Angara's Escape - a tale from Lake Baikal

A retold tale from the people of Siberia

As the night draws her cloak around the shore of Lake Baikal, spirits and shadows wake up. Not everything is as it seems in this place, for Siberia is a land filled with magic. Sit down at the water’s edge and, as darkness falls, listen to the stories it has to tell.

Baikal was once a God. He was strong, fierce and proud. He had 337 children, but of all of these he loved Angara the best. She shone like a sky full of stars, her soul was deeper than the water of the lake and her mind as sharp as the ice shards of winter.

Many princes came to ask for Angara’s hand in marriage. They would travel from afar and stay at her Father’s house, singing great ballads of their love, reciting reams of poetic metaphor and showing Baikal how brilliant they were in conversation and competition.

But Angara was not interested in any of these visitors.

One day, as she was wandering the shore of the lake, a traveller sat by the water's edge gazing over the still waters. Around him was a deep quiet, the quiet that comes with the first snow fall of winter when all noise is cushioned and all becomes still. He was tall and his eyes were as wide as the ocean itself. His name was Yenisei and he was journeying from the frozen north to his mountain homeland far to the south.

"Sit with me if you wish," he said. 

They sat for a while in silence and then they began to talk.

Yenisei was full of stories. He told her of proud antlered reindeer, of huge white bears that rise up on their hind legs and bellow at the moon; of the dancing of silver fish in crystal clear waters and mountains that touch the frozen fingers of the moon. They sat together and talked in this way until the sun hid her face behind the hills and sat together quietly, watching side-by-side as the world grew dark around them.

That night, Yenisei asked Angara to marry him. She smiled a smile that made the moon shine brighter and said “YES!”

“I must leave now. I will be back soon to speak to your father about our wedding,” said Yenisei, “but here, I have a gift for you.”

Yenisei gave Angara a tall white bird - a Siberian crane. “If you need me, this bird will always find me and I will come for you, even if I am a thousand miles away.”

And Yenisei was gone.

The next day, Baikal came to find his daughter

“My dear girl, my beautiful Angara, I have found you a husband at last!”

Irkut was an older man with cold eyes. He had no stories and it seemed to Angara that her heart would freeze if she spent too long sat beside him. But she was too afraid to tell her father about the man she had promised herself to or challenge his choice.

Do not forget, Baikal was a God. 

Angara whispered her woes into the ear of the white bird. The crane collected every word and every tear and flew off and away into the sky.

Days passed, but no message from Yenisei came. Meanwhile, Baikal was busy preparing for her wedding to Irkut. Each night there were great feasts and Angara had to sit beside her father's intended son-in-law and suffer his cold breath on her cheek, his bony hand on her arm. Angara’s heart felt heavy and her stomach thick with fear.

The night before the wedding, Angara could not bear it any longer. She no longer cared that her father was a God - she would rather die in the wilds of Siberia than marry that man.

She crept out of her room, down the stairs and out of the door. She took a proud white stallion from the stables and whispered “Run my friend. I beg you - take me far from here.”

When Baikal awoke with the first rays of the sun and found his daughter had gone, he raged and roared. He scanned the land and found the path his daughter was riding, out of the valley and away from the lake. Terror caught Angara's breath as she felt his eyes upon her. 

“YOU WILL DO AS I SAY ANGARA!” Baikal screamed. He ran to the shore of the lake, picked up an enormous rock and with all his strength, he threw the rock at his daughter. 

The rock flew through the air. It would have crushed her but the horse was fast and swift and she escaped!

Angara rode and rode and rode. How long she rode, I do not know, but I do know that although her body escaped unscathed, that rock had crushed her heart and made it hard to breath. 

River. Mountains. Rock. Ice. Wind. Snow. Rain. Snow. Ice. Rock. Mountains. River. 

Finally, she reached the Sayan Mountains and there, galloping towards her on a strong black horse, was Yenisei! He took her in his arms and she wept. Yenisei led her up high into the mountains and sat silently beside her, holding her hand softly in his. They sat in this way as the sun hid her face and the moon man turned the grey rocks silver.

Up in the cold air of the mountains, Angara found she could breath again.

Angara never returned to her Father’s lake. Of over 300 rivers that flow into Lake Baikal, only the Angara River flows out. The rock that Baikal threw is also still there in the waters of the great lake. The shamans - the holy magicians - of Siberia say that the rock holds secrets and stories for those who know how to listen.

And that is the story of Angara’s escape from her angry father to the mountains of Sayan where she runs free forever.

Copyright Abigail Simmonds 11/11/17

Morning Star and Long Leg the Frog

A folktale from Peru, retold for www.ecokidsplanet.com 

When she was born, her mother looked into her eyes and saw that they sparkled.

“She is called Collyur – morning star,” said her mother. Collyur grew happy and strong in her village home, high in the mountains of Peru.

But that was a long time ago. Now her Mother was crying; Collyur had disappeared and no one had seen her for days.

***

In a cold mountain stream, lived a little frog. As she grew from an inky black tadpole, she noticed she was different – one of her legs was longer than the other. Her brothers and sisters teased and laughed at her so Frog would swim upstream to hide her tears from them.

Frog sat in shady waters near the gaping mouth of a cave. It was Condor’s cave and he swooped in and out on his great black wings each and every day. But Condor did not live alone. As night turned to day and the morning star appeared over the mountains, a young girl left the cave, carrying vicuna skins which she would begin to beat into blankets. There was a long sinew of rope around her ankle that kept her tied close to Condor’s cave. Frog could see tears glistening in the girl’s eyes and saw that whenever Condor flew over, the girl would wipe the tears away so he would not see her cry.

“She is like me; we are sisters,” thought Frog.

One day, Frog heard the girl and Condor talking.

“I must wash my clothes. Let me down to the stream.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Condor croaked “You will run away and I will have no one to serve me.”

“You will be able to hear me beat my clothes against the rocks. I could not escape.”

“Ok, but if I cannot hear the beat of your washing for even a second, I will swoop down and you will be punished!” he rasped.

And so the rope was loosened and the girl ran down to the stream.  

“Hey! Hey! Girl! Over here!” Frog shouted.

Collyur turned and saw a little frog with one long leg.

“Let me help you. I will beat your clothes so he will not realised you have escaped.”

“Why would you help me little frog?” she asked in amazement.

“Why wouldn’t I help someone in pain?”

So Frog climbed out of the stream and took Collyur’s clothes in the toes of her long leg and with all of her strength, the tiny frog began to beat the clothes against the rock.

 “Run sister! Run!” Frog cried.

Collyur paused, smiled and kissed the little frog on the forehead and then she turned and ran as far and as fast as she could down the mountains and back to her village.

***

Condor could no longer hear the sound of his prisoner cleaning her clothes. Furious, he flapped his wings and soared down to the stream. His keen eyes looked here and there, but all he could see was the shadow of a long-legged frog swimming through the water.

Frog returned to her home. When she arrived her brother and sisters stared in wonder, for where Collyur had kissed her there was now a shining jewel. Frog felt a swelling of pride and joy in her heart. Her brothers and sisters never teased her again.

Back in the village, Collyur’s mother sat weeping. Just before sunrise as the night drew back her cloak, Collyur appeared at the door. Her face was stained with tears, but her eyes glistened with joy.

“My morning star!”cried her mother. They embraced and sobbed and laughed and Collyur told them the whole story.  

And from that day to this, the people of that village leave tiny frog statues by the streams and on the mountain tops to thank the long-legged Frog and ask for her help in all that they do.

Wildwood Girls

Eagle’s wing and open sky

Stolen sisters spirits fly

Eagle’s wing and open sky

Stolen sisters spirits fly 

At the edge of a great forest, where diamond oak and tall pine fill the air with green leaf and sharp flowers, a Wildwood girl was dancing alone. Her feet stamped up a storm of silver in the early morning dew and her crow wing hair fell a waterfall down her back. She was of the forest’s wild - her ear knew the language of bird and pine; ancient, rock whispered stories inhabited her heart and guided the dance of her feet. But though her tongue sang the song of freedom, she was the last of her kind and her heart was shot with a deep, desperate loneliness. 

“Beautiful girl! Come home with me. Be mine own!” 

A young man, his skin white and his hair shining in the sun beckoned her over. 

“Your kind want nothing of mine,” the girl said. But he had a basket full of food and sweet wine and a tongue ready for conversation and she could not resist the chance to sit and eat and talk with another human being. 

“We would spend every day like this if you were mine. I will return tomorrow” 

Later that night she lay awake in her Forest bed - her lips longing for sweet wine kisses. Maybe the forest didn’t hold everything she wanted after all… 

The next day the Man brought her a dress of silk with tight drawn ribbons. 

“For you my lady.” As the butter soft silk caressed her skin, the man held out a sparkling ruby ring. 

“I can make you my Lady and you will never be lonely again.” And she was caught. 

*** 

The Man’s home was grand. White painted walls shone in the bright sunlight and far-travelled red roses lined the entrance. Within moments of their arrival, the WildWood girl was hurried inside by what seemed like hundreds of servants and she was bathed from tip to toe in warm water. Scrubbed free of the wild and combed free of the weather, her black hair was bound up with pearls and curled into neat ringlets.   

That afternoon, the Wild Girl and Rich Man walked through his gardens. She admired neatly arranged beds filled with strange and beautiful flowers imported from distant lands and carefully clipped conifer hedges. Around the gardens, a high, painted fence kept the wild at bay ensuring that not a leaf, petal or hair was out of place. Everything here was crafted to perfection, including the WildWood Girl. 

That night, as a soft breeze blew the day gently into night, the Man came to her room. Between tangled sheets and entwined limbs, her fears dissolved into a heady mist of love making. 

And so the days passed in an intoxicating haze of roses, sweet wine and glistening moonlit movement. 

Before the girl realised that time had passed, she felt the wind change and the sun move further from the land. And as the season changed, it seemed to her that the Man spent less and less time with her; his touch was rougher, his kisses quicker, his conversation clipped and curt. She realised how little she knew of him and his life. Her heart longed for home, but the loneliness of her past pinned her to her silk bed. 

One night, as she lay alone, a storm blew and the House shook and shuddered. The Girl was afraid. Once it was that a storm would not have worried her; she would have danced to the rhythm of the thunder, but in her fine room and in her thin night gown, the wind seemed wild and thunder fearfully loud. 

“I don’t want to be alone!” she cried. Footsteps and the door opened. Her Master stood in the open door way, silhouetted in sharp lightning flash, but he was not her master any longer. His brow was low and dark, his eyes burned with a furious lust, his gold stitched suit was ripped open and in his tense fist, a sharp knife screamed for blood. 

“No one notices, no one cares
For wild wood girls with crow black hair!
With me, WHORE!” 

And then she was being dragged into the dark, ripped from comfort, the garden, over flower and bush, the woods over rock and branch, heavy rain stinging her skin, thunder booming, deeper and deeper into sharp leafed woods. 

After what seemed like forever, she was thrown to the ground. The air was thin and sharp as cut glass. Through a curtain of soul cut rain, staghead of dying tree cast silent shapes onto the sour earth. But the wild girl’s eyes were caught - before her was a roughly dug pit and there, thrown and discarded like so many broken dolls, flesh battered and bruised bones shining white were the forgotten, lost bodies of black haired girls.  

“No one notices, no one cares
For these wild wood girls with crow black hair!” 

The girl screamed and ran but he knew the dance well. He grabbed her hand, he grabbed her hair, he grabbed her neck and drew the shining knife from his belt. 

Then the rain stopped and the moon, bright and sliver, gazed upon the girl.  

Eagles wing and open sky
Stolen sisters spirits fly
Eagle wing and white moon bright
You are lost I still fight 

The Wild awoke and the Wild knew their own. An eagle descended, claws outstretched and tore at the Man’s arm. He cried out and dropped the knife. A fox, flash of red bit into his leg. A bow of the staghead tree brought an antler crashing into his back. Racoon, mice, birds, branch, leaf and bush even the earth itself rose up and chased the young Man from the woods, away from their girl, their kin, their own. 

But the girl was already gone. She had grabbed the knife and run. Dressed only in moonlight, she ran till her feet bled and her red blood mingled with the black earth of the forest. She ran till there was no breath left in her body. 

*** 

Before her eyes opened, she could smell lavender. She felt soft cotton sheets and shook herself awake. 

“Shhhhhh,” a rich woman’s voice. “Be calm. You are safe. Now when you are rested sweet wild thing, you must tell me what monster did this to you and we must decide what we will do to avenge you.”

 ***

The grandest lady of the county was having a party and all the rich folk of the area were invited. And what a party it was - lawns strewn with candles, white suited servants holding gilt plates of delicate meats and fruits, elegant music and refined conversation. The Wildwood Girl was dressed in a fine white dress, but her dark eyes were focussed on finding that face that haunted her dreams. 

Then she saw him.

Eagles wing and open sky
Stolen sisters spirits fly 

The Party fell silent. Everyone turned to hear her song. 

A Wildwood girl as free as wind
Taken by a man so brave
Dressed in silk and ruby red
But I was living dead. 

A dark night came upon me
When fine Man’s knife was at my throat
Down into a wood so dark
Graves of girls; my masters past 

But the wind it came
And the wind blew moon to me
And the forest knew its own 

Alive a Wildwood girl I stand
FALSE man knife I have in hand
His name upon the hilt it reads
Their blood stained on the blade you see

For no-one knew and no-one cared
For WildWood Girls with crow black hair. 

The room was silent. The Man’s face was pale with terror and pushed into his chest, the hilt of a knife bearing his family crest. 

Days later, the county judge sent him to a high hill where a Mangrove Tree bore the weight of his body well and the wild wind gathered up the rotting pieces of his soul to burn forever in the fiery depths of hell.

*** 

The next morning the Lady smiled warmly.
 “All is now well. The trouble has passed and the monster slayed. I’m so pleased that no real harm was done.” 

That night the WildWood Girl could not sleep. Her mind was filled with their bone faces, the pit, bruised bodies and those words “no real harm done”....  

She left the Lady’s home and returned to the forest. She danced and sang once more where her ancestors’ bones lay sleeping in the warm earth, her feet were guided by a new and terribly truthful rhythm:

“No one noticed, no one cared
For wild wood girls with crow black hair.” 

*** 

Once upon a time, at the edge of a forest, a girl danced alone. She was the forest’s wild; ancient, rock-whispered stories inhabited her heart and guided the rhythm of her feet. But she was the last of her kind and she is gone forever. 

Memories fade but stories run deep into the earth. Let no-more blood of stolen sisters of Canada and North America be upon our 
hands.  
  
**************************************************************
http://www.amnesty.ca/our-work/campaigns/no-more-stolen-sisters  

Our world is dying.

The world was dying.

 

 

Birds,
beasts,
trees,
flowers.

 

The air grew still without the beat of insect wings.

The world grew silent without bird's song, cricket hum, wolf howl.

 

 

At last there were only two creatures left on earth:

an old man and an old woman.

 

When they had nothing left to eat and no words left to speak, they climbed up the mountain, to a high ledge, ready to throw themselves over.

They wanted to die.

 

As the old woman’s feet touched the edge of the earth, a deep, forgotten grief quaked inside her and a cry shook itself free.

 

“Why did this happen? What is this punishment for? What did we do? Why did all our children die?”

 

 

Silence.

They were ready to jump.

 

At that moment they froze - a baby’s cry! They followed the sound and there in a cradle of dirt was a baby boy. Their grief forgot, they took him to their small hut and cared for him as best they could.

 

But the child wouldn’t stop crying. No matter what they did, the child would not stop crying. Cradled or free, the child grizzled and groaned and sobbed and screamed. And dark thoughts came into the minds of the old people.

 

Suddenly, the door was thrown open by an invisible presence and the old man found himself pressed against the wall.

 

The Mountain Spirit spoke:

“Do you not remember? How do you not remember? You must feed the fire. You must worship the fire of this child. Strengthen its soul or it will die.”

 

With that, the spirit was gone and in the quiet that followed, the old woman felt loss; she didn’t remember rituals, ways or customs anymore.

 

Compelled by the Mountain spirit, the old people sat with the child by the burning fire and fed it. And then they spoke over it and found that the fire whispered the words that needed saying and they fed the children’s fire.

 

The boy grew into a strong young man.

One day, he found his feet leading him up the mountain. A cool, fresh wind caught his heart and loosed a song from his lips. He sang to the mountain, the wind, the rocks, the dust, the river and the Daughter of the Mountain Spirit heard him. When he turned and their eyes met, something passed between them - ancient and new.

 

“I wish to marry her - the daughter of the Mountain Spirit!”

 

The boy's parents were shocked and appalled. They refused  to allow their son to marry that strange, wild creature. Love between man and mountain? Not possible. Desperate eyes looked back at them.

 

“If I don’t marry her, I will die.”

 

And he did. Moment by moment, day by day, he began to die.
When he had grown too weak to speak or sing, his parents full of fear and confusion turned to the Mountain for guidance.

This time, no door was blown open, no invisible spirit passed through the land. The Master Spirit of the mountain spoke for the very last time and the whole world listened.

 

“You forgot. You forgot me. You stopped believing. You stopped knowing.

 You burned my heart, the forests; you dirtied my eyes, the great lakes.

 You thought yourself stronger than nature - does a leg or an arm think itself

 stronger than the body? Does an limb think itself more than the whole?

 You are part of me as I am part of you. But you are distant now. You are 

 other. Your ears can no longer hear the whisper of the grass, the language of

 the birds,  the stories sung by tree and rock. You became foreign and you

 began to die and the sickness spread and the world began to die with you.”

 

The old man and the old woman found their faces wet with tears. Above them stretched a dark expanse of sky - the vast emptiness of all they had lost and all they had forgotten. They fell to their knees and sobbed.

 

* * *

 

The young man and the daughter of the mountain spirit did marry and they had children born of man and nature. The Spirit of the Mountain never spoke again, but his Daughter sang songs to her children - songs in a language from long ago and a tune from far away.

 

With each note, with each song, with each story, a flower grew.

 

 

***

 

Our world is dying

 

 

Today we must remember again the mountain spirits and a new tribe will be born.

 

 

 

 

Copyright - Abigail Palache 02/02/2015

 

Thanks to Kira Van Deusen for recording this traditional Siberian tale.

Thank you to the Tuvan tellers who still speak these tales in their native land.  
For more info on this brilliant culture: http://www.washington.edu/uwpress/search/books/VANSIN.html