The Bear in Ob-Ugrian Folklore
(Siberia, Ural Mountains)



Pine Marten



My father Numi-Torem rears me
In his house locked with seven locks
In a nest made of black pine-marten, of red pine-marten skins.
Strong-handed powerful animal that I am,
I listen for sounds outside the house with the seven locks,
The noise of girls chattering and playing in the open
Can be heard outside,
The sound of boys chattering and playing in the open
Can be heard outside.
Strong-handed powerful beast that I am,
I rise from my pine-marten’s nest, my nest of skins,
And see, I smash to pieces
That door of the house with seven locks
With my two clawed hands like the sturgeon’s jaws,
And I get outside the door of the house with doors.

Now I will let you down,
You rough-handed powerful maiden-beast,
To the earth where the underworld folk live,
(The earth) covered with red and yellow colours,
Where little geese and ducks pipe their song.
Live on the food of the berries in the meadows,
Go forth on the food of the berries in the woods:
From these obtain
The back-fat for your winter sleep,
From these obtain
The chest-fat for your hibernation

When I got to the middle of the night
The path I had taken
I made twisted
In the shape of the twisting track of a goose’s entrails,
I made twisted
In the shape of the twisting track of a duck’s entrails.
The path I had taken the previous day
I trod yet again
So that man with the cut umbilical cord
Might not follow my path, the path of a beast.

I range the backs of the marten-frequented forests,
I spend the long, perspiring summer;
Meanwhile my father, Numi-Torem, suddenly brings
The autumn season.
He raises up
A cold-nosed, nose-biting wind.
He raises up
A chill-nosed nose-biting wind.
He lets fall
Small-flaked flakes of snow,
He sends forth
Broad-flakes of snow
He freezes
The cover of ice that freezes in winter,
He freezes
The borders of ice that freeze in winter.


The Bear in Ob-Ugrian Folklore, G. F. Cushing
Folklore, Vol. 88, no. 2 (1977). pp. 146-159
(Ob-Ugrian refers to the Voguls and Ostyaks of Northwestern Siberia, Ural Mountains)



Song of the Female Bear


Through seven summers created by the Majestic Sky
I live,
through seven winters created by the Majestic Sky
I live.
I have neither a daughter nor a son.
I just live, I just walk.
Suddenly I find my brother.
I say to him: ‘How can I survive like this?!’
‘Why should a thing of this sort still be a problem?!’
There are other days of trouble, days of scarcity besides this!

Majestic Sky, your great father, will henceforward
withhold from you (he will begin not to give you)
the twig bud to be eaten,
he will withhold from you
the grass bud to be eaten.
When were you decreed
to ruin (carry flat) not long ago
the man-furnished full, endlessly full pantry?

Thereafter, behold, I traveled on.
Suddenly, as I look ahead:
my kernel-cracking raven sister’s
girl-like chattering throat’s sound is heard,
her boy-like chattering tongue’s sound is heard.
‘What the heck? I would go there and see what she’s doing!’
Well I see: it is almost as though the many cembra pines having wide-branching tops
and the pine-cones are full of resin.


I open my ten-toothed, toothed mouth,
and say to my kernel cracking raven sister:
‘Throw me down
a thrush-sized long pine-cone!
Give me a thing to obtain
hind-grease needed for lying through the winter,
an inch of grease needed for spending the winter.’

My kernel cracking raven sister replies:
‘If I reigned (sat) like you, with the name of
earth surface god: I certainly would not ask
evening food, morning food
of an animal living in this manner, (hiding) behind
the interspace of the leafy branch, the interspace of the pine-needled branch!

I, an angry woman, a furious woman, say:
‘Damn your father, damn your mother, you carrion-animal!
If you were here,
I would tear you apart into pieces
like shoe leather, like glove leather!’
With a five-hooked, hooked hand,
I myself now climb up,
Like some village-sized big pile of booty,
like some down-sized big pile of booty,
I fell down there.

Now my kernel cracking raven sister
throws down
a piece of the pine-cone she herself is eating.
‘Take it, poor one, eat!’
Again she throws down
a part of the pine-cone she herself is eating:
‘Eat, poor one! she says.

An angry woman, a furious woman,
I answer my sister:
‘My dog of an animal, may you, while eating this food of yours,
have your flesh become like soot!
Eat, eat, but let (your eating) ever be fruitless!
Let your flesh not grow
let your bones not grow!”

Thereafter I myself collected
a span of grease needed for lying through the winter,
an inch of grease needed for spending the winter.
Behold, at last I put on so much fat
that the buttons of my five-buttoned, buttoned furcoat
began to loosen apart.
Whereupon I went up to a tree-clad mountain
covered with trees from my grandfather’s time – where I arrived;
I found an earthen-cross-beamed, cross-beamed house,
I opened its door, I entered,
I built a soft nest suitable for an ‘animal’ to lie in,
and, behold, I slept there
a thick-rooted, rooted sleep.

I suddenly wake up with a start:
my many brooks run along by the black sable,
my many brooks run along by the red sable
had somehow got to the roaring voice
of a ‘giant beast’, a ‘forest beast’
(they were purling with a free flow, that is to say, spring had arrived).
One half of my snow has been lost,
the other half of my snow still holds out.

Thereupon I continued (opened) further
my journey, dragged along like golden silk.
Thereupon I continue to traverse
my seven yellow-wooded mountains,
my seven red-wooded mountains.
In one place, I look into the distance:
a cembra pine with a wide-branching top stands there, (so) it is to be seen.

I look at the top of the cembra pine and say:
‘Well, what kind of a little animal is that,
which can be seen sitting over there?’
As I had got within a distance allowing recognition,
behold, I recognized it:
well, it was my kernel cracking raven sister sitting there.

Behold, my sister is pervaded
by a mist resembling the darkness of a cloud.
If she lifts one feather:
she rises on one feather,
if she lifts two of her feathers:
she rises on two feathers;
my kernel cracking raven sister
has grown so wasted.

Behold, I now opened
my ten-toothed, toothed mouth and
speak thus:
‘The other day, when you were being so boastful
about your thrush-sized long pine-cone – where has the grease you gained then gone?
As for me, you see, my span of
grease needed for lying through
the winter,
my inch of grease needed for lying
through the winter –
there is little sign of it (having wasted away)!’

Thereupon I continue further
my journey, dragged along like
golden silk.



Vogul Folklore
Bernat Munkacsi (1860 – 1937)



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