaeological sites across Europe and Asia. Bernhard Salin, in 1904, published his seminal Die altgermanische Thierornamentik that defined three phases of style among animal-decorated objects of the Germanic migration period. The significant survey of the archaeology around the Black Sea published in 1913 by Ellis Minns, entitled The Scythians and the Greeks, devotes a chapter to Scythic art, including a section on the ‘Scythic beast style’ (1913: 266–9), which makes reference to Salin’s work. Minns’ ‘beast style’, however, was superseded by the permutation ‘animal style’, credited to Mikhail Rostovtzeff. After the 1918 Bolshevik Revolution, Rostovtzeff took up an academic post in the USA and published an article in English where he referred to ‘the so-called animal style’ (1921: 212), followed by Iranians and Greeks in South Russia in 1922 that expanded upon the Scytho-Siberian ‘animal style’ for English readers. The immense corpus of archaeological discoveries since the early twentieth century, however, has provided evidence of profuse regional variations of early nomadic cultures across Eurasia during the first millennium bce. Classifying ‘animal style’ objects among them has become a dominant paradigm leading to the impression that it solely governs the art of all these ancient peoples whilst creating the expectation of cultural homogeny (Lymer 2013). This narrow focus on figurative representations has also over shadowed the diverse spectrum of art, design and ornamentation in the material culture of these societies, especially if it is nonfigurative. Arguably, the ‘animal style’ in scholarly discourses is a Western construction autonomous to the actual lives of the ancient peoples who made and used the art. The Minns-Rostovtzeff approach was also embedded in the traditional art historical paradigm that seeks the evolution of style by classifying objects of art in Western hierarchies of design, execution and chronology (Lymer 2005: 269). Here the art is seen merely as residual artefacts that passively reflect cultural transmissions between ancient societies. Developments in the study of visual and material culture in the field of social anthropology have argued for more nuanced approaches that examine the dynamic social contexts of decorated objects. Such artefacts are significant in people’s daily lives, particularly in the construction and negotiation of their identities (Miller 1994: 417). Specific groups in society may have a greater influence over particular objects and these establish means of organizing society, as persons raised using these materials will understand the order and participate in it (Miller 1994: 404). As such, visual and material culture plays an active role in social interactions whereby objects are embedded in complex relationships between different persons and their groupings. The idea that objects, like people, have biographies was first argued by Igor Kopytoff (1986), who acknowledged items could not be understood at just one fixed point in their existence as processes, production cycles, exchange and consumption also need to be considered. Moreover, an object can take on different roles throughout its life and accumulate histories that are connected to persons and significant events. Since the publication of Kopytoff ’s article the concept has been expanded and various approaches have been explored. Significantly, some researchers draw upon the biography of objects to move beyond the simple dichotomy between material culture and persons as the life histories of things and the life histories of individuals are relational and intimately entangled (Hoskins 1998; Joy 2009). The way objects are encountered and experienced 72

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may have a multiplicity of roles and meanings, which may be ambiguous to our Western ideals, but operate within the daily lives of people without the need of explanations (Gosden & Marshall 1999: 173–4). Thus, examining through the lens of the biography of objects we are able to focus upon the personal histories of items and individuals through time as they move, change and transform.

Shilikty-type raptors The first examples of the Shilikty-type raptor were discovered within barrows in the Shilikty valley, East Kazakhstan province (Table 4.1). Amongst the 524 golden objects found in Shilikty kurgan 5 there were zoomorphic decorations and nine raptors with turquoise beads set into their eyes and talons (Chernikov 1965: 33). Five have the head turning to the left whilst the other four face right (Figure 4.1a). Only seven golden items were found in Shilikty kurgan 7 of which three were raptors (Chernikov 1951) (Figure 4.1b). Out of the 540 golden ornaments discovered in Shilikty kurgan 16 there were five animal motifs and eight raptors (Toleubaev & Zhumataev 2016). Four birds have their heads turning right while the others face left (Figure 4.1c). Three of the left-facing decorations also have turquoise settings in the eyes, at the top of the leg and talons. The largest collection of gold to date, however, was found in Shilikty-3 kurgan 1, consisting of over 4,300 items with several zoomorphic forms and thirty-six raptors – all were cast in the same pose with the head turning left, while eyes, beaks and talons were inset with turquoise (Toleubaev 2018: 227) (Figure 4.1d, Plate 4.1). Overall, these burials are attributed to the Shilikty phase of the Iron Age in East Kazakhstan, ninth to seventh centuries bce (based on Toleubaev’s [2018] revised chronology). Raptor ornaments have also been found in a burial at the multi-period Taldy-2 cemetery on the Taldy river floodplain near the Kent mountains, Karagandy province (about 700 km northwest of Shilikty). Kurgan 2 is the largest barrow in the group (Table 4.1) from which a number of golden objects decorated with animals were recovered including thirteen raptors (Beisenov 2013). The birds face the same direction with the head turning right but lack turquoise stone settings (Fig. 4.1e). Taldy-2 kurgan 2 dates middle to late seventh century bce and belongs to the Tasmola archaeological culture in the Iron Age of central Kazakhstan. Interestingly, for equine-dependent nomadic cultures, none of these burials was accompanied by horses nor their trappings. A bronze horse bridle decoration of a raptor in profile with a pose comparable to the Shilikty-type was found in kurgan 39 at the Uigarak cemetery (Vishnevskaya 1973: table XXVII, 8) in the lower Syr Darya river delta, east of the Aral Sea, Kyzylorda province, western Kazakhstan (about 1,700 km west from Shilikty) (Figure 4.1f). Horse trappings dating seventh to sixth centuries bce , however, were placed in burials at Uigarak without any accompanying equine skeletons, during the Early Saka phase of the eastern Aral Iron Age. A similar bronze equine decoration was found in the Zuevsky cemetery on the Kama river at the southernmost point of Urmurtia, Russian Federation (about 2,300 km 73

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Figure 4.1 Examples of Shilikty-type and related raptor decorations (illustration by K. Lymer): a) Shilikty kurgan 5; b) Shilikty kurgan 7; c) Shilikty kurgan 16; d) Shilikty-3 kurgan 1; e) Taldy-2 kurgan 2; f) Uigarak kurgan 39; g) Zuevsky cemetery, Urmurtia; h) Mashenka-1 kurgan 1, Altai Krai (after Shulga 2008: fig. 35).

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Table 4.1 Burial context of Shilikty-type raptor decorations (data sources: Beisenov 2013; Chernikov 1965; Toleubaev & Zhumaraev 2016; Toleubaev 2018). Associated human remains

Number of raptor decorations

Iron Age Date period

Burial name

Outer mound size

Burial chamber

Shilikty kurgan 5

66 m diameter, 6 m high

Wooden log Female 50–60 chamber with yrs and male side passage 40–50 yrs in same burial chamber

9 found side Shilikty 8th century by side bce (Toleubaev 2018: 382)

Shilikty kurgan 7

42 m diameter, 3 m high

Wooden log Elderly male chamber with side passage

3

Shilikty kurgan 16

88 m diameter, 8.6 m high

Wooden log 2 separate chamber with burial side passage chambers: 1st had crushed human skull; 2nd had wooden sarcophagus with human remains

8 found at Shilikty 8th–7th centuries bce base of (Toleubaev sarcophagus 2018: 53)

Shilikty-3 90 m diameter, kurgan 1 (Baigetobe) 7.9 m high

Wooden log Male 35–40 yrs 36 chamber with side passage

Taldy-2 kurgan 2

Cist with menhirs and side passage

30 m diameter, 2 m high

Female 50–55 yrs and male 50–55 yrs in same burial chamber

13

Shilikty Current dating status unknown

Shilikty 9th–8th centuries bce (Toleubaev 2018: 384) Tasmola Middle–late 7th century bce (Beisenov 2013: 605)

northwest from Shilikty) (Figure 4.1g). Regretfully, the find is unprovenanced, among several objects purchased from local residents in 1898 during the time of the excavations (Chernykh 2019: 138, fig. 3). The Zuevsky necropolis dates seventh to sixth centuries bce and belongs to the Ananyino period of the Iron Age in the Volga-Kama rivers region. Additionally, there are nonfigurative horse decorations from burials belonging to the Maiemir archaeological culture, dating seventh to sixth centuries bce within neighbouring Altai Krai, Russian Federation to the east. These are proposed to have descended from the Shilikty-type (Shulga 2008: figs 60–1) but the abstract designs only hint at the Shilikty pose (Figure 4.1g). 75

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Overall, Shilikty-type decorations feature a stylized raptor in profile (Fig. 4.1a–e) that is not identifiable to a species level, but the body, beak and neck are suggestive of an eagle. The magnificent golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos) is one possibility as it is common to this part of the world (Wassink & Oreel 2007) and is traditionally used by eaglehunters among the Kazakhs and Kyrgyz. This stylized portrayal, however, was arguably not intended to be an anatomically accurate representation but instead comprises a sensual embodiment of a distinctive worldview concerning raptors among the early nomads during the first half of the first millennium bce .

Raptor object entanglements Post-burial disturbances by looting in the past and the process of recovery through archaeological excavations in the present comprise episodes in the post-biographies of the raptor objects. These events significantly influence how we are able reconstruct their original biographies during the lifetimes of those who made and used them. All kurgans listed in Table 4.1 were subject to looting; bodies were dislocated from their original resting place, countless artefacts lost to systematic study. The recovered raptor objects were often displaced, their relationship to the human remains is uncertain and they probably represent a small sample of a larger corpus of missing materials. In the case of the double burials at Shilikty kurgan 5 and Taldy-2 kurgan 2 it is not clear to whom they belonged. We can be certain, however, their biographies began with skilled smiths who shaped raw gold into eagles, decorating them with precious stones. The raptors of Shilikty kurgans 5, 7 and 16 and Taldy-2 kurgan 2 were made in the same technique by being stamped and cut from thin gold leaf, while the examples from Shilikty-3 kurgan 1 were cast. Turquoise insets were added to the eagles from Shilikty kurgans 5 and 16, and Shilikty-3 kurgan 1, that could have been sourced from geological deposits around East Kazakhstan province (see Chlachula 2020). Chernikov reported the Shilikty kurgan 5 eagles were made with high-grade gold (1965: 44), while the analysis of the Shilikty-3 kurgan 1 samples demonstrated a purity of the highest calibre close to 24 carat gold (Toleubaev 2018: 249, 258–60). The raw ore for the objects could have been sourced from gold deposits within the greater region around the Shilikty valley. Meanwhile, the analysis of golden objects from kurgan 2 and the other Tasmola burials in the Taldy-2 cemetery also indicated they were made from a superior quality, high-grade material (Beisenov 2013: 605). Its source was traced to the Bestobe gold ore locality in Akmola province, which is northwest of Taldy-2. So far the evidence for goldsmithing workshops has been absent among the early nomads of Kazakhstan and southern Siberia during the early first millennium bce (Armbruster 2009: 188; Beisenov 2013: 606). The process of gold smelting would have needed furnaces fanned with bellows along with crucibles and tongs. The sequence of casting gold jewellery requires the manufacture of moulds based on a model, pouring hot metal into the moulds and final touching up of castings (Minasyan 2018: 390). 76

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Decoration techniques required engraving tools, punches, scrapers and chisels whilst finishing could have been carried out with grinding stones, sand or ash (Armbruster 2009: 188). Such implements can be stored in a sack or chest for easy transport in nomadic lifestyles. The dynamics of craftsmanship and patronage of the Shilikty-type raptors would have involved the commissioning of metalworkers to produce a range of ornaments for rulers, nobles and other persons of higher social standing. How the precious gold came into the possession of the goldsmith can be surmised from ethnography. The timir uuha (blacksmiths) among the Sakha (Yakut) peoples of eastern Siberia, for example, acquired iron ores by extraction from pits or natural outcrops in their vicinity (Vodyasov 2018: 165). Sakha men and children would also search for raw materials along the banks of rivers and the slopes of river terraces. The timir uuha were also itinerant artisans carrying their tools and bellows with them from place to place and dwelt closely to a rich patron who commissioned their work (Jochelson 1933: 165–6). After obtaining the gold, perhaps, derived from a sacred location, the artisan proceeded to skilfully smith the metal into the Shilikty-type designs. A template was devised based on this unique depiction to enable its production. It is a common Western perception that malleable natural materials (metal, stone, minerals, etc.) merely serve as a base upon which representations are overlaid. This very act of representation, however, involves the human capacity to reshape raw materials into a desired form through action. The ancient smith not only processed gold and shaped turquoise beads, but these very acts of transformation upon raw substances brought into being golden eagles that played an active role in people’s lives and deaths. The commissioned smith may have not only been sought for their artistic skills but also their extra-ordinary abilities. Sakha timir uuha were also known to have spiritual powers comparable with the oiuun (male shaman) (Popov 1933). Blacksmithing and jewellery-making were hereditary crafts that were passed on from father to son along with instruments and trade secrets. Ninth generation timir uuha were the most powerful as they were the only ones who could forge the oiuun’s ornaments. They received their skills from the blacksmith deity K’daai Maqsin; the chosen person would have suffered illness and was obligated to sacrifice an animal for the god to make a smith out of them. The tools of these powerful Sakha metalworkers acquired protective spirits, as did the implements of darkhans (blacksmiths) among the Buryat peoples (Popov 1933: 259). The darkhans, like the timir uuha, were hereditary, and depending on the Buryat group were chosen by heavenly (tengri) blacksmiths. Among the Eastern Buryats, a Buddhist deity named Damdin Dorlig bestows gifts and protection to blacksmiths and goldsmiths (Sagalaev & Gombozhapov 2014: 98). The Buryat blacksmith, like their Sakha counterpart, could also be as powerful as the böö (male shaman), while some individuals combined the roles together as a böö-darkhan, shaman-blacksmith. Though the traditional indigenous religion of the Kazakhs had been influenced by Islam, there are some characteristics comparable to the Siberian smiths. The patron of the Kazakh ustah (metal smiths) and zergers (silver jewellery makers) was Dawud Paigambar (the Prophet David), who was the first silversmith and jeweller (Suraganov 77

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2009: 135). Metalworking tools were believed to have apotropaic properties as infertile women and insane people who spent a night close to the bellows and anvil could be healed. Guardian spirits of the ustah could also be called upon by the smith to visit the forge and cure the sick. Ethnographic records of the diversity of the smith among the Buryats, Kazakhs and Sakha, suggest the Shilikty goldsmiths had patron deities, spirit helpers and becoming-asmith rites that varied from the ones acknowledged by Tasmola metalworkers responsible for the golden eagles of Taldy-2 kurgan 2. Perhaps, the raptor-form was also a living manifestation of an eagle spirit that assisted the goldsmith in their craft whilst also being called upon to heal the sick. The garments Shilikty-type raptors adorned did not survive as the soil conditions of the burials dissolve textiles and leather. The nine raptors from Shilikty kurgan 5 were apparently found side by side and Chernikov surmises this indicates they were sewn onto a headdress (1965: 57). The Shilikty-3 kurgan 1 animal decorations had tiny clasps on the back attached by micro-soldering (Minasyan 2018: 395) indicating they were undoubtedly sewn onto clothing. Two tiny fragments of fabric, however, were recovered from the Shilikty-3 kurgan 1 that were made of woven silk dyed burgundy and dark blue (Toleubaev 2018: 431). The presence of silk hints at the possible range of luxurious fabrics worn by the single male occupant of the burial in their costume decorated with eagles. An indication of how the Shilikty-type raptors were worn comes from the burial of a fabulously decorated couple found intact in the contemporaneous kurgan of Arzhan-2, Tyva Republic, Russian Federation (Chugunov 2004; Nagler 2020). It belongs to the Aldy-Bel phase of the Tyvan Iron Age, dating to the late seventh century bce and has objects and zoomorphic decorations demonstrating links to the Shilikty cemeteries of East Kazakhstan and the Tasmola culture of the Taldy-2 burials (Beisenov 2015; Chugunov 2015). The male (40–45 years old) wore a headdress with a large golden stag and four horses, a golden torc covered with tiny animal figures and a cloak decorated with over 2,500 golden feline predators, while the female (30–35 years old) wore a cloak also covered with similar feline decorations. Perhaps, the raptor ornaments found at Shilikty-3 kurgan 1 decorated an outer garment like the Arzhan-2 feline figurines. Interestingly, amongst the Arzhan-2 couple’s costumes there was a single raptor ornament, cast in pure gold, its two ends shaped as heads of birds of prey in profile, used for the man’s waist-belt clasp (Armbruster 2009: fig. 1). Shilikty-type eagle decorations were found in large kurgan constructions (see Table 4.1) and the richness of surviving golden objects from the burials indicates they belonged to individuals of elevated social status in society. These elite individuals or high-ranking families had exclusive access to monumental mortuary structures. The golden decorations may have been manufactured specifically for the burial ceremony, in a theatrical display demonstrating to the mourners the wealth, prestige, familial and kinship relationships and external alliances of the deceased. The Shilikty-type golden raptors were important in the projection of political power and influence, while legitimizing the authority of the individual during their lifetime. These eagles, however, were not an isolated component 78

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of the deceased’s attire, but one of many elements utilized to enhance the sensual and psychological impact of the elite’s journey into the afterlife during the performance of the funerary rite. Conversely, it can also be asserted the context of zoomorphic images were directly related to the living, as the eagle and animal decorations are objects of material culture that undoubtedly played an important part in the construction of rank, gender and role within society. As we know from ethno-historical accounts of the Kazakhs, wealthy men wore magnificent silk or velvet robes, embroidered in gold and silver held by richly decorated belts, while on special occasions they donned felt or velvet hats embroidered with gold (Jochelson 1928: 84). Though the great amount of golden decorations and fragments of silk recovered from Shilikty-3 kurgan 1 indicate an ostentatious funerary costume, it may have been worn during the lifetime of the high-ranking male, perhaps, to manifest authority during private rituals or while conducting chiefly duties in public. The horse ornaments from Uigarak and Altai Krai strongly suggest they participated in everyday life as these raptor object biographies became entwined with the lives of horses. Wealthy Kazakhs in the nineteenth century possessed saddles and horse bridles that were covered with silver, gold and precious stones (Jochelson 1928: 84). The choices of using raptors in early nomadic horse equipment were most likely dependant on factors of personal preference, kinship affiliation, rank and demonstration of ownership whilst representing pride in the human–horse relationship. The absence of horse remains in the Uigarak burials, however, indicates the bridles and their decorations were important revered objects essential in accompanying the deceased into the afterlife. Their equine life histories undoubtedly played a key role in the journey of the departed soul.

A biography of raptor objects Early nomadic horse decorations also include examples of cheek pieces with the ends terminating in elongated raptor heads. A pertinent example comes from the burial of a twenty-five-year-old woman in Taksai-1 kurgan 6, West Kazakhstan province belonging to the early Sarmatian archaeological culture, late sixth to early seventh centuries bce (Lukpanova 2015, 2020). This burial comes from the late phase of the Early Iron Age whereby the long reaching influence of the Achaemenid empire in Persia can be seen in the appearance of burial goods (i.e. earrings, glass vessel and wooden comb). Five sets of metal horse bridles with raptor-headed cheek pieces were found in the burial chamber but there were no associated horse remains. Raptors decorations were also directly associated with the woman at the centre of Taksai-1 kurgan 6. The tomb was damaged by fire, probably lit during the funeral ceremony, which burnt her skeletal remains. Decorations around her charred body were in situ and relate to clothing and a headdress of which the fabrics did not survive. She wore a garment decorated with golden plaques with soldered loops on the back (Lukpanova 2015: 155) featuring four raptor heads in profile arranged in a swastika-like 79

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pattern (Figure 4.2a). Significantly, these plaques were the main component of her missing garment as forty-six of them were found around the regions of her chest, shoulders and back. Additionally, a walnut-wood storage box was placed beneath her right hand. It contained a bronze double-sided mirror with a gold-leaf handle featuring at its upper and lower ends images of stylized raptor heads with turquoise stones set into their eyes (Figure 4.2b). Though the Taksai-1 kurgan 6 eagle motifs are not Shilikty-type designs, their discovery in situ allows us to move discussions beyond the limitations of the evidence from the aforementioned burials. The raptor decorations belonged to a young woman of prestige from a local elite family. She was buried in a barrow (45 m diameter x 1 m high) of local funerary tradition like the high-ranking deceased interred in the Shilikty and Taldy-2 kurgans. Her funerary garments were decorated with golden objects, but traces of repair on some plaques and signs of wear on the jewellery probably arose from regular use in daily life (Lukpanova 2020: 268). Women’s personal decorations played an important role in traditional Kazakh society denoting the owner’s age and social status (Suraganov 2009; Egizbaeva & Zhumataev 2014). The types of items worn indicated stages in life ranging from a girl, engaged young woman, married woman, a mother with children not yet married, to a mother with married children. Girls started wearing jewellery from childhood as these were talismans protecting them from the evil eye and other harms. The special bridal set of decorations involving a headdress, known as the saukele, was labour-intensive, as it took a year to produce at great expense – one nineteenth-century account indicated it cost 500 milking mares (Suraganov 2009: 136). A Kazakh could also discern a bride’s lineal descent from her saukele. A married woman would then don various silver items from rings, bracelets and brooches to earrings and hair decorations, but gradually wore less of them as she aged (Egizbaeva & Zhumataev 2014: 239). The Taksai-1 female’s ornaments may indicate her adult and marital status as well as her social position within her community. Her riches were defined by sensual adornments of earrings of Persian origin and the shiny eagle plaques sewn onto her clothes. Both may have been received when she was a young woman or part of her marriage dowry. The golden raptors could have been commissioned from a smith known to have exceptional artistic skills and sacred powers, while the cost of production may have entailed many horses and other kinds of payment. The five sets of horse bridles with raptor forms, which accompanied her in the grave, could have also been representative of not only her affluent position but her family’s wealth and social status. Additionally, she carried a mirror with eagle motifs in a wooden case as a part of her personal affects used in everyday life. If received as a gift, this might demonstrate socio-political ties between wealthy families or kinship groups. Overall, her raptor decorations were part and parcel of her shifting identity as a young woman growing up in an early nomadic society whilst she lived out her brief life. She died at about twenty-five years of age and the dynamic biography of her eagle ornaments, which accompanied her during adulthood, came to an end as they joined her in the grave.

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Figure 4.2 Raptor decorations from Taksai-1 kurgan 6 (illustration by K. Lymer after Lukpanova 2015: fig. 3): a) example of a golden plaque featuring four-headed raptor design; b) bronze mirror with raptor images on a gold-leaf handle.

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The woman from Taksai-1 kurgan 6 held a lesser rank than the male whose extensive golden decorations in Shilikty-3 kurgan 1 probably reflect chief or khan status. Moreover, the Shilikty, Taldy-2 and Taksai-1 burials demonstrate how the repertoire of eagle decorations was differentially available to elites and genders of Early Iron Age societies across Kazakhstan. Additionally, the raptor motifs in these early nomadic cultures indicate certain individuals had a right-of-kinship allowing them to cover their bodies with particular eagle designs, while being significant to their family’s identity and ancestral heritage.

Rock art entanglements The Shilikty-type raptors were not only executed in gold as there is a handful of examples of the motif carved in natural stone found at rock art sites in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. Conspicuously, none of these petroglyph sites are near burials containing Shilikty-type raptors. The first discovery was a petroglyph (Figure 4.3a) found at the Zhaltyrak-Tash rock art complex along the cliffs of the Kamansu river in western Kyrgyzstan (Sher et al. 1987). Another Shilikty-type image (Figure 4.3b) along with a few other petroglyphs were found on a ridge of flat exposed bedrock close to the village of Novoberezovka, East Kazakhstan province (Lymer 2002: 255). The most evocative scenes, however, are found at the Eshkiolmes rock art complex in the Taldykorghan region of Almaty province, southeastern Kazakhstan (Maryashev & Rogozhinskii 1991; Lymer 2016: 78–9). Numerous petroglyphs are found in the southern part of the Eshkiolmes mountains that face towards the Koksu river. One has to clamber through ravines and ascend steep cliffs to reach the high ledge where two scenes of eagles are located. The first scene has two raptors with one that matches the Shilikty-type pose with head on body, while the other has its head extending from its shoulders (Figure 4.3c). The second scene has three eagles with two having heads on their bodies whilst the third’s head extends from its shoulders (Figure 4.3d, Plate 4.2). Moreover, this scene is located very high up in a lofty location as if it were an eagle’s eyrie with a commanding view of the Koksu floodplain below (Lymer 2005: 372). More recently, numerous stone plates decorated with scenes matching those at rock art sites were discovered within the construction of the massive barrow structure of Arzhan-2 (Chugunov 2015: 399). Amongst them is a plate designated 4/01 featuring a raptor carving somewhat similar to the Shilikty-type pose (Figure 4.3e). Plate 4/01 was found in a disturbed archaeological context but Konstantin Chugunov asserts it was used in the construction of the kurgan mound along with the other plates dating to the mid-seventh century bce . Additionally, behind another slab with a petroglyph scene of a chariot and horses, Plate 10/02, were ritually deposited two raptors: a long-legged buzzard (Buteo rufinus) and a Montagu’s harrier (Circus pygargus) (Nagler 2020: 328). The Arzhan-2 hawks may be the earliest known confirmed burial of birds of prey in the Early Iron Age of Central Asia and southern Siberia but, so far, there has been no definitive evidence for falconry during this period (Nagler 2020: 331). To date there are 82

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Figure 4.3 Shilikty-type raptor petroglyphs (illustration by K. Lymer): a) Zhaltyrak-Tash (after Sher et al. 1987: fig. 5, 5); b) Novoberezovka (tracing by K. Lymer); c) Eshkiolmes eagle scene 1 (tracing by K. Lymer); d) Eshkiolmes eagle scene 2 (tracing by K. Lymer); e) Arzhan-2 plate 4/01 (after Chugunov 2015: table 13, 1). no raptor burials during the early first millennium bce in Kazakhstan and evidence does not appear until much later. The most impressive discovery has been the in situ eagle (Aquila sp.) skeleton placed on its belly with head turned right and wings spread out in Araltobe kurgan 2, Atyrau province, western Kazakhstan (Samashev 2018: 163). The kurgan belonged to a richly ornamented male of the late Sarmatian period, second century bce . There is insufficient evidence, however, to assert the deceased was a falconer. The Shilikty-type petroglyphs and Arzhan-2 burial of hawks testify to the importance of raptors in the religious practices of early nomadic societies during the early first millennium bce . Ethnography demonstrates the eagle is an important shamanic spirit assistant of the Altaian kam and Kazakh baksy (Basilov 1994: 278–9). The first böö was an eagle who bestowed shamanic powers among the Buryats, while ritual costumes were laden with raptor symbols (Badmaev 2020: 109–10). The böö among the Cis-Baikal 83

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Buryats wore a headdress made from the skin and wings of an eagle whereas the Agin Buryat böö wore a metal chest mirror featuring an eagle depiction symbolizing Khan Burged Tengri, ‘the Celestial Eagle Ruler’. Upper Lena Buryat families held annual rites carried out by a böö with offerings and sacrifices made to celestial eagle beings as individuals prayed for protection and the continuation of their status as family patrons (Badmaev 2020: 110). The Arzhan-2 plate 4/01 with an eagle, perhaps resonates with the ongon of the Buryats, which is not only a representation of a spirit but its corporeal manifestation (Humphrey 1971: 271). Perhaps, a communication was received from the raptor spirit visiting a person in their dreams that compelled them to carve the image into stone. Meanwhile, the articulation and placement of the Eshkiolmes petroglyphs in an eyrielike location suggests it was an appropriate site to encounter eagles, spirits and other agencies. These rock art images may have been carved as part of an ancient society’s activities – practices that assisted in negotiating relationships with raptors and other non-humans. The artist knew how to expertly execute the Shilikty-type figure in two variations and may have been an artisan goldsmith or shaman-smith. The eagle spirit could have been called upon to assist in interventions in the world for concerns such as the wellbeing of eagles, smithing, family protection or healing the sick. The individuals who made these petroglyphs, perhaps, used the rock art as a shamanistic resource to connect with other-than-human agencies whilst also negotiating their socio-political roles within their community. Thus, the rock carvings of the Shilikty-type raptor constitutes a powerful medium through which people and spirits interacted within the landscape.

Towards biographies of raptor imagery The Western concept of the so-called ‘animal style’ had created a monolithic narrative about the occurrence of raptor and zoomorphic iconography among the early nomadic communities of Kazakhstan. As seen above, when examined at a more localized spatialtemporal context there is a diversity and idiosyncrasy to the choice and raison d’être of materials and objects with bird of prey representations. They had diverse roles and meanings all highly dependent upon their social, cultural, political and religious milieu. People’s lives are constituted by relationships with the world around them and the raptor motifs were actively involved in numerous situations intimately connected to personal and group experiences. Shilikty-type raptors had complex life histories, the decorated objects intimately linked to a person’s or horse’s body, while the petroglyphs were closely connected to the encultured landscape. In particular, the golden raptor objects had distinct beginnings, manufactured in a smithy, and ends, laid to rest with the deceased. After their creation by a skilled artisan they came under the ownership of a person or their horse through gifting, inheritance, trade and even theft. These material things were entangled in the day-to-day realities of a person’s life and were a medium through which individuals 84

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expressed aspects of their identity. The raptor-decorated objects also took on different roles throughout their lives and accumulated histories that were connected to significant events. The archaeological record is currently skewed towards metallic ornaments but there is the possibility eagle motifs could have been woven in fabrics, carved in wood and even tattooed human bodies. The bird of prey representations also became enmeshed in family ties and political alliances that endured even in death. Overall, the eagle images were the sensual expressions and understandings of artists and individuals in communities embedded in place, time and culture. The rock art was encountered differently from body decorations due to their placement in the landscape. Raptor petroglyphs found in the nooks and crannies of mountainsides may have embodied encounters with eagles, other-than-human-beings and intangible powers. Moreover, these carvings in natural stone were deeply entangled in the sensuality of place and space in the landscape. Rock art biographies also operate at different temporal scales to objects as the petroglyph scenes of Shilikty-type eagles have lives that stretch way beyond human ones. After the initial performance in the act of creation, the scene was undoubtedly revisited not only by its makers but reengaged over the generations by numerous other societies and cultures. In conclusion, the raptor motifs were not merely passive objects of art but a material reality that influenced social life. Examining them through a biographical approach importantly assists in uncovering the complex interactions of things in time and space and their affects on people. Shilikty-type raptors have a distinct sensibility and sensuality that are part of ways individuals and communities engage and relate with the world around them. These entangled objects were embedded in the web of relationships that make up society, and the closer scrutiny of their contexts enables us to further our understandings about how they were intimately connected to the lives and deaths of Iron Age peoples in Kazakhstan.

References Armbruster, B. (2009), ‘Gold technology of the ancient Scythians – gold from the kurgan Arzhan 2, Tuva’, ArchéoSciences, revue d’archéométrie, 33: 187–93. Badmaev, A. A. (2020), ‘Traditional Buryat beliefs about birds’, Archaeology, Ethnology and Anthropology of Eurasia, 48 (2): 106–13. Basilov, V. N. (1994), ‘Texts of shamanistic invocations from Central Asia and Kazakhstan’, in G. Seaman and J. S. Day (eds), Ancient traditions – Shamanism in Central Asia and the Americas, Denver, Colorado: University Press of Colorado, 273–92. Beisenov, A. Z. (2013), ‘Die Necropole Taldy 2 in Bezeihung zu den Kulturen der früsakischen Zeit Osteuriens’, in T. Stöllner and Z. Samashev (eds), Unbekanntes Kasachstan. Archaolоgie im Herzen Asiens, Band II: Katalog zur Ausstellung des Deutschen Bergbau-Museums Bochum, Bochum, 595–608. Beisenov, A. Z. (2015), ‘Central Kazakhstan in the System of Early Iron Age Cultures of the Steppe Eurasia’, Exchange between the East and the West and Altai, Proceedings of the International Conference, Gachon University, Seongnam, Korea, 189–99. Chlachula, J. (2020), ‘Gemstones of eastern Kazakhstan’, Geologos, 26 (2): 139–62.

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The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Chernikov, S. S. (1951), ‘Восточноказахстанская экспедиция’, Краткие Сообщения Института Истории Материальной Культуры, XXXVII : 144–50. Chernikov, S. S. (1965), Загадка золотого кургана: Где и когда зародилось «скифское искусство»?, Москва: Наука. Chernykh, E. M. (2019), ‘Предметы конского снаряжения из Зуевского могильника ананьинской культуры шнуровой керамики в Удмуртии’, Поволжская Археология, 1 (27): 136–49. Chugunov, K. V. (2004), ‘Аржан – источник’, in Аржан. Источник в долине царей. Археологические открытия в Туве, Санкт Петербург: «Славия», 10–37. Chugunov, K. V. (2015), ‘Искусство раннесакского времени Тывы и Казахстана: опыт сравнительного анализа и хронология’, in A. Z. Beisenov (ed.), Сакская культура Сарыарки в контексте изучения этносоциокультурных процессов Cтепной Евразии. Сборник научных статей, посвященный памяти археолога К. А. Акишева, Алматы: НИЦИА «Бегазы-Тасмола», 389–404. Egizbaeva, M. and R. Zhumataev (2014), ‘Decorative and applied art of the Kazakhs Tarbagatai’, Procedia – Social and Behavioral Sciences, 122: 236–9. Gosden, C. and Y. Marshall (1999), ‘The cultural biography of objects’, World Archaeology, 31 (2): 169–78. Hoskins, J. (1998), Biographical Objects: How Things Tell the Story of People’s Lives, London: Routledge. Humphrey, C. (1971), ‘Some ideas of Saussure applied to Buryat magical drawings’, in E. Ardener (ed.), Social Anthropology and language, 271–90, London: Tavistock. Jochelson, W. (1928), Peoples of Asiatic Russia, New York: American Museum of Natural History. Jochelson, W. (1933), The Yakut, New York: American Museum of Natural History. Joy, J. (2009), ‘Reinvigorating object biography: reproducing the drama of object lives’, World Archaeology, 41 (4): 540–56. Kopytoff, I. (1986), ‘The cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process’, in A. Appadurai (ed.), The Social Life of Things: Commodities in cultural perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 64–91. Lukpanova, Ya. A. (2015), ‘Знаковая функция предметов с зооморфными изображениями из кургана No.6 комплекса Таксай-I (Степное Приуралье)’, in A. Z. Beisenov (ed.), Сакская культура Сарыарки в контексте изучения этносоциокультурных процессов Cтепной Евразии. Сборник научных статей, посвященный памяти археолога К. А. Акишева, Алматы: НИЦИА «Бегазы-Тасмола», 154–9. Lukpanova, Ya. A. (2020), ‘A Priestly Burial from the Taksai-1 Cemetery’, in S. V. Pankova and S. Simpson (eds), Masters of the Steppe: The impact of the Scythians and Later Nomad Societies of Eurasia, Proceedings of a Conference Held at the British Museum, 27–29 October 2017, Oxford: Archaeopress, 268–80. Lymer, K. (2002), ‘Animals, art and society: rock art and material culture in ancient Central Asia’, PhD diss., Department of Archaeology, University of Southampton. Lymer, K. (2005), ‘Rock Art and Animal Art During the Early Saka Period in Kazakhstan’, in E. Devlet (ed.), Мир наскального искусство – Сборник докалдов международной конференции, 3–6 Октябрь, 2005, 369–76, Москва: Институт археологии Российской ададемии наук. Lymer, K. (2013), ‘Animals and Decorative Arts: Zoomorphic Imagery and Biographical Objects and among the Pazyryk of the Altai’, in M. Gervers and G. Long (eds), Material Culture, Language and Religion of Central and Inner Asia, 55–69, Toronto Studies in Central and Inner Asia 10, Toronto: Asian Institute, University of Toronto. Lymer, K. (2016), ‘Rock Art and Landscape: The Sensual Terrain of Petroglyph Imagery within the Eshkiol’mes Mountains of Kazakhstan’, in A. Morrison and S. Saxena (eds), Proceeding of

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Golden Eagles the XIIth Conference of the European Society for Central Asian Studies, ‘Central Asia: A Maturing Field’, 73–94, Cambridge: Cambridge Scientific Publishers. Maryashev, A. N. and A. Rogozhinskii (1991), Наскальные изображения в горах Eшкиольмес, Алма-Ата: Гылым. Miller, D. (1994), ‘Artefacts and the Meaning of Things’, in T. Ingold (ed.), Companion Encyclopedia of Anthropology, 396–419, London: Routledge. Minasyan, R. S. (2018), ‘Технология и некоторые вопросы техники изготовления золотых украшений из кургана Байгетобе некрополя Шиликты’, in A. Toleubaev, Раннесакская шиликтинская культура, 390–403, Алматы: ИП «Садвакасов А. К.». Minns, E. H. (1913), Scythians and Greeks: A Survey of Ancient History and Archaeology on the North Coast of the Euxine from the Danube to the Caucasus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nagler, A. (2020), ‘The Burial of Birds of Prey in Kurgan Arzhan 2 (Tuva, Southern Siberia, Russian Federation, 7th century bc) and its Meaning’, in O. Grimm (ed.), Raptor on the Fist: Falconry, its imagery and similar motifs throughout the millennia on a global scale, Volume 1, 327–36, Kiel/Hamburg: Wachholtz Verlag. Popov, A. (1933), ‘Consecration ritual for a blacksmith novice among the Yakuts’, Journal of American Folklore, 46 (181): 257–71. Rostovtzeff, M. I. (1921), ‘South Russia in the prehistoric and Classical period’, American Historical Review, XXVI : 203–24. Rostovtzeff, M. I. (1922), Iranians and Greeks in South Russia, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sagalaev, K. A. and A. G. Gombozhapov (2014), ‘A Buryat blacksmith and a shaman’, Science at Hand, 39: 94–105. Salin, B. (1904), Die altgermanische Thierornamentik: typologische Studie über germanische Metallgegenstände aus dem IV. bis IX. Jahrhundert, nebst einer Studie über irische Ornamentik, Stockholm: Beckmans büchdruckerei. Samashev, Z. (2018), ‘Аралтобе’, in Золото властелинов Казахских степей, 156–69, Daejeon: National Research Institute for Cultural Heritage of the Republic of Korea. Sher, Ya., E. Miklashevich, Z. Samashev and O. Sovetova (1987), ‘Петроглифы Жалтырак-Таша’, in Проблемы археологических культур степей Евразии, 70–8, Кемерово: КемГУ. Shulga, P. I. (2008), Снаряжение верховой лошади и воинские пояса на Алтае. Раннескифское время, Барнаул: Абука. Suraganov, S. K. (2009), ‘Silver of Kazakh zergers: traditions in modern jewelry art’, Archaeology Ethnology and Anthropology of Eurasia, 37 (3): 135–44. Toleubaev, A. (2018), Раннесакская шиликтинская культура, Алматы: ИП «Садвакасов А. К.». Toleubaev, A. and R. Zhumaraev (2016), ‘Выдающиеся памятники Шиликтинской долины и северных предгорий Тарбагатая’, in Алтай – «золотая колыбель», 252–71, Тюркского мира, Усть-Каменогорск. Vishnevskaya, O. A. (1973), Культура сакских племeн низовьев Сырдарьи в VII–V вв. до н.э. По материалам Уйгарака, Москва: Наука. Vodyasov, E. (2018), ‘Ethnoarchaeological research on indigenous iron smelting in Siberia’, Siberian Historical Research, 2: 164–80. Wassink, A. and Oreel, G. J. (2007), The Birds of Kazakhstan, De Cocksdorp, Netherlands: Arend Wassink.

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CHAPTER 5 VISUAL HYBRIDITY, POLITICAL POWER AND CULTURAL CONTEST: KITAN LIAO 9161125 CE AND JURCHEN JIN 11151234 CE TEXTILES WITH FALCONRYRELATED IMAGERY Leslie V. Wallace

Introduction At their height, the Kitan Liao dynasty (916 ce –1125 ce ) ruled portions of modern China, Korea, Mongolia and Russia (Figure 5.1a), and practiced highly choreographed seasonal hunts that were grand enactments of social, cultural and political power. The spring hunt, chunshui ᱕≤, (spring water) involved the use of hawks and falcons to hunt swan and geese. After their conquest of the Liao and parts of China, Russia and Korea, the Jurchen Jin dynasty (1115 ce –1234 ce ) adopted Liao seasonal hunting practices (Figure 5.1b). Both the Liao and Jin also developed a hybrid system of court dress, which like falconry, was part of the pomp and circumstance of the court. This study will analyse the intersections of personal dress and the practice of falconry among Liao and Jin elites by examining textiles with chunshui and falconry-related imagery. This imagery includes: 1) the fully mature chunshui motif (predator, prey and water plants), 2) paired raptors or geese, 3) scenes of predation and 4) falconers. Drawing on Tang dynasty (608 ce –917 ce ) precedents and Steppe and Central Asian traditions, Liao and Jin designs were part of a visual vocabulary of power, which in combination with the practice of the chunshui, defined, expressed and embodied social hierarchies and political power.

Kitan and Jin textiles, dress and personal adornment Out of practicality and precedence, in this study I will discuss Liao and Jin textiles (Kuhn & Zhao 2012) as a group. While these textiles do share production techniques, motifs and weave structures, this approach is fraught with simplification and is based on a longstanding historiographical tradition that lumps together these two foreign ‘conquest dynasties’ (see Standen 2007: 6–9 for a critique of the Liao as a ‘conquest dynasty’). In the history of China, ‘conquest dynasty zhengfu wangchao ᖱᴽ⦻ᵍ’ is a term applied to non-Han ethnic groups who ruled over all or part of China. Although the Kitan Liao and the Jurchen Jin shared some cultural traits, they were fundamentally different in others. For example, the Kitan were originally a nomadic group who tended herds, while the

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a

b

Figure 5.1a Map of the Liao Empire by Thomas Lessman. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0. Unported license.

Figure 5.1b Jin Dynasty 1141 by Ian Kiu. Creative Commons Attribution 3.0. Unported license.

Jurchens lived, hunted and fished in the forests of Manchuria (Hansen 2019: 213, 219). Discussing Liao and Jin textiles together is necessitated by the lack of securely dated examples, especially for the Jin, and disagreement among specialists regarding the dating of unprovenanced examples (Shea 2016: 38–9, fn. 78 and 80; 56; Shea 2020: 22–4).1 With a few exceptions, textiles with chunshui and falconry-related imagery were originally part of robes, sashes, hats and small bags/purses. In what follows, I approach Liao and Jin textiles and the larger garments of which they were a part, as a form of nonverbal communication and embodied practice through which social distinctions and other facets of group and individual identity are created and enacted. As in other cultures, the colour, fabric, pattern and fit of clothing, and the way and context in which it was worn, conveyed information about the identify of individuals and their place within larger groups. As components of a hierarchical system of dress, these textiles were a medium through which the individual moved about and negotiated the world around them. Working in tandem with other articles of dress and personal adornment, Liao and Jin textiles helped to construct a social body through both the richness of their material and the imagery weaved or embroidered onto them (Anderson 2005; DiPaolo Loren 2010; Entwistle 2000; Lee 2015; Orr and Loper 2014). Although part of a tradition of pseudo-ethnographic paintings by artists at the court of the Liao’s rivals (Tao 1983; Leung 2003), the Song (960 ce –1279 ce ), a painting by Chen Juzhong 䲣ትѝ (fl. 1195 ce –1224 ce ), now in the National Palace Museum in Taipei, Taiwan, provides a sense of elite Kitan dress and how it differed from that of its rivals (Plate 5.1).2 This painting depicts an episode in the story of Lady Wenji ᮷လ (died c. 249 ce ), who was abducted by nomads and married the leader of the Xiongnu सྤ confederation, the political rivals of the Han dynasty (206 bce –220 ce ). She was eventually returned to her family after a large ransom was paid for her release. The figures seated on the rug are 89

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the Xiongnu leader and Lady Wenji, while the other seated figure in red and the figures with red embroidered caps and decorated robes are part of the Han delegation sent to take Wenji home. While these envoys wear contemporary Song dress, all of the other figures who are Xiongnu are depicted wearing Kitan dress. Kitan dress consisted of layers of long robes with round collars that buttoned on the left or right side, worn over trousers and tall boots. Textile sashes and multimedia belts were used to collect robes at the waist. The quality of the textiles, as well as the imagery on them, expressed status and rank, which was further accentuated by headdresses, necklaces, earrings, bracelets and finger rings made from precious materials. Only the emperor and high ministers wore hats, but like the figures in this painting, males sometimes covered their head with scarves. These scarves obscure the distinctive Kitan practice of shaving the crown of the head to leave the hair at the temple and forehead that could be braided or worn in long tresses (kunfa 儑儞). The women in the painting have their hair drawn into a bun, with a ribbon around the forehead, and other adornments. Kitan women also wore their hair long and flowing with a band around the forehead, or covered by a small hat. Textiles and the clothed and adorned body played an important role in both life and death, and Kitan elites were clothed and/or buried in luxury silks, including damask, gauze, samite and embroidery (Bunker 1999a; So 2004b; Zhao 2004a, 2004b). Many Kitan luxury textiles are ‘Liao-style’ samite, which is a compound twill with a half outer wrap, that is, the binding warp is used to bind all the wefts and to separate the pattern weft and the rest into two layers. Earlier Tang samite, by contrast, uses the main warp to separate the wefts, one of which is the face of the pattern, the other of which are on the back of the textile (Kuhn & Zhao 2012: 268). Although Jurchen Jin visual, textual and archaeological evidence is less extensive, the History of the Jin (Jin shi 䠁ਢ; complied by Toqto’a, 1344–45) and textiles from the burial of the King of the State of Qi 喀 at Juyuan ᐘⓀ, Acheng, Heilongjiang (1161 ce ) provide the basic parameters of elite male dress. These include: 1) a black-gauze hat with a decorative border and seams with two projections at its sides, 2) a calf-length flatcollared robe (panling yi ⴔ么㺓), 3) a long belt and 4) leather boots. In the case of the burial of the King of Qi, individual components were a mixture of Kitan and Song dress: the king’s black-gauze hat was based on Song court precedents, but his collared robe, that was shorter so the wearer could sit astride a horse, and its long red gauze belt, have affinities with Liao dress. Like the Kitan, the Jurchen also wore elaborate multimedia belts with pendants, and a variety of headdresses, necklaces, earrings, bracelets and finger rings made from precious materials (Shea 2016: 66–8; Zhu 1990).

Category 1: Fully-developed chunshui imagery The most distinctive falconry-related imagery on Liao and Jin textiles features a repeated pattern of teardrop-shaped medallions dominated by a large goose or swan, with a much smaller raptor whose tail feathers form the tip of the teardrop, swooping down toward its prey (Plate 5.2). Evenly spaced on green silk, the background and the rest of the teardropshape is created by a stylized floral/ vegetal pattern composed of gold-wrapped leather 90

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strips (for other example of fragments of textiles with this pattern see Zhao & Lee 1999: Cat 5:09). In the Song painting of the story of Lady Wenji, the Xiongnu leader wears a robe decorated with a similar repeated dragon-themed teardrop pattern (Plate 5.1). These medallions are a visual correlate of the chunshui, one of two large-scale seasonal hunts practiced by the Liao, and later adopted by the Jin. In the spring, the court camped near the Yazi 単ᆀ River (Sunggari/Songhua River ᶮ㣡⊏) and hunted swans and geese with haidongqing ⎧ᶡ䶂, a highly-prized type of raptor, which may have been a gyrfalcon or peregrine falcon (Bunker 1999b: 14).3 The ritual hunt is extensively described in the History of the Liao (Liao shi 䚬ਢ complied by Toqto’a, 1344–45): Before the swans came, tents were erected on the ice in order to catch fish by cutting the ice. When the ice melted, they released raptors to catch swans and wild geese. Going out in the morning and returning in the evening, they devoted themselves to hunting . . . Whenever the Emperor arrived, all the imperial attendants donned green clothes. Each had ready a bolas, a food bowl, and an awl for piercing swans. They placed themselves around the lake, five to seven paces from one another. The emperor, wearing a cap/headcloth and clothes according to the season and a belt ornamented with jade tied around his waist, stood with his back to the wind and watched them from a distance. Places with swan were signaled by the raise of banners; messengers on horses, rushed with reports. At the beating of drums around the pond, the swans were frightened, and flew up. The surrounding horsemen to the left and right all raised banners and waved them. The Attendants of the Five Quarters knelt and handed haidongqings to the emperor and released them. As the raptors caught the swans and they fell down exhausted; the closest attendants seized the awls and removed the brains of the swans to feed to the raptors. Those who revived the raptors, were generally granted silver and lustring/silk inlaid with silver (silver-brocaded textiles?). When the emperor obtains the first swan, he offers it as a sacrifice at the ancestral temple. Each official will present liquor and fruits, and music will be played. They toast each other, send greetings, and enjoy sticking swan-feathers on their heads. [The Emperor] grants the attendants liquor, and distributes the feathers among them. Toqto’a 1344–45a: 32, 1b-1a; translation adapted from Wittfogel and Feng: 1970: 132 and Cheng 2018: 253–4 Chunshui imagery in its most mature form references the two faunal protagonists of the hunt (predator and prey) and its lake setting (lotus or floral elements). Robes with this pattern, which were drawn at the waist by a belt with similar imagery, are mentioned as ordinary court dress (chang fu ᑨᴽ) in the History of the Jin (Toqto’a 1344–45b: 043-19b; for an example of such a plaque see Metropolitan Museum of Art 1991.483). Although the direct connection of these textile patterns to the chunshui is clear, when the complete trio of imagery (predator, prey and floral/vegetal background) appeared is a matter of debate; one which will not be completely solved until securely dated examples are found.4 From surviving textile fragments, and the History of the Liao and History of the Jin, a composite image of dress and personal adornment worn and/or directly connected to the 91

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chunshui emerges. During the chunshui, members of the court would have lined up with the emperor, perhaps wearing the hunting dress (tianlie fu ⭠⦥ᴽ) described as worn by both Han and Liao high-ranking officials in the History of the Liao: a turban, dark green robe, armour and with a marten, goose neck or duck head around the waist (Shea 2016: 45). In front of them, the hunt would ensue, with the falconers in plain clothes probably similar to those worn by the hunters depicted in a Liao tomb mural from Lamagou ஷో⋏, Kelidai xiang ‫࣋ݻ‬ԓґ, Aohan Banner ᮆ≹ᰇ, Inner Mongolia. In this mural, members of the hunting party wear plain blue, red and cream-coloured garments gathered at the waist by unadorned belts; one also has a plain pouch hanging from his waist (Zhongguo lishi bowuguan and Tangki 2002: 113). Differences in dress and adornment would have highlighted the power dynamics between the active falconers and the inactive, adorned emperor and his court. Although the History of the Jin does not provide a description of Jin hunting dress, it does mention that the chunshui motif was part of ordinary court dress, suggesting it was also used to reference this dynamic outside of the hunt itself. This suggests the symbolic importance and the communicative power of falconry-related imagery on Liao and Jin dress, as well as potential associated meanings of patterns which did not include the mature chunshui motif (predator, prey and floral motifs). The feathers collected during the hunt may also have been used to make clothing, other articles of adornment, fans or wall hangings which would have also referenced political and social hierarchies in settings not directly connected to the spring hunt (for pre-Liao feather work in China see Milburn 2020).

Category 2a: Paired raptors Although Liao and Jin brocaded textiles with teardrop patterns can be directly connected to the chunshui, pairs of birds, including raptors and geese, are far more common than falconry-specific imagery. Most of these patterns have their antecedents in Tang dynasty textiles, when the general motif of confronted animals in evenly spaced roundels with floral motifs in their interstices became ubiquitous. A good example of such a pattern is found on a fragment of the upper part of a Liao skirt in the China National Silk Museum that depicts four raptors in a circle enclosed by a pearl roundel, with a central floral motif at the roundels’ interstices (Zhao & Lee 1999: 187) (Figure 5.2a). Another example in the Association pour l’Etude et la Documentation des Textiles d’Asie (AEDTA) collection in the Musée Guimet, demonstrates a loosening of and experimenting with more formal patterns of these roundels, with rows of roundels created by the outstretched wings of the raptors that touch at their tips. Between each row and extending between the roundels is a quadrifoliate pattern, the leaves of the flowers spreading between each of the raptor roundels (Figure 5.2b). This type of composition also first appears in the late Tang as seen on the pattern on a fragment of a textile (c. 847), whose roundels are made of two parrots chasing their own tales (Zhao & Lee 1999: 04.10). A variation on the theme of paired raptors appears on a damask fragment, decorated with deer and raptors in interlocking circles (Zhao 2004a: fig. 80) (Figure 5.2c). Raptors fly tail to tail in the centre of each roundel while deer appear in the roundel’s four 92

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quadrants, which are formed by the intertwining circles. Quatrefoil decoration appears again in these interstices. This pattern is of particular interest, as it could be understood to be a combination of elements of the chunshui and its autumn equivalent, the qiushan ⿻ኡ, which was centred around hunting tigers and deer in the mountains. The History of the Jin records that the qiushan motif was composed of bears and deer in the mountains, and describes it as the other motif ornamenting ordinary court dress (Toqto’a 1344–45a: 32, 2b-3a, trans. Wittfogel and 1970: 13; Toqto’a 1344–45b: 04-19b). Although no Liao or Jin textiles survive ornamented with patterns matching this exact description (bear, deer and mountain), a blue silk robe in the Chris Hall Collection in Hong Kong has a repeat pattern that depicts two deer in a forest with two geese flying above (Shea 2016: fig. 140). The pattern on this robe again suggests a potential conflation of the chunshui and qiushan motif into a single pattern on Liao and Jin textiles.

Category 2b: Paired geese On Liao and Jin textiles geese are depicted in a similar fashion – in pairs (usually confronted) with or without flowers or ribbons in their beaks, but typically not in roundels. Well-preserved examples of designs that depict flowers or ribbons in their beaks can be seen in the fabric of a yellow robe excavated from a Liao tomb of an unidentified couple in Daiqintala ԓⅭຄ᣹, Keyouzhongqi 、ਣѝᰇ (Horqin Right Middle Banner), Xing’an meng 㠸ᆹⴏ (Xing’an League), Inner Mongolia (Kuhn & Zhao 2012: figs. 6.7a and 6.7b), and a pair of silk boots in the Cleveland Museum of Art (Plate 5.3) (for images of other textiles from the Daiqintala tomb see Zhao 2002: 111– 31). In the Daiqintala tomb, a husband and wife were buried lying on a wooden bed dressed in layers of clothing. Six bundles of luxury textiles were also placed on the ground in front of their bed. Worn by the unknown female buried in the tomb, the robe with geese has narrow sleeves, a wide skirt and straight collars that overlap from right to left. Worn under other robes, in life the robe would have been visible as the wearer moved or was seated (see the females in the painting in Plate 5.1). The robe is decorated with a large-scale pattern of paired geese standing on a flower pedestal. The geese face one another and hold ribbons in their beaks, which intertwine in the centre of the composition. Four pairs appear on the front and the back of the robe (Gremli 2007: 25–6; Zhao 2002: 115). Another large-scale pattern of confronted geese is found on a fragment of purplishblue damask in the tomb of Yelü Yuzhi (d. 941) (Kuhn & Zhao 2012: fig. 6.14; for an overview of this tomb and its contents see Gremli 2007: 19–23). A similar composition decorates the shaft of a boot made from a refurbished textile with a pattern of two geese on a cloud background. Instead of ribbons in their beaks, these two geese grasp the tendrils of a flowering plant that emerges from a vase in the centre of the composition. The bottom portion of the boot is from a fragment of a separate silk and gold tapestry (kesi 㐉㎢; for more on kesi see Sheng 1995; Watt, Wardwell & Rossabi 1997: 53–63, Kuhn & Zhao 2012: 286–93). Worn indoors, boots like these made of luxury textiles would have been partially visible under a shorter robe or skirt (Zhao 2004a: 223). 93

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Smaller scale patterns include geese as part of roundels or in circular patterns, similar to those noted in the case of raptors above. A Liao samite sash in the Mengdiexuan Ỗ㶦䖙 Collection’s central panel is decorated with rows of roundels, whose edges consist of a scroll pattern on a plain ground. Inside each roundel, four geese fly toward a central flower (So 2004a: V: 7). Wide textile sashes were worn by women and tied in a decorative knot, with the ends of the sash hanging down below the knees. When worn, the pattern of flying geese adorned the sides and back of the wearer’s waist (Zhao 2004a: 236). A similar samite sash was found folded and placed on the chest of the deceased in a Liao period tomb at Yematoai ਦ㤲ਠ, Faku ⌅ᓃ, Liaoning (Zhao 2004c). Other patterns might suggest a gaggle of geese in flight, such as a tabby weave scarf found in a cache of textiles discovered in a deposit at the top of the White Pagoda ⲭຄ in Qingzhou ឦᐎ, Balinyouqi ᐤ᷇ਣᰇ (Bairin Right Banner), Inner Mongolia (Kuhn & Zhao 2012: fig. 6.45). Its pattern includes twelve geese and forty-five lingzhi 䵸㣍 mushroom-shaped clouds. Other examples of geese in flight have less structured patterns, such as a fragment of an embroidered skirt in the Mengdiexuan Collection that depicts geese in a lotus pond (So 2004a: Cat. No. 2:11) or a section of patchwork from the Liao tomb at Daiqintala that is decorated with flying geese and flowers (Gremli 2007: 32–3; fig. 18; Zhao 2002: Cat. No. 55). Although prey during the chunshui, geese held multivalent associations to the wearers and viewers of these textiles. In China, geese, because they mate for life, were traditionally seen as symbols of fidelity, and because they fly in formation, were also symbols of military talent. Depictions of geese with flowers in their beaks are directly descended from patterns on Tang official dress introduced during the reign of Tang Emperor Wenzong ୀ᮷ᇇ (r. 827–840) (Watt, Wardwell and Rossabi 1997: 25). The motif of confronted birds facing one another across a vegetal arrangement is also derived from Tang textiles. An example of this type of composition can be seen in an embroidery executed in multi-colour satin stitch now in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art (1996.103.2). This fragment depicts confronted ducks or geese on top of lotuses with large leafy and flowering stems that expand covering almost the full length of the textile (Watt, Wardwell and Rossabi 1997: 46; 170; Cat. No. 49).

Category 3: Scenes of predation In addition to the chunshui-derived scene of predation discussed above, two fragments of Liao embroideries depict other scenes of predators and prey. The first is a fragment of an embroidered robe from the tomb of Yelü Yuzhi 㙦ᖻ㗭ѻ (d. 941 ce ), Liefeng 㻲ጠ, Alukeerqin 䱯冟、⡮⊱ᰇ (Ar Horqin Banner), Inner Mongolia (Figure 5.3a). Directly related to the founder of the Liao dynasty, Yelü Yuzhi was also Prime Minister of the Eastern Kitan (ᶡѩ഻). On the fragment, a large raptor swoops down towards a running deer with stylized flowers. The curving stems of the flowers balance the composition creating a roughly circular design. A scene of predation also appears on an embroidered leather pouch made of reused fragments in the Mengxieduan Collection (Figure 5.3b). 94

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a

b

c Figure 5.2a Line drawing of a fragment of the upper part of a Liao skirt in the China National Silk Museum (Inv. No. 1998.3.2) that depicts four raptors and a circle enclosed by a pearl roundel. Silk samite fragment (10th–11th centuries ce ) (after Zhao 2004a: 207).

Figure 5.2b Line drawing of a textile pattern of raptor roundels and quadrifoliate decoration on a silk samite fragment (fragment: 23 × 43 cm) (after Kennedy 1997: fig. 1).

Figure 5.2c Line drawing of a pattern on a Liao damask skirt with raptors and deer in an interlocking coin frame (after Zhao 2004a: 80). All line drawings by Scott Mann.

Pouches like this one were used to carry coins or for decoration and designed to be drawn at the top and hung from a belt; a similar undecorated pouch can be seen hanging from the belt of one of the hunters in the tomb mural from Inner Mongolia mentioned above. One side of the main body of the bag in the Mengdiexuan Collection is covered with a pattern of peonies, butterflies and geese, while the other side shows a less idyllic scene dominated by four large raptors at its corners. The rest of the composition includes a hare, deer and other smaller animals, with smaller birds possibly representing birds of prey bearing down on their quarry.

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Scenes of predation, largely eschewed in Tang material culture, reference a visual vocabulary of power used cross the Eurasian Steppe, stretching back into the first millennium bce (Bunker et al 1970; Jettmar 1967). This imagery, as well as the reuse of fragments of luxury textiles on pouches and bags also resonates with nomadic traditions of portable wealth, which could be worn or carried on horseback (Biran 2018: 4). As Allsen (1997: 92–3) has noted in his discussion of Mongol robes, clothing made from luxury textiles, in and of itself was also a longstanding form of conspicuous consumption, and a favoured display of power among Steppe rulers. The bag from the tomb of YelüYuzhi (䲣഻‫ޜ‬ѫ), with its Chinese- and Steppederived imagery is also a good example of how the Liao adopted, adapted and recombined clothing, articles of adornment and different materials and styles into a new hybrid visual language of power. It would have been worn along with other articles of clothing that mixed and matched elements in a similar fashion. For example, Liao robes are larger at the bottom and designed to be worn on horseback, emphasizing the Liao’s nomadic roots and the continued importance of horseback riding to Liao elites. At the same time, they were decorated with imagery derived from Tang traditions. Liao articles of adornment work in a similar fashion, such as the amber belt pendants from the tomb of the Princess of Chen 䲣഻‫ޜ‬ѫ (1001–1018), which in their form draw on nomadic traditions, but often feature Chinese-derived subject matter (So 2004b).

Category 4: Mounted falconer In comparison to falconry imagery in other parts of Eurasia, falconers themselves are conspicuous by their absence from Liao and Jin material culture, with a single example depicted on a fragment recovered from a cache of textiles deposited at the top of the White Pagoda in Qingzhou, Inner Mongolia (Figure 5.3c). Dating to before 1049 ce , the fragment is made of silk, gauze and tabby, and embroidered with silk threads; the ribbons in the lower right-hand corner of the embroidery suggest that it was probably used as a sutra wrapper.5 At the centre of the embroidery, in a large pearl roundel, a mounted falconer looks towards the viewer, a raptor perched on each hand of his outstretched arms. The objects around the falconer – pearls, interlocked coins, a rhinoceros horn, a piece of silver bullion and a rock-shaped ornament – might symbolize the Babao ‫ޛ‬ሦ (Eight Treasures), auspicious emblems that may have been adopted by the Kitan (Gridley 2006). In the three centuries after the year 1000 ce , the motif of the mounted falconer, in which a mounted figure is posed with raptor on outstretched arm, becomes prevalent across Eurasia in such diverse media and contexts as the Bayeux Tapestry (1066 ce ) (Owen-Crocker 2012), Fatimid ivories and lustreware (eleventh to twelfth centuries ce ) and metalwork from Iraq and Iran (twelfth to thirteenth centuries ce ) (Daiber 2020: 14, 16–18, 32). The Liao fragment shares the most characteristics with contemporary Middle Eastern examples in which the falconer is typically depicted en face, attention is paid to the rider’s clothing and the horse’s tack and in some cases the falconer holds a raptor on 96

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a

b

c Figure 5.3a Line drawing of decoration on a fragment of an embroidered robe from the tomb of Yelü Yuzhi (941).

Figure 5.3b Line drawing of the pattern on an embroidered leather bag with damask border in the Mengdiexuan Collection, 21 × 19 cm (So 2004a: Cat. No. V:21).

Figure 5.3c Line drawing of a sutra wrapper depicting a falconer with two birds, Liao dynasty, 1049 ce , White Pagoda, Qingzhou, Balinyou Banner, Inner Mongolia (after Zhao 2004a, fig. 166). All line drawings by Scott Mann.

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each fist. This last detail is especially significant as in other Eurasian variations of the rider with falcon motif, the rider holds a raptor on one hand only while grasping the reins of the mount with the other.6 No doubt iterations of this motif were created by intermediaries as it passed through the oases that dotted the trade routes between the Middle East and Northeast Asia. Potential conduits, as well as other sources impacting Kitan and Jin textiles and dress are suggested by a well-preserved overcoat excavated at Alar, (Chinese: Alaer 䱯᣹⡮), Xinjiang (Kuhn & Zhao 2012: figs 6.6a and 6.6b). Dated to the twelfth century ce , the robe is one of the few surviving examples of contemporary Uighur dress. Its hybrid construction method and Middle Eastern-inspired pattern reflects the geographical position of the Uighurs, who controlled the oasis towns of the Tarim Basin. The robe is made of a combination of textiles: Tang samite is used for the base of the robe, while Liao samite is used in the decoration. It has a pattern of large pearl roundels connected by circular medallions known as ‘circular road’ or ‘heavenly corona’. Inside the roundels, two raptors stand with their backs to one another perched on a stylized vase/plant, from which three flowers bloom (Kuhn & Zhao 2012: 268). The pattern on this robe, while made of some of the same elements, presents a very different aesthetic than confronted birds appearing on Liao Tang-derived textiles (even though the Tang patterns were also originally derived from Central Asia). This robe also gives us a sense of the links we are missing in the transmission and interaction of falconry-related visual and material culture between the Middle East and Northeast Asia.

Conclusion A unique development under the Liao and Jin dynasties, the chunshui motif was a visual correlate of the central event of the spring hunt. Liao falconry-related designs solely depicting raptors or geese were based on Tang textiles patterns, while scenes of predation and the lone image of the mounted falconer were related to Central Asian and Steppe traditions. The predominant place of Tang-derived patterns in Liao and Jin textiles is based on two factors. First, in the early years of the Liao dynasty, captured Chinese weavers were employed in Kitan workshops (Shea 2016: 37; Kuhn & Zhao 2012). The Liao also saw themselves as the legitimate successors of the Tang, whose vast empire and cultural capital made them a model for rulers across East Asia, and the adoption of Tang visual imagery and its political panache announced their ascension. At the same time, the Liao were especially careful to remain a distinct cultural group, blending elements of Tang culture with their own nomadic heritage, and the use of Steppe-derived imagery would have been useful in visually communicating this goal. Like their dualistic system of court dress, the Liao skillfully fused cultural traditions into a new hybrid language of power. Surviving Jin materials suggest that the Jin inherited the Liao visual repertoire, while also incorporating Song-derived patterns and dress, creating their own hybrid visual references. It may be this fusion under the Jin (or earlier in the late Liao), which ultimately produced the style of chunshui-specific imagery of predator and prey. 98

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Notes 1. Song territory lay to the south of the Liao empire. The Jin conquered portions ruled by the Song and remained in conflict with the Song court until their downfall. 2. Court dress, like other elements of Liao politics and elite culture was dualistic, with Han ministers wearing Han dress (hanfu ╒ᴽ in the Liao shi 䚬ਢ (History of the Liao), and Kitan ministers wearing Kitan dress (guofu ഻ᴽ in the same text). For a discussion of descriptions of Liao dress in the History of the Liao, see Shea 2016: 41–55. Both the History of the Liao and the Jin shi 䠁ਢ (History of the Jin) were compiled under the succeeding Mongol Yuan dynasty in a project led by Toqto’a (Tuotuo 㝛㝛, c. 1314–56). For a discussion of this project see Standen 2011. 3. It is difficult to match the names of raptors in medieval Chinese texts to their current ornithological monikers, so throughout this chapter, I will refer to the birds by the generic term ‘raptor’. The haidongqing of the chunshui is usually thought to be the gyrfalcon, although Yang (2000: 126–7, 130) has offered evidence to suggest that they were a type of peregrine falcon. For a discussion of this term and issues related to it see Mayo 2002: 62, fn. 243 and 63 and Spencer 2019: 1, fn. 1; 2, fn. 2. The chunshui first appears in Liao records in 1034, although seasonal hunts (sishi youlie ഋᱲ䙺⦥) are recorded earlier. Whether they followed the same format is unclear (Spencer 2019: 3, fn.4). 4. Watt, Wardwell and Rossabi (1997: 108) suggest a Jin date for these pieces, as does Krahl (1997: 521); Krishna Riboud (1995) dates the examples in the Association pour l’étude et la documentation des textiles d’Asie (AEDTA) collection (now in the Musée Guimet) to the Liao. The closest dated example to these textiles is the red robe worn by the consort of the King of Qi which is decorated with a gold teardrop pattern depicting a pair of flying geese (Zhao & Lee 1999: 174). 5. An ironic choice as falconry is frowned upon in Buddhist texts (Wallace 2018: 128–9). 6. For Middle Eastern examples from the eleventh to thirteenth centuries depicting a mounted falconer with two raptors, see a gold medallion in the collection of the Smithsonian: National Museum of Asian Art (F1943.8) (11th–12th centuries) (Bleile 2020: fig. 13), a bronze incense burner from Khorasan (12th–13th centuries), The Bumiller Collection, University Museum of Islamic Art, Bramberg, Germany (Daiber 2020: fig. 32), and an inlaid brass box from Jazira, Iraq (1200–1250) in the Louvre (MTW 850) (Daiber 2020: fig. 27).

References Allsen, T. T. (1997), Commodity and Exchange in the Mongol Empire: A Cultural History of Islamic Textiles, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Anderson, F. (2005), ‘Fashion: Style, Identity and Meaning’, in M. Rampley, ed. Visual Culture: Definitions, Concepts, Contexts, 67–84, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Biran, M. (2018), ‘Introduction: Nomadic Culture’, in R. Amitai-Preiss and M. Biran (eds), Nomads as Agents of Cultural Change: the Mongols and their Eurasian Predecessors, 1–9, Honolulu: University of Hawai’I Press. Bunker, E. C. (1999a), ‘Liao Dynasty Personal Ornaments’, in E. Bunker, J. White, J. F. So, and S. Chan (eds), Adornment for the Body and Soul: Ancient Chinese Ornaments from the Mengdiexuan Collection, 203–9, Hong Kong: The University Museum and Art Gallery. Bunker, E. C. (1999b), ‘In Search of Liao Culture’, in E. C. Bunker, J. White, J. F. So, and S. Chan (eds), Adornment for the Body and Soul: Ancient Chinese Ornaments from the Mengdiexuan Collection, 11–63, Hong Kong: The University Museum and Art Gallery.

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The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Bunker, E. C., B. Chatwin, and A. R. Farkas (1970), Animal Style Art from East to West, New York: Asia Society. Daiber, V. (2020), ‘The Falcon and the Ruler. Birds of Prey in the Iconography of Nobility and Leadership in the Art of the Central Arabic Lands form the 1st to 19th century AH/7th to 15th century ad ’, in O. Grimm, K. Gersmann, and A. Tropato (eds), Raptor on the Fist: Falconry, Its Imagery, and Similar Motifs throughout the Millenia on a Global Scale, 605–80, Kiel: Wachholtz. DiPaolo Loren, D. (2010), Archaeology of Clothing and Bodily Adornment in Colonial America, Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Entwistle, J. (2000), The Fashioned Body: Fashion, Dress, and Modern Social Theory, Cambridge: Polity Press. Gremli, L. S. (2007), ‘The Status of Research on Liao Dynasty Textiles’, in R. Schorta (ed.), Dragons of Silk, Flowers of God: A Group of Liao-Dynasty Textiles at the Abegg-Stiftung, 17–52, Riggisberg: Abegg-Stiftung. Gridley, M. L. (2006), ‘Red Sutra Wrapper Embroidered with a Rider in a Pearl Roundel’, in H. Shen (ed.), Gilded Splendor: Treasure of China’s Liao Empire (907–1125), 236, New York: Asia Society; Milano: 5 Continents. Jettmar, K. (1967), Art of the Steppes: The Eurasian Animal Style, London: Methuen. Hansen, V. (2019), ‘The Kitan-Liao and Jurchen-Jin’, in V. C. Xiong and K. J. Hammond (eds), The Routledge Handbook of Imperial Chinese History, 213–31, Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group. Kennedy, A. (1997), ‘A time of renewal: Liao luxury silks’, Hali: The International Journal of Oriental Carpets and Textiles, 95: 74–7. Krahl, R. (1997), ‘Medieval silks woven in gold: Khitan, Jürchen, Tangut, Chinese or Mongol?’, Orientations, 28 (4): 45–51. Kuhn, D. and F. Zhao (2012), Chinese Silk, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Lee, M. M. (2015), Body, Dress, and Identity in Ancient Greece, New York: Cambridge University Press. Leung, I. S. (2003), ‘Felt Yurts Neatly Arrayed, Large Tents Huddle Close: Visualizing the Frontier in the Northern Song Dynasty’, in N. DiCosmo and D. J. Wyatt (eds), Political Frontiers, Ethnic Boundaries, and Human Geographies in Chinese History, 192–219, London: RoutledgeCurzon. Mayo, L. (2002), ‘Birds and the hand of power: a political geography of avian life in the Gansu Corridor, ninth to tenth centuries’, East Asian History, 24: 1–66. Milburn, O. (2020), ‘Featherwork in Early and Medieval China’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 140 (3): 549–64. Orr, H. and M. G. Looper, eds (2014), Wearing Culture: Dress and Regalia in Early Mesoamerica and Central America, Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Owen-Crocker, G. R. (2012), The Bayeux Tapestry: Collected Papers, Farnham: Ashgate. Riboud, K. (1995), ‘A cultural continuum: a new group of Liao and Jin Dynasty silks’, Hali: The International Journal of Oriental Carpets and Textiles, 17 (4): 92–105. Shea, E. L. (2016), ‘Fashioning Mongol Identity in China (c.1200–1368)’, PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania. Shea, E. L. (2020), Mongol Court Dress, Identity, Formation, and Global Exchange, New York and London: Routledge. Sheng, A. (1995), ‘Chinese silk tapestry: a brief social historical perspective on its early development’, Orientations, 26 (5): 70–5. So, J. F., ed. (2004a), Noble Riders from Pines and Deserts: The Artistic Legacy of the Qidan, Hong Kong: Art Museum, the Chinese University of Hong Kong. So, J. F. (2004b), ‘Tiny bottles: what a well-dressed Qidan lady wears’, Orientations, 35 (7): 75–9. Spencer, T. (2019), The Ecological Dynamics of Domestic Raptor Acquisition in the Late Liao Dynasty (1055–1125), MA diss., University of Birmingham. 100

Visual Hybridity, Political Power and Cultural Contest Standen, N. (2007), Unbounded Loyalty: Frontier Crossing in Liao China, Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Standen, N. (2011), ‘Integration and separation: the framing of the Liao Dynasty (907–1125) in Chinese sources’, Asia Major, 24: 147–98. Tao J. (1983), ‘Barbarians or Northerners: Northern Sung Images of the Khitans’, in M. Rossabi (ed.), China Among Equals: The Middle Kingdom and Its Neighbors, Tenth–Fourteenth Centuries, 66–86, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Toqto’a 㝛㝛 1344–45a (comp.), Liao shi 䚬ਢ (History of the Liao), Sibu congkan ഋ䜘਒࠺. Toqto’a 1344–45b (comp.), Jin shi 䠁ਢ (History of the Jin), Sibu congkan ഋ䜘਒࠺. Wallace, L. (2018), ‘Wild Youths and Fallen Officials: Falconry and Moral Opprobrium in Early Medieval China’ in N. H. Rothschild and L.V. Wallace (eds), Behaving Badly in Early and Medieval China, 122–34, Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Watt, J. C. Y, A. B. Wardwell and M. Rossabi, eds (1997), When Silk Was Gold: Central Asian and Chinese Textiles, New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Yang, N. (2000), Animals Depicted in Jade of the 13th and 14th Centuries in China, PhD diss., University of Glasgow. Zhao, F., ed. (2002), Recent Excavations of Textiles in China, Hangzhou: China National Silk Museum. Zhao, F. (2004a), Liao Textiles and Costumes, Hong Kong: Muwen Tang Fine Arts Publication Ltd. Zhao, F. (2004b), ‘Qidan Silk Costumes’, in J. F. So (ed.), Noble Riders from Pines and Deserts: The Artistic Legacy of the Qidan, 45–56, Hong Kong: Art Museum, the Chinese University of Hong Kong. Zhao, F. (2004c), ‘Silk Sash with Tabby Tapes’, in J. F. So (ed.), Noble Riders from Pines and Deserts: The Artistic Legacy of the Qidan, 214, Hong Kong: Art Museum, the Chinese University of Hong Kong. Zhao, F. and J. Lee (1999), Treasures in Silk, Hong Kong: ISAT/Costume Squad Ltd. Zhongguo lishi bowuguan and S. Tangki, (2002), Qidan wangchao: Nei Menggu Liaodai wenwu jinghua ཱྀѩ⦻ᵍ޵㫉ਔ䗭ԓ᮷⢙㋮ॾ, Beijing: Zhongguo Zang xue chubanshe. Zhu, Q. (1990), ‘Royal costumes of the Jin Dynasty’, Orientations, 21 (12): 59–64.

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CHAPTER 6 ‘THE FALCONCLOAK WHISTLED’: BIRD FIBULAE, FALCONRY AND POWERFUL WOMEN IN SEVENTHCENTURY SCANDINAVIA Kristina Jennbert1

Introduction Raptors are frequently depicted on jewellery, weapons and pictures stones in Germanic art styles during the Late Iron Age. The eponymous ‘bird fibulae’, dating to the seventh century during the southern Scandinavian Late Iron Age (‘the Vendel Period’) arguably offer a particularly distinctive example. Some of these brooches show a juxtaposition of a raptor with an anthropomorphic head, suggesting a close relationship between humans and birds of prey. In this chapter, I explore the visual properties of these objects, their archaeological and social contexts, and possible pre-Christian mythological connections, to propose that they were primarily associated with high-status women, the goddess Freyja, and the practice of falconry (hawking). I argue that the brooches reference the norms and values among the ruling families of the period and that they were agentive in social and political life, specifically the role of women in negotiating and resolving conflict. Today, the bird fibulae appear weathered and dull, in some cases they are heavily corroded or have been damaged by fire, so it is not straightforward to approach them as ancient people once did. I draw upon Wells’ (2012) ideas that the way we see shapes our world, that ‘images were potent’ and had visual effects (Wells 2012: 12), as well as Gell’s (1998) thinking that ‘objects’ are integral to our lives and act upon us ‘agents’. I begin by setting out the typological and chronological classification of the bird fibulae followed by a discussion of the visual elements of design and their possible association with falconry. I then explore the relationship between archaeology and Old Norse mythology, examining the possible connection between the fibulae and pre-Christian mythology (e.g. Price 2006; Hedeager 2011; Andrén 2014), specifically the goddess Freyja. Since the field of archaeological research is multidisciplinary, a highly practical laboratory subject as well as a theoretical and interpretive field, this study covers a wide range of subject areas and associated thinking in order to approach the bird fibulae. The meeting between archaeology, osteology, zoology, art, graphic form and visual communication enables a new perspective on the artworks, social mobility and political power.

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The bird fibulae The bird fibulae were used for a relatively short period, 620/30–680/700 ce in the southern Scandinavian Late Iron Age, the Vendel Period (Høilund Nielsen 1987). Around 300 bird fibulae are currently known, focused around southern Scandinavia, in Denmark and Bornholm, in Skåne and Öland in Sweden, with a few in central Sweden and in Norway. Bird fibulae are found in burials, settlement layers and in pit houses (Strömberg 1961: 116; 1973: 232; Høilund Nielsen 1991; Petersen 1991; Stjernquist 1993: 38; Branca 1999; Røstad 2008). The largest number of bird fibulae consist of stray finds found in connection with agricultural work in the nineteenth century. Furthermore, since the 1970s metal detecting has radically increased the number of metal objects brought to archaeological attention, the bird fibulae included (DIME; NMF). The typological classification of the bird fibulae was formulated by Mogens Ørsnes in 1966 who divided them into six typological groups that predominantly consider the object’s outline and cross-section, and the ornamental decoration of the wide back (Figure 6.1, Ørsnes 1966: 101ff.). Later, Ørsnes’s classification was reformulated into three types according to the main shape of the fibulae (bird- or fish-shaped, typical bird shape, or plate-shaped bird), and with sub-types based on the ornamentation upon the fibulae (Høilund Nielsen 1987: 76; Jørgensen 1990: 31ff.). There is probably a chronological difference between the simpler and less detailed forms (D1) and the more complex examples (D2 and D3), with a development in the fibulae over time from simple to complex. New generations of makers transformed the basic model and the typological changes reflect the increasing complexity of the object with more sophisticated imagery over time. Perhaps the nuances of meaning held in the designs diversified and the social reality become more complex over the period in which the brooches were used. The pictorial language typically communicates a bird’s body stretched out from beak to tail, seen from its back/behind and above. The beak, head, wings, claws and tail are all

Figure 6.1 Typological classification of the bird fibulae (redrawn by the author, after Ørsnes 1966, figures 47–58). 103

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displayed on the front of the fibulae, making them visible to viewers, and the body is typically ornamented with a variety of intertwined ribbons, bands and symbols. In previous work (Jennbert 2007), I have argued that the birds on the fibulae can be identified as raptors, although it is not possible to determine what kind of raptor we see at species level. Having examined the bird fibulae found at Uppåkra with the ornithologist Professor Thomas Alerstam, Lund University, we concluded that the different elements such as the feet with their heavy talons, the broad shoulders, the pointed wings, and above all the robust shape of the body, indicate a raptor of some kind. The beak on the brooches is typically straight, similar to either a raptor or a raven seen from above. The tail may be straight, rounded or wedge-shaped, again typical of birds of prey. A closer study of the ornamentation indicates how the form and stance of the bird’s body might be ‘read’ in two ways, depending on how it was worn. Worn and viewed with the beak pointed downwards, the way in which the body is stretched out with the beak and head visible at the same time as the back and tail, with wings folded in, and in some cases with the legs and feet highlighted and shown tucked in, the raptor is arguably depicted in a stooping flight posture, typical of birds of prey as they dive towards their prey. But if the brooch was worn and viewed with beak uppermost, the emphasis on the legs and feet, artistically rendered as if in a gripping position, as well as the way in which beak, body, head and tail are visible simultaneously, is suggestive of a raptor perched upon the fist of a falconer, and seen from above and behind (Jennbert 2007, 2011). While the stooping raptor features in other art of the period (see Price this volume), the highly distinctive mode of representing the entire body shape on the bird fibulae, with the dual reading of raptor in downward, stooping flight, and/or raptor stood upright upon the fist, is unique in the artwork of Late Iron Age Scandinavia. Today we can only see what we in our visual world have learned to see within our own experience, and vice versa for people in antiquity (Wells 2008), so the bird fibulae comprise a sophisticated artistic design created in tune with the artisans’/commissioner’s visual perception/craft skills. The typological groups set out by Ørsnes, which enable an overall model for classification, belie significant variation in the design in each unique brooch. The ornamentation on the fibulae can be rendered in either high or low relief. One distinctive visual feature on some examples is in the form of an ‘eye’ upon each shoulder. Very often a marked band or several bands separate the head from body and the body from the tail, and in some cases there is a band between the wings. Further straps, ‘infinity’ (figure-ofeight) symbols and interlace may be shown on the body. Amongst the other varied designs are human faces, circles, rhomboid and looped squares, and triskeles. In rare cases, inlaid garnets in the birds’ eyes and in the circles upon the wings, further enhance the composition and signal the high status of the commissioner and/or wearer of the brooch. In this chapter I have chosen to focus on a selection of three of the best preserved bird fibulae, one from Bornholm in Denmark and two from Skåne in southern Sweden (Høilund Nielsen, type D2b1 and D2b2), as suitably representative examples. The bird fibula in grave 157 at the Bækkegård cemetery on Bornholm in Denmark represents an inclusive image composition (Figure 6.2). The outline of the bird’s body is immediately obvious, and within 104

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Figure 6.2 Bird fibula, Bækkegård, Østerlars parish, Bornholm, Denmark, Grave 157, length 5.8 cm, NM C2615-26 (drawing Lars Jørgensen, National Museum, Copenhagen).

this the complex ornamentation comprising a circle on each shoulder, a rhomboid square or lozenge positioned above these at the neck, a simple human face indicated by two eyes and a plaited, knotwork beard between the folded wings, the legs with gripping talons, and a triskele upon the tail (Jørgensen 1990: 133, 167: Pl. 23:4). Together with another bird fibulae and a button-on-bow brooch, the bird fibula in question is part of the rich jewellery upon a woman’s costume. Unusually, the preserved remnants of textile (2/2 twill) were found upon the pin-holder (Jørgensen 1990: 133, Pl. 23:4). A detectorist find at Uppåkra in Skåne, Sweden (Figure 6.3), bird fibula U263 is a very well-made and well-preserved example. The ornamentation differs from other bird fibulae by virtue of its high-relief and detailed modelling. The heavy beak is sculpted to suggest its powerful tearing ability. Around the neck there are simple marked ribbons. The male face between the wings is almost naturalistic in its representation, with ovoid 105

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Figure 6.3 Bird fibula U263, Uppåkra, Uppåkra parish, Skåne, Sweden, length 5.5 cm, LUHM 31 000:263 (photo Bengt Almgren, Lunds Universitets Historiska Museum [Historical Museum at Lund University], Lund, Sweden). eyes, long nose, cheek bones, parted lips, and even detailing to suggest the whiskers of the moustache and a pointed beard. The bird’s eyes originally would have been inlaid with semi-precious stones, possibly garnets, as was the centre of an infinity loop which is modulated around the circle on each shoulder. The bird’s legs are folded into the body and the feet are in a gripping position. The tail is streaked to suggest individual feathers and is perforated which suggests there may have been one or more additional elements attached to the brooch at this point. The bird fibula U560 is also a detectorist find from Uppåkra in Skåne, Sweden (Plate 6.1) and remarkable for the very high quality of craftsmanship and marked degree of preservation, including remnants of tinting. The head emphasizes a heavy beak and eyes, and is very elegantly designed. A band around the neck follows either side of the body to meet the infinity loop around the shoulders. From the neckband a further band extends along the spine and terminates at a cross-band where the wings meet. All of these bands bear an intricate stamped pattern, which is rare on the other bird fibulae (Hedegaard 2002). The wings and the tail are marked with simple grooves to suggest feathers. These three examples show substantial variation upon the basic bird fibulae design theme. At first glance they look similar, and they do share a basic design form, but upon closer inspection the ornamentation is highly varied. Each brooch is, then, related to the others but unique in its own right. Such ornamentation as rhomboids and looped squares, infinity loops and triskeles, as well as raptors themselves, also feature upon other material culture of the period such as war-gear and picture stones (Jørgensen 1990; Jørgensen and Nørgård Jørgensen 1997; Lindqvist 1942: 55). Since the focus of this chapter is on the bird brooches, an analysis of these motifs in other archaeological material and their association with social, political and perceptual contexts of the time must be omitted here. But it is worth highlighting that images of human faces are quite common on artefacts in Germanic art styles, and in the seventh century not only in combination with birds but also with other animals and ornaments (Helmbrecht 2011: 187–91). In the following discussion I consider the evidence for a 106

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falconry association for the bird brooches, and then consider the social context for this association, before returning to the significance of the human face between the wings in particular.

The archaeology of falconry Falconry (or hawking) was introduced to Scandinavia during the sixth century (Grimm & Stylegar 2018; Gotfredsen 2018; Lie 2018; Vretemark 2018), when it was also known in Central Europe (Prummel 1997; Schmölcke 2018) and probably in England (Wallis 2017; 2019). Falconry was already a well-established form of hunting in Europe judging by the legal codes in Central Europe that regulated falcon hunting in the sixth century (Epstein 1943: 506–7; Dusil 2018). The question is how to recognize evidence of falconry from the archaeological material and to understand the specific cultural context for the practice in Scandinavia. Equipment specific to falconry, remains of raptors (especially females which are larger and more powerful) and of their prey, depictions of hawking scenes, and secondary visual evidence of raptors, has been identified as archaeological evidence for falconry (Prummel 1997; Wallis 2019: 9). Equipment specific to falconry is rarely found in Scandinavian archaeology, but bells have been found in a number of Norwegian ship burials (e.g. Lie 2018: 732). Osteological remains of raptors and quarry species have been found together with high-status human remains (Gotfredsen 2018; Lie 2018; Vretemark 2018). The earliest evidence of burials in Sweden with remains of raptors is from the end of the fifth century. The burials are mainly situated in eastern central Sweden, a few south of that region, but not in southern Scandinavia (Sten & Vretemark 1988; Tyrberg 2002; Vretemark 2018). However, in southern Scandinavia bones of raptors are found in settlement layers and pit houses (Vretemark 2018: 835 ff.). Bones of raptors are mainly found in male burials, but there are a few in female burials (Vretemark 2018: 829–32). As female raptors predominate, these finds arguably evidence falconry practice because falconers prefer females as they can take larger prey than the males (Tyrberg 2002: 230). Depictions of hawking scenes in art have been the most cited archaeological evidence for falconry (e.g. Åkerström-Hougen 1981; Oehrl 2018). In this context the bird fibulae are regarded as secondary evidence of falconry, but the archaeological and osteological contexts indicate that falconry was a known skill at the time of these brooches. To evidence falconry it is evidently not enough, as Oehrl says, to have pictures of human hunters, horses, raptors and hunting dogs, as on the picture stones on Gotland (Oehrl 2018: 458). What is more convincing is to consider the contextual information provided by archaeological contexts of osteological identification of raptors, alongside the artwork replete with raptors upon jewellery, weapons and associated equipment fittings, and it is then important to consider the social and political circumstances within which these objects and practices were located. The practice of falconry is markedly consistent across cultures but is culturally constituted in diverse ways (Gersmann & Grimm 2018). Crucially, what is shared, is the 107

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mutual relationship between falconer and bird. Considered in terms of the ‘animal turn’, falconry practice is relatively symmetrical in that neither the falconer nor the bird has total dominance but they must work together (Schroer 2018). The falconer’s knowledge and skill with the bird, and the interaction between falconer and bird during training and while hunting, is crucial for a successful hunt (Schroer 2018). The falconer’s care, breeding and husbandry reflect the intensive economical and time investment required to procure and handle raptors successfully. By satisfying the needs of the birds, particularly in terms of diet management, the falconer controls the birds, and as each species and individual has its own personality, the falconry birds in turn have a degree of control over their keeper. As such, falconry birds can be recognized as key players in the myriad situations of being in and making sense of the world (Andersson Cederholm et al. 2014: 6).

The bird brooches and falconry I would like to propose that the bird fibulae relate to falconry in a number of respects. The very basic shape of the bird fibulae, following a consistent template, is closest to that of a raptor. Key ornaments upon the bird may also pertain to falconry. The three fibulae I have focused upon, as with almost all examples, have a non-naturalistic band around the neck and between the body and the tail. These, in addition to the ribbons positioned at various points on the body, and plaited bands, are suggestive of the importance of cordage and knots in falconry (cf. Wallis 2019). From the leather jesses attached to the legs, to the leash used to tether the bird to its perch, falconry involves ‘taming the wild’. A falconry bird is one which is held captive, controlled – tethered, tamed and trained – by its keeper. Even if falconry practice is based on a relatively mutual relationship between the human and the bird, there remains an element of inequality, as the falconer must tether the captive bird and control its natural behaviour until, on the falconer’s terms, it is permitted to fly free and hunt. In my opinion, the human dominance in falconry is manifest at the moment when the falconer tethers the bird and holds it in captivity. Restraining and tethering the bird at key moments in the training, whether holding the bird on the fist by means of the jesses, or tethering the bird to its perch with a leash (Wallis 2014; Richter 2018), are key to successful falconry. The consistent use of bands, ribbons, plaits and infinity loops upon the bird fibulae then, arguably relate to falconry. In the final part of this chapter I consider the bird fibulae and falconry practice together with the female grave context for the brooches and the agency of woman in the Late Iron Age.

The bird fibulae and their women The fibulae constituted an entirely new style of brooch introduced during the seventh century. Over a period of seventy-five to 100 years, four or five generations, the bird 108

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fibulae follow a basic template but show increasingly complex innovations in decoration through time. Their social context of production, circulation and reception was connected to the agency of women as they were worn as female dress fittings. At the cemetery in Kyndby, Zealand, for instance, a woman’s dress had the bird fibula on the breast, flanked by an S-shaped fibula and a beaked fibula. In addition, there were beads of amber or glass attached to fabric (Ørsnes-Christensen 1956: 73). In a similar way, in women’s burials at the cemeteries in Bækkegård and Nørre Sandegård on Bornholm, two bird fibulae were placed on the upper part of the dress (Jørgensen 1990; Jørgensen & Nørgård Jørgensen 1997). During the Late Iron Age women’s dresses were adorned with a variety of items, including beads, brooches and other ornaments. For relatively short periods, the choice of design was stable. But the jewellery continually changed in such a way that the design choice forms the basis for typological and chronological studies, evidently representing different high-status social groups (e.g. Arrhenius 1985; Høilund Nielsen 1999a; Mannering 2017; Røstad 2021). Burial customs constitute a kind of grave language, significant for the persona of the dead and made visible to those attending the funeral, both nearby and remote families. As an activator of norms and values, memories and traditions, networking and regeneration, as well as religion and mentality in everyday life, the burial is a kind of montage of lifestyle attributes, and a ritualization of the dead. The wealth interred was likely provided by the relatives and kindred of the dead person. As such, the burials represented a remembrance of the family members and their contribution to power and prestige in the contemporary leadership (Jennbert 2006). The furnishings of the burial can be interpreted as a kind of estate inventory and some burials were richer than others. The bird fibulae should, then, be viewed within the context of an unequal society. The social signatures of the bird fibulae may cite signs of friendship, gifts at weddings, a man’s morning gift to his new wife, or attributes of the female kin. Besides their function as an identity marker of Scandinavian descent, they might equally be symbols of a local identity within the Nordic region (Andrén 1991; Arrhenius 1992), comparable to that of gold bracteates in female burials on the continent. Cemeteries on Bornholm reflect family burial sites in the emerging Iron Age society (Jørgensen 1990: 62ff.). High-status families held power and influence over the development of society and the formation of political realms. The symbiosis between kinship and political order in the Late Iron Age was necessary for collaboration and coercion, feuding and warfare, and consensus over political power (Haldén 2020: 42f). Noble females specifically, expressed their social and political status via their dress and jewellery. They were political agents who through familial descent and marriage acted as bridge-builders between kinship groups. The women wearing the jewellery expressed their social, political and religious identities via the bird fibulae, and viewers were also able to ‘read’ the messages encoded in these displays. The bird fibulae, raptors and falconry together constituted a powerful ensemble in the social and political context of southern Scandinavia. Political life in the seventh century was steeped in war and conflict. It was important to establish alliances in order to 109

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consolidate political power and enable periods of peace. Fortified courtyards and castles indicate troubled times. As the political system was not an institutionalized state, personal relationships and differences in rank between and within families structured the system. This system, Personverbandstaat, reflects diverse personal relationships that were not territorially delimited (Steuer 1989; Haldén 2020: 48ff.). Steuer states that the social organization of the Merovingian realms was based on the structures of retinues, in an open, ranked society. The burials mirror differences in rank not only within families in the broadest sense (familia), but between families (Steuer 1989: 107). Isotopic and genetic evidence of an early medieval Alemannic graveyard in the eastern upper Rhine basin shows that communities had external contacts outside the region and that northern and southern Europeans had a shared ancestry. The proposed Personverbandstaat is confirmed by these isotopic and genetic studies (O’Sullivan et al. 2018). Through isotope analyses and DNA studies on the Baltic island of Öland, we have expanded our knowledge of transregional mobility and migration in Scandinavia (Wilhelmsson & Price 2017). Archaeological sources and material culture indicate territorial developments and the political geography of the sixth and seventh centuries in Scandinavia (Høilund Nielsen 2000). From the rich materiality in this oral culture, it may be noted that noble women were active participants in power strategies in the ruling class in the realms in southern Scandinavia during the seventh century. When worn by noble women, thus, the bird fibulae communicated important messages. One of the most obvious messages was connected to raptors and falconry. The bird fibulae were not made through mass artisanal production; each bird fibula is a unique artistic creation. Bird fibulae were cast in cire perdue, in high or low relief and generally retouched with white metal gilding, an alloy of lead and tin. The production leaves no clear traces and may have taken place at many locations. Each fibula’s design is based on production relations. The organization of their production seemingly depends on the supply of metals and the objects consist of various alloys. One bird fibula from Uppåkra was composed of red metal with about 7 per cent each of tin and zinc. Similar red metal was also used for a pair of beak-shaped brooches, while a similar brooch in addition to tin and zinc also consisted of just under 5 per cent each of gold and silver (Branca 1999; Kresten et al. 2001). The bird fibulae were not the scarred bronzes that we see today in the archaeological stores. They were among the objects of women’s jewellery that were most frequently tinted, with the lustre of newly polished silver. Most bird fibulae today have traces of tinting; some of them are completely covered, while others are partially tinted on the head, wings and tail. Some even have traces of niello. The contrast between the shiny yellow bronze and the white tinted surface made the object even more visible and striking than we see today in the patinated and corroded bronze artefacts. Added to this, some of the fibulae have been gilded and have inlays with glass or gemstones, including garnets. These stones, the tinting or gilding, and the sculptural relief of the ornamentation, had polychrome effects (Gramtorp & Henriksen 2002) and when caught in sun or firelight, must have been eye-catching. These objects were not only striking in their own right, but simultaneously communicated female status and the elite practice of falconry. 110

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The bird fibulae are ornamented with Style II art which has been interpreted as a high-status decoration characteristic of the Scandinavian and Anglo-Saxon elite (Høilund Nielsen 1999b, 2000). Falconry was likewise a high-status hunting practice among these communities (Carstens 2018). Artwork with raptors is understood as a part of the competing Anglo-Saxon warrior-leaders’ way of communicating power to enhance their martial prowess (Wallis 2019). But the bird fibulae articulate power in the specific, gendered context of female burials. I next develop this argument concerning high-status women’s bird fibulae and falconry practice, by proposing that the head-between-wings motif is associated with the Norse goddess Freyja.

Fibulae, female falconry and Freyja In previous work I have discussed the bird fibulae as depicting raptors and pertaining to falconry as a ‘mania of the time’ (Jennbert 2007). Building on this work in relation to the gendering of the brooches, I now think that the human faces upon the brooches can be examined in light of Old Norse mythology. The relationship between material culture and Old Norse texts is not straightforward (e.g. Price 2006) and myths written down during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries are not an ideal fit for societies hundreds of years earlier. But objects can be approached as primary sources for enduring conceptions and narratives, and their expression in material culture as evidenced over many generations. A good case can be made that the gods and goddesses of Old Norse mythology were active in the Scandinavians’ worldview decades earlier than the narratives were written down (Andrén 2014: 24ff.). Restricting my analysis to the critical use and identification of Old Norse gods and goddesses in the archaeological material, I next propose how falconry and the bird fibulae relate to Old Norse myths. In previous scholarship, the head on the bird fibulae has been associated with Odin and his ravens, Huginn and Muninn (Petersen 1991: 55; 2005). Alternatively, Roman Kovalev (2012) relates the bird fibulae to Freyja, with the male face representing Loki while wearing Freyja’s falcon-feathered cloak. Kovalev points to the evidence of skaldic poetry, archaeological and osteological sources, and raptor behaviour. In terms of the Old Norse sources, a prominent story in Thrym’s Poem (e.g. Larrington 1996: 97) tells how Freyja lends her feather cloak to Loki to turn himself into a falcon: ‘Freyia, will you lend me your cloak of feathers . . . Loki flew off then, the falcon-cloak whistled’ (my translation). This source connects Freyja and her falcon-cloak, donned by Loki, to the male face on the fibulae. Freyja is a multi-faceted goddess and her domains are fertility, love and eroticism. She is involved in war, and with the dead in battle, sharing half of the slain with Odin. Like him, she is also connected to magic and especially to shamanic seid (e.g. Lindow 2001), which she teaches to him. Loki is a trickster with allegiances to giants in the mythic past and present. He is a helper and a disrupter, a shapeshifter and an ambiguous being who often acts destructively (Lindow 2001). Relating this mythical data to the bird fibulae, these objects might have signalled not only the female wearer’s 111

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high-status as a falconer, but also her close connection to Freyja and her falcon attributes, as well as to Loki, as a shapeshifter and bringer of change. Freyja’s abilities to inspire women to incite their male relatives to protect their family and maintain honour could have been associated with the natural behaviour of female falcons and their hunting prowess. Female raptors are more powerful hunters than males and are skilled in their solitary role of nurturing the nest and teaching the brood to survive. This quality was recognized by the ancient falconers who selected them to train for hunting (Kovalev 2012: 492–7), as evidenced in the ‘falconry graves’. Freyja’s position as a mediator and a protector made her a desirable role model, for being a woman in socially and politically troubled times. The bird fibulae displayed and were involved in performances of the many powerful qualities of the women who wore them. Raptors communicated power and status, whether upon the falconer’s fist or in elite art, and in the example of the bird fibulae, they also expressed the role of females, not as passive wives or candidates for marriage, but as socially and politically active women.

Conclusion In this chapter I have offered a close visual and contextual analysis of the bird fibulae to propose that their form and decoration indicates a falconry association. Their outline and ornamentation, including various elements citing cordage, strappage and knotting, are suggestive of raptors and the tethering of these birds in falconry practice. The highstatus materials used in the manufacture of the brooches, and the context of female graves, indicates they were worn by elite women and that at least some of these women were falconers. The bird fibulae are relatively small, worn upon the chest, and made their visual statements in intimate social settings where their flashy ornamentation could have been seen and must have had powerful meaning for those who wore them, and effects on those who saw them. I have also argued that the head-between-wings motif pertains to the goddess Freyja and her falcon-feathered cloak, the god Loki who tricked her into borrowing the cloak, and the status of the falconer-women who wore the brooches as protectors of their families, active social agents, suave political negotiators and magic-workers. In her analysis of the Old Norse mythical world, Margaret Clunies Ross stresses the lack of equality. Duplicity and barriers to marriage alliances give the Æsir a permanent and powerful position (Clunies Ross 1994: 102) and the social structure of the mythical world and the social structure of the real world were interwoven. The rules governing marriage alliances between different groups, mythically and among humans, on different social levels were a part of the political structure. Comprehensive archaeological material in early medieval Europe indicates communication and mobility in Europe (Quast 2009), and battles and conflicts, alliances and peaceful networks, and covenants, were part of these geographical power struggles circulating around the familia. The bird fibulae were embedded and agentive in this context, and falconer-women at the 112

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head of the household may have communicated and mediated each wearer’s familia (Gell 1998: 98). The socio-political world of the bird fibulae, and the messages they engendered, embodied and communicated, was maintained for about 100 years, four or five generations, in a spectrum of alliances and conflicts in the realms in southern Scandinavia, before there was further regime change – and the bird fibulae and the women who wore them, lost their power.

Note 1. Thanks to Robert Wallis and Alan Crozier for their generous and constructive feedback during the writing of this chapter, to the foundation of Villa San Michele on Capri for a three-week work stay in 2019 working with questions on art, birds of prey and archaeology, and to curators at museums and departments in Sweden, Denmark and Norway for information on finds of bird fibulae and their contexts.

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The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Dusil S. (2018), ‘Falconry in the Mirror of Normative Sources from Central Europe (5th–19th centuries)’, in K.-H. and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 507–40, Kiel: Wachholtz. Epstein, H. J. (1943), ‘The origin and earliest history of falconry’, Isis 34 (5): 497–509. Gell, A. (1998), Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory, Oxford: Clarendon. Gersmann, K.-H. and O. Grimm, eds (2018), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, Kiel: Wachholtz. Gotfredsen, A. B. (2018), ‘Traces of Falconry in Denmark from the 7th to the 17th Centuries’, in K.-H. and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 947–67, Kiel: Wachholtz. Gramtorp, D. and M. B. Henriksen (2002), ‘Fortinning af bronzegenstande fra yngre germansk jernalder og vikingetid’, in M. B. Henriksen (ed.), Metalhåndværk og håndværkspladser fra yngre germansk jernalder, vikingetid og tidlig middelalder: Rapport fra et seminar på Hollufgård den 22. oktober 2001, 49–61, Odense: Odense Bys Museer. Grimm, O., and F.-A. Stylegar (2018), ‘A Short Introduction to Norway, its Viking Age (800–1000/1050) and the Question of the Origin of Falconry in the Country’, in K.-H. and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 711–16, Kiel: Wachholtz. Haldén, P. (2020), Family Power: Kinship, War and Political Orders in Eurasia, 500–2018, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hedeager, L. (2011), Iron Age Myth and Materiality: An Archaeology of Scandinavia AD 400–1000, London: Routledge. Hedegaard, K. R. (2002), ‘Yngre jernalders stempelornamentik. Teknik og formål’, in M. B. Henriksen (ed.), Metalhåndværk og håndværkspladser fra yngre germansk jernalder, vikingetid og tidlig middelalder: Rapport fra et seminar på Hollufgård den 22. oktober 2001, 41–7, Odense: Odense Bys Museer. Helmbrecht, M. (2011), Wirkmächtige Kommunikationsmedien – Menschenbilder der Vendel- und Wikingerzeit und ihre Kontexte, Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, 4: 30, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Høilund Nielsen, K. (1987), ‘Zur Chronologie der Jüngeren Germanischen Eisenzeit auf Bornholm’, 48–86, Acta Archaeologica 57, København: Munksgaard. Høilund Nielsen, K. (1991), ‘Centrum og periferi i 6.–8. årh. Territoriale studier af dyrestil og kvindesmykker i yngre germansk jernalder i Syd- og Østskandinavien’, in P. Mortensen and B. M. Rasmussen (eds), Høvdingesamfund og Kongemagt: Fra Stamme til Stat i Danmark 2, 127–54, Jysk Arkæologisk Selskabs Skrifter XXII: 2, Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag. Høilund Nielsen, K. (1999a), ‘Female Grave Goods of Southern and Eastern Scandinavia from the Late Germanic Iron Age or Vendel Period’, in J. Hines, K. Høilund Nielsen and F. Siegmund (eds), The Pace of Change: Studies in Early-Medieval Chronology, 160–94, Oxford, Oxfordshire: Oxbow Books. Høilund Nielsen, K. (1999b), ‘Style II and the Anglo-Saxon Elite’, in T. Dickinson and D. Griffiths (eds), The Making of Kingdoms: Papers from the 47th Sachsensymposium, York, September 1996, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History 10, 185–202, Oxford: Oxford University. Høilund Nielsen, K. (2000), ‘The political geography of sixth- and seventh-century southern and eastern Scandinavia on the basis of material culture’, Archaeologia Baltica 4: 161–72. Jennbert, K. (2006), ‘The Heroized Dead: People, Animals, and Materiality in Scandinavian Death Rituals, ad 200–1000’, in A. Andrén, K. Jennbert and C. Raudvere (eds), Old Norse Religion in Long-Term Perspectives: Origins, Changes, and Interactions: An International Conference in Lund, Sweden, June 3–7, 2004, 135–40, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. 114

‘The Falcon-Cloak Whistled’ Jennbert, K. (2007), ‘The Mania of the Time: Falconry and Bird Fibulae at Uppåkra and Beyond’, in B. Hårdh, K. Jennbert and D. Olausson (eds), On the Road: Studies in Honour of Lars Larsson, 24–8, Acta Archaeologica Lundensia 26, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Jennbert, K. (2011), Animals and Humans: Recurrent Symbiosis in Archaeology and Old Norse Religion, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Jørgensen, L. (1990), Bækkegård and Glasergård: Two Cemeteries from the Late Iron Age on Bornholm, København: Akademisk Forlag. Jørgensen, L. and A. Nørgård Jørgensen (1997), Nørre Sandegård Vest: A Cemetery from the 6th–8th Centuries on Bornholm, København: Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab. Kovalev, R. (2012), ‘Grand Princess Olga of Rus’ Shows the Bird: Her “Christian Falcon” Emblem’, Russian History 39: 460–517. Kresten, P., E. Hjärthner-Holdar and H. Harryson (2001), ‘Metallurgi i Uppåkra: Smältor och halvfabrikat’, in L. Larsson (ed.), Uppåkra: Centrum i analys och rapport, 149–66, Uppåkrastudier 4, Acta Archaeologica Lundensia 8:36, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Larrington, C. (1996), The Poetic Edda, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lie, R. O. (2018), ‘Falconry, Falcon-Catching and the Role of Birds of Prey in Trade and as Alliance Gifts in Norway (800–1800 ad ) with an Emphasis on Norwegian and Later Foreign Participants in Falcon-Catching’, in K.-H. and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 727–86, Kiel: Wachholtz. Lindow, J. (2001), Handbook of Norse Mythology, Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO. Lindqvist, S. (1942), Gotlands Bildsteine, II, Stockholm: Wahlström & Widstrand. Mannering, U. (2017), Iconic Costumes: Scandinavian Late Iron Age Costume Iconography, Oxford: Oxbow Books. NMF (n.d.), Norges Metallsøkerforening, Available online: https://nmf.nu (accessed 15 October 2021). Oehrl, S. (2018), ‘An Overview of Falconry in Northern Germanic and Insular Iconography, 6th/7th centuries ad to c. 1100 ad’, in K.-H. and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 841–60, Kiel: Wachholtz. Ørsnes-Christensen, M. (1956), ‘Kyndby: Ein Seeländischer Grabplatz aus dem 7.-8. Jahrhundert nach Christus’, Acta Archaeologica 26: 69–161. Ørsnes, M. (1966), Form og stil i Sydskandinaviens yngre germanske jernalder. Nationalmuseets skrifter, Arkæologisk række XI, Copenhagen: Nationalmuseum. O’Sullivan, N., C. Posth, V. Coia, V. J. Schuenemann, T. D. Price, J. Wahl, R. Pinhasi, A. Zink, J. Krause and F. Maixner (2018), ‘Ancient genome-wide analyses infer kinship structure in an Early Medieval Alemannic graveyard’, Science Advance 4, eaao1262: 1–8. Petersen, V. P. (1991), ‘Nye fund af metalsager fra yngre germansk jernalder’, in P. Mortensen and B. M. Rasmussen (eds), Høvdingesamfund og Kongemagt: Fra Stamme til Stat i Danmark 2, 49–66, Jysk Arkæologisk Selskabs Skrifter XXII:2. Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag. Petersen, V. P. (2005), ‘Odins fugler, valkyrier og bersærker – billeder fra nordisk mytologi fundet med metaldetektor’, in T. Capelle and C. Fischer (eds), Ragnarok: Odins Verden, 57–86, Silkeborg: Silkeborgs Museum. Price, N. (2006), ‘What’s in a Name? An Archaeological Identity Crisis for the Norse Gods (and Some of Their Friends)’, in A. Andrén, K. Jennbert and C. Raudvere (eds), Old Norse Religion in Long-Term Perspectives: Origins, Changes and Interactions: An International Conference in Lund, Sweden, June 3–7, 2004, 179–83, Lund, Nordic Academic Press. Prummel, W. (1997), ‘Evidence of hawking (falconry) from bird and mammal bones’, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 7: 333–8. Quast, D. H. W. Böhme, eds (2009), Foreigners in Early Medieval Europe: Thirteen International Studies on Early Medieval Mobility, Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums. 115

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Richter, T. (2018), ‘Practicalities of Falconry, as Seen by a Present-Day Falconer’, in K.-H. and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 55–84, Kiel: Wachholtz. Røstad, I. M. (2008), ‘Fugl eller fisk? En liten fugleformet spenne fra merovingertid’, Viking: Norsk Arkeologisk Årbok 71: 103–14, Available online: https://www.duo.uio.no/handle/10852/37522 (accessed 20 August 2021). Røstad, I. M. (2021), The Language of Jewellery: Dress-Accessories and Negotiations of Identity in Scandinavia, c. ad 400–650/700, Oslo: Cappelen Damm Akademisk. Schmölcke, U. (2018), ‘Central European Burials with Birds of Prey from the Middle of the 1st Millennium ad – a Short Survey of the Early History of Archaeozoology in Connection with these Burials’, in K.-H. and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 495–505, Kiel: Wachholtz. Schroer, A. S. (2018), ‘A View from Anthropology: Falconry, Domestication and the Animal Turn’, in K.-H. and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 313–21, Kiel: Wachholtz. Sten, S. and M. Vretemark (1988), ‘Storgravsprojektet – osteologiska analyser av yngre järnålderns benrika brandgravar’, Fornvännen 83: 145–56. Steuer, H. (1989), ‘Archaeology and History: Proposals on the Social Structure of the Merovingian Kingdom’, in Klavs Randsborg (ed.), The Birth of Europe: Archaeology and Social Development in the First Millennium A.D., 100–22, Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider. Stjernquist, B. (1993), Gårdlösa: An Iron Age community in its Natural and Social Setting, Volume 3, Chronological, Economic, and Social Analyses, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Strömberg, M. (1961), Untersuchungen zur jungeren Eisenzeit in Schonen: VölkerwanderungzeitWikingerzeit. 1, Textband, Acta Archaeologica 4 (4), Bonn/Lund: Rudolf Habelt Verlag/CWK Gleerups Förlag. Strömberg, M. (1973). ‘Nya fynd av vendeltidsfibulor i Skåne’, in P. Sarvas, A. Siiriäinen and E. Kivikoski (eds), Honos Ella Kivikoski, 230–6, Helsinki: Weilin, Göös. Tyrberg, T. (2002), ‘The archaeological record of domesticated and tamed birds in Sweden’, Acta Zoological Cracoviensia 45: 216–31. Vretemark, M. (2018), ‘Birds of Prey as Evidence for Falconry in Swedish Burials and Settlements (550–1500 AD)’, in K.-H. and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 827–39, Kiel: Wachholtz. Wallis, R. J. (2014), ‘Re-examining stone “wrist-guards” as evidence for falconry in later prehistoric Britain’, Antiquity 88: 411–24. Wallis, R. J. (2017), ‘ “As the falcon her bells” at Sutton Hoo? Falconry in Early Anglo-Saxon England’, Archaeological Journal 174 (2): 409–36. Wallis, R. J. (2019), ‘The “Northwest Essex Anglo-Saxon Ring”, falconry and pagan–Christian discursive space’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal 30 (3): 413–32. Wells, P. S. (2008), Image and Response in Early Europe, London: Duckworth. Wells, P. S. (2012), How Ancient Europeans Saw the World: Visions, Patterns and the Shaping of the Mind in Prehistoric Times, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Wilhelmsson, H. and D. T. Price (2017), ‘Migration and integration on the Baltic Island of Öland in the Iron Age’, Journal of Archaeological Science Reports 12: 183–96.

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PART III POSTHUMANIST ONTOLOGIES OF HUMAN–RAPTOR RELATIONS

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CHAPTER 7 RELATING TO RAPTORS: THE ‘UPPER PART OF A HAWK’S HEAD AND BEAK’ IN A CHALCOLITHIC/EARLY BRONZE AGE ‘BEAKER’ GRAVE, DRIFFIELD, EAST YORKSHIRE Robert J. Wallis1

Introduction The antiquary Thomas Bateman (1855: 33, 115; 1861: 263), records that on 12 September 1846 at Sliper Low, Derbyshire, he recovered ‘[p]art of the skull of a young person and the beak of a hawk in a barrow’. Five years later, on 2 July 1851, while excavating a tumulus near Stakor Hill, Derbyshire, Bateman (1855: 24; 1861: 80) discovered a ‘[b]it of thin bronze . . . upon the right temporal bone of a skeleton, in a rock grave . . . Also, the beak of a hawk’. In October of the same year, around eighty-five miles to the north-east (as the hawk flies), Albert Denison (the first Baron, Lord Londesborough) excavated a ‘beaker’ burial (C38) at Kelleythorpe, Driffield, East Yorkshire (Plate 7.1), where ‘about the centre of the pavement in front of the body, was the upper part of a hawk’s head and beak’ (Londesborough 1851–1852: 254–5) (Figure 7.1). The intentional deposition of birds, especially raptors, with human remains is uncommon during the Later Neolithic to Bronze Age in Britain (e.g. Serjeantson 2009, in prep; Yalden & Albarella 2009; Sykes [2014]2015), and to date these are the only three recorded instances of ‘hawks’. The period has ‘the lowest percentage of assemblages containing wild animal remains . . . Indeed, the virtual absence of wild animals is, in general, a trait of Bronze Age assemblages across Europe’ (Sykes [2014]2015: 62). This probably reflects, in part, changing subsistence patterns with increasing reliance on farming, and Pollard (2006) points to possible taboos around hunting and the exploitation of wild resources. The majority of later prehistoric raptors comprise common buzzard (Buteo buteo) and red kite (Milvus milvus) with less frequent finds of white-tailed eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla) and golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos) (e.g. Serjeantson 2009; Holmes 2018). ‘Wild’ animals are often interpreted in modern, separatist terms as part of the ‘natural’ environment, a passive (albeit sometimes dangerous) backdrop to human action, distinct from domestic animals but like them available to be exploited as food, resources, metaphors and symbols. But human–animal intersections are encounters, intimate and embodied, and agentive in meaning- and place-making (e.g. Poole 2015: 877). Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, but the scarcity of later prehistoric raptor remains (e.g. Cooper et al 2022: 121), with only one find in the ‘closed context’ of a Chalcolithic/ 119

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Figure 7.1 Plan of ‘Sepulchral remains from tumuli near Driffield, Yorkshire’ (Denison 1851–52: 258).

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Early Bronze Age beaker inhumation burial, offers a rare opportunity to explore the materialization of human–raptor engagements during this period. Archaeologists examining beaker burials have often been ‘blinded by bling’ (Cooper et al 2022: 30–1; Brück 2019), fetishizing the metal goods as ‘objects of power’ (Clark et al 1985) connoting elite male rank (e.g. Piggott 1938). Recent thinking highlights the problem of imposing the simple, fixed identity of a high-status individual, the ‘myth of the warrior chief ’ (Brück & Fontijn 2013), as more in tune with late modern sensibilities than those of prehistory (Brück & Jones 2018: 238; Brück 2019: 9–10). The materiality and mutability of beaker burials, regional variation, the interplay between living mourners, deceased individual interred, and ancestral dead, and the construction of personhood in relational rather than individualistic terms, have since been explored (e.g. Brück 2004; Wilkin 2011; Fowler & Wilkin 2016; Brück 2019). Approaching the Driffield grave assemblage as a whole, avoiding modern speciesist hierarchies and Cartesian ontological bifurcations, I approach the human–raptor interface in terms of multispecies (e.g. Pilaar Birch 2018), relational (e.g. Astor-Aguilera & Harvey 2018; Crellin et al 2021) and new materialist (e.g. Jones 2012; Harris & Cipolla 2017) thinking, which disrupts anthropocentrism and permits greater symmetry (e.g. Witmore 2007) between living beings and agentive ‘things’ (e.g. Henare et al 2007; SantosGranero 2009), to explore the intersubjectivity of human–raptor intersections (ff. Schroer 2015; Wallis 2017; 2020) in a ‘sociality’ (Tsing 2013) with identifiable affects in the material record (ff. Wallis 2021). I examine the materiality, relationality and agency of the things assembled in terms of ‘proximity’ and ‘bundling’ (ff. e.g. Fowler 2013; Brück & Jones 2018). Zedeño (2009; 2013) proposes that raptor-things in association with human remains and artefacts may act as agentive ‘index objects’ which by ‘proximity’ alter the properties of these other things, with powerful affects. Pauketat (2013: 27–8) suggests the ‘affordant if not animate properties’ of artefacts are contingent on their combination into a ‘cosmically powerful’, ‘relational field’ or ‘bundle’ which mediates or articulates relationships. Such nesting is relationally and temporally specific, and the Driffield find is sufficiently well recorded – upon removing the capstone of the cist, ‘everything could be seen at a glance exactly in the position in which it was placed when interred’ (Londesborough 1851–1852: 254) – to facilitate close analysis. I propose that the material properties and qualities (Bender Jørgensen et al 2018: 22) of the objects and substances in grave C38, while on the one hand in tune with other ‘rich’, beaker burials on the Yorkshire Wolds (Clarke 1970: 169), are assembled in a distinctive local funerary idiom by virtue of the rare raptor remains. The materialization of human–raptorthings presents an unusual bundle of associations which resonates less vibrantly with the ‘status’ of the ‘individual’ interred, but rather with themes of transformation and predation.

Grave C38, Driffield Denison’s report (Londesborough 1851–52), Mortimer’s (1905) re-excavation (in 1870, including of burials from later phases), Kinnes and Longworth’s (1985) catalogue 121

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of the artefacts, and more recent scientific analysis (e.g. Woodward & Hunter 2011; 2015; Shepherd [2021]2013; Cooper et al 2022), affords a reasonably detailed account of the archaeology. The tumulus comprises one of the ‘Driffield Group’ of nine barrows, which by Mortimer’s (1905: 271) time were ‘much injured by surface improvements’ and probably ‘several others have been entirely removed and forgotten’. It was located upon ‘a slight natural mound of chalk gravel . . . selected as a dry and suitable site’ (Mortimer 1905: 283) on the northern side of the Gypsey Race (an intermittent winterbourne today) in the Driffield Beck valley of the Yorkshire Wolds, ‘the highest and most northerly region of chalk in Britain’ and ‘one of the densest concentrations of Bronze Age barrows in Britain and Ireland’ (Wilkin 2013: 228; cf. Clarke 1970: 168; Manby et al 2003: 70). Grave C38 was, then, located in a rich mortuary landscape. After digging the chamber below ground level, a paved floor was laid and four sideslabs positioned to form the retaining wall of the central cist. The body of an adult ‘of large size’ (Mortimer 1905: 274) was wrapped in linen, laid on the left side in a crouched position, with the head oriented east, looking south. The femur measured forty-eight centimetres in length, indicating the ‘particularly tall’ individual stood at around 176 centimetres, was ‘robust’, perhaps ‘long-lived’ (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 99) and probably male (Shepherd [2021]2013: 271). The raptor’s head (not preserved) was placed in front of the body and similarly oriented to the east. The objects associated with the human and raptor remains comprise three amber beads or buttons at the neck (two survive), the wrist-guard upon the right forearm, a copper-alloy knife-dagger near the lower back, and a beaker vessel behind the feet. A small copper-alloy buckle, perhaps a fastening for the wrist-guard or copper-alloy blade, is also recorded (not preserved). The chamber was covered by a capstone (recorded as length 1.2 × width 0.9 × thickness 0.8 metres) set at ground level and aligned east-west, and a mound raised over it (diameter 18 metres × height 1.2 metres, although ‘several persons can recollect its having been much higher previous to the inclosure of the land’ [Londesborough 1851–1852: 252]). Lacking material for radiocarbon dating, grave C38 is dated approximately through formal comparison with objects from other sites, including those with radiocarbon dates, and artefact typologies. The wrist-guard (Woodward & Hunter 2011, ID 13) of Group VI Langdale greenstone, together with a short-necked (SN) beaker and V-perforated amber beads/buttons, all correlate chronologically to the Late Neolithic/ Early Bronze Age, or Chalcolithic (Allen et al [2012]2021), contemporary with Needham’s (2007) ‘Ferry Fryston dagger Type’ chronology for daggers, c. 2200–2000 bce (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 90–1; Needham [2012]2021: 13), and potentially contemporary with the wrist-guard (Woodward & Hunter 2011, ID 8) in the beaker burial at Barnack, Cambridgeshire, radiocarbon dated to c. 2280–2030 bce (Murgia et al 2014: 1.1.1). This approximates with Needham’s ‘fission horizon’ for beakers when they became part of a widespread ‘instituted culture’, with c. 2250–2150 bce a ‘critical point of rapid mutation in both pot form and associated artefacts’ (Needham 2005: 171), and perhaps reflecting a period of significant social change. I next discuss each object and its material qualities in turn, and their relationships with one another, before considering the assemblage as a whole. 122

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The ‘upper part of a hawk’s head and beak’ As the raptor remains Denison found are not preserved it is not straightforward to identify the species. The ascription of ‘hawk’ may have been meant in the general sense of a diurnal raptor smaller than an eagle, rather than an Accipiter species specifically. Since Britain was largely wooded well into the Bronze Age (Tipping et al 1999; Tipping 2012), the Yorkshire Wolds included (Gaunt & Buckland 2003: 23), this narrows the possible native species (see Svensson & Grant 1999) down to those suited to woodland, namely hawks (i.e. Accipiter gentilis, goshawk, and Accipiter nisus, sparrowhawk) and buzzards (i.e. Buteo buteo, common buzzard), while kites (i.e. Milvus milvus, red kite), common kestrel (Falco tinnunculus), and perhaps harriers (sp. Circus) would have colonized areas where woodland was cleared for farming. The native falcons other than kestrels, comprising merlin (Falco columbarius) and peregrine (Falco peregrinus) need large, open tracts of land for hunting so would have been confined to moorland and, in the case of the latter, estuary and coastal areas too. It is perhaps more likely that a local hawk, buzzard or kite was selected for grave C38, but other raptors could have been sourced from outside the region. Had the whole skeleton been interred, the more robust bones (humerus, femur, tibia) would more likely have survived than the rather more fragile skull and beak, so it is remarkable that the remains comprised solely the head. The lack of talons is also notable since these are often selected, along with feathers, for ritual use (e.g. Mannermaa 2018; Goldhahn 2019: 319) and comprise some of the key finds from the Late Neolithic, such as those of buzzard from Bulford, Wiltshire (Leivers 2020), and Early Bronze Age, famously white-tailed eagle at Isbister, Orkney (Jones 1998). The latter have been interpreted as ‘sacrificial offerings’, ‘funerary feasting’ and ‘totemic’, challenged by Jones (1998: 309) as cross-cultural generalizations and categories (also Fowler 2021). Jones argues the most striking of the eagle body parts comprising head, wings and feet were deposited because of their respective associations with majesty, aerial prowess and hunting skill. These ‘powerful and special’ raptors may have had an association with ‘the soul’ (Jones 1998: 315) and their affiliation with sea-cliffs facilitated ‘highly specific identities constructed between people, the landscape and animals’ (Jones 1998: 319). Grinsell ([1936]1953) proposes that raptor body parts in graves may have been companions, guides, protectors, conveyors of the dead to the afterlife, their body parts apotropaic (Cooper et al 2022: 25–9). Goldhahn (2019, this volume) suggests people in Bronze Age Scandinavia harnessed the perspectivism (cf. Viveiros de Castro 1998) of owls and used goshawk body parts in extispicy. The Driffield raptor-head offers a rare opportunity to explore how, during the Chalcolithic/Early Bronze Age, people engaged with predatory non-domesticates and human–raptor relations particularly, in a specific local context. A raptor’s head may have been selected to highlight the aerial skill and exceptional eyesight enabling these predators to identify and hunt down their target, and their hooked, flesh-tearing beak for consuming prey, in tune with the importance of predatory seeing and devouring in Indigenous contexts elsewhere (e.g. Fausto 2012). In diverse archaeological and anthropological instances (e.g. Barreto & Alves, and Carocci, this volume), raptors are also associated with the interface between earth and sky, and celestial phenomena 123

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including thunder and lightning, and particularly the sun. The sun was a cosmological focal point in north-west Europe from at least the Late Neolithic, most obviously in structuring daily life, seasonal occupations and the increasingly important annual agricultural cycle (e.g. Cahill 2015). Many monuments show a solsticial alignment, from Stonehenge (Garrow & Wilkin 2022) to the Uffington white horse geoglyph which Pollard (2017) interprets as a ‘sun-horse’: at winter solstice the sun rises over the hill, rolling upon the back of the horse, highlighting the return of the sun after its winter passage. In Bronze Age Scandinavia, ‘the long-term significance of solar symbolism’ (e.g. Garrow & Wilkin 2022: 132) in a mythological cycle is evidenced in images of horse, fish – and birds – as possible animal-guides for the sun. The significance of the sun in the British Chalcolithic/Early Bronze Age is also expressed in the way that in many male beaker graves, including C38, the head of the individual is oriented to the east, the direction of the rising sun. The orientation of the raptor-head to the east reinforces the relationship between the rising sun and the individual interred. The crouched position of beaker grave inhumations may be ‘an embryonic allusion to birth’ (Johnston 2021: 39) and the relationship between raptor and human in grave C38 suggests a re-birth possibly ‘in readiness for departure on the day’s hunting’ (Shepherd [2021]2013: 276). Cruciform imagery on small gold ‘sun-discs’, perhaps ‘portable sun symbols’, such as at Jug’s grave, Monkton Farleigh, Wiltshire (Garrow & Wilkin 2022: 128), and comparable expressions from across Europe (e.g. Cahill 2015; Garrow & Wilkin 2022), indicate celestial phenomena and the solar cycle especially were integrated into a sophisticated and widespread contemporary celestial cosmology, including ‘a close a connection between the ancestral dead and the sun’ (Keates 2002: 120). The raptor-head at Driffield suggests these predators figured in a similar but locally exceptional way for mourners during their funerary rite. Of the most likely species of hawk, buzzard, kite or harrier, it is notable that aside from the common buzzard (Buteo buteo) these raptors share a characteristic yellow-orange iris which takes the metaphorical shape and colour of the sun. This affinity is reinforced by the colour of their cere, legs and feet, and the iris in combination with the black pupil forms a total solar eclipse; the eye of the raptor, the metaphorical eye of the sun. A raptor’s fearsome upper mandible, and synecdochally the talons, curve to a point, like the rising and setting sun or waxing and waning moon, a metaphorical connection between raptors and celestial phenomena highlighted in other archaeological contexts (e.g. Ikram, this volume). Having set out how the predatory and aerial prowess of raptors, their possible role as intermediaries between earth and sky, and metaphorical association with the celestial realm and the sun in particular, may pertain to the Driffield raptor-head, I next explore its material and relational connections in these respects to other elements of the assemblage.

The copper-alloy knife-dagger The copper-alloy dagger or ‘knife-dagger’ (Gerloff 1975, ID 237), shorter and narrower than a dagger, was found ‘in a wooden sheath, having a handle of the same’, laying behind 124

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the lower vertebrae, and may have been attached at the waist (Londesborough 1851–52: 255; Mortimer 1905: fig. 742; Gerloff 1975: 31, 159–60, Kinnes & Longworth 1985: 145) (Figure 7.2, Plate 7.1). Copper-alloy was relatively new and extremely rare this early in Yorkshire (Manby et al 2003: 59, 61). The smelting and forging of copperalloy through skilful manipulation of fire indicates knowledge of smithing and those with this skill may have had been recognized as having magical, perhaps ‘shamanic’ skills (e.g. Budd & Taylor 1995; Shell 2000). The Driffield knife-dagger has a fiery colour to match the smelting and forging of its manufacture, the colour red and its cognates used in many cultures to reference aggression and war-like behaviour. While corroded and damaged with the point now lacking, it was a rare and flashy object when new, its luminous blade dazzling when caught in sunlight or firelight, set-off by the darker hue of the wooden hilt and sheath when being withdrawn and re-sheathed. Copper-alloy is mutable via polishing, the application of friction turning dull metal into

Figure 7.2 Copper-alloy knife-dagger (length 87 mm, width 38 mm, thickness 2 mm; BM 1879,1209.1981), © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved. 125

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bright shimmering surface (Jones 2002). This reflective quality, perhaps maintained through regular polishing, may have imbued the blade with ‘supernatural properties’, ‘associated with the shining of the sun’ (Jones & Quinnell 2013: 186; ff. Keates 2002; Brück 2019: 89). In the Americas, luminous copper is paired with the sky and birds of prey, recognized as a material conduit between terrestrial and celestial realms, enables communication between beings, and copper objects ‘facilitated transformational processes’ for those wearing or using them (Carocci, this volume). The Driffield raptorhead accents the possible transformative, predatory and celestial associations of the copper-alloy blade within a distinctive local framing. Sykes argues the introduction of ‘the new “magical” material of bronze’ meant ‘the wilderness and wild animals may have lost some of their status as people came to view the exotic as the new and powerful outer sphere’ (Sykes [2014]2015: 63). But rather than a throw-back, the inclusion of the raptor remains at Driffield can be read as a local innovation, bundling the transformative, celestial, martial qualities of the copper-alloy blade and predatory raptor-being together. The sharp, pointed, character of the beak (and by extension the talons), for stabbing and tearing, resonates with the qualities and uses of the blade with its sharp edge and point, drawing a relational connection between the predatory behaviour of the raptor and the performing of human identities involving aggression and predation; in the case of the knife-dagger, perhaps in codified combat-contested leadership (Needham et al 2017). The blade may have been accidentally or intentionally broken at the tip prior to or at the time of deposition (when dispatching and butchering the raptor?), and notably there were no arrowheads in the grave. In some ethnographic contexts, there is a correlation between raptor feathers and the rays of the sun which have martial, penetrative qualities, described as ‘arrows’, ‘daggers’ and ‘spearpoints’ (e.g. Horse Capture et al 1993; Krech 2009; Dye 2013). Perhaps the raptor-head with its rapacious beak operated metonymically as a proxy for the penetrative, tearing qualities of the copper-alloy bladetip, and substituted as a sharp, projectile ‘point’ in the absence of arrowheads. Raptor behaviour is not only aggressive but also defensive, particularly when females protect their nest, eggs and young. Goldhahn (2020: 67) discusses how in Northern European folklore eagles were involved in protective magical practices in which offensive qualities were generated on the defensive. The raptor-head at Driffield may not only cite raptors’ predatory behaviour but also raptorial protection. Cahill (2015: 33) suggests that a Bronze Age object pertaining to the sun (such as a gold lunula) was ‘a form of wearable vessel guiding and protecting the sun’. In grave C38, the raptor-head resonates with the transformative and celestial qualities of the copper-alloy knife-dagger, and may have been understood as agentive in guiding and protecting the individual interred in their passage, like that of the sun on its journey, into the next world.

The beaker The short-necked (SN) beaker (Clarke [1970] group N2[L], Case [1993] Regional Group B) has a notable ‘red buff ’ (Clarke 1970: 164) colouring which is consistent with other 126

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beakers and is decorated with tooth-comb stamped ‘fringe motifs’ arranged into ‘two opposing rows of fringes’ (Clarke 1970: 20) or herringbone, split by plain cordons (Kinnes & Longworth 1985: 145 and Plate 7.1). The colouring is echoed elsewhere in the grave by the copper-alloy knife-dagger, amber beads/buttons (Plates 7.1, 7.2) and gold caps of the wrist-guard, reinforcing a connection with fire and the sun. The ‘herring-bone’ pattern is also ‘feather-like’ with the raised cordons forming four ‘quills’, linking the ceramic visually and relationally to the raptor remains. While a tooth-comb stamp was the main tool for making the ornamentation, it is tempting to suggest that the quills of raptor feathers also played a part, investing the ceramic with the qualities of the raptor. In addition to their use in inhumation funerary rituals and later as vessels for cremated remains, beakers had diverse uses (Guerra-Doce 2006). They are associated with the consumption of liquids, particularly beer and mead, evidenced by residues of these substances in some vessels. Sherratt (1991; 1995) suggests they were used in ‘male feasting ceremonies’ involving the ritualized consumption of alcohol. Residues of henbane (Hyoscyamus niger) indicate that some beverages had other consciousness-altering properties, while those of animal fats indicate the consumption of food. Other beakers still were used as reduction pots to smelt copper-alloys. All these activities involving beakers ‘imply some kind of transformation’ (Guerra-Doce 2006: 247), a theme intersecting with other substances and qualities in the Driffield assemblage, from the raptor which may have been recognized as an intermediary between earth and sky, and transformer of life to death, to the smelted, forged and polished copper-alloy blade – and the amber of the beads/buttons.

The amber beads/buttons The three large amber beads/buttons found at the neck of the skeleton also show affinities with transformation, fire and the sun particularly (Plates 7.1, 7.2). Amber could have been procured in limited quantities from beaches of the east coast but was more likely traded from Scandinavia (Cooper et al 2022: 187, 198), an ‘exotic’ locale. The manufacturing involved cutting, boring and polishing, ‘transforming it from a dullish brown to a fiery and translucent red or orange’ (Jones 2002: 164), to form an ovoid shape with a drilled V-perforation on one face to enable attachment to a necklace or garment (Kinnes & Longworth 1985: 145). Amber may have been selected for special treatment because of such unusual properties as being light and buoyant (with a specific gravity slightly heavier than water) and warm to the touch (Ross 1998: 9). It produces static electricity when friction is applied (‘electricity’ derives from the Greek for amber, elektron), typically burns with a flame rather than melts when ignited, and transparent amber with a convex polished surface can be used as a burning lens for concentrating the sun’s rays (Ross 1998); all of which, may have been understood as ‘supernatural or magical powers’ (Cooper et al 2022: 188; also Brück 2019: 89). With their ovoid shape and fiery-orange colour, the 127

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beads/buttons resemble the raptor’s eye, mouth of the beaker, gold caps upon the stone wrist-guard, and pertain to the sun. The transformative properties of amber link metaphorically to fire, forge and the sun, and in turn the qualities of the copper-alloy blade, beaker and raptor-head. Later prehistoric amber is mainly manufactured and deposited in cremation graves in Wessex (Jones 2002: 166; Cooper et al 2022: 187), so the Driffield beads/buttons cite inter-regional connections as well as unusual, local practice. Where beads/buttons were removed from necklaces or clothing prior to burial, as perhaps in grave C38, such ‘practices of fragmentation’ (Jones 2002: 167) suggest the curating of heirlooms with the ‘act of keeping while giving’ negotiating ‘the ties that bind’ relationships between living and dead (Brück 2004: 316). The deposition of a raptor-head, rather than a complete skeleton or other body parts, also points to the importance of fragmentation and partibility (ff. Jones 2002). At the Knowe of Ramsay, Orkney, a range of bird species including sea eagle were ‘represented by a single bone’ suggesting ‘they were carefully and deliberately selected to accompany’ the deceased (Cooper et al 2022: 229). At Driffield, the disarticulated raptor-head was deliberately brought into proximity and relationship with other materials, human and other-than-human, in an aggregation pertaining to solar cosmology and ontologies of predation and transformation.

The stone wrist-guard The stone wrist-guard (Woodward & Hunter 2011, ID13) (Plates 7.1 and 7.3) is made from Group VI type greenstone, being ground and polished to a sub-rectangular shape with concave sides and a crescentic cross section (Kinnes & Longworth 1985: 145; ‘Atkinson’ classification system [Clarke 1970: 570] ‘curved’, Type C1; Woodward & Hunter 2011: 4). One quality of the stone is that it permits working in any direction, enabling a complex, curved shape compared to those made from other rock types (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 35). At each end of the wrist-guard is a pair of funnel-profile circular perforations, drilled from the back, within which are traces of corroded copper-alloy rivets, upon which are domed sheet-gold (perhaps acquired from as far away as Cornwall [Garrow & Wilkin 2022: 175]), ‘slightly worn’ (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 138) rivet caps. Stone wrist-guards are thought to have functioned like an archer’s leather wristguard, protecting the forearm against the recoil of a bow-string (e.g. Ingram 1867: 109; Greenwell 1877: 36; Clarke 1970), but lack of use-wear, their cumbersome nature, awkward shape, protruding studs and a lack of ethnographic evidence, point away from a functional use as archer’s bracers (Fokkens et al. 2008; Woodward & Hunter 2011). Sheppard (1930: 76), alternatively, suggests the purpose of the Driffield wrist-guard ‘was to protect the flesh from the claws of the bird’, a falconry interpretation developed by Woodward and Hunter (2011) and revisited by Garrow and Wilkin (2022: 175–6) who cite the raptor-head as an ‘unusual inclusion . . . [which] . . . may have related to hunting with birds of prey’. 128

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As a practicing falconer (of over ten years), I have re-examined the case for stone wrist-guards as falconry equipment and found it unconvincing (Wallis 2014). In summary: 1) if functional as a perch, they offer insufficient coverage to protect against the bird’s talons and the high polish would in turn be damaged (recent use-wear analysis does not suggest scratches on wrist-guards were caused by raptors’ talons [Crellin pers. com. 2021]); 2) if ornamental, attached to a leather gauntlet (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 130), they would not be practical or safe for falconry as the talons could be caught between the wrist-guard and the glove or in one of the fixtures, elements of falconry furniture such as the jesses could be snagged or entangled, and Group VI stone has a ‘tendency to shatter rather like glass’ (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 125). While they probably originated as archers’ functional leather wrist-guards and a few may have been used as such (e.g. Van der Vaart 2009), certain examples (and other objects in Beaker burials) were made for the funerary rite, while others were already very old before the burial, like heirlooms or relics (Woodward & Hunter 2015: chapter 10) – all pointing to their importance as more than functional archers’ or falconers’ wrist-guards. The source rock is likely from the English Lake District where roughouts for wristguards have been found at remote sites overlooking the Langdale Valley, specifically between the Pike O’ Stickle and Loft Crag (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 36). It was therefore sourced from a relatively exotic and potentially liminal location (‘targeted procurement’) (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 126; also 38), indicating the importance of returning ‘to sites of historical, perhaps even ancestral importance, to draw new tokens of identity from the stone’ (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 36). This example is one of sixteen Group VI examples which ‘belong to “core” beaker culture’ (Woodward & Hunter 2011: 126; 98, table 8.2), and one of just three with gold caps. The other two are from 1) Barnack, Cambridgeshire (Woodward & Hunter 2011, ID 8), also accompanied by an N2 beaker and copper-alloy dagger; and 2) Culduthel Mains, Inverness (Woodward & Hunter 2011, ID 79), which along with the beaker included an amber bead and eight barbed and tanged flint arrowheads. The latter were arranged in a crescent, perhaps reiterating the importance of celestial phenomena in Chalcolithic/Early Bronze Age cosmology. Variations in the ‘beaker package’, such as the inclusion of an arrowhead crescent at Culduthel but a proxy-projectile raptor-head at Driffield, suggest subtle variations in the expression of martial and celestially-oriented thinking within localized funerary practice. With its reference to ancestral archery practices, the wrist-guard intersects with the raptor remains in terms of martiality and predation. Perhaps some archers’ arrows were fletched using raptor feathers, investing them with the speed, accuracy and predatory capabilities of the bird. The striking gold caps, like droplets of sun/firelight, circular-shaped like the amber beads, mouth of the beaker, raptor’s eye, and the sun itself, contrast with the dark greenish-grey of the stone, recalling the interplay between the bright copper-alloy knife-dagger and its dark wooden hilt, and the gold-yellow iris and black pupil of the raptor’s eye. The grey hue, hardness and burnish of the stone wristguard also echoes the colour, toughness and polish of the raptor’s beak, and by extension, its talons.

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Alongside the wrist-guard, the other stone material used in the burial, chosen for the slabs of the cist and used in the backfill for the mound, continue this range of associations. The Jurassic oolitic limestone (Gaunt & Buckland 2003: 21–2) chosen for the cist slabs, is yellow-cream to grey-white in colour when quarried and worked, and probably sourced from regions bordering the Yorkshire Wolds (Mortimer 1905: 283). The Cretaceous chalk (Gaunt & Buckland 2003: 22) upon which the mound is situated and backfill comprised is coloured white to pale grey, still quarried today in the region (sold as ‘Yorkshire cream’). These rock types resonate with the other fire/sun-like colours of the grave goods (cf. Brück 2019: 166). Perhaps the special ‘sun-stone’ of the cist slabs and local chalk was intentionally brought into relationship with the other elements of the barrow to reinforce these resonances and their potency, ultimately expressed in the circular shape of the barrow with its polished white chalk, gleaming in sunlight. This chain of affinities was further enhanced in intra-action with the local landscape. In common with other barrow groupings and alignments in the region (cf. Brück 2019: 174–5), the tumulus was sited in a river-valley location, which was perhaps used as a routeway, the river a gleaming sunlit guide, the relationship between barrow and rivervalley marking an association between death, journeying and water as a powerful medium of transformation (Fowler 2013: 193).

Conclusion I have argued that a material, relational and multispecies approach to the ‘things’ assembled in grave C38 at Driffield, in light of Zedeño’s idea of ‘index objects’ in ‘proximity’ and Pauketat’s ‘bundling’, indicates a distinctive aggregation of mutable substances embedded within ontologies of predation and transformation. The copper-alloy knife-dagger was made from newly understood materials, sourced from remote parts of the British Isles and possibly Europe, skilfully manipulated via smelting and forging, themselves possibly recognized as magical, alchemical practices, into a rare, luminous object, pertaining to fire, transformation, celestial phenomena and martial/predatory behaviour. The crafting of the beaker, changing dull, wet, brown clay into a red ceramic decorated with feather-like herringbone markings, its possible use for the ingestion of mind-altering substances, and subsequent retirement in a grave, all resonate too with themes of transformation and martiality. The amber beads/buttons, again likely sourced from afar, like fire, gold and the sun in colour, sun-shaped too, and with such magical potential as burning lenses, were perhaps made yet more potent by their fragmentation and re-aggregation with other powerful objects in the grave. In relationship with the blade, beaker and amber things, the wrist-guard offered up the lofty location of its remote source rock, with qualities enabling the fashioning of a complex shape, its dark colour set-off by the flashy, luminous gold caps, sourced too from outside the find zone and citing new materials caught up in innovative manufacturing processes enabling the making of sun-like things, as well as its ancestry referencing historic leather archer’s wrist-guards and themes of hunting/ predatory activity. 130

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The remarkable deposition of a raptor’s head singled out these aerial and predatory maestros for special treatment within an ontology of predation. The head was intentionally separated from the rest of the body but re-assembled with other things in the potent grave bundle, to highlight the qualities of the eye and beak: the former striking for displaying a black pupil against a fire/sun-like orange-yellow iris, taking the form of a total solar eclipse; the latter de-curved like celestial phenomena, and rapacious, associated with predatory consumption. In proximity to the wrist-guard and knifedagger specifically, the raptor-head reified their martial and celestial associations, and perhaps in lieu of the blade’s point and in the absence of arrowheads, acted as a proxy for the keen eyesight, accuracy, speed and predatory skills demanded of human aggressive/ protective behaviour performed through these objects, from archery and hunting to the skilful use of blades and possibly warfare. Raptors may have been recognized as key intermediaries between earth and sky, associated with the sun and its journey, and as transformers of life into death were perhaps understood as protective companions, raptor-guides conveying the deceased into the afterlife of the ancestral dead and their celestial realm. The proximal bundling of human–raptor-object personhood presents a contingent relational field of animically constituted and transformative things ‘becoming-with’ (Haraway 2008) one another, resonant with structured depositions materializing relational ontologies elsewhere (e.g. Chandler et al 2017). Within a liminal ‘sacred’ landscape setting, this materially and relationally agentive bundle arguably enabled the construction and negotiation of new identities in one distinctive localized funerary idiom, at a time when concepts of individuality and community, human and other-than-human, were being reconfigured. As such, this material, relational and multispecies approach may have relevance for approaching other human–raptor entanglements in later prehistory.

Note 1. I am grateful to Max Carocci, Rachel Crellin, Matt Leivers, Dale Serjeantson and Neil Wilkin for their feedback during the preparation of this paper; any failures in it are my own.

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Relating to Raptors Greenwell. W. (1877), British Barrows, Oxford: Clarendon. Grinsell, L. ([1936]1953), Ancient Burial Mounds of England, London: Methuen. Guerra-Doce, E. (2006), ‘Exploring the significance of beaker pottery through residue analyses’, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 25: 247–59. Haraway, D. (2008), When Species Meet, Minneapolis: Minnesota University Press. Harris, O. J. T. and C. N. Cipolla (2017), Archaeological Theory in the New Millennium, London: Routledge. Henare, A., M. Holbraad and S. Wastell, eds (2007), Thinking Through Things, London: Routledge. Holmes, M. (2018), ‘King of the Birds! The changing role of white-tailed and golden-eagles in Britain’s past’, Archaeofauna, 27: 173–94. Horse Capture, G. H., A. Vitart, M. Waldberg and W. Richard West Jr (1993), Robes of Splendor: Native American Painted Buffalo Hides, New York: New Press. Ingram, A. H. W. (1867), ‘On a piece of perforated slate found at Aldington, Worcestershire’. Wiltshire Archaeological Magazine, 10: 109–13. Johnston, R. (2021), Bronze Age Worlds: A Social Prehistory of Britain and Ireland, London: Routledge. Jones, A. (1998), ‘Where eagles dare: landscape, animals and the Neolithic of Orkney’, Journal of Material Culture, 3: 301–24. Jones, A. (2002), ‘A biography of colour: colour, material histories and personhood in the early Bronze Age of Britain and Ireland’, in A. Jones and G. MacGregor (eds), Colouring the Past, 159–74, Oxford: Berg. Jones, A. (2012), Prehistoric Materialities, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jones, A. and H. Quinnell (2013), ‘Daggers in the west: early Bronze Age daggers and knives in the south-west peninsula’, Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 79: 165–91. Keates, S. (2002), ‘The Flashing Blade: Colour and Luminosity in North Italian Copper Age Society’, in A. Jones and G. MacGregor (eds), Colouring the Past, 109–26, Oxford: Berg. Kinnes, I. A. and I. H. Longworth (1985), Catalogue of the Excavated Prehistoric and RomanoBritish Material in the Greenwell Collection, London: British Museum. Krech III, S. (2009), Spirits of the Air: Birds and American Indians in the South, Athens: University of Georgia Press. Leivers, M. ed. (2020), Bulford Service Family Accommodation, Bulford, Wiltshire: Post-Excavation Assessment, Salisbury: Wessex Archaeology. Londesborough, Lord (A. Denison) (1851–52), ‘An account of the opening of some tumuli in the East Riding of Yorkshire’, Archaeologia, 34: 251–58. Manby, T. G., A. King and B. E. Vyner (2003), ‘The Neolithic and Bronze Ages’, in T. G. Manby, S. Moorhouse and P. Ottaway (eds), The Archaeology of Yorkshire, 35–116, Leeds: Yorkshire Archaeological Society. Mannermaa, K. (2018), ‘Humans and raptors in northern Europe and northwestern Russia before falconry’, in K.-H. Gersmann and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Falconry and Bird Symbolism Throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 257–76, Kiel: Wachholtz. Mortimer, J. R. (1905), Forty Years’ Researches in British and Saxon Burial Mounds of East Yorkshire, London: A. Brown and Sons. Murgia, A., M. Melkonian and B. W. Roberts (2014), European Bronze Age Gold in the British Museum, London: British Museum. Needham, S. (2005), ‘Transforming Beaker Culture in North-West Europe’, Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 71: 171–217. Needham, S. (2007), ‘The Dagger Blade and Hilt Furnishings from Site D (Ferry Fryston), Burial 2245’, in F. Brown, C. Howard-Davis, M. Brennand, A. Boyle, T. Evans, S. O’Connor, A. Spence, A, R. Heawood and A. Lupton, The Archaeology of the A1 (M) Darrington to Dishforth DBFO Road Scheme, 279–89, Lancaster: Oxford Archaeology North. 133

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Relating to Raptors Viveiros de Castro, E. (1998), ‘Cosmological Deixis and Amerindian perspectivism’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 4 (3): 469–88. Wallis, R. J. (2014), ‘Re-examining prehistoric stone “wrist-guards” as evidence for falconry in later prehistoric Britain’, Antiquity, 88 (340): 411–24. Wallis, R. J. (2017), ‘ “As the falcon her bells” at Sutton Hoo?: Falconry in Early Anglo-Saxon England’, Archaeological Journal, 174 (2): 409–36. Wallis, R. J. (2020), ‘The “northwest Essex Anglo-Saxon ring”, falconry and pagan-Christian discursive space’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 30(3): 413–32. Wallis, R. J. (2021), ‘Hunters and Shamans, Sex and Death: Relational Ontologies and the Materiality of the Lascaux “shaft-scene” ’, in M. Porr and O. Moro-Abadía (eds), Ontologies of Rock Art: Images, Relational Approaches and Indigenous Knowledges, 319–34, London: Routledge. Wilkin, N. (2011), ‘Animal remains from Late Neolithic and Early Bronze Age funerary contexts in Wiltshire, Dorset and Oxfordshire’, Archaeological Journal, 168: 64–95. Wilkin, N. C. A. (2013), ‘Food vessel pottery from early Bronze Age funerary contexts in northern England’, PhD diss., Institute of Archaeology and Antiquity, University of Birmingham. Available online: https://etheses.bham.ac.uk/id/eprint/5192/ (accessed 28 March 2022). Witmore, C. L. (2007), ‘Symmetrical archaeology’, World Archaeology, 39 (4): 546–62. Woodward, A. and J. Hunter, with D. Bukach, F. Roe, P. Webb, R. Ixer, J. Watson and P. Potts (2011), An Examination of Prehistoric Stone Bracers from Britain, Oxford: Oxbow. Woodward, A. and J. Hunter with D. Bukach, S. Needham and A. Sheridan (2015), Ritual in Early Bronze Age Grave Goods, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Yalden, D. W. and U. Albarella (2009), A History of British Birds, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Zedeño, M. N. (2009), ‘Animating by Association: Index Objects and Relational Taxonomies’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 19 (3): 407–17. Zedeño, M. N. (2013), ‘Methodological and Analytical Challenges in Relational Archaeologies’, in C. Watts (ed.), Relational Archaeologies: Humans, Animals, Things, 117–34, London: Routledge.

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CHAPTER 8 RAPTORS IN PRECOLUMBIAN NORTH AMERICA: AN ONTOLOGY OF ART Max Carocci

Introduction Among the most dramatic examples of ancient Native North American expressive cultures there are a series of representations commonly interpreted as birds of prey. This significant corpus of imagery was produced starting from 800 bce during the Adena phase of the Woodland Period, through the Mississippian era (900 to 1700 ce ) in most areas east of the Mississippi valley, and parts of the Midwest, northern and southern US plains. Mississippian peoples and the cultures before them produced a vast quantity of images related to eagles, owls, hawks and other unidentified raptors that have been variably associated with culturally important figures such as the Hero Twins, the Sacred Hawk and the Thunderbird, a powerful being whose eyes produce lightning and whose wing-flapping causes thunder. These characters were all protagonists of charter myths and rituals in which religious and martial meanings overlapped. They embodied the eternal cosmic battle between opposites, and provided a model for conducting one’s life according to specific moral principles based on honour, respect and protection. Archaeologists have widely investigated this production with a special emphasis on how its symbolic content can potentially relate to oral traditions of Mississippians descendants who appeared to retain parts of the traditional repertoire expressed in visual form in Pre-Columbian art (Reilly III & Garber 2007; Lankford et al. 2011). While undoubtedly valuable these interpretations have heavily depended on visual analyses as a means to reconstructing pre-colonial knowledge construction and existential dimensions. Elsewhere I argued for an examination of Indigenous North American art and epistemologies on the basis of experientially-oriented ways of constructing knowledge that were recorded among them in ethnographic literature (Carocci 2017). In what follows I apply recent archaeological and anthropological theories on the person and animistic perceptions of reality to Pre-Columbian Native American images of raptors, so as to construct a better understanding of ways of thinking not based on the same ontological and epistemological bases of Cartesian physics and metaphysics (cf. Emerson & Pauketat 2008; Baltus & Baires 2011; Watts 2013; Harrison-Buck & Hendon 2018). Aligning itself with these theories the present paper advances new insights into the ontological status of these ancient depictions, how they worked and how they articulated the relationship between humans and what existed beyond imagery.

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Inventories and their current interpretations The majority of effigies of raptors made by pre-contact Indigenous North Americans are found in forested areas East of the Mississippi River and around the Great Lakes. After the thirteenth century references to predatory birds appear in the West, partially as a result of migrations of Algonquian- and Siouan-speaking farmers into the area of the Great Plains (Syms 1979; Benn 1989; Schlesier 1994; Berres 2001) and due to the spread of religious ideologies collectively referred to as the ‘Mississippian Ideological Interaction Sphere’ (MIIS) (Reilly III 2007; Pauketat 2013). With this heading archaeologists today describe the geographical distribution of sacred iconography and themes throughout the Mississippian Period. Overall, raptorial imagery can be divided into three categories: parts of birds, entire birds and hybrid figures in which ornitho-, anthropo- and zoomorphic elements are combined. The first two classes appear in the Late Archaic Period (3000–1000 bce ), yet these very stylized, streamlined and abstract ornithomorphs resist any secure taxonomical attribution (Penney 1985a). Later cultural developments display identifiable owls, hawks and turkey vultures such as those on Adena clay tablets (800–100 bce ) (Giles 2013). This imagery is believed by some scholars to be at the root of the ‘bird-man’ symbolism from later periods (Giles cit. in Caldwell 2014/2015: 121). Additional effigies of raptors made of micaceous stone, copper and clay emerge during the Hopewell phase of the Woodland Period between 200 bce and 400 ce . Although, in some cases, archaeologists have positively identified birds on the basis of species-specific features such as beak, body marks, tail shape, wings etc., assigning each image to a determinate taxon has frequently been frustratingly futile. Past imagery is often ambiguous and perhaps deliberately so. Naturalistic copper cut-outs of birds help identify particular species; representations of talons and hybrid figures in which eye markings, hooked beak, malar stripe and supercilium from the Woodland Period, for example, indicate a falcon identity (Squier & Davis 1973; Penney 1985a; Giles 2020). It is generally agreed that Mississippian avian iconography represents ‘true’ hawks (Accipitrinae). Minor variations in details may refer to different beings such as the Sacred Hawk and the Thunderbird, which some argue, are analogically related (Brown 2011: 60). Among the historical descendants of Mississippian cultures Thunderbirds may be associated with different species, but mostly with falcons, with the exception of Sauk and Pawnee who respectively associated these beings with eagles and cranes (Michelson 1930: 54). Evidence for the connection between raptors and the Thunderbird is found in reoccurring motifs, from representations of its messengers such as dragonflies and swallows, to abstract wavy lines, chevrons, hourglass motifs and notably the markings around the eyes (malar stripe) typical of falcons (Brown 1985: 114–17; Benn 1989: 247– 9, figs 4–6; Benn 2019: 132, fig. 16). This unique feature appears realistically represented on the faces of anthropomorphs visible on coppers reliefs, or carved on large shells (possibly funerary masks) excavated from sites in Oklahoma, Tennessee, Alabama, West Virginia and Georgia. In several of these objects the typical falcon eye markings extend 137

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into zig-zagging lines that resemble simultaneously both tears and lightning. This peculiar design is either called ‘forked eye’ or ‘weeping eye’ motif, the latter one resonating with the ‘vision quest’ (see Figure 8.1). Weeping during a vision quest was central to becoming a warrior among many historical Native North American societies linked to the Mississippians. Seeking visions aimed at acquiring the powers of different beings encountered either physically or metaphysically during a period of self-isolation, fasting and sensory deprivation, to establish a line of communication between the human seeker and an incorporeal patron. Significantly, the same jagged design also refers to Thunderbird’s lightning eyes (Waring & Holder 1945; Smith & Barnes Smith 1989). Abstracted into highly stylized icons, falcon eye markings have also been found in the form of simple forked eye silhouettes. Like talons or claws worn on the person they may have worked metonymically, establishing a direct relationship or communication between the human and the animal encountered in the vision. The special treatment of falcons in archaeological and anthropological contexts led many scholars to investigate the reasons why they were so important to Pre-Columbian peoples to deserve such a prominent place in their visual languages and cultural expressions. A clue to the importance of falcons in Pre-Columbian iconography can be detected in early-twentieth-century ethnographies of Osage, Ho-Chunk, Iowa, Kansa and other Prairie and Midwestern peoples descendant from the Mississippians. This literature reveals the central role that falcons, hawks and other raptors played in war-

Figure 8.1 Shell mask, Buffalo Site, West Virginia (16th century). Hawk’s forked eye here turns into a lightning/tear motif from the war/vision quest complex (drawing by the author, adapted from Galloway 1989).

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related ceremonialism of these historic groups even several generations after the end of the Mississippian Period. Hawk scalps, for example, were guarded in sacred bundles, a kind of portable altar used in seasonal ceremonies that guaranteed tribal identity, cultural continuity and protection from enemy attacks (e.g. Ubelaker & Wedel 1975; Kehoe 2004; Zedeño 2008; Pauketat 2013). In ethnographic literature, hawks are important nonhuman agents associated with aggression, speed and great proficiency in pursuing their prey. As such they took a central role in the war complex of early North Americans. Mississippian Period iconography too makes explicit reference to the relationship between hawks and war. Rare depictions from that period show peregrine falcons holding human heads in their talons (e.g. Dye 2004: 198, fig. 15). Talons are a distinctive motif dating to prehistory, as are severed human heads and decapitated torsos. Some effigy heads even display Thunderbird figures encircling their eyes, a detail that completes the connection between warfare, celestial beings’ mighty powers, and hawks as their terrestrial manifestations (Walker 2004: 227, fig. 26). The emphasis on the eyes was probably based on raptors’ remarkable sight, which was translated into the Thunderbird’s ability to strike with the power of its vision, manifested through lightning bolts. Interestingly, during the historic period, individuals from Plains tribes who dreamt of this natural phenomenon were entitled to adopt the falcon eye motif as face paint, or wear zigzag designs on their limbs. These people were said to have special qualities and the power to attack enemies as fast as the hawk during combat. Among the Salteaux from the Canadian prairies, diviners’ powers of inner vision derived from the Thunder beings (Hallowell 1942: 51, n. 80). Further associations with Thunder beings were explicit among the Cheyenne, Assiniboine, Plains Cree and others, where individuals participating in clowning societies had previously dreamt of beings associated with thunder or lightning. They wore canvas masks with weeping eyes that recalled the marks carved on the shell maskettes from the Mississippian Period (Lowie 1909: 65–6, figs 15–17). Such objects have been found as far as the Northern Plains, revealing a deep historical continuity and a widespread diffusion of related symbols and practices (Howard 1953; Smith & Barnes Smith 1989). Among Plains groups, individuals that dreamt, had a vision of, or had close encounters with Thunder beings or lightning, were often compelled to adopt contrary behaviours, and like among the Cheyennes, they were entitled to own magical weapons such as the ‘thunder bows’ that bestowed extraordinary stamina and power in battle (Powell 2002). The prehistoric compound ‘raptor-thunderbird-warrior’ clearly links the warrior ethic with animistic beliefs related to the transmission of, and communication with, invisible powers. This happened through visions, dreams and proximity to substances and materials imbued with specific qualities and properties. Also, it might be achieved through the ingestion of tobacco smoke (Nicotiana rustica) or emetic drinks made with youpon holly (Ilex vomioria), used since ancient times (Ubelaker & Wedel 1975; Brown 1985, 1997; Dye 2004). In the Mississippian socio-religious war complex this chain of associations was centred around the figure of the so-called ‘bird-man’, an ornithoanthropomorph depicted with bird-like features such as talons, wings, tail feathers, beak and lightning or weeping eyes (see Figure 8.2). 139

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Figure 8.2 ‘Bird-man’, copper plate repoussé, Etowah, Georgia (13th century). The figure wears a conch shell pendant reminiscent of archaeological specimens (drawing by the author, adapted from Galloway 1989). Current interpretations of the bird-man are diverse (Phillips & Brown 1978; Emerson 1989; Strong 1989; Brown 2007; Cobb & Giles 2009; King & Reilly III 2011). Mythological themes are frequently invoked to explain what some interpret as clothing worn by some figures. Often, they are explained as representations of heroes or real-life individuals that donned elaborate bird-like costumes and masks used in ritual pageants (Phillips & Brown 1978: 91; Strong 1989: 212). Remains of humans buried in shell-sewn robes in the shape of falcons seem to support this possibility, but as most recently argued, these special accoutrements may have served the purpose of transubstantiating religious specialists in charge of ceremonies into agents that mediated between the world of the living, ancestors and spiritual beings (Baltus & Baires 2011: 176). This may either suggest that the clothing was a means of transformation, or that what in images appears to be clothing was indeed part of that creature. This interpretation 140

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chimes with the idea that these may be depictions of shamans in the act of transforming themselves into birds, or vice versa, birds-turned human, which would be consistent with very old iconography in which anthropo-ornithomorphs indicate this temporary change of state (e.g. Squier & Davis 1973: 247, figs 146, 147; Milner 2004: 83, fig. 59). (see Figure 8.3). Provided that shamanism, itself a very slippery category (cf. Wallis & Carocci 2021), could be positively ascertained among the Mississippians, it has nonetheless been agreed that they held in great esteem ritual specialists that mediated relationships between various realms of existence, and who perhaps had achieved the extraordinary ability of transformation (Emerson 2003; Carmody & Barrier 2020). These individuals maintained the delicate balance between the contrasting forces of the universe and reconciled

Figure 8.3 Falcon-man, Mississippian, Craig style, Brooklyn Museum (1350–1450 ce ). The figure may be the manifestation of an other-than-human being (drawing by the author, adapted from Galloway 1989).

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complementary powers symbolized by opposite pairs. They managed rituals for the good of the community and interceded between upper and lower worlds. The upper worlds were represented by birds, the lower worlds by serpents or mighty Underwater Panthers. The use of specific accoutrements and implements facilitated this important role, one in which communication between various registers of reality was paramount for the acquisition of spiritual power.

An ontology of art The intimate entanglement that Native Americans sought and maintained with raptors and other beings has been taken as proof of the existence of diversely expressed Amerindian relational ontologies (Zedeño 2009; Baltus & Baires 2011; Hill 2011; Betts et al. 2012; Kristensen & Holly 2013). Specialized literature broadly defines relational ontologies as reciprocal modes of acting in a world in which humans are just one species among many that are capable of intentionality and agency. Although the idea was already elaborated by early scholars of Native American religions such as Paul Radin and Irving Hallowell on the basis of ethnographic evidence, new academic writing has begun to apply these ethnographically-based notions of agency and personhood to the past (Radin 1914; Hallowell 1960; Watts 2013; Harrison-Buck & Hendon 2018). There is mounting academic consensus on the geographical extent and historical depth of Native North American relational ontologies. Several archaeologists have reconstructed ancient North American ontologies by way of material objects by applying new theories about animism, agency and personhood (e.g. Benn 1989; Hall 1997; Trevelyan 2003; Mills & Ferguson 2008; Zedeño, 2008, 2009; Cobb & Giles 2009; Betts et al. 2012; VanPool & Newsome 2012; Kristensen & Holly 2013; Pauketat 2013; Spielmann 2013; Matthews 2016; Lawres 2017; Carmody & Barrier 2020). Usually classified as a form of animism, the set of beliefs and practices that Native North Americans developed to explain, interpret and connect the phenomenal and metaphysical realms depended on empirically-based knowledge that engaged both senses and extra-sensorial perceptions (Radin 1914; Burr Alexander 1931; Irwin 1994). Several anthropologists and archaeologists have recently highlighted the importance of subjective experience for knowledge construction in animistic or relational ontologies (Ong 1969; Irwin 1994; Wallis 2009, 2021; Baltus and Baires 2011; Robinson 2013; Watts 2013). This emphasis is particularly notable in the theoretical evaluations of human–animal relationships discussed in specialized literature about North America (Smith 1998; Ingold 2000; Scott 2006). The premises of this process of knowledge construction were steeped in what Walter Ong called an ‘event-world’, one in which both physical and metaphysical experiences contribute to evaluative interpretations of reality by independent subjects (Ong 1969). Echoing Ong’s insights into oral cultures’ epistemologies, historian of religions Lee Irwin on the basis on Plains Indian evidence has cogently argued that in non-literate traditions both physical and metaphysical/extra-sensory phenomena contributed to construct 142

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knowledge about the nature of reality. He demonstrated the centrality of dreams, visions, trance, hypnosis, alternative states and non-material manifestations in their knowledge production, which he calls ‘visionary episteme’ (Irwin 1994: 18–22). Evidence that this mode of knowing was operative among Plains Indians’ Mississippian predecessors is gaining credibility among scholars (e.g. Cobb & Giles 2009; Carmody & Barrier 2020). In the archaeological record the visionary episteme becomes tangible in the material objects used to facilitate encounters with intangible realities beyond the simple quest for spiritual patrons recorded ethnographically. To paraphrase Irwin, the validity of visionary experience would not emerge from cultural contexts that did not value all forms of alternative states of consciousness, from dreaming to trance (Irwin 1994: 16). In the Mississippian Period the visionary episteme materializes in the accoutrements of professionals dedicated to ceremonial activities, curing and divination. Ritual paraphernalia and natural substances such as tobacco (Nicotiana rustica), datura (Datura stramonium), nightshade (Solanum nigrum), or vomit-inducing dahoon holly (Ilex cassine), and yaupon holly (Ilex vomitoria) were used as conduits of communication or facilitators of ritual interactions with metaphysical realms (Brown 1997; Emerson 2003; Reber & Kerr 2012; Barrier 2020). Despite differences between the visionary episteme of eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury Plains Indians’ ‘democratized shamanism’ (cf. Lowie cit. in Hultkrantz [1967] 1979: 74–5, Hultkrantz 1999: 2), and the existence of practices related to alternative states of consciousness among Mississippians, the uninterrupted use of special ritual objects, selected ceremonial roles and ideologies recorded among historical peoples show historical continuity with archaeological contexts. Significant are ethnographic descriptions of the use of tobacco, curing tubes, mythological themes such as transformation and the visionary states of historic ritual specialists reported by European eyewitnesses (Hallowell 1942; Hultkrantz 1967; Irwin 2011). Together these beliefs and practices indicate that visionary episteme’s historical roots can be found in PreColumbian socio-religious complexes (Barrier 2020). Mississippians’ ideological and philosophical prerogatives are becoming increasingly clear through recent phenomenological studies of archaeological material (Pauketat 2013; Carmody & Barrier 2020). Current interpretations of Mississippian falcon imagery can now integrate insights from research suggesting that images that look like representations of real life, in fact, happen in celestial realms (Knight et al. 2001). If this interpretation is correct, these could be sacred effigies that manifested intangible beings in the phenomenal world. Single-level interpretations that stress connotative or denotative aspects of symbolism advanced so far should not clash with the proposition that objects are multi-layered clusters of symbolic operations that can work at different levels. Elsewhere I have maintained that Native North American imagery can be understood at once as literal, metaphorical and experiential (Carocci 2017; see also Betts et al. 2012). This latter dimension is what aligns my position with recent theories that take seriously Amerindian metaphysical thinking. More specifically, I uphold that these new perspectives can help us articulate how material objects worked in the past and specifically how iconography 143

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might have affected Mississippian users in virtue of the materials that supported it. This question seems legitimate due to well documented connections that Native Americans made between essences and substances. In both historical and Pre-Columbian visionary epistemologies, human persons are constituted by the sum of the powers they muster through the use of materials that either embody or transmit them. A widespread emphasis on the relationship between humans and raptors is diagnostic of shared features of Amerindian ontologies, most significantly, that humans and animals can change into one another; and the notion that humans can partake in animals’ spiritual powers beyond the constraints of the material world. Animals and humans in Amerindian thinking live on a continuum in which degrees of personhood can be detected in intentionality, character, agency, abilities and will. Linked to this concept of agency is the idea that animals, intangible beings and humans can communicate and interpret each other’s signs according to a notion of personhood that cuts across species (Hallowell 1960; Detwiler 1992). These fundamental ideas probably originate in archaic forms of animism visible in the treatment of animals and the respect with which some of them were worshipped, buried, stored in sacred bundles and traded (Ubelaker & Wedel 1975; Fishel 1997; Pauketat 2013; Zedeño et al. 2018). Notably, Woodland and Mississippian Period copper effigies of raptors too were disposed with the same care as tangible birds. They have been found wrapped in several layers of textiles, bark and leather, indicating a direct analogy with sacred ‘bird persons’ of the phenomenal world (Trevelyan 2003: 131–2). Like historical Indigenous peoples, Mississippians established communication with animals and incorporeal entities to access powers, properties and forces that they embodied, and that were expressed through their behaviour. Communication was achieved by way of objects that contained parts of a given animal, an effigy or a material associated with the powers a specific being was believed to be endowed with. The relationship between animals, intangible entities and humans was one of participation because in every act or object involved in the evocation of any specific being, the human agent partook of its powers in a bond of reciprocity, yet only particular materials transmitted specific powers.

Sacred materials The frequency with which Mississippian Period raptors appear on shell and copper indicates that these materials were particularly significant. This also points to a direct link between iconography and the materiality of raptorial representations. This relationship is essential to understand how Mississippians may have connected with intangible entities and partook of their powers through materials directly associated with special beings. The theory of objects as transmitters originally proposed by Schiffer and Miller (1999) enabled archaeologists working in the North American context to think of certain material expressions as the third element of communication between senders and receivers (e.g. Walker 2009). In this model, the object, or transmitter, mediates between two agents, for example between a human and a non-human actor. 144

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Shifting our attention to the role of falcon symbolism in mediating relationships, we can see how objects with identifiable iconographies can act as extensions or manifestations of the animals’ essence and/or presence. Materials and images together actively transmit the power of the being represented in a fashion similar to conduit objects from other Amerindian cultures (e.g. Mills & Ferguson 2008; Blaney 2010; VanPool & Newsome 2012). I maintain that also during the Mississippian Period raptorial iconographies and their material supports were not just transmitters, but ontological portals of access in the communicative continuum between humans, animals and incorporeal beings. Materially-reproduced ornithomorphs and hybrid characters may become a vehicle for the powers they embody, and which in turn can potentially be transmitted through proximity with the objects on which they are made manifest. I take these items to be what archaeologist María Nieves Zedeño calls ‘index objects’, that is, any artefact ‘that can modify or altogether alter the properties of any object, human, or place that becomes associated with it’ (Zedeño 2013: 124). This concept is particularly useful for understanding the Mississippian items with falcon iconography because it simultaneously puts the accent on the physical objects’ properties and expands the interpretations proposed for artefacts made in animistic contexts. Index objects disclose a dense cluster of semiotic and phenomenological processes enacted and embedded in ritual action, and other contextual uses, that exceed a simple concern with symbolization. They put in sharp focus not just what objects signify, but how they establish communication between human and non-human agents, opening a channel of transmission across registers of reality through the materials on which iconographies are executed. In this interpretation, we move our attention from the image to its materiality and the processes through which symbols/images worked in real-life situations. This theoretical shift may help us understand why most of the raptorial representations were made of specific materials such as copper, mica or shell and how they worked in the system of communication between raptors, the beings they embodied and their human interlocutors. The notion that objects and images might be communicative devices with indexing value as suggested by Zedeño may lead us to think of them, and more specifically copper plates and shell objects, as ‘technologies of the intangible’. They can be thought as liminal objects that materialize and facilitate relationships between humans, Thunderbirds, Underwater Panthers and their associated animals. Without the proper instruments, they would be inaccessible to humans. This rendered essential the use of particular objects and representations that could transmit specific powers through the detectable qualities of the materials with which they were executed. Exotic and precious materials used by Mississippian elites such as copper, mica and shell have been variously associated with intangible worlds due to their inherent properties and characteristics. Brilliance, reflection, lustre, opalescence, iridescence, colour and even smell had metaphysical associations throughout the continent (e.g. Saunders 1999; Trevelyan 2003). It is symptomatic that among historic period North American descendants of the Mississippians copper nuggets were jealously guarded in bags decorated with figures of Thunderbirds and Underwater Panthers, even some 145

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generations after the demise of Mississippian chiefdoms (Penney 1985b: 151, fig. 26; Berres 2001: 158, fig. 16). The importance of copper in North America has been remarked since the Archaic era (8000–1000 bce ) and especially during the Old Copper complex (3000–500 bce ) when it started being worked into projectile points, axe heads, bells and ceremonial objects of more ideotechnic than practical value (Mason 1981; Penney 1985b: 150). Later on, in Hopewell and Mississippian periods, copper became a prestigious material with deep symbolic connotations (Penney 1985b: 149–50; Trevelyan 2003; Ehrhardt 2009; Claassen 2015). Echoes of the importance of copper for the Mississippians were recorded ethnographically among Great Lakes peoples who associated this mineral with the thunder and underwater creatures simultaneously (Trevelyan 2003: 121, 124). Both copper and shell concurrently evoked the power of water and air either via iconography or the properties they were endowed with. The Mississippian man wrapped in a falcon-shaped cape decorated with shells, and shells on which appear copious images of sky beings related to raptors, should therefore not appear coincidental. Chiefs and ritual specialists among descendants of the Mississippians continued to wear copper plates on the chest, or on the head through the colonial period, and like in the case of twentieth-century Chitimacha chiefs of Louisiana, on the forehead in the same guise as Mississippian men of prestige (Swanton 1911: 345; Carocci 2014). Shell too has been continuously harvested and traded since antiquity for its profound associations with water and underwater beings. During Mississippian times bird-men themselves appear wearing conch shell pendants carved on ceremonial implements (Deter-Wolf & Peres 2014) (see Figure 8.2). In the historic period shell continued to have important spiritual value, as evident in the Thunderbird-presided Midewiwin rites of the Great Lakes and the Midwest, and in Plains societies’ sacred bundles (Howard 1953, 1956; Howey & O’Shea 2006). Copper’s reflective behaviour and shell’s iridescence may have constituted the preconditions for highly evocative chains of associations that paired these materials with sky and water. These were the realms in which Thunderbirds and lower-world beings respectively lived. As such these materials may have been regarded as conduits between worlds; technologies that enabled the communication between beings and that facilitated transformational processes for the individuals wearing or using them. Not surprisingly, it was copper’s ability to change form through forging (application of heat) or by friction (polishing) that offered the perfect metaphor for transformation sought by Mississippian ritual specialists (Trevelyan 2003). Processes for manufacturing copper incorporated fire into a metal associated with water, which rendered it ever more powerful because it condensed in the very material, and the images that decorated it, the eternal cosmological battle between Thunderbirds and underwater beings. Although these chains of associations may seem contradictory from an outsider’s point of view, they make perfect sense in an animistic ontology in which ritual specialists frequently embody, and yet transcend, opposites. It is precisely the ability to reconcile, manifest and ritually control mutually exclusive domains such as tangible and intangible realms of experiences that made this class of people powerful among the Mississippians and their descendants. 146

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Conclusion If copper and shell objects on which Thunder beings appeared in the guise of raptors functioned as indexes (sensu Zedeño), they conjured up and manifested the beings they represented in phenomenal reality. Establishing a connection with the forces and powers characteristic of beings such as Thunderbirds could ultimately be achieved only by way of the materials that most clearly embodied them. As technologies of the intangible, plates and shell breastplates, copper effigies and cups displaying Thunder beings by way of raptorial imagery allowed humans to fully experience the world of these mighty creatures, who could more easily communicate with human persons by intercession of ritual specialists that knew how to activate the connection between different levels of the cosmos. Wearing these powerful objects Mississippian ritual specialists took part in the world of incorporeal beings, sharing their essence and power trapped in the fire contained in copper and the water embodied in the iridescence of shells. Seen from Mississippians’ perspective, raptor images are not ‘representations’ because they transport in the phenomenal world what is unseen. They are rather ‘manifestations’ of what exists in intangible realities that allow humans to access all that is experienced both through the senses and extra-sensorially. There is, of course, still much we don’t know about these technologies of metaphysical communication. Yet, if we truly give credit to the ways in which ancient Native North Americans made sense of the continuum between different spheres of reality, we may come closer to the meanings they attributed to raptorial representations, their material worlds, and all the beings that inhabited their sensorium; effectively engaging with art from an ontological perspective that some of us believe, is more loyal to the subjects we hope to understand.

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CHAPTER 9 BIRDS OF PREY IN ANCIENT AMAZONIA: PREDATION AND PERSPECTIVE IN CERAMIC ICONOGRAPHY Cristiana Barreto and Marcony Alves

Introduction Amazonian precolonial imagery is full of animals. Unlike the neighbouring Andean region, plants cannot be recognized in the shapes or decorations of ceramics, lithic sculptures or rock art. Although human shapes are common, animals predominate, especially birds, reptiles and mammals. Birds of prey, such as vultures, hawks, owls and eagles occupy a prominent position in the iconographic repertoires of the Amazon and neighbouring areas and can be recognized in the ceramics by beings that are modelled or painted with hooked beaks, caruncles, crests, head shapes and talons.  This chapter examines the presence of raptorial birds in two lower Amazon ceramic styles: the Marajoara, at the Amazon delta (400–1400 ce); and Santarém, where the Tapajós river meets the Amazon (1300–1600 ce). Both ceramic styles are related to the intensification of ritual practices which followed the growth of settlements in their respective areas (Gomes 2001; Schaan 2008, 2016). In Marajoara contexts, large burials were structured around funerary urns in the shape of owls or harpy eagles (Harpia harpyja), while also displaying human attributes such as body adornments. In Santarém ceramics, ritual vessels include king vultures (Sarcoramphus papa) modelled in a variety of shapes and sizes.  This chapter argues that depictions of raptorial birds in precolonial ceramics cannot be taken as simple representations. Rather, these depictions must be understood as active modifiers of life and death in ritual contexts. Visual expressions that contain depictions of birds of prey are discussed in this chapter as part of Amazonian perspectivist ontologies, wherein the attributes of bodies, human and animal, are defined by principles of predation. In Amazonian perspectivist ontologies, predators such as raptorial birds, together with jaguars, caimans and anacondas, are endowed with superlative agency due to their predatorial capacities. The use of artefacts made with their body parts (such as talons, beaks and feathers), or with their image and shape, can increase human capacities, induce shamanic trances, and protect and empower negotiations with predators. Amazonian ontologies of predation and birds of prey Across the globe, humans have established a special relationship with raptors due to their amazing hunting capacities. In Amerindian Amazonia this is even more so given that 152

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sociability is built around the concept of predation proper. In contemporary Indigenous cosmologies, this is apparent in the enormous importance given to hunting (even among agricultural societies); in the general conception of a relationship with nature that prioritizes social and symbolic interactions with animal ‘peoples’; and in which shamanism play a central role. As in other animistic societies, for Amazonian Amerindians the world is inhabited by different classes of people who apprehend reality from different perspectives. Together with human beings, other entities, mainly animals (but also spirits, some plants and even artefacts) are considered humans, in the sense of being endowed with consciousness and reflexivity. Perspectivist ontologies are based on the idea that humanity was once shared by all these beings in a distant past. Over time, separation ensued, with some people, and classes of people, gaining different body attributes but retaining human cultural behaviour. Therefore, animals and other beings are ex-humans who still see themselves as humans. Within the broader studies of Amazonian perspectivism, the question of predation stands out. The importance of predation is clear in that: perspectivism does not usually involve all animal species (besides covering other beings); the emphasis seems to be on those species which perform a key symbolic and practical role such as the great predators and the principal species of prey for humans - one of the central dimensions, possibly even the fundamental dimension, of perspectival inversions refers to the relative and relational statuses of predator and prey. Viveiros de Castro 1998: 471 Indeed, interactions are permeated by an ‘ideology of ontological predation’ that serves as a regime of constituting collective identities (Viveiros de Castro 2002: 343). The conceptual difference between predator and prey guides native classifications of beings along a scale from less to more dangerous. And many practices related to disease or death entail taboos or restraints performed as negotiations with predatory animals. Predation transforms all the parts and parties involved, in as much that the properties of the prey are passed on to the predator; and most important, that predation produces kinship among humans (Fausto 2007). The sharing of food and commensality not only mark relations among kins, but also produce them: to eat as someone and with someone is a strong vector of identity, as it is to abstain oneself for or with someone. A fundamental aspect of Amazonian cosmologies is the existence of forest spirits from mythical times. They are invisible to the common person, but shamans can contact them in their trances. Some spirits are considered ‘owners’ or ‘masters´, and can control humans or grant the use of certain resources, such as particular plants and animals (Fausto 2008). These forest spirits also see themselves as humans and other beings as prey. So, when studying birds of prey and their depiction in the Amazonian past, one must take into consideration not only the dangers involved in a relation with such predators, 153

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but also their position in the predatory chain. In Amerindian Amazonia, raptors, even the largest ones such as the harpy eagle, do not pose a real threat to human life. They do, however, feed on the deceased and may play an important role in funerary practices. Nor is it common for humans to hunt raptorial birds for food. However, their feathers are highly valued for body adornments and other artefacts. Among the Karitiana, for instance, the long and broad feathers of harpy eagles are attached to hunting arrows to improve the precision of their trajectory. The Karitiana shamans also address a special chant to the harpy eagles, calling them ‘my brother-in-law’, asking for monkey in their hunting journey (Vander Velden 2020). Thus, ultimately, birds of prey and humans retain a complex relationship in Amerindian Amazonia, involving kinship and warfare, commensality, similar positions in the predatory chain, and rivalry, in that they compete in the hunting of several prey, such as monkeys, birds, reptiles and other small mammals. In this shifting, interactive interspecies world, birds of prey also play an important role in shamanic practices, especially related to the sky domain as a locus of the shamans’ journey during their trances (Reichel-Dolmatoff 1987). In many cases, birds act as assistants to the shaman, showing them the way, or sharing with them their vision skills (Daly & Shepard 2019). In other cases, feathers of predatory birds are preferred for body ornaments because they improve the shamans’ flight and increase their ‘humanity essence´, that is, their ability to participate in the different domains of the cosmos and establish links between them, as documented among the Xikrin: ‘They have feathers, they can fly’ (Giannini 1991: 184).

Birds of prey in ancient Amazonia The archaeology of the Amazon, as indicated at the beginning of this chapter, is filled with depictions of animals, including many birds, but particularly birds of prey. This is evidence that the symbolic significance of birds of prey, as described above, is deeply rooted in the long history of Amerindian peoples in the region. Depictions of raptorial birds are present in the rock art at the earliest sites of the region, where human occupation and rock paintings date to c. 12,000 years ago (Pereira & Moraes 2019). Birds (perhaps raptorial birds) also appear on a few quite rare stone carvings. However, most of the imagery is found on pottery. The representation of animals in ceramics dates to the earliest traditions of village life in the Amazon (Pocó-Açutuba Tradition, dating to 1000 bce ), where an intense management of the forest is attested to by the rich organic soils known as ‘Amazonian dark earth’ (Neves et al. 2014). Here, and in subsequent styles, animal imagery, including the depiction of birds, appears frequently as zoomorphic rim appendages, with the animal head forming a small globular volume. Hooked beaks are especially diagnostic of birds of prey, together with feathered crests for harpy eagle heads; caruncles and white, red and yellow painting for king vultures, and the pair of wide, facial discs for owls (Tyto alba or Asio sp.) (Schaan 1997; Boomert 2001; Alves 2020; Oliveira 2022). However, 154

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animal representations, most frequently, are extremely ambiguous and lack such details that would allow the identification of species. Such ambiguity, however, seems to be a trait that is carried on to subsequent ceramic traditions. Indeed, this might be intentional in the sense that depictions would represent generic animal ‘peoples’, belonging to different domains such as terrestrial, celestial and aquatic, as is common in Amazonian cosmologies. In some cases, these depictions could also refer to beings in mutation, in processes of body transformation, which is also typical of animistic societies. Fausto (2020) argues that Amerindian iconography has a very specific way of picturing transformation in ritual objects, where the transformational nature of beings and the ambiguity of forms are indicated, precisely, by the multiplication of referents and the mixture between animal and human forms. However, the opposite is worth noting. The representation of raptorial birds is very clear on some ritual artefacts, especially depictions of king vultures, harpy eagles and owls. For example, Figure 9.1.d displays appendages in the shape of vulture and owl heads as adornments on top of the lid/head of anthropomorphic funerary urns of the Polychrome Tradition (900–1600 ce ). In studying the materiality of how birds of prey are present in ceramics one must pay attention to the fact that many artefacts can be conceived of as having their own agency.

Figure 9.1 Birds of prey in the archaeology of the Amazon: a) Harpy eagle painting in the rock art from Monte Alegre, lower Amazon (height: 40 cm; Drawing: Edithe Pereira); b) Harpy eagle head ornament from Pocó-Açutuba tradition (Collection: Museu de Ciência e Tecnologia, Pontifícia Universidade Católica do Rio Grande do Sul, Photo: Marcony Alves); c) Representation of vulture in a multiperspectival stone carving from lower Amazon; from top down: bird, human face, and feline; height: 9.3 cm (Collection and photo archive: MCTI/Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi); d) Ornament in the shape of vulture and owl heads on lids of Amazonian Polychrome tradition funerary anthropomorphic urns from the Tefé area (urn height 70 cm) (Collection: Instituto Mamirauá; Photos and artwork: Erêndira Oliveira).

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An important way of turning artefacts into subjects is to confer unto them similar morphologies (animal and human). This transfers their respective qualities or powers to the artefact (Barcelos Neto 2008, Velthem 2010). Another important principle of the fabrication of the body is what Santos-Granero (2009) calls the Amazonian constructivist model. From this perspective, the idea is that a person is built from a complex relationship between different forms of life, including relations of predation, and is conceived as a composite entity made up of bodies and body parts from a range of life forms. In the artefactual domain, this results in a bricolage of composite objects and images, made up of anatomical features of different animals and humans (Lagrou 2013; SantosGranero 2009; Severi 2013). In the artistic expressions of the ancient Amazon, these relations of incorporation between beings and their parts can result, not only in objects and images in the shape of hybrid beings, but also in multiple-perspective representations; where different beings can be seen depending on which side of the object is shown (Barreto 2017; Gomes 2021). One example is the stone carving displayed in Figure 9.1.b, which can be perceived either as a bird, a human face, or a jaguar, depending on the angle of its position and viewpoint. Transformation is thereby implied by animation of the object through movement. The following sections review two cases where raptorial birds seem to occupy a central place in the ceramic iconographic repertoire of ancient Amazonia: Marajoara

Figure 9.2 Map of lower Amazon with Marajoara and Santarém archaeological areas. (Graphic art: Marcony Alves). 156

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funerary urns and Santarém vases. Taken together, they represent different ways to express deep-rooted Amazonian ontological principles through depictions that represent the complex relationships between humans and animals, especially birds of prey.

Birds of prey in Marajoara funerary urns The Marajoara ceramic style flourished in the Amazon estuary on the eastern side of Marajó Island around 400 ce and lasted until the century before the European invasion. It grew out of a long-term human occupation of an environment of grassland fields shaped by strong tidal and rain systems, turning the fields into flooded areas for half the year. The Marajoara people developed elaborate techniques to manage water resources, taking advantage of tidal movements to create massive fishponds. They also built earth mounds for both habitation and ceremonial purposes. Their sophisticated ceramics, with remarkably intricate designs, were preserved in vast numbers commonly found, until today, in the numerous groups of mounds along rivers, lakes, estuaries and ponds that have been object of research since the nineteenth century. Indeed, Marajoara ceramics remain at the centre of debates about social complexity in the Amazon (Roosevelt 1993; Schaan 2016). The most impressive objects are the large funerary urns found in mounds which display a wide variety of mortuary practices, including primary and secondary burials, the placement of the remains of both individual and multiple bodies inside the same urn, cremation, semicremation, disarticulation, and the presence of painted human bones inside and around the urns, alongside an array of smaller vessels, stone objects and body ornaments. Marajoara funerary urns belong to a wide and consistent repertoire of large and small ceramic objects (such as plates, pots, jars, figurines, pubic covers and other body adornments), all of which were made following extremely rigid patterns for both shape and decoration. Marajoara ceramics also combine a great number of decorative techniques, using contrasting tones of red and black paint over white slipped surfaces; and modelling, incising, and excising to create designs in relief. Complex iconographic structures use geometric designs and elements of bodies, human and animal, to produce intricate, eye-catching motifs and endless variations around core themes. Animals such as double-headed snakes, scorpions, lizards, turtles and birds are frequent and often, in turn, compose larger, human figures. The heads of vultures are notably depicted on the rim of bowls and plates, serving as adornments, handles or wings. Although less frequent, king vultures are also depicted. Vulture heads also appear on the sides of a particular type of funerary urn which display a general anthropomorphic shape, elevated by a conical base (probably referring to an individual seated on a stool). However, body parts are often formed by the dual depiction of animals or parts of animals. For example, in this type of Marajoara urn, the human eyes take the form of scorpion shapes (Plate 9.1). This model of Marajora urns, named Pacoval or Anajás, also shares several features with another archaeological ceramic style found in Central and Upper Amazon, the already mentioned Polychrome tradition (900–1600 ce ). These common features 157

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include the conical form of bases or seats, their anthropomorphic shapes, and the representation of individual human bodies formed by the dual depiction of animals or parts of animals. These similarities have led archaeologists to elaborate on the historical relationship between Marajoara culture at the Delta of the Amazon, and possible origins from the upper Amazon or even Andean areas (Meggers & Evans 1957), or on the contrary, to view local Marajoara culture absorbing styles and principles of representation from outsiders at a later period (Barreto 2009). Following a principle of morphological analogy, the urns of the Polychrome tradition display elongated snakes that form the arms of the human body. In the case of Marajó urns, however, arms are either absent, or depicted clearly as human arms, while vulture heads are present to form either shoulders or shortened arms (Plate 9.1.b). Also, in some cases, these urns are shaped following a very typical principle of Marajoara style; the use of split representation. In this case, the front of the human body is mirrored on the other side of the urn, and both ‘fronts’ are joined on the sides exactly where one finds the vulture heads (Plate 9.1.a). The vulture, then, is part of this bricolage of imagery that splits, mirrors, joins, and thereby forms new images. This is a defining characteristic of the Marajoara style. It is also a good example of a chimeric representational system as defined by Severi and Lagrou (2013), and identified by Barreto (2014) as a tool to induce the vision of new images, just as drugs, music, dance and other sensorial stimulations act in ritual practices. The representation of vultures in funerary contexts might also be related to practices of secondary burials where they may take part in de-fleshing the body for the preparation and inhumation of bones. However, the iconography of urns also suggests an intention to incorporate the attributes of vultures into the human body, perhaps related to the idea that vultures can help the soul of the dead to fly, or pass, into other sky domains; or can serve to help shamans in funerary rituals. Another type of Marajoara funerary urn, larger in size, and with more visually impressive decorations, was made in the shape of a bird’s body, most probably a harpy eagle, although previous studies have also mentioned owls (Schaan 1997) (Plate 9.2). Among the raptors present in the iconography of ceramics, the harpy eagle is certainly the largest and most powerful. Although adult harpy eagles are at the top of the food chain, chicks may be the prey of felines. Their large, robust hook-shaped beak and strong feet equipped with impressive black talons (including a large rear talon, the hallux, which is around twelve centimetres long), enables them to hunt large animals. The prey of harpy eagles is composed mainly of tree-dwelling mammals, such as sloths and monkeys, but also terrestrial mammals, birds and reptiles (Galetti & Carvalho-Junior 2000). Their excellent vision allows them to spot prey up to 200 metres away to initiate effective surprise attacks. Harpy eagles reach between 90–105 centimetres in length with wingspans over two metres. Their round shaped heads display beautiful erectile crests with feathers of different sizes. A few elements present on large Marajoara funerary urns point to the harpy eagle as the main reference. Starting with size, these vessels can reach close to 100 centimetres in height and seventy centimetres in diameter. They also display a round face with decorations that could correspond to the crest, and very clear talons with a prominent 158

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hallux. These urns usually contain human remains of several individuals and were inhumated at the centre of a larger funerary structures, as if demarcating a special place at the top of a hierarchical spatial arrangement. Their composition follows a strict pattern with the globular bulge corresponding to the body of the bird, covered with intricate designs painted in red and black, or black over a white base, while the neck of the urn corresponds to the face of the bird, with two large, rounded eyes (see Plate 9.2). At first sight, the eyes of these vessels seem the most striking element. These prominent rounded three-dimensional bulges stand out from the surface, causing the observer to immediately engage in mutual eye contact. This powerful artistic technique animates the objects, facilitating ‘mutual looking’, as described by Gell (1998: 120). Moreover, this effect is amplified by the fact that the front of the bird figure is mirrored on the back of the urn, so that wherever you look at the vessel there will always be a pair of eyes looming. This could be related also to the capacity of harpy eagles and owls to turn their heads 180 degrees. The importance of eyes may also be a reference to the bird’s exceptionally good vision. The painted designs on the body show large wings, which are combined with legs ending in prominent feet with three front talons and a large hallux, as if the bird is perched. Between the wings/legs, in some cases it is possible to see either a small animal being, or a graphic motif that corresponds to criss-crossed snakes, probably alluding to the birds’ prey. Other vessels display a large red circle, which could represent an egg being hatched. Harpies typically lay two eggs at a time in a long reproductive cycle. They nest in the tallest trees, usually a Brazil nut tree that is an economic resource extremely valued by Indigenous groups today. The most interesting feature, however, is that these bird figures wear human body ornaments, including ear spools, tassels around the ears, with feathers laying on the shoulders, and a necklace with a cylindrical pendant like inhalers made of bird bones used by shamans in Colombia (Reichel-Dolmatoff 1990). Shepard has documented how the Machiguenga of the Peruvian Amazon consider the harpy eagle as the proprietor of hunting knowledge. According to this account, the harpy eagle spirit appeared, long ago, in human form and taught shamans the knowledge of special toxic plants to sharpen vision, cleanse and purify the body (Shepard 1998: 10). This complex hybrid figure of a humanized harpy eagle certainly follows one of the most common elements that characterize Amazonian shamanic art; figures that represent the ability of shamans to dissociate their spirits from their bodies in order to fly and thereby penetrate other dimensions of the cosmos, an action that according to Reichel-Dolmatoff (1990: 26) ‘symbolizes the death followed by rebirth in a state of knowledge . . . which is acquired from another cognitive dimension’. Such considerations are even more consistent when relating death and rebirth to funerary contexts.

Birds of prey in Santarém ceramics Santarém ceramic style (also known as Tapajó or tapajonic) is found on the lower Tapajós river, where it joins the Amazon, and dates to the late precolonial period (1300–1600 ce ) (Schaan 2012; Stenborg 2016; Gomes 2016). The Tapajó people who produced this 159

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pottery interacted with Europeans in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and there are written records about its social organization, rituals and shamanism (Nimuendajú 1952). Colonial texts mention a large Tapajó population consistent with the large archaeological settlements found where the city of Santarém lies today. The ceramic style is characterized by small, highly elaborate animal and human-shaped modellings – sometimes with black, red or polychrome painting and white slip. Most of this ceremonial pottery is known from museum collections, with poor contextual information. The Santarém iconographic repertoire includes a wide range of animals, such as king vultures, frogs, jaguars, rodents, bats, wild dogs and caimans, alongside the depiction of humans, male and female, in the form of figurines and effigy vases (Palmatary 1960). Regarding birds, the literature is unanimous in stressing the centrality of the king vulture (Palmatary 1960; Gomes 2001), while other bird species are more rarely depicted, as in ceramic whistles. King vultures are also among the largest birds of the region. They display a striking red and orange colouring on their head and neck, and their beak carries a large caruncle over the nostrils. Their body is covered by voluminous white plumage (Sick 1997). Unlike harpy eagles, they do not have strong feet with large talons capable of catching animals, but their strong beaks, keen eyesight and sense of smell enable them to identify dead animals, open carcasses, and feed before other species, thus the popular nicknames for king vultures such as ‘boss’ or ‘chief ’. These raptors are also central to many Indigenous Amazonian cosmologies. They share the predatory behaviour of feeding upon the dead with other raptors. However, their ‘majestic clothing’, gigantic body and ability to move between cosmic layers is singled out as special. In many myths, a giant king vulture is referred to as the Lord of the Sky, the original holder of fire, and linked to the Sun (Viveiros de Castro 1992; Mindlin 2002; Boomert 2001). At the same time, king vultures can be responsible for the passage to the heavens of the souls of dead people (Viveiros de Castro 1992), as well as helping shamans to cure disease. King vultures are more frequent in two of the most iconic Santarém pottery vessels, known as caryatid vessels and necked vessels (Plate 9.3). These are small vases, with less than 800 millilitres of volumetric capacity and up to fifteen centimetres in height, that are replete with zoomorphic and anthropomorphic figurations (Gomes 2007; Alves 2018). There are two different visual themes identified as vultures that, considering their relative scale and different attributes, are here called Little Vulture and Great Vulture. While the smaller bird is found in both types of vases and in other rarer types (Palmatary 1960: 134, 138), the larger bird theme is exclusive to necked vases and appears always in diametrically opposite pairs. Necked vessels are structured around a body formed by six buds and appendages extending from the body in perpendicular axes of symmetry. On one axis, the two heads of the Great Vulture are found. On the other axis, a pair of toads is rendered, smaller than the vultures, but oversized in scale. The Great Vulture displays a large, curved beak, with small animals or references to animals at its uppermost point. The wings, feet and tail of the bird are connected to the body in a very stylized or stunted way. The position of the limbs resembles a bird with open wings about to take flight. The configuration of head and 160

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other parts of the body are quite varied, which has led several authors to consider them as depictions of different animals (caiman and king vulture, respectively) (Gomes 2007). The Great Vulture appears in more complex forms of a composite, ‘monstrous’ being, carrying various other beings, or, in simpler forms, in which parts of other beings are only suggested. This monstrous variant depicts a bird with a very elongated beak and a spiral tip, a feature without any counterpart in the Amazon avifauna (Plate 9.3.a–b). Two or three animals ride upon the Great Vulture’s beak, which serves to indicate its enormous scale (Plate 9.3.a–c). In contrast, less elaborate, apparently naturalistic variations of the Great Vulture exhibit a less explicit way of indicating the presence of other beings. The grooved wattles and bald head, diagnostic features of the king vulture, also serve to differentiate the visual theme from the natural species. An applied strip around the head (forming an omega shape) can be an allusion to either wattles or flexed frog legs. Similar flexed frog legs are found in several Santarém vessels and green stone pendants or muiraquitãs. In some vases there is a perforated disc on the top of the head, and two eyes, while others display a frog head circumscribed by the strip (Plate 9.3.e). The caruncle is also a chimeric composition in itself taking both the shape of a vulture’s body part and a bird head (Plate 9.3.d–e). Comparison of the monstrous variant with simpler examples suggests that the animals over the beak ‘emerge’ from the caruncle of a bird with a closed beak and a curved tip. Different stages of this process can be identified in the iconographic corpus, beginning as a caruncle with an eye and beak, through the full depiction of a small bird. The monstrous variation, in some examples, features human heads or snake heads at the tip of the wings. Variations of the Great Vulture are thus chimeric bodies with different degrees of explicit and implicit beings being depicted. In comparison, the depiction of the Little Vulture occurs most often around a carinated wall of caryatid vessels, with alternating open and closed wings creating a kinetic effect. In some cases, they are in an atypical anatomical position with the head turned 180 degrees. From differences in body configuration, it is possible to distinguish three steps in the metamorphosis: first as the common bird (in naturalist terms) (Plate 9.3.e–f), second as a bicephalous bird (Plate 9.3.g), and third as human-bird (Plate 9.3.h). The common bird is the closest to the simple variant of the Great Vulture, having a bipartite element on the beak, suggesting a caruncle, or pronounced nostrils, reminiscent of a king vulture. Over the head of this figure is a tripartite crest or arch. Another variation in caryatid vessels is a bat (Plate 9.3.i) that replaces the common bird and probably can be related to the winged human (Plate 9.3.h). The size difference between the two themes is important for interpreting the cosmological position and nature of king vultures in Santarém iconography. As mentioned above, a fundamental aspect of Amazonian cosmologies is the existence of animal spirits that are ‘owners’ or ‘masters’ (Fausto 2008). The difference in size usually indicates their power. Among the Yawalapíti, in the Upper Xingu, for example, there are the common birds seen in the forest or raised at home, and their owner is the gigantic two-headed vulture (Viveiros de Castro 2002). Forest animals can be seen as derived from those primeval mythical times: ‘So [according to the Wauja people], caimans [found in rivers] have very rough skin, elongated mouth, and bulging eyes because the [primal] Caiman 161

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also has them’ (Barcelos Neto 2008:79). Such spirits retain certain elements of the common animal, but also include anthropomorphism, artefacts, or parts of other beings. The existence of zoomorphic beings with different potentials and attributes which are different from common animals has implications for Indigenous graphic arts today and, certainly, also in the past. In the collective house of the Wayana men, there is a circular panel placed on the ceiling that always features the figure of Kuluwajak, a mythical snake-like caterpillar, with two heads, antennae and other attributes (Duin 2006). Kuluwajak is the largest being in this composition, which has a series of figures of animals and smaller humans, who are beings of the everyday world. Both the differences in size and the specific attributes of these depictions of Kuluwajak are similar to the Great Vulture and, to a lesser degree, to the examples of Little Vultures. In the latter case, however, even though it is smaller, a similarity remains; it is a spiritually powerful being whose body merges into another. In Tapajó art, both king vulture themes belong to the mythical time, characterized by bodily metamorphosis. The morphology and graphic design of both necked vases and caryatid vases suggest the consumption of small doses of liquids in a ritual context. The presence of supernatural king vultures in stages of metamorphosis in Santarém ceramics are surely related to their context of use. The image of the king vulture, alongside the harpy eagle, is a vector of predatory power for some Indigenous peoples (Velthem 2003: 354; de Goeje 1943: 71). For example, carved on the sticks of Katxuayana shamans, images of king vultures were used as weapons to defend against pathogenic spirits. As an ethnographer notes, ´it is not without fear that this object is handled, since the animal (spirit) carved into the staff can take revenge and cause misfortune’ (Polykrates 2021: 85). The depiction of king vultures on necked and caryatid vases may have had a similar function: to depict, represent and transmit predatory potential, the metamorphosis of bodies, and transitions between cosmic layers, phenomena involving both the contents of vases and those that use them. These vessels may have been used by shamans in rituals, such as those described in the chronicles of the seventeenth century (Nimuendajú 1952). As in the case of many Indigenous ritual objects today, these vessels were intentionally broken and discarded in dedicated areas, probably to terminate their agency (Gomes 2016). Necked vessels were traded between Tapajó and their neighbours, known as Konduri, from the opposite bank of the Amazon and its affluent Trombetas tributary (Alves 2018). The fragments of these objects are relatively common in Konduri archaeological sites, although only chimeric Great Vulture representations are found (like Plate 3.d–e). The evidence of trade suggests a highly important role for the Great Vulture beyond Santarém culture, but at the same time a different relationship to this spiritual being. In Konduri contexts, images of Great Vultures integrate a repertoire with several bird depictions, especially anthropomorphized harpy eagles (Alves 2020). Indigenous peoples of Cariban languages, like the Katxuayana and Wai Wai occupy today the margins of the Konduri pottery-style dispersion area. They are probably related to precolonial Tapajó and Konduri and, as mentioned above in the case of the Katxuyana, king vultures are especially important to them as shamanic helpers. 162

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Conclusion The archaeological evidence from Marajora and Santarém explored in this chapter reveal the importance and complexity of birds of prey in ancient Amazonian cultures. Birds of prey, even as materialized in ceramics, were not passive objects. On the contrary, remarkable compositions using a variety of techniques – such as different scale, symmetrical mirroring, multiple perspectives, depiction of anatomical details or physical states, ambiguous attributes and compositions with other animals – confer a striking dynamism to these ceramics with the clear intention to turn these objects into subjects. In this sense, they do not represent birds of prey; they make birds of prey present in the scenes of rituals. This is consistent with the ‘active mode of representation’ of objects documented among Tupian and other Amazonian Amerindians, sometimes also referred to as ‘shade image’ or ‘vital image’. Both involve a mode of presenting something that corresponds analogically to the object (or being) in way that replaces the object (or being) itself. During rituals, especially funerary rituals, such objects are found to act upon the relationship between the living and the dead (Viveiros de Castro 1992: 208; Fausto 2001: 402). Although it is clear they occupy a special place in ritual paraphernalia, because most of these objects did not come from systematic excavations, the lack of contextual information prevents deeper interpretations of their specific role and placement in the performance of rituals. Nevertheless, the fact that these objects caught the attention of specialists and collectors also speaks for their special status. Archaeological objects that are so often found on the grounds of present-day villages have also been collected by Indigenous people. An example of particular interest here is the case of ceramic Great Vultures, which are considered to have ‘shamanic power’. These vulture heads, found inside Wai Wai territory just north of the city of Santarém, are collected, then repainted in bright red and yellow colours, and then pierced in order to be used as pendants, alongside other special objects (Jácome & Wai Wai 2020). Archaeological objects depicting birds of prey, in this way, have been kept alive, in new ways, by contemporary Amazonian Amerindian cultures.

References Alves, M. (2018), ‘Para além de Santarém: os Vasos de Gargalo na Bacia do Rio Trombetas’, Boletim do Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi Ciências Humanas, 13: 11–36. Alves, M. (2020), ‘Revisitando os alter-egos: figuras sobrepostas na iconografia Konduri e sua relação com o xamanismo’, Boletim do Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi Ciências Humanas, 15 (3): e20190105. Barcelos Neto, A. (2008), ‘Choses (in) visibles et (pm) périssables: temporalité et matérialité des objets rituels dans les Andes et en Amazonie’, Gradhiva, 8: 112–29. Barreto, C. (2009), ‘Mystic Means of Social Reproduction: Art and Style in the Funerary Ceramics of Ancient Amazonia’, PhD Diss., São Paulo: Universidade de São Paulo. Barreto, C. (2014), ‘Modos de Figurar o Corpo na Amazônia Pré-colonial’, in S. Rostain (ed.) Antes de Orellana: Actas del 3er Encuentro Internacional de Arqueología Amazónica, 1, 123–32, Quito: Instituto Francês de Estudios Andinos. 163

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Barreto, C. (2017), ‘Figurine Traditions from the Amazon’, in T. Insoll (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Prehistoric Figurines, 417–42, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Boomert, A. (2001), ‘Raptorial Birds as Icons of Shamanism in the Prehistoric Caribbean and Amazonia’, in L. Alofs and R. A. C. F. Dijkoff (eds), Proceedings of the XIX Congress of the International Association of Caribbean Archaeology, 121–57, Oranjestad: Museo Arqueologico Aruba. Daly, L. and G. Shepard Jr (2019), ‘Magic darts and messenger molecules: toward a phytoethnography of indigenous Amazonia’, Anthropology Today, 35 (2): 13–17. de Goeje, C. (1943), ‘Philosophy, initiation and myths of the Indians of Guiana and adjacent countries’, International Archiv für Ethnographie, 44: 1–136. Duin, R. (2006), ‘Maluwana, pinnacle of Wayana art in the Guyanas’, Baessler-Archiv, 54: 119–44. Fausto, C. (2001), Inimigos Fiéis: História, Guerra e Xamanismo na Amazônia, São Paulo: EDUSP. Fausto, C. (2007), ‘Feasting on people: eating animals and humans in Amazonia’, Current Anthropology, 48 (4): 497–530. Fausto, C. (2008), ‘Too many owners: mastery and ownership in Amazonia’, Mana, 4, Selected Edition. Available online: http://socialsciences.scielo.org/scielo.php?script=sci_ arttext&pid=S0104-93132008000100001&lng=en&nrm=iso (accessed 31 January 2022). Fausto, C. (2020), Art Effects: Image, Agency, and Ritual in Amazonia, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Galetti, M. and O. Carvalho-Junior (2000), ‘Sloths in the diet of a harpy eagle nestling in Eastern Amazon’, Wilson Bulletin, 112 (4): 535–6. Gell, A. (1998), Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Giannini, I. V. (1991), ‘A Ave Resgatada: A Impossibilidade da Leveza do Ser’, Master Thesis, University of São Paulo. Available online : http://etnolinguistica.wdfiles.com/local--files/ tese%3Agiannini-1991/Giannini_1991_A_Ave_Resgatada.pdf (accessed 2 March 2022) Gomes, D. (2001), ‘Santarém: Symbolism and Power in the Tropical Forest’, in C. McEwan, C. Barreto and E. Neves (eds), Unknown Amazon, 134–55, London: The British Museum Press. Gomes, D. (2007), ‘The diversity of social forms in pre-colonial Amazonia’, Revista de Arqueología Americana, 25: 187–226. Gomes, D. (2016), ‘Politics and ritual in large villages in Santarém, Lower Amazon, Brazil’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 27 (2): 275–93. Gomes, D. (2021), ‘Images of Transformation in the Lower Amazon and the Performativity of Santarém and Konduri pottery’, Journal of Social Archaeology 22 (1): 82–103: 14696053211029759. Jácome, C. and J. X. Wai Wai (2020), ‘A paisagem e as cerâmicas arqueológicas na Bacia Trombetas: uma discussão da arqueologia Karaiwa e Wai Wai’, Boletim do Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi. Ciências Humanas, 15 (3): e20190140 Lagrou, E. (2013), ‘Podem os Grafismos Ameríndios ser Considerados Quimeras Abstratas? Uma Reflexão Sobre uma Arte Perspectivista’, in C. Severi and E. Lagrou (eds), Quimeras em Aiálogo: Grafismo e Figuração na Arte Indígena, 67–110, Rio de Janeiro: 7 Letras. Meggers, B. and C. Evans (1957), Archeological Investigations at the Mouth of the Amazon, Washington DC: Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin. Mindlin, B. (2002), ‘O Fogo e as Chamas dos Mitos’, Estudos Avançados, 16 (44): 149–69. Neves, E. G., V. L. Guapindaia, H. P. Lima, B. L. Costa and J. Gomes (2014), ‘A Tradição PocóAçutuba e os Primeiros Sinais Visíveis de Modificações de Paisagens na Calha do Amazonas’, in S. Rostain (ed.), Amazonia Memorias de las Conferencias Magistrales del 3er Encuentro Internacional de Arqueologia Amazónica, 137–58, Quito: Ekseption. Nimuendajú, C. (1952), ‘The Tapajó’, Kroeber Anthropological Society Papers, 6: 1–25. Oliveira, E. (2022), ‘Estéticas da Transformação: Iconografia e Estilo da Cerâmica Polícroma da Amazônia’, PhD Diss., São Paulo: University of São Paulo. 164

Birds of Prey in Ancient Amazonia Palmatary, H. (1960), The Archaeology of the Lower Tapajos Valley, Brazil, Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, New Series, 50, Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Pereira, E. and C. Moraes (2019), ‘A cronologia das pinturas rupestres da Caverna da Pedra Pintada, Monte Alegre, Pará: revisão histórica e novos dados’, Boletim do Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi: Ciências Humanas, 14(2): 327–42. Polykrates, G. (2021), ‘Contribuição para a Compreensão da Religião e Variações da Cultura Material do Povo Kashuiéna’, Revista do Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia da USP, 37: 76–91. Reichel-Dolmatoff, G. (1987), Shamanism and Art of the Eastern Tukanoan Indians: Colombian Northwest Amazon, Volume 1, Leiden & Boston: Brill. Reichel-Dolmatoff, G. (1990), ‘Algunos Conceptos de los indios Desana del Vaupés sobre Manejo Ecológico’, in F. Correa (ed.), La Selva Humanizada: Ecología Alternativa en el Trópico Húmedo Colombiano, 35–41, Bogotá: Instituto Colombiano de Antropología. Roosevelt, A. C. (1993), ‘The rise and fall of the Amazon chiefdoms’, L’homme 33 (126): 255–83. Santos-Granero, F. (2009), ‘Introduction: Amerindian Constructivist View of the World’, in F. Santos-Granero (ed.), The Occult Life of Things: Native Amazonian Theories of Materiality and Personhood, 1–19, Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Severi, C. (2013), ‘O Espaço Quimérico: Percepção e Projeção nos Atos do Olhar’, in C. Severi and E. Lagrou (eds), Quimeras em Diálogo: Grafismo e Figuração nas Artes Indígenas, 25–65, Rio de Janeiro: 7 Letras. Severi, C. and E. Lagrou, eds (2013), Quimeras em Diálogo: Grafismo e Figuração na Arte Indígena, Rio de Janeiro: 7 Letras. Sick, H. (1997), Ornitologia Brasileira, Rio de Janeiro: Editora Nova Fronteira. Schaan, D. (1997), A Linguagem Iconográfica da Cerâmica Marajoara, Porto Alegre: Edipucrs. Schaan, D. P. (2008), ‘The Nonagricultural Chiefdoms of Marajó Island’, in E. Silverman and W. Isbell (eds), Handbook of South American Archaeology, 339–57, New York: Springer. Schaan, D. P. (2012), Sacred Geographies of Ancient Amazonia: Historical Ecology of Social Complexity, Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press. Schaan, D. P. (2016), Sacred Geographies of Ancient Amazonia: Historical Ecology of Social Complexity, London: Routledge. Stenborg, P. (2016), ‘Towards a Regional History of Pre-Columbian Settlements in the Santarém and Belterra Regions, Pará, Brazil’, in P. Sternborg (ed.), Beyond Waters: Archaeology and Environmental History of the Amazonian Inland, 9–22, Gothenburg: University of Gothenburg. Shepard Jr, G. (1998), ‘Gift of the Harpy Eagle: Hunting Medicines of the Machiguengua’, South American Explorer, 53: 9–21. Vander Velden, F. (2020), ‘Entre la Serpiente y la Arpía: Apuntes para una Zoología Karitiana en el Suroeste de la Amazonía Brasilera’, in C. Medrano and F. Vander Velden (eds), Qué Es un Animal?, 45–61, Buenos Aires: Asociación Civil Rumbo Sur. Velthem, L. van (2003), O Belo é a Fera: a Estética da Produção e da Predação entre os Wayana, Lisbon: Museu Nacional de Etnologia. Velthem, L. van (2010), ‘Artes Indígenas: Notas sobre a Lógica dos Corpos e dos Artefatos’, Textos Escolhidos de Cultura e Artes Populares, 7 (1): 19–29. Viveiros de Castro, E. (1992), From the Enemy’s Point of View: Humanity and Divinity in an Amazonian Society, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Viveiros de Castro, E. (1998), ‘Cosmological deixis and Amerindian perspectivism’, The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 4 (3): 469–88. Viveiros de Castro, E. (2002), ‘Esboço de Cosmologia Yawalapíti’, in E. Viveiros de Castro, A Inconstância da Alma Selvagem e outros Ensaios de Antropologia, São Paulo: Cosac-Naif.

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CHAPTER 10 ‘NOW I AM A BIRD, AND NOW I AM A MAN’: POSTHUMANISM, RAPTORS AND THE RUS’ Neil Price1

Introduction The later Iron Age of Scandinavia (c. 400–1050 ce ) has long been recognized as a time when animals and humans came together not just in utilitarian contexts, but also in the ritual arenas of cult and mortuary behaviour, in addition to the vast field of iconographic representations and so-called ‘animal art’. The resulting confluence of ideas, symbols, conceptions and cognitive categories reached a zenith in the last three centuries of that period, generally known as the Viking Age (Rohrbach 2009; Jennbert 2011; Andersson 2021). In the midst of this, birds of prey are prominent in the contemporary archaeological and iconographic record and also the later, medieval textual sources. Following a brief overview, an extended case study in human–raptor engagements is explored, relating to the eastern Scandinavian diaspora in the Viking Age.

Raptors in late Iron Age reality The Late Iron Age in Scandinavia is usually divided into three broad spans: the brief so-called Migration Period (c. 400–550 ce ) following the gradual decline of the Western Empire; the Vendel Period (c. 550–750), which saw the first developing kingdoms in the North; and the Viking Age from c. 750–1050 (Price 2020: ch.2). Hunting with falcons and hawks was practiced in Scandinavia probably from Vendel times onwards (Gersmann & Grimm 2018: 709–26, 787–860). The birds were also transported long distances, especially eastwards, both as lucrative trade items and diplomatic gifts (Lie 2018). Raptors even lent themselves to personal names – especially HaukR, ‘hawk’, which features in runic inscriptions (Peterson 2007: 107). One of these occurs in an ownership graffito on a die from a high-status military burial, implying that these were names for leaders (Sjösvärd 1989). The association of hawks and commanders is also attested in several contemporary textual and visual sources, including the Old English poem known as The Battle of Maldon (Griffiths 1991: 29) and the Bayeux Tapestry (Wilson 1985). Indeed, in Old Norse poetry, kennings for the human arm often reference it as a perch for hawks and falcons (Jennbert 2011: 129). In legendary tales such as Hrólfs saga kraka (chs 27, 29; Byock 1998) and Hervörs saga ok Heiðreks (ch.2; Crawford 2021), birds of prey act not only as symbols of power, but as supernatural proxies in battle.

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Raptors were clearly also of significance in relation to the dead, occurring in several of the major ship burials including Valsgärde 6 and 7, Vendel III, Salme and Gokstad, amongst others. In Sweden alone, dozens of graves contain raptors, from at least nine different species (goshawk, peregrine falcon, gyrfalcon, sparrowhawk, golden and whitetailed eagle, merlin, and eagle and snowy owl), often interred in conjunction with their natural prey (Tyrberg 2002). Raptors appear almost solely in the burials of men, and while their presence is consistent across the Vendel and Viking periods, the numbers deposited decline over time (Ljungkvist 2006: ch. 8). There is also a focus on central Scandinavia in the raptor graves, almost none being known from the south (Jennbert 2011: 89). The notion of avian psychopomps is not uncommon in comparative studies of funerary ritual, and has been raised in the context of Norse pre-Christian practice (e.g. Oerhl 2010). Judging from first-hand accounts such as that of Ibn Fad·lān (Montgomery 2017), the killing of birds was a key, initial part of funerary proceedings – perhaps the use of raptors in this context was a sign of especially high status.

Raptors in the late Iron Age mind Birds of prey seem to have held an even firmer grip on the mental landscapes of the North, appearing across a range of material culture and iconographic representation. A recent, selective survey (Oerhl 2020) presents a repertoire of meaning-laden motifs that change over time and by context. In the Migration Period, raptors appear especially on gold bracteates in conjunction with suggested depictions of gods, especially Óðinn, and also on jewellery. Brooches with diving raptor motifs have long been known from the south Scandinavian material (more than forty examples have been found at Uppåkra alone), as discussed further by Jennbert in this volume. In different design forms, raptor imagery is found on female jewellery far into the tenth century, at the court of Harald Bluetooth (Roesdahl 2020). In poetry and runic inscription, eagles in particular were prominent among the ‘beasts of battle’ (Jesch 2002), as on the Gripsholm stone Sö 179 with its often-quoted stanza on feeding them as a metaphor for killing in battle. With an emphasis on the Vendel Period, raptors appear on pictorial helmet plaques and mounts, sword fittings, shield mounts, saddles and other equipment from the Uppland boat graves and other high-status burials (e.g. Mortimer 2011; Andersson 2017, 2021: 172–80; for some VikingAge examples, see Petersen 2005: 62–4; Oerhl 2020: 33–5). Most dramatically, a large diving bird of prey forms the nasal of the helmet from Vendel boat grave XIV (Stolpe & Arne 1927: 53–8; Figure 10.1), one of the most directly impressive components among an object type that is itself the epitome of late Iron Age visual signalling. Helmets of this kind are famously often covered with illustrative Pressbleck plaques and several of the warriors depicted on them in turn wear helmets crested with raptor heads (Helmbrecht 2011: 317–24). Raptors are also clearly shown on contemporary shield and sword mounts from England, for example at Sutton Hoo (Bruce-Mitford 1978: 54–63), indicating the breadth of this symbolism. 167

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Figure 10.1 The helmet from Vendel boat grave XIV, with a diving raptor nasal. Photo: Sören Hallgren, Swedish History Museum, Creative Commons. In the mythological texts, raptors are prominent in tales of shape-shifting. Óðinn is a central figure here, transforming into an eagle when he steals the mead of poetry, as related in Snorri’s Skáldskaparmál (SnE 58; Faulkes 1987: 63–4). While the episode is absent from the version in Hávamál str. 104–10 (Larrington 1996: 28–9), its antiquity is shown by clear allusions in skaldic poetry, specifically referring to the god’s avian shapeshifting – Snorri quotes several examples (Skáldskaparmál 2; Faulkes 1987: 66–7). Óðinn also takes on falcon guise in Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks (ch.10; Crawford 2021), as does Freyja in Skáldskaparmál (SnE 2/11; Faulkes 1987: 60), where she can loan her valshamr, ‘falcon shape’, to others. Loki can also transform into a bird of prey, and giants too could possess this ability, including Þjazi and Suttungr. Images of transformation appear with some regularity in late Iron Age animal ‘art’ (e.g. Helmbrecht 2011: 171–214; Price 2019: ch.6), but only a few relate to raptors. 168

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Chief amongst them is a motif that forms part of a wider complex of falcon images, articulated in a specific social, political and ideological context, with overtones of ethnic identity signalling. A deeper exploration of this material and its implications forms the main case study of this chapter as we turn eastwards into the realm of the Rus’.

Raptors and the Rus’ Perhaps more than any other ethnic grouping or identity construct of the Viking Age, the Rus’ have resisted simple definitions. On the one hand, their activities have long been relatively well understood in their mercantile focus on the waterways connecting the Baltic to the Black Sea and the Caspian (e.g. Franklin & Shepard 1996; Raffensperger 2017; Makarov 2017). Emerging in the ninth century, perhaps with a tentative start from the mid-eighth onwards, they came to play an increasingly central role in the politics and economy of the east. However, the identity and ethnic composition of the Rus’ is still heavily debated. For over a century this question was distorted by the redundant and politicized conflict of the so-called ‘Normanist’ debates of the Soviet period, focusing on the proportion of Scandinavian or Slavic control in Rus’ affairs (Klejn 2013). From the 1990s onwards, nuance returned to the discussion, as both archaeological finds (e.g. Duczko 2004; Androshchuk 2013) and new studies of textual sources (e.g. Hraundal 2013) have confirmed the strong presence of Scandinavians on the Eurasian rivers. Often seen as the ‘Vikings of the East’, this is a simplification of a complex situation (Hillerdal 2009: 41–152). An effective definition has been proposed by Marika Mägi (2018: 192– 216) in the context of her work in the eastern Baltic, recognizing the Rus’ as culturally Scandinavian but ethnically mixed, succinctly reflecting the current research consensus. In archaeological terms, there is a clear sense in which the Rus’ have left their own particular material signals, expressed in customs of dress, equipment, weaponry and burial rites (see summaries in Hedenstierna-Jonson 2009; Androschchuk & Zotsenko 2012; Androshchuk 2013). In Scandinavia, burials of Rus’ have been argued to be visible precisely because of their specific, projected connections to generally eastern patterns of behaviour and martial culture – a phenomenon that is particularly apparent at the urban settlement of Birka (Hedenstierna-Jonson 2006a). One can almost speak of a Rus’ ‘uniform’, not as an identical set of dress and accessories, but as a coherent scheme of material associations – including but not limited to kaftans, ‘oriental’ belts, wide-legged trousers, lamellar armour, fighting knives and horseback archery – that would have proclaimed their identity to almost any onlooker. Beyond objects and dress, there was also a specific symbol that seems to have functioned as an emblem of Rus’ identity: the image of a diving falcon. Appropriately given the hybrid nature of Rus’ ethnicity, the design seems to have evolved in symbiotic fashion, but taking two distinct and arguably related forms. 169

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It seems significant that weaponry was the primary vector of the falcon image, specifically an iconic chape at the tip of a sword scabbard. The birds are depicted in openwork outline, their fanned tails merging into the curving tip of the chape, while their wings spread to the side and their beaked heads point upwards along what would have been the line of the scabbard. These chapes cluster at Birka, and a mould for their casting shows that at least some were actually made there (Strömberg 1951: 237–8). Three come from chamber graves – Bj.643, 750 and 944 – the latter two of which in particular are almost type-examples of what are interpreted as Rus’ warrior elites with equipment and dress as above (Arbman 1943: 220–1, 267–72, 368–71), while others have been found in the ‘Black Earth’ settlement area and the rampart. The falcon chapes were classified decades ago (Paulsen 1953; see also Arne 1913; Korzuchina 1950; Strömberg 1951), as a ‘Varangian’ sub-group of other bird-forms that also include diving raptors but more naturalistically depicted. There are now multiple typological schemes for Viking-Age sword chapes, of which the latest is that proposed by Androshchuk (2014: 114–27), who usefully combines the falcons into a single class with three sub-groups (3a–c) ranging from a highly stylized bird to one shown in detail but bound in interlace (Figure 10.2). There is general agreement that all the falcon chapes date to the tenth century, with varying opinion on whether emphasis should be placed early or late. Well over eighty examples of the combined Type 3 chapes are now known, an inexact number due to continuous new finds and a lag in publication. At least thirty have been found in Scandinavia (with a very strong focus on Sweden and Birka), a couple in Åland and Finland, and twenty-five or so in the southern Baltic, mostly in Poland. More than thirty have been recovered in Russia and the east, including from Staraja Ladoga, Gorodišce, Gnezdovo, Kyiv and Šestovica, as far south as Crimea, and east along the upper Volga (for references to the find spots, see Hedenstierna-Jonson 2009: 174–5; Androshchuk 2014: 124; Michalak & Socha 2017: 160–1). An interesting outlier is a

Figure 10.2 Tenth-century sword chapes of the falcon type, shown as Androshchuk’s Type 3a–c (line drawing after Androshchuk 2014: fig. 71).

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chape of Androshchuk’s Type 3b, from the Île de Groix ship burial in Brittany, among the equipment of a warlord who had clearly fought across much of Europe and had presumably acquired Rus’ connections (Price 1989: 67). At least seven examples are also known from England, mainly from the Midlands and Yorkshire, recorded online in the Portable Antiquities Scheme database. Debate as to the origins of the falcon symbol as depicted on the chapes has been ongoing for over a century (e.g. Arne 1913). The current consensus is that the design blends inspiration from raptors on Sassanian and Byzantine silks and metalwork, and perhaps Magyar imagery, but reconfigured in alignment with Scandinavian preChristian ideas about birds of prey (Androshchuk 2014: 122–7; Michalak & Socha 2017: 167–70). Wherever their inspiration came from, the falcon chapes were created and activated in the context of Rus’ activities in the Baltic and the east, with an emphasis on the physical presence of Scandinavians (Jansson 1987: 791). The second vector of the falcon emblem took a more abstract form, adopted on coinage by the so-called Rurikid dynasty – the rulers allegedly descended from the ninth-century Svear chieftain who was among the first to seize power in what is now northern Russia (the story, told first in the twelfth-century Primary Chronicle, has been much debated but never resolved, though at the very least it clearly contains a generous portion of retrospectively legitimizing propaganda; see Franklin & Shepard 1996 for further discussion of this central issue in Rus’ studies). The ‘Rurikid Sign’ was first scratched as graffiti on dirhams in the late ninth century, before appearing directly on Rus’ coins issued in the tenth and eleventh centuries, coincident with the falcon chapes (Figure 10.3). It takes the form of a bident- and later trident-like icon (Melnikova 1996: 87; Lindberger 2001; Duczko 2004: figs 67–9). The adoption of the symbol came at a crucial juncture for the Rus’ and provided something they needed – indeed the Rus’ and Rurikids (contentious though both terms remain) are clearly synonymous in this respect. The bident variant in particular was in use among the warrior class, while the trident seems to have largely taken over in the later tenth century (Duczko 2004: 231–2). It seems too that the Rurikid emblem was introduced from the north and found a foothold first in the settlements of the Volkhov basin; unlike the falcon chapes, there are no examples of it from the Šestovica/Chernihiv chamber graves, linked to the Kyiv rulers (Duczko 2004: 235). The meanings of the sign are much debated (Molčanov 1999, 2017; Edberg 2001; Duczko 2004: 228–38; Hedenstierna-Jonson 2009: 171–2), but from the later nineteenth century onwards it has been consistently interpreted as a stylized falcon – the arms of the bident as the wings, the central arm of the trident later adding the body. This view endures, not least in most of the literature cited above, though some scholars have proposed alternatives. Sotnikova (1990) sees a different kind of Norse connection, reading it as a cross-section through a masted Viking ship, while several detect parallels among Khazar tamga symbols (Duczko 2004: 235–8, who regards the falcon interpretation as an ‘uncritically repeated cliché’; Hedenstierna-Jonson 2009: 169–75, who suggests that the sign may blend Scandinavian and Khazar influence; Androshchuk 2014: 127). Those reservations aside, the confluence of the falcon motif and the Rurikid sign is still 171

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Figure 10.3 The developing forms of the ‘Rurikid Sign’ (line drawing after Edberg 2001: fig. 8a).

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the reading most widely accepted by scholars (Oerhl 2020: 38). Falcon symbolism appears in other, clear connections to the east too, as on the runestone from Alstad in Norway (N 62; Spurkland 2005: 99–104), depicting the bird together with an inscription commemorating a man who died on the Russian rivers. The sign was evidently so much a part of the Rurikid ‘brand’ that it was used as a shorthand for origin and affiliation, appearing in such ephemeral forms as to imply an almost universal understanding of its meaning (e.g. a bident example scratched into the shoulder of an imported eleventh-century amphora, found in Sigtuna; Heimer et al. 2021: 205). The symbol likely appeared not only on coins and pots, but also on impermanent media that have not survived. Despite his scepticism, Duczko (2004: 228– 9) emphasizes ideological signalling as a crucial component of Rurikid–Rus’ power – and the falcon icon was arguably its embodiment. Even today, the motif has become so strongly associated with the Rus’ and their base at Kyiv, that it now appears in the Ukrainian national coat of arms.

Völundr’s feathers and Óðinn’s wings The falcon chapes and the Rurikid sign suggest that at least part of the Rus’ symbolic repertoire was focused on a direct citation of a raptor swooping to attack, a suitably martial icon in its evocation of lethal, purposeful speed and motion. Its associations may also have extended to the high-end trade in falcons and other hunting birds transported along the eastern rivers. Oerhl (2020: 38) describes this unequivocally as ‘Viking Age heraldry’, but the reality was probably considerably more nuanced and complex. Perhaps the best evidence for this comes from the largest and most elaborate of the falcon chapes, excavated from the southern plot of the ‘Black Earth’ urban settlement area at Birka (Ambrosiani 2001: 11–12; Plate 10.1). Some 88 millimetres in length, the openwork chape does not readily fit into the existing typologies, having a particularly developed version of the falcon motif on one side, though with the head pointing to the tip of the chape, the opposite of the usual orientation. On the other side is a complex rendering of a humanoid figure, entwined in interlace ribbons that form the wings and tail of a bird (clearly a raptor, from the curving sweep of the wings and the fanned tail feathers). Man and avian are superimposed over one another so as to form part of a single, entangled image. That the falcon itself was an active symbol at Birka is shown not least by the find in a slightly later context of a mount or a brooch in the form of the bird, similar to that on the chape but half as big, and also to similar raptors depicted on keys recovered from the garrison area (HedenstiernaJonson 2009: 170, 2015: 81–5). Ambrosiani (2001: 12–13) has interpreted the bird-man on the chape with reference to a very similar image on the Lärbro Stora Hammars III picture-stone from Gotland, which has particularly clear details in the silhouette of the raptor (Lindqvist 1941–2 I: fig. 85, II: 84–7). Following Lindqvist’s suggestion, Ambrosiani views the motif as a representation of Óðinn in avian form, stealing the mead of poetry. The other images 173

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present on the stone support this interpretation (Nylén & Lamm 1987: 50–2). However, the bird-man image is not unique to the Birka chape and the Stora Hammars stone, but is found in slightly different form on a number of other objects, illuminating variations in its meaning (Helmbrecht 2011: 175–8). Two examples of widely differing geographical provenance – the eighth-century Franks Casket from Northumbria (Webster 2011) and the Ardre VIII picture-stone from Gotland (Buisson 1976; Oerhl 2009) – both show the superimposed man and bird in the context of scenes that unequivocally refer to the story of Völundr the smith (Zachrisson 2017: 152–5). As related in Volundarkviða, Velents þáttr smiðs in Þiðreks saga af Bern, and other sources (Betz 1973; Nedoma 1988; Pesch et al. 2006; Oerhl 2012), in brief the titular character is kept prisoner by a king who wishes to monopolize his skills but, having revenged himself with the murder of the king’s sons and the rape of his daughter, Völundr flees with the aid of a flying suit that he constructs from bird feathers (in the saga text it is referred to as a flygil, ‘wing’, or fjaðrhamr, ‘feathershape’, including the same noun as for Freyja’s falcon guise). In order to confuse those who chase him, under his left arm Völundr ties a bladder filled with the blood of the king’s sons; when pierced by the pursuers’ arrows, it will give the false impression that he has been wounded. The corpus of Völundr figures in late Iron Age art was dramatically expanded in 2001, with the excavation of a unique, three-dimensional object from the high-status settlement of Uppåkra in Skåne, Sweden (Plate 10.2). More than 7 centimetres long and weighing 52.6 grams, the figure is made of copper alloy and is cast in high relief, with gilding on the figurative surface and also on the plain reverse. Clearer even than the Birka chape, the human figure is clutching a flying device, to which he is bound by double and triple ribbons (a possible fragmentary wooden parallel for this was found in the North Mound at Jelling; Krogh & Leth-Larsen 2007). Like the Jelling piece, the Uppåkra figure appears to be wearing armour and the facial features are depicted with lively clarity. The Uppåkra figure has been the subject of two major publications (Helmbrecht 2012; Zachrisson 2017), both of which date it to the tenth century and convincingly demonstrate that this too depicts Völundr. The interpretation is especially strengthened by an element unique to this figure, namely the presence of drops of blood below the left wing, referencing Völundr’s ruse with the bladder. The function of the Uppåkra object has been much discussed. Originally suggested as part of a scabbard chape, its single-sided nature makes this reading unlikely and Helmbrecht (2012: 173) argues that it may have arrived in Uppåkra as scrap metal for casting. More recently, Gustafsson (2015) has suggested that it may have once formed the nasal of a helmet. Two supporting arguments can be marshalled for this interpretation, the first being the object’s startlingly close resemblance to the nasal of helmet XIV from Vendel, mentioned above, though this depicts solely a bird rather than a Völundr-type hybrid. The Vendel helmet is nearly three centuries older than the Uppåkra find, suggesting a remarkable continuity of conceptual design. The second supporting factor is that of context, as the ritual deposition of war-gear, including a helmet fragment in the form of an elaborate ocular (Helgesson 2004), is a prominent feature of Uppåkra, and the winged man was also found in association with the foundations of the so-called cult building. 174

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Helmbrecht (2012: 171) notes that the elements of the Uppåkra human figure and the flying device actually cannot be easily separated, but instead flow into one another. She interprets this as perhaps a stylistic convention related to the Borre ring-chain motif (which is incidentally also a consistent signal for the Birka warriors; HedenstiernaJonson 2002, 2006b). However, it can equally be seen as deliberate ambiguity as to where the fjaðrhamr ends and Völundr begins. As he says himself in Þiðreks saga (ch. 78), ‘nú em ek fugl, ok nú em ek maðr’ – ‘now I am a bird, and now I am a man’. In taking this material together, we are thus faced with a series of entangled concepts. It seems clear that the bird-man figures relate to two separate mythological stories: that of Völundr the smith (the Franks Casket, Ardre VIII and Uppåkra) and Óðinn stealing the mead of poetry (Stora Hammars III). The fact that the two picture-stone scenes are so distinctive in their details, but also so different despite the ostensibly similar birdfigures, emphasizes that the same image really is used to illustrate separate myths. It is hard to say which of them the Birka chape references, or even whether the ambiguity was intentional. In opting for the Óðinnic reading, Ambrosiani (2001: 21) connects the Rus’ to Birka through the bird, by extension to the mythology of the Æsir, and especially to the warrior aspirations of the war-god’s hall, Valholl. The hybrid figure might equally reference the Völundr story, as both tales involve shape-shifting and the patterns of belief in which it was embedded. Whatever the answer, its association with the raptor on the other side of the piece, and the long chain of connections to the falcon symbolism of the Rus’, makes the Birka chape a kind of ‘missing link’ between the ideological projections of the Rurikids and the traditional narratives of Scandinavia. There can be little doubt that the elisions between these images and meanings were deliberate. The issue of entanglement has been explored at length for the Viking Age, with a focus on the design elements of what is clearly more than ‘art’, and also the repetition, sharing or citation of forms (e.g. Gardeła 2012). That there was a relationship between visual signalling and the structures of the Norse mind seems incontestable, but we must reject monolithic correlations between specific images and exclusive meanings. For example, that there were some connotations of Óðinnic identity and one-eyed symbolism in Vendel Period war-gear, especially helmets, has been fairly conclusively established (Price & Mortimer 2014). But not every one-eyed figure need represent Óðinn, though clearly the association could be raised (e.g. Arwill-Nordbladh 2012), while in the present context, ‘not every winged figure with a human head has to be Wayland’ (Helmbrecht 2012: 176). In the case of the Rus’ falcons and bird-men, what did that entanglement refer to, why choose specifically shape-shifting motifs, what bodily boundaries did they reference, and from what cognitive milieu did they arise?

More-than-human in the Viking Age? In recent decades, contemporary posthumanist discourse has not only flourished but also become more contested and divergent (e.g. Hayles 1999; Nayar 2013; Braidotti 2013, 2019), not least in the arguably widening divide between its critical and more strictly 175

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ontological streams. The latter, with its anthropocentric meditations on technological interfaces and the transhumanist possibilities of AI, tends to dominate in popular culture and mainstream debate. In archaeology, however, it is the decentring of the human that has made most inroads. In part, this has been situated in a growing dissatisfaction with studies of ‘human–animal relations’ that are reliant on simplistic taxonomies and categories (Fredengren 2021a). Instead, archaeologists are turning to the more-thanhuman (Jaque et al. 2020; Fredengren 2021b), a term that elegantly captures the difference between, say, a person who could turn into a wolf under certain circumstances, and a person who could not. This archaeological posthumanism is also a reconfiguration that acknowledges theoretical intersections with feminism, eco-criticism, and not least, discourses of race, indigeneity and privilege (e.g. Crellin et al. 2021; Klevnäs & Bergerbrant 2021). It is only in the last three decades that studies of gender in the Viking Age have moved from a default androcentrism to an expanded but nonetheless somewhat bounded exploration of women’s lives, and more recently still that this has broadened into a wider spectrum of bodily identity (cf. Price 2020: ch.5). Some of this work has taken analyses of iconographic and textual representations, and the thinking behind them, far beyond the binaries (e.g. Back Danielsson 2007; Franks 2019). However, while interspecies perspectives have been explored in many contexts of the late Iron Age, Viking scholars have only just begun to grapple with the non-human in terms other than economic exploitation and domestication. Norse soul concepts (for want of a better contemporary term that combines the hamr, hugr, hamingja and fylgja – approximately ‘shape’, ‘mind’, ‘luck’ and ‘follower’) were fluid in nature, especially given the situated knowledge of shape-changing (Ellis Davidson 1978). In this context, posthumanism provides a useful path for further exploration – as in the present context of raptors, ‘bird-men’ and their ideological significance for the Rus’. Crucially, we are dealing with an organic story-world, which scholars have had an unfortunately reductive tendency to label as ‘mythology’ and ‘religion’ (Price 2020: ch.7). Reality for the Vikings was not a matter of belief, but of knowledge, worlding and inhabiting. The thickness of that, in Haraway’s (e.g. 2016) terms, went very deep in Scandinavian culture, far back into the layered mindsets of the Iron Age. The ‘human condition’, as I think the Viking-Age Scandinavians understood it, was not unstable at all – just varied, mutable and contingent. The contemporary iconographies and other material culture arguably support this, wherein numerous more-than-human beings are depicted with confidence, as definitive statements (e.g. Kristoffersen 1995, 2010; Hedeager 2004). As to whether Viking-Age people conceptualized animals as species or entities in their own right, the varied human–animal production of personhood seems to have been manifested in many forms, including mortuary behaviour (Mansrud 2004, 2006; Ratican 2019) and domestic ritual (Eriksen 2020). Objects too accrued personalities and biographies (e.g. Lund 2017; Vedeler et al. 2018; Brunning 2019). Importantly, humans, animals and objects could all occupy varying, changing and merging spaces on the broad spectrum of late Iron Age identities (Eriksen & Kay 2022). 176

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Scholars of Old Norse literature and poetry have also explored such hybridities (e.g. Merkelbach and Knight 2020) and even directly applied concepts of posthumanism to the study of mythology (Quinn 2021). Although the latter partly rests on a transference of contemporary terms onto the late Iron Age (e.g. ‘prosthetic technology designed to exteriorize memory’ as a reading of Mímir’s head), Quinn sets out an interesting notion of what she calls the ‘pre-human . . . the beings that wrestled for control of the world and culture into which humans were then settled’ (2021: 479). However, this engagement must be a critical one. The Viking-Age hamr that shifted and flowed, the fylgjur that could take the form of birds and seals, were not creatures of comfort or companion species (cf. Haraway 1992, 2003). In much of posthumanist discourse as applied to prehistoric societies, not least that of the Viking Age, there is an element that seems to me insufficiently clear. The blurred borders of non/humanity, the emergence of species and the rest all tend to be discussed with remarkable cool – and yet, considered in the context of real experience, of actual life-as-lived, they are existentially terrifying. Put simply, I miss the fear. Taking inspiration where we find it, one can compare the intellectual abstraction of Haraway’s cyborgs, even her tentacular Chthulucene, with the terror of VanderMeer’s Annihilation and its 2014 sequels: the bodily, literally visceral, horror of somatic/genomic/cognitive boundaries that are genuinely fluid – which is surely the point in our explorations of intersecting knowledge (as distinct from belief) and practice in the late Iron Age. This is relevant because of the responses to Viking contacts that are all too evident, indeed clichéd, in the contemporary European accounts, namely that the Scandinavians were perceived not just as violent and frightening, but also as disturbing, alien and unquiet. How did the Viking-Age Scandinavians’ more-than-human truths appear from the outside looking in, in the myriad cultural encounters that delineated their world? Perhaps we have our answer in those chronicles and monastic records. Moreover, what if the Northerners understood and recognized that effect, in fact promoted and weaponized it? Which brings us back to the Rus’.

Conclusion I would argue that the Rus’ provide us with a unique opportunity to explore posthumanist perspectives on the Viking Age: they are one of the very few groups who seem to be consciously engaged in specific identity construction and its projection on a larger sociopolitical stage; they also employ carefully chosen and consistent symbols – such as the attacking falcon – to achieve this aim. The dating and context are suggestive. For much of the ninth century, the Rus’ seem to have been consolidating their hold on the eastern rivers, a fluctuating process. The first Rurikid signs appear in the 880s, while the majority of the falcon chapes, including the large example from Birka, are dated to the tenth century; a similar date has been put forward for the Uppåkra piece. This was the zenith of Rus’ riverine power in its dispersed form, but before the full consolidation of their bases at Kyiv and Novgorod, and certainly 177

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prior to the larger expansion of their polity as a full peer of the European and Byzantine states. The falcon symbols appear at a time of proactive expansion for the Rus’, when their foothold at Birka was most important (whether one sees the market centre there as a launchpad of eastbound economic opportunity, or as a western outpost of the Russian river network). It is not irrelevant that Birka never became a Christian town, despite the attempts by missionaries such as Anskar. There is a sense in which the falcon symbol, in whatever form, could have been seen by the Rus’ Christian peers as a recognizable ‘heraldic’ emblem of dynastic power utilizing familiar media. However, in context (especially at Birka, but perhaps on the eastern rivers too) it was also an affirmative link to a pre-Christian heritage of the old gods, the deep bodily resonances of shape-shifting and an utterly different concept of humanity. The Rus’ were merchants, slavers, police, tax agents, mercenaries, warriors, and ultimately politicians – but somewhere in that mix there is a suggestion of a more-than-human heritage. The Rus’ falcon, the hawk-man, were no mere symbols, but layered reflections of who they were – combining their complex, hybrid ethnicity, their ferocity and aggression, and also perhaps linking to the hunting cultures of the steppe that may have recognized a mutual connection to birds of prey.

Note 1. My thanks to Charlotte Hedenstierna-Jonson for insightful comments on the text. This paper was produced as part of the Swedish Research Council project The Viking Phenomenon (201500466).

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The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Hedenstierna-Jonson, C. (2009), ‘Rus’, Varangians and Birka Warriors’, in L. Holmquist Olausson and M. Olausson (eds), The Martial Society: Aspects of Warriors, Fortifications and Social Change in Scandinavia, 159–78, Stockholm: Stockholm University. Hedenstierna-Jonson, C. (2015), ‘To Own and be Owned: The Warriors of Birka’s Garrison’, in A. Klevnäs and C. Hedenstierna-Jonson (eds), Own and Be Owned: Archaeological Approaches to the Concept of Possession, 73–92, Stockholm: Stockholm University. Heimer, O., J. Runer and A. Söderberg (2021), ‘Fas-, tomt- och husbeskrivningar’, in A. Wikström, A. Söderberg and M. Roslund (eds), Hos Herr Niklas och annat skrivkunnigt folk, 51–400, Sigtuna: Sigtuna Museum. Helgesson, B. (2004), ‘Tributes to be Spoken of: Sacrifice and Warriors at Uppåkra’, in L. Larsson (ed.), Continuity for Centuries: A Ceremonial Building and its Context at Uppåkra, Southern Sweden, 223–9, Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Helmbrecht, M. (2011), Wirkmächtige Kommunikationsmedien: Menschenbilder der Vendel- und Wikingerzeit und ihre Kontexte, Lund: University of Lund. Helmbrecht, M. (2012), ‘A winged figure from Uppåkra’, Fornvännen, 107: 171–8. Hillerdal, C. (2009), People in Between: Ethnicity and Material Identity: A New Approach to Deconstructed Concepts, Uppsala: Uppsala University. Hraundal, T. (2013), The Rus in Arabic Sources: Cultural Contacts and Identity, Oslo: University of Oslo. Jansson, I. (1987), ‘Communication Between Scandinavia and Eastern Europe in the Viking Age: The Archaeological Evidence’, in K. Düwel et al. (eds), Untersuchungen zur Handel und Verkehr der vor- und frühgeschichtlichen Zeit in Mittel- und Nordeuropa, 773–807, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Jaque, A., M. Otero Verzier and L. Pietroiusti, eds (2020), The More-than-Human, Rotterdam: Het Nieuwe Instituut. Jennbert, K. (2011), Animals and Humans: Recurrent Symbiosis in Archaeology and Old Norse Religion, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Jesch, J. (2002), ‘Eagles, Ravens and Wolves: Beasts of Battle, Symbols of Victory and Death’, in J. Jesch (ed.), The Scandinavians from the Vendel Period to the Tenth Century: An Ethnographic Perspective, 251–80, Woodbridge: Boydell. Klejn, L. (2013), ‘The Russian Controversy over the Varangians’, in L. Bjerg, J. H. Lind and S. M. Sindbæk (eds), From Goths to Varangians: Communication and Cultural Exchange Between the Baltic and the Black Sea, 27–38, Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Klevnäs, A. and S. Bergerbrant, eds (2021), Current Swedish Archaeology, 29 (1). Theme issue on posthumanism. Korzuchina, G. F. (1950), ‘Iz istorii drevnerusskogo oruschia XI veka’, Sovietskaja Archaeologija, 13: 63–94. Kristoffersen, S. (1995), ‘Transformation in Migration Period animal art’, Norwegian Archaeological Review, 20: 1–17. Kristoffersen, S. (2010), ‘Half beast–half man: hybrid figures in animal art’, World Archaeology, 42: 261–72. Krogh, K. J. and B. Leth-Larsen (2007), Hedensk og kristent. Fundene fra den kongelige gravhøj i Jelling, Copenhagen: National Museum of Denmark. Larrington, C. tr. (1996), The Poetic Edda, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lie, R. O. (2018), ‘Falconry, Falcon-Catching and the Role of Birds of Prey in Trade and as Alliance Gifts in Norway (800–1800 ad)’, in K-H. Gersmann and O. Grimm (eds), Raptor and Human: Bird Symbolism and Falconry through Five Millennia on a Global Scale, 727–86, Kiel: Wachholtz. Lindberger, E. (2001), ‘The Falcon, the Raven and the Dove: Some Bird Motifs on Medieval Coins’, in B. Ambrosiani (ed.), Eastern Connections: The Falcon Motif, 29–86, Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet. 180

‘Now I Am a Bird, and Now I Am a Man’ Lindqvist, S. (1941–2), Gotlands Bildsteine, 2 volumes, Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell. Ljungkvist, J. (2006), En hiar atti rikR. Om elit, struktur och ekonomi kring Uppsala och Mälaren under yngre järnålder, Uppsala: Uppsala University. Lund, J. (2017), ‘Connectedness with Things. Animated Objects of Viking Age Scandinavia and Early Medieval Europe’, Archaeological Dialogues, 24: 89–108. Mägi, M. (2018), In Austrvegr: the Role of the Eastern Baltic in Viking Age Communications across the Baltic Sea, Leiden: Brill. Makarov, N. A. ed. (2017), Die Rus’ im 9-10 Jahrhundert: ein archäologisches Panorama, Mainz: Wachholtz. Mansrud, A. (2004), Dyret i jernalderens forestillingsverden: en studie av forholdet mellom dyr og mennesker i nordisk jernalder, med utgangspunkt i dyrebein fra graver, Oslo: Oslo University. Mansrud, A. (2006), ‘Flyttende identiteter? Dyrebein i graver og førkristne personoppfattninger’, in T. Østigård (ed.), Lik og ulik: Gravskikk gjennom 10.000 år, 133–59, Bergen: University of Bergen. Melnikova, E. (1996), The Eastern World and the Vikings: Eight Essays about Scandinavia and Eastern Europe in the Early Middle Ages, Göteborg: University of Göteborg. Merkelbach, R. and G. Knight, eds (2020), Margins, Monsters, Deviants: Alterities in Old Norse Literature and Culture, Turnhout: Brepols. Michalak, A. and K. Socha (2017), ‘A sword scabbard chape with a depiction of a bird of prey from the surroundings of Kostrzyn’, Slavia Antiqua, 58: 159–74. Molčanov, A. A. (1999), ‘Znaki Riurikovichei: istoria izuchenia’, Signum, 1: 13–24. Molčanov, A. A. (2017), ‘Die Zeichen der Rjurikiden: Die altrussischen Fürstenwappen’, in N.A. Makarov (ed.), Die Rus’ im 9–10 Jahrhundert: ein archäologisches Panorama, 444–54. Mainz: Wachholtz. Montgomery, J. E. tr. (2017), Mission to the Volga: Ah· mad ibn Fad· lān, New York: New York University Press. Mortimer, P. (2011), Woden’s Warriors: Warfare, Beliefs, Arms and Armour in Northern Europe during the 6th and 7th Centuries, Pinner: Anglo-Saxon Books. Nayar, P. K. (2013), Posthumanism, Cambridge: Polity. Nedoma, R. (1988), Die bildlichen und schriftlichen Denkmäler der Wielandsage, Göppingen: Kümmerle. Nylén, E. and J. P. Lamm (1987), Stones, Ships and Symbols, 2nd edn, Stockholm: Gidlunds. Oerhl, S. (2009), ‘Wieland der Schmied auf dem Kistenstein von Alskog kyrka und dem Runenstein Ardre kyrka VIII – Zur partiellen Neulesung und Interpretation zweier gotländischer Bildsteine’, in W. Heizmann (ed.), Analectica Septentrionalia, 540–66, Berlin: de Gruyter. Oerhl, S. (2010), ‘Ornithomorphe Psychopompoi im Bildprogramm der gotländischen Bildsteine: Ikonografische Auswertung des Neufundes vom Hafenplatz in Fröjel’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 44: 1–37. Oerhl, S. (2012), ‘Bildliche Darstellungen vom Schmied Wieland und ein unerwarteter Auftritt in Walhall’, in A. Pesch and R. Blankenfeldt (eds), Goldsmith Mysteries – the Elusive Gold Smithies of the North, 279–335. Neumünster: ZBSA. Oerhl, S. (2020), ‘I am Eagle. Depictions of Raptors and their Meaning in the Art of Late Iron Age and Viking Age Scandinavia’, in O. Grimm (ed.), Raptor on the Fist – Falconry, Its Imagery and Similar Motifs Throughout the Millennia on a Global Scale, 451–79, Kiel: Wachholtz. Paulsen, P. (1953), Schwertortbänder der Wikingerzeit: Ein Beitrag zur Frühgeschichte Osteuropas, Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Pesch, A., R. Nedoma and J. Insley (2006), ‘Wieland’, Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde, 33: 618–22. Petersen, P. V. (2005), ‘Odins Fugle, Valkyrier og Bersærker’, in T. Capelle and C. Fischer (eds), Ragnarok: Odins Verden, 57–86, Silkeborg: Silkeborgs Museum. 181

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Peterson, L. (2007), Nordiskt Runnamnslexikon, Uppsala: Institutet för språk och folkminnen. Price, N. (1989), The Vikings in Brittany, London: Viking Society for Northern Research. Price, N. (2019), The Viking Way: Magic and Mind in Late Iron Age Scandinavia, Oxford: Oxbow. Price, N. (2020), The Children of Ash and Elm: A History of the Vikings, New York: Basic. Price, N. and P. Mortimer (2014), ‘An eye for Odin? Divine role-playing in the age of Sutton Hoo’, European Journal of Archaeology, 17 (3): 517–38. Quinn, J. (2021), ‘Post-Human Perspectives on Old Norse Mythology’, in S. H. Walther, R. Jucknies, J. Meurer-Bongardt and J. E. Schnall (eds), Res, Artes et Religio: Essays in Honour of Rudolf Simek, 479–90, Leeds: Kismet. Raffensperger, C. (2017), The Kingdom of Rus’, Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam Press. Ratican, C. (2019), ‘The Other Body: Persons in Viking Age Multiple Burials in Scandinavia and the Western Diaspora’, PhD diss., Cambridge: University of Cambridge. Roesdahl, E. (2020), ‘Magtsymboler – Harald Blåtands rovfuglesmykker’, in I. B. Klæsøe, J. B. Jepsen, F. Arntsen, B. Staal, A. Tomlinson, S. Barry, N. B. Thomsen and S. T. Mortensen (eds), Glimt fra Vikingetiden, 212–7, Lyngby : DAA. Rohrbach, L. (2009), Der tierische Blick: Mensch-Tier-Relationen in der Sagaliteratur, Tübingen: Francke. Sjösvärd, L. (1989), HaukR – en rinker från Vallentuna, Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Sotnikova, M. P. (1990), ‘“Deniers of Yaraoslav the Wise”: Scandinavian Imitations of the Yaraslavle sebro from the 11th Century’, in K. Jonsson and B. Malmer (eds), Sigtuna Papers. Proceedings of the Sigtuna Symposium on Viking-Age Coinage, 305–9, Stockholm: Suecia Repertis. Spurkland, T. (2005), Norwegian Runes and Runic Inscriptions, Woodbridge: Boydell. Stolpe, H. and T. J. Arne (1927), La Nécropole de Vendel, Stockholm: KVHAA. Strömberg, M. (1951), ‘Schwertortbänder mit Vogelmotiven aus der Wikingerzeit’, Meddelanden från Lunds Universitetets Historiska Museum, 1950–51: 221–43. Tyrberg, T. (2002), ‘The archaeological record of domesticated and tamed birds in Sweden’, Acta Zoologica Cracoviensia, 45: 216–31. VanderMeer, J. (2014), Area X: the Southern Reach Trilogy (Annihilation / Authority / Acceptance), New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Vedeler, M., I. M. Røstad, E. S. Kristoffersen and A. Z. Glørstad, eds (2018), Charismatic Objects: From Roman Times to the Middle Ages, Oslo: NOASP. Webster, L. (2011), The Franks Casket, London: British Museum. Wilson, D. M. (1985), The Bayeux Tapestry, London and New York: Thames and Hudson. Zachrisson, T. (2017), ‘Volund was Here: a Myth Archaeologically Anchored in Viking Age Scania’, in P. Hermann, S. A. Mitchell and J. P. Schjødt (eds), Old Norse Mythology: Comparative Perspectives, 139–62, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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CHAPTER 11 BIRDS OF PREY, ‘OUR MOTHERS’ AND WOMEN OF POWER: THE ‘SPIRIT BIRD OF NIGHT’ MASQUERADE IN YORÙ B Á ART AND THOUGHT Henry John Drewal

Introduction Birds of prey possess an array of cultural significances for Yorùbá-speaking peoples of West Africa.1 One of the most important relates to ideas associated with women, their gendered differences from men, and their ascribed mystical powers that can be both creative and destructive. The image that epitomizes and embodies these ideas is a mask called E· ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù, ‘Spirit Bird of Night’, depicting a bird of prey with female coiffure or crest and a long, pointed, blood-red beak (Figure 11.1). Being a ‘spirit bird’, it is a representation in sculptural form based on the artist’s creative imagination and conceptual approach to form, rather than on a perceptual approach to the ‘real’ world. E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù is from the invisible, spiritual realm. The length and sharply pointed form of the beak, enhanced with ‘blood-red’ pigment, is the artist’s way of capturing the awesome, fearful presence of a raptor, that is, a bird of prey. What is certain is that Yorùbá people know and understand E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù as the epitome of a bird of prey. It is the most sacred yet rarely seen and powerfully evocative image in the È·fè/Gè·lè·dé· masquerade complex that honours and celebrates the awesome spiritual powers of women (called awó·n ìyá wa, ‘our mothers’) among western Yorùbá peoples of Nigeria and the Republic of Benin. This essay reveals how and why raptors are used to express deeply-rooted ideas, attitudes, and actions concerning the mystical powers of women in one African culture.

` ro`/Orù E`∙fè/Gè∙lè∙dé∙ and E∙ye∙ O ∙ ∙ The È·fè/Gè·lè·dé· society found principally among certain western Yorùbá sub-ethnic groups (Kétu, Ò·hò·rì, Anago, Awori, È·gbádò, Ibarapa, S·abe·), honours the mystical powers of women (whether elders, ancestors, or deities) in elaborate masquerade performances. È·fè/Gè·lè·dé· annual ceremonies generally occur at the start of the new agricultural cycle (March to May). Other performances may occur throughout the year at the discretion of the female head of the society (Iyaláàs·e· ), usually as a funeral commemoration for a member or in especially distressing circumstances affecting the entire community such 185

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Figure 11.1 E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù’s raptorial form is simple and bold – a long, narrow and sharply pointed beak painted blood-red, beady eyes and a female crested-coiffure on the top of the head, S.awonjo, Nigeria. Photograph by Henry John Drewal, 1978, EEPA 1992-028-0006, Henry John Drewal and Margaret Thompson Drewal Collection, Eliot Elisofon Photographic Archives, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution.

as drought, epidemic or widespread infant mortality. Performances traditionally take place in or near the main marketplace – a major setting of social, religious and economic activity involving everyone, especially women who control the markets of Yorùbáland. It is thus most appropriate for a ritual which seeks to gather all segments of society, ό·mό· ìyá wa (‘children of our mothers’), in order to pay homage to female power. The ritual consists of nocturnal (È·fè·) and diurnal (Gè·lè·dé· ) performances. An Ifá divination text from osa méjì that was drummed at the start of an È·fè/Gè·lè·dé· performance in Lagos (Drewal & Drewal 1983:17) recounts the mythic origin and purpose of È·fè/Gè·lè·dé·. O·ruńmila, the òrìs·à of divination, was told to use great caution, care, patience and prudence (pe· le· ) in entering the abode of spiritually powerful women known as ‘the owners of birds’ (ele· ye· ). Such powerful women transform into raptors and gather in the treetops. And when those drums call them to witness the È·fè/Gè·lè·dé· performances in their honour, their response comes from the trees as birds’ cries (Beier 1958:10). In song performed by the Gè·lè·dé· society chorus (abaniro) at the start of È·fè night, certain sacred trees (apá and ìrokò) favoured by the bird-mothers are called to come. Later, before beginning his night-long repertoire of songs, Ò· r ὸ· È·fè· responds to the call for him to begin by saying he had been doing tasks for the apá tree as well as for the ìrokò – indirect or veiled references to services rendered to the 186

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bird-mothers gathered in their branches. Then in his opening incantation of homage (ijúbà) he invokes the god of iron, òrìs.à Ogún, and the god of the cosmic crossroads òrìs·à Es·ù-E·lè·gbà followed by praises for the powerful elderly women, ‘our mothers’ (awó·n ̀iyá wa) in their form as raptorial-bird-mothers (Drewal & Drewal 1983:19, 27, 42–3).

E`∙fè· – nocturnal performances Preliminary masqueraders prepare for the entrance of Spirit Bird of Night (Drewal & Drewal 1983: 20–2, 62–4). They are known collectively as the ‘spirits of the earth’ (ὸ·rὸ· ilę). The first masker, Ogbagba, represents Es·ù-E·lè·gbà, divine messenger and mediator between worldly and otherworldly forces. Soon after comes Arabi Ajigbale·, ‘the-onewho-sweeps-every-morning’. The dress of this masker, comprising shredded palm leaves known as mariwo, signals the arrival of Ogún, god of iron. These two together ‘open-theway’ for all communications between humans and supernatural forces (Osubi 1971). The warning of dangerous forces comes in the form of the next masker – Agbená (carrier-offire) – carrying a blazing mass of grasses or a pot of fire balanced on its head. The crowd moves back in fear until the next apparition arrives – Apaná (extinguisher-of-fire) – who puts out the flames to cool and darken the space. Now is the time for the most sacred and secret mask to come – E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù – as the crowd and chorus sing to herald its arrival (Beier 1958: 9–10). The marketplace is now ritually prepared. With all lights extinguished, excitement fills the gathered crowd as Spirit Bird of Night comes in darkness, moving bent over in a slow, gentle dance (ijó jé·jé·), matching her careful steps with the drum rhythms (Plate 11.1). Elders in the È·fè/Gè·lè·dé· society flock closely around her, obscuring the view of the masker for the gathered crowd. A long white cloth attached to the headdress trails behind. Maintaining a crouched or bent posture, the masker keeps the headdress almost horizontal, elbows and knees bent and spread laterally to evoke hoary age. Small jumps forward and back activate ankle rattles that echo the complex rhythms of the drum ensemble. Spirit Bird of Night does not speak. A series of songs and drum rhythms accompany her, creating layers of meaningful messages. When Spirit Bird of Night comes, the chorus and crowd sing (recorded at Ibaiyun, O·hό· ri-Yorùbá, November 1975): Spirit Bird is coming Spirit Bird is coming Ososobi o, Spirit Bird is coming The one who brings the festival today Tomorrow is the day when devotees of the gods will worship You are the one who brought us to this place It is your influence that we are using Ososobi o, Spirit Bird is coming 187

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In total darkness and completely surrounded, E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù slowly circles the performance space before disappearing, returning to her shrine where her form is carefully wrapped in white cloth and placed on an elevated altar to serve as the focus for the devotions of society elders.

` ro`/Orù) Spirit Bird of Night ( E∙ye∙ O ∙ ∙ The creation of an E·ye· Ò·rὸ·/Orù mask requires specific procedures. Lawani Olupό· na (1975), a woodcarving artist from Ohumbe, Nigeria explains that he does not obtain the wood for the work. This is the responsibility of all the elders in the town, regardless of their society affiliations. The proper wood is described as a ‘rare’ or special type. According to one sculptor, the wood is ìrokò. Significantly, the ìrokò tree is sacred and believed to be the abode of powerful spirits and awó·n ìyá wa (our mothers) who gather in the form of raptors at night in its branches. The elders bring it to the carver. Before any work is undertaken, an elaborate sacrificial ceremony must take place to ensure success. A white goat, white cock, white dove, oil, kola, and one piece of white cloth and money are offered. These are typical gifts for the ‘cool, composed, awesome gods’ or òrìs·à funfun. Upon completion, the elders immediately take the mask to the shrine where the final application of medicines endows the mask with spiritual force as the embodiment of Spirit Bird of Night. E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù’s predatory form is simple and bold – a long, narrow and sharply pointed beak often painted blood-red, beady eyes and either a crest or crested-coiffure on the top of the head (Figure 11.2). The bloody beak recalls a song that warns ‘the one who makes noise in the midnight, who eats from the head to the arm . . . the liver to the heart’. One story from S·ala-Orílé describes E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù as ‘one with a large beak which was blood-red. Its feathers were white. Someone touched it with a stick and it cried like a witch (àjé·)’. Prince (1961: 797) was given similar descriptions of birds of Our Mothers, such as ‘a white bird with long red beak and red claws’ or ‘a brown bird like a bush fowl with long red beak’. The synthesis of raptorial bird and human features highlights the liminality and transformational abilities of powerful women. One E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù mask with a female plaited coiffure was called by its custodian ‘elderly woman’ (agbaláàgba obìnrin). Some have human ears while others lack ears completely. It is the bird of prey and its long, blood-red beak that dominates people’s imaginations. The iconographic simplicity of the E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù mask and the secrecy surrounding it in performance and in shrine contexts relate to the practice of endowing sacred objects with empowering vital force (às·e· ).2 After the sculptor has completed the form, the elders apply certain substances or ‘empowering medicines’ to the mask. The insertion or application of substances possessing às·e· , together with invocations, activate ritual objects and ensure their efficacy. The concentration of these substances in an object or at the shrine or face (ojubό·) of the deity (òrìs·à) constitutes that deity’s power, presence and essence. The medicines invested in the E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù mask are an essential part of the image and determine, as much as any visible motifs, people’s ideas, attitudes and reactions concerning the form. What is unseen, yet intellectually and emotionally acknowledged 188

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Figure 11.2 E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù’s form is simple and bold – a long, narrow and sharply pointed beak left unpainted (white), beady eyes and a crested head, Ibes.e, Nigeria. Photograph by Henry John Drewal, 1977, EEPA 2019-017-1310, Henry John Drewal and Sarah K. Khan Collection, Eliot Elisofon Photographic Archives, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution.

by the spectators, must be considered part of the work of ‘art’, called ό·na and meaning ‘evocative form’. In the case of E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù, the relatively uncomplicated iconography in fact underscores the invisible or hidden substances which are as effective in evoking a response as forms with accumulated visual substances and complex imagery. Elaborate procedures of extinguishing all lights and encircling the masquerader with an impenetrable circle of È·fè/Gè·lè·dé· society elders together with the ‘medicines’ known by all to be concealed in the mask, assure E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù’s awesome secrecy. As one elder explains: ‘She cannot come out without medicine. That is why they don’t like people to be near it [the mask].’ The radiating power of these medicines is believed to cause amenorrhea, infertility, insanity or blindness. These same medicines allow her to serve as guardian of the community, warding off destructive forces or as one interlocuter explained: ‘She is the nightwatch for the town (ti a fi so ìlu).’ The drums accompanying the performance and the requisite song invoke some of these essential materials to contribute to their effect (recorded at Ibaiyun, O·hό·ri-Yorùbá, November 1975): Chewing stick, come and dance Rope from the forest, come and dance Anthill, come and dance Dust from the road, come and dance Honored ancestor apake, come and dance 189

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Chewing stick, rope, anthill and dust are among the substances that activate the mask. Without medicine, the mask is simply wood; with medicine, it becomes E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù. So while in one sense a performance implies something observed by an audience, in this case, the audience is purposefully given very limited access to the image and may in fact never see it. The audience must imagine the spiritual, immaterial entity that is E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/ Orù. One witness to a performance could only describe ‘the great rush of the people’, although he could hear the songs and drums. What has the greatest impact upon all present is the invisible – the darkened, obstructed view and concealed medicines – that give the performance its special aura of power. E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù’s awesome power resides in her secretive nature. Like women, as perceived by men in Yorùbá culture, E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù is unknowable, unpredictable. The colour white (funfun) pervades the imagery of E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù. In the realm of the gods, whiteness (funfun) is synonymous with outer composure (itútù), patience (isùúrù), endurance (irό·ju) and covert action – all supremely feminine attributes. Whiteness also suggests the state of purity or cleanliness ascribed to elderly women past menopause for it is said by male elders that ‘Ososomu is clean. She doesn’t like anything that is dirty. [. . . .] When women are passing blood it is a bad thing.’ Yorùbá males, who regard menstrual blood as impure, polluting and dangerous, explain that its purpose is to ‘wash out all that has been happening between a man and a woman’. More importantly, menses, which by definition contains às·e· , can bring misfortune to a man (Prince 1961: 798) and neutralize any medicinal preparations. Thus an owner of an ancestral masquerade (Egúngún) containing protective amulets prevents his menstruating wife from entering the room in which it is stored because ‘it is contrary for the medicine to come into contact with the odor of menstruation’. In other words, menstrual blood makes ineffective any medicines. By the same token, the strength of the medicines applied to E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/ Orù’s image can ‘dry off ’ a young woman’s menstruation. Keeping young girls and women at a distance from E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù protects them from her radiating powers. Whiteness symbolizes the composure and covertness of the òrìs·à funfun and the ritual purity of one beyond the age of menstruation. The use of white cloth adds a further dimension to these themes. In shrine contexts, cloth heightens the mystery of the mother’s face or conceals it completely. In performance, a large white cloth makes up the costume of the masker representing E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù. Attached to the wooden mask, the cloth extends more than eight to ten yards in length. It is intended to trail along the ground behind the masquerader. The length of the trailing garment implies at once the generosity of the community and the great age of the eternal Mother. Every year the community provides a new cloth as a gesture of renewed support. As is the common practice in Yorùbá compounds, children bathe and clothe elderly women who have grown so old that they have lost the physical strength to care for themselves. By contributing toward the purchase of a new cloth, the community takes care of its ancestral mothers, fulfilling a social obligation. This same action takes place before the afternoon Gè·lè·dé· performances when those who will mask borrow head-ties and baby wrapper cloths from women in the community to add to their costumes, thereby seeking 190

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their support, both spiritual and physical. The cloth is a prayer, a supplication to the mothers. Concealment is the dominant theme in the performance, shrine context, and iconography of E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù. The striking feature of its performance during È·fè· night is that its somatic impact is based upon what is unseen rather than what is seen. In shrine context, the wrapped, veiled or guarded image sustains an aura of mystery. Through the invested interest of the community, each member having contributed to the purchase of her cloth, E·ye· Ò· r ὸ·/Orù remains accessible although visually restricted. The austere quality of the mask enhances its visual power: outer simplicity stresses inner presence. The pervading whiteness of the masquerade conveys antiquity, ritual purity and a composed exterior that masks covert action. By ritually caring for their mother, the community derives benefits from an enigmatic force. As one elder succinctly declared, ‘we must pamper them [our mothers] and be living’. Raptors that appear in iron art convey multiple messages. For example, a diviner’s iron staff with a finial of a bird identified as a hawk or kite (às·á) (Figure 11.3) is known as an Osùn babaláwo (also called ὸ·pá òs·oorò or ὸ·pá ὸ·rè·rè·). Typically measuring between 80 and 150 centimetres in length, it is carried vertically in the right hand by a senior Ifá priest (babaláwo) during processions and may be planted in the ground in an upright position during important gatherings. The Osùn babaláwo represents the power of the diviner to conquer. When used with incantations, the iron staff acts as a weapon against death and destructive forces. When undertaking an ‘Ifá journey’ – that is, when performing an important divinatory ritual that involves a procession – the staff leads the way. Encountering a crossroads during such a ‘journey’, an Ifá entourage stops and chants incantations as the diviner in the lead swings the end of the staff outward to drive away destructive forces. As the diviner Kolawole Oshitola once explained, an ‘enemy that stands in the way of Osùn is ready to die . . . history told us that if we want something to act quickly, we should do it in the name of the hawk/kite’ (Oshitola 1982). Accordingly, the bird on a staff indicates that it is quick acting and efficient like a hawk, or kite (às·á). Yorùbá herbalists/medicine-workers (ό·lό·sanyìn) provide healing knowledge and wisdom for their clients. The herbalist’s distinctive emblem, the ὸ·pá Ò· sanyìn (Plate 11.2), identifies them with powerful prescriptions – leaves, herbs and other substances from deep in the fertile forests of Yorùbáland – and with Ò· sanyìn, the deity of medicine. Such staffs are typically surmounted by a circle of sixteen birds surrounding a larger central one (Abiodun 2014: 78). The ὸ·pá Ò· sanyìn is not to be confused with the Osùn babaláwo · of diviners, for the birds that surround the central one in Ò· sanyìn staffs represent the potentially destructive forces of bird-women (àjé·) with whom human beings must cope. Generally short and most often placed on altars with objects for other divinities, ὸ·pá Ò· sanyìn recall trees filled with birds, evoking the forest as a source of sacred medicines as well as a site of potentially dangerous forces. A staff ’s encircling birds remind us that destructive as well as auspicious forces can come from any direction – one must be prepared to defend or attack, to work for or against such forces, with weapons of iron such as these empowered staffs. 191

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Figure 11.3 A diviner’s iron staff with a finial of a bird identified as a hawk or kite (às·á) is known

as an Osùn babaláwo. The staff is a spiritual weapon that strikes quickly like a hawk. Photograph by Henry John Drewal, c. 1986, EEPA 2019-017 Binder 1988-86.12, Henry John Drewal and Sarah K. Khan Collection, Eliot Elisofon Photographic Archives, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution.

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Yorùbá beliefs about female and male differences In order to comprehend these Yorùbá images of raptors as powerful women, largely created by male artists in wood and metal, it is necessary to understand male and female beliefs and attitudes concerning females. The following discussion is based on proverbs, Ifá divinatory orature, origin mythologies, and conversations with artists, diviners, royals, elders, priests and priestesses. The Yorùbá conceive of the self as having both exterior (òde) and interior (inú) aspects. A person’s exterior reveals little or nothing about her/his true being, character or intentions. It is simply outer physical appearance. The inner aspect controls all thoughts and actions. The character (iwà), personality, and potential of an individual are believed to reside in the spiritual head or orí inú (lit. ‘inner/spiritual head’) to distinguish it from the outer or physical head (orí òde). An expression of this belief occurs during trance, when a worshipper embodies the character of a deity (òrìs·à). Respondents specifically state that the spirit of a deity ‘mounts’ (gùn) the inner head (orí inú) and causes it to swell (wú) as the medium enters an altered state of consciousness. To express the altered inner self, the possessed person is led away and dressed in the regalia of the deity, sometimes including instruments evocative of power and aggression (swords, cudgels, whips) or coolness and composure (fans). The medium then returns to embody the character of the deity via a trance, thus harmonizing inner presence with outer performance. In non-ritual situations, however, individuals make a conscious effort to conceal the nature of the inner head as a means of self-protection, for this unknowable quality of a person is revealed only when thoughts are uttered or acted out. Utterances, as expressions of the spiritual, inner self, can possess a force known as às·e or ‘performative power’, the power to make things come to pass. This belief is apparently ancient for a number of Ife terracotta heads depict sacrificial victims who are gagged to prevent them from uttering a fatal curse upon their executioners (Willett 1967: 49; Awolalu 1973: 88; Abiodun 2014: · Chapter 2). Revealing orí inú can bring repercussions. Elders explain that ‘if someone voices out something which is bad, then people will be thinking bad of the person and the person can be poisoned . . . What is voiced out comes from inside and that is what we Yorùbá call orí inú.’ A well-known prayer conveying the same concern for concealing and controlling the inner self requests ‘may my inner head not spoil the outer one’ (orí inú mi kò ma bà ti òde je·). Yorùbá perceive a fundamental difference between females and males in the ability to conceal orí inú. Male informants stress this distinction in such words as ‘women are more secretive than we. Before any woman can leak out any secret, I doubt it. But we men usually open our secret to anybody’ and ‘women have many secrets that they will never tell [. . .] except their mothers’. Secrecy is believed inherent in femaleness. A myth from the ogbe wori verses of Ifá divination illustrates this (Ogúndipe· 1975). The myth, which describes how a king lost his life for revealing the mysteries of the Orò society to his wife, warns males that exposing secrets will bring destruction. Men, because of their professed inability to keep secrets, create elaborate procedures to maintain sacred mysteries, supposedly from women. Yet my research clearly indicates that all Yorùbá religious 193

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societies, even those described as male, have at least one powerful female official in recognition of women’s superiority in matters of secrecy. For example, the Aláàgba and Ìyá Agό·n (male and female titles respectively) share ultimate authority in the Egúngún society, and in certain instances, according to testimony in l̀laró, È·gbádo- Yorùbá, the l̀yá Agό·n may overrule the Aláàgba. The Orò society, usually described as an exclusive male secret society, has a female elder known as lyá Orò. Although she may not be present at all functions, she is considered to ‘know all’ and has authority in most matters. The Os·ugbo/Ògbóni society also contains a hierarchy of female titles headed by the Iyá Erelú. Men, explaining that ‘women must take part before a ceremony can be successful’, intimate that their efforts can be negated both physically and spiritually by female opposition (Abiodun 2014: Chapter 3). · Female secrecy is sometimes explained in terms of the physical attributes of the genitalia, where the penis of Ogun, warrior god of iron is contrasted with a vagina concealed in pubic hair as recorded in an È·fè· song (recorded at Emado Quarter, Aiyétòrò, È·gbádò, March 27, 1971). That song makes an explicit reference to a powerful woman as an ‘old bird’ arugbo e· ye· . Elderly, post-menopausal females are believed to possess heightened ‘performative power’(às·e· ). A woman’s ability to be self-contained emerges in the concept of ìrό·jú. Ìrό·jú is defined as ‘patience’ and ‘perseverance’ (Crowther 1852: I57), or calm, ‘mild’, ‘good-tempered’ (Abraham 1958:575). It connotes the control of self, control of orí inú and is matched by another feminine attribute attested to in the saying ό·wό· è· rὸ· lό·wό· obìnyin, ‘soothing are the hands of a woman’. A cool feminine exterior masks enormous inner spiritual strength and endurance. The inscrutable nature of women’s secrets intensifies their power in the minds of men. According to Yorùbá belief, the concentration of vital force or performative power (às·e· ) in women creates extraordinary potential that can manifest itself in both positive and negative ways (Abiodun 2014: Chapter 3). One way this mystical power is manifest is in · women’s ability to transcend and transform. The terms referring to such women as olójú méjì (‘one-with-two-faces’), abáàra méjì (‘one-with-two-bodies’), aláàwó. méjì (‘one-oftwo-colours’) aptly express this duality and ability, alluding to their powers of transformation that allow them to ‘turn’ to such nocturnal creatures as bats, snakes, rats, and especially birds of prey; or an androgynous being, a ‘masculinized’ post-menopausal woman with an extraordinary beard (Drewal 1977).3 As one elder male explains in English: ‘You will see her one way during the day and at midnight she will turn into another thing.’ One Yorùbá term for these special powers and a woman possessing them is àjé·, usually translated as ‘witch’ or ‘witchcraft’ (Morton-Williams 1956; Abraham 1958; Prince 1961; Thompson 1971). However, this translation is Eurocentric, pejorative, and inaccurate from a Yorùbá point of view. The terms ‘witch’ or ‘witchcraft’ connote evil/ immoral action, whereas for Yorùbá, the mystical powers of women can be both negative/ destructive and positive/generative. As Uli Beier (1958: 6) points out, the term àjé· ‘ . . . represents rather the mystic powers of womanhood in their more dangerous destructive aspect’. When Yorùbá suspect a woman of becoming destructive (àjé· ,), they say o gbe·ye·, ‘she has become a bird’ – a clear reference to her transformation into a nocturnal bird of prey (Abraham 1958: 201). And when a woman thought to be àjé·, keeps giving birth to 194

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females, she is accused of creating more dangerous bird-women with the phrase e· ye· n yi lu e· ye· – ‘bird is rolling on bird’ (Abraham 1958: 201 and 358). Any elderly woman, her longevity implying secret knowledge and power, may be regarded as an àjé· as are all those who hold important titles in associations for the gods or ancestors, like Orò, or Egúngún, or Ogbóni/Osugbó . Elderly women and priestesses . among the Yorùbá are neither antisocial nor the personification of evil as are ‘witches’ in Euro-Christian belief. Rather, they form an important segment of the population in any town and tend to be shown much respect and affection. Àjé·, being a generally pejorative term, is used rarely and with caution. No one would address women suspected of possessing such power, virtually all elderly women past menopause, as àjé·. Instead they are called awó·n ìyá wa (‘our mothers’) and addressed personally as ìyámi (‘my mother’), Ìyánlá (‘great mother’), or ìyá àgbà (‘elderly, wise mother’). This nomenclature recognizes their positive attributes as creative, protective progenitors and renowned healers (MacLean 1969: 37; Oshitola 1982) and a moderating presence within society to assure a just apportionment of power, wealth and prestige that maintains moral laws and conduct (Verger 1965: I59). When angered, the mothers operate surreptitiously to seek out and consume their victims. Their attacks are believed to result in stillbirth and conditions such as elephantiasis, impotency, infertility and false pregnancy which ‘turns to water’ at parturition, or debilitating diseases that slowly destroy the victim from within, without outward sign. Operating invisibly in their transformed state as birds of prey, they freely destroy in the middle of the town or farm as one of their praise poems proclaims (recorded at Agos·as·a Quarter, Ilaro, È·gbádò, November 1975): My Mother Os·oronga, arrogant dove that eats in the town Famous bird that eats in a cleared farm who kills an animal without [sharing with anyone] One who makes noise [famous one] in the midnight Who eats from the head to the arm, who eats from the liver to the heart The likelihood of a female possessing such power varies according to age and personality type (the nature of oŕi inú). Young girls who are impatient, lack self-control and exhibit anger are not generally thought to possess àjé· for their temperamental or fickle natures would expose and dissipate a power which must remain hidden, covert. In the words of an elder, ‘they don’t have secret minds, cool minds’. Very gentle, quiet, calm women are most suspect. One person remarked that when slandered, cursed or slapped, women possessing àjé· will ‘just look at you and beg you. Then sometime later another thing will happen.’ The power is so covert that women may not themselves realize that they possess it. Women of child-bearing age may be ‘mothers’ but the loss of menstrual blood and/or lactation are believed to deplete vital life force (às·e· ), the source of their special power (Parrinder 1951: 21; Awolalu 1973: 90–I). It is those women, the ‘elder mothers’ (ìyá àgbà), those passed menopause, who are most likely to possess the power, not only because of their cool, covert, secretive characters, but because they retain vital force, performative power (às·e· ) in their blood. A 195

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praise name for the aged mothers in an Egúngún invocation states ‘honor the one with the vagina that turns upside down without pouring blood’ (Ibà òbò to do ri kò do ti ko s·e è·jè·) (recorded at Agos·as·a Quarter, Ilaro, È·gbádò, November 1975). Composure and containment are thus essential qualities: ‘If you offend them, they won’t be annoyed. They will just be laughing together with the person, but what they will do to the person is inside [orí inú].’ Their very restraint communicates complete control of awesome qualities unequalled by the most commanding male. The relationship between these elder women and their male counterparts (os·ó) is illuminating in this regard. According to several sources, every ‘mother’ must have a male os·ó to carry out her work. She conceives the plan and he acts on it, confirming an operational pattern of covert versus overt behavior expected of females and males respectively. This pattern of action is realized in Spirit Bird of Night’s performance where a man performs the mask/costume while elderly women surround and supervise. These powerful females occupy a position which is subordinate to that of the supreme deity, Olódùmarè, and O · ruńmìlà, god of Ifá divination, and equal to or superior to that of the gods, òrìs. à. As one person explains: If there is an epidemic we sacrifice to all the gods of the town. We try to conciliate them. All the mothers are the owners of all these gods. After making sacrifices to the gods, the mothers would know that we had begged them. After giving them something to eat there would be no more trouble [. . .] Our forefathers told us that these were àjé·, that we must not look down on them. If we despise them it means death. We must pamper them and be living (. . . Àwo. n babánlá wa ni nwo. n ti nso fun wa pe àjé· niyi o. A o si gbó.dò. foju di won o. Bi a ba foju di wo. n iku ni o. A o si ma tù wo. n ao si yè). Babaló·la 1971 Another states in English: ‘The mothers hide under all these idols.’ And a priestess confirms: ‘Ifá is senior to them (alagbára wo. n) [the mothers], but aside from Ifá, nothing is elder to them [. . .] They are more powerful than any òrìs·à’ (E· dun 1975). ‘The mothers’ are frequently addressed with the honorific ‘owners of the world’ (oni loni ayé) in recognition of their omnipotence and the fact that ‘we all came out of a woman’s body’. Verger (1965) provides a number of Ifá verses attesting to feminine suzerainty at the very creation of the world. In one of these myths (osa meji, p. 204), Olódùmarè gave woman (Odù) control on the condition that she use her enormous power with care, calm, discretion (máa ró· ra ló· rèéelò agbára) expressive of male expectations of female behaviour. These notions of women reappear in Yorùbá cosmology. The òrìs·à are often categorized on the basis of their personalities as òrìs·à funfun/ òrìs·à tútù, the ‘white gods’/’cool gods’ or òrìs·à ogbóna/òrìs·à líle, the ‘hot’ or ‘hard’ gods. The colour white (funfun) connotes ‘coolness, composure, discretion, covertness’ – it is the colour of ‘Our Mothers’ as discussed above. Most òrìs·à funfun are female while òrìs·à ogbóna are generally male. The concepts of funfun (whiteness) or tútù (coolness) as they apply to the gods, like those traits which characterize elderly women, encompass both destructive as well as constructive action. The cool nature of the mothers serves to conceal awesome 196

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power that is potentially constructive as well as destructive. Similarly a hot god like S·àngó or Ogún may act constructively to give a woman children as witnessed in such names bestowed on newborn babies as S·àngódipe (‘Sà . ngó-consoled-us-with-the-birthof-a-child’) or Ogúnmuyiwa (‘Ogún-brought-this-child-to-us’). On the other hand S·àngó, ‘if he is annoyed, pulls down the àràbà tree’ (abinu, fà àràbà wó). The concepts of coolness and hotness characterize demeanour and countenance of a person or god rather than inherent positive or negative traits. Great Mother, Ìyánlá, a deity and one primary manifestation of feminine power, is described as cool (onitútù) and patient (onisūrù) despite her destructive potential as one who ‘kills without striking’. Coolness/whiteness then refers to a calm exterior which masks enormous inner strength utilized surreptitiously or covertly, while hotness refers to the overt actions of the òrìs·à ogbóna. These colours and their associated temperatures symbolize temperaments – distinct operational modes associated with either females or males, that can result in both destructive and constructive action.

Conclusion In Yorùbá culture, raptors serve to express deep-seated beliefs, attitudes and actions concerning the fundamental differences between females and males and their spiritual powers. Spiritually powerful women (called ‘Our Mothers’ – awó·n ìyá wa in their positive, protective aspect, and ‘witches’ – àjé. in their destructive aspect) have the power to transform into spirit raptors at night in order to fly and carry out their work. Cool, calm and awesome, Spirit Bird of Night in the form of a raptor as imagined by a Yorùbá sculptor evokes the dangerous, unknowable and unpredictable powers of women in a barely-visible nocturnal performance that is central to the art, ritual and purpose of È·fè/ Gè·lè·dé· – the masking society that celebrates the secretive, mystical powers of women.

Notes 1. This study is based on fieldwork conducted in Nigeria and the Republic of Bénin in 1970–71, 1973, 1975, 1977–78, 1982 and 1986. I gratefully acknowledge the generous financial support for field research provided by the Institute of African Studies, Columbia University (1970–71), the Institute for Intercultural Studies, Inc. (1970–71, 1973 and 1975), Cleveland State University (1975), NEH grants in 1982, 1986, and several faculty research grants from UW-Madison. I thank the Nigerian Federal Government Department of Antiquities and the University of Ife (Obafemi Awolowo) for research affiliations and the assistance provided by IRAD and the Musée Ethnographique, Porto-Novo, Bénin. I wish to thank Oladele Olabisi for checking Yorùbá translations and orthography; Rowland Abio· dun for his perceptive comments about Yorùbá concepts of orí and às·e· ; Samuel Akinfenwa and Raimi Akaki Taiwo for their valuable research assistance; and especially the Yorùbá elders who courageously discussed sensitive topics. The Yorùbá orthography used here generally follows Abraham (1958). The translations of oral texts/songs are based on the explanations and interpretations provided by those who performed them.

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The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey 2. The concept of às·e· is fundamental to Yorùbá belief. Variously defined as ‘power, authority, command’ (Abraham 1958: 71), ‘a coming to pass, effect, imprecation’ (Crowther 1852: 47), às·e· has important metaphysical dimensions as well. Às·e· is vital force, energy, mystical power and potential present in persons, things, and in utterances (Prince 1961: 66; Beier 1970: 44). T. J. Bowen (1858: 173–4) appears to be among the first to describe it without mention of the Yorùbá term, while Verger (1965: 15–19) and Rowland Abio· dun (2014: Chapter 2) give the most detailed exposition of the concept. Às·e· encompasses both the expression às·e· which follows prayer; or invocations and means ‘so be it, may it come to pass’ as well as às·e· ‘shrine’, the site of concentrated substances (like leaves, roots, foods, blood of animals) containing vital force that constitute the power of a god (òrìs·à). I translate às·e· as ‘performative power’. 3. The other major mask form for ‘Our Mothers’ is a woman with an extraordinary beard called Ìyánla, ‘Great Mother’ – an image that dramatically captures the supernatural, transformative powers of such women who are described as olójú méjì (‘one-with-two-faces’), abáàra méjì (‘onewith-two-bodies’), aláàwó. méjì (‘one-of-two-colours’). See Drewal 1977 for a discussion of Ìyánla.

References Abio· dun, Rowland (2014), Yorùbá Art and Language: Seeking the African in African Art, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Abraham, R. C. (1958), Dictionary of Modern Yorùbá, London: University of London Press. Awolalu, J. 0. (1973), ‘Yorùbá sacrificial practice’, Journal of Religion in Africa, 5 (2): 81–93. Babaló.la, I. (1971), Town historian (Imasai, Nigeria), interviews, 12 April. Beier, H. U. (1958), ‘Gè·lè·dé· masks’, Odu 6: 5–23. Beier, U. (1970), Yoruba Poetry, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bowen, T. J. (1858), Meroke: Missionary Life in Africa, Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union. Crowther, S. A. (1852), Grammar and Vocabulary of the Yorùbá Language, London: Seeleys. Drewal, H. J. and M. T. Drewal (1983), Gè·lè·dé· : Art and Female Power among the Yorùbá, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Drewal, H. J. (1977), ‘Art and the perception of women in Yorùbá culture’, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, 17, 68: 545–67. E.dun, A. (1975), ìyálòrìsà (Agos· as· a Quarter, Ilaro, Nigeria), interview, 5 November. MacLean, U., 1969, ‘Sickness Behaviour among the Yoruba (Ibadan)’, in Witchcraft and Healing, Seminar Proceedings, 14–15 February, Centre of African Studies (Edinburgh). Morton-Williams, P. (1956), ‘The Atinga Cult among the South Western Yoruba: A Sociological Analysis of a Witch-Finding Movement’, Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Afrique Noire, series B, 18 (3–4): 315–34. Ogúndipe. , R. (1975), babaláwo and artist/sculptor (Ilaro, Nigeria), interviews, 18 October and 18 November. Olupó.na, L. (1975), artist (Ohumbe, Nigeria), interview, 13 November. Oshitola, Kolawole (1982), babaláwo (Imodi-Mosan, Nigeria), interviews. Osubi, S. (1971), babaláwo, Olori Agunwa and artist (Iwoye, Benin), interview, 19 May. Parrinder, E. G. (1951), West African Psychology, London: Lutterworth Press. Prince, R. (1961), ‘The Yorùbá image of the witch’, Journal of Mental Science, 107, 449: 795–805. Thompson, R. F. (1971), Black Gods and Kings: Yorùbá Art at UCLA, Los Angeles: University of California Press. Verger, P. (1965), ‘Grandeur et décadence du culte de Ìyámi Os.oronga (ma mere la sorcière) chez les Yorùbá’, Journal de la Société des Africanistes 35 (1): 141–243. Willett, F. (1967), Ife in the History of West African Sculpture, New York: McGraw-Hill. 198

CHAPTER 12 POUĀ KAI : ROCK DRAWINGS OF HAAST’S EAGLE OR NEW ZEALAND’S LEGENDARY BIRD? Gerard O’Regan, Emma Burns and Te Maire Tau1

Introduction With a charcoal crayon in hand, a Māori hunter draws onto the limestone wall a record of what he sees unfolding outside the safety of his rock shelter. It is a massive raptor attacking a huge emu-like moa in the New Zealand forest. The hunter is within the first generations of people to occupy this land hitherto dominated by birds, and his picture is an eyewitness account of the largest eagle ever encountered by humans. Or is it? An artistic impression of this scene illustrates an article about the extinct Haast’s eagle (Aquila moorei) in New Zealand Geographic, the country’s premier scientific and cultural magazine. Richard Holdaway (1989), the author and a leading researcher of New Zealand’s palaeobiology, was in no doubt that ‘the artist who painted the great bird on the roof of the Craigmore shelter was drawing from his own experience one of the most dramatic animals he knew’. The idea that Māori rock art in the South Island of New Zealand depicts extinct eagles is reflected in some modern place names such as ‘Cave of the New Zealand Eagle, Te Ana Pouākai’ at Craigmore (Craigmore Station n.d), the location of the above portrayed scene. These interpretations draw support from snippets in Māori tradition referring to large and predatory birds. This sees the name ‘pouākai’ attached to the Haast’s eagle in current Māori language dictionaries, heritage place designations and scholastic research. Yet, some traditional information categorically ascribes that name to what we know today as the moa (order Dinornithiformes). Further, some of the same rock art images are also argued by archaeologists to depict hybrid ‘birdmen’ based on an anthropomorphic aspect to the body coupled with outstretched wings and what appear to be beaked heads. Local Māori communities label those images as pouākai. A casual reading of the literature gives an impression that perhaps Māori traditionally anthropomorphized the eagle to a ‘pouākai – birdman’, and there is certainly a well-known tradition of a ‘bird woman’ in the central North Island. There are though, other traditions of Pou, an ancestor who is said to have been brought to New Zealand on an enormous bird. These traditions don’t readily apply to an idea of the eagle, but may be reflected in some of the rock art images at question. Against this backdrop, recent reference to motif elements in the rock art imagery as depicting biological characteristics of the Haast’s eagle seems tenuous. Attributions of names and interpretations to both the eagle and rock art imagery have emerged as something of ‘received knowledge’ in current writing and heritage 199

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management. It is argued here that this results from a conflation of quite different interpretations of the pouākai found in disparate information sources. Here we apply a historical lens in turn to the ecological and biological understanding of the Haast’s eagle, the archaeological evidence of human encounters with it, the interpretation of rock art imagery and the surrounding Māori traditions. This tests how the seemingly incompatible interpretations of the rock art images sit alongside each other – can the images be taken as reflecting a brief moment in history when humans were engaged with the massive raptor, are they better thought of as depicting a different aspect of Māori tradition, or can these interpretations be viewed as complimentary?

Ecological understanding When humans first arrived in New Zealand sometime around the thirteenth century ce , the islands were mostly forest-covered and populated with a rich avifauna, most species of which were endemic. Small bats were the only terrestrial mammals and bird species had evolved to occupy ecological niches occupied by mammals in other parts of the world. The vacancy of large ground-bound grazing herbivores was filled by nine different species of moa, flightless ratites related to emu and ostrich. The largest, female South Island moa (Dinornis novasealandiae), could stretch up to 3.6 metres and weigh up to 200 kilograms. The smaller species, the lowland dwelling little bush moa (Anomalopteryx didiformis) and alpine specialist, the upland moa (Megalapteryx didinus), weighed around 35 kilograms. Our understanding of the moa today comes mostly from the study of skeletal, coprolite, eggshell and a few mummified remains found in caves, swamps and archaeological middens. Among the skeletal remains are moa pelvic bones punctured by huge talons demonstrating predation by eagles (Worthy & Holdaway 2002: 312). Haast’s eagle was the largest species of eagle, living or extinct, known to have existed (Figure 12.1). On the ground it stood 90 to 140 centimetres tall. Males were around 10 kilograms and had a wingspan about 2.4 metres. Females were larger, weighing as much as 15 kilograms and had wingspans of up to 3 metres. In proportion to their body size, the wings were relatively short but ridges on the ulna and femur for muscle attachment suggest that Haast’s eagles were strong flyers (Worthy & Holdaway 2002). The strong legs and massive flight muscles would have allowed the birds to take off with a jumping start from the ground. Notwithstanding that, it is thought that the Haast’s eagle used a flapping flight suggesting it flew over shorter distances, swooping from high perches onto its prey. The tail was likely long, in excess of fifty centimetres, and very broad to assist in providing lift and stabilizing flight, possibly using ambush tactics to drop onto the back of moa (Brathwaite 1992). The proportions of Haast’s eagle are consistent with other known forest eagles (Worthy & Holdaway 2002). These eagles were specialist bird-hunters, capable of taking down moa up to ten or even twenty times their own body weight. Designed for grappling and a crushing grip, and large relative to body size, the talons were 60 millimetres long with an additional 30 millimetres long horn sheath. The force of its great talons were used to target the vulnerable hindquarters of moa (Worthy & 200

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Figure 12.1 Haast’s eagle skeleton, OMNZ AV7473 Photograph: Kane Fleury © Tūhura Otago Museum. Inset showing the comparative size of New Zealand’s extinct Haast’s eagle and Eyles’ harrier with the extant kahu or Australasian swamp harrier. Adapted from Brathwaite (1992) and Prehistoric-wildlife.com (2013).

Holdaway 2002). Its long skull shared features with other eagles as well as vultures. The strong hooked beak was 130 to 150 millimetres long and capable of delivering a powerful bite, penetrating the hide of moa and reaching deep into the carcass. Whereas the different types of moa were geographically widespread, Haast’s eagle remains are only known from about fifty sites around the South Island and Stewart Island. Although they have been found from sea level up to subalpine areas, to date remains have not been found in the climatically wetter Fiordland and Westland areas, which suggests the eagle favoured drier forest habitats in the eastern parts of the South Island. Of the seventy-eight individual eagles identified, none have been found in the North Island where a smaller raptor appears to have dominated, the Eyles’ harrier (Circus teauteensis). It was a sturdily built harrier with North Island specimens being as large as some subspecies of golden eagles (Aquila chrysaetos) and thought capable of tackling small moa. Compared to the kāhu (Australasian swamp harrier, Circus approximans), which is the largest extant bird of prey in New Zealand, the Eyles’ harrier was about four time heavier, had a deeper, more powerful and heavier beak, and talons that were about 50 per cent larger. Eyles’ harrier was a fast-flapping harrier species, capable of greater speed and manoeuvrability than its smaller relative, perhaps an advantage in the more enclosed forested environment that existed then. At 3.5 kilograms 201

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females were larger than males, and South Island individuals were typically smaller than North Island birds. This regional size variation could reflect competition with Haast’s eagle, noting that no Eyles’ harrier remains have been found in the southern regions of Otago and Southland. As a large apex predator with high food needs, Haast’s eagle likely hunted over very large areas and had a naturally low population estimated at between 3,800–7,600 breeding pairs (Worthy & Holdaway 2002). Archaeological evidence shows Māori hunted very large numbers of moa, collected their eggs and altered huge areas of the habitat. Whether accidental or for purposeful landscape modification, vast areas of forest were burned and many areas converted to scrub and tussock. It is thought moa had a low reproductive rate (Worthy & Holdaway 2002) so were vulnerable to habitat loss and hunting pressure that saw all moa species economically depleted within 150 years and biologically extinct within 200 years of Māori settlement (Perry et al. 2014: 133–4). Other large flightless birds were similarly impacted and soon were extinct. Like other large predators, Haast’s eagle dependency on larger prey saw it poorly equipped to deal with changes and upheaval from human environmental impacts and it would have been disappearing by the middle of the fourteenth century (Worthy & Holdaway 2002). In the North Island and northern South Island Eyles’ harrier populations also became extinct, likely linked to clearing of habitat, introduced mammals (rat and dog), and direct hunting with their remains having been found in archaeological sites (Worthy & Holdaway 2002: 354). The closest living relative of the Eyles’ harrier is the kāhu, a selfintroduction that established itself widely across the human impacted New Zealand ecosystem sometime over the last 800 or so years. The Māori language name is also attached to manu kāhu, the largest type of Māori kite which sometimes have human faces depicted and outstretched wings, and were flown in ritual. Whereas we understand the relationship with the kāhu as part of ongoing Māori culture today, insights on the actual human interaction with the eagle are drawn from archaeology and ethnohistorical records of Māori tradition.

Rock art imagery identified as eagles Māori in the North Island lived with Eyles’ harrier for which remains are known from middens. Archaeological evidence leaves no doubt that early Māori in the South Island had interactions with the eagle, with skeletal remains found in at least seven archaeological contexts, mostly in sites around the southern coast (Worthy & Holdaway 2002; Hamel 2001). An awl made of eagle bone was found in 1872 at Moa-bone Cave, Canterbury, but was not initially recognized as cultural use of eagle remains (Duff 1956). Another three awls were found at Wairau Bar, a northern South Island site that is associated with the first generations of settlement in New Zealand. Māori are known to have made use of sub-fossil moa bone for artefact manufacture, however, the condition of the awls suggest they had been shaped from fresh bone (Duff 1956: 217–19). This and an abundance of fresh alternatives from swan and albatross suggest that the awls were made from bones 202

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of eagles killed by the toolmakers, convincingly demonstrating a cultural experience of the birds (Holdaway 1989). The other thread of archaeological evidence comprises depictions in rock art of avian forms that have been interpreted as ‘eagles’. There are over 160 known Māori rock art sites in the North Island but none have imagery of raptor-like birds. The vast majority of the 650 recorded South Island sites are in the eastern Canterbury and Otago regions. An initial review of the Ngāi Tahu tribe’s rock art site database shows ‘bird-like’ subjects, a category encompassing both mythological birdman figures and more naturalistic drawings of avian forms, are present at thirty-four sites (Matthew Hill pers. com. 2021 and 2022). The images interpreted as eagles or pouākai are typically black drawings or paintings made with a pigment of soot mixed with plant resins and animal fat. Some of the images are only outlines, others partially infilled, and some totally infilled creating a silhouette. One general form exemplified by the Craigmore bird (Plate 12.1) has the hooked beak, head, feet and part of the body in profile, but the triangular tail and wings stretching either side as viewed from above. The other form presents a frontally depicted bird with outstretched wings – some with primary feathers, an elongated pointed head turned to one side suggestive of a beaked head, and splayed legs with a tail in-between. The most well-known of these are those from the Waipata Creek and Te Manunui sites (Figure 12.2). The site previously known as Frenchman’s Gully was renamed Te Manunui (The Great Bird) in 2007 to reflect local Māori ideas that the bird motifs represent the extinct pouākai or Haast’s eagle (Heritage New Zealand 2014). Some paleofauna researchers have similarly interpreted the imagery as Haast’s eagle (e.g. Worthy & Holdaway 2002; Holdaway 1989). Across the world extinct animals have been identified in rock art including Palaeolithic representations of mammoths, auroch, cave bears, cave lions and woolly rhinoceroses in European caves. Recent examples in the Pacific include analysis of Sulawesi warty pig depictions with anatomical features that do not survive in skeletal remains (Brumm et al. 2021), while analysis of rock paintings of a large bipedal bird in Arnhem Land, Australia, highlight the complexity of species attributions showing that findings are not necessarily as conclusive as they may initially seem (Cobden et al. 2017). Holdaway (1989) considers that finger-like primary feathers at the tips of broad wings on some Māori rock art figures almost certainly identify the subjects as eagles, while an image near Weka Pass, North Canterbury, shows the bird’s legs to be strong and bent with big talons reflecting that in life Haast’s eagle had the most powerful legs and feet of any bird of prey. More recently, the outlined head in contrast to the infilled body of the bird drawing in the Cave of the New Zealand Eagle, Craigmore, has been considered indicative of the eagles’ head and neck having been featherless and, so, supporting other evidence of it having vulture-like feeding mechanics (van Heteren et al. 2021). Such identifications have, though, been questioned by some leading authorities on Māori rock art who have observed that images described as eagles could, perhaps in some cases more convincingly, depict albatrosses (e.g. Trotter & McCulloch 1981: 32, Anderson 2014: 87). For example, the wings on the Craigmore bird are long and slender 203

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Figure 12.2 Archaeological reproductions of South Island rock art recorded by Anthony (Tony) Fomison c. 1960. An index card showing an ‘eagle’ figure from Waipata Creek in North Otago (above) (Canterbury Museum 2011.115.356), and tracing with crayon on plastic sheet of the ‘birdmen’ and a fish at Te Manunui Rock Art Site, South Canterbury (below) (Canterbury Museum 1969.312.595). Note the disjointed head of the figure on the viewer’s right reflects exfoliation damage at the time of tracing. © Photographs reproduced courtesy of Canterbury Museum.

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without feather details, and the hooked beak is shaped like that of the various albatross species. The northern royal albatross (Diomedea sanfordi) that still nests on the South Island is, like the Haast’s eagle, an impressively large species that would not have been encountered by humans until Polynesians navigated into southern latitudes. Depictions of marine creatures and subjects at inland locations is not unusual in Māori rock art. Alternatively, some of the drawings may depict other raptors, such as Eyles’ harrier, which has a distribution that compares to the Canterbury rock art figures in question. These alternative possible attributions of species to the motif subject bring into focus the issue of stylization in southern Māori rock art. Whereas some bird images seem naturalistic and may possibly be identified to species, as with other animals depicted, ‘the obvious stylization of certain features in some, and the lack of a comparable degree of naturalism in nearly all other subjects, strongly suggests that these too [bird images] are conventionalised figures’ (Trotter & McCulloch 1981: 30). A feature across a wide range of human and animal subjects in South Island rock art is an internal ‘blank’ in which the inner space of a motif is left uncoloured rather than being infilled with pigment. Different application of this convention can be seen in three of the images at Te Manunui, where the upper avian form is completely infilled, the more anthropomorphic form (viewer’s right) has a blank body, and the lower avian form has a blank body and head (Figure 12.2). Given this, it is possible that the ‘blank’ head of the ‘eagle’ at Craigmore indicates a common stylistic practice in southern Māori rock art rather than a naturalistic depiction of a featherless or light-coloured head of the bird. The scale of depictions in rock art imagery is also highly variable and does not necessarily reflect the natural size of the subject matter, even relative to other figures within the same shelter. Whereas the Craigmore bird is large for a single motif in Māori rock art, the pouākai forms at Te Manunui are relatively small with the tallest only 33 centimetres high.

Rock art imagery ascribed as ‘birdmen’ The figures at Te Manunui exemplify the challenge of attributing subject matter in Māori rock art. In Birds of Aotearoa (Orbell 2003: 34), they are pictured with a note that ‘The “birdmen” are thought to represent the New Zealand eagle’. This labelling stems from when Skinner (1933), an eminent ethnologist, described all three as birdmen, perhaps representing Tāne, god of the birds. Archaeologist Roger Duff (1950), described the same motifs as two birdmen and the other on the viewer’s right as less bird-like but having similar artistic treatment to a North Otago image he described as an eagle (Figure 12.2). Anthony (Tony) Fomison extensively recorded southern Māori rock art and noted the widespread distribution of the motif suggesting that these could perhaps be considered as symbols of ‘bird-man’ rather than depictions of men dressed as birds. He refers to all three figures at Te Manunui as birdmen and saw them fitting the early phase of his proposed stylistic chronology such that ‘the presence of “birdmen” in the most naturalistic style of South Island rock art is beyond dispute’ (Fomison 1969: 138; also Fomison & Fyfe 2014). In this, his hybrid avian–human characterization of the motifs is 205

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based on their visual form, and one at Te Manunui was the most detailed representation of a ‘birdman’ then on record (Fomison 1969: 138). Pamela Bain (1985) followed Fomison in attributing the imagery from Te Manunui to an ‘early style’ characterized by realism. Most of the avian figures she studied from North Otago are described as naturalistic depictions of birds, but all except one from South Canterbury were categorized as birdmen (Bain 1985: 48). Rather than different subjects, this difference could possibly reflect a geographical stylistic difference in representing avian forms. Trotter and McCulloch (1969: 128) had earlier discussed the ‘bird-man’ appellation as an example of researchers categorizing groups of motifs based on visual form, but requiring caution that such use should not imply that the writer attributes that interpretation to the original Māori artist, and that the figure therefore had magical or ritual significance. This was not, however, the case with Terence Barrow who argued that ‘[n]o one would deny that the dancing (or flying) figures . . . located on a limestone wall at Frenchman’s Gully, South Canterbury, are other than bird-men . . . They establish beyond a doubt the existence of the birdman idea in New Zealand’ (Barrow 1967: 204). The ‘birdman’ concept is found across Polynesia and is recognizable in petroglyphs of anthropomorphic-bodied images with beaked heads found at Lanai in Hawai’i and Orongo on Rapa Nui, the latter a locality of an ethnographically recorded ‘birdman’ ritual. Leonard Barrow (1997) similarly relates the ‘dancing birdmen’ from Frenchman’s Gully to Māori traditions that refer to hybrid bird-human characters and the human to bird transformation of Maui, an important character in Polynesian traditions. Subjectivity in the different labelling is highlighted by a New Zealand heritage encyclopaedia that described two motifs at Te Manunui as birdmen but labelled the other an eagle (Maori Rock Drawings 1971: 215). Trotter and McCulloch (1981: 76) pointed out that ‘the so-called South Island birdmen could as readily be stylised frontallydepicted birds’. In the foreword to their Prehistoric Rock Art of New Zealand (Trotter & McCulloch 1971: 7), Skinner highlights the interpretative challenge with reference to one of the figures at Te Manunui: He stands with outstretched wings on which five fledglings are poised. Is he, as has been suggested, Tane-mahuta, guardian or god of the birds? Or is he, more humbly, a human guardian? Is he a bird-headed man, allied to the undoubtedly birdheaded men of Easter Island? Or is he, as the authors seem inclined to suggest, an embodiment of bird life, rather humanly rendered? That birdman ascription appears to stem from archaeological and ethnological interpretations rather than traditional Māori knowledge of the imagery. The image from Te Manunui (Figure 12.2) with the small birds depicted on outspread wings (viewer’s upper left) is reproduced in a commemorative postage stamp issue developed in partnership with the Ngāi Tahu Māori Rock Art Trust. The accompanying booklet by Brian Allingham (2012), a long-time rock art researcher engaged by the tribe, describes the figure as an example of the birdman motif but uses a tribal label – ‘pouākai’. This description and the Heritage New Zealand site listing for Te Manunui sees modern 206

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tribally-mandated projects describing the same images differently as birdmen and as eagles, and applying the name pouākai to both.

Traditions of Poua¯ kai as a bird Traditional Māori knowledge of the pouākai and how it relates to Haast’s eagle is patchy. Current dictionaries of te reo Māori (the Māori language) give pouākai as: a word for eagles generally (Ngata 1993: 118); the giant and Haast’s eagle specifically, but different from generic words for eagles (Ryan 2012: 242, 521); a gigantic extinct bird similar to the New Zealand falcon (Moorfield n.d.); and, a huge mythical bird when capitalized as a proper noun (Ryan 2012: 242). Recent popular reference resources also relate pouākai to Haast’s eagle including a junior picture dictionary (Quin & Papa 2020) and the digital encyclopaedia New Zealand Birds Online (Szabo 2013). They also give hokioi or hookioi [hōkioi] as an alternative name for the Haast’s eagle, whereas more comprehensive Māori dictionaries consider the hōkioi to be a mysterious nocturnal bird (Ryan 2012: 68) or the New Zealand snipe (Coenocorypha sp.) (Moorfield n.d.). The antiquity of this labelling is, however, uncertain. Earlier school dictionaries use neither pouākai or hōkioi for ‘eagle’ but rather ‘kērangi’ (Cleave et al. 1991: 60) or the transliteration ‘ēkara’ (Ryan 1987: 80), while hōkioi is a mysterious night bird (Ryan 1987: 12). More comprehensive and authoritative, Williams gives kērangi (Williams 1988: 114) as the modern harrier hawk and describes the hōkioi (Williams 1988: 57), as an ‘extinct bird of nocturnal habits, held in superstitious regard by the Māori, said never to be seen’. The pouākai is given as a ‘fabulous gigantic bird’ (Williams 1988: 298) referencing a retold tradition about the killing of the bird (Kerei 1909: 4) published in a Māori language newspaper, Pipiwharauroa. The paper also published a list of Māori names for birds in which ‘pouakai’ [sic] is marked as extinct before European arrival (Wiremu 1904: 11). Both accounts derive from the North Island. Neither hōkioi nor pouākai is mentioned in A word-list of South Island Maōri (Harlow 1987), but they are known from ethnohistorical accounts recorded there. Relating a traditional account of the pouākai to Haast’s eagle was first made by James Stack, an early collector of southern Māori history. After bones of Haast’s eagle were recognized in an old swamp site at Glenmark, North Canterbury, Stack (1877) questioned if evidence of a predatory bird capable of hunting people might give substance to a Waitaha (the first tribe in the South Island) tradition that described a gigantic bird of prey named pouākai. The bird nested on Tawera (Mt Torlesse) in central Canterbury and preyed on local people causing fear in the community until a brave visitor, Te Hau o Tawera, led fifty men to successfully trap and kill it. Stack also noted two other accounts of Māori in the 1800s knowing of South Island places where pouākai nested. He pondered whether the traditions may indicate a historical experience of the Haast’s eagle or whether the pouākai was mythical, like the taniwha (powerful monsters) common in Māori tradition. A tribal account of the tradition was recorded in the 1880s by Ngāi Tahu leader Hōri Kerei Taiaroa. It was narrated by kin of the Kaiapoi Ngāi Tahu living where the story took 207

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place. In that account Pouākai lived on the foothills on the upper Ashley River. The Waitaha were concerned at the loss of people when gathering food and suspected an ‘atua kai tangata’ (human-eating supernatural being) or taniwha. The hero of the story, Te Hau o Tawera, then worked with his people to ensnare and kill Pouākai which, translated from te reo Māori, is described thus: ‘According to traditions spoken by the Māori elders, that bird was an extremely large bird close in size to the moa. Its feathers resembled the pigeon’s. Its legs were like the hawk’s. Its beak was sharp and long, its wings were long. That bird’s mouth could eat three or four people at one time.’ It is clear from this account that Pouākai is not described by Māori elders as a ‘bird-man’, but rather, ‘he manu no mua, ko taua manu e manu kai tangata’ – ‘a bird of the past, and that bird was a people-eating bird’. It is also clear that the narrators were not providing an eyewitness account. Rather, a careful examination of the text shows that the Pouākai tradition is a unique South Island adaptation of the taniwha tradition found elsewhere, such as in the North Island where Ngārara Huarau, a huge reptilian creature devours people until a brave hero dispatches it, so making the land safe for people. Living in the lower South Island, the missionary Wohlers (1875: 110) recorded another tradition that tells of people building a protective block-house for battle with a monstrous man-eating bird and that when it attacked, ‘the body was still at a distance, when the head already reached their little fortress’. The predatory bird was killed after its wings were damaged and a pile of human bones was subsequently found in its nesting cave. The tradition also describes the local people as having no knowledge of how to cook food, and after defeating the bird the fisherman heroes returned to the ancestral home island from where they were accidently blown. The story has elements of culturehero type traditions but it may be possible that there is something in it of an encounter with the eagle or the moa (Duff 1956: 308). Tare Te Maiharoa, a South Island tribal elder who also provided information on rock art, was clear that pouākai was the original and correct ancient term for moa as used by Waitaha. He considered that ‘moa’ was a later ascription applied by more recent Māori who came across the moa bones (Beattie 1918). Te Maiharoa noted that Pouākai, remembered as a huge bird, was among a number of giants who had arrived and settled the island in a time before humans and some of whom people subsequently had to defeat to make safe the human occupation of the land (Beattie 1918). Māori traditions referring to the hōkioi are also variable. One published in Te Waka Maori o Niu Tirani (‘Hokioi Hokioi Hu – u’ 1872) and collected by George Grey (1873) describes the hōkioi as an enormous powerful black and white hawk, with a crest of red feathers. The story tells of a flying competition in which Kāhu (the hawk) was overpowered by the winds while Te Hōkioi flew into the heavens, never to return, but is heard at night when making its eponymous call. Other traditions reviewed by Miskelly (1987: 97) note the hōkioi was rarely seen, a hidden bird not visible to general folk and its nocturnal habits remembered in a proverb ‘Pekapeka rere ahiahi, hōkioi rere po (The bat flies at twilight, the hōkioi at night)’. The cry of the hōkioi was considered a bad omen, heard in ancient times on the eve of war and more recently as indicating the onset of a southerly gale (Miskelly 1987). An 1860s newspaper produced by the Māori King movement at a 208

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time of resistance to European land encroachment was named Te Hokioi e Rere Atu Na - The Soaring War Bird (Te Awamutu Museum n.d.). The symbolism associated with the hōkioi was, then, sufficiently widely understood in the North Island such that it could title a Māori newspaper. However, while some modern references (above) have considered hōkioi to be synonymous with pouākai, there are several other variations of the name including hakawai, which has now been identified as the Stewart Island snipe, extinct in 1960s but which until then had concerned southern Māori at night with a loud eerie whizzing and roar made by vibrating its tail feathers during its display-flight (Miskelly 1987).

Birdman traditions Recorded traditions relate the names pouākai or hōkioi to birds rather than describing hybrid human-avian characters. The most well-known such character in Māori tradition is Kurangaituku, the bird-woman who captured a young man, Hatupatu, and then pursued him as he escaped across the central North Island and hid within a rock that remains a registered Māori landmark. (e.g. ‘The Legend of Hatupatu’ 1965, Reed 1974). A Māori tribe from Taranaki on the west coast of the North Island has a tradition of people empowered with flight rather than people who flew with taniwha or birds. Those people, known of as Kāhui Rere, gained the ability to fly from feathers of a great bird that their ancestor Pourangahue had flown on between New Zealand and Hawaiki, the ancestral homeland (Tau 2003: 167). There are several tribal variations of the Pou tradition with the key features of him being a man who flies on a great bird, Te Manunui, bringing the kūmara (sweet potato) to New Zealand. In the South Island he is remembered in tradition and chant as Pourakahua and the bird as Te Manu a Tane (The Great Bird of Tane). While Pou is found in several Māori genealogies, the traditions may be a mythical explanation for food and tribal relationships to the kūmara, rather than Pou being a historical figure. It appears that the southern Māori tradition of Pourakahua derives from the East Coast of the North Island where different waves of southern Māori had migrated from (Tau 2003: 178), but which is beyond the known range of Haast’s eagle. Those now-southern versions of the traditions may have also incorporated elements of Taranaki tradition of Pou having the power of flight and being reflected in the birdman motifs of rock art (Tau 2003: 178). The connection between Pourakahua and the rock art has gained a new significance in Te Rereka – The Flight, a stage performance employing large rock art inspired flatso puppets that have shared a modern retelling of the story with thousands of school children across the country (Plate 12.2). There is another twist in the interpretation of the rock art figures – upon the back of the most naturalistic ‘eagle’ at Craigmore sits a tiki (human form) riding the bird as a ‘jockey’. The Ngāi Tahu tribal rock art archive notes that this may be a post-European addition, something that Holdaway also suggests in acknowledging the presence of the tiki, the relative scale of which if considered compositional, would dismiss any notion of the bird being a naturalistic depiction of an eagle. The jockey is not depicted in Theo 209

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Schoon’s reproduction painted on a board (Canterbury Museum, E150.421), however Schoon is known to have been selective in what he copied and often omitted visual elements that he considered minor or immaterial to his interpretations. He is also renowned for having re-touched many rock art motifs with modern crayon, but Fomison (1959: 17) was experienced at identifying Schoon’s retouching with crayon and confirmed that the main bird images in the Cave of the New Zealand Eagle had not been affected. In records of his own work, Fomison does not mention the tiki figure but it is depicted in tracings on polythene probably produced by him (Canterbury Museum 1969.312.760). Whereas the weight and pigment of the tiki may differ from the main body of the eagle, Allingham (pers. com. 2021) who has studied the art in detail advises that the tiki is produced in a manner and style consistent with traditional southern Māori rock art. That the tiki superimposes the bird only indicates the order of production and is neither indicative of possible differences or commonalities in the time of or hands in its making. While specific to the Craigmore depiction, what is argued as a naturalistic eagle depiction could also be telling a very different story, one of Pourakahua riding the great bird of Tane.

Conclusion This discussion of the different interpretations of visual representation in the rock art imagery, appreciations of Māori traditions and modern knowledge of the natural history of New Zealand raptors challenges our understanding of the known relationship between people and Haast’s eagle. Drawing together threads of these different sets of information, some modern scholars have landed upon definitive statements that Māori oral traditions of a gigantic predatory bird are verified as historically actual by Western scientific research. Haast’s eagle bones in a museum collection are held up as evidence that Māori knew the bird and named it pouākai (Frank Film 2021). The idea is entrenched in popular literature and has worked its way into modern dictionaries and heritage site registrations. However, the stream of logic that relates the rock art figures, the pouākai and the Haast’s eagle together is, metaphorically, more of a braided river. The anthropologists and archaeologists advocating the ‘birdman’ attributions of the rock art motifs employ an interpretive methodology that resembles those used by Julius Von Haast, Percy Smith and Elsdon Best in their use of Māori traditions that fabricated the notion of pre-Polynesian settlers in New Zealand. Von Haast described human skeletal remains found with moa bones as ‘Moa Hunters’, while Smith subsequently recalibrated Māori oral traditions to construct a grand narrative of New Zealand’s settlement. Problematic, however, was that these narratives did not actually represent the original traditions of Māori. Like their predecessors, contemporary scholars who have promoted the ‘bird man’ idea have started from their own premise, in this case that of a pan-Polynesian ‘birdman’ tradition and ascribed this to the images found in the rock shelters. The pouākai ascription has been grafted to the same images, so conflating the two terms in modern usage but without any clear linkage provided between ‘pouākai’ 210

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and ‘birdmen’ from credible Māori tradition. Rather, this conflation fails to account for what Ngāi Tahu traditions have actually said about the pouākai. There are aspects to some of the rock art motifs that are very suggestive of the subjects being eagles including the distribution of the motifs in the eastern South Island where the Haast’s eagle lived and some aspects of the imagery such as primary feathers on some, a hooked beak on others, and some with talons. The interpretations of visual representation are, though, also problematic. The individual features of the images are not so exacting as to be clearly those of eagles rather than other potential candidates – the Eyles’ harrier that lived in some of the same area, the also huge albatross, or indeed hybrid avian-human forms. What otherwise appears to be a plausible aligning of avian anatomical features with characteristics recognizable in the rock art is, then, less convincing. While such interpretations seem to reinforce the identification of the eagle as the motif subject, the argument may indeed be the wrong way around – it acknowledges features that agree with proposed biological characteristics, but doesn’t account for those that don’t. A part of the issue is that southern Māori rock art is highly stylized and not anatomically exact depictions of the subjects. We know this from other depictions of humans, dogs, sea creatures, mythical beings and indeed other bird forms. Such stylization is indeed what we would expect of Māori bird depictions. The archaeological evidence seems clear that Māori did encounter the eagle, or at least sufficiently recent corpses that they could craft artefacts from fresh eagle bone. Some traditions speak of predatory birds that are evocative of an eagle. It is plausible that an eagle accustomed to hunting large bipedal prey may have attacked humans, especially if people were wearing cloaks made of fur or bird feathers (Worthy & Holdaway 2002: 333). It is also clear that our Māori ancestors drew things that existed in their material world, such as other birds, other animals and people themselves. We also know they drew ‘supernatural’ subjects such as taniwha that they understood occupied their landscapes. Given the significance of his bringing of kūmara to New Zealand, it is most believable that the story of Pourakahua might have been depicted in some way. The personification of geographical features and natural phenomena are common in a Māori worldview and may also extend the interpretative framework. In at least one tradition the hōkioi is associated with Rehua, the star Antares and a god associated with summer. This raises the possibility that aspects of the Pouākai tradition may be a mythical explanation for the hot summer Norwest wind that bears down on the Canterbury plains from the area of Tawera, perhaps a metaphorical nest for this sometimes-destructive force. Further examination of the possible alignment with the much more extensive Pou traditions (Tau 2003) and the wider corpus of the eagle and ‘birdman’ figures found throughout Māori rock art, will provide more opportunity to test how Māori traditional knowledge sits with biological identifications of eagles and anthropological notions of birdmen. In the meantime, this leaves us uncertain on how we should view the New Zealand Geographic depiction of a Māori artist’s eyewitness account of the eagle. In drawing our own picture of the human relationship with Haast’s eagle, we have several firm points of reference, or perhaps ‘dots’ on our paper – enriched significantly by 211

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Māori traditional knowledge. The lines connecting those dots are not, though, well defined producing a well-argued bold image. Rather the connecting lines are tentative and question marked. The fact that after a hundred years of scholarly enquiry we find ourselves without definitive answers may perhaps be frustrating. It nonetheless leaves exciting questions for future generations who will no doubt continue to explore and redefine what the rock art images mean to them, and ponder on our ancestors’ encounter with the world’s largest known eagle. It is a subject that is, perhaps, the richer for its continued mystery.

Note 1. This work has benefited from generous discussion with Te Wera King of Arowhenua Rūnaka, Māori rock art authorities Brian Allingham and Michael Trotter, and Atholl Anderson, Ngāi Tahu’s most senior archaeologist. Trevor Worthy kindly provided technical information on the presence of Haast’s eagle in archaeological sites. Kane Fleury prepared the eagle illustrations drawing on the Tūhura Otago Museum collection. Amanda Symon and Matt Hill of the Ngāi Tahu Māori Rock Art Trust kindly provided access to field data, archival resources and permitted photograph reproductions, as did Canterbury Museum. Turning from the generations of researchers that have pondered the pictographs, we acknowledge the treasured images themselves that leave us still exploring.

References Allingham, B. (2012), Matariki 2012 Stamp Issue, Limited Edition, Auckland: New Zealand Post. Allingham, B. (2021), Personal communication, telephone discussion with Gerard O’Regan, 22 December 2021. Anderson, A. (2014), ‘Pieces of the past, ad 1200–1800’, in A. Anderson, J. Binney and A. Harris (eds), Tangata Whenua, An Illustrated History, 70–101, Wellington: Bridget Williams Books. Bain, P. (1985), ‘Geographic and temporal variation in Maori rock drawings in two regions of southern New Zealand’, New Zealand Journal of Archaeology, 7: 39–59. Barrow, L. J. (1997), ‘The Birdman in Art and Mythology in Marginal Polynesia – Easter Island, Hawai’i, and New Zealand’, in C. M Stevenson, G. Lee and F. J. Morin (eds), Easter Island in Pacific Context: South Seas Symposium, Proceedings of the Fourth International Conference on Easter Island and East Polynesia, 346–51, Los Osos, CA: Bearsville Press and Cloud Mountain Press. Barrow, T. (1967), ‘Material evidence of the bird-man concept in Polynesia’, in G. A. Highland, R. W. Force, A. Howard, M. Kelly and Y. H. Sinoto (eds), Polynesian Culture History: Essays in Honor of Kenneth P. Emory, 191–213, Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press. Beattie, H. (1918), ‘Traditions and Legends: Collected from the Natives of Murihiku (Southland, New Zealand), Part VIII’, Journal of the Polynesian Society, 27 (3): 137–61. Brathwaite, D. H. (1992), ‘Notes on the weight, flying ability, habitat, and prey of Haast’s Eagle (Harpagornis moorei)’, Notornis, 39 (4): 239–47. Brumm, A., A. A. Oktaviana, B. Burhan, B. Hakim, R. Lebe, M. Ririmasse, P. H. Sulistyarto, A. A. Macdonald and M. Aubert (2021), ‘Do Pleistocene rock paintings depict Sulawesi warty pigs (Sus celebensis) with a domestication character?’, Archaeology in Oceania, 56 (3): 149–72. 212

Pouaˉkai Cleave, P., K. Mataira, R. Pere and E. C. Parnwell (1991), Oxford Maori Picture Dictionary, He Pukapuka Kupuāhua Maori, Auckland: Oxford University Press. Craigmore Station (n. d.), ‘The Pre-European Rock Art of Craigmore’. Available online: https:// www.craigmore.co.nz/maori-wall-art (accessed 9 February 2022). Cobden, R., C. Clarkson, G. J. Price, B. David, J-M. Geneste, J-J. Delannoy, B. Barker, L. Lamb, and R. G. Gunn (2017), ‘The identification of extinct megafauna in rock art using geometric morphometrics: A Genyornis newtoni painting in Arnhem Land, northern Australia?’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 87: 95–107. Duff, R. (1950), ‘Maori art in rock drawings’, Arts Year Book, 6: 6–11. Duff, R. (1956), The Moa-Hunter Period of Maori Culture, Wellington: Government Printer. Fomison, A. (1959), ‘Rock drawings exploratory survey, Fieldbook No. 1’, unpublished field notes, Auckland Art Gallery Toi o Tāmaki, Auckland. Fomison, A. (1969), ‘A note on birds and “birdmen” drawings in South Island rock art’, New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter, 12 (3): 138–40. Fomison, A. and R. Fyfe (2014), ‘Maori rock art in North Otago and South Canterbury: A guide to the interpretation of its styles and subject matter’, Records of the Canterbury Museum, 27: 47–95. Frank Film (2021), ‘Pouākai - The world’s largest eagle’. Available online: https://www.rnz.co.nz/ stories/2018806223/pouakai-the-world-s-largest-eagle (accessed 8 February 2022). Grey, G. (1873), ‘Description of the extinct gigantic bird of prey, Hokioi, by a Maori’, Transactions and Proceedings of the New Zealand Institute, 5: 435. Hamel, J. (2001), ‘The Archaeology of Otago’, Wellington: Department of Conservation. Harlow, R. (1987), ‘A word-list of South Island Maori, second revised edition’, Auckland: Linguistic Society of New Zealand. Heritage New Zealand (2014), ‘Te Manunui Rock Art Site’. Available online: https://www.heritage. org.nz/the-list/details/7826 (accessed 14 January 2022). van Heteren A. H., S. Wroe, L. R. Tsang, D. R. Mitchell, P. Ross, J. A. Ledogar, M. R. G. Attard, D. Sustaita, P. Clausen, R. P. Scofield and G. Sansalone (2021), ‘New Zealand’s extinct giant raptor (Hieraaetus moorei) killed like an eagle, ate like a condor’, Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, https://doi.org/10.1098/rspb.2021.1913 ‘Hokioi Hokioi Hu – u’ (1872), Te Waka Maori o Niu Tirani 8: 142–3. Available online: https:// paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/waka-maori/1872/10/30/4 (accessed 9 February 2022). Hill, M. (2021), Personal communication, email to Gerard O’Regan, 16 March 2021. Hill, M. (2022), Personal communication, email to Gerard O’Regan, 13 January 2022. Holdaway, R. (1989), ‘Terror of the Forest’, New Zealand Geographic, 4 (October–December). Available online: https://www.nzgeo.com/stories/terror-of-the-forest/ (accessed 16 April 2022). Kerei, H. (1909), ‘Hine-Poupou raua ko te Oriparoa (reproduced from the books of Hori Kerei)’, Te Pipiwharauroa, He Kupu Whakamarama, 135: 3–5. Maori Rock Drawings (1971), New Zealand’s Heritage, The Making of a Nation, 2: 215–17, Sydney : Hamlyn House. Miskelly, C. M. (1987), ‘The identity of the Hakawai’, Notornis, 34 (2): 95–116. Moorfield, J. C. (n. d.), Te Aka Māori Dictionary, Te Murumāra Foundation. Available online: https://maoridictionary.co.nz/ (accessed 8 February 2022). Ngata, H. M. (1993), English-Maori Dictionary, Wellington: Learning Media. Orbell, M. (2003), Birds of Aotearoa: A Natural and Cultural History, Auckland: Reeds Books. Perry, G. L. W., A. B. Wheeler, J. R. Wood and J. M. Wilmshurst (2014), ‘A high-precision chronology for the rapid extinction of New Zealand moa (Aves, Dinornithiformes)’, Quaternary Science Reviews, 105: 126–35. Prehistoric-wildlife.com (2013), ‘Haast’s Eagle and the Eyles’ Harrier compared to a 1.8 meter tall person and the modern day Swamp Harrier’. Available online: http://www.prehistoric-wildlife. com/species/h/haast%27s-eagle.html (accessed 12 April 2022). 213

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey Quin, K. and P. Papa (2020), Kuwi and Friends Māori Picture Dictionary, Te Awamutu, NZ: Illustrated Publishing. Reed A. W. (1974), The Biggest Fish in the World, Wellington: A. H. and A. W. Reed Ltd. Ryan, P. M. (1987), The Revised Dictionary of Modern Māori, Auckland: Heinemann Publishers. Ryan, P. M. (2012), The Raupō Dictionary of Modern Māori, Fourth edition, North Shore, NZ: Penguin Group (NZ). Skinner, H. D. (1933), ‘Maori amulets in stone, bone, and shell’, Journal of the Polynesian Society, 42 (167): 191–203. Stack, J. W. (1877), ‘Sketch of the Traditional History of the South Island Maoris’, Transactions and Proceedings of the Royal Society of New Zealand, 10: 57–92. Szabo, M. J. (2013), ‘Haast’s eagle’, in C. M. Miskelly (ed), New Zealand Birds Online. Available online: https://nzbirdsonline.org.nz/species/haasts-eagle (accessed 26 January 2022). Tau, R. Te M. (2003), Ngā Pikitūroa o Ngāi Tahu: The Oral Traditions of Ngāi Tahu, Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Te Awamutu Museum (n.d.), ‘Te Hokioi e Rere Atu Na! The Hokioi Printing Press’. Available online: https://tamuseum.org.nz/te-hokioi-rere-atu-na-hokioi-press/ (accessed 31 January 2022). ‘The Legend of Hatupatu and the Bird-woman’ (1965), Te Ao Hou, Dec 1965: 31–3. Available online: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/TAH196512.2.16 (accessed 1 February 2022). Trotter, M. and B. McCulloch (1969), ‘Recent rock shelter investigations in North Otago’, New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter, 12 (3): 124–37. Trotter, M. and B. McCulloch (1971), Prehistoric Rock Art of New Zealand, Wellington: A. H. and A. W. Reed. Trotter, M. and B. McCulloch (1981), Prehistoric Rock Art of New Zealand, Auckland: Longman Paul. Williams, H. W. (1988), A Dictionary of the Maori Language, Seventh Edition, revised and augmented by the Advisory Committee on the Teaching of the Maori Language, Department of Education, Wellington: GP Books. Wiremu, H. (1904), ‘He Manu’, Te Pipiwharauroa, He Kupu Whakamarama, 79: 10–11. Wohlers, Rev. J. F. H. (1875), ‘The mythology and traditions of the Maori in New Zealand. Part 3’, Transactions of the New Zealand Institute, 8: 108–23. Worthy, T. H. and R. N. Holdaway (2002), ‘The Lost World of the Moa, Prehistoric Life of New Zealand’, Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

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CHAPTER 13 ANCESTORS, MESSENGERS AND ‘GOOD COUNTRY’: BIRDS OF PREY, ROCK ART AND INDIGENOUS KNOWLEDGE IN THE KIMBERLEY, NORTHWEST AUSTRALIA Ana Paula Motta and Martin Porr

Introduction In the last two decades, more and more archaeological approaches have attempted to move beyond an essentialist and economically focused understanding of other-thanhuman livelihoods. These developments are countering the dominant Western normative ontological and epistemological paradigm within which what it means to be human is often framed in opposition to what it means to be animal. Thus, human and animal worlds are dichotomized and seen as incommensurable. The application of posthumanist approaches in archaeology has also led to a greater engagement with nonnormative ontologies, such as Indigenous and local knowledge systems. The consideration of Traditional Knowledge in archaeology helped expand the way we think about human– animal relationships (Alberti 2016; Troncoso 2019; Cipolla 2021; Motta et al. 2021; Porr 2021; Zawadzka 2021). However, while archaeology has recently engaged with posthumanist theory, similar concerns are not new in adjacent disciplines, such as anthropology, environmental humanities, animal studies or geography (e.g. Bird Rose 2008; Todd 2016). In anthropology, it has long been recognized that animals should not be exclusively seen as food resources, but also in relation to their symbolic dimensions (Lévi-Strauss 1963; Descola 1996; White & Candea 2018). While these two approaches, economic and symbolic, reflect some of the diversity of human–animal relationships, they have, in turn, been criticized for anthropomorphizing animal experience and for conceptualizing animals only in relation to what they can contribute to human culture (Haraway 2008; Lestel et al. 2014). In order to overcome some of these issues, researchers have explored different ways in which humans and animals co-exist, in what has been deemed as living with animals. This understanding of animals derives from an ‘animal turn’ from the early 2000s onwards, which was influenced by multispecies studies in anthropology (e.g. Kirksey & Helmreich 2010) and later adopted in archaeology (e.g. Overton & Hamilakis 2013; Pilaar Birch 2018). A multispecies approach brings other species into the centre of study in an attempt to overcome culture/nature and human/animal boundaries (Kirksey & Helmreich 2010: 545–6). The focus is placed on how humans and animals become together and how animals are deeply embedded in human life histories and the formation

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of human identities (Deleuze & Guattari 2005; Ingold 2011; Sundberg 2014). Many studies in this context draw on the meaningful engagements between hunting and gathering groups where close relationships with animal populations have been maintained over many millennia. Some of these interactions have been embedded into the landscape in the form of rock art. In Australia, rock art is known for its rich figurative depictions of humans, animals and plants. While animals are a common theme across Australia, it has been argued that the representation of birds is relatively rare in comparison to other animal species (Taçon 2020: 244; Walsh 2000, Fig. 100). Looking at birds of prey more specifically, depictions of eagles, falcons, hawks and owls are even less frequent in the Australian rock art record (Taçon 2020). In this paper, we focus on the study of birds, with a particular focus on raptors, in the Indigenous rock art of the northeast Kimberley, which is characterized by a long and complex stylistic sequence (Donaldson 2012; Walsh 1994; 2000; Welch 1993). While animal depictions in this area have been the most predominant theme in early rock art styles, it has been noted that they decrease in frequency, in comparison to anthropomorphic depictions, among later styles (Motta 2022). This scenario is reversed in the recent phase of Wanjina art, in which animals are a common subject matter and of great significance to current local Indigenous communities. Contrary to the situation in other parts of Australia, we found that Kimberley bird motifs constitute the third largest zoomorphic category among early styles, after macropods and fish. Nonetheless, examples of birds of prey are still rare and difficult to identify in early periods. Although depictions of birds of prey are still uncommon across later styles, they are widely referenced in ethnographic sources as playing important roles in mythological narratives. The latter equally allows inferences about the diversity and significance of bird depictions in specific Indigenous Australian deep time contexts as well as ethnographic situations where abundant cultural information is available. Here, we highlight the diversity and abundance of bird depictions in Kimberley rock art, with a focus on birds of prey and delve into the social significance of birds of prey in ethnographic contexts.

Birds of prey representations in Australian rock art Despite animal representations being a common theme across Australia, the study of bird motifs in the rock art of the continent has not received a great deal of attention. Given their common occurrence in Australian rock art, macropods continue to be the main focus of analysis in most studies, while other animal species are neglected. Bird depictions are often only included in overarching categories without further attention to their composition. Therefore, although bird species are identified across many studies, an interpretation of their significance in particular contexts is often missing. If we consider birds of prey more specifically, this situation is further exacerbated by their low frequency in the rock art record. Nevertheless, birds of prey are highly regarded among Indigenous Australians, with birds playing an important role in Creation sagas and Dreamtime narratives (Goldhahn 2019: 15). As we will describe below, certain bird characteristics 216

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were noticed by Indigenous populations and incorporated into stories used in the teaching about undesired behaviours, Dreamtime stories or Indigenous Law. As such, some themes or species are more frequently depicted than others, but nonetheless valued by Indigenous populations. Recently, Taçon (2020) provided a short summary of bird images in Australian rock art with a focus on raptors. He mentions that bird motifs can be found across different rock art regions of Australia and while they are common, they are not as frequently depicted as other animal species. As we will show below, in the northeast Kimberley, birds are the third most depicted animal class – after macropods and fish – although their occurrence is significantly lower compared to macropods. Bird images can be found across different Australian rock art regions, such as the Dampier Peninsula, the Kimberley, Arnhem Land, Victoria River Region, Sydney Basin, the Laura-Cooktown region, and the Grampians (Figure 13.1). Overall, some of the most common bird species identified in Australian rock art are emus, followed by brolgas and ibis. Birds of prey are not nearly as common as other bird species, but still occur in some rock art provinces. Among the identified species are eagles, hawks and owls, but due to the nature of species identification in rock art, some of these classifications remain uncertain. Among the most striking bird of prey images recorded to date are two eagle images found in the Wollemi National Park (Taçon et al. 2008). One of these eagles was originally painted with charcoal, later superimposed by the stencils of a stone axe and a boomerang, and a white pigment outline was added. The authors argue that this composition belongs to a powerful image, painted between 1,500 and 100 bp (Taçon 2020: 247), for being a rare example of a raptor in association with material culture. The other image belongs to an eagle engraving, also found in the Wollemi National Park, that has been interpreted by Traditional Owners as an Eagle Ancestor. We are not able to discuss these aspects in greater detail in this paper. However, the ancestral interpretation aligns with a so-called totemic understanding of the interrelationships between humans, animals and the land. Following from the classic expositions of Lévi-Strauss (e.g. 1963; 1966), the term itself has undergone various critiques and revisions (e.g. Descola 1996; 2013). In the Australian Aboriginal context, totemism is no longer understood in its initial rather rigid version and, instead, seen in less normative ways. While the basic association between specific animal and plant species as well as ‘natural phenomena’ with social groups is still recognized, the respective relationships are now seen as much more dynamic. Attention has shifted to a focus on individual, localized and ontological aspects (Bird Rose 1996, 2000). In any case, these recent developments do not preclude the appreciation of animal depictions as reflective of totemic ancestors for local Aboriginal groups and eagle depictions have also been recorded in other parts of the Kimberley, in the Prince Regent River region, and have been linked to aspects of local Indigenous knowledge (Love 1930: 9). In the Dampier Peninsula, Mulvaney (2015) also reports on the identification of eagle images, although no further details are given. Among the few rock art images of hawks, Walsh (2000: 342) mentions a group composition of hawk-like birds in the Kimberley region. These were depicted with curved beaks, long tails, and curved feet, and are associated with two Gwion human figures. These 217

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Figure 13.1 Map of Australia with reported bird images across different rock art regions, with study area highlighted in light grey (line work by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions).

images are also found in other areas of the Kimberley and in association with human Gwion figures. But contrary to Walsh’s identification, their anatomical attributes suggest that these images more likely depict parrots than hawks (Motta 2022; see Figure 13.2 Group H). Images of owls have been identified in Wardaman Country, Northern Australia (Flood 1997: 15), and associated with the owl creation ancestor Gordol (Taçon 2020: 245). Other owl images have also been confidently identified in the northeast Kimberley by Ana Paula Motta and further corroborated by zoologist Andrew Burbidge, painted in Wanjina style. Despite owls not being present in early figurative traditions in the Kimberley, they become more common in the Wanjina style and are often depicted in group compositions. Two owl engravings have also been mentioned in the literature from this region, but no further details were provided (Tindale 1987: 52). 218

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In summary, birds of prey images are relatively rare in the Australian rock art record, with many images depicted in isolation and not in group compositions. This fits with the observed behaviour of birds of prey as, in most cases, solitary predators. An exception seems to consist in some owl group compositions in the northeast Kimberley. Despite the low frequency of birds of prey depictions, preliminary age estimates suggest that these images were made in the last two millennia. This observation is reinforced by the association of some of the imagery with ethnographically known Ancestral beings in some parts of Australia. Overall, more research needs to be done to further expand the identification and interpretation of bird depictions in general and birds of prey in particular. As such, their study remains skewed towards the characterization of animal species alone and not on the understanding of their significance for contemporary and past Indigenous populations.

Case study: the northeast Kimberley The Kimberley is located in the northern part of Western Australia and has a size of c. 423,000 square kilometres (O’Connor 1999; see Figure 13.1). It is geographically defined to the south by the Western Desert, to the east by the range uplands of the Northern Territory, and to the west and north by the Timor Sea (Donaldson 2007: 3). The area where this research was conducted is located in the northeast Kimberley, falls under the Balanggarra Native Title determination area, and covers c. 26,000 square kilometres. Archaeological evidence from the Kimberley shows that Indigenous communities have inhabited this region of Australia since at least 50,000 years bp (Roberts et al. 1990; Balme et al. 2009; O’Connell & Allen 2015; Tobler et al. 2017; Veth et al. 2019). The evidence also shows traces of symbolic behaviour as early as 41,000 bp, evidenced by a limestone slab with ochre traces from Carpenter’s Gap (O’Connor 1995: 59), and shell fragments (Balme 2000). The region has been an area of European interest since the early nineteenth century. Expeditions into the region commenced in 1837 with George Grey who conducted land exploration surveys and limited rock art recordings. Since then, the region’s rock art has been the subject of various research and recording initiatives and activities. It has been established that six major rock art styles can be found across the wider Kimberley area, with some local variations (Welch 1993; Walsh 1994; 2000; Morwood 2002; O’Connor et al. 2013; Travers & Ross 2016; Veth et al. 2017; Gunn et al. 2019; Motta et al. 2020; Motta 2022). These six styles can be summarized as: Cupules; Irregular Infill Animal Period (IIAP); Gwion; Static Polychrome; Painted Hand; and Wanjina. Differences across styles mostly rely on pigments used, techniques, subject matter, and composition. In this paper, we focus on studying bird representations found across the IIAP, Gwion and Wanjina styles (Plate 13.1). The data obtained for this study is part of Ana Paula Motta’s PhD dissertation and was collected during three field seasons between 2017–21 as part of the Australian Research Council-funded project Kimberley Visions: Rock Art Style Provinces in Northern Australia 219

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(LP 150100490). Detailed data on bird representations was only obtained for the IIAP and Gwion periods, although bird depictions have also been noticed in other styles. Additionally, we extend this analysis for the most recent style described in the region, Wanjina, given its links with contemporary practices and Aboriginal Law. Despite the potential of focusing on bird depictions during Pleistocene times (such as the case of IIAP and Gwion), incorporating Holocene rock art that was being produced by the time of European colonization, like Wanjina, allows us to further explore the significance of particular bird species and their links with ethnographically accessible information. Goldhahn (2019: 1) notes that, among Indigenous Australians, birds play a significant role in cosmology. Dreamtime stories link birds and ancestors with the creation of Country (see also Tidemann & Whiteside 2010). Economic, social, and symbolic appraisals of birds demonstrate that they are highly regarded beings and play major roles in Creation sagas, as economic resources for subsistence and as companion animals. In the northeast Kimberley, anthropomorphs are the most represented figurative motif, followed by animals, plants, geometric designs and material culture. Across both the IIAP and Gwion periods, human depictions comprise 64 per cent, whereas animal depictions constitute 29 per cent of all recorded motifs. The remaining 7 per cent is distributed between therianthropes, plants, geometric forms, material culture and unidentified motifs. However, despite the prominence of human forms across the sample, each style has its own trend regarding figurative representations. For example, during the IIAP, zoomorphs are the most represented motif (75 per cent), while humans are not commonly depicted (5 per cent). During the Gwion Period, the trend is inverted, with humans being the most common motif (70 per cent), whereas animals are the second most depicted image category (19 per cent). Looking at bird images more closely, despite them being the third most depicted animal class – after mammals and fish – their overall representation remains low. Only 9 per cent of all zoomorphic motifs have been classified as birds. Furthermore, birds of prey or raptors are even less common, with only one motif being identified as an eagle in the IIAP style. However, depictions of raptors become more common during the Wanjina period. This increase in raptor depictions across later styles calls for further interrogation. Are there any environmental factors that restricted the availability of certain bird species during the Pleistocene? Which social and symbolic factors were in place for birds of prey becoming more predominant during the Holocene? What role do raptors play during Wanjina times? Are there any cultural restrictions in place that prohibit the depiction of certain bird species in Kimberley rock art? While not all these questions can be answered in this chapter, we hope to shed some light onto certain bird species, focusing on raptors, that are represented in the Kimberley rock art record, and their links to social, symbolic and economic practices. In this sense, by also including information on the zooarchaeological record, we intend to expand current interpretations solely focused on iconography. Additionally, despite not having conducted a detailed study on raptors in the Wanjina period, recorded data shows that certain species, such as owls, are more extensively represented compared to previous Pleistocene styles. Finally, questions such 220

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as painting prohibitions and the symbolic importance of certain species can be explored with reference to the ethnographic record. The Irregular Infill Animal Period (IIAP) This style has been dated to between c. 17,000 to 13,000 years bp (Finch et al. 2021). The IIAP has been described as characterized by large naturalistic depictions, consisting of a solid outline, and filled in with irregular brushstrokes. Many other forms have been argued to accompany this period, such as hand stencils and handprints, stencilled and printed artefacts (mostly boomerangs), plants, yams and grass prints, animals (aquatic and terrestrial species), anthropomorphs and mythical creatures (Motta et al. 2021; Walsh 2000: 12). Animals are the most painted motif, followed by plants and grass prints, while humans are not widely represented. The most commonly depicted animal class are mammals, followed by fish, with birds being the third most depicted class (Motta 2022, 6; see Plate 13.2). Gwion This styles’ original designation was initially coined after Joseph Bradshaw (who visited the Kimberley in the late nineteenth century) in the 1930s (Schulz 1956). However, today this style is known as Gwion Gwion, Gwion, Geeyorn, Kira Kiro and Kujon, among others, which follows the local Indigenous terminology. Here, we refer to this style as Gwion.1 Paintings belonging to this style have recently been dated to c. 12,000 years bp (Finch et al. 2020). The Gwion Period is characterized by a wide variety of anthropomorphs (70 per cent; Motta 2022, ch. 6), rich in personal ornamentation, varied types of clothing, material culture, weapons and sometimes body painting (Mulvaney & Kamminga 1999: 401; Morwood 2002: 52; Welch 2007: 86), differentiating this period from the IIAP in terms of subject matter and techniques. Animal depictions are uncommon and animal species identification is not always possible, given the lack of anatomical detail. Macropods are the most common species represented, although birds are also depicted. Some bird species represented include parrots, emus, storks, and cormorants (Plate 13.3). Wanjina Wanjina depictions have been proposed to have developed from the Painted Hand period and have been dated back as early as c. 4,000 bp (Watchman 1997; 2000; Morwood et al. 2010; Aubert 2012). They have been described as large anthropomorphic figures with solid eyes, nose, and no mouth (Crawford 1968: 29). In some instances, they do not possess a body and their heads are painted with a characteristic horse-shoe halo (Akerman 2016). Other depictions within this style are those of animals, hand stencils and plants. Animals are often painted in a twisted perspective with both eyes visible while bodies are placed in a profile position (Layton 1985: 445). Birds of prey become more common during this style, with owls being widely depicted (Plate 13.4). Given that 221

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Wanjinas were still being painted by Traditional Custodians by the time of European colonization, these have been subjected to extensive study intended to record their symbolic properties and multiple meanings (e.g. Crawford 1968; Mowaljarlai et al. 1988; Stanton 2006). More recently, there has also been a number of publications by local Indigenous Traditional Owners, which provide further insights into the complex cultural dimensions of Wanjina rock art (Blundell et al. 2017; Mangolamara et al. 2019). Birds in Kimberley rock art A total of eighty-five bird motifs have been identified across the IIAP and Gwion styles for the northeast Kimberley (out of a total of 4,234 motifs). This classification includes bird images (n=79), bird tracks (n=4), feathers (n=1) and eggs (n=1). IIAP bird representations contain a greater diversity in terms of their composition and body shape, than those belonging to Gwion. As mentioned above, out of these eighty-five motifs, only one has been identified as an eagle. Additionally, bird representations were further classified based on their body shape attributes that considered body postures and anatomical details present across motifs. Although it was not possible to identify all depicted bird motifs to a species level, their classification into body shapes demonstrated that bird depictions exhibit a considerable variety of postures and attributes. In total, ten body shape groups were recorded (Figure 13.2). Some of the identified body shapes are present across both the IIAP and Gwion styles, while others are only present in certain styles. For example, IIAP presents the most diversity of body shapes, with eight out of ten shapes found in this style, while Gwion bird motifs present six body shape categories. In

Figure 13.2 Classification of bird motifs into groups based on their body shape (after Motta 2022: 139, with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions). 222

Ancestors, Messengers and ‘Good Country’

considering presences and absences across these two styles, it is evident that some bird species are only present in certain styles, such as the case of brolga, ibis and eagle in IIAP and the cormorant and parrot in Gwion. Some other species are present across more than one style, such as the emu, the stork and the swamphens. Birds in the Kimberley zooarchaeological record In excavations of Indigenous sites across the Kimberley, faunal remains of birds are often present throughout the entire occupation sequence, from the Pleistocene to the Holocene. Given the preservation conditions at some of these sites not all studies have been able to identify individual bird species and only listed remains belonging to small or mediumsized birds (Table 13.1). However, at some locations, detailed identifications were possible. Several eggshells of unidentified species are found at Koolan Shelter 2 in Pleistocene layers. From Late Holocene contexts, remains of barn owl (Tyto alba), storm petrel (Oceanitinae sp.), and little pied cormorant (Microcarbo melanoleucos) were recovered at Widgingarri shelters 1 and 2 (O’Connor 1999: 91), and brown falcon (Falco berigora), barn owl (Tyto alba), great bowerbird (Chlamydera nuchalis) and stone curlew (Burhinus magnirostris) were identified at Koolan Shelter 2 (O’Connor 1999: 47). O’Connor has suggested that the presence of the barn owl and the brown falcon is not linked to human exploitation and rather represents a natural occurrence as these species used the shelter as roost. The other bird species were likely hunted by human populations inhabiting this area (O’Connor 1999: 47, 91). The natural occurrence of owls in these shelters could also be related to Indigenous Law, as owls are perceived as sacred animals,

Table 13.1 Summary of sites containing bird remains across the Kimberley. Epoch

Site

Small bird

Medium bird

Reference

Pleistocene

Riwi

x

x

Balme et al. (2018)

Widgingarri Shelter 1

x

O’Connor (1999)

Riwi

x

Balme et al. (2018)

Windjana Gorge Shelter

x

O’Connor et al. (2008)

Koolan Shelter 2

x

x

O’Connor (1999)

Widgingarri Shelter 1

x

x

O’Connor (1999)

Widgingarri Shelter 2

x

x

O’Connor (1999)

High Cliff Shelter

x

x

O’Connor (1999)

HC-3 Miriwum Rock Shelter

x x

x x

O’Connor (1999) Dortch (1977); Pocock (1988)

Holocene

223

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and their hunt is prohibited according to today’s Traditional Owners of the region (Blundell & Woolagoodja 2005: 231). Overall, among the few birds’ bone remains in the Kimberley zooarchaeological record, there are few raptor species, such as the brown falcon (Falco berigora) and the barn owl (Tyto alba). In both cases, faunal remains can be explained with reference to the natural behaviour of the animals rather than the exploitation by human populations. The archaeological evidence is, consequently, ambiguous with respect to the character of economic or cultural relationships between past human populations and bird species in the Kimberley. Birds of prey and traditional knowledge in the Kimberley It is widely accepted that animals occupy a special place among Indigenous populations in Australia and beyond. In the Australian context in particular, animals have been described to be central for cosmology, totemism and kinship. Their importance often derives from observable animal behaviours but, overall, only certain species are of special importance. Birds often have totemic significance for Indigenous Australians across different regions (Tidemann & Whiteside 2010; Goldhahn 2019). For example, the emu is a powerful animal for many language groups, visible in the Milky Way, and central to many Dreamtime narratives and Creation stories. As we have argued above, rock art images of birds of prey, such as eagles and owls, are also linked to Ancestors, evidenced through paintings and their locations, and by Dreamtime stories. As such, it is difficult to disassociate Indigenous narratives on birds from the interpretation of the rock art record. In Australia, as in other countries, the use of informed knowledge has proven invaluable for expanding iconographic interpretations of rock art (Taçon & Chippindale 1998: 7). As in many other studies, the incorporation of ethnographies into the interpretation of rock art further expands current scientific explanations grounded in a Western ontology that understands animals and humans as separated and opposed. Such is the case when we consider rock art images of eagles, hawks and owls across Australia. As we have argued, paintings of eagles have been linked to Ancestors, such as the case of the wedged-tailed eagle (Aquila audax). These animals are of great importance for many Indigenous groups across Australia. Among the Kulin people of south-central Victoria, an Ancestral Creation being, Bunjil, is known to be the creator and protector of the world (Mudrooroo 1994). He is portrayed in the rock art of the Grampians (Gunn 1983). Other species of eagles, like the white-bellied sea eagle (Haliaeetus leucogaster), are considered an emblem for the Wreck Bay Aboriginal Community. They are also an important animal totem for the Mak Mak people of the Northern Territory, who recognize the connection between this eagle and ‘good country’ (Baldwin 2010; Bird Rose 1996). The notion of good country is referenced through metaphors that allude to feelings of belonging, safety, security and nourishing. According to Bird Rose (1996: 29), good country highlights the importance of the human responsibility for taking care of country, and looking after country, where beings and things inhabiting the world are all 224

Ancestors, Messengers and ‘Good Country’

interconnected through kinship. Consequently, caring for country is as much material as it is social and also reciprocal. If country is healthy, human beings are healthy as well. Hawks – for example, black kite (Milvus migrans), whistling kite (Haliastur sphenurus) and brown falcon (Falco berigora) – have been linked to fire-spreading practices (Bonta et al. 2017). These so-called ‘fire hawks’ have the ability to grab burning sticks from bushfires and drop them in unburnt areas in order to scare prey. Similar behaviour has also been described by Kwini people of the northeast Kimberley, where they have a strong spiritual significance and are linked to the origin of fire (Cheinmora et al. 2017: 147). Owls, on the other hand, have a strong spiritual significance for Indigenous groups across the whole region. In the northeast Kimberley, Kwini people view the barking owl (Ninox boobook or Dumbu winya in Kwini language) call as communicating about burning or fighting. Barking owls are also perceived as messengers (Cheinmora et al. 2017: 148). In other areas of the Kimberley, the owl is known as Doombee, Dumbu or Dumbi, a sacred spirit often referred to in circumcision ceremonies (Corrigan 2006: 127). In the western Kimberley, Dumbi the Owl is the protagonist of a significant narrative. The story transpires in the Dreamtime (Lalai in one of the local languages), where two children disrespectfully plucked the feathers from the sacred owl. Dumbi escaped and flew to the Wanjinas Namarali and Wanalirri, who decided to punish the humans by creating a flooding event that killed the majority of people. Other animals helped the Wanjinas, with a lizard locating where people had hidden and brolgas dancing to soften the sand, creating quicksand so people could not escape (Blundell & Woolagoodja 2005: 137–8). The aftermath of this flood did not please the other Wanjinas, and Namarali had to escape from the Central Kimberley to the coast where he became a Worrorra person. He then created many landmarks and islands, resulting in a battle between Namarali and the other Wanjinas (this battle can be seen on the beach at Langgi). Namarali was killed and his body was transformed into a painting in the ceiling of the Karndirrim rockshelter, where he still remains to this day (Blundell & Woolagoodja 2005: 140–1). The relevance of this story not only resides in the spiritual significance of Dumbi, interpreted as a sacred ancestor, but it also highlights how certain landscape features and rock art came into existence. Even though other birds can be eaten, the owl remains a sacred animal that needs to be protected and its hunting is prohibited. Dumbi can also take a Wanjina form, like other animals, and he has been extensively painted by Senior Traditional Knowledge Holder Yorna Woolagoodja, both in his animal and Wanjina forms (Woolagoodja 2020). Dumbi also features in owl form prominently on Yorna Woolagoodja’s first ever painting (1997) ‘Big Spring/Winjooddoorurlpul’. In his autobiography, he says about this major work: ‘This first painting was to show all the stories from Lalai and to represent our Culture in one painting but there was too much for one painting’ (Woolagoodja 2020: 178). This painting refers to a major ancestral place with significant stories. But apart from the depiction of many Wandjinas (ancestral creator spirits), the painting features a bewildering number of birds (e.g. several species of cockatoos and parrots, emus, brolgas). While Dumbi the Owl is the only bird of prey, this painting draws 225

The Art and Archaeology of Human Engagements with Birds of Prey

attention to the importance of birds in the culture of Aboriginal people in the Northwest Kimberley more generally. Most prominently among these are two nightjar species, the Australian owlet-nightjar (Aegotheles cristatus) and the spotted nightjar (Eurostopodus argus). These two birds are the living manifestations of two key ancestral beings that created the current moiety system, which equally encompasses human and other societies. All living creatures as well as the country itself are divided into Wodoi/Wadoy (spotted nightjar) and Junkun/Jungun (owlet nightjar) skin groups. This division forms the core of Aboriginal Law in the Northwest Kimberley (Blundell & Woolagoodja 2005; 2012; Doring 2000). Finally, it is also interesting to note that the above-mentioned Gwion paintings are named by Aboriginal Traditional Owners in this way because Gwion is the name of a mysterious cave bird who is credited to have created these images. According to one version of the story, this bird ‘used its beak to wipe blood across the surface of stone and so began painting’ (Doring 2000: 323). Senior Traditional Knowledge Holder Janet Oobagooma (Mangolamara et al. 2019: 151) presents this narrative in the following way: The Little Bird did the hard job. The Wanjina Mereewoon, or you can call Marriiawala in Wunambal, he told that Little Bird, Gwion, to do the hard job: ‘You have to do the job for me to paint all the stuff on the cave and you have to paint yourself ’. This brief story not only draws further attention to the great cultural importance of birds for Aboriginal people in the Kimberley. It also shows that the sequence of motifs has little significance for Traditional Owners and relations of significance are established across and between archaeologically determined stylistic periods.

Conclusion In this article, we have argued that the advent of post-humanist approaches in rock art studies has shifted the focus from an anthropocentric understanding of human–animal relationships to one focused on relational ontologies that seek to expand how human and animal populations become together. We have shown the potential of adopting such an approach by considering birds of prey in Kimberley rock art. As we argue, despite animal depictions being a predominant theme in Australian rock art, their interpretation still remains grounded in essentialist explanations concerned with their identification and quantification that provide minimal interpretation of their presence/absence in Kimberley rock art. The aim of this article is to show that although bird images, and birds of prey in particular, are not a recurring theme Australia-wide, the Kimberley region provides an exciting case study, as birds are the third most frequently depicted class. Nonetheless, when birds of prey are considered, examples become less common, with only one eagle identified in an early figurative style. Only in later stylistic periods, such as the Wanjina period, do they become more common. Zooarchaeological records show 226

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that birds of prey are present across the Pleistocene and the Holocene, although their presence cannot clearly be connected to human exploitation/hunting. These findings can possibly be linked to ethnographically available information about Indigenous Law in the Kimberley, but the evidence is currently inconclusive. The integration of iconography, ethnography and zooarchaeology can consequently shed some light on the importance of birds of prey in Indigenous cultural contexts in the northeast Kimberley. It was demonstrated that the relevance of some species, such as eagles, hawks and owls is intrinsically interrelated to Indigenous knowledge and is the product of interactions that go back many millennia. This study therefore contributes to a more holistic understanding of birds of prey populations in the northeast Kimberley, by grounding their study not only in iconographical data, but also by considering ethnography and zooarchaeology. The approach taken in this article allows us to move beyond a strict Western categorization of what it means to be animal and human, fuelled by a dichotomizing Cartesian understanding of the nature/culture division. Instead, it is possible to recognize animals as Ancestors and parts of the totemic system that equally includes animals, humans and other beings. Among Indigenous groups in Australia, Dreamtime stories often describe animals and humans as having been created from a common ancestor, where animals are not only seen as food resources, but as part of a complex interrelated cosmology that also infuses and enhances everyday life. By following such an approach, we are able to expand what it means to be human and bird in the Kimberley.

Note 1. The term selected here is one of several that are used in the Northern Kimberley for the respective rock art images done by Indigenous Traditional Owners. They vary with location and language groups, and do not clearly follow archaeological motif categories or styles. Examples can be viewed in Mangolamara et al. 2019, 148–77 (see also Blundell et al. 2017).

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INDEX

A word-list of South Island Maori (Harlow) 207 abáàra méjì 194 Accipitriformes 11–12, 29, 123 Achaemenid empire, Persia 79 Adena clay tablets 137 Adena phase, Woodland Period 136 AEDTA collection, Musée Guimet 92 Æsir 112 Agin Buryat 84 agricentrism 12–14 àjé (witch) 194–5 Aláagba, the 194 aláawó meji 194 Alar robe 98 albatross 202–4 Aldy-Bel phase, Tyvan Iron Age 78 Alerstam, Thomas 104 Algonquian-speaking farmers 137 Allingham, Brian 206 Alstad runestone, Norway 173 Amazonian constructivist model 156 Amazonian dark earth 154 amber 53, 61, 122, 127–30 Ambrosiani, B. 173, 175 Amerindian peoples 2, 142–5, 153–5 Amkreutz, L. 27 Amun (Egyptian deity) 39 Anajás urns 157 Ananyino period, Iron Age 75 Androshchuk, F. 170–1 Anglo-Saxons 111 animal cults 44 animal mummy tombs, Quesna 47 animal style 84 ‘Animal Style’ (Rostovtzeff ) 72 animism 143–4, 153 Annihilation (VanderMeer) 177 Anthropocene Age 6, 11 apá tree 186–7 Apalle settlement, Sweden 60 Araltobe kurgan 2, western Kazakhstan 83 Ardre VIII picture-stone, Gotland 174 Arnhem Land, Australia 203 Arnold, J. E. 13 Art, Materiality and Representation conference 6 arugbo eye (old bird) 194

232

Arzhan-2, Tyva Republic 78, 82, 84 àse (performative power) 188, 190, 193, 198n.2 Assiniboine 139 auspex see bird diviner Australian Aboriginals 217–18, 220, 224, 226 avian psychopomps 167 awón iyá wa (our mothers) 5, 188, 195 Azraq wetlands 30 Bækkegård bird fibulae 104–5 Bækkegård cemetery 109 Bain, Pamela 206 baksy (Kazakh) 83 Barad, Karen 55–6 barking owl 225 barn owl 223–4 Barnack, Cambridgeshire 129 Barreto, C. 158 Barrow, Leonard 206 Barrow, Terence 206 Bastet (goddess of beauty) 39 Bateman, Thomas 119 The Battle of Maldon (Old English poem) 166 Bayeux Tapestry 166 beak people 3, 53–6, 65 beaker burial (C38), Driffield account of 121–4 amber beads/buttons 127–8 and the beaker 126–7 conclusions 130 and copper-alloy dagger 124–6 introduction 119 and stone wrist-guard 128–30 bears 24 Beier, Uli 194 belt-purses 64–5 Best, Elsdon 210 bicephalous birds 161 ‘Big Spring/Winjooddoorurlpul’ (Woolagoodja) 225 Bird Beings 53–6, 58, 60, 64–5 bird brooches see bird fibulae bird diviner 64 bird fibulae and falconry 108 and goddess Freyja 111–12

Index introduction 4 in Scandinavian Late Iron Age 102–7 and women 108–10, 113 Bird Rose, D. 224–5 bird woman 199, 209 bird-men 5, 137, 139–40, 146, 199, 205–11 Birds of Aotearoa (Orbell) 205 Birka (settlement) 169, 173–5, 177–8 Black Earth settlement area 170, 173 Bohr, Niels 55 böö 83–4 Book of the Dead (funerary text) 43 Bornholm bird fibula 104 Borre ring-chain 175 Bradshaw, Joseph 221 Brazil nut tree 159 Bredarör on Kivik (cairn) 60 brolgas 217, 223 Bronze Age 53, 56, 59, 65, 119, 121–6, 129 bronze buckle, Lundforlund, Denmark 54 brown falcon 223–4 bull cults 46, 48 Bunjil (Ancestral Creation being) 224 Burbidge, Andrew 218 Buryat peoples 77–8, 83–4 buzzards 29, 47, 119, 123–4 Byzantine Empire 171, 178 Cahill, M. 126 caimans 161–2 Cariban languages 162 carrion ecology 15, 24–5 Cartesianism 13, 121 caruncles 161 caryatid vessels 160 Cave of the New Zealand Eagle, Craigmore 203, 210 celestial Bird Being, Glasbacka, Sweden 54 Chalcolithic Age 119, 122–4, 129 Châtelperronian site, Spain 15 Chen Juzhong 89 Chen, Princess of 96 Chernikov, Sergei 71, 76, 78 Cheyenne 139 China National Silk Museum 92 choughs 24 Chris Hall Collection, Hong Kong 93 Chthulucene 177 Chugunov, Konstantin 82 chunshui see Spring Hunt (Chunshui) cire perdue 110 Cis-Baikal Buryats 83–4 Clunies Ross, Margaret 112 common kestrel 123 companion species 11, 13 copper 145–7

Corbey, R. 27 cormorants 221 corvids 25 Craigmore, New Zealand 199, 203, 205, 209 cranes 137 Creation stories 224 cuckoos 63–5 Culduthel Mains, Inverness 129 Cupules rock art style 219 curing tubes 143 dahoon holly 143 Daiqintala tomb 93–4 Dalai Lama 44 Damdin Dorlig (Buddhist deity) 77 darkhans (blacksmiths) 77 datura 143 deer 93, 95 Denison, Albert 119, 121–3 Descola, P. 3, 53 Description of the Northern Peoples (Magnus) 58 Die altgermanische Thierornamentik (Salin) 72 District of the Two-Falcons 41 Djedhor of Athribis (priest) 45 dogs 12, 48 The Domestication of Europe (Hodder) 12 Dooren, Thom Van 2 dragonflies 137 Dreamtime stories 216–17, 220, 224, 227 Driffield beaker see beaker burial (C38), Driffield Driffield Group barrows 122 Driffield knife-dagger see beaker burial (C38), Driffield Driffield raptor-head see beaker burial (C38), Driffield Duff, Roger 205 ‘Dumbi the Owl’ 225–6 eagles Araltobe kurgan 2 83 in Australian rock art 217, 223–4 böö 83–4 as co-living species 12 detecting carcasses 25 as Egyptian deities 47 and Eshkiolmes rock art complex 82 golden 28, 76–7, 119 Haast’s 5, 199–203, 205–12 harpy, in Marajoara 4, 152, 154–5, 158–60, 162 images, Wollemi National Park 217 introduction 2–3, 5–6 as opportunistic raptors 15, 30 and the Pawnee 137 in poetry and runic inscription 167 protective magical practices of 126

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Index and Shilikty-type decorations 78–80, 82 steppe 28–9 wedged-tailed 224 white-bellied sea 224 white-tailed 27–8, 119, 123 Èfe nocturnal performances 187–8, 191 Èfe/Gèlèdé (masquerade complex) 5, 185–7, 189, 197 Egungun 195–6 Egypt 3, 38–41, 43–9 Egyptian vultures 48 emus 217, 221, 223 English Lake District 129 enseaming 62 Epipalaeolithic period 28, 30 Eshkiolmes mountains 82 Eshkiolmes petroglyphs 84 Eshkiolmes rock art complex, southeastern Kazakhstan 82 extispicy 62, 64, 123 Eye Oro/Oru 5, 185–91, 197 facultative scavengers 25 falcon eye motifs 139 falconry archaeology of 107–8 and bird fibulae 108, 112 introduction 3–4 in Kazakhstan 83 in Kitan Liao dynasty 88–9 and the Liao fragment 96, 98, 99n.5–6 and stone wrist-guards 129 in Sutton Hoo, Suffolk 58 falcons Brown 223–4 chapes and the Rus’ 171–3, 177–8 cloaks 4 as Egyptian deities 38–41, 43–5, 47–9 and gizzard stones 62 merlin/peregrine 91, 123 Mississippian imagery 143 New Zealand 207 and Scandinavia hunting 166 shell robes in shape of 140 special treatment of 138 and spring hunt 88, 91, 98, 99n.3 symbolism in mediating relationships 145 and vector image 170 Fausto, C. 155 Ferry Fryston dagger Type 122 Finlayson, C. 15 Finlayson, S. 15 ‘fission horizon’ (Needham) 122 fjaðrhamr 175 Fomison, Anthony (Tony) 205–6, 210 foraging 12–14

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forked eye motif 138 foxes 30 Franks Casket, Northumbria 174 Frenchman’s Gully see Te Manunui, (great bird) Freyja (goddess) 102, 111–12 frogs 161 Fumane cave, Italy 24 fylgjur 177 geese 91, 93–4 Geist 56, 63 Gell, A. 102, 159 Giss 56, 63 Glenmark, New Zealand 207 gök see cuckoos Gokstad ship burial 167 gold 76–7, 82 gold bracteates 167 golden eagles 28, 76–7, 119 ‘Golden Horus’ (king’s title) 40 Goldhahn, J. 126, 220 Gordol (owl creation ancestor) 218 goshawks 3, 56, 58–66, 123 great bowerbirds 233 Great Lakes 137, 146 Great Vulture 160–2 Grey, George 208, 219 Grey-Foot see goshawks Grinsell, L. 123 Group VI Langdale greenstone 122, 128–9 Gustafsson, N. B. 174 Gwion human figures, Kimberley 217–22, 226, 227n.1 Gypsey Race 122 gyrfalcon 91, 99n.3 Haast’s eagle 5, 199–203, 205–12 haidongqing raptor 91 Hallan Çemi 28–9 Hallowell, Irving 142 hamr 177 Han dynasty 89–90, 92 Harald Bluetooth 167 Haraway, Donna 2, 11, 13, 176 harpy eagle 4, 152, 154–5, 158–60, 162 harriers in Britain 123–4 in Egyptian tombs 47–8 Eyles 201–2, 211 hawks 207 kahu (Australasian swamp) 201–2 Hatupatu (young man) 208 HaukR (hawk) 166 Hávamál str. 168 Hawaiki 209 Hawk City 41

Index hawking see falconry hawks in Australian rock art 217, 224 as co-living species 11–12 and cuckoos 63–5 as Egyptian deities 41, 43, 47 feeding opportunities for 24 and gizzard stones 62 and human burials 119 in Late Archaic Period 137 and Mesolithic woodland foragers 27–8 in Mississippian avian iconography 137 scalps of 139 and Scandinavia hunting 166 and spring hunt 88 suited to woodland 123 and the Sun 124 Hein, Piet 55 Helmbrecht, M. 174–5 helmet XIV, Vendel 174 henbane 127 Hero Twins 136 Hervörs saga ok Heiðreks (tale) 166, 168 hieras (sacrifices) 66 Hilazon Tachtit, Israel 28 History of the Jin (Toqto) 90–3 History of the Liao (Toqto) 91–2 Hodder, I. 12 hök see hawks hokioi/hookioi see eagles, Haast’s Holdaway, Richard 199 Holocene Age 11, 27–8, 60, 220, 223, 227 Homo sapiens 12, 24–5 Hopewell phase, Woodland Period 137, 146 Horakhty (Egyptian deity) 39 horse ornaments, Altai Krai 79 horse ornaments, Uigarak 79 horses 79–80 Horus (Egyptian deity) 38–41, 44–5, 47–9 Horus Khenty-Khety 48 Horus-in-the-nest 41 Hrólfs saga kraka (tales) 166 Huginn (raven) 111 human-birds 161 human–raptor relations 1–6, 28 human–animal relations 176 Hunter, J. 135 hunter-gatherers 11, 13, 24, 28–30, 31 Hvidegård I burial, Denmark 3, 60–6 Hvidegård I pebbles 62–3 hyenas 24 hyperkeystone species 25–6 ibis 39, 48, 217, 223 Ibis (Thoth) 47 Ibn Fadlan 167

Ifá 196 IIAP rock art style 219–22 Île de Groix ship burial, Brittany 171 index objects 130, 145 Indigenous Law 217, 227 Iranians and Greeks in South Russia (Rostovtzeff ) 72 iroju (patience) 194 ìrokò tree 5, 186–8 Iron Age bird fibulae and women 108–10 raptor iconography 71, 85 Scandinavian Late see Scandinavian Late Iron Age Shilikty phase of 73, 75, 78–9 Irregular rock art style 219 Irwin, Lee 142–3 Isis (Egyptian deity) 39 Islam 77 Iyá Agon, the 194 Iyá Erelú 194 Iyaláàse (female society head) 185 iyámi/iyánlá 195 Iziko Museum 48–9 jackdaws 24 Jilat 22 (hunting station) 29 Jin see Jurchen Jin dynasty Jones, A. 123 Jug’s grave, Monkton Farleigh 124 Jurassic oolitic limestone 130 Jurchen Jin dynasty 88–91, 93, 96, 98, 99n.4 Kāhui Rere people 209 Kaiapoi Ngai Tahu (tribe) 207–8 Kallsängen rock panel, Sweden 53–4 kam (Altaian) 83 Karitiana shamans 154 Karndirrim rockshelter 225 Katxuayana people 162 Katxuayana shamans 162 Kazakhstan 71, 76–9, 82–5 K’daai Maqsin (blacksmith deity) 77 kerangi see pouakai kesi 93 kestrels common 123 as Egyptian deities 39, 48 introduction 3 Khan Burged Tengri 84 Kimberley Visions: Rock Art Style Provinces in Northern Australia 219–20 Kimberley zooarchaeological record 223–7 king vulture 4, 154–5, 160, 162–3 Kinnes, I. A. 121–2 Kitan Liao dynasty 88–94, 96, 98, 99n.2

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Index kites 39, 47–8, 119, 123–4, 202, 225 Knowe of Ramsay, Orkney 128 Konduri people 162 Koolan Shelter 2, Australia 223 Kopytoff, I. 72 Kovalev, Roman 111 Kulin people 224 Kuluwajak figure 162 kūmara, New Zealand 211 Kurangaituku (bird-woman) 209 kurgan 2, Taldy-2 cemetery, Kazakhstan 76, 78 kurgan 7, East Kazakhstan 71 kurgan 39, western Kazakhstan 73 kurgan mound, Kazakhstan 82 Kwini people 225 Kyndby cemetery, Zealand 109 Kyrgyz 76 Kyrgyzstan 82

Minns, Ellis 72 MIS (3) 27 Miskelly, C. M. 208 Mississippian Ideological Interaction Sphere (MIIS) 137 Mississippian Period 136, 139, 144–6 Moa-bone Cave, New Zealand 202 moas 199–201, 208, 210 Moléon, M. 25 Mongols 96 Montu (Egyptian deity) 38–9 Mortimer, J. R. 121–2 Motta, Ana Paula 218–20 mummies/mummification 44–5, 47–9, 200 Muninn (raven) 111 Musée Guimet 92 Mut (Egyptian deity) 39 mutual ecologies 14, 25

Lagrou, E. 158 Lanai, Hawai’i 206 Late Archaic Period 137 Les Fieux 15 Lévi-Strauss, C. 217 Liao see Kitan Liao dynasty Liao tomb mural, Lamagou 92 Liao-style samite 90–1 limestone slab, Carpenter’s Gap 219 Lindqvist, S. 173 Little Vulture 160–1 Loki 111–12 Longworth, I. H. 121–2 Lord of the Sky see vultures, King lower Tapajós river 159

natron 45 Neanderthals 2, 14–15, 24–7 necked vessels 160, 162 Nectanebo II, King 44 Nectanebo-the-falcon 44 Needham, S. 122 Nekhbet (Egyptian deity) 39, 41 Neolithic Age 12–13, 28, 60, 119, 122–3 Nephthys (Egyptian deity) 39 Nesshutefnut of Esna (priest) 45 New Zealand Birds Online 207 New Zealand snipe 207 Ngai Tahu Maori Rock Art Trust 206, 209 Ngai Tahu tribe 203, 207 Ngārara Huarau 208 niello 110 nightjar 226 nightshade 143 Nin, Anaïs 55 Normanist debates 169 Nørre Sandegård cemetery, Bækkegård 109 North Island, New Zealand 201–3, 207–9 North Mound, Jelling 174 northeast Kimberley case study 219–21 northern royal albatross 205 Norwegian ship burials 107

McCulloch, B. 206 Machiguenga 159 Macropods 221 Mägi, Marika 169 Magnus, Olaus 58–9 magpies 24 Magyar imagery 171 Maiemir archaeological culture 75 Mak Mak people 224 Maori King movement 208–9 Māoris 5, 199–203, 205–11 Marajoara culture 152, 156–9, 163 Marajoara/Marajó funerary urns 156–9 Maui 206 Mengdiexuan Collection 94–5 merlin falcons 123 Merovingians 110 Mesolithic Age 27–8, 60 mica 145 Midewiwin rites 146 Migration Period 166

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Odin 111 Óðinn 167–8, 173, 175 Oehrl, S. 107 Ogun (warrior god) 194 Ogunmuyiwa 197 Old Norse mythology 102, 166 Olenij Ostrov burial ground, Russia 28 Olodùmare (supreme deity) 196 olojuì meji 194 Olupona, Lawani 188

Index Ong, Walter 142 ongon (Buryats) 84 Oobagooma, Janet 226 opá (herbalist) 191 oriì inu 5, 193 orisa Esù-Elègba (god of crossroads) 187 orisa funfun (cool gods) 188, 190 orisa Ogun (god of iron) 187 Oro society 193–5 Orongo, Rapa Nui 206 Ørsnes, Mogens 103–4 Orunmila (divination god) 196 osa méjì 186 Oshitola, Kolawole 191 Osiris (Egyptian deity) 39 Ososomu 190 osprey 27–8, 47 Osùn babaláwo 191 owls in Australian rock art 217–19, 221 barking 225 barn 223–4 feeding opportunities for 24 Gordol (owl creation ancestor) 218 introduction 4–6 in Late Archaic Period 137 in Marajoara 152, 155, 159 perspectivism of 123 owo ero lowo obinyin 194 Pacoval urns 157 Paigambar, Dawud 77–8 Painted Hand rock art style 219, 221 Palaeolithic Era 14–15, 24, 26–7 parrots 218, 221 Pauketat, T. 130 Pawnee 137 Pekapeka rere ahiahi, hokioi rere po (proverb) 208 peregrine falcons 91, 123 Personverbandstaat system 110 perspectivism 153 petroglyph sites 82–4 pied cormorant 223 Pig-Man see goshawks Pipiwharauroa (newspaper) 207 Plains Cree 139 Plains groups 139 Pleistocene Age 14–15, 24–7, 220, 223, 227 Pollard, J. 119, 124 Polychrome Tradition 155 Portable Antiquities Scheme database 171 posthumanism 177, 215 Pou tradition 5, 209, 211 pouakai 5, 199–200, 203, 205–11 see also eagles, Haast’s

Pourakahua 209–10 Pourangahue 209 pre-Christian mythology 102 Pre-Columbian art 136 Prehistoric Rock Art of New Zealand (Trotter/ McCulloch) 206 Ptolemaic Period 44, 49 Ptolemy V, King 44 Pyramid Texts 43 Qebehsenuef (Egyptian deity) 39 Qi, State of 90 qiushan 93 Quatrefoil decoration 93 Quesna, Egypt 3, 47–8 Quinn, J. 177 Ra see Re (Egyptian deity) Radin, Paul 142 raptor-thunderbird-warrior 139 ravens 24 Re (Egyptian deity) 38–9 Reichel-Dolmatoff, G. 159 rock art and Amazonia 152, 154 the Beak People 55 of the Grampians 224 and Grey-Foot 60 introduction 5 in Kazakhstan 71, 82, 84–5 in Kimberley, Australia 216–26 in Kyrgyzstan 82 Maori 199–200, 202–12 Painted Hand style 219, 221 Wanjina 216, 219–22, 225–6 Rosetta Stone 44 Rostovtzeff, Mikhail 72 Royal Anthropological Institute 6 Rurikid dynasty 171, 175 Rurikid Signs 171, 173, 177 Rus’, the 5, 169–73, 175–8 Saale glaciation 25 Sacred Animals 44–6 Sacred Hawk 136–7 Sakha, the 78 Sala-Orílé 188 Salin, Bernhard 72 Salme ship burial 167 Salteaux 139 Sangodipe (godlike) 197 Santarém ceramics 157, 159–62 Santarém city 163 Santarém culture 4, 152, 163 Santos-Granero, F. 156 Saqqara, Egypy 45

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Index Sassanian Empire 171 Sauk 137 saukeles 80 Scandinavian Late Iron Age animal art in 168–9 Migration Period 166–7 and Uppåkra figure 174–5 Vendel Period 102–4, 166–7, 175 Viking Age 166–7, 169–70, 173, 175–7 Schnittger, Bror 62 Schoon, Theo 209–10 Schroer, Sara Asa 2 The Scythians and the Greeks (Minns) 72 Scythic art 72 Scytho-Siberian decorations 71–2 serekh (hieroglyph) 40 Serjeantson, Dale 62 Šestovica/Chernihiv chamber graves 171 Severi, C. 158 shamanism 141, 143, 152, 154, 159–60, 162 shell 145–7 Shepard Jr, G. 159 Sherratt, A. 127 Shilikty goldsmiths 78 Shilikty kurgan (5) 73, 76, 78 Shilikty kurgan (7) 73 Shilikty kurgan (15) 76 Shilikty valley, East Kazakhstan 73 Shilikty-3 kurgan (1) 73, 76, 78–9, 82 Shilikty-type raptors 71, 73–8, 80, 82–5 Sigtuna amphora 173 Siouan-speaking farmers 137 skaldic poetry 168 Skáldskaparmál (Snorri) 168 Skinner, H. D. 205–6 Smith, Percy 210 Sokar (Egyptian deity) 39, 41 Solsemhula Cave, Norway 60 Song Dynasty 90–1, 98, 99n.1 Sopdu (Egyptian deity) 39 SoSon of Ren of Re 39 South Island, New Zealand 5, 201–3, 205–9, 211 sparrowhawk 47–8 Spiess, A. E. 24–5 Spirit Bird of Night see Eye Oro/Oru Spitzer, Megan 47–8 sport hunting 25 Spring Hunt (Chunshui) 3, 88–94, 98 squirrel bones 62 Stack, James 207 Static Polychrome rock art style 219 Stewart Island snipe 209 stone curlews 223 Stonehenge 124 Stora Hammars III picture-stone 173–4 storks 221, 223

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storm petrel 223 Style II art 111 Sulawesi warty pig 203 Sun, the 124, 126 ‘sun-horse’ 124 Sutton Hoo burial 58, 167 Suttungr 168 swallows 137 swamphens 223 swans 91, 202–3 Sykes, N. 126 Taçon, P. S. 217 Taksai-1 kurgan 6, West Kazakhstan 79–80, 82 Taldy-2 cemetery, Kazakhstan 73, 76, 78, 82 tamga symbols (Khazar) 171 Tāne (god of the birds) 205 Tang Dynasty 88, 92, 94–5 Tang samite 90, 98 taniwha 211 Tapajó art 162 Tapajó people 159–60, 162 Tapajó/Tapajonic ceramics see Santarém ceramics Tapajós river 152 Tare Te Maiharoa 208 Tarim Basin 98 Tasmola culture 73, 78 Tasmola metalworkers 78 Tawera 211 Te Hau o Tawera 207–8 Te Hokioi e Rere Atu Na (newspaper) 208–9 Te Manu a Tane (Great Bird of Tane) 209 Te Manunui (great bird) 203, 205–7, 209 Te Rereka–The Flight (stage performance) 209 Te Waka Maori o Niu Tirani (Grey) 208 Tegneby panel, Bohuslän, Sweden 55, 60 Theban Tombs 45, 47–8 Thebes 3, 48 Thomsen, Christian Jürgensen 60 Thoth 47 Thrym’s Poem 111 Thunder beings 139, 147 ‘thunder bows’ 139 Thunderbirds 136–9, 145–7 tiki figure 210 Tillhagen, C.-H. 63 timir uuha (blacksmiths) 77 tobacco 139, 143 top-level carnivory 25 transmorphs 53 Trotter, M. 206 Tsing, A. 13 Tupian people 163 turkey vulture 137 Tutankhamun 3, 41

Index Uffington white horse geoglyph 124 Uighurs 98 Ukraine 173 Underwater Panthers 142, 145–6 Uppåkra U560 bird fibula 104–6, 110, 177 Upper Lena Buryats 84 Upper Xingu 161 Uppland boat graves 167 ustah (metal smiths) 77–8 Valholl war-god’s hall 175 Valsgärde ship burial 167 VanderMeer, J. 177 Varangian sub-group 170 Vendel boat grave XIV 167 Vendel III ship burial 167 Verger, P. 196 Volkhov basin 171 Vo.lundarkvida, Velents tattr smiðs 174 Völundr the smith 174–5 Von Haast, Julius 210 vultures alerted by eagles 25 bearded bone-eaters 24 cinereous talons from Les Fieux 15 Egyptian 48 as Egyptian gods 39, 47 Great 160–2 introduction 1 king 4, 154–5, 160, 162–3 Little 160–1 on Marajoara funerary urns 157–8 turkey 137 two-headed 161 Wai Wai people 162–3 Waipata Creek, New Zealand 203 Wairau Bar, New Zealand 202 Waitaha (tribe) 207–8 Wandjinas (ancestral creator spirits) 225 Wanjina rock art style 216, 219–22, 225–6 waterfowl 30 Wayana people 162 Wayland 175 wedge-tailed eagles 224

weeping eye motif 138 Weichselian glaciation 25 Weka Pass, New Zealand 203 Wells, P. S. 102 Wenji, Lady 89–91 Wenzong, Emperor 94 WF16, Wadi Faynan 29 White Pagoda, Qingzhou 94, 96 white-bellied eagles 224 white-tailed eagles 27–8, 119, 123 Widgingarri shelters (1 and 2) 223 Wildbeuter 13 Williams, H. W. 207 Winge, Herluf 62, 64 Wohlers, Rev. J. F. H. 208 women 102, 107–13, 123, 185, 190, 193–7, 198n.3 Woodward, A. 128 Woolagoodja, Yorna 225 worldings (concept) 3 Worrorra persons 225 Wragg Sykes, R. 24 Wreck Bay Aboriginal Community 224 wrist-guards 122, 127–31 Xikrin 154 Xiongnu confederation 89–91 yaupon holly 143 Yawalapíti people 161 Yelü Yuzhi tomb 93–4, 96 Yematoai tomb 94 Yeomans, Lisa 47–8 Yorùbá people 5, 185, 190–1, 193–7, 197n.1 Yorùbáland 186 Younger Dryas 28–9 youpon holly 139 Zedeño, María Nieves 130, 145 zergers (silver jewellery makers) 77–8 Zhaltyrak-Tash rock art complex, western Kyrgyzstan 82 Þiðreks saga af Bern 174–5 Þjazi 168 zoomorphic rim appendages 154 Zuevsky cemetery, Russian Federation 73, 75

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Plate 2.1 The combined corslet, collar and pectoral of Tutankhamun with ‘feathers’ covering the torso (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, JE 62627), photo Sandro Vannini/Laboratoriorosso.

Plate 2.2 A broad collar with falcon terminals from the tomb of Tutankhamun (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, JE 61880), photo Sandro Vannini/Laboratoriorosso.

Plate 2.3 A breast ornament in the form of a falcon with a solar disc on its head, holding shen signs, symbols of eternity, in its talons. The red in the shen echoes the solar disc (Egyptian Museum, Cairo, JE 61893), photo Sandro Vannini/Laboratoriorosso.

Plate 3.1 Grey-Foot, the northern goshawk (Accipiter gentilis) (Courtesy of Per Nilsson).

Plate 4.1 Golden eagle decoration from Shilikty-3 kurgan 1 (photograph used with the kind permission of Professor Abdesh Toleubaev – image rotated and scale bar added).

Plate 4.2 Raptor petroglyph scene from Eshkiolmes (photograph by author).

Plate 5.1 Attributed to Chen Juzhong, Detail of Lady Wenji’s Return to China ᮷လ↨╒െ. Hanging scroll, ink and colours on silk. Entire scroll: 147.4 x 107.7 cm. National Palace Museum, Taipei. Open Government Data License, version 1.0.

Plate 5.2 Textile depicting a Swan Hunt. Jin dynasty, late 12th–13th century. Plain-weave silk brocaded with gold-leaf wrapped leather strips. 58.5 × 62.2 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art (1989.282). CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) Public Domain Dedication.

Plate 5.3 Pair of Boots. Liao dynasty, 1000–1125. Compound twill, silk; tapestry, silk and gold; tabby, silk; gauze, silk; silk batting; leather. Overall: 34.9 × 25 cm (13 3/4 × 9 13/16 in.). Cleveland Museum of Art (1992.349). CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) Public Domain Dedication.

Plate 6.1 Bird fibula U560 Uppåkra, Uppåkra parish, Skåne, Sweden, length 5.6 cm, LUHM 31 000:560 (Photo Paul Pettersson Eklöv, Lunds Universitets Historiska Museum [Historical Museum at Lund University], Lund, Sweden).

Plate 7.1 Surviving grave goods from the Driffield ‘beaker’ burial, © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved.

Plate 7.2 Amber V-perforated beads or buttons (the most complete measures length 29 mm, thickness 20 mm, width 22 mm; BM 1879,1209.1982-3), © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved.

Plate 7.3 Stone wrist-guard (length 127 mm, thickness 6 mm, central width 28 mm, terminal width 33 mm; BM 1884,0520.1), © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved.

Plate 9.1 Marajoara anthropomorphic funerary urn: a) Front and profile of urn showing the split representation of the body and vulture heads at the joining of two ‘fronts’; b) Detail of lateral vulture heads surrounded by an applied string forming the arms of the human body. (Collection: MArquE/UFSC; Photos: Lucas Bueno).

Plate 9.2 Marajoara funerary urns depicting ‘humanized’ harpy eagles or owls: a) Large Marajoara urn showing bird wearing earspools, tassels and necklace with pendant (height: 86 cm) (Collection: MCTI/Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi; Photo: Maurício de Paiva); b) Variations in the composition of the humanized bird figure. (Drawings: Cristiana Barreto. Collection: Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia, University of São Paulo); c) Four sides of the same urn. (Drawing: Cristiana Barreto. Collection: Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia, University of São Paulo).

Plate 9.3 Variations of king vulture themes on Santarém vases: necked vessels (left) and caryatid vessels (right). Sequences of king vulture body metamorphosis of Great Vulture [a–d] and Little Vulture [e–i]. (Photos and drawings: Marcony Alves. Collections: MCTI/Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi and Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia, University of São Paulo).

Plate 10.1 The Birka bird-man sword chape. Photo: Gabriel Hildebrand, Swedish History Museum, Creative Commons.

Plate 10.2 The winged figure from Uppåkra, Skåne, Sweden, shown during conservation with half of the original gilded surface revealed. Photo: Lovisa Dal, courtesy of Lund University Historical Museum.

Plate 11.1 With all lights extinguished, excitement fills the gathered crowd as Spirit Bird of Night comes in darkness, moving bent over in a slow, gentle dance (ijó jé. jé. ), matching her careful steps with the drum rhythms, Ilaro, Nigeria. Photograph by Henry John Drewal, 1978, EEPA 1992-0280004, Henry John Drewal and Margaret Thompson Drewal Collection, Eliot Elisofon Photographic Archives, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Plate 11.2 The herbalist’s distinctive emblem, the ò.pá is typically surmounted by a circle of sixteen birds surrounding a larger central one. The encircling birds represent the potentially rapacious bird-women (àjé. ) with whom human beings must cope. Herbalist’s staff (ò.pá Òsanyìn), 76-3-4_S20140005. Unknown artist, late 19th to mid-20th century, iron, stone, H: 71 cm, Gift of Ambassador and Mrs Benjamin Hill Brown Jr, Photograph by Franko Khoury, National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Plate 12.1 Cave of the New Zealand Eagle – Te Ana Pouākai – (previously known as Cave of the Wedge Tailed Eagle) at Craigmore Station, South Canterbury. The central black image produced with a charcoal or soot pigment is the recognizable bird motif reproduced as the eagle in a 1989 New Zealand Geographic illustration. Photograph by Matthew Hill, © Ngāi Tahu Māori Rock Art Trust.

Plate 12.2 Te Rereka – The Flight is a theatrical performance that has re-invigorated the Pourakahua tradition using animated flatso puppets based on South Island rock art imagery. Encouraged by the Ngāi Tahu Māori Rock Art Trust, artistic developers and performers Jeffrey Addison and Whaitaima Te Whare (pictured) first, and subsequently the Taki Rua theatre company, have shared with thousands of children a modern re-telling in which Pourakahua is depicted as one of the pouākai rock art figures. Photograph: Viv Sherwood.

Plate 13.1 Overview to main rock art styles in the Kimberley region. (1) Cupules; (2) Irregular Infill Animal Period; (3) Gwion; (4) Static Polychrome; (5) Painted Hand; and (6) Wanjina (illustration by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions).

Plate 13.2 Examples of bird images in IIAP style, including a bird of prey. Left to right: an emu with a hatched pattern, a brolga with extended wings, and eagle with curved beak and toes, with prominent talons (illustration by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions).

Plate 13.3 Examples of bird images in Gwion style: top left is a composition of parrots with strong short and curved beaks and tri-digit claws, top right is a cormorant with wings extended depicted next to several small macropods, and below is a pair of storks with elongated necks and prominent beaks (illustration by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions).

Plate 13.4 Birds of prey in Wanjina style in the northeast Kimberley. Top left to right depicts two owls and an eagle, and bottom photograph illustrates a group of four owls with different body shapes (illustration by Ana Paula Motta with kind permission of Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation and Kimberley Visions).