A Viking cemetery in Estonia

Nikolai Roerich: Guests from overseas, 1901 (Tretyakov Gallery).

“The midnight visitors are floating. The shelving shore of the Gulf of Finland stretches along like a light band. The water has engorged the azure of the clear vernal sky and the wind ripples on it, whisking opaque purplish stripes and circles. Flock of seagulls down at the waves, they swayed lightly, and only under the very front of the keel of the boat flashed their wings. Something unfamiliar and unprecedented has alarmed their peaceful life. A new jet is pushing through still water, it is running into age-old Slavic life, will pass through forests and swamps, will roll through a wide field, arising the Slavic race who will see rare and unfamiliar guests and who will marvel at their strictly combating, outlandish custom. The boats proceed in a long line. The sun shines in red on the sky. The dragon heads on the bows of the boats rise high and slender.”

Nikolai Roerich: По пути из варяг в греки, 1900

Before sailing up along the rivers to the land of the “Slavic race”, the Vikings settled on the shores and islands of the Gulf of Finland. They established several hundreds of villages and thousands of homesteads on the Estonian coasts and islands, sometimes among the Estonians already living there, and sometimes in uninhabited areas. The wave of Scandinavian immigration went on all the way to the 13th and 14th centuries. In Vormsi – in Swedish, Ormsö, “the island of snakes”, the fourth largest island in Estonia –, even at the beginning of the 20th century, nearly two thousand Swedes lived in two hundred homesteads, representing the majority compared to the 100-200 local Estonians.

Swedish population on the Estonian coast before 1944. The majority Swedish population is marked in yellow, the mixed Swedish-Estonian population in pale green. The inscription cut at the top right is Reval, that is, Tallinn. From the Haapsalu (in Swedish, Hapsal) museum of Estonian Swedes

Estonian Swedish calendar written with runes, 1819. From the Estonian History Museum in Tallinn

Swedish room in Estonia. From the Haapsalu museum of Estonian Swedes

Although in the Northern War of 1700 to 1721, the Russian Empire occupied the eastern coast of the Gulf of Finland from the Kingdom of Sweden, the Swedes living here remained here, speaking their own archaic dialect, and seeking justice from the arbitrariness of the local – Swedish – landlords, not with the Russian Tsar, but with the King of Sweden. A few Russians settled only in the port of Sviby, where the Orthodox church, dedicated in 1890 to the Ascension of Christ, still stands, albeit ruined and abandoned. It was built as part of a state-sponsored Orthodox campaign to convert local Lutherans, but the 230 converted Swedes, to whom it did not bring the desired benefits, returned to the Lutheran church in 1905. From the Soviet invasion until independence, it was used as a kolkhoz storehouse.




Driving from Tallinn to the port of Rohuküla takes almost two hours, I have to leave at five o’clock to reach the seven o’clock ferry. In summertime, you usually have to book tickets many weeks earlier, but now I am lucky, as, due to the reduced tourism, there was a ticket there and back. I leave in darkness. The sun rises slowly on the way. Clouds float low above the fields.




The ferry covers the distance of nearly 10 km in one hour. Almost no sea horizon can be seen: the ferry proceeds between small islands to the left and right. Seagulls fly in the ship’s stern waters hoping for prey, and the shallow coastal waters are being watched by various fishing birds.





The island is covered by a network of small, traditional homesteads, one or two kilometers from each other. Most of the houses were built before the war. When, on 16 June 1940, the Soviet army invaded Estonia, a part of the local Swedes immediately fled to Sweden, while those who remained were deported to the Gulag. The island lay in the border zone of the Soviet empire, so settlement and visiting were restricted. The homesteads have been reviving since Estonian independence. The refugees have regained their property, which they largely use as weekend houses, returning here from Sweden. And many Estonians also bought houses here, as the island is considered an elite resort. At the entrance of several traditional homesteads, an archival photograph from the Estonian Ethnographic Museum illustrates what the homestead looked like before the war.



Ecclesiastically, the whole island was one parish, with the 14th-century church of St. Olaf at its center. Consisting of two square spaces – a nave and a sanctuary –, the simple medieval church, surrounded by a low stone fence, stands alone in the woods among the homesteads of the village of Hullo, with a wooden statue of King St. Olaf on its triangular gable. After the disappearance of the Swedes, it was not used again until 1990. A granite monument stands next to it, with the names of the Swedes of Vormsi who fell in the Independence War of 1918-1919. It has mysteriously survived Soviet rule. There are some old tombs around the church, although most of them lie in the nearby cemetery. Blueberries grow in abundance everywhere, I make a lunch of them.

Statue of the Virgin Mary in childbed from the St. Olaf church, late 14th century. The statue was taken by the fleeing Swedes to Stockholm, where it was kept in the Swedish History Museum until 2006. It was then donated to the Niguliste Museum in Tallinn

The cemetery is also located in the woods, surrounded by a low stone wall. Its unique feature are the “sun crosses”, in Estonian rõngasrist, i.e. stone crosses inscribed in a circle. 343 of them survived in the cemetery. Older local historians fantasized that the motif was brought here by the Vikings, as we see in a contemporary mural in the city of Novgorod, founded by the Vikings.


However, the motif is widespread throughout the world, from Bronze Age cultures to Irish crosses, so one does not necessarily have to look for a Viking origin just because the island is inhabited by their descendants. In addition, here, in the cemetery of Vormsi, the crosses show late dates: 1743 is the first and 1934 the last one. This also coincides with the dates when this type of cross appears in other cemeteries in mainland Estonia. As if it would have been a period fashion of the 17th to 19th centuries, whose starting point is not yet known.

Kullamaa, cemetery of St. Nicholas Church, 1624

Ridala, cemetery of Mary Magdalene Church, 1844

But the small sun crosses, scattered on the gently undulating, moss-covered soil streaked with the shade of pines are very archaic indeed. Like runes sprinkled on a fine silk surface. It is no coincidence that the Scandinavian descendants of the island consider the sun crosses as part of their identity and use them as a symbol of the island.


In addition to the sun crosses, the cemetery also has traditional stone crosses from the same era, as well as iron and wooden crosses from the 19th century to the 1940s, all with Swedish inscriptions. The Swedish tombs are apparently still being cared for. Near the entrance to the cemetery there are also modest Estonian graves from recent years.



Traditional Swedish religious hymn from Vormsi/Ormsö. Sung by Sofia Joons, Tallinn

The road from the cemetery to the lighthouse of Saxby, the westernmost point of Vormsi, is just a few kilometers. Swans are swimming and herons fishing in the bay scattered with ice age boulders. This was what the Vikings’ descendants fleeing to Sweden last saw from the island of the snakes.

Fair in Tallinn

It is still dark, when Silja, the bone carver, leaves Hiiumaa Island. One hour is the road to the port and the waiting for the ferry, one and a half hours the crossing, and another one and a half to drive to Tallinn. She does not have a car, and she would not buy one by principle, even if she could afford it. Today, however, she needs one, otherwise she would not have been able to carry all her wares to the Assumption day medieval fair. One of the nearby neighbors, living three kilometers away, offered her a lift, he had some extra work in the capital that day. They see the sunrise aboard the ship. And I from the window of the airbnb on the edge of Tallinn’s Old Town, in the Stalin Baroque style former cadre quarter.


The sunlight already warmly colors the walls of the medieval houses when they enter the Old Town through the Sea Gate next to St. Olaf Church, and I through the former Karja Gate, marked in the paving. It’s Sunday morning, only a few people are on the street yet. The tables are now being placed in front of the Peppersack, Hanse, Dragon cafés. The main square is also almost empty, only the stage set up in front of the medieval town hall indicates that something is in preparation. I climb the one hundred and fifty foot-high stairs to the town hall tower, taking a series of photos around the Old Town.

By the time I get down, the merchants are already starting to arrive. They unfold their counters, unload their merchandise. Hand-woven textiles, beautiful folk-inspired dresses, carved wooden and wrought iron tools, jewelry, ceramics, graphics printed on handmade paper, forest berries processed for tea and spirits.

And felt animals. Lots of felt animals, which are never enough, because the Estonians incessantly accumulate them in their homes, shops and cafés.

A 14th-c. Last Judgment fresco on the town hall wall warns the merchands that one day they will be held accountable for everything. For the two piglets roasted on the skewers of the eating-house set up right under the fresco, this moment is already the present; for the chef, who is not ashamed to ask fifteen euros for a portion, only the future threatens. The best part of it is the typical Estonian pickles, the cabbage and cucumber pickled with pears, cloves and wild mushrooms.

Meanwhile, Estonian folk groups, medieval and world music ensembles take turns on the stage. The quality of the music is quite professional. The musicians have come from all over Estonia. Some of them, especially those coming from the islands, feel like they grew up in a live folk music tradition.

 

Medieval dances from Rondo Danzante, Saaremaa Island

From the Sea Gate, through Pikk, that is, Long Street, Silja is also coming with her neighbor who helps her to set up the counter, snatches the boxes from the car parked next corner, and watches her unloading the carved bones. He has great respect for Silja’s work, for the knowledge and creative shaping of the symbols of ancient peoples. He often brings her moose antlers that have fallen in the neighboring forests, her most important material. Sometimes also bones of fallen moose, which, although mostly cracked by wolves, are still good enough for smaller objects.



“And where do the wolf bones come from?”, I ask her. From taxidermists. You don’t have to put back all the bones into the stuffed wolf. The ones left over are kept for her by the friends.






The beaver skull is from hunters. Beavers proliferate so much along the rivers of Estonia that they must be controlled. The usable bones are also set aside for her.


“And mammoth bones?” “From Siberia.” As the taiga melts, mammoth skeletons emerge. Digging them out and selling them on the black market means a huge income for the locals. To Estonia they arrive in slit slabs a few millimeters thick, the width of your palm, at the price of gold. A small figure made of it for 15 to 20 euros is barely profitable.


The symbols partly come from the early medieval Estonian and Swedish heritage. The snowflake motif is an old Viking apotrophaic design, called “the helm of terror” in the sagas, where the hero Sigurd loots it from the defeated dragon Fafnir. A book on mythology was also written with this title by Viktor Pelevin.


Another part of the ancient motifs come from the shaman drums of Siberia. “Shamanism is a big fashion now in Estonia. Every third youngster is a shaman”, she winks, but she also has shaman motifs on her arm and in her neck.




When we say goodbye, she presents me a bear’s finger bone. “The bone structure of the bear’s paw is quite similar to the human hand, only much bigger”, she says, waving her fingers as if a person were playing a flute, or a bear dancing flamenco, and I can almost see where the finger bone fits. I do not dare to ask how the bear came to miss it.


We agree that we would meet again at the Martin’s Day fair in Tallinn, on the November 13-15 weekend. This is the largest folk art fair in the Baltics, with plenty of traditional food and drink, and huge concerts in the evening. I will also try to organize a group for it.

The square

I have never seen the Plaça Reial like this. The main square of Barcelona’s old town, lined with restaurants and hostels, where if you drop a banana peel, three Japanese and two American tourists will slip on it, is now as peaceful and relaxed as the center of a Spanish small town on the way of depopulation. There is hardly anyone sitting on the terraces, prices have considerably fallen, and in the middle of the square, at the fountain, local families are talking, children playing. I sit down at a table for a glass of wine. From time to time, swarms of pigeons orbit the square like asteroids, green parrots chase each other, and occasionally a seagull sails through with dignity. Someone draws strings between the candelabra around the fountain, hanging on them foiled photographs of locals talking, sipping wine, playing on different squares of Barcelona. Large beer and wine cans are placed on a table, everyone can tap from them for free. A woman sets up a puppet stage out of cardboard boxes, the set is a single blue sheet that symbolizes the sea. He creates sea animals from various objects, and makes them float in front of the sheet. The seashore children stare in amazement. There is a treasure chest at the bottom of the sea, each water creature peeks into it. The little mermaid swims out among the kids, caressing everyone. Large, peaceful dogs walk up and down the rows. In the end, the woman carries the treasure chest around the spectators, so you can see the treasure. There is a mirror at the bottom of the empty chest. The title of the production is: Let’s take back the square.

Standing Again

A phantom has haunted Prague’s Old Town Square for more than a century; in the aimless stare of the Jan Hus statue; the meridian traced in brass on the cobbles; a set of memorial stones with vandalized inscriptions set in the pavement; and the large unoccupied expanse between the Týn Cathedral and the Old Town Hall — a gaping caesura which to some has been as apparent as a missing front tooth.


It flickered, fleetingly, to life on occasion; a vaporous ghost of the imagination, the site of a mysterious ritual, which I reported on for this blog some years ago – the fumbling for my camera produced this blurry photograph (appropriate to the subject!) of a lone nun on the the eve of All Saints, come to place a bouquet of white lilies and light a candle on the hallowed site. A representative of the spirit of a hope, perhaps, instantiated by an arcane but strangely public ritual.


In old photographs, it appears as a visual anchor, a fixed pole around which the famously busy square rotates. In the previous century (before standard time) the city’s clocks were set to noon when the pillar’s shadow aligned with the meridian. In the 17th century, it ascended toward the heavens as an expression of gratitude for victory over the Swedes – and the Protestants in general –, and it stood serenely there for nearly three centuries. In the 20th century, it descended toward the abyss at the hands of an angry crowd of firefighters spurred on by an anarchist firebrand, decrying it as a symbol of oppression.




In the 21st, in the first week of June Anno Domini MMXX, it has risen again, as already described by Studiolum in this blog. I saw it for the first time the day after the mounting of the Mary effigy atop the column, using the modern means of a crane. There it now sits, like a cherry on a mountain of cream. The four attendant angels, which are to sit at the corners of the rail surrounding the plynth are still to come.


The project has been controversial, A2Alarm described it as a “mock-up from Obi” and “amateurish”; while, unsurprisingly, it has been blessed by the Catholic church. Already, there has been at least one attempt to vandalize the replica.

For my part, it is hard to say if the square is now “more complete” with its new ornament; or whether it serves well a restoration to a more “authentic” state for the square. I do not want to judge it. It makes me happy to see it, though, since so many other changes the city has undergone have at times been disappointing, if not outright tragic. If it finds a home in the hearts of Praguers, it will stay. At least until someone new manages to pull it down.

On the Praha Nostalgická site it has been proposed: “If we are already at it, why don’t we restore the old town hall in its original beauty?” One of the answers is that, then, Josef Gočár’s Cubist plan should be implemented instead: