THE SHADOW IN LATVIAN MYTHOLOGICAL LEGENDS:

A JUNGIAN PERSPECTIVE

A dissertation submitted

by

EVIJA VOLFA VESTERGAARD

to

PACIFICA GRADUATE INSTITUTE

in partial fulfillment of
the requirements for the
degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

in

DEPTH PSYCHOLOGY

with emphasis in

JUNGIAN AND ARCHETYPAL STUDIES

This dissertation has been

accepted for the faculty of
Pacifica Graduate Institute by:

Dr. Susan Rowland, Chair

Dr. Ana Mozol, Reader

Dr. Luke Hockley, External Reader

 UMI Number: 3714707

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 ii

MARCH 27, 2015

Copyright by

EVIJA VOLFA VESTERGAARD

2015
 iii

ABSTRACT

The Shadow in Latvian Mythological Legends: A Jungian Perspective

by

Evija Volfa Vestergaard

This hermeneutic study with a depth psychological perspective explores Latvian

traditional mythological legends using a close reading/active imagination methodology. It

interprets the supernatural beings of the legends as images of the Shadow archetype that

concern the legend tellers’ challenging experiences with material wealth and their sense

of worthiness.

The study is an important contribution to research in Latvian culture, as it both

explores traditional cultural texts and places the explorations in today’s context. By

deepening insights about the psychology of a previously less researched cultural source—

the legend—and the psychology of the tellers, the research participates in advancing

Jungian cultural studies.

Responding to the question “what is the psychology of the legends?” the study

proposes that they function as the trickster stories and as reports of synchronistic events

communicating about transformative occurrences of human lives. Due to these

characteristics, the legends may also affect today’s readers. They may disturb their one-

sided conscious attitudes and promote their development of consciousness through breaks

of earlier symmetries within the human system and by promoting more complex and

mature structures of the psyche.

Answering the question “what is the psychology of the legend tellers?” the study

shows a multiplicity of attitudes and ways in which the tellers relate to the supernatural—
 iv

the Shadow aspects of their psyche. The psychology of the tellers is depicted to span a

broad spectrum of emotions, not limited to the pessimism typically associated with the

legend genre.

The study argues that the relevance of the legends is not constrained by a

particular historical time and place. Rather, it asserts that the legends may be relevant for

today’s Latvians in defining their identity, thus making this depth psychological

perspective a political project. In addition, the study shows how the archetypal nature of

the legend communications makes them valuable for today’s readers independent of their

culture and geography. It suggests that the readers approach the legends as invitations to

pause, ponder, and to see the maturational value in the nonheroic Shadow aspects of the

psyche that these stories communicate.

Keywords: Archetypal Shadow, Jung, Latvian folklore, mythological legends,

psychological aspects, self-worthiness

 v

Dedication

For Jānis and Anette

 vi

Acknowledgments

I want to thank some of the many people who were instrumental in making this

work come to fruition. First of all, my dissertation chair and an amazing teacher and

writer, Susan Rowland. Reading Jung together with her, following her example of

combining the epistemologies of Logos and Eros in research, and being in her embodied

presence have been foundational for this study. I also want to express my gratitude to the

internal reader, Ana Mozol, for her insightful comments and for reminding me always to

have the body alive in my research and not to exclude what may seem too dark. Thank

you to the external reader, Luke Hockley, for inspiring me to see my study not only as a

depth psychological one but also as a political project.

I want to acknowledge the contributions of Guntis Pakalns for introducing me to

the world of folklore research and for his generosity in sharing his knowledge and

passion for folk stories. I must mention Celena Allison and Barbara Joy Laffey, my

Pacifica fellows and companions who encouraged, challenged, and listened to me

throughout the writing process.

To my family in Latvia—my mother Anita and her incessant energy that has

propelled me to never stop exploring, my aunt Silvija for her eternal love, and their

husbands for standing by me at all times. I want to express a particular appreciation to my

godmother Ira Bergmann for translating German texts so instrumental to this study and to

her husband Uldis for making certain that Ira could accomplish the translations despite

her failing health. I trust that my father, who passed away too many years ago, can hear

my heartfelt recognition of the significance of his presence in my life and in shaping the

messages of this work.

 vii

No words can ever express the true depth of gratitude for the support that I have

received from my husband Niels. And thank you to my children, who propelled me to do

the work that became the basis for this study.

 viii

Table of Contents

Chapter 1. Introduction ........................................................................................................1

Purpose Statement ........................................................................................................... 1

Introduction to the Research Area ................................................................................... 2

Definitions ..................................................................................................................... 15

Research Question ......................................................................................................... 19

Relevance of the Topic for Depth Psychology and Contributions to Folkloristics ....... 19

Researcher’s Relationship to the Topic ......................................................................... 20

Literature Review .......................................................................................................... 23

Summary of Relevant Research Domains ................................................................. 23

Jung’s Writing and Ideas ........................................................................................... 23

Function of the Legend and Other Folk Narratives ................................................... 44

Psychological Relevance of the Archetypal Shadow ................................................ 58

Legend Research in Latvia ........................................................................................ 73

Methodology and Procedures ........................................................................................ 82

Research Approach .................................................................................................... 83

Research Methodology .............................................................................................. 85

Participants and Materials ......................................................................................... 92

Procedures ................................................................................................................. 92

Ethical Considerations................................................................................................... 92

Organization of the Study ............................................................................................. 93

Chapter 2. The Shadow Images of the Traditional Latvian Mythological Legends and

Cultural Complexes ...............................................................................................97

 ix

Mythical Beings and Their Function ............................................................................. 98

Wealth, Well-Being, and Self-Worth .......................................................................... 102

The Shadow and Cultural Complexes ......................................................................... 108

The Historical Context ................................................................................................ 110

The Shadow Images—Their Shapes and Character .................................................... 119

Animal shapes……………………………………………………………………..120

Cats……………………………………………………………………………..122

Dogs…………………………………………………………………………….125

Snakes…………………………………………………………………………..127

Ravens…………………………………………………………………………..129

Chicks…………………………………………………………………………..131

Toads……………………………………………………………………………133

Bucks and goats………………………………………………………………...137

The Bizarre and the Human Shapes..………………………………………………...140

The Latvian Mythological Legend—A Growth Factor............................................... 149

Chapter 3. The Latvian Legends: The Trickster Stories and Tales of Synchronicities ...163

The Trickster Stories ................................................................................................... 163

Tales of Synchronicities .............................................................................................. 181

Chapter 4. Psychology of the Tellers of Latvian Traditional Mythological Legends .....200

Centering the Relationship of Humans with the Supernatural .................................... 200

Relationships of the Humans with the Archetypal Forces in the Latvian Legends .... 211

Chapter 5. Findings and Conclusion ................................................................................239

Findings ....................................................................................................................... 239

 x

Conclusion................................................................................................................... 246

References ........................................................................................................................249

Appendix. Latvian Mythological Legends: 100 Legends about the House-Master, Haul,

Lingering Mother, Fire Mother, Gnomes, Dragons, Devils, Fire, and Ghosts ....269

The style used throughout this dissertation is in accordance with the Publication Manual

of the American Psychological Association (6th Edition, 2009), and Pacifica Graduate

Institute’s Dissertation Handbook (2014-2015).

 Chapter 1
Introduction
Purpose Statement

This study is an exploration of the presence of the archetype of the Shadow in

Latvian culture as told through traditional Latvian mythological legends—the legends

about subjective experiences of supernatural forces. This qualitative research study is an

interpretive analysis of the images and motifs of the Shadow, particularly what they tell

about the psychology of the legends as well as the relationships and attitudes of the

legend tellers toward the archetypal forces they encountered. The interpretation is created

through a hermeneutic fusion of horizons (Gadamer, 2013, p. 317) taking place in a

conversation between the legends, the texts of Jung, Jungian authors and folklorists, and

the researcher. The interpretation of the texts is deepened using the methodology of close

reading/active imagination as defined by Rowland (2013).

The study is based in the discipline of depth psychology, which sees depth of the

psyche—the unconscious workings of it—as centrally important for all human concerns

and for knowledge construction. The study draws on folkloristics, which researches the

legend as one among other categories of folklore. It views the legend as nonheroic, in

contrast to the heroic folk and fairytales, and it sees it as a story about “universal

concerns” (Dégh, 2001, p. 2) originating in the subjective experiences of fearsome

visions of encounters with the otherworldly. The legend texts are considered both

visionary—going beyond the experiences of individual legend tellers and drawing on the

unconscious archetypal layers of the psyche—and compensatory for one-sided attitudes

of the consciousness. The idea about the texts as visionary, holding compensatory

qualities, is borrowed from Jung’s (1950/1966, pp. 89-91) approach to art criticism.
 2

Researching the traditional Latvian mythological legend through this approach may

expand the discipline of depth psychology and contribute to folkloristics in a way that is

broadly culturally relevant.

As part of this hermeneutic inquiry, I have translated 100 previously untranslated

traditional Latvian mythological legends. Although a smaller number of the texts are

explored in the main body of the research, the study is accompanied by all the translated

texts.

Introduction to the Research Area

The legend, myth, folktale, and fairytale are diverse narratives that exist in

parallel, each in its own right. They are distinct ways of connecting with the world and

communicating with it and other human beings; that is, they have their own function and

activity (Stanonik, 1993, p. 161). The legend is said to be the earliest of these forms of

folk narratives (von Franz, 1996, p. 19). Images and motifs of the archetype of the

Shadow in the legends are at the heart of this study, which is an exploration of the

presence of the Shadow archetype in Latvian culture as told through traditional Latvian

mythological legends.

The current study is an interpretive narrative about the legend tellers’

relationships with the archetypal forces and the tellers’ attitudes toward the archetypal

beings that can be discerned by reading the legends as well as the psychology of the

legend itself. The guides into the explorations of the legends’ texts are the images of the
 3

archetype of the Shadow manifesting in such creatures as the House-Master,1 Haul,2

Lingering Mother,3 Fire Mother,4 dragons,5 devils,6 fire, gnomes,7 and ghosts.

Although there are similarities between the legend, myth, folktale, and fairytale—

arguably they all compensate for one-sided conscious attitudes (Jung, 1977, p. 348)—

there are also distinct differences. According to the prominent folklorist and legend

researcher Dégh (2001), legends are a particular subcategory of folklore, and they differ

from myths, folktales, and fairytales. Myths are imaginative stories about the origins of

the world with gods in the center and people subordinate to them. Folktales and fairytales

1
The name House-Master is created here to refer to Mājas Kungs—the Latvian

name of the mythical being made of two words: māja (house) and kungs (master).
2
The English name Haul has been devised from the Latvian Vilce. The name

Vilce comes from the verb vilkt meaning to carry, pull, draw, lug, or haul.
3
The name Lingering Mother is the English version of the Latvian Gausu Māte.

The word gausu comes from the adjective gauss meaning slow, unhurried, long-lasting,

and lingering. Māte is Latvian for mother.

4
The name Fire Mother is devised from the Latvian name Uguns Māte, where

uguns means fire and māte—mother.

5
A dragon in Latvian is called pūķis. In the legends there are many dragons of

different types.
6
In Latvian legends, devils may appear as pagan creatures in groups or as the

Devil of Christian church.

7
A gnome in Latvian is called rūķis. In the legends, gnomes typically appear in

groups.
 4

are fictional stories about the everyday life of people and animals with a hero or heroine

at the center of the story. Legends, while having humans, animals, and supernatural

beings in the story, place the supernatural—the mythical and demonic—in the center.

According to a number of folklorists (as cited in Dégh, 2001, p. 38), the mythological

legend is a type of the legend that centers human encounters with the supernatural and

that reports the events as truthful, backed by references to location and eyewitnesses. It is

different from the historical legend, which is based on remarkable historical events, and

from the etiological legend, which objectifies and explains an existing phenomenon.

The mythological legend is a story about psychologically authentic frightening

true experiences; it is a story about “universal human concerns” (Dégh, 2001, p. 2)

originating in subjective experiences of fearsome visions when encountering the

otherworldly. Rӧhrich (1979/1991), a well-known German folklorist, wrote that “legend

claims to depict reality and requires the audience’s belief” (p. 9), whereas folktales are

aimed at entertaining. Legends deal with knowledge as experiential, embodied,

emotional, and factual reality; they are presented as personal narratives of a first-person

perceiver or of someone who knows the perceiver. In particular, the mythological (also

called demonological) legends are about universal human fears, anxieties, and desires in

the face of crucial human concerns about the forces that influence human life but appear

to enter it from some unknown realm, from some other world (Dégh, 2001, p. 37). Dégh

wrote that legends ask these vital questions:

Is the order of the world really as we learned to know it? . . . Do we know all the

forces that regulate the universe and our life, or are there hidden dimensions that
 5

can divert the causal, rational flow of things? And if there are unknown forces,

can they be identified, changed, avoided, or exploited to our benefit? (p. 2)

The legend is looking for unobtainable knowledge and as such is pessimistic, as Dégh

viewed it (p. 37). Rӧhrich (1979/1991) made a very pointed psychological observation

that “speaking metaphorically, the folktale is a dream without waking, i.e., without

relation to reality; the legend is like waking up after a dream and recognizing reality’s

existence” (p. 26). In other words, the mythological legend, while dealing with the

supernatural forces, is knitted into the world of everyday reality.

According to Lüthi (1975), a prominent Swiss literary theorist, the legend told

about human encounters with the Other world conveyed in a deeply personal manner that

was built on a strong sense of interrelatedness between the worlds, the conscious, the

unconscious, as well as the body and soul. He contended that the legend and the folktale

were two types of narratives; that both were “basic requirements of the human soul” (p.

7) that depicted two distinct attitudes toward reality. For Lüthi (1975/1987), the legend

told about imperfections and flaws (p. 59) and, as such, was nonheroic in contrast to the

heroic folktale and fairytale.

Jung (1948/1969) explored the categories of the hero and anti-hero in his essay

“The Phenomenology of the Spirit in Fairy Tales.” He saw them as manifested aspects of

the Self. Jung (1960/1971) defined the Self as the archetype that expresses the “unity of

the personality as a whole . . . [and] as psychic totality . . . in which the opposites are

united” (p. 460) and that consisted of both conscious and unconscious contents of the

psyche. The Spirit represented the hero—the superior and positive aspect of a

personality—and the anti-hero—the inferior negative aspects, the Shadow (Jung,

 6

1948/1969). In his essay “The Shadow,” Jung (1951/1959a) wrote that the Shadow is a

moral problem to the ego-personality. Jung (1948/1969) also emphasized the ambiguous

character of the Shadow archetype. In addition, he saw whole groups of people as carriers

of a collective Shadow that the people expressed in myths and folk narratives. Henderson

(1984) discerned the Shadow imbedded in what he called “cultural attitudes” (p. 7)

whereas Singer and Kimbles (2004) articulated its archetype manifestations in “cultural

complexes” (p. 1). The cultural realm of the psyche, the cultural attitudes, and the cultural

complexes are essential elements of this study that explores Latvian traditional

mythological legends as creative works of a group of people and of a culture. This

research combines explorations into the personal Shadow—the anti-hero and the moral

problem to the ego-personality for an individual, the cultural or a collective Shadow—the

anti-heroic aspects of a group’s psyche and the group’s moral problem to its outward

heroic face (both the Shadow manifestations being rooted within the archetypal Shadow

of the collective unconscious). It needs to be noted that this study attempts to avoid the

oppositional pair of the Self and the Shadow in which the archetypal Shadow is viewed

as pure evil. Instead, it sees the Shadow best characterized by the ambiguous trickster

figure lacking strict divisions and boundaries.

Furthermore, the Shadow images and motifs are approached as a psyche’s

phenomena relevant not only to the culture of the legend tellers but pertinent as universal,

archetypal entities and processes that are linked to a culture and a time in history but not

limited to them. This idea is tied to the notion that the legend is a narrative that represents

reality in a certain way and that the legend tellers are a mouthpiece for the collective

issues and the needs of the psyche. Jung (1934/1966) wrote about art and artists as
 7

mouthpieces when reflecting on James Joyce’s Ulysses, a work that presented an

unrelenting “shadow-picture of the mind and the world” (p. 117). In my view, Jung’s

description of the novel invokes thoughts of the pessimistic character of the legend, and it

seems equally applicable to see the legend tellers as narrators of the collective impulse of

the times arising from the collective unconscious.

From the depth psychological perspective, the Shadow may present itself through

diverse archetypal images. In the mythologies of other cultures, it has appeared as a

coyote, rabbit, and others. In the Latvian culture, the Shadow has shown up as a toad, cat,

rooster, snake, mouse, a traveler, a rebel, and many other images. Independent of the

form, it has embodied both individual and collective unconscious fears and urges as well

as the psychological pivot point where transformation may take place in all layers of the

psyche and body. The linkages between legend telling and transformative events of

human life have been pointed out by Dégh (2001):

the transformational process of growing up and the traumatic experiences of

reaching sexual maturity, leaving home, and taking on adult responsibilities all

contribute to projections and responses to the critical conflict of values, which are

expressed best in a certain category of legends. (p. 210)

I suggest that exploring the many manifestations of the Shadow in the texts of the legends

may add to our understanding of the psyche. In addition, tracing the transformative

events embodied in the texts and interpreting the tellers’ relationships with the

otherworldly and their attitudes toward the encounters may further deepen our insights.

The legends of many different peoples have been collected and analyzed by

folklorists, whose first goal was to understand how traditional stories both depict and
 8

affect the spiritual life and behaviors of human beings by identifying tale types and

common motifs in the texts, indexing them, comparing them across cultures, and then

analyzing the context of the narratives (Clarkson & Cross, 1980, p. 3). It has been a

valuable method and a remarkable research project. Due to efforts of folklorists, a great

number of traditional Latvian legends have been collected and stored in archives. One of

the most impressive publications is the 15-volume collection of Latvian folktales and

legends published by Šmits (n.d.) between 1925 and 1937. The contents of these volumes

have now been digitized and stored in databases that are available through Internet

websites. They can be found on the site Latviešu Pasakas un Teikas (Latvian Folktales

and Legends) (Šmits, n.d.) and Latviešu Pasakas un Teikas / Lettische Märchen und

Sagen (Latvian Folktales and Legends / Latvian Folktales and Legends) (n.d.). The latter

website also contains translations of the legends into German (each website has about

10,000 pages). The legends included in this study are all taken from Šmits’ (n.d.)

collection and offered here in English. They serve as the fertile material for this study and

as a source for further explorations to English-speaking audiences who previously could

not read these legends.

Even though many Latvian legends have been collected, they have not been well

researched either from literary or psychological perspectives. The neglect is related to the

view held by many Latvian folklorists that the legend as a genre of folklore contains

more universal, less particular to a nation motifs and images, and, thus, of little interest to

Latvian researchers who concern themselves with what they consider specifically Latvian

(Kokare, 1999, p. 14; Laime, 2011, p. 14). The exceptions are two recent dissertations,

one by Bērziņa-Reinsone (2012), who explored the image of the driving devil, and one by
 9

Laime (2011), who analyzed image of the witch in Latvian legends. Otherwise,

mythological creatures of these folk narratives have either not been analyzed at all or, as

Laime wrote, they “have only been generally sketched” (p. 14). This study is, thus,

making a bigger dent in the hugely unexplored material of the traditional Latvian

mythological legends. It is also the first depth psychological exploration of these legends.

Besides the lack of analysis of the legends, the original approach, dominant in the

field of folkloristics, has paid little attention not only to the psychological relevance of

the images and motifs captured in the traditional tales but also to the legend tellers (Bula,

2011; Rudzītis, 1976). It has happened largely because Thompson’s (1959) tale type and

motif index had been devised to group and research structures of the texts without

including psychological principles (El-Shamy, 1997, p. 235). Thus, archives of legends

hold only hints about those who told the stories or the psychological states and events

that gave rise to the legends. It is obviously not possible to re-create the actual

background stories that fueled the legend creation. Thus, in this study I am reading the

legends to discern their inner archetypal structures and their psychology. I am also

actively keeping my senses and my intuition open for relationships and unconscious

attitudes that the legend tellers may have held toward the archetypal powers they told

about. This process involves close reading and conversations with the images of the

legends through active imagination and amplification (see the methodology section).

In order to do the study, I translated 100 legends (included in the appendix of the

study) and read many more. By reading the legend texts, I began to see that there were

multiple answers to questions and that the characters in the legends did not necessarily

resolve issues as much as they learned to tolerate their problems. It is evident in the
 10

explorations included in this study. The close reading/active imagination and

amplification of the legends also bring insights into the psychology of the legend and its

role for the psyche. Overall, the study is not an attempt to look back in order to

reconstruct the conditions of the past when the legends were told, but it is rather an

interpretation of psychology of the legends and of the legends-tellers that can serve the

readers today in recognizing their own relationships with the Shadow contents of their

psyche and the shadowy cultural complexes.

Because the lens for this depth psychology study is Jungian, it asserts that the

unconscious is “the essential basis of the psyche” (Jung, 1951/1969b, p. 152), and it

subscribes to the main endeavor of Jungian psychology, which is “the integration of

unconscious contents into consciousness” (Jung, 1954/1960, p. 217). This study may also

be considered post-Jungian if Dawson’s (2004) definition is applied. Dawson noted that

the traditional or classical Jungian lens is focused on archetypal images and that the post-

Jungian approach, although relying on Jung’s legacy, does not necessarily adhere to that

(p. 5). Post-Jungian criticism may or may not explore the mythical dimensions of a text

and it may include a greater attention to the significance that the text has for an

individual, like the author or the reader/listener/viewer. The current study explores not

only the archetypal images but also how the tellers related to the archetypal forces they

told about, besides, it recognizes the researcher’s participation in the interpretive process.

Jungian notion of the myth, folktale, fairytale, and legend as visionary texts that

compensate for a one-sided psyche is significant for this study. In his essay, “Psychology

and Literature,” Jung (1950/1966) asserted that there were types of art works that were

filled with symbols and those that contained signs. In describing Jungian terminology,
 11

Rowland (2010a) characterized signs as “images and words that stand for a known

quality or thing, and [that] mainly signify conscious thought” (p. 11). In contrast,

symbols—as images and words that “direct us to the unknown, numinous unconscious

for their true reality” (p. 11). Jung (1950/1966) described the visionary works of art as

arising from archetypal levels of the psyche that were deeper than the workings of an

individual’s personal conscious or unconscious. He portrayed the emergence of visionary

works as experiences of the encounter with another world:

It is something strange that derives its existence from the hinterland of man’s

mind, as if it had emerged from the abyss of prehuman ages, or from a

superhuman world of contrasting light and darkness. It is a primordial experience

which surpasses man’s understanding and to which in his weakness he may easily

succumb. The very enormity of the experience gives its value and its shattering

impact. Sublime, pregnant with meaning, yet chilling the blood with its

strangeness, it arises from timeless depth: glamorous, daemonic, and grotesque, it

bursts asunder our human standards of value and aesthetic form. (p. 90)

Such visionary art was, thus, collective (not reduced to the individual creator) and filled

with symbols that were often strange to the author(s) of the works. The traditional

mythological legends, too, I suggest, speak with a language that is pregnant with

meaning, which is symbolic. They require apprehension of what is being bridged between

the conscious and the unconscious of the legend tellers. I argue that they ask for a deeper

discernment of the external and internal events accounted for that have often appeared as

bewildering, confusing, and sensational. Psychological insights like these have been a

significant contribution of Jungians to the understanding of the function of folk narratives

 12

despite the fact that most folklorists have not accepted the Jungian and archetypal

approach as valid (Dundes, 2007, p. 346; Zipes, 1994, p. 117) while recognizing

psychology in general as “a valid approach” (Clarkson & Cross, 1980, p. 4) to the

analysis of folklore.

Many myths, folktales, and fairytales, and a smaller number of legends have been

interpreted by Jung and by Jungians. Jungians and folklorists alike have not been as

interested in the legend as in the myth, folktale, and fairytale, perhaps because of the

characteristics of the legend texts. Dégh (2001) described the legend as a “dry, factual,

chronicle-like retelling of rudiments of past history” (p. 210). Von Franz (1996)

explained that the larger interest in the folk and fairytales was linked to their qualities. In

her view, folktales and fairytales provided more universal, archetypal patterns whereas

myths and legends were depicting “the basic patterns of the human psyche through an

overlay of cultural material” (p. 1). In that way, myths and legends were not as universal

but rather more concerned with local or individual experiences.

In the 20th century, when the explosion of nationalism in Europe had led to the

world wars and the ensuing suffering, the folktale and fairytale—depicting universal

structure and dynamics of the psyche and a “utopian” (Zipes, 2002, p. 155), wish

fulfilling, and heroic attitude toward life—presented a useful genre for exploration. In

these circumstances, the psyche of the 20th century may have required the compensatory

aspects of the utopian and “perfectionistic” (Lüthi, 1975/1987, p. 57) fairytale as a heroic

escape that allowed the hero to get out of the imprisonment of the factories of the

industrial world and the machine-guns of wars. Zipes (2002) noted that about the utopian

quality of folk and fairytales: “What makes the old folk tales and the new fairy tales vital
 13

is their capacity to harbor unfulfilled wishes in figurative form and project the possibility

for their fulfillment” (p. 157). Arguably, folktales and fairytales became more relevant

objects of study because their narratives were deemed fictional. In an environment of

dominant rationality, the legend with its supposedly true story and at the same time

irrational character that showed how “the tellers seek a resolution between reason and

irrationality in their naïve manner” (Dégh, 2001, p. 16) might have made it a less

desirable object of exploration. I suggest, however, that the psyche demands other things

than the optimistic, rational, and heroic. Works of art and literature that are unpleasing,

pathetic, and unhopeful, like James Joyce’s Ulysses, show that. Describing the value of

such works, Jung (1934/1966) remarked that they freed those who engaged with them

from naiveté, immature sentiment—from “a fool’s world [and] opposites” (p. 127). Such

works lead to transformation in the psyche by opening it up for aspects that are

marginalized. They allow us to experience and to talk about what is messy in our lives;

they free us from grandiose ideas of success that may foolishly drain our energies.

If the psyche required only the optimistic and the heroic, there would be no

legends. The psyche seems to ask for an equal attention to its disturbing and ambiguous

contents and the legend appears to communicate these. The psychological problems that

result from the hero myth exalted as the foundation for modernity have been discussed by

Rowland (2005, 2012) in relation to writing. Cusick (2008) explored the value of the

myths that tell about journeys that have been arrested, like those about Hylas, Orpheus,

Narcissus, and Persephone. He wrote that the stories of arrested development appeared to

invite the reader to pause and ponder, to “explore . . . the depth of meaning in a single

scene, a single image” (p. 13). Rowland (2005) argued that the attitudes opposite to the
 14

heroic are needed in order to bring the spirit and the matter (and body) into a dialogue.

Rowland (2012) elaborated on the value of the nonheroic by saying that it brought the

“other” into the relationship and that it was needed for the human conscience to avoid

one-sidedness.

When speaking about the Other (the reality not dependent upon the conscious

ego), Rowland (2012) referred to what could be seen as the inferior, the flawed nonheroic

body versus the superior mind and spirit. Such Other could be found within an individual

psyche and attitudes dominant in a culture at large. Besides, the Other that was to be

acknowledged and respected when reading and interpreting texts, was the text itself as an

entity not fully knowable and not completely explainable (Rowland, 2010a). Decotteur

(1988), in turn, pleaded for “the relationship of self and others” (p. 239) to be included

when exploring the legend. The “other” for him was another human being, and the

conflict that needed to be studied was that between man and man. Decotteur based his

urgings on Sartre’s philosophy: “Hell is other people” (as cited in Decotteur, p. 239) and

his view that hell was found in relations between people. Acknowledging the importance

and multiplicity of the Other, this study includes the explorations into the relationship of

individuals with their inner Other, the text as the Other, and the external Other in the

context of society and culture.

Even though my study in its essence is a depth psychology one, it may offer a

contribution to the field of folkloristics by adding to the understanding of the legend

genre. Not only does it make previously untranslated Latvian mythological legends

available to wider audiences, it also deepens psychological insights about the Shadow

archetype in the culture that has told the legends and in the legends themselves. Such
 15

insights are relevant today as they expose the archetypal powers that are not limited to a

particular historical time and place.

Definitions

Jung (1951/1969b) observed that individuals who had no knowledge of

mythological stories had mythologems or motifs and images of mythical stories appear in

visions or dreams. It led him to think that human psyche possessed what he called

potential “myth-forming” (p. 153) structures or archetypes. He then hazarded the formula

that the archetypes appeared in visions, dreams, myths, and fairytales alike. Elsewhere he

called them the “primordial images” (Jung, 1928/1966, p. 66) that were ancient and

universal and that had a tendency to form patterns of thoughts and feelings. He wrote that

archetypes were agents that manifested in our readiness to repeat experiences and to

produce similar mythical ideas.

Jung (1936/1969) noted that researchers of mythology called such structures

“motifs” (p. 42). In folkloristics, the term motif is used differently. It refers to “a single

narrative element, the smallest that can persist in tradition” (Clarkson & Cross, 1980, p.

7). Such elements are found in folktales, ballads, myths, fables, medieval romances,

exempla, fabliaux, jest-books, and local legends. Thompson (1959) demonstrated such

elements in his six volumes of motif-index; the motifs are indexed in order to classify the

elements.

Although there is no such motif index of Jungian archetypes, Jungians may agree

that Jung tended to concentrate on four main ones—ego, Anima/Animus, Shadow, and

Self—and on what Jung (1931/1960) called “the mightiest archetypes of all [that are]

ordinary everyday facts, which are eternally repeated” (p. 156): husband, wife, father,
 16

mother, and child. At the same time, most Jungians are also likely to be in agreement

with the statement made by Jung (1936/1969) that “there are as many archetypes as there

are typical situations” (p. 48). The Archive of Research in Archetypal Symbolism (n.d.)

houses a wealth of indexed information about what Jungians consider archetypal images

(defined below).

Contemplating the archetypal content of the fantasies in dreams and folk

narratives, Jung (1951/1969b) asserted that that content could not have been individually

acquired from personal and repressed experiences, and he concluded that there had to be

a collective aspect or strata of the psyche. He termed this the collective unconscious (p.

155). For Jung (1928/1966), this was “an impersonal or transpersonal unconscious” (p.

66) because he thought of it as not attached to any individual but rather of a realm of the

psyche that was common to all, independent of time or place. The collective unconscious

layer of the psyche, Jung (1936/1969) contended, was not a philosophical idea or

speculation but rather “an empirical matter” (p. 44). The collective unconscious, while

being the layer of the psyche containing all the archetypes, was not a repository of

stagnant deposits. It was not “a giant historical prejudice . . . [or an] a priori historical

condition” (Jung 1931/1960, p. 157), but rather a living source of creativity.

A strata of the psyche that Jung (1936/1969) saw as made up of contents that had

been individually acquired but forgotten or repressed he termed the personal unconscious

(p. 42).

While the personal unconscious is made up essentially of concerns which have at

one time been conscious but which have disappeared from consciousness through

having been forgotten or repressed, the contents of the collective unconscious

 17

have never been in consciousness, and therefore have never been individually

acquired, but owe their existence exclusively to heredity. Whereas the personal

unconscious consists for the most part of complexes, the content of the collective

unconscious is made up essentially of archetypes. (p. 42)

There is not, however, a strict dividing line between these two layers—the collective and

the personal unconscious. “One begins where the other leaves off” (Jung, 1954/1960, p.

200).

In addition, Jungian thinkers have asserted there is a layer of the psyche between

the collective and the personal unconscious. It is a stratum that functions as the container

for cultural complexes (Singer & Kimbles, 2004) or cultural attitudes (Henderson, 1984).

It may be thought of as the stratum of the psyche made up of the concerns of a group of

people that manifest, among other things, in the creative works of those people and of

their culture.

The collective unconscious could not be accessed in any other way than through

what was manifesting from the archetypal structures as archetypal images or metaphors

(Jung, 1951/1969b, p. 157). Another name for archetypal images is symbols—something

functioning as “the best possible expressions for something unknown” (Jung 1931/1966,

p. 76). As mentioned above, Jung contrasted symbols with signs that stood for what was

known and that transmitted a direct description of something.

Images or symbols are not necessarily pictures; they can be words. Archetypal

images are also called mythological images because they appear in traditional narratives,

such as myths, folktales, fairytales, and legends, the reoccurring motifs of which are

referred to as mythologems (Whitmont, 1973, p. 73). Archetypal images and

 18

mythologems, for Jung (1954/1969a), linked the unconscious archetypes to the conscious

forms particular to a culture and tradition: “Primitive tribal lore is concerned with

archetypes that have been modified in a special way. They are no longer contents of the

unconscious, but have already been changed into conscious formulae taught according to

tradition” (p. 5). The images, though, referring to something found in external reality, like

the sun and identified with, for example, a powerful king, were, as Jung (1936/1969) saw

them, neither the sun nor the king but a metaphor for “the unknown third thing that finds

more or less adequate expression in all these similes” (p. 157). Archetypes and the

images referring to them persist through the ages though the images change with history,

geography, and culture. Some archetypal images may lose their relevance or adequacy

with changing times, but the archetypal energy or the “myth-forming force” (Whitmont,

1973, p. 80) does not diminish. It continues to generate new images or mythologems that

serve as an adequate symbolic representation of the archetype in a particular time,

geography, and culture.

The archetypal myth-forming energy transcends space and time and manifests as

images in individuals’ dreams and collective stories. While dreams and stories are not the

same thing, they are similar to the extent that they contain mythological material.

Dreams, filled with personal material, are often not as coherent as myths, folktales, and

fairytales. Myths and tales (and mythological legends) are not personal but rather a

“depersonalized dream” (Whitmont, 1973, p. 76) —a cultural dream rooted in both the

individual and the collective psyche’s realms.

The function of the archetypes and the images, according to Jung (1936/1969), is

to balance out the one-sided attitudes of the conscious mind that tend to exercise
 19

conscious will at the cost of disregard for instincts (pp. 162-163). It is also to discover

meaning and to experience life as meaningful (Whitmont, 1973, p. 83). The task of

humans then becomes to interpret the archetypal images “ever anew” (Jung, 1936/1969,

p. 179) by apprehending them intuitively. The interpretation of the archetypal images

involves searching for and reaching their archetypal core (Whitmont, 1973, p. 73).

Practices such as active imagination, amplification, and close reading (defined in the

methodology section) are helpful in interpretations and meaning-making.

Research Question

What Shadow images and motifs, as seen through the lens of Jungian depth

psychology, are present in Latvian mythological legends and what is the depth

psychological relevance of these images? In particular, what do the images tell about the

psychology of (a) the mythological legends and (b) the legend tellers?

Relevance of the Topic for Depth Psychology and Contributions to Folkloristics

Just like other texts, legends may be read as “expositions of the presence of

archetypes in . . . culture” (Rowland, 2005, p. 172). Therefore, this study expands the

understanding of depth psychology in cultural and historical contexts by exploring

archetypes and archetypal images as representations of the inner personal psychic events

as aspects of the events of history and culture. Although the study deals with the Latvian

mythological legends, its approach of focusing on the archetypal structures makes it

relevant in a way that is not limited to a particular culture or a specific time in history. In

addition, the special relevance of the study lies in the fact that it deepens insights about

the archetype of the Shadow in a previously less researched cultural source—the legend.

Besides, the study explores the Shadow as a nonheroic attitude toward reality depicted in
 20

the legends that exists in parallel to folktales and fairytales with their heroic attitudes that

have been much more written about. It attempts to discern a depth psychological value of

the legend that has not been previously articulated.

This study carries relevance for folkloristics in at least these ways. First, it adds to

the explorations of mythological themes in the genre of folkloristics that has received less

attention than myths, folktales, and fairytales (and the daina or the folk songs in Latvia).

Second, it offers a psychological interpretation of the traditional mythological legends

and psychological approach to considering legend tellers that at least some folklorists

have pointed to be a lacuna in their studies. And third, it makes previously untranslated

Latvian legends available to English-speaking researchers.

Researcher’s Relationship to the Topic

As a researcher in depth psychology, I am working with the themes I have been

called to attend to. Hillman (1997) wrote that we are like acorns, coming into this life

with a distinct shape and core essence in need of expression. The first call of the psyche

that I believe I received came in a repetitive childhood dream or rather a nightmare. In it,

a monster-like being that I had named “The Filth Eater” moaned, groaned, and roared

from the attic and the basement of the house I lived in. It was a terrifying roar. As I

understand it now, it was the psyche’s way to point me toward the archetypal filth eaters

Tlazolteotl and Cloacina, whose role is to digest the Shadow aspects of the psyche. The

Aztec Tlazolteotl and the Roman Cloacina were both goddesses of purification, taking in

the human filth into their bowels, digesting it, and birthing substances that promote life.

That call transformed into an assignment during the first Reflective Studies course

at Pacifica and came in the form of the mini-concept paper we had to write for that class.
 21

I had picked up a book of Latvian legends. One of the legends captured me. This is what

it told.

I have heard people say that dragons appear in many forms: some as roosters,

some as terribly huge cats with enormous eyes, and some in other shapes. They

have to be kept inside the house in a strong closet. They have to be watched

closely and fed too, or they will get angry, burn the house, and run away. Dragons

can get in anywhere: through a key hole or the smallest cranny. At nights, they go

to other people’s barns, fill sacks and bring them to their keepers. One can see the

dragons run: fire spreading behind them like a broom. However if a dragon gets

shot, only the grain falls to the ground. (Leja, 1993, p. 264)

To me this was a marvelous tale about human complexes (the Shadow). I decided to write

my assignment on this and titled the paper “Meeting Dragons: Symbolism of Latvian

Dragon Tales and Their Relevance in Today’s World.” Later, I wrote another paper on

the tales, titled “Dragons and Dreams”; it was published in Quadrant: The Journal of the

C. G. Jung Foundation (Vestergaard, 2013).

It may sound as if I have had great clarity about my research topic. That was not

so. Many things become clear only in hindsight. The clarity about this particular area of

research—on the Shadow—came through another dream. In that dream, I am visiting my

father. (In actuality, my father passed away when I was 14.) As I enter his apartment, I

see him standing in front of the stove cooking. I look at the food, and I see a blackish

brown mass with a little green in it—not appetizing. I go to get the missing ingredient.

My explorations into Jungian thoughts of alchemy gave me a clue as to the

meaning of the dream. There is a state of psychological transformation called calcinatio.

 22

In it, the matter that needs to be calcinated (burned) “is called dragon or ‘black feces’—

that is the shadow stuff,” wrote Edinger (1994, p. 21). The psyche needs calcinatio as a

drying-out process for water-logged unconscious complexes (the Shadow). “All thoughts,

deeds, and memories that carry shame, guilt, or anxiety need to be given full expression,”

(p. 42) asserted Edinger describing the process of calcinatio from the psychological

perspective. I believe that the expression of such thoughts, deeds, and memories can be

understood in a close reading of and the use of active imagination on the legends. In

conversations with the legends, there is a potential for reaching beyond the words on the

pages and into the collective psyche as evoked by these stories. Having gained that

insight, I began to realize that it is the Shadow archetype and its archetypal images in

particular that I am exploring, that my task is to bring some heat, some fire of life to the

legends by engaging them in a conversation with the texts of Jung and other authors.

I also trust that this assignment has been given to me because I am no stranger to

harboring my own Shadow and I have worked with diligence on becoming conscious of

its contents. I believe that the psyche knows that my native culture is Latvian, and

therefore I am able to understand the original language in which the legends were told

and also the particular culture and the psyche of the people. Although I was originally

from Latvia, I have had an extensive experience living in other countries, including in

Europe, America, and Africa which, in my mind, brings a broader perspective and a

degree of objectivity to my views and interpretations. Besides, my mind is inextricably

affected by the creative unconscious that places me outside the boundaries of any

countries or even continents. I am confident that the graduate degree that I hold in
 23

English is a solid foundation for translating the texts and my degrees in Human

Development and Jungian and Archetypal Studies serve well for the current research.

Literature Review

Summary of relevant research domains.

The research literature that provides the foundation for this study can be divided

into four sections. The first section looks at the role that Jung’s writings and his ideas

have served in the explorations of works of art and texts, and in literary criticism. The

second section reviews research on the writings by Jung and other authors on the role of

folk narratives (including myths, folktales, fairytales, and legends) and their

psychological relevance. The third section includes relevant literature on the Shadow

archetype, its expression through multiple archetypal images, and the psychological

aspects of the archetypal images and motifs of the narratives. The final section deals with

the sources that discuss Latvian legends and that place them in historical context.

Jung’s writing and ideas.

The name of Carl Jung is met with varied reactions: some regard him as “an

opportunist and charlatan . . . and others . . . as a pioneering psychologist” (Dawson,

2004, p. 3) who devised an unsurpassed methodology for understanding the structures

and functioning of the unconscious mind. Despite contradicting attitudes toward Jung,

there seems to be a recognition that Jung’s ideas may contribute to literary criticism:

“Albeit sometimes grudgingly, it has long been acknowledged that many of Jung’s ideas

have the potential to make a major contribution to literary criticism” (p. 4). The literature

reviewed in this section includes works by Jung and other authors who have written about

ways of exploring works of art and texts, and literary criticism. They are relevant to the
 24

current study as they offer a framework within which to view the Latvian traditional

mythological legends as texts of the collective unconscious and a specific culture.

Rowland (2004, 2005, 2006, 2008, 2010a, 2010b, 2011, 2012), a prominent

Jungian literary scholar, is a prolific writer on the value of Jung’s ideas in the

explorations of texts and culture. According to her, Jung was a psychologist interested in

the depth of the psyche that expressed itself on a collective level most vividly in

culture—arts, literature, music, and so on (Rowland, 2006). He was not a psychologist

only looking for external observable behaviors and analyzing them. Writing about Jung’s

views on art, Rowland, asserted that “Jung regarded literature and art in themselves as

intrinsically interesting to the ‘psychologists’” (p. 285) because they are a unique source

of depth material. Jung’s concepts, as Rowland (2004) described, started out as personal

experiences or as personal myth and grew into a grand theory (p. 33). One of the key

characteristics of the grand theory is that Jung did not settle for knowledge creation based

on one-sided rationality. He challenged “the limitations of Enlightenment reason” (p. 50).

Resisting these limitations, Jung, in Rowland’s view, demonstrated how nature and art,

alongside the sciences, can participate in building knowledge. In addition, Jung’s

descriptions and analysis of his personal experiences, which he wrote down with

diligence, became revealing evidences for the importance of the construction of personal

narratives in meaning making and healing (p. 34).

In 1931 Jung (1931/1966) wrote an article “On the Relation of Analytical

Psychology to Poetry” in which he elaborated on differences between the Freudian

psychoanalytical approach and his own analytical approach to literary criticism. At the

core of the difference is the emphasis that Jung placed on the archetypal influences in the
 25

works of art, which he saw as instrumental and powerful forces expressing themselves in

art; these forces being more important than the autobiographical influences of the author

that Freud considered to be central. Jung wrote:

The creative process, so far as we are able to follow it, consists in the unconscious

activation of an archetypal image, and in elaborating and shaping this image into

the finished work. By giving it shape, the artist translates it into the language of

the present. (p. 82)

By saying that the archetypal images are translated into “the language of the present,”

Jung asserted that art is necessarily historical and social while not being limited to the

historical and social.

Language is always linked to a historical time, a social setting, and particular

forms of culture. Language also carries meaning that is not necessarily straightforward

but that asks for reading between the lines. As Jung (1931/1966) claimed, it is a language

“pregnant with meaning” (p. 75)—it requires an intuitive apprehension of the primordial

images found in the works of art. Jung termed them “true symbols” (p. 76) indicating

their authentic connection to the collective unconscious.

Rowland (2011) recognized that for Jung, “the symbol was the psychic possibility

of engaging with other spaces and other times” (p. 34). By doing that, he was gaining the

necessary perspective to comprehend the past and the present of his own culture and the

psyche of the modern man and woman. More importantly, Jung (1931/1966) cautioned

against any assertions that psychology may offer straightforward ways of identifying

truth about either art or the creators of art. Rowland (2010a) warned that any

interpretation using a Jungian perspective (if it was true to Jungian thinking) should not
 26

claim to “explain away” (p. 52) what it interpreted. The same applies to any other

interpretation offered by any other disciple because no discipline holds all possible

principles of knowledge. Jungian art criticism, for Rowland, is criticism that respects “the

unknowable Other in the work” (p. 52), that acknowledges the participation of the critic’s

psyche, and that does not cease to be aware of the symbolism of the collective

unconscious manifesting as images in the art.

As mentioned in the introduction of this dissertation, Jung (1950/1966) believed

that there were types of art work that were filled with symbols and those that contained

signs. In his essay, “Psychology and Literature,” Jung elaborated on the kind of art that

contained primordial images or symbols, which he saw as more significant than the

works that presented signs. Jung identified two modes of artistic creations: psychological

and visionary (p. 89). The psychological art draws from “the stuff of human fate in

general,” (p. 89) while the visionary artistic creation, as Jung saw it, surpasses the

ordinary human experiences and draws on the collective unconscious layer of the psyche

(p. 90). Jung also observed that works of art could include both types (p. 94).

The notion of the psychological and visionary works of art has been further

explored and expanded by Rowland (2010a). Psychological literature, as Rowland

elucidated, holds no mysteries (because these have been worked on sufficiently by the

artist and refer to what is commonly known in the culture), whereas visionary literature is

mysterious not only to its readers but also to the authors of the works. Rowland cautioned

against drawing a rigid dividing line between the types though. She also noted that Jung

had seen that the characteristics of art as psychological or visionary may change over

time depending on how those who view the works perceive them (p. 55). Rowland (2013)
 27

extended these notions to the act of reading. Instead of seeing the characteristics of the

psychological or visionary as embedded in the text, she proposed that we practice reading

texts in a visionary or a psychological mode—the former looking for symbols pointing to

the unknown and the latter for the art’s conscious influence on the world (p. 101).

Davis (2004) criticized the Jungian assertion that the visionary art works were

created predominantly by the artist’s experience of archetypal forces rather than his or

her individuality. He condemned archetypes as imposed structures that limited

subjectivity and that made all humans equally likely to produce works of art (p. 63).

Davis decried the notion of visionary literature, which Jung (1931/1966, pp. 72-73) had

described as directly linking into the collective unconscious similarly to the way the mind

of a disturbed individual was affected by that layer of the psyche. Jung (1935/1976) had

written: “Between an artistic inspiration and an invasion there is absolutely no

difference” (p. 34). Davis (2004) called this Jung’s “ambivalence as to the value of

literature” (p. 57). Beebe (1981) interpreted the same quote by Jung in a different way,

and I believe Beebe’s interpretation is more likely to be in accord with Jung’s intention

behind the statement. Instead of being ambivalent about the value of literature, Jung

emphasized the archetypal energy of the collective unconscious rather than the artist’s

individual, autobiographically based repressed energies that appeared as images in the

art. This view has been supported by Cusick (2008), a poet who described his experiences

of poetic writing interpreting them in Jungian terms. Cusick noted that there were types

of work in which he as the artist embodied and expressed the emerging archetypes

without having rational control over them (p. 13).

 28

Davis (2004) was not less critical toward Jungian interest in archetypal images

and called the practice of interpretation of texts archetypally as antitextual “archetypal-

spotting” (p. 58) and the traditional Jungian literary criticism “the industry that is

archetype-extraction” (p. 57):

Many of the excesses of ‘traditional’ Jungian criticism can be traced back to Jung’s

own disregard for the structural and linguistic specificity of written texts. It is

entirely wrong to assume that the mere act of identifying the figure of the Great

Mother, for example, in a literary text is to have interpreted that text: locating the

Great Mother is, if anything, preliminary to interpretation proper, which would go

on to examine the way in which this figure is incorporated into and rearticulated

by the kinds of language and narrative structure in combinations and inflections

peculiar to the work in question. (pp. 67-68)

Rowland (2005), in contrast to Davis (2004), did not see the gap between the archetypal

images and the text as an omission by Jung. She argued that this “gap” created a dialogue

between images and text: “Jung preserves a ‘gap’ that positions image/narrative as a

dialogical relationship” (Rowland, 2005, p. 183). It was a relationship in which social

phenomena are engaged in a dialogue with the narratives of stories such as myths. In

addition, it allowed individuals to participate in conversations with others about things

that they were fully conscious of and those that escaped the conscious and the rational

comprehension. Such dialogues, in Rowland’s view, were important for making sense of

the experiences of human life:

Where the myth is an active social phenomenon it is a structure by which the

individual psyche is dialogically engaged with the collective. Such a dialogical

 29

relationship develops collective consciousness by its very participation in the

collective unconscious . . . . Meaning is both created and found, here in the

interaction between “inner” image and “outer” narrative. (p. 185)

In her later work, Rowland (2008) articulated a Jungian-based dialogical theory and

related practice of art criticism reviewed below.

Whereas Davis (2004) was looking for directly expressed social and political

relevance of art works in Jungian criticism, Rowland (2005) discerned that the works of

art themselves are social phenomena that Jungian criticism can help understand

psychologically. Similarly, Andres (2004) characterized the Jungian perspective as

providing for the convergence of culture and psychology. She contended that it is a

perspective not obstructed by boundaries of a particular text or culture. According to her,

this criticism respects both text and culture but is not bound by them (p. 140).

While pointing out issues with Jungian literary criticism, Davis (2004) also

discussed its values. He acknowledged that despite Jung’s anti-textual approach to

literature, it gives linguistic meaning to images. Jung’s approach, according to Davis,

succeeds in connecting images with words, in languaging images and interpreting the

narratives—in supplying “linguistic meaning where previously there had only been

images” (p. 69). Davis noted that after describing the images using language, there is

something more that takes place in Jungian criticism and that it does not happen in other

approaches. The images remain interesting because they are “prized as things of value,

the treasured elaborations of a creative inner life, and not treated as disposable signifying

matter” (p. 69).

 30

Another, and the key valuable aspect of Jungian and post-Jungian literary

criticism that Davis (2004) highlighted, is the emphasis on the significance of inner

experiences that are viewed as real and valuable; and, in addition, the theory that fosters

language, which speaks about the psyche’s inner workings (p. 69). Davis acknowledged

that the language used by Jung and Jungians does not need to apply in all domains, but

that it is relevant for acts of reading. “Reading involves an attentiveness to experience

that is, in one respect, ‘inner.’ Reading is, indeed, more closely allied to the Jungian

perspective’s enduring care for the dream images” (p. 70). This resonates with Beebe’s

(1981), Rowland’s (2008), and Connolly’s (2008) ideas about the value of Jungian art

criticism as interested in how works of art affect individuals and culture.

The notion of attentiveness to the inner experiences also links to the ideas of Beebe

(1981) and Dawson (2004) about the relatedness of the author(s) to his or her or their

works, which in turn refer to Jung’s (1950/1966) ideas about the psychology of art versus

the psychology of the artist.

Exploring the psychology of art, Jung (1950/1966) wrote that humans experience

what is known through the five senses, whereas the unknown is pointed to by the human

intuition. Jung’s interest was in that which is only pointed to—the unknown: “power and

deeper meaning of the work do not lie in the historical or mythical material, but in the

visionary experience it served to express” (p. 92). At the same time, this interest did not

disregard the historical, social, and cultural realities. Instead, it occurred because of those

realities and because Jung saw that the realities of life exhibited troubling one-sidedness

of the modern western psyche leading to disasters like wars. At the core of the experience
 31

that artistic creations elicited, as Jung saw it, was compensation for the limitations of the

dominant conscious outlook.

Every period has its bias, its particular prejudice, and its psychic malaise. An

epoch is like an individual; it has its own limitations of conscious outlook, and

therefore requires a compensatory adjustment. This is effected by the collective

unconscious when a poet or a seer lends expression to the unspoken desire of the

times and shows the way, by word or deed, to its fulfillment. (p. 98)

Art, thus, has a psychological function, which is also a collective social one.

Discussing a particular theme of war, Rowland (2011) observed that war may be

of human origin, but is also essentially more than human in its extent. She contended that

“Jung . . . produced ‘creative’ writing, which . . . sought to heal as well as diagnose a

world caught up as unconsciously, as it is consciously, in war” (p. 32). The culture of war

may be just one expression of a dis-ease in the psyche and the seer or poet’s expressions

extend to other tensions in which the conscious and the unconscious are caught up. This

view is relevant to the study of the legend—a story about tensions caused by fears and

anxieties when facing what appear to be nonhuman powers.

The visionary art functioning as a form that compensates for something that is out

of balance in a culture is one of four principles of Jungian art interpretation outlined by

Rowland (2010a, pp. 53-55). The other three are that (1) Jung’s visionary art may be

understood teleologically, which means that the art may show the goal-oriented

movement of a culture; (2) art consists of signs and symbols where (3) signs primarily

relate to the conscious and symbols to the unconscious. Symbols, just like signs, are

images (or words in a text), but differently from signs, they are full of the material of the
 32

collective unconscious. They are transcended by universal psychic structures and can be

described by Jungian concepts, such as the Shadow, the Self, and so on. At the same time

they carry immanent—individually and culturally relevant—meaning. Rowland (2010a)

also contended that the four principles need to be used while keeping in mind that the

critic may be affected by the creative unconscious and that the unconscious brings the

critic outside the borders of a particular culture (p. 56). For example, a Latvian image of a

little devil, having its roots in the borderless unconscious with its universal archetypal

structure of the Shadow, is linked to Hermes of the ancient Greeks as well as to images of

other cultures and, thus, carried outside Latvian borders.

Jung (1931/1966) wrote about the need for knowledge to be not limited to the

kind acknowledged by the rational sciences. Rowland (2006) expanded on Jung’s ideas in

her essay “Jung, the Trickster Writer, or What Literary Research Can Do for the

Clinician.” She noted that Jung’s approach to epistemology—the way to gain

knowledge—has been nonlinear, one that includes Eros (immanent, relational, dialogical,

feminine, and inner voices) alongside Logos (transcendent, rationalistic, monotheistic,

masculine, and outer voice). She also linked the Logos and Eros of knowledge creation to

practices of reading, paralleling the Logos reading to approaching text as a Western

scientist ruled by reason and the Eros reading to relating to text by engaging with the

multiplicity of its matter (p. 295). Rowland named the Eros reading textual animism (p.

295)—an alternative to the monotheistic Logos reading that brings the reader and

explorer into a creative relationship with the text. By differentiating these approaches to

epistemology used by Jung that can also be understood as practices of reading, Rowland

alerted us to the need to combine the two. Besides, this mode of knowledge gaining is not
 33

only epistemologically beneficial, it is also ethically relevant as it may allow for

unexplored avenues of learning how to relate ethically to ourselves and to the external

Other.

The reading for both Logos and Eros is related to the relationship of the author to

the text and the psychology of the artist. According to Rowland (2006), Jung did not

regard the author of the text as necessarily having a clear understanding or even intention

of the text: “Jung is not fulfilling the inbuilt cultural assumption that an author of a text

intends to have a coherent rational meaning” (p. 288). As Rowland explained, the

demands for authoritative texts stem from theology, and scientific authoritative writing is

derived from the Western religious heritage (p. 289). However, Jung did not advocate

dismissal or replacement of traditional science and its way of doing analysis. Rather, he

demonstrated an approach through a dialogue: “the need for dialogue between the two

myths: . . . a rational ego [and] . . . immanent inner voices” (p. 292).

Distinguishing between the psychology of art versus the psychology of the artist

or the creator of the art work, Jung (1950/1966) emphasized the importance of not

reducing all that could be discerned from the work to the author’s personal history or

autobiography. The word reduce is important here as Jung clearly saw the difference

between the two and the role of each. However, he wrote mostly about the psychology of

art, which he saw as directly affected by archetypes of the collective unconscious and less

about the psychology of the artist that he linked to the personal unconscious of the artist

(Dawson, 2004, p. 15-16). Jungians such as Beebe (1981) and Dawson (2004) have

expanded on the notion of the “psychology of the artist” in a way that is relevant to the
 34

current study despite the fact that legends do not have one author but are products of a

group of people in dialogue with the collective unconscious.

Writing about the psychology of the artist, Dawson (2004) offered to modify the

traditional definition of the personal unconscious. Instead of defining it as personal

forgotten and repressed material, he defined it as that which indicated the author’s unique

relationship to his work—how he or she related to the encountered archetypal material: “I

shall use the term ‘personal unconscious’ to indicate a writer’s unique and very

individual relation to his or her narrative . . . to indicate that the archetypal material

encountered in the text has a specific and thus ‘personal’ significance for the author” (p.

16). Beebe (1981) also explained both the personal and the archetypal significance that

may be found in the relationship between the author and his or her work. Like Dawson

(2004), Beebe (1981) saw the author working under the archetypal forces that were larger

than the personal and the autobiographical, although both inseparable and intertwined.

Beebe made an analogy with jazz singing in which a musician did “personal tampering”

(p. 32) with a given musical formula. I suggest that legends are similar to jazz in that

way. Everyone who has told them has inserted their “emotional autobiography into

formula material” (p. 33). Such reading is an addition to the visionary reading (Rowland,

2013) of the legends that seeks to understand the compensatory function of the texts or

the psychology of the text for the reader.

Using a Jungian approach to horror film criticism, Connolly (2008) focused on

the relatedness of the reader to the text. She proposed that it was our aesthetic response to

the monster in the films that was most important. She divided the film types into “abject

horror, repressed horror and sublime horror” (p. 131). In abject horror films, Connolly
 35

asserted, the monster was so bad that we wanted to get rid of it; in the repressed—we felt

empathy but did not want to relate to the monster; in the sublime—it was hard to draw

the line between the monster and the human. Connolly claimed that when the line could

not be drawn, the individual experiencing the film became engaged and related to the

monster. These ideas are relevant to the study because we find similar responses to the

mythological creatures of the legends that can make us feel repulsed or attracted.

The notion of the aesthetic response to a work of art expresses the idea that art

elicits emotional and embodied reactions and includes ideas about its beauty or value.

Writing about the methods of Jungian interpretation of fairytales, von Franz (1996)

emphasized that the explorations of the archetypal dimensions of fairytales, as well as

legends and myths, involved not only archetypal thoughts but also emotions and

impulsive reactions (p. 8). She acknowledged with regret that the inclusion of emotions

and impulses in interpretation made Jungian art criticism to be considered nonscientific.

At the same time von Franz was certain about the importance of the Jungian approach:

“We know from conscious scientific insight that these feelings are necessary and belong

in the method of psychology, if you want to get the phenomena in the right way” (p. 11).

In articulating the reason for this importance, she noted that Jung introduced “the human

basis from which . . . myths grow” (p. 12).

Jungian art criticism is an approach that conjures embodied energies of nature

because the Jungian psyche goes beyond the individual and arguably is in dialogue with

the non human world in the collective unconscious. Rowland (2012) discussed this aspect

of Jungian criticism in the context of theatre, which, in my mind, applies equally to the

ways the legends can be read and understood. Rowland observed that in the era of
 36

poststructuralism and cultural materialism affected by Marxist theories, there was a

tendency to analyze theatre as determined by particular historical events. She gave

examples of how new historicists would compare the text of a play with nonliterary texts

of the same time period. Rowland then argued that plays are always also “rooted in

nature” (p. 227), never separate from the power of nature or the nonhuman energies. At

the same time, she asserted that texts do not simply mirror the world they are embedded

in; they dynamically intervene in it (p. 226). Thus, texts are not static things that we can

analyze by drawing strict lines between the words and historical events of their times.

Texts are beings that affect those who engage with them. These insights are relevant

because, similarly, it may be suggested that legends are not stories recounting actual

events; they are narratives that describe a perspective on the events. If we accept that, we

do not read the traditional Latvian mythological legends as simple narratives about the

social oppression of the peasant (an approach practiced by folklorists interested in a

“grand theory” (Bula, 2011, p. 49), but as a perspective and a dynamic intervention into

the world that the legend tellers inhabited. This perspective is never divorced from the

attitude towards the situation and the affect felt in the body.

One may argue that mythological legends are too simple to have such depth and

power. I, however, side with Rowland (2012) in saying that “even a monologue contains

more than one voice” (p. 226), even a simple story holds multiple layers of meaning

because of the multiplicity of the archetypal psyche. It is true, however, that a play is not

the same as a legend, which typically is a short account of an event. I suggest, though,

that the same agency of imagination that fuels plays is at the basis of legend telling. Also,

the embeddedness of these folk narratives in history, art, nature (human and nonhuman),
 37

and the transcendent realms needs to be acknowledged. All these layers that live within

the stories warrant the attention of researchers.

The importance that Jung (1931/1966) assigned to marginal material that tends to

be excluded by Western scientific approaches to knowledge creation is an aspect of

Jungian art criticism that has yet an added relevance. The Jungian approach provides “a

framework to make visible marginal or excluded material” (Rowland, 2006, p. 286). This

has investigated by Connally (2008) in his dissertation Jung, Folktales, and

Psychoanalysis. Connally gave an example of how folktales are analyzed in folkloristics

where the emphasis is on the motifs of the texts, for example, a little man racing and

defeating a giant (motif L312). Connally then showed that in that kind of analysis,

aspects of the texts are missed; for example, in that particular text, the little man is

holding a rabbit amulet. The amulet is the marginalized material that is excluded in the

approach dominating folkloristics, although it is attended to by Jungian literary criticism

because of the insistence on the specificity of the image or symbol. Young (1996), a

Jungian psychologist with expertise in mythology, wrote that “a minor figure can hold the

secret to the whole tale” (p. xiii). In the case of the little man holding a rabbit amulet, the

symbol is amplified and made meaningful by the Jungian approach. The meaning is

found by amplifying the image with other texts of its own and other cultures. An

understandable question may be asked as to why a tiny detail found in the text should be

privileged in the way that it alters our interpretive direction. It can be answered by posing

another question: what potential losses in our understanding of texts and the messages of

our own psyches might we encounter if details or seemingly irrelevant contents are

omitted?
 38

Von Franz (1996), one of the most prolific interpreters of folk narratives using the

Jungian approach, has acknowledged criticisms toward the technique of amplification—a

psychological and interpretive activity seeking parallels between texts proposed by Jung

(see the methodology section). The critics have accused those using amplification as

simply replacing one myth with another. Von Franz has countered that by clarifying that

the amplification is not a meaningless substitution of myths but rather a conscious

activity that brings a sense of satisfaction to “one’s unconscious instinctive substratum”

(p. 45). Rowland (2006) asserted that such methodology is important for psychological

functioning as it creates connections between archetypal symbolism and culture: “Such a

methodology . . . seeks to mobilize what Jung believed to be integral to psychic

functioning, the historical residue found in archetypal symbolism that connects

unconscious powers to cultural norms” (p. 286). The value of the Jungian approach lies,

according to these authors, in the way it opens avenues for understanding not only what

may be excluded by other approaches of understanding texts but also by linking what has

been marginalized to the historical and cultural context of the times of the text and today.

For Jung (as cited in Rowland, 2010a), there is a particular value that the

marginalized material holds for the psyche. It is the function of containing not only the

light but also the dark aspects of the human psyche. Jung’s texts on alchemy show that

especially well. He turned to texts on alchemy in order to language the structures and

workings of the psyche and found the image of the ambivalent Mercurius or the trickster

as an apt counterbalance to the one-sided Christian image of the perfectly good God.

These works, as Rowland has argued, invite us to see the world and the psyche as a

whole (pp. 155-161). The wholeness includes both the dark and the light of the conscious
 39

and the unconscious layers of the psyche and that what takes place in the external world

because those can never be separated.

Jung’s (1931/1966, 1950/1966) insights about the psychology and the role of art

have promoted practical applications of post-Jungian approaches to literature and art.

Three authors have demonstrated applications that I find particularly relevant to the

current study: (a) Beebe’s (1981) reading of a particular kind of art as infused with the

characteristics of the archetypal trickster, (b) Dawson’s (2004) application of reading

literature for the dominant attitudes of the creator(s) of the works, and, (c) Rowland’s

(2008) dialogical art criticism built on a dialogue between transcendent concepts

embedded in art and its immanent story. Below is a review of the three approaches and

their application in the current research.

Beebe’s essay “The Trickster in the Arts” (1981) is a pioneering example of how

Jung’s ideas can be used to understand the psychology of art. Beebe discussed the kind of

art works that are transcended by the archetypal trickster—the creative works that shares

the characteristics of getting under the skin, liminality, and compensation for one-sided

attitudes. Such art draws the onlookers, readers, and listeners in, while leaving them

confused about the meaning or the intent of the art. Beebe’s two most prominent

examples in the essay are Hamlet and Mona Lisa. He asserted that these works “have a

paradoxical, ironic, or ambiguous effect . . . [they] ‘get to us’ with their unexpected

unsettling impact” (p. 21). He pointed to the psychological relevance of the ambiguous

and unsettling that goes against the expected clarity and orderliness.

The ambiguity of the trickster art is meshed with the liminality of this art (Beebe,

1981, p. 34), which is a quality of disorientation that occurs during states of

 40

transformation. Beebe discussed the transitional periods as the times in artists’ lives when

the trickster art is produced. He suggested that the trickster

appears to give that extra bit of energy for stepping outside of one’s frame and

seeing one’s life from a radically new perspective . . . . He . . . provides that

amount of treachery necessary to be disloyal to an old pattern and find one’s way

into a new one. (p. 36)

Beebe’s idea of the appearance of the trickster in the times of transition and its

manifestation in art is relevant to the study of the legend that, according to Dégh (2001),

is a story created in initiatory and transitory times:

To be involved in the legend experience belongs to the initiation into adulthood;

like other transitory steps at critical turning points in the life cycle, it is a rite of

passage, appearing as a particularly fearsome strain both physiologically and

psychologically. Experiencing fear appears as exposing oneself to the mysterious,

unknown, dangerous world of adulthood, to challenge, dare, exhibit courage, and

master it, thereby achieving maturity. (p. 252)

Beebe (1981) has also portrayed the trickster as a mythical energy or being that may act

in the times of adversity, like a loss, failure, or a betrayal, which connects so well with

the legend experience of challenge when facing the dangerous world of adulthood that

Dégh (2001) described. Arguably, liminality and compensation in the face of

disappointment is seen as a characteristic of mythological legends. I show how the

particular legends of the study may have sprung up and been told during liminal times. In

the same way, I argue that legends may perform a compensatory function for the psyche
 41

and they may be considered a creative outlet in response to fears and desires that are too

large and too uncontrollable for the conscious ego.

According to Beebe (1981), a deeply experienced relatedness is a quality of the

trickster art linked with transformation. A similar idea was discussed by Davis (2004),

Rowland (2008), and Connolly (2008), as mentioned above. All these authors asserted

that the sense of being touched by the work of art is an awakening for the individual

experiencing the art, and it may trigger the beginning of his or her transformation through

individuation. Using Beebe’s (1981) words, the experience with the trickster art is “an

exercise for us in the integration of the trickster, as we are led into a far more complex

attitude than was possible for us” (p. 48). If we accept, as I suggest, that legends possess

the qualities of the trickster, then reading or listening to them may be an exercise in such

integration.

Dawson (2004) began his book The Effective Protagonist in the Nineteenth-

Century Novel by describing the methodology of his application and giving its six

characteristics: (a) a necessary premise, (b) the importance of narrative structure, (c) the

effective protagonist, (d) archetypal images (the Shadow and Anima/Animus), (e)

compensation, and (f) the personal unconscious. First, a necessary premise is that any

Jungian reading understands that “everything in a text reflects an essentially imaginal

reality” (p. 7) related to an aspect of the inner world of the writer, thus, a “psychological

process” (p. 7) that can be identified. Second, the narrative structure is important and

needs to be fully comprehended through close reading of the text. (See a more detailed

description of close reading in the methodology section below.) Third, the effective

protagonist is a character who is not necessarily the main hero or heroine but who holds
 42

together “both the structural and the psychological coherence of the entirety of the

narrative” (p. 9). Fourth, the archetypal images of these texts are interpreted in a similar

way that Jungians interpret dream images; the most significant archetypal images are the

Shadow and Anima/Animus. The Shadow is seen as all the aspects of an individual’s

personality “of which he/she is not in complete control” (p. 10). The Anima and Animus

are the “relational structures” (p. 11), and they imply a variety of relationships: to the

opposite sex, the external world (society), or the inner world of the dreamer himself or

herself. Fifth, the Shadow, Anima, and Animus compensate some “aspect of the

dreamer’s personality” (p. 14); they challenge the dreamer to acknowledge and to modify

his or her habitual attitudes. Finally, the sixth characteristic—the personal unconscious,

as Dawson termed it, indicates “a writer’s unique and very individual relation to his or

her narratives” (p. 16).

Although Dawson (2004) articulated an approach to literary criticism related to

texts that have one distinct author, his framework has shown to be relevant to the current

study that deals with a group of people as creators and re-creators of texts. Particularly, it

has provided a framework with which it was possible to explore the “group” unconscious

or the cultural attitudes and cultural complexes of the legend tellers—the psychology of

the artists. Taking Jung’s notion of the collective unconscious—(as cited in Dawson, p.

16) and Dawson’s extended notion of the personal unconscious (p. 16), I proposed that,

in the context of traditional mythological legends, one may talk about the group

unconscious. The notion of the group unconscious may be considered a part of a group’s

(community’s or a nation’s) psychology expressed as what Henderson (1984, p. 7) called

cultural attitude, which encompasses (a) the social attitude—concerned with maintaining
 43

the set ethical code of a particular culture, (b) the religious attitude—concerned with the

highest principles to which individuals are willing to submit, (c) the aesthetic attitude—

concerned with what is considered beautiful, and (d) the philosophical attitude—

concerned with uncovering the truth of things. The group unconscious may also be

conceived as the layer of the psyche that houses cultural complexes—”powerful moods

and repetitive behaviors” (Singer, 2004, p. 20) of a group of people.

Reading the traditional mythological legends with an understanding that a cultural

layer of psyche exists between an individual and the archetypal may, thus, include

reading for the psychology of a group of the people: the tellers of the legends. The

narrative structures that Dawson (2004) considered to be the psychological structures of

the author, I argued, may be analyzed as psychological structures of the legend tellers as

a group.

In the opening to Psyche and the Arts: Jungian Approaches to Music,

Architecture, Literature, Painting and Film, Rowland (2008) introduced and described a

Jungian-based dialogical theory and the related practice of art criticism. She termed it “a

dialogical art criticism” (p. 4) and explained that it is built on a dialogue between

transcendent concepts and immanent story.

The immanent pole of criticism becomes part of the art itself because it is

characterized by Eros, connection, relationship and feeling. The Logos part of the

mind supports the transcendent aspects of criticism in which ideas and spirit offer

to ‘frame’ the work of art. (p. 6)

The transcendent theory of art criticism offers an approach by which we may look for

universal structures within the texts and in that way stay with the narratives and “frame”
 44

them. In Jungian psychology, such frames are built on opposites or binary pairs: human-

divine, good-bad, male-female. Criticism that approaches art as immanent, on the other

hand, offers a way to discern what is personally meaningful, historically specific, and

embodied in a particular culture and time. It is not one or the other approach that this

Jungian-based dialogical theory is based on, but on both as complementary to each other.

As Rowland stated:

So just as pure Jungian transcendent criticism would be a sterile meditation upon

concepts, so absolute Jungian immanent criticism would collapse into vapid

solipsism. Jungian theory is likewise dialogical between conceptual thinking

transcendent of local conditions and immediate embodied psychic experience. The

result is a theory that is more properly a form of story telling that weaves the

contingent into meaning by reference to a scheme of ideas. (p. 4)

The result of the Jungian art criticism proposed by Rowland is a narrative or a story that

brings an understanding about the structures and meaning of texts. I show how such

criticism is applicable to the criticism of the legend texts.

Function of the legend and other folk narratives.

This section of the literature review is not limited to the writings on the value of

the legend alone but includes research that discusses the role of myths, folktales, and

fairytales. These genres are included because all the texts are understood as emergent

from the collective unconscious and formed by the energies of the archetypal structures.

Besides, the discernment of the similarities and differences of the genres inform the

understanding about the particular function of the legend.

 45

A number of writings by Jung are essential in understanding how he viewed the

role of myths and other folk narratives: “The Psychology of the Child Archetype”

(1951/1969b); “The Phenomenology of the Spirit in Fairytales” (1948/1969); Memories,

Dreams, Reflections (1962/1989); and C. G. Jung Speaking (1977). Jung (1951/1969b)

asserted that myths are created by the human psyche not as an invention but rather as an

“experience” (p. 154) taking place during particular states of conscience—the states of

“reduced intensity of conscience and absence of concentration and attention” (p. 155).

Such states are embodied experiences of connecting to ancestors and not just a mere view

of an outsider (Jung, 1962/1989, p. 144). We may also say that such states are

occurrences in which the conscious and the unconscious aspects of the human psyche

dialogue and in which both mind and body take part. Myth is, thus, a stage or a bridge

between the conscious and the unconscious that affords “knowledge of eternity” (p. 311)

to supplement the knowledge of the present rational world. Without the ability of the

unconscious to voice itself, the conscious aspects of the psyche become overpowering

and form one-sided and diseased attitudes, and human life becomes meaningless

(1951/1969b, p. 157; 1962/1989, p. 340; 1977, p. 348). Thus, the value of the

unconscious participating in a dialogue with the conscious is compensatory—the one-

sidedness is challenged by the aim of a more balanced outlook. Jung (1948/1969) noted

that “in myths as fairytales, as in dreams, the psyche tells its own story, and the interplay

of the archetypes is revealed in its natural setting as ‘formation, transformation / the

eternal Mind’s eternal recreation’” (p. 217). Mythical stories describe “the unconscious

processes that compensate the conscious” (p. 251).

 46

Although Dundes (1980), a prominent folklorist, dismissed Jung’s notion of the

collective unconscious as a valid phenomenon (p. 34), at the same time, he understood

folklore as a mirror of culture that revealed “areas of special concern” (p. 55). Dundes’

idea of folklore talking about areas of special concern and Jung’s notion of the

compensatory function of folklore seem to be close to one another. Dundes also wrote

about “universal and quasi-universal human experiences” (p. 55) such as death in the

context of the figures of the hero and the trickster. These ideas of Dundes’ resonate with

Jung’s notion of archetypes, archetypal motifs, and images. Dundes’ advocating for using

folklore for increased international or cross-cultural understanding also appears to

parallel Jung’s (1931/1960) urgings to use the healing powers of myths in ways that

withdraw projections from “others” as evil enemies (p. 149).

Discerning the psychological meaning of archetypes, Jung (1954/1969a) observed

that archetypes manifest in the multiplicity of human thoughts and behaviors and that the

best proof of archetypes may be found in dreams and in the active imagination. At the

same time, Jung asserted that the material of archetypes needs the language of

mythological parallels. These parallels need to be drawn by first recognizing an image as

a symbol (versus a sign) and then finding a “parallel mythological symbol” (p. 50).

Raising psychological symptoms to mythological levels helps with psychic healing (Jung

1931/1960, p. 149). The significance of discerning the meaning is not only an individual

but also a social one. The conjured archetypal images educate the “the spirit of the age”

(Jung, 1954/1969a, p. 82) in what it is most lacking. The mythological motifs and images

found in the stories, for Jung (1931/1960), are projections of the collective unconscious,
 47

and therefore the interpretation of the stories is a way to understand the human psyche

and to heal it (p. 153).

In answering the question whether myths are collective dreams, Jung (1977) said

that, properly speaking, myths and dreams are not one and the same thing but that myths

capture the processes that a particular group of people are concerned about at a particular

time (p. 371). Von Franz (1997) linked fairytales with dreams and the collective

unconscious: “fairy tales are like dreams—pure nature phenomena of the collective

unconscious” (p. 19). For her, both dreams and fairytales were quite the same because

they both needed to be analyzed and interpreted to serve their compensatory functions.

Myth, folktales, fairytales, and legends as narratives that kept the archetypal material

conscious were not, for Jung (1977), just relics of past ages but were essential for the

psyche of the modern human being that could not be cut away from the archetypal core

(p. 157). Jungians, like Rowland (2010b), have further emphasized the cultural and social

significance of the myths. She called myths “energetic cultural forms” (p. 53) that

affected the consciousness of individuals and society alike. Whereas von Franz (1977)

emphasized the importance of dream and myth interpretation, Rowland (2010b) re-

emphasized the idea of cultural criticism of myths as cultural forms that participate in

remaking of the consciousness.

Segal (1998) argued in Jung on Mythology that Jung’s theories dealt with all

aspects of the myth: its origin, subject matter, and its function (p. 3). Segal provided a

great many examples of how viewing myths using Jung’s theories can serve to discern

the function of myth in (a) revealing the unconscious, (b) enabling human beings to

experience the unconscious, (c) linking the world of the inner with the outer through
 48

personification, (d) giving meaning to an individual and groups by understanding

mythical experiences as synchronistic, and (e) occasionally providing a guide for

behaviors. Although explorations on the origins of myth and the evolution of the psyche

that could be traced in myth are found in Jung’s writings, the greatest importance is given

to the spiritual goal of the human psyche. Coupe (2009) observed that Jung offered “a

‘teleology’ of the spirit” (p. 132) linking it to the task of individuation in which the ego

consciousness becomes increasingly aware of the unconscious and more respectful

toward the central human archetype—the Self.

Jung has been criticized for his ideas about the archetypal structures like the Self,

Shadow, Anima, and Animus as essential foundational forces of myths and fairytales.

Coupe (2009) countered the criticism leveled against Jung that labels him as an

“‘essentialist’ and a ‘structuralist’” (p. 136). Coupe did it by emphasizing the difference

that Jung saw between the archetype as a universal structure and archetypal images as

forever-changing forms of manifestation of the archetypes.

Another criticism that Jung’s theories on myths have received has been the lack of

attention to the structures of the text, as mentioned above by Davis (2004). In her book

Jung as a Writer, Rowland (2005), however, explained the seeming shortcoming as

stemming from Jung’s interest in the psyche that is imbedded in the structures of texts

and Jung’s particular way of seeing the functional value of myths. Rowland offered

examples using Jung’s essays on synchronicity (Jung, 1952/1960), the archetypal Kore

(Jung, 1951/1969a), and Trickster (Jung, 1954/1969b). In these essays, the myths had

been recruited as frames to understand the dynamics of the psyche of modern individuals.

“The frame converts psyche and culture into a readable text,” observed Rowland (2005,
 49

p. 191). Through these frames, Jung demonstrated an essential role of myths: exposing

the problems of individuals, groups, cultures, and the world at large. The problems were

(1) the dominance of scientific methods of investigating matter as an object over the

study of the psyche, (2) valuing rational knowledge as superior over all other types, and

(3) exalting the hero myth as foundational for modernity.

Using myths to understand or express aspects of the human psyche is not without

its problems. Moore (1996) and Miller (1996) were aware of these. Our imagination may

be limited or obfuscated if myths are not experienced (Moore, 1996, p. 21). A particular

ideology or mythological tradition may be “enshrined” (p. 22) by particular myths. Miller

(1996) listed challenges that may originate from myths: (a) stereotyping, (b) sanctioning

political atrocities, (c) colonizing minorities, (d) slighting or disregarding of particularity,

(e) rationalizing scapegoating, and (f) becoming a defense against the realities of the

suffering (p. 62). Similarly, Zipes (1994) warned that fairytales are not innocent, pure

“fresh, free air” (p. 6). They are stories that carry the marks of an industrial society that is

governed by bourgeois attitudes, which should not leave the readers believing that the

classical fairytale is harmless. For Zipes, the tales are never “harmless, natural, eternal,

ahistorical, therapeutic” (p. 6). Harmless or not, as Segal (1998) discerned form Jung’s

writings, humans cannot avoid myths because myths not only perform a function for the

psyche but humans themselves are born with “the raw material of myths” (p. 16).

Although many of the characteristics of archetypal structures, images, and their

function and value can be attributed to myths, folktales, fairytales, and legends alike,

differences in the genres make the material of each of them function with a particular

emphasis and attitude. The characteristics and peculiarities of each genre have been best
 50

articulated by folklorists such as Dundes (1972), Lüthi (1975), Rӧhrich (1979/1991),

Dégh (2001), and Zipes (2002). Jungians, for example von Franz (1996), have also been

aware of the difference between the folktales and fairytale versus the legend (German

märchen versus sagen) (p. 19). Von Franz has distinguished the legend as a story that is

particular to a geographic location, whereas fairytales are not tied to a distinct place and

time in history: “When a story is rooted somewhere, it becomes a local saga; and when it

is cut off and wanders about, like a water plant cut off from its roots and carried away,

then it becomes more of an abstract fairy tale, which, when it once more takes root,

becomes more a local saga” (p. 25). Nevertheless, von Franz (1995) mixed texts of

different genres in interpretations where she referred to legends as folktales (for example,

the story about the soul of a dead aunt appearing as a fox and infecting a farmer who then

dies (p. 11); “The Spear Legs” story about the older brother who joins a drinking party to

his demise (pp. 153-155); “Mrs. Trude” (pp. 169-170), who burns a little girl; “Trunt,

Trunt, and the Trolls in the Mountains” (pp. 170-171), about a man who goes into forest

and turns into a troll; and the story about Uri (pp. 174-175), who disregards the voice of

the mountain that then falls on him).

Dundes (1972) described the legend as set in the recent past compared to the myth

set in the remote past and the folktale set outside true time. For Dundes, the legend, as the

myth, took place in true time, and its action was not completed in the past but continued

into the present and the future (p. 23). Dundes suggested that the listeners and readers of

the legend might feel closer to the story than if the story was a myth or a folktale. It was

the closeness in time and place that made the legend more relatable. Also, von Franz

(1996) noted that in the legend, which she called a local saga, the main character is a
 51

human being whose feelings are revealed in the story. It differs from a fairytale, in which

the hero is an “abstract figure” (p. 17). Von Franz asserted that it was the abstraction that

made it easier to remember the fairytales, thus, making them the key texts of her

interpretations:

Fairy tales mirror the more simple but also more basic structure—the bare

skeleton—of the psyche. The myths are national . . . . If one studies the

psychological amplifications of myths, one sees that they very much express the

national character of the civilization in which they originated and have been kept

alive. (p. 26)

This evaluation contrasts the view of Latvian folklorists who, for the most part, left the

legend unexplored particularly due to its more universal (less national) character (Laime,

2011).

An in-depth analysis of what the legend is and is not was provided by Lüthi

(1975) in his book Volksmärchen und Volkssage: Zwei Grundformen erzählender

Dichtung (Folk Tales and Legends: Two Basic Forms of Narrative Poetry), Rӧhrich

(1979/1991) in Folktales and Reality, and by Dégh (2001) in Legend and Belief. Dégh’s

book appears to be the most comprehensive overview and analysis of the legend genre

available. She presented and analyzed numerous writings by legend researchers all over

the world. To define the legend as a genre, Dégh reviewed literature on the legend and

discussed numerous definitions ascribed to it. For example, one given by Bennet and

Rowbottom (as cited in Dégh) viewed the legend as a “fascinating but oh-so-tricky . . .

genre . . . that elusive butterfly” (p. 46). The authors called the genre tricky because of its

propensity to stimulate more definitions than any of the other genres of folklore.
 52

In contrast to von Franz (1996), and similarly to Latvian folklorists, Dégh (2001)

considered the legend as dealing with “universal concerns” (p. 2) (emphasis mine). Dégh

discerned that by using Thompson’s (1959) motif-index of folk-literature, we may

conclude the universality of the episodes in legends (Dégh, 2001, p. 9). Legends,

according to Dégh, touched upon the areas of human existence that were most sensitive

and anxiety provoking. Dégh observed that “these simple stories tackle life’s deepest,

most mysterious problems . . . they concern life beyond death, magic, sanity and insanity,

earthly and unearthly evil and goodness, causality and blind luck” (p. 16). Dégh did not

explore the legend’s occult phenomena or the psychology of the legend tellers; rather, she

examined the world that surrounds the legend. She did not analyze whether the legend

was true or not, even though the notion of the truthfulness (or believability) of the legend

has been at the center of discussions about the definitions of the legend. Her approach to

defining the legend and its relationship with reality was pragmatic.

The fantasy world of the legend cannot be separated from the real world—rather,

it is completely absorbed by it. The supernatural, the unexplainable, all the

situations and actions that differ from the norm happen on earth, in our everyday

lives, and they furnish the topic of legends. (p. 6)

Dégh acknowledged that the real world and the fantasy world of the legend are blurred.

Also, the typical texts of legends, according to Dégh, were short and unsophisticated.

Therefore, she characterized the legend as fragmentary, as lacking a form, as being

incomplete (p. 98). She found that it was not the form that held the legend together;

rather, it was the legend’s conveyed experience that was potentially repeatable by the

listeners that was its glue. It was also the affect elicited by the legend that lied at its core.
 53

In fact, sooner or later, most people are touched by a never-to-be-forgotten

extranormal experience, and in it they find a message that makes them ponder or

act. This message is the core, kernel, or nucleus of the legend, and because to

communicate it to its audience is the main goal, the shape it takes is subordinate

to the message it transmits . . . . The audience is not looking for aesthetic delight

but rather to examine a problem they all share. (pp. 98-99)

The goal of the legend and its teller was to communicate. By exploring the

communications, one could study distinctive attitudes toward a phenomenon described in

the legend. In fact, Dégh claimed that the legend was the best genre for reflecting

“distinctive human attitudes” (p. 136). This viewpoint has been previously articulated by

Lüthi (1975).

For Lüthi (1975), the legend was a fundamentally different composition than the

folktale. Whereas the legend conveyed questions asked by people in a state of distress,

the folktale brought calm, spiritual answers that the isolated hero and at the same time the

universal hero’s path depicted. In Lüthi’s view, the folktale was an achievement over the

legend because it offered a sense of security, strength, and happiness instead of the

fearful condition in which the forces of the Other world intruded and held the human

beings in the legend (pp. 47-48).

According to Lüthi (1975), the key characteristic of the legend was its desire to

tell about human experiences of the encounters with the Other world conveyed in a deep

and very personal manner. Lüthi saw that as a quality of sciences and the legend, thus, as

a primitive science (p. 46). Whereas on one hand, Lüthi considered the legend to be a

simplistic story that posed questions with no answers, on the other hand, he asserted that
 54

both the legend and the folktale were essential for the human soul (p. 7). A particular

aspect of the legend that is relevant for this study is the felt relatedness of the human

being in the legend to his or her environment, the nonhuman world, and other people and

creatures.

Lüthi (1975) asserted that the relationship between human beings and the other

world in the legend is not the same as in the folktale. In the folktale, all worlds exist on

the same plane, whereas there are multiple dimensions and a distinct separation between

the human and the Other world in the legend (pp. 27-28). The human in the legend is

entwined with its environment—the viewpoint of the legend shows connectedness as it

talks about a particular time and place of events. Individuals encounter the Other world in

the world of everyday reality contrary to the folktale hero who needs to walk away from

the place of his origin to encounter the Other (p. 28). In the legend, humans have

emotions and deep feelings—they are surprised, fearful, angry, anxious, courageous,

daring, filled with suffering, and also pleasure—when they face the mythical creatures; in

the folktales—the hero has no inner life and is solely action oriented (pp. 29-31). In the

legend there are conversations about soul that are not present in the folktale (p. 32).

Although many folktales end with happy marriages, there is no trace of eroticism or body

in folktales. Lüthi explained it with the one dimensionality of the tales and juxtaposes it

with the plasticity between body and feelings present in the legend (p. 33). Time is

unchanging in the folktale—the sleeping beauty is the same young 100 years later when

she awakes—while time flows in the legend and “the flow of time for us leads to

consciousness” (p. 33). The relationships with other humans and with material things are

felt in the legend—the actions of today affect the lives of the generations that follow. All
 55

that takes place in the legend happens deep in the soul, in the human being, and the

environment even if it has occurred in distant past. In the legend, humans need other

humans; they desire mutual help, and they make sacrifices (p. 34). When the Other world

shows up in the legend, the human pays attention to it, he or she may want to investigate

it, to make the known world broader and deeper, and to enter the Other world. In contrast,

the Other world of the folktales never becomes known (p. 34). Entities and realities of the

legend flow into each other—humans, their possessions, their environment, bodies, soul,

the conscious, and the unconscious as well as the human and the Other world merge into

one (p. 35). Both material things and people are more complex but less colorful in the

legend, and the emphasis in these stories is on the nuances of the encounters, the

significance of the relationships, and the affect relationships have on those involved. Also

the process of gift giving and receiving depicts the connectedness between the givers,

receivers, and that what is given (pp. 36-39). Such relatedness is not present in the

folktales and makes the legend especially interesting for this depth psychological inquiry.

Rӧhrich (1979/1991) made a similar comparison to the one done by Lüthi (1975).

The writings of these two authors, thus, complement each other. In Rӧhrich’s

(1979/1991) view, all folklore requires going beyond objective reality, but it is only the

legend that requires subjective belief in it—the belief in the story’s reality (p. 9). The

legend is also not told for entertainment but rather for knowledge (p. 10). It depicts

experiences involving extraordinary and numinous events taking place to a known person

at a known place making the experience relatable (p. 11). Underlying the difference

between the folktale and the legend are the differing attitudes or “psychological

demeanors and experiences” (p. 14). The tale is optimistic and the legend is pessimistic.
 56

Rӧhrich interpreted that pessimism as a human “lack of perseverance to raise the treasure

or to free the others” (p. 14). Rӧhrich’s sentiments parallel those of Lüthi (1975), who

viewed the legend as a story of humans arrested and oppressed by the Other world in

contrast to the happy people of the folktale and fairytale.

“The legend has no actual ‘heroes’ like those in folktales” (Rӧhrich, 1979/1991,

p. 14). The central element in the legend is the demon, not a human hero, and the demon

is eternal: “It existed before humans and will outlast them” (p. 24). Overall, the legend is

nonheroic versus the heroic and “utopian” (Zipes, 2002, p. 155) folktale and fairytale. As

Rӧhrich (1979/1991) observed, the legend ends with unresolved dissonance, lifelong

confusion, and tragedy; and it imposes a hard fate: the marriage dissolves, nothing is

received in return for a service, reward turns into dust or old leaves, a dead mother comes

back as a ghost and not as a helpful spirit, figures are cursed and not enchanted, animal

bodies are demonic forces, the demonic prevails over the human and not the other way

round, and so on.

Rӧhrich (1979/1991) also found that there is a different level of consciousness in

the legend—it is understood that an animal is a human under a spell. In folktales and

fairytales, the heroes have no idea what is hidden. The humans live in the tension

between the human and supernatural worlds, and the tension is life-threatening. The fear

in the legends is embraced while it is vented in the folktales and fairytales. In general, the

legend and the tales reveal different emotions: the legend is filled with experienced fear

and astonishment as well as with belief and reason, whereas the tales have little concern

for feelings (for example, pain is not felt). The importance of feelings, emotions, and

relatedness that the legend tells about appears to be an aspect that numerous theorists,
 57

such as Dundes (1972), Lüthi (1975), Rӧhrich (1979/1991), von Franz (1996), and Dégh

(2001) have noted. In addition, just like Lüthi (1975), Rӧhrich (1979/1991), suggested

that the body and soul have a close relationship in the legend and described it (by

referring to the writings of Lüthi) as the two-dimensionality of the legend versus the one-

dimensionality of the tales (p. 26).

The concept of the two-dimensionality may be paralleled with Jung’s (1952/1960)

notion of synchronicity. As Segal (1998) explained, synchronicity for Jung (1952/1960)

was symmetry between a human experience and what took place in the outer world.

Being “an acausal nexus between the inner, human world and the outer, natural world”

(Segal, 1998, p. 20), synchronicity rendered the experiences meaningful. It was the

quality of the materiality of the psyche, as Jung (1948/1969, p. 212) saw it, that was the

connection between the psychic and physical processes. Rather than physical

manifestations in the outer world being mere projections of the psyche, they were

physical events coinciding with the psychic events. They needed to be viewed, according

to Jung, as more than coincidences. As Combs and Holland (1996, p. 103) elaborated,

Jung’s notion of the archetypes that “participate in the unus mundus—one world” (p.

104) allowed a nonseparation between the subjective and the objective. Besides, Jung’s

notion of synchronicity was supported by theories of relativity and quantum physics that

shared the idea of wholeness (p. xxxi).

Dégh’s (2001) view that it is the “emotional truth” (p. 317) that is important to

seek in the legend appears to resonate with the notion of synchronicity. Dégh, however,

opposed attempts to understand legends using discoveries of sciences if they were not

backed by the dominant scientific theories that do not necessarily embrace the idea of
 58

wholeness. She did not want that “the mysterious powers and phenomena of the legend

manifestations of material energies” (p. 266) were explained by marginal scientific

views. She called such attempts “scientification of legends” (p. 266). It is not surprising,

though, because the concept of synchronicity challenges what Rowland (2005) called

“the picture of [a] wholly mechanical universe” (p. 172) governed by the laws of cause

and effect. In Rowland’s words, synchronicity “suggests that the phenomena of

meaningful rather than causal connectedness may reside in the body-mind relationship

[and] the body-mind continuum does not mean that either the body or the psyche controls

the other” (p. 172). Arguably, if we accept the literary theorists and folklorists’ idea that

legends are two-dimensional stories with the body and soul connection, legends may be

understood as stories about synchronistic events. This approach allows for a new

perspective on the truthfulness of the legend, which I argue in Chapter 3 of this study.

Psychological relevance of the archetypal shadow.

The Shadow, for Jung (1952/1956), is one of the archetypes among the others

like, “the anima, animus, wise old man, witch . . . earth mother . . . [and] the organizing

dominants, the self, the circle, and the quaternity” (p. 391). Jung saw the archetypal

structures of the unconscious as coinciding with the myth-motifs. He believed that

knowledge about the archetypes was essential in interpreting dreams and myths alike.

Jung rejected Freud’s theories that equaled the Shadow with the infantile and repressed

sexual fantasies of hysterical individuals (p. 419). Rather, he argued that the Shadow was

immersed in deeper layers of the personal unconscious and it was gathering energies

from the collective unconscious carrying compensatory powers pertaining to myths (p.

420).
 59

Jung (1951/1959a) defined the archetypal Shadow as all contents of the psyche

that are inferior in a personality and therefore repressed or hidden from others and often

unconscious to the individual self. The Shadow, Jung (1954/1969a) wrote, is “decidedly

unpleasant” (p. 23) because it disillusions us by making us face our inadequacy. As

unpleasant as it may be, Jung believed that the meeting with the Shadow and recognizing

it was one of the first essential steps in an individual’s development (p. 21). The

“realization of the shadow” (Jung, 1954/1960, p. 208) was the necessary act of growing

awareness about our one-sided attitudes and the inclusion of the inferior part of our

personality into a more whole understanding of our selves. The danger of not realizing

the Shadow was exhibited in the behavior of “a mass man” (p. 208) who saw all mistakes

as committed by others and himself as “not guilty” (p. 209) of any social or political

catastrophes. In this context, it is important to distinguish between the personal Shadow

and the collective Shadow; more on that below when exploring the idea of cultural

complexes.

By linking the Shadow to the inferior psychological function, Jung (1948/1969),

in his essay “The Phenomenology of the Spirit in Fairy Tales,” placed the Shadow in

opposition to the superior and the dominant Spirit or hero. Jung gave examples from

dreams and fairytales in which images of Spirit were manifested as aspects of the Self in

its positive, negative, and ambiguous forms. The positive expressions were typically

linked to images of the hero in fairytales. The ambiguous or negative images were seen as

manifestations of the hero’s inferior psychological function that signified as “the infantile

shadow” (p. 215). The Shadow could be fatal to the hero if he had “too little vitality or

too little conscience . . . to complete his heroic task” (Jung, 1952/1956, p. 259).
 60

Reflecting on Jung’s (1954/1969b) essay “On the Psychology of the Trickster-

Figure,” Rowland (2005) wrote eloquently about Jung’s interest in the nonheroic, the

shadowy trickster archetype and its significance in the cultivation of the marginalized

contents of the unconscious that the conscious psyche tends to treat as inferior (p. 185).

She re-emphasized that these qualities made the trickster figure and the trickster

narratives carry “a vital social function” (p. 185). Rowland’s insights about Jung’s

writings are particularly important because she drew out the complex and somewhat

limiting nature of the oppositional pair in the dyad between the Shadow (the trickster)

and the hero (the Spirit). Unfortunately, as Rowland argued, Jung (1954/1969b) tied the

trickster (as the Shadow) to the hero archetype and made the pair play the central dance

and dynamics in the individuation process. Rowland (2005) characterized it as “the pivot

from trickster myth to shadow image [made] overtly onto Christian ground” (p. 190). In

Rowland’s (2010b) view, the hero myth was one-sided and reflective of a monotheistic

understanding of life passed on by the Christian religion and Campbell’s (2008) reading

of the hero myths; it was removed from today’s life in its full richness. Also in Cusick’s

(2008) opinion, as written above, human life was more complex than the stories about

heroic quests and achievements. Cusick suggested that “succumbing to the taste of the

underworld” (p. 13) (evoking of the myth of Persephone) was not less important than the

heroic quests. Rowland (2010b), in turn, proposed a relationship with myths (and we can

include here the legend) that is not seen as an alternative to modern life but rather as a

tool to animate modernity (pp. 45-46).

Some authors have argued that the shadowy trickster character may show a heroic

development. In The Trickster: A Study in American Indian Mythology, Radin (1972)

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explored the inner development of the trickster showing how the Shadow figure grows

more conscious as the narrative proceeds. Kerényi (1972) disagreed with Radin and

dismissed the idea of an inner development of the trickster. Kerényi’s views and the

views of Rowland (2012) share the same perspective. Referring to Hyde’s (2010)

comparison of the trickster to the Americas’ Coyote and Hermes of the Ancient Greeks,

Rowland (2012) described a distinctive role of this Shadow image. She highlighted

Hyde’s idea of the trickster as the inventor of fishing nets that capture demons, which

threaten to eat humans. Rowland then posed a question as to the value of the trickster in

such stories and suggested an answer—to “empower us in the body and psyche . . . with a

non-oppositional strategy” (p. 104) that serves the evolution of conscience that includes

the “other” (both nature and the nonhuman) in a conscious relationship with the human.

These insights are complementary to Rowland’s (2010a) earlier writing mentioned above

on the value of the trickster as the archetypal energy that embraces both the light and the

dark aspects of the psyche.

The role of the shadowy trickster that connects the natural and the human world

has been explored by Combs and Holland (1996), when writing about synchronistic

events as mentioned earlier. In this section, it is relevant to note the many characteristics

of the trickster described by Combs and Holland, which, as I argue, are also richly found

in the legends. The trickster, according to those authors, is experienced as “some

whimsical god” (p. 81) that arranges human affairs seemingly taking interest in us. It is a

force that “steps . . . though cracks and flaws in the ordered world of ordinary reality” (p.

82) and brings fortune and misfortune alike. It is a traveler indicating the time of change

(p. 85); it is a force of creativity, vitality, and imagination that connects the conscious
 62

with the unconscious layers of the psyche showing what is missing (p. 88). The trickster

is a force from the underworld and the winged Hermes (p. 89). In the legends, the

Shadow images manifest as the spirits, animals, devils, and gnomes who dwell under the

earth and as dragons that fly in the sky. Thus, bringing the writing of Combs and Holland

into a dialogue with the legends allows for a conversation that may bring insights into the

nature and function of the legend creatures and the role of the legend as a particular

genre.

Cusick’s (2008) and Rowland’s (2005, 2010b) views regarding the character of

the Shadow are not, in fact, contrary to Jung’s (1948/1969) broader understand about the

archetypal Shadow. While painting the Shadow as the dark aspect of the personality,

Jung had also emphasized its generative function for the psyche. Saying that the opposite

of the bright, favorable, and positive is the downward pointing negative archetype of the

Shadow, Jung added that the negative is not always such; it may be “partly negative and

unfavorable, partly chthonic, but for the rest merely neutral” (p. 226). The Shadow, for

Jung, was a rich archetype with an equivocal character that he saw expressed in fairytales

and myths as both associated with life and death: “It is thus possible that the old man [in

the fairytale] is his own opposite, a life-bringer as well as a death dealer . . . as is said of

Hermes” (pp. 226-227). Perhaps due to this richness and ambiguity, Jung (1954/1969a)

often used poetic language characteristic to folk narratives to express the complex nature

of the Shadow:

The shadow is a tight passage, a narrow door, whose painful constriction no one is

spared who goes down to the deep well. But one must learn to know oneself in

order to know who one is. For what comes after the door is, surprisingly enough,
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a boundless expanse full of unprecedented uncertainty, with apparently no inside

and no outside, no above and no below, no here and no there, no mine and no

thine, no good and no bad. It is the world of water, where all life floats in

suspension; where the realm of the sympathetic system, the soul of everything

living, begins; where I am indivisibly this and that; where I experience the other

in myself and the other-than-myself experiences me. (pp. 21-22)

This passage tells us about the character of the Shadow and opens a space in which the

reader can imagine further the working of this archetypal structure. It also makes it clear

that the Shadow is an archetypal force, which helps us learn about ourselves and

therefore is, as Jung (1954/1969b) called it, an “object of personal responsibility” (p.

262). Entering into the realms of the Shadow is a psychological movement over the

threshold between the conscious and the unconscious and into the deep psyche—the

space of interconnectedness.

The richness and ambiguity of the Shadow archetype has led Jung and Jungians to

assert that our Shadow and the greater Self may be blurred. Again, writing in a poetic

language, Jung (1948/1969) portrayed the archetypal Shadow as the Devil delighting in

the disguise of an angel and the inferior function influencing the superior function most

strongly with a twisted mischief (p. 238). Von Franz (1997) demonstrated how the Spirit

(the positive aspect of the Self) may also manifest in dreams and synchronistic events as

“an evil trickster” (p. 28) that is either helpful or destructive and always surprising. For

Baumlin and Baumlin (2004), the Shadow and Self may point in the same direction,

making it hard to tell what is behind the inner pressure that the individual experiences:

“When dark figures show up in our dreams and seem to want something, we cannot be
 64

sure whether they personify merely a shadow part of ourselves, or the self, or both at the

same time” (p. 119). It is not an easy task, according to those authors, to know in advance

whether the images that appear dark are in fact meaningful encounters that help the

individual deal with the complications and problems of life.

The Shadow manifestations may be in the shape of humans, animals, or gods.

More often, though, the Shadow is expressed in images of nature and animals, which

Jung (1954/1969a) understood as the breaking down of conscious controls under strong

emotions and experiencing the possessive grip of instinctual, natural, or animal nature (p.

22). When elaborating on the idea of the Shadow as the inferior function of an individual,

von Franz (1971) compared it to a lion and the other three functions to a mouse, a cat,

and a dog that could be domesticated. The lion—the Shadow function—could not be

tamed. Von Franz wrote that “the inferior function behaves like this: when it comes up, it

eats the rest of the personality” (p. 75).

It is important, however, to note that these symbols also punctuate the ambiguity

of the archetype. On one hand, the animal appears as instinctual or a lower aspect of the

psyche, and on the other hand, it functions as superior to the conscious mind. Jung

(1948/1969) expressed it this way: “In certain respects the animal is superior to man. It

has not yet blundered into consciousness nor pitted a self-willed ego against the power

from which it lives” (p. 230). Speaking in the language of folktale, Jung said that “[the]

princess must be brought down from the upper world to the world of men, which was

evidently not possible without the help of the evil spirit and man’s disobedience” (p.

237). Jung emphasized the psychological significance of the experiences in which the

Shadow is encountered.
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In her book Shadow and Evil in Fairy Tales, von Franz (1995) offered a thorough

analysis of the evil spirits (as expressions of the Shadow), their origin, and their

psychology. She believed that in the original form, the evil had to do with nature and the

destructive powers of nature, like “devouring animals, the dangers of forests, snow,

water, landslides, and so on” (p. 172). At the same time, von Franz insisted that the evil

forces were not just that—the forces of the external natural world. They were also the

inner experiences of the psyche manifesting as phenomena of nature. Von Franz believed

that the dangerous natural forces and animals appeared in stories when we experienced

loneliness as manifestations of the Shadow in our individual or collective unconscious.

She wrote, “Loneliness piles up whatever you have in your unconscious” (p. 168). In

addition, she linked experiences of strangers with evil and the Shadow, giving as an

example the legend about a man turning into a troll after having been away from his

village for three years. “The stranger was wrong, was dangerous, brought with him the

atmosphere of illness, murder, death and disturbance of human relationship, and therefore

had to be approached with all sorts of precaution” (p. 189). Finally, von Franz warned

against the lack of respect for the powers of evil (p. 173) that could show up as a falling

mountain as in the story of Uri, who heard the voice of the mountain, ignored it, and got

buried under it (p. 174). Von Franz’s insights are pertinent to the current study because

the legends are filled with images similar to the ones discussed and interpreted by her.

Jungians are not alone in finding animals in folk stories to be manifestations of

the powerful and often seemingly demonic energies of the Shadow archetype. Rӧhrich

(1979/1991) noted that “in the legend, demonic forces appear in animals’ bodies . . .

[and] talking animals are considered ghosts [of dead people]” (p. 22). Rӧhrich’s idea
 66

resonates with von Franz’s (1995) psychological phenomenon of the “death pull” (p.

160). Most often, though, the folk story animals are likened to unexpressed instinctual

forces of individuals or groups.

There are folk stories in which the creatures are distorted—a part of the body

human and another part animal, a body with no extremities or just one leg or arm. Von

Franz (1995) explained these images, siding with ethnologists who have attributed them

to the fantasies of psychological disturbances of the story tellers. “People who disappear

into a psychotic episode . . . disappear at the same time in that archetypal experience and

expression of evil. In former days one would have said in colloquial terms that the devil

had got them” (p. 179). The legend tellers in particular have been seen as “dreamers and

visionaries” (Dégh, 2001, p. 218), who tend to have precognitive experiences, who are

attracted to extranormal phenomena: the “uncanny, outrageous, mystic, absurd,

anomalous phenomena that erupt unexpectedly form normal everyday situations” (p.

221). While indicating that the phenomena are real and the legend tellers are attracted to

them, Dégh also observed that the legend is only in the mind of the teller and one’s

imagination is projected into the experience (p. 218). Those phenomena where the

childhood disturbances (pp. 230-231) or adult trauma (p. 248) that made these special

folks, who experienced and told legends, to imagine the creatures. It seems, however,

relevant to consider these apparently individual imaginations on a group level as the

stories have not disappeared with these peculiar individuals, suggesting their resonance

with the “normal” folk and their collective significance.

Jung (1948/1969, p. 244) first wrote about the Shadow as an individual’s personal

segment of the unconscious and later expanded on this concept linking the individual
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Shadow to a collective source: “personal shadow is in part descendent from a numinous

collective figure” (Jung, 1954/1969b, p. 262). Von Franz (1995) elaborated on the

concept and asserted that the Shadow “consists partly of personal and partly of collective

elements” (p. 4). In addition, she wrote about a collective Shadow and called it the

“group shadow” (p. 9), which was a sum of the dark and ambiguous aspects of the psyche

of a particular group. One of the characteristics of the group shadow is the difficulty of its

recognition. The group that owns the Shadow tends to be unconscious of its existence and

its expressions. The trouble with the group shadow, as von Franz saw it, was when an

individual made up his or her mind to express it consciously, it then resulted in a great

ethical problem due to social norms, which placed certain expectations on individuals and

groups. Expressing one’s Shadow consciously involved changing behaviors and attitudes

that resulted in clashes with the habits of the others and the set norms. Nevertheless,

being conscious of one’s own Shadow was essential. Speaking in the documentary

Matter of Heart (Whitney, 2004), von Franz admonished:

So you can say the personal shadow is the bridge to the collective shadow or the

open door to the collective shadow. But the collective shadow comes up in those

terrible mass psychoses. It’s like if you have your room, and there is one door not

shut, and there the devil can come in. And if you know your personal shadow, you

can shut all the doors. (The quote begins at the 26:20 mark in the video.)

It was each individual’s Shadow contents that amassed as the Shadow of a group and, at

the same time, the group Shadow fuelled the individual disturbances leading to disastrous

mass psychoses.
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Henderson (1984) and Singer and Kimbles (2004) extended Jung’s (1954/1969b),

von Franz’s (1995), Whitmont’s (1973) as well as many other authors’ ideas and

introduced concepts like cultural attitudes and cultural complexes. In Connolly’s (2008)

view, linking notions of cultural attitudes or complexes with Jungian understanding about

the individual Shadow is helpful for studies of archetypal manifestations in different

social and historical contexts. Knapp’s (2003) approach to studying works of literature

adds to the Connolly’s. Knapp showed how placing literary works in their historical

context permits a better understanding of their times and the particular problems as well

as yearnings of the people who lived in that era (p. 3).

At the same time, both Connolly (2008) and Knapp (2003) demonstrated the

value of archetypal analysis of cultural works. For example, Connolly (2008) proposed

that the experiences of terror are archetypal while the images of experiences that terrorize

humans at one time may be different at another. She interpreted the frightening

encounters depicted in art as expressions of the human propensity for seeking and

investigating the unknown that is experienced as something individual while at the same

time tied to the archetypal structures of the collective unconscious. For Connolly, the

struggle in the face of the unknown may be the beginning of a process in which the

victim dis-identifies with the state of victimhood; in which he or she becomes conscious

of what the state has done to the individual and the collective (p. 132). In the context of

the study of the legends, Connolly’s views are germane as the legends (the stories about

personal experiences retold by a collective) often deal with events that are terrifying or

frightful.
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Knapp (2003) connected the value of archetypal analysis with the Shadow

archetype that she saw burgeoning within us as a “nature’s growth factor” (p. 9) that we

deny. (This same approach, as shown above, can be found in the works of other authors,

like Beebe [1981], Connolly [2008], and Rowland [2012], just to mention a few). Knapp

(2003) asked: “How many of us reject the so-called shadow factors with our

personalities?” (p. 9) and proposed that these factors may be reviewed by recognizing and

interpreting the protagonists of literary works such as fairytales. In the archetypal

analysis of a fairytale about Melusine, Knapp scrutinized how the aspects of the moon

were related to women’s personalities—the dark and the full moon being associated with

women’s shadowy side that was cruel, destructive, evil, chthonic, orgiastic, devil

worshiping, and that of a witch (p. 52). Discussing the story of Bluebeard, Knapp defined

the Shadow factor as that “which stands between the ego and the inner world of the

unconscious” (p. 96). She then proceeded to explain how the disruption of the balance

between the ego and the unconscious unleashed the Shadow and how it manifested in

Bluebeard. For Bluebeard, the Shadow was his fear of womankind that grew into his lack

of communications with his wife and the violence against her on the personal level and

against other human beings on a collective level. For the convent girls in the fairytale

about the White Bird, the Shadow was everything associated with sex (p. 144) and the

hysterical reaction of the girls when meeting the White Bird was the eruption of the

repressed shadowy energy. According to Knapp, the Shadow in all these stories

represents the unconscious and undifferentiated psychological factors that the

protagonists are unable to evaluate for their meaning or impact and that they are unable to

take responsibility for. The archetypal analysis, in Knapp’s view, creates opportunities
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for making the Shadow conscious for the reader. I suggest that a similar review of the

mythological creatures of the legends may opportune us with the understanding of our

Shadow and the Shadow of the legend tellers.

The value of the Shadow archetype as a growth factor is not always present in the

writings of Jungians. Gēbele (2012), a Latvian folktale and fairytale therapist, writing

didactically about the use of folktales and fairytales for upbringing of children, called the

Shadow “the inner destroyer” (p. 33) and advised to learn to control the destructive force.

Gēbele’s ideas are based on emphasizing the opposites of the good and bad that she

found expressed in what she called the instructional or therapeutic tales. While Gēbele

referred to Jung’s theories, her interpretation of the Shadow contradicts Jung’s own

views, which saw the archetype in more than its negative expressions. Besides, Gēbele’s

understanding of Jungian ideas as instructional seem to differ from Segal’s (1998)

findings about Jung’s theories on myths that Segal described as only occasionally

providing a guide to behaviors.

Stone and Winkelman’s essay “Dialoguing with the Demonic Self in Meeting”

(1990) also concentrates on the negative energies of the Shadow. It does, however, make

it clear that the demonic expression is one aspect of the archetype, which results from

disallowing an individual the thoughts and feelings that the society sees as morally

wrong. The authors noted that it is the self of an individual that “fears the expression of

demonic energies because it either fears abandonment or envisions some catastrophic

relations” (p. 285). They pointed out that our forefathers and foremothers recognized

such inner struggles of individuals and drew parallels with the experiences in the world

around them. They gave an example of African Bushmen who had a warning to never
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sleep on a veldt because it meant there was a large animal nearby. Psychologically

speaking, the authors wrote, the animals, the human instincts that are left

unacknowledged, may be tiring: “exhaustion and fatigue, more often than not, are a

function of strong instincts (animals) that are being disowned” (p. 286) and so get

collected in the Shadow.

The very same idea that cultural and societal expectations are those that draw a

line in our psyches and create a divide between the ego and the Shadow has been

expressed by Johnson (1971, p. 5). Johnson also observed that sorting of what is assigned

to the Shadow varies and is depended on the “great leveling process that is culture” (p. 7).

In fact, he found the Shadow to be the psyche’s monster only when it is unexamined;

otherwise it was “the water of life” (p. ix).

Bly (1990) linked the Shadow’s individual expressions to its manifestations at a

collective level. He referred to the Shadow as a bag that human beings drag behind them

filled with the rejected psychological contents of each individual (p. 6). Bly also

understood that each individual belongs to a community that has its own bag of “a

mysterious communal mind[-set]” (p. 7) that hides those characteristics that the group

does not accept. Anyone opening up the bag feels fear even though he or she may desire

some of the contents. The notion of the Shadow as a response to fear resonates with the

kinds of stories told by the legends. Rӧhrich (as cited in Dégh, 2001) argued that the

legend is the “cultural language of fear” (p. 37). Through the language of the legend, in a

self-therapeutic way, the people verbalized and, thus, freed themselves from fears and

anxieties (Rӧhrich, 1988, p. 8).

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Writing not only about legends but also about other stories, films, songs, and

jokes, Warner (1998), a writer of fiction, criticism, and history, devoted her entire book

to a cultural exploration of fear. Similarly to Rӧhrich (1988), Warner (1998) saw the

frightful encounters with the bogeyman in the cultural forms as an opportunity to better

understand and know oneself: “the changing features of the bogeyman mirror the

insecurities and aggressions of those who see him” (p. 6). According to Warner, the

cultural expressions of fear stir emotions and these emotions, while painful, make us feel

present and alive: “this variety of pain does not obliterate the sense of self, but enhances

it” (p. 9). Following the example given by Warner who traced “themes and metaphors

that refract kaleidoscopically throughout the material of terror” (p. 4), it is possible to

explore how the many aspects of the Shadow materialize in the legends as well as how

they shape into particular living forms and themes. Furthermore, Warner gave an

excellent example of how the pessimistic and frightening encounters, like those in

legends, might be inquired into as stories about the concerns of particular society and

time in history and also as narratives with archetypal powers present in many places

today. Furthermore, such inquiry may be a political project.

Describing the value of examining detective films and detection as an archetypal

activity and a metaphor for self-exploration and individuation, Hockley (2004), a

professor of media analysis and practicing psychotherapist, demonstrated how Jungian

analytical psychology is “an intrinsically political project” (p. 77). He emphasized Jung’s

insistence on individual’s development that was not only growth as in introverted self-

understanding but also in conscious relationship with the world. Hockley argued that by

shifting the way the films are viewed—away from the concrete and literal to
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metaphorical—we may engage in the process of individuation in a way that is

collectively responsible. In the context of this study, Hockley’s perspective is important,

particularly, in understanding the Shadow images psychologically and in withdrawing the

unconscious projections from them, thus, serving the overall health of individuals and

society. While the study situates the legends in their historical and cultural context, it

shifts reading of the legends away from viewing them as literal reports to a symbolic

reading. Taking this approach, as Hockley contended, we increase our awareness of the

unconscious (the Shadow), become psychologically conscious, and socially engaged (p.

79).

Legend research in Latvia.

Latvian legends, including mythological legends, are a genre of folklore that has

not been well researched in Latvia. As Guntis Pakalns (personal communication,

November 2013), one of the key researchers at the Institute of Literature, Folklore, and

Art at the University of Latvia, said, there is no analytical writing done by folklorists on

Latvian legends that could be considered on a par with modern research carried out

elsewhere in the world. A number of authors (Ancelāne, 1961; Kokare, 1999; Leja, 1993;

Pakalns, 2010; Rudzītis, 1976) have reflected on the legend genre and written what could

be called sketches in introductions to books on selected legends or when writing about

the category of mythological in Latvian dainas (folksongs)—the most researched genre

of Latvian folklore (Laime, 2011). There are two recent in depth analyses of Latvian

mythological legends in doctoral dissertations: one on the image of the witch (Latvian,

ragana) in Laime’s dissertation, and the other on devil driver (Latvian, vadātājs),

explored by Bērziņa-Reinsone (2012). Acknowledging the lack of research devoted to

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this genre, Laime (2011) and Bērziņa-Reinsone (2012) embarked on a pioneering task.

Before the review of the few writings on Latvian legends, it is worth considering the

research and writings on the legends in the contexts of folkloristics of Latvia in general

and some relevant literary studies.

In his book Latviešu Folkloristikas Vēsture. Pamatvirzieni un Fakti (History of

Latvian Folkloristics. Directions and Facts), Ambainis (1989) traced the beginnings of

Latvian culture and folklore. According to Ambainis, no trustworthy historical documents

exist that can help determine the earliest time when the tribes of the Balts—the

forefathers of today’s Latvians—lived in the territory of today’s Latvia. He estimated the

5th century BCE (p. 7). Although Ambainis did not discuss the age of folk narratives, the

dates of the Balts’ settlements indicate a potential time of the origin of the stories.

Ambainis’s review ends with the description of folkloristics in the Soviet Latvia in the

1980s. Bula (2011) elaborated on Ambainis’s writing and described the development of

Latvian folkloristics in the 20th century and also the beginning of the 21st century. Bula

provided an overview of the discipline of folkloristics in the world in general and a

thorough analysis of Latvian folkloristics in that context. Regarding the legends, she

referred to Rudzītis (1976, p. 138), who was the first to assert that the legend texts could

not be treated as separate from the storytellers, the actual act of telling, and the teller’s

relationship with the tale. According to Bula (2011), Rudzītis’ urge to widen the scope of

research has remained largely without an adequate response (p. 135).

An answer to the question of why Latvian legends, while they have been

collected, do not receive the attention of researchers who could analyze and interpret

them was offered by Laime (2011). He asserted that Latvian dainas have been the
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primary texts of analysis for mythology researchers for two interrelated reasons: age and

authenticity. The daina is considered older than the legend and the folktale as evidenced

by the meter and stylistic canons of the songs, which are seen as preserving information

from more ancient history. The legend (as well as the folktale) is seen as less authentic or

less Latvian because it shows more recent history and more likely influences from other

cultures (p. 11). To support his argument, Laime referred to Kokare’s (1999) book

Latviešu Galvenie Mitoloģiskie Tēli Folkloras Atveidē (The Main Latvian Mythological

Figures as Represented in Folklore), which is regarded as one of the key writings on the

mythical in Latvian folklore.

Kokare (1999) asserted that the national characteristics of Latvians in the folktales

appear “only as a background” (p. 14). In the legends, according to Kokare, the national

or typical Latvian is reflected in the names of the locations and in the story plots that

reveal Latvian mentality. At the same time, Kokare questioned the spread of attitudes

depicted in the legends (p. 14). On one hand, thus, the folktales and legends have been

considered not specifically Latvian, and on the other hand, the legends have been

characterized as too particular to a place (too specific).

Šmits (1926/2009), in his book Latviešu Mītoloģija (Latvian Mythology), also

expressed his take on the authenticity of the images in the legends. In his opinion, the

legends seldom include Latvian deities and are concerned with superhuman powers such

as “God, devils, dragons, witches, magicians, werewolves, evil spirits” (p. 64) (my

translation), thus making the legends less useful material than the daina for mythology

research. At the same time, Šmits acknowledged that the legend is where such

superhuman powers are present and that they are not found in the daina.
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Laime (2011) asserted that the described attitude toward the folktales and legends

assumes the existence of a common origin of the people. He proposed to differentiate

between the genres of the legend and the folktale, which seems to imply that the theory of

the common origin may apply to the folktale and not to the legend. The question about

“authenticity” of the legend versus the folktale is not, however, the concern of this study

that assumes archetypal influences to be universally present and their expressions

culturally specific.

According to Pakalns (2001, p. 545), the richest collection of Latvian legends can

be found in Lerhis-Puškaitis’s seven volumes of Latviešu Pasakas un Teikas (Latvian

Folktales and Legends) that were published between 1891 and 1903. They were followed

by the 15-volume edition with the same title by Šmits (n.d.), which was based on the

collection by Lerhis-Puškaitis. Although in the beginning there was no differentiation

between the texts of the folktale and the legend, in the publication from 1894, there was a

section with the title “Teika” (Legend). It, however, included texts that were later

considered to be folktales. At the same time, the texts that were later deemed to be

mythological legends were first published under the title “Basic Folktales” (Bula, 2011,

p. 255). The last three volumes (XIII-XV) by Šmits (n.d.), published between 1936 and

1937 were, however, devoted to legends specifically. According to Pakalns (2014), many

of the texts (over 3000 legends) were those collected from oral sources by Lerhis-

Puškaitis, although, without any analysis of the texts. Šmits (n.d.), on the other hand,

included not only the texts but also described each thematic section, for example, on the

House-Master, Haul, Lingering Mother, dragons, and so on. The appendix of this study
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provides an overview of each of the sections that describes the supernatural creatures and

forces.

The selected mythological legends arranged by Šmits (n.d.) form the center of the

current study. Although the legends were collected in Latvia, Šmits did not consider them

to be ancient Latvian. For Šmits, the precise age of the legends was also not known. It is

known that Lerhis-Puškaitis’s collection included texts recorded between the 16th century

and before the end of the 19th century and that Šmits’ collection took about 40% of its

texts from Lerhis-Puškaitis’s; the rest were recorded during or before the first quarter of

the 20th century (Pakalns, 2001).

A number of books of legends published in Latvia are important to mention. The

book Latviešu Tautas Teikas (Latvian Legends) compiled by Ancelāne (1961) opens with

a short introduction into the legends and then follows with 752 legend texts. The author

focused on the etiological legends and, thus, the book does not include the mythological

legends that are at the center of the current study. The introduction to the book is,

nevertheless, relevant to this research. It provides a glimpse into the understanding that

Latvian folklorists held about the particular genre of folkloristics during the Soviet

period. Reading the introduction we learn that the legend is one of the most richly

collected folk materials in Latvia and that they are thought to reflect the lifestyle, rituals,

beliefs, and attitudes of Latvian people (p. 5). Ancelāne linked the origins of the legends

with the human struggles with wild animals and natural disasters in primeval

communities. Thus, the legend is a story of nature personified and expressed through

images of super-natural and mythical creatures. In fact, Ancelāne asserted that the natural

events are explained by the activities of the creatures. The same assertion had been made
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by Lüthi (1975), who saw the legend as a story of primitive science (his original work

came out in 1961, the same year as Ancelāne’s book). Essentially, for Ancelāne (1961),

the legend tells why things are the way they are, using pre-scientific understanding. Also

each legend contains morals and correct attitudes; such as that one must work and that

gossiping and lying are not good behaviors.

Ancelāne (1961) interpreted the human behaviors in the legends as a heroic

plight of the peasants against feudal lords and the working class against oppressors, as a

rise of people against the oppressive Christian church, and as an expression of empathy

toward the poor (pp. 6-9). On one hand, the human being has been understood as a

representative of a people courageously fighting against the enemy, the social oppressor,

and as a martyr ready to sacrifice his or her life to defend the others who have been

tortured. On the other hand, Ancelāne noted that there are no heroic sagas in Latvian

folklore and that there are no Latvian heroes who became the images of the freedom

fighters or defenders (p. 20). Ancelāne resolved this contradiction by stating that the

legends only partly depict the fights of the early people against the natural forces that

later becomes the fight against oppressive social enemies (p. 20).

Ancelāne (1961) linked the legends directly to historical events and societal issues

of their time. At the same time, she did not see the legends as documentary accounts of

events but rather as stories in which reality was entwined with fantasy (p. 8). The

mythical elements of the stories were not addressed or interpreted, though. For example,

a legend about a sheepherder who takes on a job with an angry master has been

understood as an expression of sympathy for the herder. The fact that “the blue cow” (p.

8) got lost and brought trouble to the herder has not been explored. Nevertheless,
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Ancelāne recognized the legend, its motifs, and its images as fertile material for

prominent Latvian literary writers and poets of the early 20th century.

Writing after the Soviet period, Leja (1993) also described the legend as a story

that shows why things are the way they are (p. 5). She added that the legend tells about

the nonhuman powers such as the Christian benevolent God and the evil Devil mixed

with the pagan powers embodied in trees, animals, and mythical creatures (p. 6). In

Leja’s writing, the mythological legends get attention in two short paragraphs that discuss

the legend as a story that teaches respect toward the supernatural, as a tale about dragons

that haul goods, and about demonic creatures and ghosts. The paragraphs also describe

the legend as an instructional tale teaching techniques of guarding against mythical

beings by making crosses or using a branch of an ash tree.

Among the books of legends published in Latvian, it is important to mention

Pakalns’s (2010) Džūkstes Teikas un Nostāsti (Legends and Stories of Džūkste). Despite

the lack of analysis that the author offers on the legends and the stories he included in the

book, he did suggest that the stories are an important source of research for both the

information about the local society and culture and the traces of universal aspects of

human life. Pakalns noted that the stories “play with each other, they tie together and

explain each other showing how the internationally known motifs are linked to a specific

place” (p. 15) (my translation). Yet a hesitation toward analysis and interpretations of the

texts are still a strong note in the author’s voice. He compared the individual texts to

human beings who get born, develop, procreate children and grandchildren, who quarrel

and make friends. Pakalns contended that texts, in the same way as humans, are hard to
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interpret and, therefore, attempts at interpreting texts need to be “gentle and careful” (p.

17) (my translation).

The examination of the Latvian mythological legend creature witch done by

Laime (2011) is important in a number of aspects. For example, the one that draws

parallels between witches and dragons—the images of the focus for this study. The

particular value of Laime’s writing is in his social and historical interpretations of the

functions of the legend creatures. For example, his findings showed the linkages between

the legends about women with magic powers and witch-hunt in Latvia in the 17th century.

In Laime’s view, there is a connection between the legends that tell about witches

stealing milk and bringing it to their household and a court case in which a woman named

Grieta admitted practicing witchcraft and was hung in 1630. Laime had found that in the

Alūksne region of Latvia, witches and dragons shared the activities of hauling goods for

their keepers. He also described the multiplicity of beliefs associated with these activities

(p. 111). Although Laime listed the various beliefs, he described witches as characterized

by “emotional expressivity” (p. 172), and he did not provide any views on the psychology

behind the images and motifs of the stories or their tellers, which is a gap that this study

attempts to fill.

Bērziņa-Reinsone’s (2012) research that includes the mythological legends about

being lost and the associated mythological creature the devil driver (Latvian, vadātājs) is

relevant not because it offers insights into the images and motifs explored in the current

study, but because it shows a rare thorough interpretation of particular Latvian legends,

the emotional character of the legend, and the tellers’ interpretations of their stories.

Bērziņa-Reinsone’s findings did not linger on the psychology of the tellers or the stories;
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nevertheless, she emphasized that the legends about a person being lost in a known place

carry a deep emotional charge. This finding resonates with the writings of other

researchers mentioned above that have found emotionality to be a strong characteristic of

the legend. Bērziņa-Reinsone discovered that the tellers she interviewed tended to look

for rational explanations of the events. In her analysis, she linked the tellers’

interpretations, which included acknowledgement of the extranormal and the

unexplainable with the past times and the rational understanding with the present day.

Such a conclusion appears to indicate that the irrationality does not belong to the modern

times. Bērziņa-Reinsone, however, recognized that any telling of a story and any

interpretation is always affected by the situation in which it takes place, by the

relationship between the teller and the listener, and by the narrative and interpretive

traditions that “prompt” (p. 187) the recounting and interpretations of the experiences.

Simsone (2010) analyzed the mythical paradigms in 20th-century literature,

including Latvian literature. Her book is the only broad analysis of the category of

mythical in literature written in Latvian to this date that is based on and refers to the

theories of Jung (1968, 1994, 2003), Campbell (1991, 2008), Eliade (1963/1998,

1949/2005), Propp (2009), and Meletinsky (1998). Simsone (2010) used Jung’s notions

of the archetypes of the Self, Shadow, Anima, and Animus to glean a deeper meaning in

Tolkien’s (2004) The Lord of the Rings. Although that particular analysis is not relevant

to the current study, its presence in Latvian cultural discourse is significant, as it shows

the function and the value of Jungian literary criticism when exploring the works of art

available in Latvian.
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Simsone (2010) seems to have built her analysis on the writings of Kursīte (1999),

a productive explorer of the mythical in Latvian folklore and, to some degree, in literature

and art. Although she draws many parallels with such writers as Eliade (1956/1978,

1957/1987) and Gimbutas (1963, 1982, 2001), whose thinking is close to that of depth

psychology, Kursīte did not include references to Jung. Kursīte’s (1999) explorations of

the mythical in folklore are nevertheless directly relevant to the current study, as they

provide a springboard into psychological analysis of the legends and their mythical

narratives. In her book Mītiskais Folklorā, Literatūrā, Mākslā (The Mythical in Folklore,

Literature, Art), Kursīte sketched the category of the mythical in a variety of themes and

used legends (among other genres) as examples. The short chapter titled “Money” seems

to be most relevant to the current study. Kursīte considered money as a metaphor or a

symbol for the category of the valuable. She discussed the notion of value that reaches

beyond the material worth of money as means of trading. I argue that the symbolism of

money linked to the value of human life and identity is present in the Shadow images and

motifs of the Latvian mythological legends included in the study.

Methodology and Procedures

The unfolding of meaning, through a deepening of the understanding of

phenomena, is essential to this study. To answer the research question, which looks for

answers holding a deeper perception about the images of the legends and their

psychological relevance, calls for a qualitative approach. This qualitative study uses the

methodology of hermeneutics, which means that the emphasis is placed on interpretation

of a meaning rather than on identification of causal relationships and on explaining or

verifying them (as it is demonstrated in the Research Methodology section below).

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Research approach.

My study of the Shadow archetype in the traditional mythological Latvian legends

is a qualitative one; thus, there are a number of philosophical assumptions made and

explicitly or implicitly acknowledged in the study. They are ontological, epistemological,

axiological, rhetorical, and methodological in nature. I am using the insights of Creswell

(2013) to elaborate on the assumptions woven into my study.

First, the ontological assumption at the basis of this study is that reality is multiple

and subjective in that there is no one truth and every experience is subjective. In my

inquiry, I am using quotations from the texts as evidence and to highlight different

perspectives. It also embraces the traditional Jungian view of the reality of the psyche and

the structure and dynamics of the unconscious. I explicitly or implicitly acknowledge

eight philosophical commitments of depth psychology as defined by Coppin and Nelson

(2005, p. 42) that are essential to depth psychological studies: (a) the psyche is real, (b)

the psyche is a perspective; (c) the psyche is both personal and more than personal; (d)

the psyche is fluid and protean; (e) the psyche is symptomatic; (f) the psyche is multiple

and relational; (g) the psyche is complex and contradictory; and (h) the psyche is

dialectical.

Second, the epistemological stance of the study is one in which I, as researcher,

attempt to lessen the distance between myself and the texts I am researching in the

context of the ontology of depth psychology described above. That is done by active

imagination, amplification, and close reading of the texts and interpretations. This

particular mode of inquiry was envisioned by Rowland (2013) as a way to combine the

methods of depth psychology and literary criticism in exploring texts. It is a method that
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includes both knowledge gained through an active pursuit of meaning discerned by the

mind and also more reflective insights acquired by submitting to what emerges from the

unconscious realms of the psyche and the body. Coppin and Nelson (2005) called such

reflective knowledge-seeking the yin type. It is an inquiry that requires a very different

attitude, one of submission to what cannot be known in advance, one that is not possible

to anticipate, plan for, drive, or push toward. It demands to be “receptive to knowledge

that seeks us” (p. 11).

This approach necessitates the next philosophical assumption—the axiological

one, which, in this case, is evident in the acknowledgement that I, as researcher, come

with my own values and biases. The inquiry, therefore, includes an open discussion about

my own views while I interpret what emerges emerge from the texts. My views come

through the descriptions of my personal relationship with Latvian folklore that I have

received as a heritage from my ancestors. Others are evident in the interpretive analysis

that values cross-cultural and historical amplifications of the texts.

The fourth—the rhetorical assumption of this qualitative research—shows up in

my study in an informal style of language, personal style of descriptions, and the use of

qualitative terms. My perspective is presented in the first person, but the texts speak in

their own voice. Through the use of this particular syntactical approach, the study honors

its inherent philosophical assumptions of the subjectivity and multiplicity of reality, the

reality of the psyche with its conscious and unconscious aspects, and the reality of a text

as a perspective of the Other. Finally, the methodological design of hermeneutics selected

for this study is evident in the inductive logic, the study of the texts within their own

context, and the emerging design of the inquiry.

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Research methodology.

As the study aims at interpreting texts through dialogues between the texts and me

as a researcher, the methodology of hermeneutics is well suited for this research. During

the early days of hermeneutics, its application was in interpreting biblical and ancient

texts. Even though hermeneutics as a method of research was first used in philosophy, it

has now been extended to the humanities, social sciences, education, psychology, and

other fields. That extension has a lot to do with the writings and influence of Gadamer

(1900-2002), a German philosopher of the 20th century who was a dominant figure in the

development of philosophical hermeneutics in Europe and later in North America. His

most influential ideas can be found in his book Truth and Method (Gadamer, 2013)

originally published in 1960. Having drawn on the earlier thinking of Dilthey and

Heidegger, Gadamer argued against the achievability of objectivity as the goal of

research. He suggested that instead the goal should be a meaning—meaning created

through dialogue between the text and the researcher. By taking the key insights from

Gadamer and other thinkers, Kinsella (2006) summarized and provided an overview of

five characteristics of the approach of hermeneutics. A hermeneutic approach (a) seeks to

understand rather than to explain, (b) acknowledges the situated location of

interpretation, (c) recognizes the role of language and historicity in interpretation, (d)

views inquiry as conversation, and (e) is comfortable with ambiguity. Below is an

elaboration of how these characteristics appear in the study.

The first characteristic of hermeneutics entails seeking answers through

interpretive rather than procedural (cause and effect) approaches. Using this methodology,

I create a new meaning by what Gadamer (2013) called fusion of horizons (p. 317). That
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involves forming a new meaning by fusing the understandings (horizons) of the past and

the present. Gadamer noted, “Part of real understanding is that we regain the concepts of

a historical past in such a way that they also include our own comprehension of them” (p.

382). In the study, the horizons fused are those of the texts and my own. The fusion takes

place through the process of gaining knowledge that is circular and formed on the Platonic

notion of creating meaning from texts by circling from what one knows to the unknown

and vice versa. It is a hermeneutic circle that, on one the hand, ties us to the past traditions

and, on the other hand, evolves as we add our interpretative understanding of the past

horizons forming new ones. The present knowledge, attitudes, and conditions formed by

social networks, traditions, and experiences of the researcher affect the formation of the

hermeneutic circle.

The second characteristic of hermeneutics that acknowledges the situated location

of interpretation manifests in my research through the recognition of me as an active

researcher. As Gadamer (2013) wrote, the fusion of horizons happens without forgetting

that the researcher is never free from predispositions and prejudices. In fact, hermeneutics

recognizes that prejudices inform the answers as long as the researcher is cognizant of

what he or she brings to the research. Using my particular views, which are not held as a

liability, I bring new insights to the research.

Third, using this methodology, I bring to the study both my language and my

history because this approach acknowledges the conditionality resulting from the

background of the researcher. Wachterhausen (as cited in Kinsella, 2006) remarked that

“all human understanding is never ‘without words’ and never ‘outside of time’” (in section
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2.3). This methodology accepts that I am the product of the worlds I have lived in, the

Others I have encountered, and the books I have read.

I translate and highlight what is important in the texts, and create a new text to add

to the earlier ones. This is done by relying on the fourth characteristic of this

methodology, which views inquiry as a conversation between the texts and the researcher.

The conversation of the research is dialogical, similar to those taking place between

people. It is important to note that sometimes there may be many voices, particularly

because the texts of the study come from different genres—folk narratives and writings of

contemporary authors. At times the dialogue may, therefore, require an added effort in

finding a common language, essential for understanding. As Kinsella (2006) noted, “the

task is to find a common language through which the various texts can be given a voice to

participate in conversation and speak to one another” (in section 2.4). This research using

the methodology of hermeneutics is, therefore, present as many voices—as polyphony and

not a monologue.

The fifth characteristic of hermeneutics is its comfort with ambiguity. It means that

there has been no expectation that the study would result in a certain correct or

authoritative reading of texts. I have approached my study with the understanding that the

meaning discerned by me is one of many, that the texts remain the same texts and will

continue to present themselves differently to different interpreters.

The particular mode of hermeneutics employed in the process of conversations

between the texts and me combine active imagination and close reading as described by

Rowland (2013). The active imagination/close reading methodology may be considered a

subtype of hermeneutics. It combines the methods of depth psychology and literary

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criticism in exploring texts in a way that expands the hermeneutic circle to include the

psyche and body. This method enables us to add meaning to historical, societal, and

cultural topics by embracing the knowledge discerned from interpretations of a text (as a

whole and in its parts), the psyche’s unconscious responses, and the responses of the

body. Rowland argued that Jung’s (1935/1976) active imagination (coupled with

amplification) as a method of understanding images of the psyche is similar to the

method of literary criticism called close reading (originally devised as practical

criticism). What makes these methods similar is not the way the role of the reader is

perceived, but the act of reading itself.

Realizing the psyche’s resistance to conscious control, Jung (1935/1976) devised

active imagination as a method of reading images (or symbols) generated by the

unconscious. Symbols were for Jung “healing containers of psychic energy” (Rowland,

2013, p. 90). He envisioned active imagination as a therapeutic method in which images

were allowed to speak for themselves, not necessarily as the ego of an individual would

have liked to see and understand them (p. 171). Jung’s approach came out of his quest to

find ways for “cultural as well as individual healing” (Rowland, 2013, p. 89). The

technique of active imagination was conceived during the enormous changes that the

humanity was undergoing with the development of industries and technologies, the loss

of the relationship with the natural world, and the decline of religious feelings.

Although Jung did not suggest using the technique for engaging with texts that

were either literary or oral folklore, he used active imagination in exploring the

psychology of a number of important texts. An example, as Rowland (2014) suggested,

can be found in “Ulysses: A Monologue” (Jung, 1934/1966), where Jung, after having
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spent hours attempting to read the novel, began seeing it as a cold-blooded animal

belonging to “the worm family” (Rowland, 2014, p. 112) because of the ugliness,

destruction, meaninglessness, and nonsense of the historical events and the state of

human affairs at the beginning of the 20th century that the novel portrayed.

Rowland (2013) asserted that by accepting the existence of the unconscious, we

also accepted that “words and images are not unproblematically paired with ‘meaning’”

(p. 88). Thus, the texts could not be read for a definitive truth and the technique of active

imagination was a skill to be practiced to read the “text as another” (p. 92). This process

involves the participation of the psyche’s conscious and unconscious layers and their

dynamic seeking of meaning within texts as nonstatic entities.

The particular method of literary criticism called close reading (or practical

criticism) was developed from the theories of New Criticism and was created for the use

in the field of literary studies in the beginning of the 20th century. The theorists that

pioneered the method were British authors such as I. A. Richards, F. R. Leavis, and T. S.

Eliot, and American authors J. C. Ransom, C. Brooks, and W. K. Wimsatt. These New

Critics, according to Rowland (2013), argued that texts were self-contained and that they

transcended any intentions of their authors or boundaries that a particular historical time

or society could have set.

A literary text needs nothing outside itself. It is autonomous to its meaning . . .

and a literary work can speak to an attentive reader in any historical setting by

reason of its communicative ability to a common human essence. (p. 92)

These characteristics of the text are not different from the characteristics of the Jungian

symbol. Later, however, close reading embraced the notion of reading for “cultural topics
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of power, identity, politics, history, sexuality, and so on” (p. 93) and even later,

prioritized these topics. The new critical approach of close reading does not accept that

there should be any influence of the psyche of the author or the readers in interpreting a

text. Rowland, however, pointed out that the act or the process of reading the text is

similar in close reading and active imagination. In the process of close reading, the reader

focuses on words and parts of the text just as someone would do in the process of active

imagination. And, just as in active imagination, every close reading results in a unique

interpretation of a particular text. In addition, it is important to keep in mind that words

can be images and, therefore, active imagination by definition can be done with words.

Although the ontologies of active imagination and close reading are different, they are

complementary and, thus, can be allied.

According to Rowland (2013), the hermeneutic methodology of active

imagination/close reading can include historical, social, and cultural paradigms.

Furthermore, close reading encourages readers to find the historical and cultural hints,

tones, nuances, and flavors in the texts. Amplification, a psychological and interpretive

step that follows active imagination, as Jung (1962/1989) saw it, interrelates images or

symbols of the texts with cultural and historical texts; it seeks parallels with the images of

the collective unconscious found in other texts (p. 310). Rowland (2010) emphasized that

amplification links psychic images to mythological motifs and by doing that renders the

images less personal and, thus, suggests “something of the Otherness of the

unconscious” (p. 176). Therefore, active imagination/close reading as a method is both

imaginative and also an ego-grounding method of hermeneutics that embodies the

collective.
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Rowland (2013) observed that the embodied aspect of the method of active

imagination/close reading is an added value. It entails transformation of the researcher in

the process of study and the readers in the process of reading. The transformation is

achieved through meaningful occurrences or synchronicities, which take place in the

process. Synchronicities are acausal occurrences manifesting in both the psyche and

matter in a way that is meaningful and transformative for those who experience them

(Jung 1952/1960). Rowland (2013) argued that “in synchronicity, mind and matter reveal

themselves as intimately related” (p. 99). The interpreter and the reader, thus, experience

a personal relationship with the text(s), and through this, a real and embodied sense of

relatedness becomes possible leading to transformation. Beyond the personal, there is

also a transformation that happens on the cultural level. As literary scholar Wendy

Wheeler (as cited in Rowland) asserted, “art and culture advance through intuited

embodied knowledge” (p. 102). Rowland added that synchronicity, is not “confined to

cultural change . . . [but is] regarded as key to evolution in nature” (p. 102).

The hermeneutic method of active imagination/close reading is a valuable method

for the current study as it combines analysis of words and the context of the texts with the

knowledge-seeking technique of active imagination and its extension, amplification. I use

the method to converse and to draw parallels between the archetypal Shadow images and

the motifs of the Latvian legends and those in works by Jung and others. It include

explorations of the texts and symbols within cultural and historical contexts as well as

understanding of the meaning that the texts elicit in this individual reader’s body and

psyche.
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Participants and materials.

This study is a theoretical one that does not involve participants. The materials

used in the inquiry are the texts of traditional Latvian mythological legends, writings by

Jung, and writings by relevant other authors.

Procedures.

The procedures of the current study included translation of 100 traditional Latvian

mythological legends and reading an even greater number of the texts found in the Šmits

(n.d.) collection. The analysis of the large number of the legends determined the

transcending archetypal structures characteristic to the particular legends. The study also

included generating an overview about the selected legends in order to situate the reader

and to place the legends in their historical and cultural context. An in-depth exploration

of a selected smaller number of legends was done by drawing parallels between their

Shadow images and the texts by Jung and other authors. Focusing on the selected texts

has helped me in exploring the immanent aspects of the legends. The result is an

interpretive narrative about the psychology of the Latvian traditional mythological

legends and their tellers produced using the outlined procedures.

Ethical Considerations

This is a depth psychology-based study that is founded on the principles of

respecting the Other. In my hermeneutical method of research, the Other includes the text

with its images or symbols. As I am exploring the Shadow in the traditional Latvian

mythological legends, I respect the illumination of the Other in myself, in a particular

culture, and across the cultures. Moreover, I take an ethical responsibility to myself, my

deceased father, and my people. My explorations of the cultural texts are approached
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with openness and honesty; and the ideas put forward are done with considerations for

the impact of my statements.

The nature of this study is text-based. All texts that this research focuses on are

openly published works. The study does not involve participants answering the research

question and, thus, does not include ethical considerations related to participants. I do

recognize that I, as a researcher, am always affected by my environment and everyone I

interact with. I also acknowledge that I come to this study with my own history and

biases that I am cognizant of throughout the process of the dissertation writing. My

handling of the texts is done with a careful and conscientious approach. All that I am

describing and my interpretations are my own narratives about the texts explored in this

study. I understand that the same texts may be interpreted differently by other people.

Organization of the Study

The following study is organized in three chapters, written as an interpretive

narrative that emerges from reading the texts of the traditional Latvian mythological

legends and writings of various authors in the mode of a quest. In my quest, I was

looking for “what writing is or could be” (Rowland, 2013, p. 86). Below is a description

of the key aspects of the study explored in each chapter.

Chapter 2 encompasses explorations of the archetypal Shadow images and motifs

and presents a depth psychological interpretation of these symbols. In it, I write about the

supernatural beings named the House-Master, Haul, Lingering Mother, Fire Mother,

dragons, devils, fire, gnomes, and ghosts; furthermore, I identify the various forms in

which these otherworldly presences may manifest—natural objects, animals, things, and

human-shaped entities. In this chapter, I argue that the Shadow images and motifs may
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express a cultural or group complex of the legend tellers. The various manifestations of

the Shadow are imagined as legend conversations about the complexes surrounding the

matters of wealth, well-being, and the psyche’s sense of value and worthiness. A short

description of Latvian history is offered to place the interpretations within a context that

is not divorced from the social, economic, and political realities of life within which the

legends were likely first told and retold. Through active imagination, amplification on the

symbolic images, and embodying the characteristic energies of the archetypal images, I

show how the Shadow may be imagined and re-imagined.

The next chapter, Chapter 3, concerns the psychology of the traditional Latvian

mythological legends and develops a hypothesis that the legends perform a symbolic

function for the collective narrative of the Shadow archetype—the inferior or nonheroic

aspect of the psyche that is tricky but nourishing, showing up and promoting

transformative events and developmental stages experienced by groups of people. I

suggest that there is artfulness and craftiness in the legend as a genre, as it keeps the

Shadow aspects of the psyche in awareness, therefore guarding them from becoming

repressed. This chapter is placed in the framework offered by Rowland (2008) in which

the research looks for transcendent archetypal structures and their images and related

functions and values. Here I read and write in search of knowledge about the internal

rules and meaning of the legend. The first part of the chapter is modeled as an inquiry

into the legends based on Beebe’s (1981) example in his essay “The Trickster in the

Arts,” in which he described an entire group of art works as the trickster art. Following

that, I show how the particular legends of this study may be considered as the trickster

stories.
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Building onto that first part, I further link the traditional Latvian mythological

legend communications to synchronistic events experienced and described by the legend

tellers. I suggest that the legends are synchronicity stories, telling about acausal,

numinous, and meaningful occurrences that do not differ from the breaks in symmetry

characteristic of Complex Adaptive Systems (CAS)—the human system being one

type— leading to a growth in complexity—to development. My insights into the legends

as the synchronicity stories are framed within Cambray’s (2009) excellent articulation of

synchronicities and their nature and the psyche within an interconnected universe. This

chapter also includes a proposed definition of the legend genre that is based on the

understanding of the legends as stories of synchronicities that may be useful for the larger

discourse about this genre.

In the next chapter of the study, Chapter 4, I focus on the psychology of the

legend tellers as a group expressing unconscious collective emotions, needs, and desires,

manifesting in a relationship with the archetypal forces or the otherworldly, which may

give or take wealth. I suggest that from the perspective of Jungian psychology, this

relationship depicts the Shadow aspects of the culture surrounding those aspects of the

legend tellers’ psyches that concern the sense of worthiness. The explorations are based

on Rowland’s (2008) notion of the immanent in art, which concerns the relatedness to the

text. It is also inspired by Dawson’s (2004) notion of the personal unconscious that holds

the key to the relationships between humans and archetypal energies. In this study, I

explore the aspects of the Latvian group unconscious as manifested in the relationships

(a) of humans with the otherworldly, (b) the Other within the human psyche, and (c) the

Other in a culture where the Other is seemingly unattainable wealth. By taking this
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approach, I read the symbols of the Shadow not only as images that tell about the

psychology of the legend tellers but also as symbols in service of today’s readers and

cultural transformation, thus, as a political project.

The final, Chapter 5, offers findings and conclusions. In it, I bring together the

key areas of the study, highlight noteworthy insights that have emerged in the process of

the research, and identify possible future directions for this and similar studies.
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Chapter 2
The Shadow Images of the Traditional Latvian Mythological Legends
and Cultural Complexes

Confrontation [with the Shadow] is the first test of courage on the inner way, a

test sufficient to frighten off most people, for the meeting with ourselves belongs

to the most unpleasant things . . . But if we are able to see our own shadow and

can bear knowing it, then a small part of the problem has already been solved.

—Jung, Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious

Legends . . . are oral communications in which people try to verbalize anxieties

and fears . . . The telling of a legend can be compared to a therapeutic process

and supernatural experiences constitute a kind of self-therapy.

—Rӧhrich, Folktales and Reality

Many phrases have been used to describe the legend. It has to do with “the totally

other” (Dégh, 2001, p. 51), that it is filled with “interstitial anxiety” (p. 51), or that it is

“supernatural, horrible, mysterious, or grotesque” (p. 97) absorbed in a mythical world.

We cannot help but feel the presence of the dark and the otherworldly entwined within

the legend. Gloominess emanates from the words anxiety, fear, horrible, and grotesque.

There is something unpleasant about them. It is how Jung (1954/1969a) portrayed the

Shadow—the archetypal structure of the unconscious that is disillusioning because its

content is “our own inadequacy” (p. 23). The Shadow is “decidedly unpleasant” (p. 23),

wrote Jung. There is something uncomfortable, disagreeable, and disturbing about the

Shadow and the legend. Arguably, the mythological legend is a symbol of the collective

narrative of the Shadow archetype as the inferior or nonheroic function of the psyche.

Furthermore, there is something slippery, and, as Bennet and Rowbottom said (as cited in
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Dégh, 2001, p. 46), “fascinating but oh-so-tricky” about the legend. Its pessimistic

darkness is the shape-shifting trickster that holds in it a cure of a bitter medicine.

In this chapter, I explore the traditional Latvian mythological legends for the

archetypal structure of the Shadow, its images, and related functions and values.

Moreover, I link the Shadow to the notion of cultural complexes that Singer and Kimbles

(2004) defined as emotionally charged “autonomous processes in the collective psyche”

(p. 1). In my inquiry, I lean on Rowland’s (2008) transcendent theory of art criticism in

looking for universal, archetypal shapes within the text, using it as a framework to gain

insights about the psychology of the legends.

Mythical Beings and Their Function

The legends explored here are about the beings called the House-Master, Haul,

Lingering Mother, Fire Mother, fire, dragons, devils, gnomes, and ghosts. They are

supernatural and mythical, appearing in a multiplicity of forms—animals (cats, dogs,

snakes, ravens, chicks, toads, bucks, and goats), objects (a horse hobble, thaler,8 or a

frog’s leg), and human. Engaging with these creatures is never easy; unease is always a

part of their appearance in the human world.

The House-Master demands sacrifices in return for the well-being of a home and

the people living there. People bring sacrifices to him in the form of food and flowers,

particularly on special days that mark sowing the crops and gathering the harvest. The

relationship with this powerful creature of the pagan world is complex. The House-

Master demands to be remembered and to receive the first of everything as a sacrifice. If

it does not get what it expects, people are punished with diseases, as in the legend “The

8
Thaler is a silver coin dating back to the mid-15th century.
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House-Master Getting Even,” in which the son-in-law disrespects the House-Master and

becomes lame. The House-Master may also show its wrath through bad harvests, burned-

down houses, and human deaths.

The Haul—the mythical being in charge of bringing things to build wealth—

expects only the best treatment and food from its keepers. If they fail, the barns and

homes are burnt down, just as by the House-Master. In the legend “The Hauls Get Mad,”

a farmhand eats the food left for the two Hauls and then soils the bowl. The Hauls, in

their rage, set the farmer’s barn on fire. Humans, however, are not just passive receivers

when it comes to the Haul. The legend “The Haul and Beans” tells that a man stopped a

flying Haul and took the Haul’s bags—some 100 kilograms (220 pounds) of beans.

The Lingering Mother makes certain that there is not only plenty of everything in

the house, she makes things last and slows down the consumption of food. Destroying the

Lingering Mother means losing good food, acquiring bodily pains, and bringing onto

oneself anger and sadness. Sometimes its disappearance brings a seeming luck. That is

what happens in “Killing the Black Snake.” A young lad discovered the Lingering

Mother (a black snake) spewing grain into the mill and making his workdays turn into

nights. He killed the snake and was able to have some rest. It appeared to be a good thing;

unfortunately though, he had to eat bad bread from then on. In “Killing the Old Toad,” a

farmhand finds out that the toad-shaped Lingering Mother hops on the new bread

whenever it is baked making it so tasteless that it lasts for a long time. He kills the toad,

hoping for better bread in the future. The legend leaves us wondering if he succeeded.

The stove fire and the warmth of homes is the realm of the Fire Mother. She is a

good mother if she is honored in just the right way. If that doesn’t happen, the houses
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disappear in flames and people fall ill. The Fire Mother, as the legend “The Pot Hook”

imparts, wants to be greeted in the mornings and be thanked for giving humans fire.

Those who forget to do that get weak or die.

Dragon, the mythical helper that secures wealth in the form of grain, dairy, and

money, is not in the slightest extent less fickle than the other beings. In the story, “Three

Drops for the Dragon,” the dragon requires that it get three morsels of food every time

food is made. One time, a servant girl forgets to give the dragon its food and the farmer’s

house almost disappears in flames. The farmer manages to stop the dragon’s rage by

throwing an old carriage wheel on top of the roof where the dragon lives. As this legend

tells, there is a special relationship that dragons and humans have. If the dragon keeper

realizes the dragon’s revengeful plans, he or she can intercept them. A dragon is also the

one creature that can be bought. It is usually sold in a city. Once with its keeper, it works

hard—flying (or as the legends say: running in the air) and carrying goods into the

keeper’s barn, but it needs to be fed well, just like the other mythical helpers.

Devils have their own rules that humans can never know, and they are not

dependent on habitual or ritual practices, like feeding. In the legend “The Devil Helps a

Greedy Farmer,” the Devil first gets upset with the farmer for laughing and locks the

farmer up in a money cellar. The farmer then is thought to be a thief. He is saved, though,

by the same Devil. Humans can also lend devils their wisdom or show kindness and

receive riches in return. In “The Little Tiny Devil,” a farmhand fed a tiny devil and

became rich; in “Two Devils Reward a Peasant,” a peasant advised two fighting devils

how to divide a swamp they were fighting over and, as a reward, got lots of money for a

tiny amount of grain he sold in the city later.

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Fire and ghosts in the form of money are quite like devils—they appear and

disappear on their own whim, leaving humans in a perpetual state of not knowing what to

expect. The uncanny fire shows up in fields, swamps, and forests. It confuses humans by

burning when it rains. In the legend “Fire in the Field,” two men see a bonfire and an old

man next to it. On the next day, however, there is nothing there—not even coals or ashes.

In a different story, “Fire in a Hay Barn,” a man seeing a burning barn understands that

he has to go dig by the barn; he then finds a pot of money.

Ghosts, manifesting as young maidens, turn into money if touched. In the legend

“The Money Maiden,” that is exactly what happens. In another legend (“The Wrongful

Money”), the ghost is a chest that a man finds in a forest and does not want to return to its

owner. A black dog then appears to guard the chest, and the man becomes bedridden and

weak.

Gnomes—dwarf-like and secretive beings—are both benevolent and evil helpers.

Different from the other mythical creatures, they do not want any gifts in return for their

services. If they receive gifts, they stop working. The naked gnomes, after having

received beautiful clothes and shiny shoes form the farmer, disappeared in the legend

“The Naked Gnomes.” They had no need to work any longer. In the story “A

Shoemaker’s Gnome,” the helpers disappeared after the shoemaker’s wife caught a

glimpse of them. Although gnomes helped one farmer and a shoemaker, they exhausted

the horses of another farmer by putting them behind the plough at nights. The farmer was

helpless against the nasty little creatures until he learned that he had to nail crosses in

front of the stable doors.

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All these supernatural beings in one way or another have to do with riches,

wealth, and the well-being of the humans. In the stories, the riches are either money,

grain, milk, bread, good and lasting food on the table, health, children, strong horses, or

other desirable items. I suggest that the creatures of the legends are symbols for riches

and well-being—those visible to the naked eye and those in the inner realms of the

psyche.

Wealth, Well-Being, and Self-Worth

Symbolism of material wealth in myths and other folk narratives has been pointed

out by other researchers. Indologist Patton (1996) wrote about money, Vedic materialism,

and the value of words as an expression of wealth in the Vedic world. The supernatural

beings of the Latvian mythological legends, as I see them, symbolize wealth and are an

aspect of the human psyche. Thus, wealth and well-being are not only externally

observable expressions such as full barns and healthy bodies, but also the well-being and

wholeness of the inner psychic state—the sense of self-worth. Many of the legends tell

that there is an uneasy relationship between the humans and the supernatural helpers—the

bringers and securers of wealth. Arguably, the legends tell about the Shadow in the

experiences of the tellers with wealth, well-being, and the sense of self-worthiness.

In making this statement, I am cognizant of the dangers of stereotyping people—

making generalized claims about characteristics of a group. I recognize that assertions

may not be true for every individual within the group. However, if patterns can be

observed, it may be dangerous not to identify them and make them conscious. As I write,

I do that with care and respect, not less because everything that I assert, suggest, or imply

reflects on me too. The legend tellers are my great-grandmothers and fathers as I am

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Latvian (and a proud one too!). It is important to emphasize that this study makes no

claims about unalterable genetic codes or a set character of a people. It does discern and

interpret the patterns of the archetypal Shadow in the traditional Latvian mythological

legends for an aspect of their psychology and the psyche of the tellers.

Kursīte (1999) addressed the theme myth and money in Latvian folklore in the

context of the Baltic mythical time and space. She found that the Latvian word nauda

(money) is etymologically linked to the Indo-European root neud, which means to grab,

to take hold of in order to use. In the Lithuanian language, nauda means goodness,

usefulness, suitability, and property; in the old Icelandic, it means cattle (p. 123). The

way money appears in the legends portrays its deep symbolism. The wandering money—

golden and silver coins that may mysteriously appear or disappear—for example, as

Kursīte illustrated, may show up in the shape of a small child, maiden, foolish fire or

will-o’-the-wisp, or as an animal (a black cat, for example).

The legend “Bones and Money” tells that “late at night, a woman was nursing her

child. Suddenly, she saw a big, black cat coming at her. She shouted: ‘What are you

crawling for in here?!’ and kicked the cat. The cat turned into money.” This legend, I

suggest, communicates to us that wealth is embodied and one must come into contact

with one’s own being. Wealth is an entity that requires recognition, engagement, and

participation. In a participatory act, it turns into riches for humans. The woman was able

to deal with the pestering animal and, more than that, she got the boon. Although the

legend does not say it directly, the listener/reader may sense pride and self-regard being

communicated.
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Riches in the form of money appear not only as animals; they can also be found in

an in-between state when they surface from the underground, appearing as fire (bonfire or

burning coals). The legends tell that in the fire there is money being parched or

desiccated; and it usually happens on a dark rainy night in a swamp, forest, or a field (see

the heading “Fire,” in the appendix). The desiccating money, as Kursīte (1999, p. 128)

elucidated, is a chthonic phenomenon, a ghost possessed by the Devil. I suggest that the

legend, fueled by the energies of the collective unconscious, is also a psyche’s dream in

which the raw contents of the unconscious are being cooked. Hillman (1979) imagined

“this cooking of the psychic stuff that goes on in the night” (p. 135) as a soul-making so

necessary to culture. Essentially, the soul-making is the process of “psychologizing” (p.

27) that is our desire to see through, to understand things psychologically.

The human who obtains the ghostly riches in the legends needs to interact with all

these elements: earth, fire, water, and air. Alchemical symbolism is undeniable in these

images. Edinger (1994) connected the symbolism of the elements with alchemical

processes and the psychological states. The process of mortificatio is associated with the

experience of death, rotting that may lead to resurrection and rebirth (p. 148). In the

legends, money is a ghost of a deceased (someone under the ground, buried in the earth)

The legends do not seem to convey the crude aspect of alchemy as popularly

understood—as trying to turn lead into gold or to make money. Fire is the location and

the element needed to transform the ghost into money. The alchemical process associated

with fire is calcinatio. In it water is driven off together with other constituents making the

substance fine (p. 17). Air is needed to bring the substance into a higher state of

transformation, changing it from hard to gas-like. It is the alchemical sublimatio.

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Psychologically, the rebirthing process requires the fire of conscience to dry out the

instinctual and the uncontrolled actions (p. 22). Airing is a psychological elevation that

allows one to deal with a problem, to view the Shadow from a higher vantage point or

objectively (p. 117).

The state of the in-between-ness of the objects symbolizing wealth and well-

being, their association with the underground and the ghostly, their possession by the

Devil, and their devilishness, I suggest, all point toward the presence of the Shadow

surrounding the matters of wealth transmitted by the stories entwined with the Shadow

aspect of the tellers’ psyche, one concerning the sense of worthiness. At the same time,

the involvement of the alchemical elements in the legends appear to point to the psyche’s

vision of transformation of its shadowy contents.

In the legends, devils are often present in dealings with wealth. They directly or

indirectly participate in human activities that result in obtaining or loosing something of a

value, for example, one’s family or workers, money as coins, grains, or food of any type

(butter, meat, and so on). While in the Latvian legends, there are many devils

characteristic to polytheism of pagan beliefs, there is also the Devil of Christianity, and a

line between them is not always easy to draw. Some devils are simpletons and can be

tricked. By tricking the devils, one can obtain nonspendable money (Kursīte, 1999, p.

127). These simple-minded devils are more of a nuisance and less the evil kind of Devil

found in Christianity. The legend “Two Devils Reward a Peasant” tells about two

devils—brothers who could not find out how to divide a forest and asked a farmer. The

silly devils then kindly rewarded the farmer for his advice. Differently, in the legend

“The Evil House God,” the evil one is unrelenting in bringing only misfortune. It insists
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on the man cursing his wife and giving her and his children away so that the man himself

could get rich. Psychologically, as Jung (1950/1969c) evidenced, the Christian Devil

represents the Shadow aspect of the psyche, “which goes far beyond anything personal”

(p. 322) and which can be compared with evil. It may, thus, be suggested that the ideas of

wealth and self-worth are in some legends entwined with the dark and evil that pervade

the Christian outlook of the world. At the same time, the many devils of the pagan

tradition that in the legends appear as ambivalent and more trickster-like, may point to

psyche’s readiness to relate to the worldly riches without seeing evil in them. The ideas

about one’s own worthiness then are less dark and rigid.

As most of the legends tell about sacrifices made to please the supernatural beings

bringing and securing riches for the humans, it is important to explore sacrifices in the

context of wealth and the sense of worthiness. A ritual of sacrifice—honoring the

creatures of wealth and well-being by giving them the best and the first of everything—is

the way humans relate to the supernatural, the otherworldly beings of the legends. Kursīte

(1999) saw rituals as a way for humans to acquire god-like qualities (p. 130). For

example, there was a ritual in the act of sowing; it had to take place on a particular

night—the midsummer night—for the money that was sown to grow. In Kursīte’s view,

this is a metaphor for the necessary merger between two levels of competency: the one of

gods and the other of humans (p. 131).

The competency of gods, if viewed from a depth psychological perspective, may

be likened to the archetype of the Self: “the unity of the personality as a whole” (Jung,

1921/1971, p. 460). The qualities of gods are then the qualities of the higher human Self

that individuals desire to achieve. Perhaps, by telling of the continued need to bring
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sacrifices to gods of wealth and well-being, the legends remind humans to aim toward

embodiment of those qualities of the gods that are also the psychological wholeness of

Self.

Adams (2010), a psychoanalyst, also interpreted sacrificial offerings and rituals

(particularly those depicted in ancient mythology) as a demand on the human ego to

effectively engage with the gods. Psychologically speaking, it means to honor those

qualities in oneself. “In ancient mythology, the gods and goddesses commit vengeance

against heroes and heroines precisely when they are forgotten, ignored and neglected—

or, in psychoanalytic terms, repressed or disassociated” (pp. 76-77). While talking about

the ancient times, Adams did not mean that the qualities that the gods (or other extra-

human beings) symbolize have nothing to do with today’s human world. He gave an

example of the actor Jim Carrey saying that his many personalities (the dissociated

qualities) are “pissed if they don’t get used” (p. 77). Hillman (1992) thought no

differently. He insisted that “a complex must be laid at the proper altar” (p. 104). The

symbolic and the psychological message of the sacrifices and rituals that the ancient

myths and also the legends tell us about may, thus, be understood as a reminder for the

ego to take on certain qualities. In the words of Adams (2010), we are reminded: “to ‘be’

(or be like)” (p. 77), or to take the perspective of the otherworldly beings.

We may ask why there are so many mythological stories about sacrificial rituals.

Kursīte (1999) commented on that: “One might think that the ancient man did not set a

foot outside the house without first giving offerings to deities or spirits” (p. 133). The

many legends surrounding offerings to the wealth-bringing spirits may not be surprising

as human desire for well-being is inexhaustible. Although Jung (1948/1960b) said this in
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the context of dreams, arguably the same is valid for the mythological legends we are

exploring: “The dream uses collective figures because it has to express an eternal human

problem that repeats itself endlessly, not just a disturbance of personal balance” (p. 292).

The legends about wealth and the human desire to possess the qualities of the wealth-

bringing otherworldly beings, in the same way, do not talk about an individual and his or

her longings, but of the yearnings belonging to a collective, a group.

It is also likely that the many stories of offerings caution humans not to identify

with gods (and the Self) because there is a risk that the person will become too full of

pride, will be overtaken by hubris. The trouble, however, is that the archetypes of Self

and Shadow may get blurred. In fact, both the Shadow and Self may aim toward the same

goal, making it difficult for individuals to find out what archetypal forces pressure their

experiences (Baumlin & Baumlin, 2004, p. 119). The obscurity of the Shadow and the

Self may make it hard to distinguish what to go after and what to avoid in human

pursuits. The multiplicity of the legends is a testimony to that and to the complexity of

the experiences with wealth, well-being, and, as I suggest, the sense of worthiness.

The Shadow and Cultural Complexes

Jung (1951/1959c) was adamant that “it is especially important to picture the

archetypes of the unconscious not as rubbish phantasmagoria of fugitive images but as

constant, autonomous factors, which indeed they are” (p. 21). Dégh (2001), in turn,

maintained that the legend teller was, at least in some ways, talking about his or her

society: “The teller must have acquired the whole vision, or at least its elements, form

common social sources by way of tradition” (p. 77). Besides, as the writings of von Franz

(1995), Henderson (1984), and Singer and Kimbles (2004) assert, an individual Shadow
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is always rooted in the Shadow-ridden attitudes, moods, and behaviors of the culture to

which the individual belongs. The legend, as a “depersonalized dream” (Whitmont, 1973,

p. 76) of an individual, is at the same time a dream of a group in which its Shadow

images and motifs parade.

Singer and Kimbles (2004) introduced the notion of cultural complexes to

describe the psychological nature of conflicts that tear apart groups and cultures (p. 1).

Such complexes do not set in only when the groups meet or clash; they begin within a

group as a “group shadow” (von Franz, 1995, p. 4). If it were not that way, we would

perpetually need to blame others for instigating the Shadow instead of looking within our

own psyche for the roots of the shadowy plants that thrive even more when the presence

of the other groups grow more potent. The emergence and functioning of a group Shadow

may be understood by employing Singer and Kimbles’s (2004) description of cultural

complexes: “Cultural complexes can be thought of [as] arising out of the cultural

unconscious as it interacts with both the archetypal and personal realms of the psyche and

the broader outer-world arena of schools, communities, media, and all the other forms of

cultural and group life” (p. 4). Singer and Kimbles warned us not to confuse cultural

complexes with cultural identity or national character despite the fact that these notions

may seem the same due to their intertwined character. The notion of the collective

complexes, as the authors saw them, is particularly relevant to groups that are defining

their identity after oppression or due to major economic and political changes. They

warned that powerful unconscious complexes formed through history, by collective

memory, and the understanding of events may imprison the groups.

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Latvians are in the process of defining a new identity as they have regained the

status of an independent nation only in the early 1990s after half a century of Soviet rule,

a short stint of sovereignty in the early 20th century, and, before that, centuries of being

governed by various neighboring powerful groups of Germanic and Slavic origins. One

reflection (among many) of the identity identification efforts can be found in a collection

of essays Latvia and Latvians: A People and a State in Ideas, Images and Symbols

(Cimdiņa & Hanovs, 2010), which contemplates on the events of National Awakening of

19th-century Latvia and development in the 20th century. The authors posed such

questions as these:

Who were they and we (the people) and what are we (the people) now and within

the ever-changing ideas, values, and in the lives of peoples in the world? How

better to understand, to care for, to spread, to disseminate more honestly, and how

to take advantage more intelligently of the cultural wealth of the state of Latvia

and of the cultural and symbolic capital values of the state and its people? (p. 8)

The authors looked for answers and insights in works of art and culture as one of the

sources. My explorations of the Latvian mythological legends may, thus, be considered

an added voice to the larger discourse. Before pausing for a deeper refection on the

Shadow images and in order to bring a greater discernment to what may be considered

the Latvian group Shadow (cultural complex), I take a short trip into parts of Latvian

history that can aid the inquiry.

The Historical Context

To better understand the archetypal Shadow told of in Latvian mythological

legends, it is helpful to consider the historical context within which these stories were
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told and how the tellers lived. Unfortunately, the exact age of the legends is not known. It

is known, however, that the legends included in this study have all been recorded in

Latvia and that they all were told in Latvian (Šmits, n.d.). Pakalns (n.d.) stated that the

texts may have been transcribed some years before their publication in the early years of

the 20th century. The first small publication of folktales and legends date back to 1855.

Most of the texts published in the 15-volumes by Šmits (n.d.), according to Pakalns

(n.d.), have been written down from oral narratives in the 1920s and 1930s.

Although the legends were recorded a little over a century ago, the historical

context within which the stories were captured in writing cannot be carved out and

separated from the earlier times in which the legends were told and retold. Therefore, I

cast a glance back into what is known as the beginning of the Baltic tribes that Latvians

belong to and make leaps forward through centuries to when the legends moved from the

oral tradition into the written texts captured by Šmits (n.d.).

The tellers of the mythological legends explored in the current study are the

ancestors of today’s Latvians, who continue to inhabit lands of their forefathers in

Northern Europe in the Baltic region. The current territory of Latvia borders on the Baltic

Sea on the west and has a maritime border with Sweden; on the east it shares a border

with Russia, on the southeast with Belarus, and on the south with Lithuania. As the

census of 2011 tells, 61% (some 1,300,000 people) of the population comes from the

indigenous people (Latvians), about one-third is Russian, and the rest are made up of

Byelorussians, Ukrainians, Poles, Lithuanians, Estonians, Jews, Germans, and a

smattering of other peoples.

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Among one of the historians who has worked to discern the origins of the

indigenous people, their history, and culture is Spekke (1887-1972). Spekke’s

(1948/2008) writings have been both praised for their broad and contextualized analysis

of Latvian history and criticized for his glorification of the ancient history of Latvians as

well as for insufficiency of evidence. A critic of Spekke’s views, Šnē (2008, pp. 379-

380), a historian at the University of Latvia, argued that the only reliable evidence can be

found in historical facts produced by local researchers instead of the non-Latvian written

sources or folklore that Spekke relied on. At the same time, Šnē called Spekke’s insights

scientifically based and broadly encompassing.

Spekke (1948/2008), both a historian and a philologist, cited various historians

and descriptions provided by travelers, and relied on interpretations of art and literature in

claiming that the origins of today’s Latvians were to be found within tribes of nomads

who arrived on the Baltic Sea from the steppes, grasslands in southeast Europe and

Siberia about 2300 BCE (pp. 28-29). The Balts, just like the Celts, Greeks, Basques, and

Albanians, were the remainders of ancient civilizations living on the edges of the

European continent. Following the rivers striving toward the Atlantic Ocean, the early

tribes of Balts settled by the Baltic Sea. Citing Balodis (1882-1947), the founder of

archeology in Latvia, Spekke (1948/2008) dated the formation of the Baltic peoples

around the 8th century CE (p. 59). According to the founder of the Baltic philology Būga

(1879-1924) (as cited in Spekke, pp. 59-60), the language that was first spoken by these

people was close to Lithuanian and became its own individual language—Latvian—

between the 9th and the 12th centuries CE.

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According to Spekke (1948/2008), the lives of the Balts were affected by the

geographic location—squeezed between waters and the lands claimed by their larger

neighbors—Germanic and Slavic peoples. The lands that the Balts inhabited were

crisscrossed by streams and covered by many swamplands and forests. Their lives were

consumed mostly by farming. The early Baltic settlers were also fierce fighters defending

their lands against intruders, like the Vikings, especially during the 9th-12th centuries CE.

The most courageous and ferocious fighters were the groups living in Kurzeme (Kurland)

and Zemgale—two areas of Latvia. Not only did they fight for their lands, they also

attacked the neighbors living on the other side of the Baltic Sea. The prayer “God, protect

us against those from Kurland” (p. 83) was recounted in Danish churches in the 11th

century.

The name Latvian to describe all the indigenous people did not appear until the

13th century; the name was originally used for one of the groups (Spekke, 1948/2008, p.

44). Not much is known about the early inhabitants of Latvia in the first centuries CE;

scarce information with vague references can be found in the writings describing

Vikings’ adventures with commercial aims and forays (p. 45). Saxo Grammaticus (c.

1150 – c. 1220), a Danish historian, described the ancient Prussians (one of the groups of

Balts) as “hard and fierce pagans” (as cited in Spekke, p. 79). The part of the world

inhabited by the ancient Balts could also be found on the maps of Romans who had

discovered or re-discovered the so-called amber road that led them to the Baltic Sea (p.

47).

Between the 12th and 14th centuries, the Hanseatic League flourished, bringing

trade to the Baltic region (Spekke, 1948/2008, p. 134). The city of Rīga was established
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in 1201 as one of the key Hanseatic centers of commerce, politics, and settlements of

Germanic defense. It is the name of Rīga that appears most often in the traditional

Latvian mythological legends. Rīga, together with the Northern territories of modern-day

Latvia, belonged to the Livonian Confederation first governed by Germans and later by

Swedes until 1721 when the Russian tsar Peter the Great brought it under his rule.

According to a researcher of Baltic history, Blumbergs (2008), there continued to

be a rigid social divide of the population in the territory of Latvia in the 18th century, a

social divide based on language. The German language marked a high social position and

power. A small percentage of city dwellers were Latvians while the dominant inhabitants

were Germans as well as Russians, Jews, and Poles. Latvians (like other Livonians—Livs

and Estonians) “overwhelmingly formed the peasantry” (p. 47). It must be noted, though,

that the division between groups called German and non-German were based not on

nationality but rather on their social status, place of dwelling, and ownership of real estate

(Kļaviņš, 2013b). Latvians who moved to cities and owned property there were referred

to as Germans versus the non-Germans—Lithuanians, Byelorussians, and other peoples

who had moved to the cities but owned nothing.

As the explored legends tell mostly about farmers and land laborers, it is

important to linger for a moment on the conditions of the Latvian peasant and farmer.

The Baltic German landholding aristocracy welcomed Russian rule in the 18th century

because their position and rights had been weakened by the earlier Swedish rule. The

ensuing serfdom brought harsh conditions to the peasants. Laboring for landlords

continued until the early 19th century when peasants become personally free, gaining the

so-called bird freedom—being free men and women but owning nothing. By the end of
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the 19th century, following pressure from the masses, corvée9 and corporal punishment of

peasants ended and they were free to move around. Civil parishes started to form and

peasants were able to participate in local political and economic administration. There

was an increase in the number of Latvians buying lands and houses, becoming strong

farmers (Spekke, 1948/2008, p. 252). These historical events and people’s participation

in them as well as their emotions and attitudes toward them, in one way or the other,

found their expression in the folk narratives such as the legends explored in this study.

Citing a German’s travel notes, Spekke (1948/2008) offered an insight into

Latvian character as observed by an outsider in the mid-19th century. The traveler

portrayed Latvians as politically backward due to their prolonged lack of freedom with

weak social ties and an almost sickly individualism (p. 254). According to Vīķe-

Freiberga (2010), a prominent stateswoman and a former president of Latvia, Latvians

were considered a non-nation by the dominant group—Baltic Germans—not only in the

earlier centuries but also at the end of the 19th century. For a Latvian to advance in the

society, he or she had to become either German or Russian, as it was Germans and

Russians who governed the country (p. 33). The lack of experience with self-

determination, according to Vīķe-Freiberga, led to certain intolerance among Latvians

toward other Latvians who advanced and took on a regulator or a managing role. Another

historian and sociologist Beitnere (2012) also acknowledged that before the 20th century,

most Latvians were peasants with no property rights, moving from one landlord to

another on a yearly basis. This instability of their life, as the author suggested, rooted

itself in the understanding and behaviors of many generations of Latvians (p. 243).

9
Corvée is forced labor exacted in lieu of taxes.
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Kļaviņš (2013a), a historian at the University of Latvia, contended that there has

been too much emphasis placed on backwardness, the social and political aloofness of the

Latvian population, and the gloominess of conditions under which the peasants labored

rather than on the multiplicity of human experiences, including those showing the

resourcefulness of Latvians over the past centuries. According to Kļaviņš, the focus on

the dark side of life has created a tradition of despondency among Latvians. He also

argued that self-determination was exercised by Latvian farmers in the middle of the 19th

century by determining taxes, managing repair of roads and care for the elderly and the

sick, determining salaries, discussing budgets, and electing teachers for the civil parish

schools (Kļaviņš, 2013b). He is not alone in his views; Beitnere’s (2012) overall

assertions about the sense of ownership among Latvian farmers parallels the insights of

Kļaviņš.

The tradition of despondency, as Kļaviņš (2013a) argued, was as old as Latvian

literature itself. The gloomy notes dominating in works of Latvian writers, in his opinion,

could be linked, among other things, to the Herrnhüter Brüdergemeine’s religious views

of rejection of the world and the significant role that this religious group played in

promoting education in Latvia in the 18th century. The Herrnhüter Brüdergemeine or the

“Moravian Church,” active in the territory of Latvia in the 18th century, was closely

linked with the German Lutheran Church and its reform movement of pietism, which

involved “the contemplative Pietist removing himself from the clutter of everyday life, in

order to escape immortality and to reach the ‘unio mystica’” (Blumbergs, 2008, p. 38).

Blumbergs (p. 44) also noted the influence of the Herrnhuter pastors. He maintained that

the Herrnhuter priests and their literacy program and running of schools at local parish
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levels made an important contribution to both the development of a standardized Latvian

language and national self-conscience among Latvians. The first Latvian writers and

poets, as Kļaviņš (2013a) contended, who were educated in the program may have

adopted the Herrnhuter’s world-denying attitude, turning their lens of perception in one

particular direction—looking for the negatives, the grim aspects of life. The first educated

Latvians, as Kļaviņš put it, seemed to compete in depicting the bleak sides of life, and the

following generations continued on from there. An example of a lasting gloom can be

heard in a speech given by a well-known Latvian poetess Zālīte (2008) to hundreds of

thousands of demonstrators during a freedom rally in 1988 in which she identified herself

and all those present using these words,

Greetings, the nation of orphans! . . . The orphan gene is strongly programmed in

our unconsciousness. It has been planted in our nation by the hundreds of years of

subjugation and repression . . . . The sense of being wronged and being alone is in

each and every one of us and in the nation as a whole. It is there because we have

not had Mother for a long time—Mother who is our spiritual and material basis;

Mother in whose presence we as a nation are safe; Mother as a place, as time, as

land, motherland, and the state. (My translation.)

Zālīte seemed to voice a widely held sentiment of Latvians—we lack that which could

make us feel wealthy and strong both in the world of material goods and in the sense of

self-value.

As the writings of these historians and researchers indicate, there is controversy in

the discourse about Latvians as a group and their access to wealth-generating structures

and potential in the past and in the present. There are authors who emphasize the lack of
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resources and social and political powers and some who highlight the creativity and

entrepreneurship of the Latvian people.

The traditional Latvian mythological legends that orbit the subject of wealth with

their intrinsic pessimistic character may be a genre to be concerned and worried about if

it is used as an ideological tool. Dégh (2001) stated that she had devoted her life to the

legend research because she was concerned that legends could be used as ideological

tools and, thus, become dangerous. She wrote, “The legend has power, the nature of

which is unknown and dangerous. And defense against this potential danger is advisable,

as it can be used as a weapon in the wrong hands” (p. 5). She gave as an example the

legends about witches and the reality of the witch-hunt crazes of the16th and 17th

centuries (p. 5). I suggest that the unrecognized Shadow contents that the Latvian

mythological legends communicate to us may harbor dangers for individuals and groups.

Especially, if the legends are used to enshrine traditions and ideology, as Moore (1996, p.

22) warned in writing about complexes in the collective psyche of groups of people, or if

they become a tool for stereotyping and disregarding particularity, as Miller (1996, p. 62)

cautioned that the traditional folk narratives such as myths could do.

The danger of not deepening insights about the Shadow images and motifs in the

Latvian traditional mythological legend, as I see it, is not only in diminishing the

psychological relevance of the legend but also in imprinting stereotypes about the

psychology of the legend tellers. This study, while being a depth psychological inquiry, at

the same time, is a political project in the way that Hockley (2004) argued an exploration

of a cultural work may become when a Jungian approach is used in its exploration, when

the relationships between individual and the world around him or her are made more
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conscious. Although I am seeking insights within the traditional Latvian legends, the

value of discernments cannot be limited to this particular people because of the

archetypal structures and images communicated by the stories.

Although placing the legend with its overall pessimistic character in the center of

this study, the intention is not to add to the gloominess that Kļaviņš (2013a, 2013b)

lamented. Rather, it is to discern the depth and multiplicity of the Shadow images and

motifs captured in the often cheerless stories, in the legends. Arguably, Latvians are in a

possession of a cultural complex, a group Shadow, because so many authors have noted

the gloominess surrounding the topics of self-determination, wealth, value, identity, and

self-worth. The psychological Shadow, however, is not a dark matter of a doom fate. It

has a generative function that Jung (1948/1969) underscored as essential for the

development of both individuals and groups. As mentioned before, many authors have

written about the generative function of the Shadow. Jung (1948/1969) called it a “life-

bringer” (p. 227), Knapp (2003), a “nature’s growth factor” (p. 9), and Johnson (1971),

“the water of life” (p. ix).

The Shadow Images—Their Shapes and Character

Animal shapes.

The mythological legends are alive with animal images: cats, dogs, snakes, birds,

toads, bucks, and goats. They are the forms in which the supernatural powers appear and,

I suggest, they are also the symbolic energies of the Shadow archetype reflecting the

human experiences with wealth, well-being, and the sense of worthiness. A big black cat,

a tomcat (not a little cute kitten) is one of the theriomorphic shapes of the Hauls, dragons,

and ghosts. A bird—a rooster, chick, or raven—is a dragon’s shape. Snakes are a disguise
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for Hauls, the Lingering Mother, and dragons. Toads most often embody the Lingering

Mother but have also been seen as dragons. Finally, bucks and goats stand close to the

fire as if guarding it or being a part of the fire itself.

In the legends, all these animals are the visible forms of the supernatural—the

mythical creatures at the center of the stories. Rӧhrich (1979/1991) apprehended animal

bodies in the legends as demonic forces and humans under a spell. From a Jungian depth

psychological perspective, animals are associated with instinctual drives and creativity in

humans. The presence of images of creatures in the legends that talk about wealth, value,

and worthiness is not surprising, as those require passionate drive and creative powers.

Jung (1954/1969a) associated animals in the folk narratives with the Shadow process in

which conscious controls are broken down under powerful emotions; it is an experience

of being possessed by or in the grips of a natural, instinctual, or animal nature (p. 22).

Von Franz (1971, p. 75) warned that beasts have the power to eat up the conscious aspect

of the human world; that can happen if the instinctual animals are let loose. It appears

that one of the Latvian mythological legends imparts that same wisdom: “Dragons are

said to appear in all kinds of forms: some as a rooster, some as a terribly big cat with

huge eyes, and some in another shape. They used to be kept at home inside a special

pantry, and they had to be watched closely” (See “Dragons as Cats and Roosters” in the

appendix). As this and other legends tell, if the animals (complexes) are not carefully

watched and are not kept safe, they destroy homes and harm people.

Psychological exploration of archetypal images involves approaching the images

as symbols rather than signs. Rowland (2010a) explained that signs “stand for a known

quality or thing” (p. 11). For example, a sign of a cat in a story would represent a four-
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legged domesticated mammal. A rooster as a sign would depict a bird. Detailed and

exhaustive descriptions of anatomy and behaviors of these animals can be found in the

writings of zoologists and biologists. In contrast, the images of animals approached as

symbols direct us, as Rowland expressed it, to the “numinous unconscious for their true

reality” (p. 11). It needs to be acknowledged that the symbolic reality is deeply rooted in

the unconscious layers of the psyche. Therefore, no study can exhaust the full symbolism

of the archetypal images (be it cats, dogs, snakes, birds, toads, bucks, goats, other

animals, or any other manifestations of archetypal structures). The archetypal realm

retains its unknowable aspect in every image that springs from it.

A depth psychological method I practice in this study to touch upon the meaning

of the symbols is active imagination—a technique of allowing images to speak for

themselves—and amplification—an interpretive psychological method proposed by Jung

(1962/1989), practiced by many Jungians, and elaborated upon by, among others,

Hillman (2008, pp. 19-24). For Jung (1951/1969a), amplification was a necessary

“psychic hygiene” (p. 188); it rescued individuals from isolation. Using this method, we

parallel symbols of one text with those of other texts. Often this interpretive method of

discerning a symbolic meaning is done by reference to myths (as well as material of other

folklore genres) or other helpful content found in literature, films, web searches, and

writings of various authors. The aim of amplification is to go beyond the personal or

individual and to bring insights that compensate for the one-sidedness of views because

of some dominant perspective. Adams (2010, p. 42) proposed doing amplifications (and I

use that in my study) not only to calm but also to disturb consciousness. In fact, Adams
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asserted that the disturbances may turn out to be a valuable challenge for “defective

attitudes of the ego” (p. 42).

To explore the animal symbols, I do not dismiss the biological nature of the

creatures but amplify the images by finding writings about typical characteristics

associated with each animal, as those tell us what we may already sense (and know) on

the gut level. I follow Hillman’s (2008) contention that amplification ought not to discard

scientific texts, modern and imaginative texts as well as personal associations (p. 22). By

including those, we gain knowledge while accepting that the personal interpretive frame

we put on the images will never include their full cosmology. The amplification is also

approached here as a therapy—”infusing the cosmic into the personal [and cultural]” (p.

24) and releasing the images of the Latvian legends into the realms that go beyond a

particular culture and geography. Moreover, active imagination and amplification are

practiced in this study as a ritual that honors and serves the image. The mythical animals

of the Latvian mythological legends are, thus, approached as daimonic beings whose role,

as Hillman saw it, is to show us a path out of “the egocentric secular worldview” (p.

24)—the narrow view we habitually rely on—and into the worldview that embraces the

Other.

Cats. In the Latvian legends explored in this study, the cats are most often black.

They are terribly big with huge eyes. The legends say that cats are strange, likely because

they live in barns where they pour grain into mills or behind stove tops where they help

the mistress of the house. Cats are also said to have turned into money when they have

been caught creeping into human homes and being kicked for that.
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Cats and humans have shared living quarters for hundreds (and even thousands)

of years. Most people would know of someone who owns a cat or two, or more. Owns is

the wrong word to use, as cats are creatures that define their own terms even when

domesticated. Despite this independence and perhaps because of it, many people enjoy

the presence of this animal. Writing about the image of the cat as an expression of aspects

of the psyche, von Franz (1999b) paid particular attention to its independent nature and

likened it to human psychological need to maintain our awareness as individuals. “You

often see cat dreams in women who have no independence, who are too doggishly

attached to their husbands and children, and then, I always stress what a cat does. A cat

goes its own way. It knows what it wants and goes its own way” (pp. 59-60).

My personal associations with cats are far from comradely. A cat creeping into

my living room would be an unwelcome sight. As a child I was taught to stay away from

cats, as they were believed to carry diseases. As I explored the image of the cat, I

wondered how my relationships with cats have reflected my relationship with my own

sense of myself and my worthiness. As a grownup, I did share my space with a cat called

Puncis (Big Belly). He was accepted in my house because I was even less fond of mice.

Those were the cat’s hunting skills that I could not live without. These animals are known

to be equally good hunters in both daylight and the dark. For centuries, they were

welcome in Buddhist temples (just like into my house) as guardians of sacred texts

against mice. In my quarters, it was not books but me that the cat had to guard, and

Puncis never failed at that. He made certain that I would notice his talents by leaving

unsightly signs of his catch. Perhaps, Puncis was also an unconscious reminder for me to

maintain my independence and trust my own path.

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Not only are cats known for their hunting abilities, they are animals that produce

numerous young numerous times a year. Although some may see this as a problem,

others perceive it as “fertile, life-enhancing feline energies” (Ronnberg & Martin, 2010,

p. 300). Because of its fertility, Eastern cultures (for example, Japanese) have used the

image of a cat to attract generative energies into their household and shops. It seems that

the same forces were welcomed into the Latvian homes by the legend tellers who saw

cats in their barns and houses.

Jung (1951/1969a) linked the cat image with the Greek goddess Kore, also called

Persephone. Kore as cat helped humans see those aspects of the psyche that were

childlike and prodded them to grow up and mature. We can also find that the self-serving

character of a cat has been likened to a nonobedient woman and also with creative

energies that can hunt in the darker corners of the psyche for “hidden parts of ourselves”

(Ronnberg & Martin, 2010, p. 301).

Hillman (2008) asserted that “each animal has its own perfection” (p. 38) and

referred to a 20th-century Afrikaner author Laurens van der Post (as cited in Hillman,

2008, p. 39), who said that humans can learn to know themselves by seeing themselves in

animals. Instead of viewing animals in dreams (and I suggest also in the legend texts) as

repressed instincts, Hillman urged that we put ourselves “inside the therimorphic

imagination” (p. 44) (We imagine being the animal). He suggested seeing a cat as a

creature “who would control the household for its egocentric comfort” (p. 44) and who

forced us to hunt for it. Imagining being such a cat, I begin to feel lazy and irritable if

those I expect to serve me, to take care of me, do not perform as expected. Placing myself

inside the cat of the legends—one that pours grain into the mill—I feel a different energy
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in my body. It is one of presence and alertness. One moment’s peaceful purring may turn

into an intense, all-ears attention—with a precise leap going after the object of the hunt.

Being such a cat when hunting for what can bring wealth and managing to capture the

desired object may, I suggest, give us a sense of skillfulness, self-reliance, and

worthiness.

Dogs. Dogs are different hunters than cats—they are human hunting partners.

They can teach us how to sniff out nourishment or how to find what we have lost “in the

proverbial woods of the unknown” (Ronnberg & Martin, 2010, p. 296). In her book

Archetypal Dimensions of the Psyche, von Franz (1997) evoked the “keen nose” (p. 123)

of the dog that can be of service to us. Psychologically speaking, the ability to use one’s

nose is to use intuition of the unconscious. Dogs also symbolize the ultimate friendship—

both as our companions and guards. In one of the legends about the Haul, a big black dog

guards his keeper’s food. The legend says that there was a man who had two Hauls. One

sat on top of the grain bin and looked like a black dog. The other looked like a snake.

Only the man could take from the bins and no one else.

The dog image may remind us of the mythological guardian Cerberus, the many-

headed dog that stands in front of the entry to the land of the dead. The underworld is not

only the home of ghosts; it is also the fertile ground from which new growth appears.

That may be what Cusick (2008) alluded to when he wrote that we had to taste the

underworld just the same way as we had to have a heroic experience (p. 13) in order to

grow psychologically. The association of the dog with the underworld as the ghost-land is

not accidental. It is said that Winston Churchill spoke about his depression as “his ‘black

dog’” (Ronnberg & Martin, 2010, p. 296). One of the Latvian legends talks about a man
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who needed to stay in bed to guard a stolen chest of money that was placed under the

bed. Whenever the weakling climbed out of the bed, even if for a short while, and walked

away, a black dog showed up there on top of the chest. In ancient Greece, however, the

healing god Asclepius often manifested as a dog (von Franz, 1999a, p. 124). The dog

may, thus, guard both the psyche’s rich cellars of nourishment and its dark wet basements

of depressive moods. The Latvian legends appear to impart the knowledge about the dog

as a guardian and as one hunting the troubled mind.

I imagine being the guard dog on to top of the grain bin and begin to feel the

friendship and loyalty of my own dogs. Those who have been in the Latvian countryside

know that each house has its guard. I had a couple of them—Rolis and Dembo. Rolis was

a mutt and Dembo was a large, majestic Caucasian Shepherd. Despite their different

genes, both of them stood guard against any intruders—be it neighbors’ chickens, cats, or

the homeless looking for canned food in my basement. With the energy of these dogs

inside, I feel secure about what I own, what is mine—my house, my belongings, and my

own being.

Imagining into the black dog of the depression, I am transported into a scene from

a quarter of a century ago. My two-year-old son and I were walking past a row of houses,

each of which had a dog. As it is habitual to the dogs and as their innate guardian nature

calls for, they bark when strangers pass by. When we were walking by the first house, the

dog did just that—it barked. My two-year-old announced: “Doggie. Barking.” As we

passed by the next couple of houses, the same was repeated: the dogs barked and my boy

observed: “Doggie. Barking.” When we got to the next house, we saw a dog lying there

silently. It made the two-year-old conclude: “Doggie. Broken.” The black dog of
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depression or the dog that sits on the weakling’s chest seems to be a broken doggie—it

lies there emptied of its energies. Its loyalty and helpfulness have seeped away. Such

guards of our external and inner riches may be questionable if not detrimental. I suspect

that an agile barker on top of the buckets of self-worthiness could be a better guardian. A

broken doggie would likely not be a good companion on a hunt, either in driving game or

sniffing out what lies in the shadows of the human psyche.

Snakes. In the Latvian mythological legends, the snakes most often show up as

big and black. They lie on top of buckets of butter and grain guarding them from

unwelcome intruders. One of the legend tellers identified the guarding snake as an

adder—a small snake and the only venomous snake in Latvia with a dark zigzag pattern

on its back. It gives birth to live young rather than laying eggs, as many kinds of snakes

do.

Some snakes of the Latvian legends fly like dragons bringing loads of goods to

their keepers. Those snakes, as one of the legends tells, are fiery, and they twist and hiss

when getting up into the air. Not only is the snake the theriomorphic form of the Haul,

Lingering Mother, and dragon of the Latvian legends, but also of Greek deities such as

Zeus, Apollo, and Hades and of Hindu deities—Kali and Shiva (Ronnberg & Martin,

2010, p. 196). The legend “The Circling Haul” tells us about a snake biting its own tail

when it cannot find the mistress who had just died and even after the mistress is put in the

coffin and carried to the barn. The snake biting its own tale evokes the image of

Uroborus. Jung (1948/1967) saw the nature of Uroborus reflected in the mythical

Mercurius and Hermes—the gods of “thieves and cheats [and also] . . . of revelation” (p.

233) symbolizing inventiveness coupled with self-reflection. During times of transition

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(death being one of them), some looking back and come contemplation is inevitable. It

can be imagined that the husband is the one reflecting and that some snake-like qualities

are associated with the deceased. Was she a cheat or was she a shrewd overseer of the

household?

A snake is a different kind of hunter; it is a creature that waits patiently for its

prey. It can swallow an animal several times larger than its own size. Recently, I attended

a talk by Johan Marais, the Chairperson of the Southern African Reptile Conservation

Assessment (SARCA), who spoke about snakes as fascinating animals and also dispelled

some myths and misconceptions about these reptiles. Snakes apparently do not chase

their prey. Even the infamous black mamba does not go after its victim. Instead, these

carnivorous reptiles can spend hours, days, and even months lying still waiting for prey to

pass by. When it gets into the range of the hunter, the prey receives a deadly strike and is

swallowed whole. Snakes do not waste their venom or their energy on a strike if the

animal passing by is too large to be devoured in a single piece.

Imagining becoming such a hunter, we may learn to acquire keen skills of

preparedness and an enormity of patience, which is needed to peruse our own objects of

hunt. Our pursuits then are not overly grandiose or too miniscule; rather they are just the

right size—the size we can handle based on our own innate abilities and not on the

assessment of our potential imposed by others or the dominant historical, economic, and

societal structures.

Snakes are also animals that renew themselves. They do that by shedding their

skins, emerging beautiful and strong, as if reborn. My first encounter with this skin-

shedding reptile was in the woods next to my childhood home. Walking down a narrow
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path weaving between the trees, I met a beautiful adder. It had just freed itself from the

constraints of the old skin that lay transparent and lifeless next to it. The snake was shiny.

I remember it as bright green and yellow; and I still feel the excitement and exhilaration

of such an unexpected meeting. Being just 5, I had no fear, only joy about the bright day

and the even brighter snake having come to meet me. Later, telling my mother about the

encounter, I sensed a different emotion in her—fear and warning to flee such meetings in

the future. Was she afraid of the snakes or of the powers of ancient gods associated with

these creatures that myths speak about? Hillman (2008) posed that same question in his

essay on a snake: “Remember: most of the Greek gods, goddesses, and heroes had a

snake from—Zeus, Dionysus, Demeter, Athene, Hercules, Hermes, Hades, even Apollo.

Is our terror of the snake the appropriate response of a mortal to an immortal?” (p. 77).

As a child, I had not heard of the gods and the snake for me was just something beautiful

I came upon on the wooded path.

To this day snakes scare me less than mice. Perhaps this has to do with the

magnificent sight of skin shedding—the renewal—that is imprinted in my mind. We

humans renew our cells too and, just like the snakes, we have a way to emerge not only

with fresh bodies but also new attitudes and relationships with others and ourselves. No

matter what imprint each of us may have of this legless reptile, when reading the legends,

we have an opportunity, as Hillman (2008) suggested, to imagine it “as a felt presence”

(p. 78) and talk to it to discover our own meaning embodied in the animal.

Ravens. As one Latvian legend tells, a raven emerged from a piece of mat (a rag)

that a farmer discarded believing that he had been cheated when buying a dragon. The
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farmer threw the mat into a river. The water then began to bubble, and from the bottom of

the river came a raven, moving up and flying back to where it was bought.

In Norse myths, the god Odin has two ravens, Hugin (Thought) and Mumin

(Memory), who probe “beneath the surface of things . . . to bring the hidden truth to . . .

the gods” (Ronnberg & Martin, 2010, p. 248). The raven of the Latvian legend also

seems to be able to go beyond the surface of things and come up with truths not known

before. In the legend, the farmer realizes (even if late) he owned a dragon (even if

disguised). The place where the raven flies is known and, perhaps, the man can go there

again, this time with a deepened understanding of what he is able to own.

Ravens are said to possess intelligence capable of exploiting both natural and

human environments. They imitate sounds and use tools to get what they want. In

recognition of that, the reference to this bird is used in the name of a contemporary

company that specializes in research. A quick search on the web shows that a

trademarked name ResearchRaven (n.d.) refers to a public service designed to advance

research related to health and scholarship in that field. The description of the services

evokes the characteristics of the bird, particularly its eyesight: “The tools and resources

featured on ResearchRaven™ are collected with an eye toward the information needs of

those working across the spectrum of health, medicine and science” (n.d.). The natural

intelligence of these birds placed them in many myths and folk stories long before they

began flying on web pages. The folk narratives speak about the raven’s abilities to gather

knowledge from the unconscious. Von Franz (1995) elucidated the image of ravens:

as birds which belong to the sun god and birds used for divination. Thus they have

a connection with parapsychological facts and telepathy; they can see into the
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future and into secret thoughts. They represent more the male principle . . . . The

ravens have a more general quality of being neither good nor bad, but pure nature;

they express the truth in a way similar to that of the expression of the

unconscious. Naturally, it is anthropomorphic to say that the unconscious is

benevolent, for it is up to the conscious to make decisions. (pp. 94-95)

It is up to us how we imagine these birds, suggested von Franz. Becoming a raven when

entering the Latvian legend, we can choose to feel it as an omen of troubles (and even

death) as a punishment for nonrecognized or missed opportunities to gain wealth. We

may also elect to experience the intelligence of this big black bird and embody its innate

skill of playful problem-solving by using both man’s and nature’s tools to acquire

riches—material wealth and a sense of self-worth.

Chicks. Chicks in the traditional Latvian mythological legends we are exploring

are not innocent fluffy little things. They appear to be tiny and helpless at first, then

helpful to their keepers, but later they turn into pests. Chicks, in fact, are dragon babies.

In the legend “The Chick Dragon,” the birdie first brought plenty of grain to the farmer.

Later, it became a wrathful fire when the farmer did not listen to it and refused to become

a spendthrift. The farmer saw a black stripe come through the air and fire shooting

through the eyes of the black one. It flew over the farmer’s house and set all the buildings

on fire. A similar thing happened to a woman who had found a dragon chick that later

insisted on the lady becoming a thief.

More often than not, when we see the young of animals or human babies, we

think of the promise of a new life and the hidden power of innocence. It is not at all

strange to imagine a chick that has just emerged from a fertile egg as a metaphor for a
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new beginning filled with promise and possibility. The legends communicate that too

when they tell about the farmer and the woman nourishing the chicks they find. Things

are not so simple though.

Hillman (2007) described the multiplicity and complexity of evoking of a human

child that I see as paralleling the appearance of the chick in the legends. On one hand it

offers “the fantasy . . . that one can make of something whatever one wishes” (p. 94). On

the other hand, it reminds us of the feelings we experience when faced with something

unknown that scares us and that wells up in us a sense of inadequacy. The image of a

baby (be it an animal or a human child), as Hillman contended, contains futurity exactly

because of its “infantile desires, self-destructive fantasies, omnipotence cravings, [and]

archaic impulses” (p. 94). In the legends those desires and cravings are communicated as

the chick pestering the farmer to buy manor houses and to live wastefully and clamoring

at the woman to go stealing.

The legend about the dragon chicks starts out with the chick screaming. Perhaps

the scream may be likened to what Hillman (2007) called “the basic cry” (p. 94)—the cry

of the infant that turns his or her environment into helpers. When the woman found the

chick tiny and wet amidst the stubble, she took it home and helped it dry out. The little

bird got food too from the farmer. The cry was needed to draw attention and

communicate vulnerability that secured help; as Hillman said, “futurity springing from

vulnerability itself” (p. 95).

The little chick holds many promises embodied in the mythical dragon and in a

bird—its ability to transcend, connecting the realms of the earth and sky, and the

conscious and the unconscious. Birds and their flight may make us imagine our own
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freedom and ability to do the impossible. The complex of the abandoned child, however,

remains. “It is as if to change we must keep in touch with the changeless, which also

implies taking change for what it is, rather than in terms of development,” surmised

Hillman (2007, p. 96). The pestilence of the chick in the legends may be just that: the

abandoned child in the legend teller that is both his or her vulnerability and futurity at the

same time. The sense of being an orphan may be not only the big wound and a pest in the

psychic body of the Latvian nation but also the pain that cries for healing until it is heard.

Toads. Toads in the Latvian legends are the creatures associated with the mythical

beings securing lasting wealth. It may be the mistress of the house who has such a toad. It

may happen, however, that the toads’ fate has a sad end—a farmhand sneaks up on it and

kills it. We may wonder how the farmhand—the one that feels lacking—has ambushed

the toad of plenty in the psyches of the legend tellers and in, perhaps, in our own psyches.

The legend “Killing the Old Toad” may invite such contemplations. Similar reflection

may be invoked by yet another legend (“The Engure10 Dragon”) in which a traveler who

got spooked by a toad hopping all over food ended up sleeping outside in the cold rather

in the warmth of the house. Yet another legend, “The Toad God,” could bring up a

different image of the toad; in it, the toad comes to serve its role and leaves just to be

called again next time.

My first encounter with a toad, before I met it in the legends, occurred when

living in the countryside in Latvia, in a place called Naudīte (this is also the place where I

met the adder). Coincidentally, the name Naudīte comes from the Latvian word nauda

10
Engure is a fisherman’s village of Latvia. The word engure shares the root with

the word enga, which means a plug or a rowlock.

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(money). Perhaps it is only a coincidence and nothing more or, maybe it is a

synchronicity that I became interested in the theme of money, wealth, and worthiness?

Accidentally, it was not even me who noticed this interesting fact. It was a journalist

interested in my research whom I spoke to in the summer of 2014 who pointed out this

peculiar fact to me.

My family—father, mother, my brother, and I—lived in Naudīte from the time I

was 2 until I turned 8. Most of the time there I played outside with my brother and our

friends. Passing through the village was a little river, the Sesava, and, later, a big pond

was built by damming up the river. The meeting with the toad happened at the pond. The

toad was big—much bigger than the tadpoles I had held in my hands many times before.

I did not dare pick the toad up and so we looked at each other from a distance. Not certain

what the toad thought about me or what were its intentions, I was captivated by its eyes.

They sat so far from each other and the only thing that seemed to connect them was an

even bigger mouth. I thought the mouth to be as wide as my palm and I kept my fingers

away from it. Besides, I wondered if the toad would burst open if I touched it—so big

and full of air it seemed to be.

Despite their size and the clumsy looks, toads are great hunters—their peripheral

vision is as wide as their mouth (Ronnberg & Martin, 2010). They hunt by hiding and

capturing their prey by reaching out with their tongues and with a lightning speed pulling

the meal into their toothless mouths and gulping down it down in an instant. Because of

the toad’s ways of hunting, people have linked it with “the other side of reality, which is

mortality” (p. 188). Humans have also seen the image of the moon reflected in this
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creature when it inflates itself to appear bigger and the image of the earth itself when the

toad sits blended in with the ground cover—heavy and solid in its presence.

We may ask: How would it be if I were toad-like in my hunting to secure well-

being? Embodying a toad, we might prosper with equal ease in a variety of environments

and be more open to the riches in each of them. The definitions of beauty in ourselves

and others would be redefined. Being happy with the parotoid gland on our backs that

others call warts, we would use them to secrete a special substance to keep enemies

away. Few would trouble us, as they would believe that our “warts” are contagious, and

we could hop about in our own way— steadfast and grounded.

Hillman (2008) observed that there is a special link between animals and humans:

“each animal has its specialized calling, bespeaking specific human characteristics, and

even contemporary laboratory psychology and zoology recognize that one particular

species is ideally constructed to give answers to each particular human problem” (p. 40).

Recently, cardiologist Barbara Natterson-Horowitz (2014) gave a talk offering her

perspective on how human well-being can be improved by insights into animal behavior

and health. She urged a “species-spanning approach” to understanding human health. In

exploring the animal images of the legends, I urge that same span for understanding the

Shadow aspects of the human psyche.

What elders have known about toads, modern science is currently discovering. A

news article on the site of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (Ellen & La Canna,

2014) announced in September of 2014 that the poison from the cane toad is effective in

killing prostate cancer cells by targeting the sick cells and destroying the diseased ones.

In ancient times, toad’s venom was known to ease labor pains for women (Ronnberg &
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Martin, 2010, p. 188), and because of that Eastern mythologies have linked toads with

water and birth. In Western mythologies, toads are a metaphor for the Mother Earth and

her life-giving powers. One of the Latvian legends alludes to this. It tells about the

mistress of a house who had a special relationship with spirits (toads) that lived in her

barn: “When everything was silent, the mistress came in, unbraided her hair, took off her

skirt and shirt, murmured some words and called: “‘Cruk the big, cruk the small, cruck

the smallest!’ As soon as she began to call like that, toads started to come out of all the

corners until the whole barn was almost full” (See “Witches and Toads” in the appendix).

Just as in the Eastern mythology, it is a woman who connects with the creature on

an embodied level. And like in the Western mythologies, she—in letting go of the mask

of the human being, in her nakedness and with her unraveled hair—evokes the image of

fertile soil and the Mother Earth.

In a more recent story, such as Hans Christian Andersen’s Thumbelina, the

medicinal and natural powers of the creature are omitted and the toad is depicted as ugly

but rich. Perhaps, the metaphor of earthly riches has transformed into a wealth that we

can better relate to now. The toad image may be pointing toward hidden jewels or a

disguised wisdom that stands behind what appears unsightly or unacceptable at first.

Many Latvian mythological legends do not dismiss the toad but rather invite its help.

When asked, toads with their powers to ensure riches crawl out from their hiding places

to bless what has been collected, baked or cooked, and placed on the table. As one legend

tells, people who gathered around a table beseeched their god and after a while “a big

toad jumped up on the table; it jumped around on the food, dipped its paws into the milk

and the honey, and then disappeared.” After that, everyone sat down and filled
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themselves with milk, honey, and meat, praising the toad. Just as imagining being a toad

can let us know about our ways of hunting what we desire, reading the legends to discern

the ways humans relate to the mythical creatures like the toad can inform us about the

Shadow in the attitudes we hold toward those aspects of our own beings that can secure

riches and a sense of worthiness.

Bucks and goats. The English word buck (Latvian buks) refers to the male of a

horned animal. In the Latvian legends, a buck may be a deer, a ram, a goat, or some other

male animal. In the language of Old Norse, the word djur or dȳr, in Gothic dius, in Old

Saxon dier, and in Old Frisian diar (Wikipedia, n.d.) stood for any undomesticated

animal as opposed to domesticated cattle. Today’s Danish has preserved this word and

calls all animals dyr.

Bucks, in the Latvian mythological legends, are wild—they do not belong to

anyone; they are not anybody’s cattle. The bucks of the legends are big and black. Just

like the goats that I describe below, they stand guard at fires that dry out the moisture

from disguised money. When a big black buck shot up out of the ground in front of a

shepherd girl, in one of the legends, she needed to throw her shoe at it rather than taking

it by its horns.

The legend, I suggest, tells us that this mythical creature cannot be approached

directly, head on, but needs to be drawn closer by coming to it in a slanted and a crafted

way. The manner of coming near to the mythical buck is similar to that of approaching

the human Shadow that a depth psychologist Mozol (2013) described. She spoke about

the Shadow, referring to the myth of Psyche and Eros, and particularly to the part in

which the fleece had to be collected from the golden ram as a metaphor for the human
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confrontation with the Shadow aspect of the psyche. She evoked the image of a

confrontation with the violent animal, the instinctual side of our own psyche and warned

that it is important when facing that animal, that the aggressive, primal drive in oneself

and the others, is approached on a slant, not directly, not in the brightest light of the day

but by the evening when the body is more at rest and things are in a more gentle space;

by the moonlight. Psychologically, the retrieval of gold from the animal is sublimation,

transmutation of the energy through reflection, by pausing, looking into dreams and

legends.

In Mozol’s (2013) view, the meeting with the Shadow in the shape of a ram (and I

add—in the form of a buck and goat that the Latvian legends tell about) is a reflective

undertaking. Besides, this approach to the Shadow is an acknowledgment that not only

we (in our explorations of the inner world) are impacted by the environment but that the

environment moves through the psyche of each individual. Reflecting on the image of a

buck as an animal allows us to experience its movement within us and through us.

Goats, like bucks, guard the parching money hidden inside bonfires in the Latvian

legends. A goat, while resembling a buck (to some extent at least) with its posture and

horns, is a tamed, not wild, animal. However, goats are not sheep. They are intelligent

and cunning. Perhaps, because of these characteristics, the Christian imagination has

projected compulsive sexuality onto it. The Devil himself has many times found its face

in the images of a goat. A certain allusion to the merging of the powers of goats and

devils is made in the legend “The Goat’s Fire,” in which the force of the goat is

controlled by crowing of a rooster.

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In the ancient culture of the Greeks, the energies of the goat show up in the myths

about Pan, Satyr, and Dionysus. According to Hillman (2007), the wisdom of the goat is

independent, desirous, and at the same time not sheep-like but one that forges its own

paths (p. 320). Pan as a goat is “a nature figure, or demon, of sensuality and powerful

emotions” (p. 287). It is nothing like the cultured Athena, who belongs to the normalized

and the ordered. Instead it manifests where emotions and desires are natural and

uncontrolled (p. 69). The slim maiden standing next to the fire and a green goat, in one of

the Latvian legends, may emphasize the non-Athenian energy embodied in us that is also

needed to acquire the money burned by the mysterious fire—the riches of the material

world and the realms of the psyche.

Hillman (2007) said that apprehending the Shadow within allows for fertile

psychological growth, “individuation and ability to love” (p. 318). Imagining the human

relationship with matters surrounding wealth and well-being that embraces the

steadfastness, determination, and desirousness of a goat brings yet another perspective on

this dynamic. This creature seems to keep in us the openness and freedom to satisfy not

only our most basic biological drives but also our wishes for fulfillment at a level of

identity that the archetype of Shadow entwines.

Psychologically, the animal is not only the lower and the instinctual aspect of the

psyche. It is also far superior to the human abilities and human mind. Jung (1948/1969)

saw the animal in the psyche as the necessary presence of body and the physical to

balance the one-sidedness of the conscious ego (p. 230). In discerning the animals’ innate

powers as done above seeking the symbolism of the images, we can become more

receptive to the idea about their compensatory energies. Paris (2006) asserted that the
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myth (and I add the legend as another form of folk narratives) functions to pass on

“meaning for collective conscience . . . and asks: ‘who are we, what is our story, and does

it mean to us?’” (p. 124). I suggest that in the Latvian mythological legends, the diverse

creatures embodying the supernatural powers at least in part contain the multipotent

energies of the archetypal Shadow that both limit and provoke the legend tellers’

experiences of well-being in the material world and their sense of worthiness.

The Bizarre and the Human Shapes

Besides the animal shapes that the Shadow archetype uses to manifests itself in

the traditional Latvian mythological legends, there are inanimate natural and also some

rather bizarre, peculiar, and odd ways the supernatural makes itself present. Stones and

trees are usually the visible aspects of the House-Master. The Fire-Mother may announce

herself as a branch built in a house, a fire-road one may travel on, the fire in the stove

where food is made, and as the pot hook holding pots above the fire. Dragons may take

on the most surprising shapes: horse dung or a hoof, a horse hobble, or the dried leg of a

frog.

The peculiar images of dung, fire, and pot hook, though seemingly unrelated, may

find their common place in the alchemical and psychological process called coagulatio.

As mentioned earlier, Edinger (1994) saw coagulatio as a stage in human psychological

growth. In it, the black feces (or dragon), which was the primitive shadow side—

”instinctual desirousness . . . contaminated with the unconscious” (p. 22)—were placed in

a container above the fire and burnt until they turned into “calx, as white as snow” (p.

21). What was dark or the nigredo became white. One of the images that depicted that

which needed to be burnt was the image of dragon-like salamander frolicking in the fire
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(p. 26). When the bodily desires and attachments were burned away, the soul could be

released and awakened. It could, however, as Jung (as cited in Eliade, 1952/1977)

insisted, not live in the state of whiteness because it was abstract and ideal, it needed to

become alive—to have blood or what the alchemists called the rubedo (pp. 228-229).

Psychologically, the images of dung, fire, and pot hook may yet again point toward a new

potential that is dormant within the human being—the legend teller obtaining the wealth-

bringing dragon—embracing the Shadow aspects as a source of nourishment if

alchemically transformed.

A hobble, horse’s hoof, and frog’s leg seem to point to the same image—legs.

Those limbs carry a special symbolism for human life. The Greek mythological hero

Oedipus had to solve the Sphinx’s riddle: What is the creature that walks on four legs in

the morning, two legs at noon, and three in the evening? The answer given by Oedipus

was a human being; and he was right. Legs are the limbs that carry the body. Literally

speaking, if they are strong, we are erect, mobile, and strong. We use references to the

strength of legs metaphorically as well. When an undertaking has legs, it means that it is

successful. In Latvian, one can say stāv pats uz savām kājām (he or she is standing on his

or her own legs), meaning that one is able to take care of himself or herself. The fact that

the dragons—the wealth-bringing creatures—may appear as a hobble, hoof, or dried

frog’s leg may imply a potential movement or a captured motion acquired for a later

release. When these objects turn into dragons, they not only run, they fly!

Symbolically, the images of dragons point toward creative human potential. In the

Latvian legends, dragons are the creature associated with wealth and, metaphorically

speaking, with human abilities, capacities, and inner riches. Dragons are not the typical
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guardians of those treasures but rather their bringers or destroyers. In the Western

tradition, as Jung (1951/1959b) described numerous times, the dragon has “a negative

meaning” (p. 245). As in China, the Latvian legend dragons may have a positive

significance. Even if that is the case though, we cannot ignore that the images of a horse

hobble and a dried leg of a frog may also indicate hindrance of movement. They may

serve us as reminders that in life too it is obstacles or hindrances that open us to our full

imaginative and creative potentials.

A hobble on its legs prevents a horse from straying; its freedom and movements

are restricted. A hobbling man or a woman is someone who limps, who is not able to

move with ease and grace. Others may call him or her a cripple—someone who is

“physically or psychically ‘bent,’ impeding the mobility of potential” (Ronnberg &

Martin, 2010, p. 478). The psychological function of the presence of the limper or

someone who has another deformity may be to disturb and to compensate for the one-

sidedness that rules ego; the ego’s idea of wholeness may be too perfect and illusory and

the health of the psyche might require a cripple as a reminder to embrace all aspects of

life. For that reason, Jung (1952/1956) pointed out that disfigurement and powers to bring

health were often combined and embodied in the ancient mythological healers: “Ugliness

and deformity are especially characteristic of those mysterious chthonic gods, the sons of

Hephaestus, the Cabiri, to whom mighty wonderworking powers were ascribed” (p. 126).

In the Latvian mythological legends in which the wealth-bringing dragon first

appears as an old horse hobble and a dried out frog’s leg, the farmer gets angry and

throws the items to the roadside. The reader/listener may sense the frustration of the man

when he thinks that he has been fooled. Psychologically, the images of the hobble and the
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dry frog’s leg may be conceived as aspects of the psyche that fears being constrained and

controlled. These images may challenge grandiose and illusory idea that one can do

whatever he or she desires; that anything is possible.

The legends telling about the Shadow enwrapping the notions of wealth and

worthiness in the psyche of the legend tellers may, thus, communicate both the potential

of a captured force and the challenges of realities that crush the grand idea that one can

accomplish whatever he or she wishes. By creating a place where we pause to consider

multiplicity of outcomes, the legends themselves, I suggest, function as wounded

healers—their pessimism and nonheroic dealing with all that transpires serves to

compensate for the one-sided dominant cultural beliefs.

The human-shaped images of the supernatural beings such as fire, ghosts,

gnomes, dragons, and devils deserve particular attention. Šmits (n.d.) contended that

dragons and devils were later forms of the supernatural powers called the House-Master,

Haul, and the Lingering-Mother. These earlier images of the supernatural were typically

stones, trees, animals. The later ones, like dragons and devils, took on a human shape. All

the mythical creatures, however, embodied higher than human powers of value, wealth,

and, related to those, the sense of being well-off and worthy.

If first the ability to bring in wealth is linked to something separate from humans

(as in the House-Master appearing in stones and trees) and to the lower instinctual drives

(as in the Haul, Lingering Mother, and dragon showing up as animals), then later the

wealth-bringing powers gain a human face—devils, ghosts, and gnomes possess human

features. It may, therefore, be argued that a psychologically new relationship between the

human and the extra-human powers is depicted in the chronologically later legends. To
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invite insights derived from these human-shaped images, I want to bring them into a

dialogue with similar images found in Jung’s writings.

In the Latvian legends, devils are the supernatural beings that appear in a human

shape. As this creature is both Christian and pagan, it may arrive alone as the Devil or in

groups as many devils of different age. Devils may show up as a family, as brothers, and

also as boys. When a devil appears as a big black man, a black gentleman, a stately

gentleman, or a ghost of an old master, it is the Devil much like the Devil of the Christian

church. The legends “The Little Tiny Devil,” “Two Devils Reward a Peasant,” “The

Black Gentleman and Workers,” “The Devil for a Friend,” and “The Dead Master and the

Devil,” tell about the different devils.

Ghosts tend to turn up as beautiful maidens, like in the legends “The Money

Maiden,” “The Greedy Maiden,” “The Ditch of Maiden,” and “Money—the Beautiful

Maiden.” Sometimes a ghost arises as a man (for example in “Money in the Barn”) and

less often as an animal, like a cat (as it happened in “Bones and Money”). Gnomes are

always little people (boys or men), supposedly coming from their dwellings under the

ground (Šmits, n.d.); and they like to run around naked (“The Naked Gnomes”).

The human-shaped manifestations of the supernatural, as the legends show, may

be those of a child, a man, or a woman. These images evoke the archetypes of the Divine

Child, Wise Old Man/Wise Old Woman, Anima, and Animus. While the archetype of the

Shadow is at the center of this study, the other archetypes are important to touch upon

because there are no unsurpassable walls of division between them and there are

countless lines connecting their energies. In the psyche, the archetypal structures affect

each other just like the function of one organ in the body affects those of the others.
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It is interesting to note that Jung (1951/1959a) observed a process of development

within a therapeutic setting in which the first archetype encountered was the Shadow and

after that, the archetypes of Anima and Animus, often indicating that the Shadow is the

initial breaking down of the ego fortress, too far divorced from the Other. Šmits (n.d.)

contended that images of devils and the Devil were a later expression of the earlier

supernatural powers such as the dragon and before that the House-Master. Arguably, the

combined insights of Jung and Šmits point toward a development in the psychology of

the legend and that of the legend tellers. The earlier legends about wealth, well-being,

and self-worth involve nonhuman images and animal images indicating the early

psychological engagement with the Shadow. The later legends—picturing the same

supernatural forces in human shapes—point toward a further psychological discernment

that includes the archetypal energies of Anima, Animus, and also of the Divine Child and

Self.

Just as in the case of the animal images, the symbolic meaning of these archetypes

cannot be fully described because they point to the psyche’s structures that are essentially

unconscious. Jung (1951/1969b) put it this way: “Every interpretation necessarily

remains an ‘as if’” (p. 156). In addition, a more exhaustive discussion of the Anima,

Animus, and the archetypes of Child and Self goes beyond the scope of this study. I only

note the key aspects of the archetypes to indicate the ensuing psychology of the legends

that evoke human-shaped archetypal images rather than animal images.

Although animals conjure up the devouring as well as creative powers of the

human instinctual nature, the Child archetype, according to Jung (1951/1969b, p. 181),

points toward a distinct psychological experience and understanding of both beginning

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and end, abandonment and invincibility, as in hermaphroditism. In its potential for unity,

the Child “expresses man’s wholeness” (p. 179) and therefore serves as an illustration for

the blurring of the archetypal experiences of Shadow and Self. The image of the Child, in

the legends may be the psyche’s way to obscure the dividing line between human abilities

and the supernatural powers to secure wealth, well-being, and the sense of worthiness.

The legends with the Child image may also serve as a reminder of childish

preoccupations that concern only the immediate—that which “exists now” (Jung,

1951/1969b, p. 162). In the legend “The Naked Gnomes,” the gnomes stop working as

soon as they get clothes and shoes. Psychologically this may be understood as a childish

way of abandoning action as soon as one’s immediate needs are satisfied. As the legends

describe the wealth bringers and helpers as dwarfed beings, the psychological

interpretation may also point toward a dissociation. Jung observed that when a dreamer

had “homunculi, dwarfs, boys, etc., appear, having no individual characteristics at all,

there is the probability of a dissociation” (p. 165). I suggest that the legends indicate

disconnectedness between the creative wealth-securing energies and the human

experience of self in the legend tellers. The sense of being grown up is not quite present

in the psyche that perceives the notions of wealth and worthiness as gnomes—dwarfed

beings. Jung (1952/1956) also believed that “the dwarf motif brings us to the figure of the

divine boy, the puer aeternus” (p. 127)—the boy who remains a child forever and who

does not want to grow up, preferring to live in the Neverland of Peter Pan. At the same

time, Jung also saw the potential of the mythical part-adult part-child beings, for

example, Dionysus. He suggested that “the double figure of the adult and infant Dionysus

lends itself particularly well to . . . assimilation” (pp. 127-128). The image of a gnome
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also appears as a grown-up and toddler combined and offers assimilating energies. The

absorption and digestion of the messages the legend communicates may be easier when

the images of the Shadow have a child’s face or its short stature.

Not only do images of child-like beings point toward the blurred archetypes of the

Self and the Shadow. The images of an old man and a hag sitting by the money-parching

fire may do the same. In the legend “Fire in the Field,” in which an old stooping man

tends the fire or in “The Hag’s Fire,” where an old hag wrapped in a gray blanket sits by

the fire without uttering a word, we may discern the archetypal presences. The image of

the old stooping man by the fire of wealth may be interpreted as the Wise Old Man and

that of the old hag as the Wise Old Woman. As the names indicate, these are archetypal

powers of wisdom that, as Jung (1948/1969) recognized, mean “a profound reflection or

a lucky idea” (p. 217). The energies arise in times of need. The two archetypes, in Jung’s

(1954/1969a, p. 22) view, are significant for the psychological wholeness of an individual

because they bring the missing forth to the psyche. They complement and, thus, complete

the opposite elements of the masculine and the feminine as well as the embodied and the

transcendent within an individual and in that way move the individual toward

psychological unity.

The significance of the Anima and Animus archetypes in the legends invoking the

shadowy energies is in the qualities that these archetypes add to the legend experiences

and how they shift them. The importance of encountering the Anima figures, as Jung

(1951/1959c, pp. 14-17) contended, was in their power to evoke connectedness and

relatedness in the experience. Animus energies promote the capacity for deliberation,

reflection, and self-knowledge. At the same time, in its less conscious aspects, Anima
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provokes irrational moods and Animus provokes irrational opinions. In the context of the

legends, the appearance of the human-shaped images as the manifestations of the

supernatural powers of wealth may mark a more reflected and connected human sense of

the origins and powers of the supernatural forces. On the other hand, the legends may be

the psyche’s illustrative powers to hold the irrational moody relationship and opinionated

understanding about the dynamics between humans and the forces behind our well-being

in both material and psychological sense.

The warning that Jung (1951/1959c, p. 18) issued for those who did not desire to

become more familiar with the archetypal influences was to be cautious about growth in

their prejudice and what they considered taboo subjects. Perhaps, such a prejudice and a

taboo subject is Latvian as a business man or woman. Growing up in Latvia, I knew that

the majority of those running businesses or working in shops were non-Latvians and that

Latvians excelled at arts but stayed away from involvement in businesses—those being

considered shady, dirty, and low. Although opinions about what a Latvian is good at have

likely changed over the past decades, some of the moody relationships and opinionated

understandings may linger. Thus, the legend’s communications about the archetype of the

Shadow and the intertwined other archetypal energies manifesting in a multiplicity of

images appear to be a way to reach deep into the collective unconscious and to access the

darker aspects of the psyche.

At the same time, it is important to keep in mind the inexhaustible depth of all

archetypes. Jung (1951/1969b) never stopped emphasizing that not even for a moment

should we
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succumb to the illusion that an archetype can be finally explained and disposed of.

Even the best attempts at explanation are only more or less successful translations

into another metaphorical language . . . . The most we can do is to dream the myth

onwards and give it a modern dress. (p. 160)

Keeping that in mind, I suggest that this study expands on the meaning that the traditional

Latvian mythological legends contain and attempt to communicate; moreover, it points

out the nourishment and the growth factors that the seemingly dry stories carry for the

psyche.

The Latvian mythological legend—a growth factor.

There is a particular value that the Shadow as the marginalized material of the

psyche holds because it includes both the light and the dark contents. As such, the

Shadow is not evil; it is, as Jung (1948/1967) contended, the alchemical Mercurius that

followed the classical figure of Hermes. The alchemical Mercurius was ambivalent, it

was volatile, and it conveyed the alchemical transformation in which the spirit that had

been hidden in the water rose out of it. “The texts remind us again and again that

Mercurius is ‘found in the dung heaps,’” wrote Jung (p. 232) in one of his psychological

essays involving the images of alchemy.

In the Latvian mythological legends, the dragons bought in the city and placed in

a small box as a piece of excrement (or some other nuisance such as an old horse hobble

and a dried-out frog’s leg or dried leaves of a birch tree) exemplify the Shadow as the

alchemical Mercurius. And just as in the old manuscripts in which Mercurius was

depicted in “excretory acts, including vomiting” (Jung, 1948/1967, p. 231), the Latvian

legends tell about the supernatural beings vomiting riches into their keepers’ coffers:
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The guest lay down and, not being able to sleep, just lay there. Suddenly, he heard

noise from the barn loft. The noise maker was coming down the stairs, pulling

something like a big sack behind. It heaved up a plenty, rumbled up the stairs, and

all became silent again. The guest wondered: what could it be? He could not sleep

any longer. And so, he heard the puker return two more times doing the same

thing. (“Butter Dragon”)

The puking dragon of the Latvian legend is the creature that makes the farmer rich.

The Shadow within its image of Mercurius, as Jung (1948/1967) saw it, is the

archetype that holds in itself everything that is the opposite of the perfectly good and

perfectly consummate Christian God. If Mercurius (the Shadow) appears as “perverse

and vile” (p. 242), it is only because it is juxtaposed with God. It becomes that container

in which we put all the filth that we want to sweep out of our houses to make them look

clean and presentable. But as Jung also warned, “no matter where the dump lies it will

plague even the best of all possible worlds with a bad smell” (p. 243). For Jung, thus,

Mercurius was a divinity equal to God. It was “the prima materia” (p. 235), the original

substance in the beginning, middle, and the end of the psychological process of

transformation. The function of Mercurius was to mediate between the imperfect bodies

and the highest spiritual achievements. The legends make many references to the

imperfection of bodies: burned hair, pain in legs, muteness, sore heart, burning stomach,

weakness that ties one to bed, and so on. They also tell about the flights of the

supernatural beings that the embodied humans keep and that bring them wealth, as in this

legend: “When the Haul swooped out of the barn, it looked like a long blue stripe. But
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when it ran back, it was red and much fatter. Then everybody who saw it said: ‘Well,

well. It’s full again!’”

The figure of Mercurius (the Shadow) holds within itself the physical nature and

the divine revelations (Jung, 1948/1967). Its capacities, as Jung argued, include “self-

generation, self-transformation, self-reproduction, and self-destruction” (p. 236), which

are not in opposition to the creativity of God. As the being of both the highest and the

lowest, of the beginning and the end, Mercurius nature was sometimes expressed as “the

uroborus, the One and All” (p. 323). As mentioned above, one of the legends tells about

the Circling Haul, which, after having lost its keeper (the woman had died), bites “its tail

between its teeth” and keeps looking for her keeper inside the kitchen and then going

around and around the fire in circles all night long.

When writing about psychology of dreams, Hillman (1979) linked the shadowy

images of the unconscious with Hades and Pluto. Hillman’s ideas apply here too because

the legends are not different from a collective dream (Jung, 1977, p. 371). An immediate

reaction of those who are familiar with Greek mythology may be of recoiling in the

presence of death associated with the names of the gods Hades and Pluto rather than of

experiencing the life-bringing waters that the Shadow is said to contain. Hades, after all,

is the ancient Greek god of the underworld—the home for the dead. The name Pluto was

a later name of Hades. At the same time Pluto also refers to wealth—the riches of the

underworld, mainly in the form of minerals. Hillman (1979) suggested that the name may

have been used euphemistically to “cover the frightening depth of Hades” (p. 20). He also

likened the destructiveness of the ancient Greek underworld with the psychological

process of deconstruction and death. Ultimately, however, Hillman asserted the necessity
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of these processes. Hades and Pluto were the shady figures essential in the death and

rebirth—the creativity of the psyche. Psychologically, the death was that of old ego-

attitudes and the birth was of new psychological states and relationships. Some key

characteristic of Pluto and Hades, as Hillman showed by deconstructing these complex

figures were invisibility and life-generative energies pertaining to their shadowy world.

Hillman wrote, “Pluto refers to the hidden wealth or the riches of the invisible . . . [and]

Hades hides invisibly in things” (p. 28).

Hades hides in things; the wealth-bringing Hauls and dragons of the Latvian

legends do the same. They are invisible but present in stones, trees, barns, horse dung,

hoofs, hobbles, frog legs, and a pot hook. More than that, they are hiding in humans

themselves and the legend “The Heavy Haul” tells about it:

A farmer had a Haul. Whenever the farmer moved to a new house, he put the

Haul in a wardrobe. The wardrobe was placed on top of a big cart with four

horses yoked in front of it. The horses foamed, so heavy was the Haul. This

farmer never lacked for anything. When he died, all went downhill. There was no

Haul that could pull.

The disappearance of the wealth-hauling creature coincides with the death of the farmer.

During his life, the farmer hides the Haul in his wardrobe—a closet. It is hard not to think

of the idioms to come out of the closet or to have skeletons in the closet, which both refer

to some shameful hidden contents, thus to the Shadow. At the same time, coming out of

the closet may be a liberating, and healing act—the hidden wealth of the invisible

shadowy Pluto. Death of the old or maturation implies both knowing and actively
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carrying our own Shadow content. It also entails holding our secrets and visions, not

letting them out before their time has come to guide us in our life’s journeys.

The characteristics of hiding and wealth were also seen by Hillman (1979) as

“stealth, surreptitiousness, deceit . . . of Hermes” (p. 29). Hermes, however, is many

things. In Greek mythology, the baby Hermes invents fire and is, thus, associated with

“the light of conscience in the form of the archetypal bringer of fire” (Combs & Holland,

1996, p. 89). In the Latvian legends, the thieves and wealth-bringing dragons are also

fire-spitting creatures. Hermes has been depicted with wings at his feet or on his hat.

Associated with his ability to fly is his genius to inspire imagination and creativity,

which, in turn, is linked to an ability to create the world one lives in. Just like Hermes, the

supernatural beings in the Latvian legends, particularly the Hauls and dragons, can fly.

The legend “The Long Haul” tells: “Once, in the evening, I saw a Haul fly over my head.

She was very, very long and she had a black sack in the back. She flew away hissing.”

There was something that the Haul was bringing. If it was imagination and creativity, it

was hidden in a black bag or it was dark in its contents. The black bag may be likened to

the black hat of a magician, which is perpetually full of surprises, or to the creative tricks

of the black hat hackers who amass a wealth of online information illegally.

“Hermes opens the way,” wrote Radin (1972, p. 191), describing the functions of

the ancient Greek’s trickster god, Hermes. The Latvian mythological legends of this

study describe these kinds of permits. To be rich is something that is permitted; it is not

permitted to become rich. The change from being poor to getting rich (or to having a

boon of some sort) is enwrapped by the Shadow; it is mystified and demonized involving

the supernatural—the disorderly, the beastly, and the evil. And, at the same time, what is
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not permitted is actually done! In the legend “The Dragon in a Hay Load,” a husband and

wife go to steal hay from the manor house and end up accidentally stealing the grain

dragon whose keeper is the master of the manor. In “The Dragon’s Scooper,” a man saw

a dragon scooping grain for his master from a neighbor’s barn. The man whacked the

dragon with a shovel, took its scooper, and was a wealthy fellow for three years until the

dragon snatched the scooper from him.

The Shadow images of the Latvian legends are not unlike the trickster that Radin

(1972) described—one that combines in its figure and character both the psychic and the

real world as they manifested “chance and mischance . . . into Hermetic art (not unmixed

with artifice), into riches, love, poetry, and all the ways of escape from the narrow

confines of law, customs, circumstances, [and] fate” (p. 190). If we trust the historians

and researchers who tell of the hardships of Latvian peasants, then the presence of the

trickster in their stories is not surprising. Someone who had no land, no way of growing

his own crops, had to have a way to escape the laws that erected the wall with the rich on

one side and the poor on the other. The trickster had to enter into the legend tellers’

psyche that otherwise would become completely shackled by laws, customs,

circumstances, and the gloom of fate.

The trickster, as the patron of commerce, is found in the marketplace, which

typically lies far away from the known place one lives in. He represents the exchange and

“communications between the known of one’s own village and the unknown of an alien

village” (Combs & Holland, 1996, p. 93). In the legends, the farmers go to Rīga and

Jelgava to obtain dragons. The trickster is there in the psyche of someone who dares or is

willing to step outside what is known and to go to a new place. This place is not only in
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the geography of the land, it is also in the psyche of the one ready to move across

unfamiliar, strange landscapes to arrive at a desired destination. The trickster is faithful to

its ambiguity when such trips are undertaken. One does not always return as a hero, with

a boon. The “Raven Dragon” legend tells that a man went to Riga where he bought a

dragon for two rubles.11 On the way back home, he opened the little paper cornet the

dragon was wrapped in but found a piece of mat, a rag instead. Not surprisingly, he was

angry and threw the mat into the river Gauja, which he happened to cross at that time.

Right away the water began bubbling and croaking, and from the bottom of the river

came soaring up a black raven and flew toward Rīga.

Radin (1972, p. 185) contended that where the trickster is involved, nothing

happens as expected. He operates outside the customs and the ordinary rules. Those are

not only the rules of property but any other rules of order or pre-determined outcomes.

The trickster as the traveler does not simply move from one place to another; he

“steps godlike through cracks and flows in the ordered world of ordinary reality, bringing

good luck and bad, profit and loss” (Combs & Holland, 1996, p. 82). The legend “Killing

the Black Snake” tells us about just that kind of trickster who brings changes to the world

of reality and leaves us pondering whether it was good luck or bad luck and if the

trickster’s presence brings profit or loss.

In the old days, where there were no watermills, no windmills, people used to mill

grain for their bread by hands. Mostly girls were charged with milling but lads too

had to mill a certain amount during the nights. So, a lad had to mill each night a

bucket of rye. The poor thing was milling and milling night after night but could

11
The ruble is a unit of currency.
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not get the bucket full. The food he got was plenty good, though, the bread was

good—white, like cheese. But what use was it if he had to languish each night at

the mill? He went to a witch, a sorcerer for advice. She gave the lad a little wax

candle and told him to light it when he thought the bucket would be full and to

look into the mill. The next night the lad was milling again, and when he thought

that the bucket ought to be full, he lit the little wax candle and looked into the

mill. There, in the place where the club with the wide board connected to the

quern stone, he saw a black snake. It has had just spewed new grain making the

mill full again. The lad killed the snake and milled the bucket full. Until that day

the lad had had nice, white bread, just like cheese. Nobody said anything to him

when he handed in the night’s milling. Just the next day the lady of the house

brought in for him a black loaf of bread and said: “Now eat the bread black. Why

did you kill Pēčiņa?12”

The knowledge was gained by the lad, and he freed himself from the nights of hard

work—that is good luck and a gain. But is it only that? The image of the black bread

seems to point to a loss. Nevertheless, by inviting reflection and contemplation, the

legend challenges us. Psychologically speaking, the trickster is a manifestation of the

movement across the boundaries we keep in our minds and our bodies.

The journeys in which the trickster is involved often take place at the time when

day turns into night. There are plenty of those travels in the Latvian legends. For

example, a man places his dead wife into the coffin just at midnight in the legend “The

12
Pēčiņa is a pet word for a loved creature. Here it refers to the Lingering Mother

manifesting as a snake.
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Circling Haul.” Also, just around midnight, two gnomes bring their child and exchange it

with a woman’s child in the story “The Gnomes’ Child.” At about midnight, a farmhand

hears somebody calling to open the window. As he opens it, the voice calls again: “Hold

the hat!” The boy holds the hat and the dragon fills it with money that later turns into

horse dung in the legend “Horse Apples from the Money Dragon.” Also, on the midnight

hour a man walks past the cemetery where his neighbor lies and—oh, what an unseen

wonder—there, without any wood, burns a small bright light on the grave of the dead

neighbor.

The timing for the travel, however, may not be the actual hour on the clocks.

Rather, the trickster travels across the boundaries within the psyche. Kerényi (as cited in

Combs & Holland, 1996) imagined the trickster as the traveler that steps over the

“psychological boundaries [in] Hermetic journeying” (p. 83). Being such a traveler, the

trickster mediates between “the worlds of night and day, spirits and men . . . between the

worlds of Gods and mankind” (p. 83). For the legend tellers, those may have been the

worlds in which they lived and those that they wished to inhabit and also those that they

were afraid to move into. The man whose wife passed may be journeying into a new

psychological space as he loses his partner and the Haul along with her. Arrival of a child

may also break the old boundaries and place one onto a new path within the psyche. So

can a state imposed by the environment—a farmhand may ponder about his riches

compared to the wealth of his master and get onto an inner journey that affects his mind,

his body, and his entire psyche.

The trickster, as the lucky fool, has been likened by Radin (1972) to a Herculean

Hermes of Italy—the god of luck (p. 186). Jung (1954/1969b, p. 255) wrote about a
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reversal of hierarchies and the order that the trickster images often show—the weak is

strong, the stupid is smart, and the malicious is benevolent or the other way round. The

good luck Hermes seems to operate in the legend “A Shoemaker’s Gnome.” The story

tells about a shoemaker who was so poor that he had nothing to eat, but then, luckily,

gnomes show up and help him. When, in the evening, the shoemaker had cut the hides

and left them on the table, then, in the night, the gnomes made boots. In another story,

that same trickster is lurking somewhere there:

A poor woman had to earn her living and leave her little girl home alone. Every

time, when the mother returned, the little girl told her that a beautiful maiden had

come and played with her. The mother gave the little girl a stick and told her to hit

the maiden with it. The little girl hit her and the maiden turned into a pile of

money. (“Money—the Beautiful Maiden).

Not only do humans get lucky (at least for a while), but the order is disturbed bringing

beneficial change. The little girl hits the maiden. She does not ask politely; she hits her

and in return gets a pile of money. The shoemaker does not whack the gnomes or bring

them sacrifice to get the benefits of their services, but he gets them anyway.

The trickster, asserted Jung (1954/1969b), like a shaman, can both injure and heal,

and can “fall victim to the vengeance of whom he has injured” (p. 256). This god was

vulnerable. However, the vulnerability was not weakness or something inferior. Its

function was to enable us to feel the pain of the other. The legend “The Gnome with a

Riding Stick” tells:

There was a farmer who had a gnome that brought him this and that. This gnome

had something like a riding stick—he rode it in the air and he could ride and creep
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in through all keyholes. Another farmer had a beautiful horse. The farmer who

had the gnome ordered it to bring him the horse. Well—the gnome went after the

horse right away. But as the gnome was approaching the horse, it kicked and

killed the gnome.

There is the presence of the Shadow as a thief—the one who wants to take away from the

other for one’s own gain. If the thief had succeeded, the other would have been in pain.

With a trickster-like twist, the experience of the pain of loss is boomeranged back on to

the thief, the one who intended the injury. The injurer becomes the injured,

psychologically moving closer to the other.

The figures of the archetypal Shadow with their shape-shifting qualities are not

heroic. As such, they are more holistic. As Rowland (2005, 2012) and Cusick (2008)

have argued, the trickster-like path as opposed to the heroic path is closer to the reality of

life. It mirrors human journeys of ups and downs, of successes and failures, rather than

the hero’s linear movement toward the winning end point characteristic of utopian fairy

tales.

“Märchen [fairytale] and Sage [legend] are two basic contingencies of narration,”

wrote Lüthi (1975). He added that from their lasting coexistence, one may assume that

they are both manifestations of basic needs of the human psyche (p. 7). There are two

ways to perceive the same realities—heroic/utopian and nonheroic/realistic or holistic.

The two ways of engaging with the same universe, as Hillman (1979) may have

described it, are the perspectives of Zeus and Hades: “There is only one and the same

universe, coexistent and synchronous, but one brother’s view sees it from above and

through the light, the other from below and into its darkness” (p. 30). Without denying
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the value of the heroic searches for meaning, Hillman elaborated on the hidden treasures

that may be found in the darkness of the underworld. In his explorations, Hillman

scrutinized dreams and likened them to the underworld where there is only the psyche in

its fullness. Dreams, for Hillman, are there to slow us down and to experience an

“introspective feeling of depression” (p. 34). The slowing down movement is not unlike

the arrested development that Cusick (2008) found so useful in engaging with nonheroic

art because of its invitation to stop for a moment and to contemplate (p. 13). The sense of

depression that Hillman (1979) alluded to is not dissimilar to the legend’s pessimistic

tone. Therefore, what Hillman wrote about the value of dreams, what he said about the

Shadow and “the ego’s heroic course” (p. 56) may be equally valid for our understanding

of the value of the mythological legends—the nonheroic dreams of the collective.

The Shadow, Hillman (1979) asserted, is “the very stuff of the soul” (p. 56); the

human soul is the essence of one’s existence and being. To Hillman, just as to other

authors, like Rowland (2005), the separation and opposition of the Shadow aspect and

other aspects of the personality is unfortunate. Although it may seem that the human

activities of everyday life require reliance on a strong, rational ego, Hillman (1979)

contended that the heroic course of the ego is always filled with guilt (p. 57). Its drive

never allows us to rest, it binds us with its expectations, its goals are unachievable, and it

leaves us with a perpetual feeling of guilt or failure. The ego attitude is also filled with

hate because it detests everything that is unpleasant or painful (p. 58). Hillman proposed

a view that the Shadow is the source of the visible ego and not the other way round—the

ego being the aspect casting the Shadow (p. 57). It means that we cannot separate the

Shadow as the negative, dark aspect of the psyche that gets formed as we interact with
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the world around us. The Shadow serves a psychological function—it is there to consider

the ways of “the waking-ego” (p. 59). The nonhero in us reflects on the hero and vice

versa.

The basic premise or the starting point for understanding our experiences of life,

Hillman (1979) insisted, was what he called “a wholly psychic perspective” (p. 46) or the

perspective of the underworld. It was a psychological vantage point that required an

intuitive perception. For Hillman, the psychic or the underworld perspective or the

perspective of dreams was void of matter. I differ from Hillman there—for me, the

psyche in dreams and in legends is not separated from the body. Although we may not be

able to touch and hold the images as material objects, they are present in matter as they

are present in the psyche and their presence may be felt in the body of the legend teller,

listener, and reader.

The value of the shadowy images (in dreams as Hillman (1979) saw and in the

legends as I feel) is not to teach us a singular unification but rather multiplicity. In our

facing of the multiple figures, we confront our own “dis-integrity [and our lack of] hold

on ourselves” (p. 41). The intrusion by Hades turned “the world upside down” (p. 48).

The visits or presences of the supernatural in the mythological legends, I suggest, make

us consider a different slant or angle and, thus, change our vantage point. Hillman

insisted that phenomena had to be regarded both through the position of Eros and of

Thanatos—warmth and coldness. Including into our outlooks the Shadow aspects

changes us from being child-like, innocent, and naïve to becoming someone with a

psychological understanding of our lives. Hillman wrote about the myth of Demeter and

her daughter Persephone. He contended that the rape of Persephone was a metaphor of
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her transformation from a being as given by nature (a child) into the psychic being (being

married). “The experience of the underworld is overwhelming and must be made,” he

claimed (pp. 48-49).

In just the same way, the experience of the Shadow must happen for us to gain a

psychological perspective and to see the world open up its innate multiplicity. In the

context of the Latvian cultural complexes surrounding the notions of wealth, value, and a

sense of worthiness, the Shadow images of these mythological legends viewed from the

psyche’s perspective may offer a new angle on the identity statements made by the

offspring of the legend tellers: we, the nation of peasants that Beitnere (2012) discussed

and we, the nation of orphans that Zālīte (2008) proclaimed. The offspring can do that by

opening our perspectives onto the richness of the archetype—its meaning imagined into,

amplified, and personified.

Rӧhrich (1979/1991) observed that the legend as a genre, thus, also the Latvian

mythological legends, were open-ended; they were stories “open for the future” (p. 13). If

the legends do not offer the ending, they must be asking us questions: What just

happened? What now? What do you do when the barn burns down and the house is no

longer there? Or when your psyche is rattled by your mind going up in smoke and your

body becoming lame? In the legends, just as in life, humans often do not stand as the

winner but are faced with problems (up to their ears, so to say—with body and mind

engaged in the mess) with no heroic plans to clean up the mess. The legend places us

right into the mess and asks questions. Having engaged us, it tricks us into reflecting,

pondering, and responding.

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Chapter 3
The Latvian Legends: The Trickster Stories and Tales of Synchronicities

The Trickster Stories

The Latvian mythological legends explored in this study are just the kind of open-

ended and question-asking stories that Rӧhrich (1979/1991) wrote about. Moreover, these

legends, where the ambiguous Shadow figures intrude upon the human everyday life,

bring disturbances with their presence. The disturbance is transmitted by the experience

onto the legend and the teller and then onto the listener and reader. Rowland (2011)

examined art that disturbs and commented on it in the context of an earlier essay by

Beebe (1981) titled “The Trickster in the Arts.” The disturbing art is, as these authors

have argued, symbolic and the art of the trickster. Rowland (2011) re-emphasized its role

and value in “provoking dis-order and dis-ease in its audience” (p. 33) by not allowing

the audience to make simple and straightforward conclusions and “linear judgments” (p.

33). These Latvian legends, I suggest, are inherently the trickster stories. Their

psychology is that of the trickster.

Beebe (1981) gave a brilliant example of exploring a whole group of art works

that, as he saw them, were transcended by the archetypal trickster and had a particular

effect on those engaging with them. The effect was “paradoxical, ironic, and ambiguous”

(p. 21), an impact that was both unsettling and unexpected. The person trying to

understand the work would be perplexed and even mad as he or she could not make sense

of what was being communicated by the art. The legends, as (Dégh, 2001, p. 35)

described, were fuzzy. They were hard to pin down and define. They appear as stories

that have for decades given headaches to folklorists who have tried to figure out and

describe what the legend is trying to impart. Moreover, Dégh wrote that the legend
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touches on the dimensions hidden or incomprehensible to the rationally oriented human

mind that expects a causal and rational flow of things (p. 2).

I imagine the trickster art as a being; it has a cunning smile on its face when I read

Beebe’s (1981) words: “These works of art perplex and madden us as we try to

comprehend what is being said or shown to us, yet all the while they appear to be

pleading innocent of any such confusing intention” (p. 21). Similarly, when I read Dégh’s

(2001) description of the legends as those “mono-episodic, nonartistic, plain . . . simple

stories” (p. 39), I see a smirk on their faces. They (the legends) trick us by looking plain

and simple because they hide a wide and complex expanse behind their mono-episodic,

nonartistic façade as they “tackle life’s deepest, most mysterious problems” (p. 39).

The works that trick us discombobulate even their own authors. Beebe (1981)

gave an example of a Beatles’ song “Martha My Dear” that was inspired by McCartney’s

dog named Martha. The song confused those who heard it and, at the same time, the

confusion of the listeners perplexed the musicians. I imagine myself being a listener to

this legend:

One day, a shepherd boy had some food left over. He poured it onto a stone

saying: “Eat, dear Earth god! I’ll give you some more if anything is left next

time.” Later, though, he forgot the stone. He was overtaken by unrest and had no

escape from it, not in a tree, nor in a branch. (“The Earth God’s Revenge”)

After listening, I imagine asking the legend teller: what is the hidden meaning of your

story? Just like the listeners of the Beatles’ song, I would come off as fool for asking such

a question. It would not help to question the tellers about the meaning, as a likely
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response from them would be more stories. Looking for an answer in the multitude of the

legend definitions will only add to the perplexity we feel in listening to the stories.

The legend’s ability to generate more legends is no different, in my mind, from

the propensity of the trickster art to generate volumes of remarks from critics. Beebe

(1981) likened that type of response from critics to emotional chain reactions

characteristic of individuals experiencing a manic episode (p. 24). In an intriguing way,

Beebe’s associations may make us read a description of the legend tellers offered by

Dégh (2001) in a new light. Dégh wrote that “the legend-tellers are dreamers or

visionaries, attracted to the extra-normal and easily carried away from everyday realities

by the most common and trivial impulses into a subjective realm of the unknown” (p.

218). Beebe (1981) referred to the effect of the trickster works that he pictured as a chain-

like emotions set off by “certain psychotic individuals” (p. 24). The legend tellers

themselves have been referred to by names that place them in proximity with the

individuals Beebe connected with the trickster art; Dégh (2001) listed these as the most

typical legend tellers: “charismatic leaders of clubs, sects, and cults; prophets, gurus,

shamans, witches, spiritualists, psychics, and their followers; and activists and

representatives” (p. 220).

To continue, I compare the writing by Beebe (1981) and Dégh (2001). Beebe

(1981) wrote about the manic patient: “[He] is often able to alienate himself from family,

friends” (p. 28). Dégh (2001) wrote about the legend tellers: “the majority . . . remain

private and withdrawn” (p. 219). Beebe (1981) explained why: it happens because of

“embarrassment, decreased self-esteem, and anxious self-doubt” (p. 28). Dégh (2001)
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clarified that the legend tellers “have no way to find compassionate friends to listen to

their stories” (p. 219).

Whereas Beebe (1981) concluded that it is anger that is the manipulative energy

behind the trickster works, I suggest that it may also be self-doubt and embarrassment. In

any case, the trickster art is experienced as manipulative—as pushing for responses, and

the responder by adding his or her legend will likely experience bewilderment and similar

embarrassment and anxious self-doubt. Beebe concluded that the basis for the parallels

that he drew was the archetypal trickster attitude. He then reached into this unconscious

structure to paint a fuller picture of the works of art that he called the trickster art and

identified three characteristics of such works: getting under the skin, liminality, and

compensation for one-sided attitudes.

The mythological legends with their Shadow images of the supernatural in the

center and the unsettling influence that they have on the tellers/listeners/readers, I

suggest, also get under our skins. Consider the legend “Spirits of the Devil’s Den.” In it,

the man is followed silently by the Devil. They walk without saying a word until the man

finds himself in a swamp. Even after the man’s death, the Devil does not set him free; the

man’s house is struck down by lightning. In another legend, “The Revenge of the

Offering Stone,” shepherd girls forget to bring an offering to the stone. Later they want to

do it but are not able as the weather has turned cold and the stone is frozen. They girls are

then struck by muteness and madness.

Beebe (1981) observed that “for those who expect art to soothe, illuminate, or

please, this quality of art is hard to accept” (p. 29). The legends like the ones above are

clearly not soothing or pleasing. Beebe would say that the trickster art is produced in a
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state of rage, but I suggest that it can also be created in a state of shock when

encountering a synchronicity—“a coincidence in time of two or more causally unrelated

events which have the same or a similar meaning” (Jung, 1952/1960, p. 25), which is

discussed in more detail below. Beebe argued, and I agree, that for the trickster art to be

created, there had to be an activation within the personal Shadow and even deeper than

that—in the archetypal layer of the Shadow. I would add that the animated energies

involve one more layer—the cultural unconscious where a group Shadow and cultural

complexes reside.

Disturbing and anxiety-provoking art, in Beebe’s (1981) view, is valuable as a

liminal, boundary-disturbing art that incites psychological transitions. It first attracts

viewers/listeners and then leaves them distressed and anxious. The legend does that too.

For example, Dégh (2001) observed that the “mysterious legend sites are traditionally

located on the outskirts of communities” (p. 156). Besides, the legend events often occur

at midnight or in the middle of the day—the threshold time symbolizing before and after.

As noted earlier, exactly at the midnight hour the woman with the circling Haul is placed

in her coffin, a human child is exchanged for a child of gnomes; also, a farmhand gains

knowledge about his master in the middle of the night and the lights burning on the

graves appear when the clock strikes 12.

The liminality is needed to disturb the old patterns or to be “disloyal” (Beebe,

1981, p. 36) to the earlier plans or set-fast habits. The habit-breaking process is also a

process of maturation. Dégh (2001) viewed legends as narratives that play a role in the

turning points of the life cycle (p. 252). The experience of fear, she argued, was a part of

exposure to the unknown that required daring and courage. In the Latvian legends, it is
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often a young man or a woman who dares to disturb the previous patterns. The legend

“The Dragon as a Black Cat” tells about a farmer who had a well-established life and

how it was altered.

He [the farmer] lived in plenty: hefty horses, lots of grain. The farm girls, though,

had to always mill in darkness and they could not mill the buckets empty—never.

Then one time, they noticed a black cat sitting there at the top of the mill and

pouring grain into the buckets again and again. They killed it.

The act of the young killing the black cat may be understood as a metaphor for the

disloyalty that Beebe (1981) saw as needed for maturation. Things change (for better or

for worse), and the old routines and practices are upset. Dégh (2001) too saw the legend

playing a role in the coming-of-age process; she linked the value conflicts in the legends

to adult responsibilities and maturation (p. 210).

The legend “Dragon as a Horse’s Hoof” tells that “there was a farmer who fed a

dragon on the hay loft. The dragon looked like a horse’s hoof. The servant found it and

threw it into the pond. Soon after that, the farmer went broke.” As a reader, I am first

confused; I wonder where my values lie—who am I feeling sorry for and who do I cheer

for: the farmer or the servant. On one hand, I am grieving with the farmer for his loss. On

the other hand, I am happy for the leveling of wealth between the servant and the farmer.

I am caught between the two, and I struggle. There is a psychological value to this

process in which the psyche presents us with a messy situation. Hillman (1992) called the

psyche’s ability to tell us about the disordered, sick, and morbid pathologizing, a

“primary way of soul-making” (p. 89). He invited us to follow “the peculiar disordered

activity itself as one of our guides” (p. 74). Pathologizing shows that there is a value in
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the disordered and frightful, which is serving the soul rather than robbing it by “treating”

it and removing what seems dark, leaving it invisible in the blinding light of spirit that

has no soul. In the legend, the servant betrays the farmer. Making sense of this situation

as a literal event is hard and may fuel anger, just as Beebe (1981) wrote that the trickster

art can do. Also, if we lean on Hillman’s (2005) interpretation of betrayal, we learn that

betrayal is a part of a necessary movement of consciousness—from primal trust through

betrayal to forgiveness by the betrayed and atonement of the betrayer—making the

betrayed grow a more conscious awareness.

Moving on with Beebe’s (1981) insight about the trickster art, we note that the

trickster energy shows up in times of loss, adversity, and “often again before death” (p.

36). Dégh (2001) distinguished the events of loss (among other unsettling occurrences) as

the basis for legends: “The ambiguity of people’s feelings and the slow process of

distancing and transforming the relationship between the dead and the living form the

basis of evolving legends” (p. 336). Beebe (1981) observed that the trickster’s appearance

before death give a new perspective to the one who is passing on. In addition, the changes

affect not only the dying but also those staying behind. Things cannot go on as before

because nothing is as before. In “Rye Sprite,” the wife of the dead man cannot let him

go—she would not put the barrel with his rye sprite in his coffin. So the husband returns

during the nights following his burial and does acts of buffoonery, turning everything

upside down in the house until the wife lets his sprite go. Or, as the legend “The Dragon

as a Black Cat” tells, when someone who keeps a dragon dies, he must give the dragon to

someone else. In this story, the dying man’s son has to become the new dragon keeper.

He is unable to do that for an unknown reason and, therefore, he first goes mad and then
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dies. In the first legend, the trickster energy of the events forces the woman to find

another solution instead of holding on to what used to be. In the second legend, the

symbolic meaning of the trickster may point toward the necessary death of attitudes in the

times of change without which things cannot go on. As Beebe noted, the trickster “is a

great strain” (p. 36) for everyone in the time of change, be it death, becoming adolescent,

or living with a toddler.

There are times when the trickster energies are not integrated and create

“psychological tangles” (Beebe, 1981, p. 36) or even worse kinds of dis-orders.

Nevertheless, the appearance of the trickster reveals “something about the individual and

his social setting” (p. 37). If we read, as I suggest, the Latvian legends as stories about

wealth, well-being, and self-worth, then we may find that these stories tell about troubles

with holding on to the old ways of relating to wealth and of experiencing a sense of well-

being and worthiness. The old ways may be ones originating from within us or forced

upon us from outside. In both cases, however, the presence of the trickster will upset the

patterns and affect the established mindsets and behaviors.

Beebe (1981) pointed out that the trickster art not only has a trickster figure in it

as a subject, but that the art itself plays tricks on its audience. It seems to me, as Beebe

explains, that the legend “Bread for the Devil Himself” both has the trickster and is the

trickster—it “works upon us, contriving to fascinate and upset us” (p. 37):

The mother-in-law was baking bread. It was exactly midday when she pulled the

bread out of the oven. The mother-in-law said to the daughter-in-law: “Go, bring

it to the barn! If there is a black gentleman sitting there at the grain-bin, do not

touch him or say a word!” The daughter-in-law brought the bread to the barn.
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Surely, the black gentleman was sitting there and was rolling his eye terribly. The

daughter-in-law said not a word and hurried out of the barn. The gentleman sitting

there was the Devil himself, because the master of the house was a sorcerer.

The girl who had to face the Devil himself could not have helped but feel anxiety. And so

we too—the readers imagining entering the barn where we know on beforehand a

terrifying being will be meeting us; just sitting and staring at us. He has a hypnotic

power—scary and fascinating at the same time. And so do the legends. Beebe (1981)

called this hypnotic fascination “a double bind13” (p. 38) that hold us hostage to our own

contradicting feelings. He also referred to Jung’s (1948/1967) discussion of Mercurius

and “its unsettling ambivalence, a splitting into two minds, that the trickster work is able

to accomplish. This split can take place within a single individual, or between members

of a large audience” (as cited in Beebe, 1981, p. 38). The legends, as I have shown, may

be a metaphor for a split within an individual. We also know that the legend has been the

genre producing the most discussion about its definition, making it a genre, as noted

earlier, that is fascinating but tricky.

13
The double bind theory was introduced by Gregory Bateson in the article

“Toward a theory of schizophrenia” in the journal Behavioral Science, Volume 1, Issue 4,

pages 251–264, 1956. A double bind is characterized by a person being involved in a

situation in which (1) he/she is pressured to get the communications right, (2) the other

party expresses contradicting messages; (3) the ‘victim’ cannot decipher the messages

(Gibney, 2006).
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The trickster manipulates the “confidence and attitudes” (Beebe, 1981, p. 39) of

its audience. It is hard to make sense, to decide on an attitude, or to feel confident when

hearing a legend like “The Evil House God”:

In the old days there was a farmer who had a House God that had made the farmer

wealthy, but that did not give the farmer any peace. When the farmer left the

house, it was always at the window asking the wife: “Baba,14 is Mača15 home?”

The wife, the poor thing, was not allowed to respond. If she said “yes,” it would

come in asking for children. If she said “no,” it would go out on the road to meet

the husband and wear him out. Sometimes Mača was out riding. In the evenings,

it [the House God] always met Mača and pulled him from the horse to the ground.

As he got up on one side, he fell down on the other side, until he finally went

home on foot. At home, it always came to Mača’s bed asking: “Will you give me

the hen and the chicken (the wife and children)?” If he promised, then there was

peace. But when one of the children was home, it was there too every night. None

of the farmer’s children grew up, because the evil one took them right after birth.

The farmer and his wife tried to have foster children, but they did not do any

better. One of them was taken by the evil one to the hay loft right away; it was a

torture to get the child out. The same happened every night until they finally had

to give the child back to the real parents.

14
Baba is a name used for an old woman.
15
Mača is a man’s name here, but it also means a kind of bread that is thin, made

without salt and without fermentation (Jews eat it on the Great Friday).
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There are too many loopholes in the story to track the events. One thing is for certain:

there is the presence of a rogue. It manipulates those within the story and the

understanding and confidence of the reader. The House God appears before us without

really ever appearing—the reader never learns what it is. It asks questions that cannot be

answered with either “yes” or “no.” If the wife says: “yes, the children are at home,” the

evil one will go after them. If she says “no,” the evil will torment the husband. The

husband loses peace if he says “no” when asked: “Will you give me the hen and the

chicken (the wife and children)?” If “yes”—he loses his family.

The legend with its trickster character, as Beebe (1981) put it, “embraces the

reader’s interest in the tale” (p. 42). Its role is to trouble and disturb us by posing

unanswerable questions pondering responses to which fosters maturation. Jung

(1954/1969a), writing about a trickster (that this legend appears to be) seems to have

offered a psychological insight into the story:

A minatory and ridiculous figure, he [trickster] stands at the very beginning of the

way of individuation, posting the deceptively easy riddle of the Sphinx, or grimly

demanding answer to a “quaestio crocodinila” (A crocodile stole a child from its

mother. On being asked to give it back to her, the crocodile replied that he would

grant her wish if she could give a true answer to his question: “Shall I give the

child back?” If the answer is “Yes,” it is not true, and she won’t get the child

back. If the answer is “No,” it is again not true, so in either case the mother loses

the child). (p. 271)

Explaining it further, Jung suggested that only by forming a conscious relationship with

our Shadow, its contents could become nourishment for growth. The same process
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applied to individuals and to groups. Through the increase in consciousness there was a

possibility of enantiodromia of the Shadow—a radical chance of its content into its

opposite.

In the case of the individual, the problem constellated by the shadow is answered

on the plane of the anima, that is, through relatedness. In the history of the

collective as in the history of the individual, everything depends on the

development of consciousness. This gradually brings liberation from

imprisonment in “unconsciousness,” and is therefore a bringer of light as well as

of healing. As in its collective, mythological form, so also the individual shadow

contains within it the seed of an enantiodromia, of a conversion into its opposite.

(pp. 271-272)

The legend while dry in its report-like recounting of events, I suggest, contains the

nourishment for the seed of the enantiodromia to grow. Trickster-like, it manipulates our

habitual attitudes and our sense of confidence, making us see the evil, the House Gods

that is our Shadow, which can then transform and together with it, our experiences with

both material wealth and the sense of our worthiness.

Beebe (1981) also highlights what has been previously observed by Kerényi

(1956/1972): that the trickster’s works use words that evoke the figure of the trickster. In

our legend, the man’s name is Mača. It also means a kind of bread that is thin and made

without salt and without fermentation—Matzo, matza, or matzah—a flatbread consumed

on the Jewish holiday of Passover. A couple of searches on the web informed me that the

bread was tasteless—like plain cardboard. Matzo was eaten during the biblical Exodus

from Egypt and, in modern times, when other (chametz) bread is not allowed. It is the
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poor man’s bread of affliction that allows life to continue but joylessly. It symbolizes

both redemption and freedom, and it reminds the eater to be humble. Symbolically, the

legend may be a trickster story about a man’s relationship with wealth. The man, in the

beginning of the story, is wealthy. His name, however, tells us that there is some poverty,

some lack, arguably within him. He believes that he must give what belongs to him

(symbolized by the wife and children) away to keep his wealth. An acknowledgement

that Mača (the poor one) is at home would affect his children. Psychologically speaking,

a man’s experience as insufficient in his own being or as lacking the bread of life will

pass on to the next generations. Not acknowledging Mača’s presence at home may be

likened to rejection or repression of the Shadow. As the legend tells, if the Shadow is not

acknowledged, it goes after its owner like an unrelenting pest. When the House God met

Mača out riding, it kept pulling him down until he gave up. The Shadow demands

acknowledgement; it kills what is most precious and valuable if not conceded.

Beebe (1981) also characterized the trickster art as one that draws its reader in by

making us identify with the central character (p. 43). In the legends, the central character

is the demon (Rӧhrich, 1979/1991, p. 26), and the reader/listener will be pulled by its

supernatural and archetypal energies. Moreover, the same energies would have worked

on the legend teller first. The proponent and the reader/listener would, thus, become, as

Dégh (2001) contended, “identical, equally involved in the claims of truth related to what

has just been said, and they [would] take turns in exchanging ideas” (p. 202). That way,

the trickster creates his effect on the minds of the legend teller, the listener, and the reader

alike; and that effect is ambivalence and self-questioning.

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The more I read and re-read the legend “A Slap and a Golden Coin,” the more

confused I felt. I wondered if it was an experience of “the moral topsyturvydom, or

challenge to accepted values, that the integration of archetypal shadow material always

entails” (Beebe, 1981, p. 45) that had overcome me. “A Slap and a Golden Coin” tells

that:

a man was walking home late in the night and noticed a fire on the side of the

road. Three men stood there stirring it. He walked up and took one coal to light

his pipe. But one of those stirring the fire slapped his face; it burned. When the

man came home, his cheek was blue and swollen; also the finger marks of the

hitter were still visible. But the coal on the pipe had turned into a golden coin. The

man fell ill right then and died in three days.

Seeing the alchemical imagery—trinity, quaternity, and coal transformation into a gold

coin, I turned to Jung’s (1944/1968) writings on psychology and alchemy. Jung asserted

that Christian alchemy has a Trinitarian character and pagan alchemy—triadic—meaning

that the unity symbols of those traditions are associated with the number three. Jung,

however, insisted that psychologically it is quaternity that points toward unity. The

number three, thus, was indicating “a systematic deficiency in consciousness, that is to

say, an unconsciousness of the “inferior function” (p. 26). Elsewhere, Jung (1948/1969)

had paralleled the inferior function with the Shadow archetype. Furthermore, the numbers

three and four had a particular importance in psychological integration and the unity of

the psyche: “Four signifies the feminine, motherly, physical; three the masculine,

fatherly, spiritual. Thus the uncertainty as to three or four amounts to a wavering between

the spiritual and the physical” (Jung, 1944/1968, pp. 26-27). The legend that caused my
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confusion and self-questioning, I suggest, is playing with the notions of the spiritual and

the physical values. It wavers between the two, bewildering the reader. I cannot help but

ask, what would the legend tell if the man had not left after he picked up the coal; if he

stayed despite the slap in the face? Could he have stayed alive with the coal turned into

gold? Or was his death necessary for gold to form? Does possession of gold require a

state of quaternity—one in which both the feminine and the masculine elements are

present? It is interesting to add that coal, as Jung observed, is not only the chief chemical

element of the physical body but also the basis of the diamond. The image of the

transformation from a seemingly useless black stone—coal—to a diamond is a familiar

one to the psyche as we know from the popular saying a diamond in the rough. As the

Oxford Idioms Dictionary for Learners of English (Francis, 2011) informs us, a rough

diamond means “a person who has many good qualities even though they do not seem to

be very polite, educated, etc.” (p. 331). One is advised not to be put off by first

impressions because he or she is something of a rough diamond.

In alchemy, diamond is also called the water of life. Writing about it, Jung

(1944/1968) had melancholy in his tone:

The water of life is easily had: everybody possesses it, though without knowing

its value. “Spernitur a stultis”—it is despised by the stupid, because they assume

that every good thing is always outside and somewhere else, and that the source in

their own souls is a “nothing but” . . . Like the lapis [stone], . . . it is rejected by

everyone from the high priest and the academicians down to the very peasants,

and . . . flung out into the street. (p. 123)

Jung’s melancholy is due to humans’ lack to recognize what is valuable.

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Beebe (1981) said that the trickster art is “remarkably capable of setting a totally

questioning frame of mind in motion” (p. 47). Because of that and all the other effects

that the trickster works have on those who engage with them, they also serve an

integrative function for the psyche. Beebe called it “an exercise for us in the integration

of the trickster” (p. 48). “A Slap and a Golden Coin,” thus, may be understood as a

metaphor for the kind of integration that happens to a man in his process of maturation

requiring that he get in touch with his creative sense of life. Beebe saw it as an integration

of an “immediate feeling of well-being [and] . . . his gut emotional responses to any

situation . . . including a healthy grasp of the shadow” (p. 48). The legend may also trick

us into maturing in our understanding of and relationships with the phenomena of being

rich, having wealth, having a sense of well-being, and the worthiness associated with

those.

Acknowledging his male perspective, Beebe (1981) gave an example of the

trickster art that depicts a nonintegrated trickster in a female psyche. He believed that

lack of the trickster presence in a female psyche could be seen in “the special case of

hetaira . . . producing the phenomenon of witch” (p. 49). A hetaira or hetaera was a well-

educated woman, a companion to a man or a number of men in the ancient Greece. She

was a sexual partner but not a prostitute. Hetairas were not only educated but they also

had their own money and participated in the symposia. One of the famous hetaeras was

Aspasia, the companion of Pericles. A Latvian reader would know Elza Pliekšāne by the

name of Aspazija—a transliterated name of the Greek Aspasia. Aspazija (Elza Pliekšāne)

was a Latvian poetess well-known in her own right as well as the companion (and later

wife) of one of the most prominent Latvian poets Jānis Rainis.

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Returning to the psychological phenomenon of a hetaira becoming a witch, we

may consider the legend “Witches and Toads”:

There was a mistress who kept witches. When others went to bed, she always fed

her spirits. In the barn, she tied the door closed, so the other people did not see.

The farmhand, having noticed that, wanted to know what the mistress was doing.

One evening after work, he crawled into the barn and hid in the corner to see what

the mistress would do. When everything was silent, the mistress came in,

unbraided her hair, took off her skirt and shirt, murmured some words and called:

“Cruk the big, cruk the small, cruck the smallest!” As soon as she began to call

like that, toads started to come out of all the corners until the whole barn was

almost full. The boy’s heart had turned raw, seeing all that. Once the mistress had

finished feeding her spirits, they all went back, each in its own corner—where

they had come from, they went.

It is fascinating how much Beebe’s (1981) analysis of a nonintegrated trickster in the

female psyche using Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw may be transposed to interpret

the legend “Witches and Toads.” The legend is about a woman, but it is told by a man.

We know his name—J. Anitēns from Jaunlaicene. Beebe described how in the

imagination of the man the woman became ghostlike in The Turn of the Screw. In this

legend, the woman becomes witchlike. As in James’s story, the woman in the legend is

beautiful—her nakedness makes the young farmhand’s heart feel raw; his senses are

touched in deep ways. We are told by the legend that she is feeding her spirits, and we

see that the food is her nakedness, her complete revealing of herself—being in her natural

state. As readers, we do not know what the secret really is and, being left in the dark, we
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are tricked into projecting our own secret and our own Shadow onto the woman. The

archetypal trickster has rendered the woman vulnerable to the projections by the teller

(the man who sees her as a witch feeding toads) and by us, the readers.

Beebe (1981) provided us with a valuable insight when he wrote that

the story is indeed a great trickster which forces us to recognize the fallibility of

our understanding in the face of the unknown . . . . And the reader is shaken to

realize . . . how much he too has filled in the blanks and gaps in his knowledge

with suppositions. (p. 51)

Beebe reminded us of the witch-hunts of the 17th century; and the warning of Dégh

(2001) about the dangers of the legend ideology become more noteworthy. I would like,

however, to put these insights into the context of reading the legends for the Shadow in

Latvian cultural unconscious as it relates to experiences of wealth and self-worth.

If the trickster is the Shadow aspect of the psyche appearing as an external figure,

tricking us to perceive the dangers to be lurking from outside, the “unaccepted trickster”

(Beebe, 1981, p. 52) gets constellated every time matters of wealth and well-being are

considered and all the problems—lack of money and lack of self-esteem—turn into a

dark fate imposed by external enemies. Kļaviņš (2013a) listed the stereotypical enemies

as the 700 years of slavery suffered by Latvians, the evil crusaders, and the Russian

empire among others. He called the Latvian preoccupation with gloomy self-pity a

seemingly sacred and unchangeable stereotype. I invite us to consider that when reading

the legends and the commentaries by other legend interpreters. It is also important to

keep this in mind when reading notes on the Latvian legends that were offered by

researchers during the Soviet period, for example, Ancelāne’s (1961) interpretation of
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Latvian legends as stories about the peasants’ heroic fight against feudal lords, workers

against their oppressors, and so on (pp. 6-9). I suggest that the legends are more than

that—they are stories in which the trickster has found its natural dwelling and they are

also stories filled with the archetypal energy of the trickster. As such, they can guide us

and compensate for one-sided attitudes residing both in the cultural unconscious of a

people and in the collective unconscious at large.

Returning to my earlier promise, I now proceed to explore the Latvian

mythological legends of this study as stories of synchronicity.

Tales of Synchronicities

The prominent legend researcher Dégh (2001) was once asked whether she was a

witch. She responded: “No, I am not a witch. I am an academic professional, deeply

interested in supernatural belief. So far, there is no scientific evidence of the existence of

spirits, just as there is no scientific evidence of their non-existence” (p. 7). We cannot

deny that it is a troubling thought—stories that tell about extrahuman and supernatural

beings, such as witches, are also told as reports of real events taking place in everyday

human reality, as factual happenings. Something must not be true—either that there are

such beings or that the experiences really occurred. Dégh as a person interested in these

seemingly impossible things then must be a strange creature herself. As I am in the same

predicament—being questioned about being a witch—I will state that witches as well as

other mythical beings do live in the legends that I am exploring. Therefore, I, as a

psychologist, am interested in learning about them and our relationship with them.

Dégh (2001) also asserted that legends “are necessarily belief stories. They are

based on common knowledge about human encounters with the supernatural (or
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extraordinary) world, concretized by personal experience” (p. 82). In her view, the world

of legends is not separable from the material and the known world we live in that we call

the real world. “The supernatural, the unexplainable, all the situations and actions that

differ from the norm happen here on earth, in our everyday lives, and they furnish the

topic of legends” (p. 6). It is not anyone’s belief or disbelief that determines the

rationality or the truth of the legend. It is, according to Dégh, a personal experience.

The past attempts to define what the legend is, circling the elements of

truthfulness and belief. Dégh (2001) called all legend definitions “practical devices” (p.

23) that allow us to consider and to formulate the current and future views and positions.

No one has been able to give a universally accepted definition of legends. As Dégh

humorously put it, legends are not our common species of sparrows that fit into a

technical catalogue (p. 29). The legend belongs to the realm of the humanities and,

therefore, is ambiguous. Nordic scholars have noted shared attributes about the legend

revolving around its believability and truthfulness (among other traits). They have labeled

the legend as belief story and true story while also calling it “tradition . . . [and]

superstition” (as cited in Dégh, p. 34). Bringing together the many and various attempts

to define the legend, Dégh noted the description by Ranke, who asserted that “the legend

is objectively untrue, though it purports to be true” (as cited in Dégh, p. 36); by Rӧhrich,

who maintained that “the legend demands from teller and listener to believe the truth of

what it tells” (as cited in Dégh, p. 37); and by Kapfhammer, who claimed that “the legend

is rooted in a historically authenticized or believed to be documentable event” (as cited in

Dégh, p. 37).
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Seeing legends as stories originating in transformative experiences, as I have

shown above, can help. I argue that by going deeper into the nature of the mythological

legends, we may find them to be tales of synchronicity. Jung (1952/1960) defined

synchronicity as “a coincidence in time of two or more unrelated events which have the

same or similar meaning” (p. 441). Cambray (2009) emphasized three key elements

characterizing synchronicities: “meaningful coincidences, acausal connection, and

numinosity” (p. 12). I will explore each of these in reference to the mythological legends

that are rich with images of “the totally other” (Dégh, 2001, p. 51) and brimming with

“the occult and extraordinary . . . occurrences” (p. 4).

Taking this approach may alleviate the tensions caused by the images and motifs

of these stories depicting meetings of the otherworldly with the world of everyday

realities. While my approach is interpretive and I am not seeking the ultimate truth, I

imagine that my explorations may inform discussions about the nature of this genre and

serve as a practical device when new perspectives are considered.

Rather than describing the troubles surrounding the stories, I invite one of them to

speak for itself:

A shepherd girl was watching cattle by the Ķeša16 field on a late autumn evening.

Suddenly, she noticed a small blue light on the edge of Ķeša. The girl got scared

and ran home with all the cattle. There she told an old hag what had happened,

who understood immediately that money had appeared to the girl. The hag then

told the girl that if the money appears again, a thing should be thrown over it; if

16
Ķeša is another word for a pocket.
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nothing else is there—a shoe (pastala).17 As thick is the thing thrown over, as

deep will one need to dig to get the money. The next day, when the girl was

watching the cattle, she saw money appear again burning with a blue flame. The

shepherd girl quickly grabbed her shoe and was making ready to throw it to the

fire when suddenly, right next to the fire, a big black buck shot up out of the

ground. Looking at the girl, it laughed terribly. She almost fainted in fear and

forgot to throw the shoe onto the fire. With a big thundering bang, the money

disappeared into the ground together with the black buck. (“Money and the Black

Buck”)

Before entering a more theoretical analysis of this legend as a story of

synchronicity, which I suggest it is, I want to engage in a dialogue with its images

through an active imagination—a process in which one begins to talk to and interact with

images and then waits for them to answer. Those who have tried active imagination will

know that the images do answer and their responses are surprising more often than not.

Frequently, in this process we get to hear what we have not been conscious of. My first

surprise is that the dialogue begins to unfold in Latvian. I insist on switching to English

because my study needs to be described in English, but I submit to the ways the images

want to communicate and I translate the dialogue later.

Dialogue 1: With the shepherd girl.

Me: Good evening.

Girl: Good evening.

17
Pastala is simple footwear made of cow hide and strung onto the foot by thin

strips of the same material.

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Me: Watching cows?

Girl: Yes. Watching cows. [Pause.] Those are not my cows. They are my master’s

cows. I am just watching them.

Me: Do you like it?

Girl: Yes. [Pause.] But I also want to do something different. I want to have my

own cows—many of them, and my own house too, and also horses (some 3 or 4), and

pigs.

Me: You look so happy. Like a fire is lit up in you!

Girl: Yes! I want that so much that I could make it come true. Yes, I could!

[Suddenly there is fear in the girl’s eyes.]

Me: What happened? Are you frightened? What is it?

Girl: Do you see that blue fire there?

Me: Yes, I think you lit it up with your desire (dedzība in Latvian; dedzība has the

same root as degt—to be on fire).

Girl: I am scared. [The girl runs away.]

Me: Hey, where are you going?

Dialogue 2: With the old hag.

Me: Good evening, dear granny.

Hag: Good evening, dear daughter. Come in. Is there anything you want?

Me: I want to ask you about the shepherd girl who was just here.

Hag: A lass. Full of fire. Beautiful and a good worker. A diamond in the rough.

Me: What was she so afraid of?

Hag: She saw a fire on the edge of the field. You know it is money.
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Me: I saw it too. It is the money she wants so she can buy a big house and cattle.

Hag: You are right about that. She could get it if she were not so frightened.

Me: But she is.

Hag: We’ll see. I told her to throw her pastalas onto the fire. That is how she will

get proper shoes. No one can get a big house wearing pastalas. The only thing you get

walking in pastalas is wet feet and a snotty nose. She needs good shoes to walk strong.

Dialogue 3: With the fire.

Me: Hello fire! You are beautiful but you scare people. Do you do that

intentionally?

Fire: I am who I am. Whether one is afraid of me or not, it does not change me. I

want you to come to me. I like to see myself in your eyes. When your eyes light up, I see

myself in them like in a mirror. Come closer! More! Even closer! Come, come, come

closer!

Me: Auch! You will burn me. I want to see you and feel you, not step in you.

Fire: That’s fine. Stay where you are. I can see myself better that way.

Me: You are cunning! You first try to get me in but then you tell me that you are

glad if I stay where I am next to you.

Fire: I am who I am. It is up to you to figure me out. It’s not my job. It’s yours.

Me: Why did you scare the shepherd girl with the black buck?

Fire: Ha, ha, ha. That was too funny. It was her own cow that had sneaked up

behind me. There were horns all right and the color was dark. Ha, ha, ha! That was one

funny cow-buck! The girl jumped and ran so hard. The only thing to see were the wet

soles of her pastalas.

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Me: If she did not run away and instead threw her pastalas at you, would you

have turned into money?

Fire: Her pastalas would have burned and she would have had a chance for new

shoes.

Dialogue 4: With the shepherd girl.

Me: Do you know it was your own cow that frightened you?

Girl: What a freak! Scaring people like that. I will get to it! Everybody thinks me

a fool.

Me: Don’t worry about that. Next time when you see a fire, you’ll know not to be

afraid.

Girl: Why would the fire show itself again?

Me: Why not? It showed twice already and it can show a third and a fourth time.

Girl: Hm.

In this dialogue, the images tell more, and some deeper layers of knowing are opened up

and become participants in my explorations. I have no doubt that the teller’s experience

can be an authentic one. It is also not less clear that realities coexist.

In an interesting twist of events, and I would call it a synchronicity, before I had

written my active imagination down here, I heard of another legend experience recounted

to me by the person who had the experience. This happened in Latvia not more than a

couple months ago. A woman in her mid-40s (looking for answers on ways to use her

energies) was participating in a shamanistic quest to gain a greater understanding of her

own potential.18 As part of the experience, she was spending a night outside alone. The

18
Retold with permission.
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time was getting closer to the midnight hour. She suddenly heard loud galloping sounds.

They came first from the left and then from the right. She could not see the source of the

sound and grew terrified. She was glad to have taken with her a bar of chocolate that she

then broke into small pieces, offering them to the spirits. She knew they had come after

her. Having fed the spirits and realizing that she could do nothing else, she surrendered to

whatever was to come. The galloping sounds now came from behind her. But the fear in

her had subsided. As the morning light broke the darkness of the night, she discerned

shapes of animals nearby. They were deer bucks. When telling me about the experience,

the woman said: I was a different person when the sun came up.

These two stories bare astounding similarities despite the tellers being separated

by a century or so. It may be because their experiences lay bare the characteristics of

numinosity, meaningfulness, and strong acausal interconnectedness between the teller’s

state and the events and beings told about in the story. I also suggest that it is because of

the common underlying transformative nature of the events that they describe and the

mythologems of these stories.

The sense that some nonhuman, supernatural, and higher powers are at play are

intrinsically linked to numinous experiences. Dégh (2001) acknowledged that the phrases

that come up when the legend is discussed are “‘numinous’ and ‘the totally other’” (p.

51). These phrases were first supplied by a scholar of comparative religion Rudolf Otto

(1958) and then borrowed by legend researchers to talk about supernatural legends and

their constituents. Otto devised the word numinous to refer to the holy while at the same

time excluding the meaning of goodness (p. 6). Dégh (2001) cited two authors: a folklore

researcher Heinrich Burkhardt and a Jungian Gotthilf Isler. Burkhardt argued that
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“legends are popular narratives with unusual contents that often stem from the break-in of

the supernatural world into the world of everyday reality and factual happenings” (as

cited in Dégh, p. 39). Isler stated that the legend is “a unique and for the affected teller

the best possible effort to formulate the underlying archetypal event” (as cited in Dégh, p.

39).

It would not be uncommon to interpret the appearance of the buck in the legend

and that of the more recently recounted occurrence as a projection. Dégh (2001) made

this observation:

The transformational process of growing up and the traumatic experiences of

reaching sexual maturity, leaving home, and taking on adult responsibilities all

contribute to projections and responses to the critical conflict of values, which are

expressed best in a certain category of legends. (p. 210)

Essentially, according to Dégh, these experiences may be understood as fruits of the

imagination of the teller. They are as real to them as ideas in their heads and not as

occurrences in external material reality despite the fact that elsewhere Dégh herself said

that the legend events do “happen here on earth” (p. 6), as I noted earlier. If we take the

“projection” approach to the legends, then any claims about these stories being truthful

recounts of actual events become a fiction. As a researcher, I find it hard to accept this

because Dégh herself asserted that “the legend does not tolerate deliberate lies” (p. 317). I

suggest that the recent woman’s story of shamanistic experience that is so remarkably

similar to the “Money and the Black Buck” story highlights that the psychic state of the

teller and the external events are intertwined. The inner (psychic) and the outer events
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parallel each other. More than that, they do so without causing each other; they manifest

as if orchestrated by some extra-human power that instigates awe and fear.

The notions of the parallelism of inner and outer events and the acausal

relationship between them are familiar not only to depth psychologists but also to

scientists who work in the field of physics, particularly quantum physics. Bohm,

according to Nichol (2003), was one of the first modern physicists who objected to the

mechanistic view of the mainstream sciences that separate the observer from the observed

and disregard the discoveries that demonstrate a holistic and interconnected universe. For

Bohm (as cited in Nichol, 2003), the mechanistic approach shows its limited application

in cases where elements that are placed far distances away from each other exhibit

nonlocal and noncausal relationships. In addition, the fact that the same element could be

present in the form of a particle and a wave was another discovery of the modern physics

that Bohm thought relevant for understanding the interconnectedness of the universe.

Bohm (1957/2003) explained the interlinkages of things with what he called the

“appropriate conditions” (p. 24) present in the background and the existing structures.

Under those conditions, in a reciprocal relationship, all elements involved can transform,

affecting the nature of each other (without being the cause of each other’s

transformation). In Jungian terms, the background and the structures may be conceived as

the collective unconscious and archetypes. Archetypes here are understood as psychoid—

involving both mind and body (Jung, 1954/1960, pp. 175-176). Cambray (2009) called

them quasi-psychic and “at the interface [between] . . . the psychological and material”

(p. 15) where the consciousness is not present and where the psychological is not separate

from the material.

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The comparative analysis of folktale and legends done by Lüthi (1975) paints a

great picture of the interrelatedness particular to the legend. Lüthi observed that in the

legend, the actions and fates of human beings are intertwined with the world around them

and the otherworldly creatures (p. 28). The human is engaged in the experience with both

mind and body (p. 33). The legends have their way of showing this engagement through

the presence of emotions. The meetings with the extra-normal and the mythical beings

are affect-laden. Humans may experience fear, anger, anxiety, a sense of suffering, and

also pleasure, courage, and a desire to dare and to take action (pp. 29-31). Not only is the

human being embodied and filled with experiences of five senses and emotions, he or she

is also mentally engaged with the otherworldly wanting to know it, to investigate it (p.

34). There is no rigid line between the entities and realities of the legend; they merge into

each other—the sense of interconnectedness is innate to the legend.

We may say that in this relationship both Eros and Logos are present. Rowland

(2006) explained the notions of Eros and Logos in the process of gaining knowledge.

Eros’s way of acquiring knowledge is nonlinear or relational. Logos’s way is

rationalistic, characteristic of the ways of passing information familiar to us from modern

Western education. In the legend, the relational and the rational appear to be in an

embrace—both body and mind participate in the experience and leaning. Rӧhrich

(1979/1991) called the legend “a factual [and] . . . experiential report” (p. 10). We may

conceive the legend as a being with a body and mind that communicates both the somatic

and intellectual experiences as interlinked—parallel and acausal because of the

underlying oneness and the psychoid nature of archetypes.

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The idea of the wholeness of the universe was also a conviction of Capra (2010),

a physicist who compared the discoveries of modern physics with Eastern thought in the

writings about Hinduism, Buddhism, Chinese thought, Taoism, and Zen. The basic

premise that all of these hold is that the universe is dynamic and the observer and the

observed are inseparable (p. 81). Using Capra’s words, they are characterized by the

“awareness of the unity and mutual interrelation of things and events, the experience of

all phenomena in the world as manifestation of a basic oneness” (p. 130).

This concept of the basic oneness also permeates the writings of another physicist

Swimme (1996). He articulated it as rooted in the elementary particles and atoms that

make up absolutely everything. I sense a kind of awe when I read Swimme’s words about

the beginning of the universe and its current continued dynamics:

Quarks, the constituents of the stable elementary particles, gathered together and

formed protons and neutrons. Three minutes later these in turn formed the first

nuclei . . . . This same spectacular transformation continued into the future,

carrying these atoms into the form of the galaxies, and then into that of the

molecules and cells, and then into the very form of the human and the elephant

and the blue spruce and the Mississippi River (p. 111).

Again, we can say that what appears to us as visions, our dreams, and the parallel

external events may be linked to the oneness, which we are a part of.

Within the oneness, for Bohm (1980/2003), there was what he called an implicate

order (p. 85)—everything was enfolded into everything. It was, as Nichol (2003), the

editor of Bohm’s writings, described, “a propositional template for plotting the

emergence and dynamics of both matter and consciousness” (p. 2). Our experiences, as
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Bohm (1980/2003) saw them, are three-dimensional manifestations of a multidimensional

and deeper order.

In the context of the legends as stories emerging during transformative times, we

may imagine a coordinate frame of the deeper order that reverberates in the occurring or

upcoming shifts. We are not conscious of the shifts but our bodies and our unconscious

sense them. In the same way, the world around us senses them too. Using Jungian terms,

we may say that some archetype has been constellated. It may be unconsciously

perceived and it may fuel our visions, dreams, and we may be able to “predict” the future.

Experiencing such dynamics must be anxiety-producing and frightening. No wonder that

legends have been described as “verbalized anxieties and fears” (Dégh, 2001, p. 37).

When archetypes are constellated, they cause shifts within human and nonhuman

realms. This simultaneity carries, as Cambray (2009) wrote, a “meaning-connection” (p.

15). For this connection, time is only a secondary agent. The fact that events take place at

the same time (or that events can be predicted and then unfold at a later time following a

vision) is not as important as the fact that the individual feels a deep meaning emanating

from the occurrence. To explain that, von Franz (1992) suggested that meaning was

conditioned by “emotional and preconscious cognitive processes . . . [that] seem to

depend on the activation of an archetypal pattern” (pp. 299-300). While according to von

Franz, the archetypes may pre-consciously organize our ideas, it is necessary for

consciousness to play its part. The meaning-connection has to be made and it is the task

of the individual to do that. We, as the listeners or readers, can do it too.

I suggest that in the story “Money and the Black Buck” some sense of the incident

is made by the old hag. The symbolism of the old hag seems not accidental. The name
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indicates a crossover between a grandmother and a witch. Reflecting on the attributes of

grandmother (as both “grand” and “Great Mother”), Jung (1954/1969c) wrote that “not

infrequently she assumes the attributes of wisdom as well as those of a witch” (p. 102).

The combined symbolism of wisdom and witch indicates knowledge that is both

rational/conscious and intuitive pertaining to the unconscious. In the legend, the old hag

may be understood as the wise aspect of the psyche that brings conscious understanding

and that makes a meaning-connection. It does it by making space for the unconscious and

the intuitive and by translating it into things of everyday reality. In that way, the chaotic

events, thoughts, and feelings become meaningful and somewhat ordered. The strange

fire and the even stranger animal (buck) shooting out of it become meaningful if

understood as money. The desire that burns inside the girl and the fire, the animal

shooting up and then down as the thunder, may be manifestations of the same archetypal

energies. All the occurrences may be mirrors for each other rather their causes, and the

acausality and numinosity of what transpires makes the event a synchronicity.

Thus, we may read the statement by Dégh (2001) that “the legend-tellers do not

make the story, the story makes them” (p. 221) as a poetically expressed

acknowledgement of some greater than individual entity—a background, a oneness. The

legend tellers do not make up images of the legends; the legends emerge through the

tellers when certain conditions are ripe.

Embracing the more recent scientific discoveries related to complexity,

emergence, and symmetry, Cambray (2009) painted an elaborate picture of

synchronicities as breaks in symmetries of complex systems. In following Cambray’s line

of thought, I argue that legend experiences are stories that depict what takes place in
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those breaks. To begin with, Cambray placed the human system among the CAS (p. 45).

The CASs are characterized by emergent properties—manifestations of sudden higher

than before levels of functioning resulting from interactions between the parts of the

system. The new levels of functioning and behaviors are continuously adapting to the

system’s surroundings. More than that, the CASs not only have emergent properties, they

possess holistic features and they are self-organizing. Cambray proposed reconsidering

Jung’s views of synchronicity that excluded energetic phenomena and instead conceiving

the phenomenon as pertaining to “open systems [that are] far from equilibrium [and that

are] capable of developing CAS” (p. 46).

Emergence is, as Cambray (2009) explained, a self-organizing characteristic of

CAS. The phenomena of emergence tend to exhibit in the parts, regions, or fields of the

system that are self-organizing—balancing on the edge between order and chaos.

Examples that Cambray offered to demonstrate such phenomena included the lifecycle of

a beetle larva and the well-known incident of Jung’s story (1952/1960) of the Scarabaeid

beetle. The beetle larva undergoes a transformation without an internal image or the

structure of a bee and, despite it, grows into a fully developed and perfectly formed bee.

In the example with the Scarabaeid beetle, Jung talked to a patient who was inconvincible

about the interconnectedness between beings in the universe. She, the patient, had had a

dream with a Scarabaeid beetle in it. Without any premeditated plan on the part of Jung,

while Jung was talking to the patient about her dream during her therapy session, a beetle

appeared at the window of the room they were in. The appearance of the creature

changed the patient’s world perception and her views of connections in the universe.
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Thus, following the analysis of Cambray (2009) and these examples, we can conceive

synchronicities as “consistent with an emergentist paradigm” (p. 48).

As I am exploring the Shadow archetype in the legends, it is important to

understand that archetype within the context of the complex systems that the human

system belongs to and the archetype’s function in synchronicities. For that, I refer to

Cambray’s (2009) explication of dynamic networks. Such networks are composed of

interconnected things and processes, and they are a subset of CASs. (The legend, as I

have shown above referring to Lüthi [1975], is a great example of interconnectedness or

interrelatedness.) When a dynamic system is described, there are references to hubs and

nodes—hubs being centers that are richly linked to other centers and nodes having a

lesser number of linkages. The psyche may be understood as such a network where

archetypes are the hubs and nodes. The nodes with the weaker links serve a particular

function—both to stabilize the system and to provide it with flexibility. Cambray (2009,

p. 51) associated the hubs in the transpersonal system of the collective unconscious with

the major archetypes around which childhood development is organized. The nodes,

Cambray suggested, are explored when “the archetypal patterns active . . . shift away

from the pathways between hubs” (p. 52). These are the explorations of what lie in the

margins or the “‘shadow’ region of the dynamic unconscious” (p. 52). We can say that

legends with their Shadow images and motifs become active when individuals and groups

venture into the less explored parts of their lives, when new development and maturation

(either related to lifecycle or unexpected events) is called for. Not only did Cambray link

the movement into the shadowy regions of the unconscious to synchronicities, he also

tied it to individuation.
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There is a caveat, though, which Cambray (2009) pointed out writing about

symmetry (pp. 52-62). Jung (1951/1959) had originally conceived individuation as the

balancing of opposites and as moving towards unity and symmetry. He envisioned the

archetype of Self—the symbol of wholeness of an individual and the goal of

individuation—as an example of symmetry. Cambray (2009), however, pointed out many

scientific studies showing that for a system to increase in complexity (to develop), it must

undergo breaks in symmetry (p. 52). In fact, Jung (as cited in Cambray, 2009) later saw

the necessity for asymmetry in psychological development. This happened through

dialoguing with the physicist Wolfgang Pauli, who himself struggled with the scientific

discoveries that showed the lack of symmetry, particularly in mirroring between the

matter and antimatter, which shattered the earlier laws of physics. Jung (as cited in

Cambray, 2009) wrote to Pauli that “a constellated, i.e., activated, archetype may not be

the cause but is certainly a condition of synchronistic phenomena” (p. 58). When we

combine this understanding with the insight of Cambray about the activation of the nodes

in a dynamic system, of which the Shadow is one, we may conceive the constellation of

the Shadow as intrinsically linked to synchronicity. Following from there, the

mythological legends may be appreciated as synchronicity stories or narratives about

synchronistic events.

Jung’s further writing in his letter to Pauli (as cited in Cambray, 2009) may help

us even more in understanding the Latvian mythological legends that I have argued

concern wealth and a sense of worthiness. Jung wrote that those were “precisely the weak

interactions that exhibit asymmetry forms” (p. 59). In the context of our legends, the node

of the archetypal Shadow and its particular content surrounding the notions of riches,
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value, wealth, and a sense of self-worth is also the place of asymmetry. Historically, if

people have not had opportunities to deal with what was considered valuable, if wealth

was lacking, as Vīķe-Freiberga (2010) among other authors noted about Latvians as a

group, then all the psyche’s contents associated with these notions may be less active and

marginalized. At the same time, as was shown, the marginalized areas of the psyche are

also critical in their ability to develop and increase its complexity. Development happens

through breaks in symmetry that are the source of synchronicities.

Understanding the appearance of the Shadow images as emerging from

synchronistic events originating in breaks of symmetry characteristic to a dynamic

system, I contend, is helpful to us. We do not need to experience the Shadow as just a

disappointment. It stops being a one-sided symbol for the contents that must be repressed

because they are unacceptable. The Shadow is not a let-down of a heroic and perfection-

seeking individual and the legend is not a sad regret compared to utopian and optimistic

fairytales.

It is undeniable that systems, including the human one (our minds and bodies),

require both—symmetry and asymmetry—as well as breaks in symmetry that we

experience as synchronicities. Milestones in child development are transition phases in

which symmetries break and new forms emerge (Cambray, 2009, p. 66). The legends, as

shown earlier in my quoting of Dégh (2001, p. 252), deal with the transition times. They

also concern less predictable transitions associated with unexpected events, like death.

More often than not, the mythological legends I have been exploring talk about unique

events that are deeply subjective. In contrast to objective occurrences that are identically

repeatable, subjective experiences are asymmetrical by nature. While we may be relating

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and resonating with the story of the legend teller, we can never replicate or relive the

actual experience. Nevertheless, the mythological legends, I suggest, provide us with

opportunities to feel asymmetry and, in that way, induce in us (even if only in an

insignificant way) a break in our symmetry, that is, growth. The stories of synchronicities

then not only convey synchronistic events but also, perhaps, bring about new

synchronicities.

I have argued that the mythological legends—the stories filled with the images

and motifs of the Shadow archetype—are tales emerging in the breaks of the symmetry of

a complex system (that we ourselves are and that we participate in) and as such are

synchronicity stories. If I were to suggest a definition of the mythological legend, I would

contend that it is a story of human transformative experiences of a synchronistic nature in

which the inner (psychic) and the external events parallel each other and are felt as

numinous.
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Chapter 4
Psychology of the Tellers of Latvian Traditional Mythological Legends

Mythology is a psychology of antiquity. Psychology is a mythology of modernity.

—Hillman, The Dream and the Underworld

Centering the Relationship of Humans with the Supernatural

This chapter explores the psychology of the legend tellers by discerning the

relationships between humans and the archetypal forces they encounter as told by the

legends. The archetypal forces manifesting in the Latvian mythological legends are

otherworldly beings named the House-Master, Haul, Lingering Mother, Fire Mother, fire,

dragons, devils, ghosts, and gnomes appearing in variety of forms—animal, object, and

human. My premise is that these extrahuman entities are aspects of the inner Other of the

legend tellers. Thus, by inquiring into the relationships between humans and the

otherworldly, we gain insight into the relationship of individuals with parts of their inner

Other—their psychology. While probing into the inner world of the legend tellers, the

explorations are not divorced from the external—the social and cultural phenomena in

which the legend is intrinsically embedded. Here, I lean on Rowland’s (2005) proposition

that the myths (and other folk narratives) are “an active social phenomenon” (p. 185). I

approach the texts as beings that are created in a dialogue between the individual (both

conscious and unconscious levels) and the events and concerns of the collective.

Following Jung’s (1931/1966) example of nonlinear knowledge-gaining that

searches beyond the structures of texts, this chapter is particularly concerned with the

relational aspects between the tellers and the legend beings. When calling out patterns in

the relationships, I also feel into them to bring Eros into this inquiry alongside Logos.

Rowland (2006) likened the reading for Eros to the immanent, relational, dialogical,
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feminine, and inner voice and the reading for Logos to the transcendent, rationalistic,

monotheistic, masculine, and outer voice. I am engaging both—the mind’s discernment

and the body’s senses—to attend to the relationships that I am exploring.

In my reading, I approach the legends as the Other—as beings that can let us

know what they desire to communicate and, at the same time, whose vast meaning cannot

be exhausted. The explored relationships and attitudes are regarded as realities that can be

gleaned from but not explained away. Because this study follows Jung’s (1950/1966)

approach to the psychology of art and artist(s), I do not see our lack of ability to

communicate directly with the legend tellers as an insurmountable obstacle into their

psychology. Jung (as cited in Rowland, 2006) did not agree with “the inbuilt cultural

assumption that an author of a text intends to have a coherent rational meaning” (p. 288)

or that the authors know their works. Questioning the legend tellers themselves about

their intentions may likely have given us with some insights but not full clarity as to their

psychology. The depth psychological dialogues offered in this study may therefore serve

to fill the lacuna in our understanding of the tellers’ psyche.

Adams (2010) wrote about his attempts to understand dream images and this can

apply in the context of our explorations of the legends:

I argue that the images that emerge spontaneously and autonomously from the

unconscious—for example, in dreams—have implicit essences, and that the

purpose of Jungian analysis, as an imaginal psychology, is either to interpret

(through explication and amplification) or to experience (through active

imagination) what these images essentially imply. (p. 9)

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Similarly, I approach the legends in this study as stories about images emerging on their

own. They, however, are originating not only in an individual’s unconscious but in the

unconscious of a group. Because the legends can be read as cultural dreams, I suggest

that the images and motifs that describe the relationships between humans and the

otherworldly have an implicit essence that it is our task to interpret and experience. The

relationships allow us, I contend, to glean valuable insights about the psychology of the

tellers—the group and the culture they belong to.

In the chapters above, I have suggested that these particular Latvian mythological

legends are concerned with wealth, well-being, and the notion of self-worth of Latvians

as a group governed by dominant archetypal energies on the level of the collective

unconscious. By exploring different relationships that the humans in the legends have

with the archetypal forces, we may not only discern what those relationships are like in

the particular texts but also become conscious of their character in the psyches of today’s

people. This is inspired by a brilliant example set by Dawson (2004), who interpreted

four well-known British novels from the 19th century in an unexpectedly new way using

Jungian ideas in a post-Jungian manner—expanding the classical archetypal ways of

inquiry into these works of art. Dawson focused on the relationship of what he called the

effective protagonist—the character “to which all the events in the novel can be related,

without exception” (p. 9)—with the archetypal forces depicted in these texts.

In the legend, it is not the human who is in the center but rather the otherworldly

or the demonic (Dégh, 2001). While in the legend, according to Lüthi (1975), human

emotions are prominent, the main attention is given to the extra-human with its

surprising, frightening, and at the same time desired powers. Thus, when reading the
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legends, we may overlook the human and also the relationship between the human and

the extra-human creatures. In this study, the relationships are brought forth by viewing

them from the perspective of the human (the effective protagonist). Reading the legend

this way, I suggest, provides a way of exploring the psychology of the legend tellers.

There are authors, including Rӧhrich (1979/1991), Lüthi (1975), and Dégh

(2001), who have noted the sad tenor of the legend. The relationships between the

characters in the legends might, thus, also be thought of as generally pessimistic. This

study, however, not only shows the diverse character of the relationships and attitudes

between the human and the otherworldly but also offers insights into the particular

dynamics by exploring a number of legends in greater depth. In addition, it demonstrates

the on-going value of the Jungian approach to reading and interpreting folk narratives.

Dawson (2004) contended that we humans have a tendency to look for certain

things—those that we are familiar with beforehand, those that “our own critical

assumptions enable us” (p. 3) to see. Through his work, Dawson invited us not to dismiss

the unconventional approach to reading texts as purely subjective and therefore irrelevant

simply because of our habitual assumptions. He described an intriguing encounter he had

with a painting by Picasso depicting the mythological Minotaur. In the center of the

drawing, there was the image of the beast carrying a dead mare. Behind it, the body of a

young woman rose above what seemed to be a wall or a fist. At first glance, the Minotaur

looked “triumphant, lecherous, even sadistic” (p. 3). But by taking a few steps forward

and coming closer to the image, the impression changed. The cruelty was dispelled and

“an expression of unbearable and tragic sadness” (p. 3) became prominent. Similarly, by

“stepping” deeper into the realm of the legends, by attending to the intricacies of the
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relationships they tell about, we may, I suggest, begin to see nuances of the dynamics

between the characters of the legends. We may discern what lies veiled behind the cloud

of generalization painted with a broad brush: pessimism.

In this chapter, the main concern is with the legend teller or the subject in the

terms of the developmental school of Jungian psychology. The description of this and

other schools was originally provided by Samuels (1985). The developmental school

places a great interest on the individual experiencing and processing the world he or she

lives in. In this chapter, thus, amplification of the archetypal images and motifs (typically

employed by the classical Jungian school) is as a supporting technique. This study, as I

suggested in the introduction, may therefore be considered not only classically Jungian

but both Jungian and post-Jungian. Similar to Dawson’s (2004) explorations of the

novels, this research of legends combines the strengths of the two schools:

From the classical school, it borrows an emphasis on uncovering the

psychological implications of the text. And from the developmental school, it

borrows a concern with the value that the interactions within this text might have

for a specific individual. (p. 6)

However, it is not a specific individual that is the concern here, but rather a group

because the legend is a collective product. I want to recall Beebe’s (1981) analogy of art

work as a jazz piece. I suggested in the literature review that the mythological legends

explored in this study are like jazz pieces that have been tampered with by many tellers

inserting their “emotional autobiography” (p. 33) into the stories that we now call

traditional mythological legends.

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In this research, I follow the key characteristics of approach of analysis used by

Dawson (2004). Hence, the premise of this study is that the relationships described in the

legends are regarded as psychological processes, that the images personify aspects of the

teller’s (and by extension the group’s) psyche, and that they express the psyche’s

unconscious concerns to compensate for what is unacknowledged by the conscious aspect

of the psyche. Whereas Dawson focused his attention on the personifications of different

aspects of the writer’s personality, my focus is on the legend tellers.

This study overcomes the tendency of literary criticism to “build an argument on

only a handful of isolated textual moments” (Dawson, 2004, p. 7). It does so by engaging

with many variations of the same legend, by considering all images brought forward by

the texts, and by close reading and analysis of a few legends honoring their “text as a

whole” (p. 7) as well as by describing the ensuing dialogues and insights. To read all the

available versions of a legend requires knowing Latvian and accessing the texts on the

website Latviešu Pasakas un Teikas (Latvian Folktales and Legends) (Šmits, n.d.). The

appendix of this study gives a good sample in English (my translations). A great part of

this chapter is formed by excerpts as well as full legend texts and their analysis. Included

here are the legends that have spoken to me as great communicators about the

multiplicity of the tellers’ attitudes and relationships with the archetypal forces, offering a

deepened view into the tellers’ psychology.

While keeping in mind that the subject of our explorations is the legend and its

text, I look for the human subject within it. One may ask: can we identify the legend

teller with the human in the legends? The answer is only as a representation and only in

certain aspects. The psychology of the human is therefore not to be equated with the
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biography of the teller or the history of the group to which the teller belongs. This study

concerns psychological criticism. It is not historical criticism and therefore the study does

not encompass a thorough review of historical events. It only makes links to what seem to

be the most important events and circumstances.

Although there may be a number of human characters in the legends, the one

whose relationship with the otherworldly is explored is the one most affected by events.

As mentioned above, Dawson (2004) named it the effective protagonist; to it, all the

events of the story can be related. In the legends, despite their rather short and report-like

recounting of events, a similar effective protagonist is identified and explored.

The human whose relationship with the otherworldly is discerned belongs to a

level of reality that is different from that inhabited by the creatures of the other world.

That of the human is imaginal reality and that of the creatures, the archetypal. Dawson

(2004) observed this distinction in his analysis. He also noted that the most frequently

met archetypes are the Shadow and the Anima and Animus. Talking about relationships

inevitably invokes Anima and Animus—the archetypes that the classical Jungian

approach sees as at the center of any human connections. It is the Shadow—the structure

of identity (Hall, 1983)—though, that we are discerning here. Seeing through the Shadow

aspects of the relationships is our way of entering the dynamics and learning about it in

the tellers’ psyche. The Shadow here is understood as the archetype that refers to or

personifies all those aspects that the human is not able to completely control, for example

“unrealistic ambitions, small-mindedness, anger” (Dawson, 2004, p. 10), fear, anxiety,

and so on. The Shadow represents an unacknowledged and unexamined tendency in the

human personality, which, as many Jungians have shown and as Dawson wrote, urges us
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“into taking another closer look” (p. 11) at ourselves. This may happen by first

recognizing the shadowy beings, and, psychologically, becoming aware of the dance we

are in with them. After that, we may modify our steps—begin a new dance or even

change the dance partner. That brings us to the idea of compensation.

Compensation is the reason we engage in interpretation of texts like the legends.

Dawson (2004, p. 13) reminded us that in Jungian psychology it is not the repressed

material that one is after, rather it is the concern for the issues that the individuals (or

groups) have yet to grapple with. The legend experiences, I suggest, just like dreams,

come to the tellers with two challenges: to grant that the experience has relevance to the

teller and his or her situation, and to make changes in the tellers’ relationship with the

notions of wealth and self-worth in the light of the experience.

Writing about the dominant attitudes, Dawson (2004) observed that they manifest

in the archetypal images in a “positive guise” (p. 17) if the individual is willing to adjust

his or her attitudes. And, conversely, the images become “more insistent” (p. 17) when an

individual “fails to heed the compensatory promptings” (p. 17). In the legend “The Evil

House God,” the devilish House God—the archetypal force—is certainly unrelenting and

tenacious. When the farmer leaves the house, the House God rushes to the window to ask

the farmer’s wife if the husband is at home. She cannot say “yes,” for if she does, the

House God comes in and takes the children. She cannot say “no,” as then it goes after the

husband. And when it does go after the husband, it does not let him get on his horse and

ride. There is no escape from the insistent creature.

In another legend “The Little Tiny Devil,” however, the effective protagonist

adjusts his attitude. The legend tells that

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a farmhand went into the threshing-barn. Suddenly, a big black man came in and

said: “Let there be light!” And there was light. He went on: “Let there be food!”

The food appeared. Then devils as guests showed up—they ate, drank, and

danced. The farmhand jokingly said: “Let there be food for me too!” and the food

turned up. The farmhand called the devils to come and eat from his food too. The

devils came to his food and, among them, came a little tiny devil. The little devil

ate and said: “I will stay with you forever because the old devil gives me only as

much food as in a teeny beaker for the whole day.” Since that day the farmhand

thrived—he got rich.

First, the farmhand meets devils and observes them. Having seen what the devils do, the

man follows their suit to get some food for himself. He jokingly says what the Devil said:

“Let there be food for me too!” And the food turns up. More than that, the farmhand calls

the devils to come and eat his food. The devils come to his food and, among them, a little

tiny devil too. The little devil becomes the farmhand’s helper because the devil likes how

the man treats it. From that day forward, the farmhand thrives. These legends, I suggest,

show well the more insistent and the more positively guised archetypal powers of the

Shadow affected by the attitude of the human toward them or the relationships between

the humans and the archetypal forces.

Jung also (1948/1960a) asserted that “a compensatory content is especially

intense if it has a vital significance for conscious orientation” (p. 252). Connecting this

idea to the concept described in Chapter 3 of the break in symmetries as transformative

events that legends tell about, it needs to be noted that such breaks may be optimally

disruptive or excessive. When the break is optimal, self-organization takes place; when it
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is disruptive or excessive—there is dissolution in chaos (Cambray, 2009, p. 67).

Arguably, there are legends that tell about the excessive breaks, the dissolution in chaos

when the transformation is too difficult. Those may be stories like “The Hauls Get Mad,”

which ends with the mythical Hauls burning down the farmer’s house as revenge for the

farmer not watching his farmhand. The farmhand had soiled the Hauls’ bowls after

having eaten the porridge placed there by the farmer. Or the legend like “The Dragons

with Wide Pants” that simply states: “Once there was a dragon that stuffed its pants so

full of barley that the pants broke and the dragon could not bring grain ever again.” An

optimal disruption, on the other hand, may have been communicated by the legend “The

Dragons Perish in a Hub,” in which there is also a farmhand who eats everything in the

dragons’ bowls. This time, though, the farmer, noticing that his house has been set on

fire, grabs the dragons and locks them inside the hub of an old wheel. The image of the

wheel evokes the notion of meditative mind-centering powers in which our scattered

thoughts are brought as if away from the incessantly moving spikes to the motionless

center. This division is helpful but may also be simplistic and overly oppositional.

Careful reading of the legends indicates that the relationship between the human and the

otherworldly does not fall into only a couple of categories.

Considering the character of the archetypal forces in the legends within the

context of compensation, it needs to be acknowledged that the mythical creatures are not

monsters like the Minotaur or those found in horror films. Connolly (2008), who focused

on the human relationship with the monster in the horror films, suggested that when there

was a possibility of relating to the monster, there was a way to meet the monstrous in

ourselves and learn to know it. The traditional Latvian mythological legends do not
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depict abject horror and the relationships between the human and the otherworldly are

relatable. What is particularly relevant is that they are not singular and their multiplicity

is also their treasure.

To explore the psychology of the legend tellers, I am employing the idea of the

group unconscious. It is based on what Henderson (1984, p. 7) named the cultural

attitude and it is built on Dawson’s (2004) use of the term the personal unconscious.

Dawson paralleled the personal unconscious to the author’s relation to his narrative. I am

using the term group unconscious to refer to the tellers’ relation to the stories and the

creatures within them. The group unconscious, I suggest, contains cultural attitudes or the

tendencies found within a group of people, including the Shadow. As such, the Shadow

tendencies, as elucidated before, may be also conceived as cultural complexes, the term

introduced by Singer and Kimbles (2004). In exploring and in dialoguing with the

legends, I note aspects of the group unconscious and complexes that the stories may

communicate, particularly, what they may say about patterns and tendencies surrounding

ideas of wealth and the sense of value and self-worth.

As emphasized earlier, this study highlights certain aspects of the group

psychology and its unconscious patterns rather than making statements about all

individuals, their biographies, and histories. Moreover, it is important to reiterate that I

am viewing the realm of the relationships that the legends tell us about not as social

interactions but as processes within the human psyche that are never separate from the

body and that always include the external environment. Just as in Dawson’s (2004)

explorations of the British novels, I regard those processes as unconscious. The

mythological legends are considered here as “a unique expression” (p. 23) of those
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processes that, as stated above, cannot be exhaustively understood. I accentuate that this

study is interested in the group unconscious and the psychology of the tellers as it may be

viewed through a prism of the legend characters and the dynamics of their interactions.

Relationships of the Humans with the Archetypal Forces in the Latvian Legends

Fear, according to Rӧhrich (1979/1991), is the language of the legend. It is

certainly one of the emotions that we detect in many traditional Latvian mythological

legends. When it dominates the relationship between the humans and the otherworldly

beings—the unconscious aspects of the psyche—it brings physical and emotional pains,

offenses, anxieties, poverty, and loss of well-being. “The House Ghost,” “A Farmer’s

Two Hauls,” “Dragon as a Thaler,19” “Butter Dragon,” “Engure Dragon,” “Bread for the

Devil Himself,” “Fire in the Field,” “Money and the Black Buck, “ and “The Ditch

Maiden” are legends that recount this, among the others.

Fear, however, is not the only emotion that comes with these consequences. If

humans reject the archetypal powers, they experience physical pain and they feel lost.

“The House-Master Getting Even” and “Spirits of the Devil’s Den” communicate this.

Also, ignoring the god-like extra-human creatures, as the legends inform us, brings on

torment, unrest of mind, and even madness. Ignoring or disregarding these creatures leads

to the penalty of a loss—a loss of wealth (barns and homes), loss of ability to work, and a

loss of health. “The Earth God’s Revenge,” “The Revenge of the Offering Stone,” “Fire

Branch,” “Fire-Roads,” and “The Pot Hook” convey this.

A legend that speaks to that is “The Revenge of the Offering Stone.” In it,

shepherd girls are the “effective protagonist”—they are the most affected by the

19
Thaler is a silver coin dating back to the mid-15th century.
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archetypal forces that can make them healthy and wealthy or take it all away. The legend

tells that

one day, the shepherd girls of five farmers from Viskoki20 village (Alsviķi region)

brought their cattle together at the Mellupe21 river. The girls met at the offering

stone and sat down to eat their lunch. When they had finished eating, one of the

girls said: “Let’s feed the gods too. Let’s give them what remains of our lunch!”

The others agreed, and they placed what was left of their lunch into the hollow of

the stone, saying: “Eat gods! What we have, you have!” The following day when

the girls came to the stone, they saw that the gods had eaten yesterday’s food

during the night. That day again, each of them gave part of their food to the gods.

So it continued throughout the summer. Then came winter and the girls did not go

to the pastures and could not offer food to the gods. The girls were troubled that

the gods were left with no offerings. They talked together and gathered food and

went to the offering stone.

Snow and ice had filled the hollow of the offering stone, and the girls

decided to dig under the stone and place the offering there. They dug and worked,

but the snow was quite deep and the ground was frozen. The girls were not able to

give to the gods the usual offering, and they went home sad.

Upon returning home, all five of them had gone mad. Angry about not

getting their share, the gods had sent a madness disease upon them. Some of the

20
Viskoki is a village. Its name is built from two words: visi (all) and koki (trees).
21
Mellupe is a river. Its name is formed from two words: mella or melna (black)

and upe (river).

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girls did not speak day or night; and some did not want anyone to bring offerings

to the big stone. As soon as any one of them got free, she ran out in the cold

shouting: “We must go to the gods, we must go to the gods!”

The girls would not have been healed during their lifetimes if the wise old

woman from Pērkons22 village was not asked to save them. Only with big

offerings of butter, meat, and other things, did the gods become appeased and the

girls redeemed. Since that time neither shepherds nor night-herdsmen go to the

offering stone to eat their lunch.

A historical understanding of this legend may be that it issues a warning against pagan

rituals. It is quite likely that boys and girls (following their pagan traditions) watching

cattle would have left some of their food for spirits with hopes for returned gifts. These

practices as well as many other pagan activities, as Šmits (n.d.) described, were despised

by the Lutheran church and prosecuted. Laime (2011) gave a detailed account of the

severity with which the practices were punished. In 1574, a woman named Katrīna was

sentenced to death and burned after having found being guilty of the following offenses:

casting a spell on a peasant by the name of Pēteris, killing the 3-month-old child of Anna,

swearing and threatening Benedikts Mačs, casting a spell on the son of Polonnia, killing

the father of Jukums Grave, and all of that happening when those people had come to

Katrīna for healing. Katrīna was deemed to be a witch as confirmed by her own daughter

who knew that her mother could see blue fires that others could not (p. 28). It would,

therefore, not be surprising that legends warned against offerings, sacrifices, and any

other pagan practices.

22
Pērkons is the Latvian word for thunder.
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A different reading of the same legend is a psychological one, and, I suggest, it

provides insights into a relationship between humans and the Shadow in which the

archetypal force is ignored. The stone in this legend is seen as the powerful extrahuman

being named the House-Master. This being controls everything associated with wealth

and, psychologically, the sense of self-worth. The legend starts by telling about the

relationship between the girls and the stone as somewhat accidental. The girls begin to

feed the stone leftovers because they happen to be there. Soon after, the feeding stops

altogether. In Latvian there is a saying barot sirdi un dvēseli (to feed the heart and the

soul); in English there is a notion of a soul food that refers to staples—the most

necessary—food for survival, originating in Africa, the cradle of the human kind.

Metaphorically, feeding the stone of the legend may be understood as feeding our own

heart, soul, and the higher being—the Self. In this story, though, the Self gets treated with

scraps and desertion. The stone (the Self) does not accept that kind of lack of relatedness

and drives the girls mad.

Before deepening the exploration of the relationship between the stone and the

girls, it is significant to consider the meaning of some of the names found in the legend.

The girls are said to come from the village of Viskoki (All-Trees). The name of the place

is important, particularly in the context of what Whitmont (1973) termed the states of

“the ego-self estrangement” (p. 250) in which there is a disconnect between the reality of

the potential inherent in the psyche and the perception of what is possible, limited by the

society. A tree is both an alchemical and a shamanic symbol. The cosmic tree in these

traditions that Jung (as cited in Smith, 2007, pp. 149-150) saw as expressive of depth

psychological processes is an axis of the world by which we may stay connected to both
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higher and lower aspects of the world within us and surrounding us. The name All-Trees

seems to point to the archetypal centeredness and wholeness—a full potential—inherent

in an individual and a group that the individuals form.

The meeting with the stone takes place by the Mellupe (The Black River). This

name—the Black River—conveys the essence of ambiguity that the encounters with the

Self and the Shadow entail. The first meetings with the Self, as Jung (1954/1969a, p. 20)

contended, are always the meetings with the Shadow. The name the Black River

communicates that brilliantly. The word river brings the image of a life source—many

early humans and great civilizations established their homes on the fertile banks of rivers.

Black, at the same time, is the color of dirt, of the terrors of dark night, death, and the

underworld. Not surprisingly, this meeting between the humans and the archetypal forces

has been associated with both—the nourishment of waters and the terrors of death that

may promise rebirth.

Jung (1952/1956, p. 171) linked the experience of death and rebirth to the

archetype of the hero. In this study, I link it to the Shadow because the concern of this

research is the process and dynamics (the relationship) in which the Shadow is always

present; this study does not attempt to discern the heroic end goal. Although the heroic

end may be a good target to move toward, it is the road we walk on and the ditches we

fall into, I propose, that we need to contemplate with no lesser keenness. This suggestion

does not include, though, an invitation to foster gloom, sadness, or pessimism about the

biography or fate of the legend tellers or the generations following them. It is an

imaginative exploration of the roads and ditches—the process and the dynamics of the

human relationships to the aspects of their psyche.

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To explore the relationship between the human and the archetypal creatures, I

imagine into the dynamics between the girls and the stone in the legend “The Revenge of

the Offering Stone.” I do that with the noted awareness that Jung (1951/1969b, p. 140)

interpreted stone (gold, crystal, lapis lazuli) as the symbol of the Self. I imagine what

may transpire in the relationship between the girls and the stone that makes events

unravel as they do. The first sense evoked by the image of the stone for me is a hard

touch. It is followed by some warmth where the sun has heated the stony surface and

some cold on the shadow side. There is a feeling of heavy settledness and immovability.

The color gray dominates; sparks in this relationship can be found but they are small and

require a strong instrument to carve them out from the dense grayness. This relationship

requires submission to whatever is there—any change would be too slow to happen in a

human lifetime. Everything is set (like the saying says—set in stone—steady, stable, and

also obdurate). The submission begins to feel like giving up, like powerlessness. It drives

me mad. Or am I stoned—not able to think or speak, not because of being drunk or using

drugs but because of being overwhelmed by the lack of my own power. There is a sense

of helplessness. It feels like feeding the stone is like dropping seeds on stony ground—no

results will come of it; what is expected fails to come. I see that a stone also has a heart of

stone and that makes the relating even more difficult.

Psychologically, it is rather impossible to be engaged with any aspects of the

psyche that are viewed as stone-like. These structures may become equated with the

Shadow—the structure of identity—that, in this legend, is perceived as a stone. Relating

to it is hard and tending of the relationship may be ignored (in the legend, the girls forget

about the stone). Complexes, however, as Dawson (2004) warned, get insistent if
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ignored. At the same time, they grow into what seem to be extrahuman powers that only

equally powerful super-human forces can tackle. In the story, it takes a hag from the

village of Pērknons (Thunder) to overcome the coldness, immovability, and pestilence of

the stone or the mode of relating to it.

The images of an old hag and Thunder are significant. Thunder and lightning are

known to split stones. Jung (1950/1969a) gave the following description of the symbolic

meaning associated with the thunderbolt: “The . . . thunderbolt . . . symbolizes a perfect

state where . . . the world of illusions has finally vanished. All energy has gathered

together in the initial state” (p. 358). The initial state for Jung was the one where there

was no separation, no division between the inner and the outer structures. In the context

of the sense of value and self-worth we are exploring, it may be understood as an

alignment between the actual psychological state, the sense of well-being and self-worth.

and the value assigned by others and the dominant societal structures.

The old hag who saves the girls in the legend is invited to come and help. There is

a recognition that dealing with the shadowed relationships within our psyches requires

relatedness and love metaphorically expressed in the image of the woman. Using

Rowland’s (2010b) words, it asks not for the “orientation of consciousness toward

separation and discrimination (masculine sky-father hero), [but rather] integration and

relatedness (feminine earth-mother hero)” (p. 46). The feminine in the legend appears as

the old woman evoking the image of the archetypal mother and grandmother. Jung

(1954/1969c) asserted that in its positive expression, the image of mother and the mother

complex “carries for us that inborn image of the mater natura and mater spiritualis, of
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the totality of life of which we are a small and helpless part” (p. 92). The legend, thus,

points to the wholeness of nature itself as the remedy to relating to the Shadow.

The dynamics of this relationship also need wisdom—the knowledge of age

symbolized by the image of an old rather than a young woman in this legend. More than

that, it also calls for generosity of bountiful attention expressed in the big offerings of

butter, meat, and other things. Psychologically speaking, it is a loving attitude, the

wisdom of age, and reliance on the strength of other equally potent archetypal energies

that may shift the dynamics in the relationship with what is shadowy in the psyche.

The legend “The Revenge of the Offering Stone” ends by saying that “since that

time neither shepherds nor night-herdsmen go to the offering stone to eat their lunch.”

There is no happy ending and, I submit, it is an intention of the legend rather than its

failure. The legend depicts a halted development. It does this so that we may stop and

ponder the process—that we may inquire into the relationship rather than rush by as if

toward some end goal.

The observations captured in the legends are not different from Jung’s

(1954/1969a) psychological understanding of what happens when the Shadow material of

the psyche is feared, rejected, or ignored. Psychologically, as Jung observed, the Shadow

is “a living part of the personality and therefore wants to live with it in some way” (p.

20). The way, however, cannot be its neglect, disregard, or dismissal because to disregard

the Shadow as well as any other archetypal force is a futile undertaking. Relating to the

Shadow contents of the psyche with these negative emotions, as these stories inform us,

brings losses. Jung acknowledged and honored the fright we feel when we face what lies

hidden behind the outer mask of persona that we present to the world. He emphasized the
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importance of the encounter: “This confrontation [with the Shadow] is the first test of

courage on the inner way, a test sufficient to frighten off most people, for the meeting

with ourselves belongs to the more unpleasant things” (p. 20). Human complexes

surrounding matters of wealth, I suggest, are no less fear-ridden and felt as deniable as

any other emotionally charged complex. The relationship between the human and the

complex (or the archetypal creature) is experienced as an obstruction because the

constellating power, as Jung (1906/1973) wrote, “fetters the whole individual” (291).

While the image of someone being chained or manipulated by the archetypal beings is

undeniably unpleasant, there is a value to be discerned in these challenging encounters.

Cusick (2008) called it the value of arrested development (p. 13). By telling about the

shackles of the unconscious patterns enveloping ideas of wealth and a sense of self-

worth, the legends may also create a necessary pause in the more heroic human everyday

activities, a space in which to contemplate the ideas, feelings, and habitual ways of

relating to the notions of wealth and feelings of value and worthiness.

Not surprisingly, the legends warn about the afflictions resulting from human

disregard of the archetypal Shadow. Ignoring or disregarding legend creatures like the

Earth god, fire branch, stone, and the pot hook may be likened to psychological splitting

in which the ego cuts off the Shadow. As mentioned, Whitmont (1973) characterized it as

the estrangement of the ego-self that manifests when one’s self-image is “at variance with

one’s true reality” (p. 250). He marked the following devaluative statements to be typical

of the estrangement state: “‘I have no right’ (that is to assert myself or to have what I

want or what I really would like to be) . . . ‘I am fake,’ ‘I am weak and helpless’” (p.

250). Such a relationship with one’s psyche may be a result of some sanctioned societal
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norms and set structures, but it also may have little to do with the reality of the actual

psychological structures of individuals or whole groups.

Vīķe-Freiberga (2010) contended that even in the 19th century, the sanctioned

societal role and the prescribed economical structure equated being a Latvian with being

a peasant, with associated poverty rather than wealth. Interestingly, the data for the

Latvian economy in 2007 showed that the economic life, particularly in the private

sector, was still controlled by non-Latvians while Latvians remained dominant in

agriculture (as cited in Rislakki, 2007/2008, p. 55). The riches selectively determined as

intrinsically Latvian were (and continue to be) of the artistic type. In 1841, a foreigner

described Latvians this way: “Every Latvian is a born poet, everyone makes up a verse

and songs and can sing” (as cited in Rislakki, p. 11). In the late 20th century and into the

21st century, as my personal experience shows, there is the same strongly expressed

identification with being a singer and belonging to a singing nation among my

countrymen and women. It is true that most Latvians sing beautifully and, at the same

time, it is not true that singing is the only thing that the people are good at. The Finnish

journalist Rislakki, who has researched and written extensively about the history and

culture of Latvia, including about misleading information about what Latvia is, spoke

eloquently about the dangers of one-sided and misconstructed images of a people:

It seems that Latvians have learned to think that they must surely be inferior to

others, or at least different from them. Eiropa mūs nesapratīs (Europe will not

understand us) has in recent years been one of the favorite hits on Latvia’s

airwaves. Latvians find it very hard to praise themselves and their country. (p. 17)
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This statement may be construed as a personal opinion. The static data, however, allows

for a lesser space of contention. I therefore suggest that the Shadow—the complexes

about wealth and self-worth—hold their ground in the group unconscious of the legend

tellers (and likely also of their offspring). If we accept what Hillman (1979) observed,

that the mythology (including legends) is the psychology of the past, then we can also see

how the legends communicate the dynamics befalling relationships in which humans

ignore the archetypal Shadow forces.

Similar to the losses experienced by the humans in the legends that tell about

ignoring the Shadow are those taking place when humans relate to the gods with anger,

hate, resistance, and rejection. “Killing the Black Snake,” “The Money and the Grain

Dragon,” “Raven Dragon,” and “The Captured Dragon’s Rye” tell this kind of story. Or

when humans misuse and mishandle their extra-human helpers manifesting as the House-

Master, Haul, Lingering Mother, Fire Mother, dragons, devils, and gnomes as imparted

by the legends “The Gnome with a Riding Stick,” “The Dragon as a Black Cat,” and

“The Wrongful Money.” Psychologically understood, if the ego attitude toward the

Shadow or complexes is hateful, resistant, and filled with denial, the unconscious

responds with the upset of a mishandled and misused animal force or with degenerative

powers of nature that wreak havoc in the experiences of well-being and the and feelings

of worthiness.

In “The Captured Dragon’s Rye,” a man decides to capture and kill the biggest

dragon and, having accomplished that, receives in return a rotten pile of grain:
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There was a place not far from the small manor of Jaunroze’s23 Ingciga that was

known for dragons running at the edge of the forest. A man named Veška,24 the

father of the tall Peter, once made a promise to capture a dragon and destroy it. He

went down to the spot where the dragons ran, exactly at the time that the biggest

dragon ran. He tore his shirt in half from top to bottom in the instant that the

dragon was over his head. Immediately, the dragon began to wiggle and wobble

until it died bursting, sparks of fire flying in all directions. A big pile of rye fell to

the ground. Not even pigs wanted to eat it. It stood there until it rotted.

In the Jungian tradition, a dragon is often a symbol of the negative aspect of the mother

archetype—a devouring force that impedes the development of an individual and,

therefore, a creature that needs to be killed (Jung, 1954/1969c). Dragon for Jung

(1950/1969a) was also a metaphor for the Shadow itself because it expressed “the ‘chaos’

that hides behind the self” (p. 376). The task of a hero was to face the dragon and destroy

it because the dragon stood as a guard to a treasure that the hero needed to obtain (Jung,

1952/1956, p. 259). More than that, if the dragon was killed, the creature could not ruin

the hero himself. In the Latvian legends, as I have pointed out earlier, the relationship

between humans and dragons is different and, I suggest, much better illustrates the

ambivalent nature of the Shadow that Jung (1948/1969, p. 215) himself recognized. The

mythical creature of the Latvian legends is similarly linked with riches but it does not

23
Jaunroze. The name “jaunroze” is made of two words: (a) jauns (new or young)

and (b) roze (rose).

24
The name Veška may be related to the word večka meaning an elder or

someone with gray hair.

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need to be slain; instead, its cooperation needs to be secured. Likewise, the Shadow can

never be destroyed or eradicated; it can only be integrated by our awareness of its

existence.

“The Captured Dragon’s Rye” relates losses in wealth (manifesting as grain) that

result when the dragon is killed. In this legend as in “Dragon Stopped When Pants Are

Dropped”, the man reveals a part of his bare body to the dragon. Clothes are a symbol of

a persona—the face an individual shows to the world that is more like “the mask of the

actor” as Jung (1954/1969a, p. 20) described it. Jung called out the troubles that come

from an individual (and I suggest also a group) identifying with the persona, and acting

out behaviors that are expected and reinforced by the world (for example, one’s place of

origin, profession, or status). In the two legends, though, dropping of the clothes (mask or

persona) takes place with a different attitude. In one case, a simple-minded old man drops

his pants and gets rewarded with a wholesome pile of grain. In the other case— the man

tears his shirt in half from top to bottom in the instant that the dragon is over his head

with the intention of killing the dragon and ends up with a pile of rotten grain that even

pigs cannot eat. In the later case, I suggest, it is the heroic and hateful (shadowy)

relationship of the human with his dragon (his own inner riches) that is different from the

simple-minded and nonheroic way of the elderly man stopping the dragon.

The lines: “A big pile of rye fell to the ground. Not even pigs wanted to eat it. It

stood there until it rotted” suggest that rot had set in the relationship. The man’s

(Veška’s) plan to destroy the dragon indicates attitudes of more than he alone. Veška

makes a promise to somebody (not identified by the legend) that he will kill the dragon.

In addition, the legend makes it clear that the attitude has a generational impact by saying
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that Veška was the father of the tall Peter, whom I identify as the effective protagonist in

this legend. It is Peter’s life that is most affected by the events. Psychologically, the

father’s relationship with the notions of wealth and his sense of self-worth (as announced

and enacted in his time) have been passed on to his son. The wisdom about our lives

being affected by those of our ancestors is commonplace and not unique to legends in

general or these particular Latvian legends. The notable message of the legends explored

here is the one concerning the external—the worldly riches and the internal treasures of

the psyche that require relating to them with attitudes other than denial, resistance, or

hate.

Reading not just one but many Latvian mythological legends closely, we may be

surprised by being presented with great nuances in the dynamics between the humans and

the extra-human beings. The lack of control of the otherworldly helpers if combined with

helplessness or powerlessness on the human’s part may be the right combination for blind

luck. It’s as if things just work out despite all the troubles, and the human ends up

wealthy and healthy. The legends communicating this include “The Devil and the Thirsty

Miller” and “The Master of Ķeiž25 Manor and the Night Guard.” Humans may also

mistreat their helper, but as long as they are not malevolent and fearful, they fare well, as

in the story “Money—the Beautiful Maiden,” which tells of about hitting the wealth-

bringing spirit with a stick (a branch). Usually such behavior would result in losing one’s

house or barn in fire, but in this case, it results in getting a pile of money.

The historical times in which the legends were likely first told were not easy for

the tellers. We can picture many occasions when parents needed to leave their children at

25
Ķeiži is a village in North-Eastern Latvia.
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home alone while they went to work. Amassing any wealth under such unfavorable

arrangements would certainly have been a desire, a wish that could find its expression in

a legend.

In this legend, it is the little girl who is most affected by all the events. First, she

is left alone to fend for herself. She then needs to endure the unnerving appearances of a

stranger although not a harmful one. Having become a playmate, the girl then is told to

hit the maiden. which would be confusing unless she blindly obeys her mother’s

instructions. Finally, she must observe what most others never see—a transformation of

nonhuman nature.

I imagine being the little girl home alone. It is a bit chilly as the heat of the

fireplace dies out during the passing hours. There is silence in the room. It feels lonely. A

sense of being left, being abandoned creeps in, but then, suddenly, I am no longer alone.

A young and beautiful woman enters the room. She comes in not like a regular person

would do but through the narrow opening between the door and the door jamb. My mind

tells me to be frightened, but my body is relaxed and weightless with joy at her presence.

She wants to play and so do I. Hours fly by and then she leaves. I am happy to tell my

mother about the maiden. I am confused when my mother instructs me to beat the

beautiful maiden the next time I see her. I have now become a cunning fox, waiting for

the maiden just to hit her with a branch when she shows up. As I lift the branch, I feel an

energy thrust into me from an unknown place. I am so overtaken with the task assigned to

me that I am not afraid. I have become the action itself. I have no body that can be

destroyed and there is no body that can experience fear. As the branch touches the

maiden, she is no longer a transparent, vaporous vibrating being. She begins to shine and
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then falls to the floor. I am now able to touch her. I can hold her (or the thing that she has

become) in my hands. I hold pieces of golden coins and see a whole pile lying at my feet.

Psychologically, the child in each of us symbolizes the developing and the

maturing aspect of the psyche and the process of development that Jung (1951/1969b)

termed individuation (p. 159). In his essay “The Psychology of the Child Archetype,”

Jung (p. 151) emphasized that not only the child motif but all the various motifs of folk

narratives (for example, myths, legends, and folktales) are processes of the psyche. He

called these processes “a living function . . . present in the psyche of civilized man” (p.

151). In the context of this legend, the relationship between the ghost maiden and the

human (the girl) may be understood as undergoing maturation, albeit, not an easy or a

heroic one. A lonely child at home represents a sense of abandonment or feeling like an

orphan. As described in Chapter 2, the identity of an orphan has been inadvertently

cultivated among Latvians by the early Latvian writers and poets. Nevertheless, the

human attitude toward wealth is growing up—it changes from the initial play to a

cunning action. The result is materialization of wealth—money and also a maturation in

identity and a sense of self-worthiness.

The relationship between the human and the otherworldly being is quite different

here than in “The Revenge of the Offering Stone.” Although in both stories the wisdom

of age (advice and help from an older woman) is necessary, in “Money—the Beautiful

Maiden,” the helpless submission to the archetypal powers is replaced with a cunning

action—the action of a trickster. The sense of self-worth represented by the pile of golden

coins is gained through a movement of the trickster engaged in participating.

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In “Money—the Beautiful Maiden,” the ghostlike maiden can also be viewed as a

spirit, an idea that materializes—turns to reality. While in this particular story it appears

that we can be given instructions on how to deal with problems, the advice is far from

something that can be taken literally. The legends, just like myths or other folk narratives,

as Hillman (1977) cautioned, “do not tell us how” (p. 158); rather, they invite us to open

the psychic imagination, which helps us make sense of the experiences we undergo. It

awakens mythological thinking that feeds the soul, as it creates the space for all the

aspects of human existence, no matter how good, healthy, damaged, or pathological they

may seem. It also cultivates awareness that is fertile through its union with imagination,

which gets us out of the places we feel stuck in and gets us moving to new, more

generative ways of living based on more wholesome identities. How we might get out of

the stuckness depends on our ability to dare to face the Shadow.

That is what “The Wee Dragon” may tell us, although without communicating it

in a direct manner. If we reflect on the attitude that the human being in this legend holds

toward the archetypal forces manifesting in the tiny dragon, if we discern the relationship

that is there between these characters, an understanding of the group unconscious and the

psychology of the legend tellers emerges.

A man badly wanted to get a dragon. Wishing to have it, he went to Rīga. He

walked into a little shop and asked the gentleman: “Please, could you sell a small, tiny,

wee26 dragon?” (The kind that would not cost too much, that would not be worth too

much.) The gentleman responded, “Why not?” and gave it to him. Once home, the dragon

26
Wee is the word used for the English translation; in the original, the word sūds

is used meaning small and also shit.

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began to haul wee. The man brought and carried the wee away but could not get it

emptied. At last, he spoke to the dragon and found out that it was a pee dragon because

the man himself had asked for a small, tiny, wee dragon when buying it in Rīga.

We get an immediate sense that the previously mentioned despondency and

gloominess. It may be reflecting what Vīķe-Freiberga (2010) described as a Latvian

feeling of “chronic psychological theft” (p. 123), which she linked to the notion of “fear

of success” (p. 123) and felt was characteristic of societal groups that have been repressed

or marginalized. In Vīķe-Freiberga’s view, Latvians are such a group due to historical

oppressions lasting many hundreds of years.

A more literal reading of the legend would see it in its concrete historical context.

Historically, when legends like this one were likely told (and also in today’s Latvia),

most of the riches were located in the cities and towns. Rīga is often mentioned in the

legends. It is also the biggest city and the capital of today’s Latvia. Another city found in

the legends is Jelgava. Just as in the times the tellers told the legends, modern Latvians go

to these places for trade and business. We may surmise that it requires planning for a trip

if one is coming to the cities from the countryside (what farmers would do), undertaking

tiresome travel, an entry into a busy and unknown labyrinth of a crowded and often

indifferent or even hostile environment, courage (or a pressing need) to dare to do that,

and skill to communicate one’s wishes to obtain what one has come for. Returning home

from the city may not have always been a successful endeavor and the legend may have

told about such less lucky trips.

To approach the legend psychologically, I imagine a man climbing onto a horse-

drawn wagon, his body and his movements showing the anxieties of the trip. His face
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reflects traces of racing thoughts—hope I get to the city without losing what I already

have (my horse, the carriage, and the few coins in my pocket), hope I get a good dragon

for my coins, hope nobody robs me of it, and hope I get home in one piece. The carriage

drives off into a morning fog and arrives in the city just after midday. The traveler gets

himself a dragon and immediately sets out on the return trip. Once home, the man goes

straight to bed to rest. When he awakes, he finds himself on top of a soiled bed and the

room filled with feces. His wee (shit) dragon has hauled him lots of wee (poop). The

dragon could not be more satisfied—it has done his job well.

An English saying tells that it is possible to scare the shit out of somebody,

meaning to make a person very scared. In Latvian, the phrase pilnas bikses no bailēm

(full pants from fear) has the same meaning. In the legend, the man does not have the

guts to ask for anything larger than what he calls a tiny wee dragon. Psychologically, we

may be feeling little and be unprepared to deal with external wealth or our own internal

wealth and, thus, this rather grotesque image of a house filled with feces. In urban slang,

the phrase to be full of crap means to be ridiculous, unfounded, completely wrong, false,

or worthless. In the legend, the man’s house is filled with the smelly matter.

Symbolically, it is the house of his being and a psyche that lacks a sense of foundation

and worthiness.

Other sayings in Latvian are sūdi lidz ausīm (shit to the ears) and sūdi vagā un

kartupeļi gar malām (shit in the furrow and potatoes on the sides), about troubles one is

in that are hard to deal with. A similar saying in English is to be in deep shit, meaning to

be in lots of difficulties. The troubles and difficulties may be what we find when entering
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our own inner areas of riches that often appear as dangerous labyrinths filled with lurking

beasts, as in the myth about Minotaur.

The human in “The Wee Dragon” relates to the dragon as something that is worth

very little. His sense of identity is troublingly distorted—it is small. It is nothing but a

rubbish bin—a dark place with smelly contents. Johnson (1971) described the Shadow as

the “dumping ground for all those characteristics of our personality that we disown” (pp.

ix-x). It is not just the Shadow aspect of the psyche but the entire house—the whole

individual—that is full of, so to say, crap.

“The shadow gone autonomous is a terrible monster in our psychology,” wrote

Johnson (1971, p. 5). The wee dragon is such a terrible monster. This kind of relationship

between the human and the archetypal forces invites the dragon’s monstrosity. Perhaps

we can understand the fear of the man to relate to his Shadow by reading these words of

Johnson: “People are as frightened of their capacity for nobility as of their darkest sides”

(p. 45). Psychologically, we may not be ready to own up to our abilities and potential the

same way as we avoid facing our Shadow in its fullness. Nevertheless, there is an

indication of a psychological shift in this legend. It is the act of a man asking the dragon

what has gone wrong. He is engaging with the archetypal Shadow forces and beginning a

dialogue that brings answers even if it does not bring solutions. The importance of the

dialogue with the Other within ourselves or the nonheroic relationship with our shadowy

aspects was reiterated by Rowland (2012). In her view, this process reduces the one-

sidedness of the dominant human consciousness; the Other is often the body rejected as

lesser than mind. In the context of the legends, it may be the Other found within a group

unconscious that manifests as certain set attitudes dominant in the culture at large.
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It would be wrong to think that the Latvian mythological legends tell only about

troubled relationships between the tellers and the archetypal forces symbolizing wealth

and, by extension, the tellers’ well-being and self-worthiness. In fact, there are stories

that show other than misfortunate or vexed alliances. To be wealthy, to become rich, as

the legends reveal, requires these emotions, attitudes, and skills to be present in the

relationship—simple openness, curiosity and persistence, generosity and courage,

attentiveness, wit and craftiness, respect, cooperation, knowledge, and control. It is not,

however, necessarily in a heroic way that the human relates to the archetypal powers. The

Shadow is always there and the relationships involve more openness, patience, and

insights than valor. “The Haul of the Hay Loft,” “Witches and Toads,” “Three Scoops for

the Fire,” “Three Morsels for the Dragon,” “The Dragon Perishes in a Hub,” “The Little

Tiny Devil,” and “Coal for the Boy” are some that communicate this. By exploring a

couple of legends more deeply, by stopping to ponder the relationships between the

human and the archetypal forces they encounter, the legends may reveal to us these

aspects of the legend tellers’ psychology.

“Dragon Stopped When Pants Are Dropped” tells the following:

One evening an old man saw a dragon that looked like a black rooster running in

the air. The dragon had a golden bowl in front, all sparkly and shiny. The man

called the other people out and told them how and where he had seen the dragon.

They gave him advice to drop his pants to get the dragon’s load when the dragon

would soon come walking the same way again. A long time passed but nothing

miraculous happened. Then suddenly, one evening, the same old man was

walking home from the inn. Around the same place as before, he saw a dragon
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running again in the air as a blue and black rooster, with a big black tail in its

back. It was not as bright this time as the man had seen before and there was no

golden bowl in front. The old man, as he was taught, dropped his pants to the

ground, and the dragon threw down a whole load of rye onto the elder’s pants.

While the man in the legend ends up gaining a load of grain, we might detect the

presence of a simpleton, a jokester, or the trickster in the relationship between the old

man (the effective protagonist) and the dragon. The old man is portrayed as a drunkard—

he sees a strange thing when walking home from the inn: a dragon—a black rooster—

with a golden bowl flying in the air. The elder appears to have no idea of how to relate to

the dragon and asks others what to do. He is then given absurd advice—to drop his pants

to get the dragon’s load. Unless the legend is read as a joke, a literal reading conveys

both the foolishness of the idea about the poor gaining wealth and the desire for such a

miracle. Again, referring to Vīķe-Freiberga’s (2010) writings in which she put Latvian

culture in historical context, we may posit that the relationship between the man and the

archetypal powers depicts a certain conflict caused by the attitudes dominant in the

society. The author elucidated the situation of the first educated and wealthy Latvians at

the end of the 19th century (the time when many legends were collected):

The first isolated Latvian strugglers who wanted to “climb” the ladder of society

had to realize that the “top” of the society was not Latvian but rather German or

Russian. The desire to become a citizen was accompanied by a pressure for

change in the culture that caused difficult personal conflicts. (p. 33) (My

translation.)
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The legend, thus, may seem to have a simple message: you must be a drunk (or a fool) to

think that a plikdibenis (the naked-butted one; in Latvian a poor person is referred to as

plikdibenis) could become rich. At the same time, the legend may be a wish or the reality

of the poor fellow succeeding in one way or the other to harvest more grain than others

had been able to do.

Psychologically, however, it is worthwhile to consider the way the old man (our

effective protagonist) relates to the dragon in this story. He has a rather nonheroic attitude

toward the dragon and, despite rather nonchivalrous actions, the man acquires riches (the

grains being a metaphor for wealth). Instead of picking up a sword and fighting the

dragon, which would be a typical fairytale scenario, the man becomes naked in front of it

in the most intimate and unelegant of ways—by dropping his pants. Jung (1950/1969a)

wrote that “the hero has much in common with the dragon he fights—or rather, he takes

over some of its qualities, invulnerability, snakes eyes, etc.” (p. 367). In our legend, there

is no heroic fight but rather something that resembles surrendering. When one becomes

naked, one is also vulnerable and accepts what is to come. The dragon in this legend is

given a surprise of dropped clothing and not the more typical ritual offerings to please it.

Clothes, as described above, symbolize a cover for the true human being that

hides behind them as behind a mask. When one is possessed by the persona, one is ruled

by “peculiar convictions, idiosyncrasies, stubborn plans and so forth” (Jung, 1950/1969b)

p. 122). The metaphor of dropping clothes may be understood as symbolizing a change in

the internal structure of the psyche and in the attitudes in the external world. Thus, the

legend may suggest that the legend tellers, perhaps unconsciously, had an inkling that the

persona of the poor one needed to be dropped for a transformation to occur. By letting
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that identity to fall or to come down, the man finds himself gaining riches. We may say

that the legend conveys the paradox of finding oneself wealthy and worthy through an act

of becoming stripped of the old attitudes and relationships in a way that departs from the

dominant idea of striving and achieving in a heroic mode.

The final legend that I would like to bring into a dialogue is “The Goat’s Fire.” It

tells about a man who persisted in attending a fire until coal transformed into gold despite

being butted by a goat.

A man noticed that there was a place where a fire was always burning during the

nights. One time he went to look at what kind of fire it was. There was a black

goat with big horns standing next to the fire. The man thought he would wait for

the owner of the fire to light a smoke, but the goat began to butt him right then

and it did not let him take the fire. Without meeting anyone, the man went home.

The fire was again burning on the same spot later. And so he went to see it again

one night. There was nobody else by the fire but the same goat. As soon as he

tried to take the fire, the goat butted him. The man began to suspect money being

parched. One night he took a spade and went to the fire. The man waited for a

rooster to crow. Just around that time, the man pushed the spade into the coal and

as soon as the rooster began to crow, he threw the coals out. The fire stopped right

that moment and the thrown coals had turned into gold.

In this legend, just as in “A Slap and a Golden Coin” explored above, coal

becomes gold and may be understood as a metaphor for an alchemical transformation of

the psyche. Similarly, I have described the metaphors of fire and cooking in the writings

of Hillman (1979), Edinger (1994), and Combs and Holland (1996) above. Instead of
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perusing the alchemical aspects of the symbolism here, I deepen insights about the

relationship the man has with the archetypal forces appearing in the shape of the fire, the

goat, and the rooster.

The man approaches the fire with curiosity—he goes to look at what kind of fire it

is. He is patient—he waits for the fire to go out—and persistent—he returns to learn more

about the fire and he brings along a spade. In addition, the man forms an insight through

his curiosity, patience, and persistence. He begins to suspect that money is parched by the

fire. I sense that the man approaches the fire in the mode of an investigator or an

explorer. He cannot resist the call of the fire, just like those men and women who walk on

hot volcanic lava to learn about it. There is a strong attraction dominating this

relationship. The nighttime events emphasize the dealings of the dark and the shadowy

elements. Seen psychologically, the dynamics between these characters in the legend

coincide with the self-exploration processes in the human psyche, particularly of the

structure of identity—the Shadow. The dominant theme in this relationship is attraction

and investigation.

There is a different dynamic between the goat and the man. They do not seem to

have an amicable relationship—the goat butts the man repeatedly, presumably causing

pain. At least there is so much discomfort that the man does not pursue getting closer to

the fire until a number of nights later. The goat is a challenge, and the man must find a

way to deal with it (apparently, without killing it) if he is to get to the fire. This challenge

is a mythic and an archetypal one. The image of the goat has been linked with the

mythical Pan—the god that symbolizes those feelings in humans that are rudimentary,

animal, and basic—the aspects of the Shadow. Jung (1948/1969) emphasized that animal
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appearances in folk narratives serve as a metaphor for the instinctual in the unconscious

and at the same time also for the functions that are superior to the conscious mind.

Hillman (2007) saw goat and Pan as “the sudden wilderness and spontaneous desires” (p.

301). The goat is then a metaphor for the man’s inner animal that on one hand appears to

be the obstacle and the challenge and on the other hand is the heightened animal sense

that knows where the treasure is. The goat is there by the fire because it perceives, senses,

or intuits the fire’s value. The dominant theme in this relationship is a challenging

ambivalence that embodies both the obstacle and the sign of treasure. In a strange way,

the man is both deterred in his attempts by the goat and is guided by it.

In the legend, the man is not able to affect the way the goat acts, but his

unrelenting desire to get to the fire is fulfilled through a synchronized meeting of two

archetypal energies—those embodied in the goat (Pan) and those epitomized by the

rooster (also the symbol of Orion—a constellation of stars visible throughout the world

and a figure of a huntsman in the ancient Greek mythology). The challenge in this

relationship is insight and the right timing. If those can be attained, the desire can be

fulfilled. It happens through a shift in the dominant archetypal forces. Psychologically,

we humans may not be able to force or to convince the shadowy goats of our complexes

to move out of our way, but we may be persistent and wise enough to look for other

archetypal energies, like those of the rooster, to outweigh those that create obstacles in

our way. The legend tells that the wealth is achieved not through relationships in which

the goat is killed (the dragon is slain) by a hero attacking it, but, instead, by keeping the

goat alive and presenting it with a counterbalance. In the context of the psyche, this
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legend seems to communicate a breaking of an archetypal possession associated with a

change of world views.

Hollis (2009) suggested that a needed collapse of a worldview may take place

when the previously used ego maps no longer work; the old myths no longer hold and

new ones need to be created. Being in a state of what Jung (1948/1960c) calls “splinter

psyche” (p. 98), one begins to orient oneself to a new map, which is “larger and includes

more than what seemed necessary theretofore” (Hollis, 2009, p. 154). It seems that this

legend has captured and communicates a process of change in views and relationships to

one’s own inner shadowy contents. It is therefore also a process of maturation that cannot

be divorced from gaining a sense of self-worthiness symbolized by coals turning into

gold.

By gaining insights into the relationships between the human and the archetypal

forces in the legends, we can glean the psychology of the legend tellers. This psychology

is polytheistic, a term used by Hillman (2007), who was seeking psychology in the

variety of mythical figures. According to Hillman, when we discern mythological figures

psychologically, we release our imagination, which may bring answers rather than

moralization: “There is a complex imagination released rather than a simple explanation

that identifies and closes question. We get a story rather than a reduction or moralism” (p.

206). By dialoguing with the Latvian traditional mythological legends about the

relationships of the legend characters, their Shadow aspects in the group unconscious

surrounding the notions of wealth and self-worthiness, I am not presenting any ultimate

conclusions and I stay away from making statements about morality. Rather, exploring

the legend the way it has been done here following Dawson’s (2004) approach, I argue
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that we are able to discern the processes of the psyche in a way that elevates them to a

new and more conscious level. The relationship made more conscious becomes an entity

that can tell us about the dynamics within our own inner house of the psyche and the

world surrounding us. It is significant to observe that humans and archetypal beings

engage in a multiplicity of ways rather than with either a heroic fervor or fear; that the

human ties with the archetypal contents are alive in the psyche, the body, the surrounding

environment; and that they are diverse and nuanced. The Latvian mythological legends, if

read symbolically and psychologically, become alive as a rich repository of the manifold

images feeding the psyche and communicating the inner realms of the psychology of the

legend tellers that concerns itself, among other things, with the idea of wealth and self-

worthiness.
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Chapter 5
Findings and Conclusion

Findings

Taking the path through the texts of the Latvian mythological legends guided by

the structures and the immanent presence of the archetypal Shadow images and motifs,

and following a depth psychological approach, this study has aimed to discern the

psychology of the legends and that of the legend tellers. Practicing both Jungian and post-

Jungian perspectives on art and literary criticism, it has sought to answer these questions:

What Shadow images and motifs are present in these legends? What is their depth

psychological relevance? What is the psychology of these legends? And what is the

psychology of their tellers?

The images of the Shadow that inhabit the traditional Latvian mythological

legends explored here have been the House-Master, Haul, Lingering Mother, Fire

Mother, dragons, devils, fire, gnomes, and ghosts. The archetypal images turning up in

the legends were shown to use collective figures to communicate with their audiences as

they expressed a problem of the group rather than just an issue of significance to an

individual. As the researched revealed, the mythical beings may manifest themselves in

the shapes of natural phenomena such as stones, trees, and animals—cats, dogs, toads,

snakes, roosters, chicks, goats, and bucks. Also, they may appear in bizarre objects, like a

horse hobble and horse dung, a dried-out leg of a frog; and in beings with a human face

and body. In all their variety, the otherworldly creatures were understood to show up as

daemons that challenge the habitual views held by the legend tellers, by those who

listened to their stories, and, perhaps, by us who are reading the legends today.
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In this study I suggested that the extra-human and mythical beings centered in the

legend communications, through their characteristic ambiguity, symbolized the Shadow:

they were evil and destructive in the same way as they were helpful and nourishing; they

could both bring the riches and take them away from humans. They were nonheroic,

inferior, troublesome, rejected, feared, challenging as well as the life-giving aspect of the

legend tellers’ psyche.

The particular Shadow of the traditional Latvian mythological legends explored in

this study was shown to do with what is inferior or nonheroic in the legend tellers’ psyche

about wealth, riches, well-being, and their own sense of value. This was a depth

psychological insight gained through close reading, active imagination, and amplification

of the legends as articulated by Rowland (2013) and by bringing the legends into

dialogue with texts of various authors. For example, Kursīte (1999) observed that humans

in Latvian legends were not the true owners of money (or other expressions of wealth—

full barns, fat horses, and so on) (p. 133). Obtaining riches required interaction with the

supernatural, the extrahuman forces—the underworld creatures, animals, and human-

shaped beings. The legends told about the complexity and shadiness of all those

rendezvous. There was always something not straightforward in dealing with the wealth

bringing or securing creatures.

I argued that the idea of wealth could not be reduced to material goods and that it

was likely intertwined with the tellers’ psychological state of well-being and a sense of

worthiness. In the works of various authors (Kļaviņš, 2013a, 2013b; Rislakki 2008;

Spekke, 1948/2008; Vīķe-Freiberga, 2010; Zālīte, 2008), a certain gloominess and self-

deprecation characteristic to Latvians was pointed out or alluded to. The traditional
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mythological legends, as my research showed, may reflect some of the gloom but it

should not be a reason for viewing the legends as pessimistic tales of a doomed fate. If

understood psychologically, the legends may prove to be narratives that harbor

unconscious compensatory and transformative energies. The legends, as manifestations

of the contents of the collective unconscious intertwined with the personal and cultural

elements, may challenge the conscious attitudes the way Jung (1950/1966) saw

mythological texts compensating for a conscious one-sidedness (p. 97). As the

explorations showed, in the dialogues between the conscious and the unconscious, new

insights, relationships, and feelings had an opportunity to emerge and form.

As the particular legends studied here appear to give voice to the Shadow contents

of the tellers’ psyche surrounding their experiences with material riches and their feeling

of being valued and valuable, the contents of the psyche articulated by these legends may

be understood as the psyche’s matter that forms a cultural complex of troubled self-

valuation of the legend tellers. Dialoguing with these stories and reading them depth

psychologically could be likened to what Henderson (1984) considered a psychological

attitude that enables us to become more acquainted with cultural complexes and to form a

“greater cultural awareness” (p. 7). The exploration of the cultural complexes or what I

call the group complexes of the legend tellers within the context of the actual texts and

Latvian history that this study has offered may be the first such depth psychological

study. Further studies using folk narratives or other forms of art and expressions of

culture are to be welcomed. This and any other future studies would add to the discourse

already underway that talks about cultural complexes in North and South America,

Africa, and Australia (Amezaga, Barcellos, Capriles, Gerson & Ramos, 2012; Roque,
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Dowd & Tacey, 2011; Singer & Kimbles, 2004) and to the inquiries into the national

identify of Latvians (Cimdiņa & Hanovs, 2010).

Despite the gloominess of the legends and the challenges they describe, the

legends’ communication may serve as a source of nourishment for the psyche. Their

overall pessimistic tone is not just filled with despondency—low spirits from loss of hope

and courage. The legends are ambiguous and tricky—they disturb their tellers, readers,

and listeners alike rather than casting a spell of ill-fatedness. Through the trickster-like

disturbances of the legend experiences and the legend communications, we can be

motioned into a state of transformation. Art that possesses this quality was called by

Beebe (1981) the trickster art. The traditional mythological legends may be such an art.

They may be understood as the trickster stories—while being a creative outlet for

uncontrollable fears and burning desires, they are psyche’s tools for integration of these

states and emotions, for enabling us as humans to embrace a greater complexity of our

own nature.

The process of integration and psychological transformation is often chaotic and

demanding. The study made it easier to perceive how the mythological legends may be

folk narratives capturing those troubles, how the events that the legends recount are never

free from upset, confusion, and disorder in the encounter between humans and the

mythical beings. As such, the legend experiences may be viewed as events of

psychological and developmental break points typical of complex adaptive systems, of

which the human system is one. Following the idea proposed by Cambray (2009) that

likens the breaks in symmetry in CASs with what Jung (1952/1960) termed

synchronicities, I offered that the traditional mythological legends are stories about
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synchronicities. The human encounters with the mythological forces in the legends may

be actual and real, not lies or pure imagination; they could be understood as occurrences

in which various actual events coincide acausally and that the legend tellers experience as

both numinous and meaningful. They affect the tellers deeply, breaking some previous

symmetry within their psyche and opening a space within which a change and maturation

may take place. The legends, however, do not offer recipes for development or

transformation. Rather, they function as psychological breaks, as moments of pause that

the psyche may use to pose questions, to reflect, and to seek answers within its less

lighted corners—the Shadow.

The psychological relevance of the archetypal images of the Shadow is likely to

be in facilitating processes in which conversations between the conscious and the

unconscious aspects of the psyche may take place. The psychology of the explored

traditional Latvian mythological legends may be that of the trickster and

synchronicities—of constellating and of voicing psychological transformations. Taking

into the consideration the psychology of the mythological legends, my contribution to the

legend definition is the following: the legend is a story of human transformative

experiences of a synchronistic nature in which the inner (psychic) and the external events

parallel each other and are felt as numinous.

My research demonstrated how opening a dialogue with the Shadow images that

manifested personal, cultural, and group complexes and how talking about the numinous

encounters in which the shifts within the psyche may have occurred provided a culturally

accepted avenue for examining what is less bright and heroic within the human psyche,

what the conscious ego seemed not to be able to take responsibility for. The space offered
 244

by the legends to make the unconscious conscious was argued to be particularly vital and

viable. It was because the stories inherently communicated felt and dynamic relationships

that transpired between the humans and the archetypal forces—the conscious and the

unconscious contents inhabiting the human psyche. The events of the legends and the

legend experiences and characters could be relatable and, thus, transformative. With their

archetypal nature and the transcendent structure of the Shadow and their immanent

relatedness, the legends engaged both the conscious and the unconscious aspects of the

psyche and, therefore, the knowledge gaining that they excited could be understood as

having both the nature of Logos and Eros. I submitted that the Logos/Eros epistemology

was present in the communications of the traditional mythological legends just the same

way as it was relevant in Jung’s writings.

Through close reading and active imagination, the study exposed the variety of

ways in which humans and the archetypal forces connected in the traditional Latvian

mythological legends. In so doing, I suggested, they revealed the psychology of the

legend tellers, particularly when Dawson’s (2004) approach of identifying the effective

protagonist was used to look for nuances in the interactions between the mythical beings

and the humans in these legends. This exploration showed that despite the fact that the

legends in general have been characterized as pessimistic stories of fears and anxieties,

and imperfections and flaws (Lüthi, 1975/1987), they articulated a broader spectrum of

emotions and attitudes. Besides fear and anxiety, they told about rejection, aloofness, and

playfulness, about curiosity, craftiness, desire, and respect. The psychology of the legend

tellers, the study showed, was including all those attitudes and relationships present

within the behaviors, thoughts, and feelings enveloping matters of wealth, well-being,
 245

and self-worth. A particular theme that characterizes the psychology of the Latvian

mythological legend tellers is the recognition that dragons or the Shadow aspects of the

psyche need not be slain, that the cooperation with the dragons or the integration of the

Shadow is a valuable mode of relating to oneself.

It is my contention that by imagining into the various shapes and expressions of

the archetypal images and the relationships between humans and the otherworldly forces

they encounter, it is possible for the legend tellers and readers to re-imagine their own

inner shapes and forms of wealth, value, and self-worth. A greater consciousness on our

part about the psychology of the legend tellers may bring more consciousness to our own

psychology. In that way, the legend explorations are a political project that is relevant for

Latvians as the descendants of the legend tellers who are now in the process of defining

their identity after having regained independence a quarter of a century ago. And because

the folk narratives are transcended by the archetypal energies, their psychological value

reaches beyond the boundaries of a particular nation or a geographic location. The

trickster energy of the Latvian mythological legends may disturb other groups and

peoples into psychological shifts that, by breaking existing symmetries, develop new

ones with greater sophistication and consciousness about the ideas of wealth, value, and

worthiness. As Hockley (2004) contended, and I agree, Jungian psychology is a political

project in which not only self-understanding may be grown but also in which the

relationship with the world can be made more conscious. In their particular way, the

legends may do just that as they compensate for the limitations in the conscious outlooks

of those who tell them or read them—who are unconsciously (and consciously) caught up

in what is thought to be insufficiency as well as abundance. It is, however, not right to

 246

say that the legends do all the work; they are a mirror that amplifies the Shadow in the

world of everyday realities and the psyche. The actual work is the responsibility of us

humans living today.

Conclusion

Much of the evil in the world comes from the fact that man in general is

hopelessly unconscious, as it is also true that with increasing insight we can

combat this evil at its source in ourselves, in the same way that science enables us

to deal effectively with injuries inflicted from without.

—Jung, The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man

The legends give us a chance to have a creative relationship with the unconscious

Shadow contents of our psyche. As Hillman (1979) advised, “there is a myth in the mess”

(p. 40) and the folk narratives are the proper place to dispose of the residue—the Shadow,

the place in which we can not only thrash ourselves but also listen to what may be

habitually perceived as dark, low, and unworthy in ourselves and others. The legends’

communications may serve as a container within which it is safe and culturally

acceptable to see ourselves, to examine without rushing toward a winning outcome and a

triumphant end point. Telling of the mythological legends then and now may be a type of

self-therapy, a healing, a necessary psychological ritual.

Johnson (1971) suggested that such rituals are essential for all human beings. He

wrote: “Medieval heroes had to slay their dragons; modern heroes have to take their

dragons back home to integrate into their own personality” (p. 51). I have shown that it is

not a heroic act of killing the Shadow creatures or a forceful relationship with them that

integrates the Shadow. It is instead a process of transformation with trickster-like

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ambiguity and the legend telling as a rite with its rumination on the relationship between

the human and the archetypal realms that bring the dragons home for integration.

An individual self-exploration and healing involves active imagination on the

individual’s dreams and visions. On a group or cultural level, such explorations and

related healing and transformation, I suggest, include close readings of cultural texts such

as traditional mythological legends and active imagination on them. Reading the texts

closely honors their unequally cultural and historical context, their transcendent

archetypal structures, and their immanent embodied relatedness. Active imagination on

the texts brings consciousness to the unconscious contents enveloped in the archetypal

images and motifs, and in the dynamics of the relationship between the humans and the

archetypal forces. Finding parallels between the legend texts and the texts originating in

other cultures as well as the writings of Jungian authors and folklorists, is, as I view it,

amplification on a cultural scale with social and political implications. If, for healing and

growth, an individual needs his or her dreams and visions amplified to go beyond the

personal, a group or culture may benefit from amplification of its cultural material such

as traditional stories.

In the initial stages of undertaking this study, I was asked about my abilities to

write about Latvian folklore and psychology. The question posed to me was this: “What

kind of Latvian are you having lived outside Latvia for so many years?” My answer was

and is that I am a Latvian with a broad perspective. Latvia is my homeland; my ancestors

lie there, and my roots are in her soil. I have also lived in other places in Europe,

America, and Africa. I hope that having taken a broad perspective that included not only

Latvian but the insights of other peoples, I have been able to honor what is deeply
 248

Latvian and recognize the universal within that. I imagine the embodied amplification of

the Latvian mythological legends brought by this study as an act of placing a Latvian dish

on a smorgasbord of the table of the world of cultures. I cooked the Shadow of my own

people, as it was captured in the legends; I turned up the heat of deep exploration. By

adding nonlocal spice to the Latvian dish, I sought to make its taste even more

pronounced and enticing for other groups and peoples.

I trust that this study has demonstrated how art viewed through the prism of

Jungian ideas can participate in knowledge building that is as valuable as other forms of

research. To close, I express my wish that reading the Latvian mythological legends and

the accompanying interpretations is as healing and meaningful for you as it has been for

me.
 249

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Appendix
Latvian Mythological Legends: 100 Legends about the House-Master, Haul,
Lingering Mother, Fire Mother, Gnomes, Dragons, Devils, Fire, and Ghosts

Table of Contents

A Few Words about the Legends and Translations .........................................................274

The House-Master ............................................................................................................275

Earth Gods and Their Feeding .................................................................................... 276

The House Ghost ......................................................................................................... 277

The House-Master Getting Even ................................................................................. 277

The Barn of God .......................................................................................................... 279

Spirits of the Devil’s Den ............................................................................................ 280

The Earth God’s Revenge ........................................................................................... 281

The Revenge of the Offering Stone............................................................................. 281

The Haul...........................................................................................................................282

The Long Haul ............................................................................................................ 283

A Farmer’s Two Hauls ................................................................................................ 283

The Heavy Haul .......................................................................................................... 283

The Red Haul of Cream .............................................................................................. 284

The Haul of the Hay Loft ............................................................................................ 284

Hauls Get Mad ............................................................................................................ 285

The Haul and Beans .................................................................................................... 285

The Circling Haul ........................................................................................................ 286

The Lingering Mother ......................................................................................................286

The Toad God.............................................................................................................. 287

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Killing the Black Snake............................................................................................... 288

Killing the Old Toad ................................................................................................... 288

Witches and Toads ...................................................................................................... 289

The Fire Mother ...............................................................................................................290

Fire Branch .................................................................................................................. 290

Fire-Roads ................................................................................................................... 291

Three Scoops for the Fire ............................................................................................ 292

The Pot Hook .............................................................................................................. 292

Gnomes ............................................................................................................................294

Naked Gnomes ............................................................................................................ 295

The Gnome with a Riding Stick .................................................................................. 295

Gnomes’ Child ............................................................................................................ 295

Gnomes’ Work Horses ................................................................................................ 296

A Shoemaker’s Gnome ............................................................................................... 297

Dragons ............................................................................................................................297

Dragons as Cats and Roosters ..................................................................................... 299

The Money and Grain Dragons ................................................................................... 299

The Dragons with Wide Pants..................................................................................... 300

The Lame Dragon........................................................................................................ 300

The Dragon in a Hay Load .......................................................................................... 301

A Bachelor’s Dragon ................................................................................................... 301

Dragon as a Thaler ...................................................................................................... 302

Horse Apples from a Money Dragon .......................................................................... 302

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The Chick Dragon ....................................................................................................... 302

The Wee Dragon ......................................................................................................... 304

The Dragon of Horse Dung ......................................................................................... 304

The Dragon as a Black Cat .......................................................................................... 305

Rye Sprite .................................................................................................................... 305

Butter Dragon .............................................................................................................. 306

Money Dragon and a Grain Dragon ............................................................................ 307

A Horse Dragon .......................................................................................................... 307

Raven Dragon .............................................................................................................. 308

A Dragon’s Scooper .................................................................................................... 308

Three Morsels for the Dragon ..................................................................................... 309

How to Kill a Flying Dragon....................................................................................... 310

The Bread Dragon ....................................................................................................... 310

The Mill Dragon .......................................................................................................... 310

The Barn Dragon ......................................................................................................... 311

The Money Dragon ..................................................................................................... 312

A Dragon as a Horse’s Hoof ....................................................................................... 313

A Dragon in an Old Broomstick ................................................................................. 313

The Devil in the Pig’s Heart ........................................................................................ 314

The Engure Dragon ..................................................................................................... 314

Tāmiņš’s Dragon ......................................................................................................... 315

The Dragon Stepiņš ..................................................................................................... 316

The Captured Dragon’s Rye ........................................................................................ 318

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A Dragon Cut by a Knife in the Doorstop .................................................................. 319

A Dragon Tied to a Fence Post ................................................................................... 319

The Words to Stop Dragons ........................................................................................ 320

A Dragon Stopped by a Ring ...................................................................................... 320

A Dragon Stopped by a Knife between the Legs ........................................................ 320

A Dragon Stopped by a Naked Bottom ....................................................................... 321

A Dragon Stopped When Pants Are Dropped ............................................................. 321

A Dragon Killed by the Maid ...................................................................................... 322

A Dragons Perishes in a Hub ...................................................................................... 322

The Dragon who Pestered the Shepherd Girl .............................................................. 322

Devils…………………………………………………………………………………...323

The Little Tiny Devil................................................................................................... 324

Two Devils Reward a Peasant ..................................................................................... 324

The Devil for a Friend ................................................................................................. 325

Bread for the Devil Himself ........................................................................................ 326

The Black Gentleman and Workers ............................................................................ 326

The Evil House God .................................................................................................... 328

The Devil Helps a Greedy Farmer .............................................................................. 328

The Devil and the Thirsty Miller................................................................................. 329

The Master of Ķeiži Manor and the Night guard ........................................................ 330

The Dead Master and the Devil................................................................................... 331

Fire……………………………………………………………………………………...332

The Devil’s Stone and Money..................................................................................... 333

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A Bonfire and Money.................................................................................................. 333

Fire in the Field ........................................................................................................... 334

Fire in a Hay Barn ....................................................................................................... 334

Money and Servants .................................................................................................... 335

Coal for a Boy ............................................................................................................. 335

Money and a Shepherd Girl ........................................................................................ 336

A Slap and a Golden Coin ........................................................................................... 337

Money in the Corner of the Coat ................................................................................. 337

A Money-Fire and the Farmer’s Mother ..................................................................... 337

Come, Tend the Fire .................................................................................................... 338

The Goat’s Fire............................................................................................................ 338

The Hag’s Fire ............................................................................................................. 339

Fire in the Lake ........................................................................................................... 340

Ghosts ………………………………………………………………………………….341

A Money Maiden ........................................................................................................ 342

The Greedy Maiden ..................................................................................................... 342

The Money in the Barn................................................................................................ 343

Bones and Money ........................................................................................................ 344

The Wrongful Money .................................................................................................. 344

The Ditch of Maiden ................................................................................................... 345

Money—the Beautiful Maiden ................................................................................... 346

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A Few Words about the Legends and Translations

The collection of Šmits (n.d.) that has been the source for all the legends included

here contains many versions of stories with similar motifs. Thus, the legends here may

also appear alike. The value, in my mind, of reading these seemingly same-sounding

stories is in paying attention to and lingering on the subtle differences and shades of

meaning that each legend contains. The legends that have found their way into the

translations below have spoken to me through some intriguing detail or a shade of

meaning that I hope will also captivate the readers.

The readers will find here many more stories about dragons than any other

mythical creatures. It is because the collection of Šmits (n.d.) includes many more dragon

legends (over 200 hundred) than the legends about other creatures (typically 10 or so,

except the House-Master that appears in 110 texts). Although dragons have inspired more

legends than the other mythical beings, they all share the same activity—bringing wealth

and well-being or taking them away from humans. Each of the creatures has a different

name: the House-Master, Haul, Lingering Mother, Fire Mother, dragons, devils, fire,

gnomes, and ghosts. They appear in human and in animal forms.

I have given a title to each legend included here. The title highlights the mythical

creature and its characteristics or actions. In the Latvian texts (in Šmits’ [n.d.] collection),

there are no titles. Rather, the legends are titled with the name of the person who told the

story, the name of the place of recording, the source where the text appeared, the volume

and the section number in which the text was placed in Lerhs-Puškaitis original

publication, and the item number. To honor the tellers of the legend, I have included the

name(s) of the teller(s) and the place where the legend was heard (wherever this
 275

information has been available). This information is placed in parentheses at the end of

the legend text together with the URL for the text in Latvian in Šmits’ (n.d.) collection.

At the end of some legends, I have included explanations of words used in the

translated text that have called for it in order to give fuller meaning to the readers. They

are placed as footnotes. For example, I have translated the names of places in Latvian as

they have offered a nuance that would otherwise be missed by a non-Latvian reader.

Besides, a number of explanations deal with archaic words and also with etymology of

selected words.

In my translations, I have attempted to use language that is as close as possible to

the original Latvian texts, which have been transcribed from oral narratives. It means that

the texts are best to be read out loud and heard spoken rather than seen as perfectly

constructed written sentences.

The House-Master

The House-Master (Mājas-kungs), according to Šmits (n.d), is one of the most

well-known deities in the world. There are 110 legends concerning the House-Master

recorded in Šmits’ collections published in the early 1990s. The House-Master dwells in

homes, barns, big trees, and stones. People bring sacrifices to him in the form of food and

flowers, particularly on special days marking the time of sowing the crops and gathering

the harvest. The relationship with this deity is tricky, as it demands to be remembered and

to receive the first of everything as a sacrifice. If it does not get what it expects, the

people living in the house get punished with a bad harvest, a burned-down house,

diseases, and death.

 276

According to Šmits (n.d), the House-Master’s powers and activities are shared

with other demonic and mythological creatures, such as dragons and devils. Šmits

suggested that this sharing is due to influence of Christianity. The worship of the House-

Master could also not be separated from the worship of the Mother Earth and Mother

Forest. The name House-Master was not the earliest or the most common way of

referring to this supernatural demonic or mythological helper. It was more likely that in

different households, people referred to the creatures with different names, calling them

toads, cats, roosters, mice, snakes, and birdies. Most of the legends about the House-

Master address the same question—how to appease this wealth-securing deity by

bringing sacrifices and what happens if the House-Master does not receive its share.

Earth Gods and Their Feeding

The gods of the earth lived in caves, under big stones, in trees, and in hills, and

they welcomed sacrifices that humans brought them. They blessed those who brought

sacrifices with all the earthly things, filled their barns and chests, and grew their foals,

cows, and sheep nice and fat. People knew it and the father urged his children and the

master admonished his household to give the gods of the earth the first of everything—

the first fruits, the first cooking. The gods got angry if anyone had first done that but then

stopped. The gods then withheld from them their blessings and sometimes sent all kinds

of misfortunes. If you could not keep feeding the gods, it was better not even to begin.

Everyone in a parish knew which farmers fed the gods, though none of them ever

revealed that they did; they just kept bringing the sacrifices secretly. (Krēsliņš Jānis.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13J0104.htm)
 277

The House Ghost

There was a house where the old mistress had a House Ghost. One day she got a

daughter-in-law. The old lady took her daughter-in-law all around the house, as it was

customary, showing her the new home. When, at the end, they entered the kitchen, the

old lady said, “Now, I will show you, dear daughter-in-law, how to light the fire under

the pot.” The daughter-in-law quickly split some wood and lit them under a pot. But the

old lady said, “No, not that way. Give it to me. I will do it.” She took the piece of wood

and put it under a pot so that it would catch fire saying: “Look, look, dear daughter-in-

law, this is how the fire needs to be made!” She worked the fire for a while and then

suddenly put the burning log to the daughter-in-law’s hair so it would catch fire. “Oh dear

god!” cried the young woman, “my hair will burn off.” But the mother-in-law consoled

her saying: “Don’t cry, don’t cry, dear daughter-in-law. It was not on purpose.” The truth

was, though, that the old lady had done it on purpose so that the House Ghost would

smell the new mistress and get to know her. (J. Sproģis in Koknese.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13J0107.htm)

The House-Master Getting Even

There was an old farmer who lived in Odziena27 parish in Vidzeme.28 He had a

House-Master. In a small addition to the house, the farmer kept a little heap of ashes and

27
Odziena is a village. The word odziena resembles the word odze (adder), which

is a small venomous snake with a black body and lighter yellowish zigzag pattern on its

back. It is the only venomous snake found in Latvia.

 278

hay. Since the earliest times, the maids had been told to always bring the ashes there after

they had finished washing the clothes. They were not to spread the ashes in any other

place. If the people in the house happened to taste a new food or to begin a new task, the

old man would not let anyone to touch it before he had rushed to the house with the best

food and drinks and poured them on top of the ash heap for the House Spirit.

After a while the old farmer died, and sometime later his daughter was getting

married. On the day of the wedding, the groom, the new master of the house, went to the

little addition of the house where the spirit was always honored. He went up to the ash

heap and stepped in it, saying: “Take this, the House Ghost of Salači! Take this, the

House Ghost of Salači! Wait all you want for me to honor you!” The next day or shortly

after that, the new master’s legs began to hurt. He was screaming and moaning with no

let-up.

They went to a sorceress but with no success. Nobody could heal his legs. The

people said that the new master’s legs were in pain because the House Ghost was getting

even. (J. Sproģis heard this story from his mother who had heard it from Brīvzemnieks, a

farmer from Odzienas parish. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13J0106.htm)

28
Vidzeme is the name of a region in Latvia. The name is formed from two

words: vidus (middle) and zeme (land), indicating the location of the region in the

country.
 279

The Barn of God

There was an old, falling-down barn at the house of Vijciems,29 where a farmer

fed his little dear god. The people of the house used to call it the Barn of God. The old

man died and left the house to his son. But the son somehow did not know that the father

used to feed the god in the barn. The young master did not like the barn and asked that

the farmhand to take it down. The farmhand climbed onto the roof and began to rake the

hay down. But as soon as he began raking, he went mad. So, that time the barn was not

torn down. The new master lived his life, and when he died, he left the house to his son,

and the barn was still standing there as before. Now, the new master decided to pull down

the barn—why should we keep such a scarecrow here? And he got a farmhand to tear

down the barn. The farmhand, thinking nothing bad could happen, went to work and went

mad right there. The master marked that there was something wrong with the barn and

left it standing all his living days. Then that master died and left the house to his son with

the barn standing. One day, the new master told his farmhand to tear down the old barn.

The man began to tear it down and went mad. The master then did not ask anyone else to

pull down the barn. Now, I do not know whether the barn is still standing or not. (H.

Skujiņa from the 60-year-old Peteris in Turķa, Smiltene.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13J0112.htm)

29
Vijciems is a village. Its name is formed from two words: vīt (to weave) and

ciems (village).
 280

Spirits of the Devil’s Den

In the old days the master of the Kažaunieki30 house fed the spirits. When there

were big celebrations, no one was allowed to eat from the table before the master had fed

the spirits by smearing the pot hook and putting the food on top of the barn, in the

bathhouse, and other places.

Later, convinced by others, the Kažaunieki master had dropped this foolishness,

but the devils began to torture him. One day when the master was walking home from the

manor and when he had reached the Rumba Hill,31 he met a devil who asked to fight with

him. The master got out of the fighting by saying that he was ill. Saying nothing, the

devil followed the man. Knowing the road well, the Kažaunieki master was not afraid and

he continued to walk along. But the road seemed very long and he grew more anxious to

get home. He walked all night until as the sun was coming up, his eyes cleared—he saw

no devil, no road but found himself in the swamp of Ezerpurvs.32 That swamp is far away

from Rumba Hill and to get there one needs to go over furrows and ditches. The

Kažaunieki master did not notice any of that. He just walked with the devil on an even

road, when he suddenly found himself in the swamp. When the Kažaunieki master died,

his barn, where he used to live and which was a devil’s den, was struck down by

30
Kažaunieki is the name of a house. Its name may come from a man’s name

Karlis (Carl) who lived there. Kaža is a nickname for Kārlis.

31
The Rumba Hill is located in the Western part of Latvia. The word rumba has a

couple of meaning: (a) a hub and (b) a small waterfall.

32
Ezerpurvs is a swamp. Its name consists of two words: ezers (lake) and purvs

(swamp).
 281

lightening. Since then, devils have not been showing up in the Kažaunieki. (G. Jānis from

K. Kuplais in Vatrāne. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13J0117.htm)

The Earth God’s Revenge

One day, a shepherd child had some food left over. He poured it onto a stone

saying: “Eat, dear Earth god! I’ll give you some more if anything is left next time.” Later,

though, he forgot the stone. He was overtaken by unrest and had no escape from it, not in

a tree, nor in a branch. (K. Jansos from the 90-year-old L. Pastiņas in Plāņi.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13J0131.htm)

The Revenge of the Offering Stone

One day, the shepherd girls of five farmers from Viskoki33 village (Alsviķi

region) brought their cattle together at the Mellupe.34 The girls met at the offering stone

and sat down to eat their lunch. When they had finished eating, one of the girls said:

“Let’s feed the gods too. Let’s give them what remains of our lunch!” The others agreed

and they placed what was left of their lunch into the hollow of the stone, saying: “Eat

gods! What we have, you have!” The following day when the girls came to the stone,

they saw that the gods had eaten yesterday’s food during the night. That day again, each

of them gave part of their food to the gods. So it continued throughout the summer. Then

came winter and the girls did not go to the pastures and could not offer food to the gods.

The girls were troubled that the gods were left with no offerings. They talked together

and gathered food and went to the offering stone.

33
Viskoki is a village. Its name consists of two words: visi (all) and koki (trees).
34
Mellupe is a river. Its name is formed form two words: mella or melna (black)

and upe (river).

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Snow and ice had filled the hollow of the offering stone, and the girls decided to

dig under the stone and place the offering there. They dug and worked, but the snow was

quite deep and the ground was frozen. The girls were not able to give to the gods the

usual offering, and they went home sad.

Upon returning home, all five of them had gone mad. Angry about not getting

their share, the gods had sent a madness disease onto them. Some of the girls did not

speak day or night; and some did not want anyone to bring offerings to the big stone. As

soon as any one of them got free, she ran out in the cold shouting: “We must go to the

gods, we must go to the gods!”

The girls would not have been healed during their lifetimes if the wise old woman

from Pērkons35 village had not been asked to save them. Only with big offerings of

butter, meat, and other things, did the gods become appeased and the girls redeemed.

Since that time neither shepherds nor night-herdsmen go to the offering stone to eat their

lunch. (Krēsliņš Jānis in Alsviķi parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13J0134.htm)

The Haul

Besides the House-Master, people had another super natural helper—the Haul

(Vilce) (Šmits (n.d ). The name Vilce comes from the verb vilkt meaning to carry, pull,

draw, lug, or haul. The House-Master and the Haul have always coexisted—the House-

Master responsible for order and wealth and the Haul in charge of bringing things to

build wealth. According to Šmits, these two beings were later, with the arrival of

Christianity, subsumed by an image of a dragon (pūķis) and by the Devil (velns). Šmits

35
Pērkons is the Latvian word for thunder.
 283

observed that “the transformation of the Vilce [Haul] to a devil is easy to imagine. The

first clergymen and missionaries were not university-educated theologians; thus, they

believed that the gods honored by pagans were spirits in service to the Devil” (n.d.) (my

translation). Šmits mentioned an educated theologian, Paul Einhorn, as someone who was

convinced that Latvians had real dragons in their homes. The wise men of the old days,

according to Šmits, were transformed by the church fathers into the Devil’s servants, the

fortune tellers into witches possessed by the Devil, and the House-Master and the Haul—

into the Devil itself.

The Long Haul

Once, in the evening, I saw a Haul fly over my head. She was very, very long and

she had a black sack in the back. She flew away hissing. (H. Skujiņa from an old woman

in Aumeisteŗi parish. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13K0109.htm)

A Farmer’s Two Hauls

There was a man who had two Hauls. One sat on top of the grain bin and looked

like a black dog. The other Haul was like a big black snake, and it slept on the lid of the

butter bucket. When the man came into the barn, the two Hauls did not say a word. When

his wife entered the barn, the two Hauls swung their heads. But when a stranger came

into the barn and wanted to come close to the grain bin or the butter bucket, both Hauls

got so mad that the stranger could do nothing but flee the barn. (H. Skujiņa in Bilska

parish. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13K0116.htm)

The Heavy Haul

A farmer had a Haul. Whenever the farmer moved to a new house, he put the

Haul in a wardrobe. The wardrobe was placed on top of a big cart with four horses yoked
 284

in front of it. The horses foamed, so heavy was the Haul. This farmer never lacked

anything. When he died, all went downhill. There was no Haul that could pull. (H.

Skujiņa in Aurneisteŗi parish. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13K0111.htm)

The Red Haul of Cream

The old man of the Kāši36 house by the name of Dūcis37 had a Haul. Once, when

the threshing barn was full, the maid noticed looking through a window that there was a

big red spot in the middle of the barn under the beams. It was a Haul. Another time she

had gone to steal some cream and seen a big black snake lying on top of the churn. (K.

Jansons in Plāņi. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13K0108.htm)

The Haul of the Hay Loft

A farmer had a Haul who lived on the hay loft. She flew in through the roof and

out of the same place. When the Haul swooped out of the barn, it looked like a long blue

stripe. But when it ran back, it was red and much fatter. Then everybody who saw it said:

“Well, well. It’s full again!” (H. Skujiņa in Bilska parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13K0115.htm)

36
Kāši. The word kāši is a plural form of kāsis (hook). The most important hook

in the old Latvian homes was the one holding pots above the cooking stove.
37
Dūcis. The word dūcis had many meanings in archaic Latvian: (a) a sharp,

nonfoldable knife used to slaughter pigs, (b) the sharp part on a plough, (c) a brindle

horse, (d) the bottom of a child, (e) a knowledgeable person, (f) a grumpy person, and (g)

a stupid person.
 285

Hauls Get Mad

A farmer kept his Hauls on the top of the barn and fed them there. A farmhand

had watched him secretly and as the farmer went out of the barn, the farmhand went in,

looking where the farmer fed the Hauls. Finally the farmhand found a bowl full of

buckwheat porridge. The boy then gobbled up the food and soiled the bowl. Then he hid

it under the rafters waiting for the Hauls to come home.

The Hauls returned home from the field and went to the bowl right away. One of

them tasted it and said: “Sister, this is not a good taste!” The other also tasted it and

thought the same. Then they both decided to burn down the farmer’s barn since he had

fed them so badly. And so, the Hauls burnt down the farmer’s barn. (H. Skujiņa from the

76 years old J. Ābele in Aumeisteŗi parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13K0131.htm)

The Haul and Beans

Once there was a Haul running over a field. An old man knew the right words and

he stopped the Haul. He emptied the Haul’s two pūri38 of beans and then let her fly off

empty.

(H. Skujiņa in Aurneisteŗi parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13K0123.htm)

38
Pūri is a plural of pūrs, which is an old unit of measurement of volume,

especially for items that could be poured, like grain. One pūrs is approximately 48

kilograms or 70 liters (sometimes also an amount between 70 to 100 liters). Two pūrs—

two times 48 kilograms or 106 pounds.

 286

The Circling Haul

A farmer’s wife who had a Haul died. Her husband drove to fetch a coffin leaving

a maid and a farmhand at home. The man did not get back home by the evening. The

maid and the boy were eating dinner. Suddenly, a Haul ran up to the kitchen window—all

red and bright—and sat on the window sill. The Haul bit its tail between its teeth and kept

staring into the kitchen. Unable to see the mistress, who had died, the Haul ran to another

window and another until she had run around to all the windows.

Around midnight the husband returned with a coffin. The mistress was put inside

the coffin and carried to the barn. The Haul ran around the barn in circles the whole

night. (H. Skujiņa in Aumeisteŗi parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13K0132.htm)

The Lingering Mother

The name of the Lingering Mother (gausu māte) tells about its character. The

word gausu comes from the adjective gauss, meaning slow, unhurried, long-lasting, and

lingering. Šmits (n.d.) asserted that in the old Latvian houses where the Haul was making

certain that there was wealth in the house, the Lingering Mother slowed down the usage

of what the farmers had, especially food. She made the food last by making plenty of it or

by spoiling its taste so that it would not be eaten in too large of quantities.

Early on, in Šmits’ (n.d.) view, neither the Haul nor the Lingering Mother had

negative characteristics associated with them. They were seen as appearing in the form of

snakes, particularly, adders, and toads. These creatures were known to eat insects and,

thus, were considered beneficial and friendly to humans. Later on, with the influence of

Christianity, the Haul and the Lingering Mother were transformed into dragons. Šmits
 287

contended that was the work of the church fathers, who likened all the extra-natural

powers and the animals related to them with witches and the Devil or their helpers.

The Toad God

The men from Kaņeka house were driving to the mill when night came on. It got

so dark that they could not even see as much as a foot in front of them. Suddenly, they

come upon a house that they had never seen before. There was light inside and the men

decided to spend the night there. They tied down their horses and went inside, where they

found a table laid with dinner. The table was set with milk, white bread, and meat. The

three men stood by the table. Having given good evening greetings, the travelers asked

the hosts whether they could sit at the table and share the food that they had brought

along with them. The hosts instead invited the men to share what was on the table. “But

before, let us call upon the dear god,” said one of them and he began: “Jump, dear god,

dance, dear god on the white table covers!” But the god did not show. Then the second

one asked: “Jump, dear god, dance, dear god on the white table covers!” But the god did

not and did not listen. Then one of the miller men asked using the same words: “Jump,

dear god, dance, dear god on the white table covers!” Still nothing. Then the next

miller—again nothing. Then the third one pleaded: “Jump, dear god, dance, dear god, on

the white table covers!” And now a big toad jumped up on the table; it jumped around on

the food, dipped its paws into the milk and the honey, and then disappeared. After that

everyone sat down at the table and praised the god for listening and for the riches on the

table. (Brīvnieku Liesma in Rumbenieki, Kurzeme. 6.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13L0104.htm)
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Killing the Black Snake

In the old days, where there were no watermills, no windmills, people used to mill

grain for their bread by hands. Mostly girls were charged with milling but lads too had to

mill a certain amount during the nights. So, a lad had to mill each night a bucket of rye.

The poor thing was milling and milling night after night but could not get the bucket full.

The food he got was plenty good, though, the bread was good—white, like cheese. But

what use was it if he had to languish each night at the mill? He went to a witch, a sorcerer

for advice. She gave the lad a little wax candle and told him to light it when he thought

the bucket would be full and to look into the mill. The next night the lad was milling

again and when he thought that the bucket ought to be full, he lit the little wax candle and

looked into the mill. There, in the place where the club with the wide board connected to

the quern stone, he saw a black snake. It has had just spewed new grain making the mill

full again. The lad killed the snake and milled the bucket full. Until that day the lad had

had nice, white bread, just like cheese. Nobody said anything to him when he handed in

the night’s milling. Just the next day the lady of the house brought in for him a black loaf

of bread and said: “Now eat the bread black. Why did you kill Pēčiņa?39” (Fr. Štāls in

Sabile, Dzirspalvji, l90l. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13L0113.htm)

Killing the Old Toad

There was a mistress who used to bake for her farmhands such bad, odd bread that

they could not eat it at all. One time there was a farmhand who came to thinking to learn

how the mistress was baking the bread. When she had pulled the bread out of the oven,

39
Pēčiņa is a pet word for a loved creature. Here it refers to the Lingering Mother

manifesting as a snake.
 289

she had shouted: “Come now, old man, jump around!” Right that moment, a toad had

hopped up and promptly begun jumping on the loaves. The mistress had gone outside in

the meanwhile. The farmhand then had sneaked out from his hiding place, grabbed the

old man tight, and thrown the poor thing into the oven where there had been more bread

baking. Having done that, he had hid again in the old place. Just then, the mistress had

come in and seen the old man anguishing in the oven. She had only managed to exclaim:

“I meant for you to jump on the bread that was already out!” That advice had come too

late; the old man could not be saved any more. (Krūmiņš Jānis in Auļukalns.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13L0105.htm)

Witches and Toads

There was a mistress who kept witches. When others went to bed, she always fed

her spirits. In the barn, she tied the door closed, so the other people did not see. The

farmhand, having noticed that, wanted to know what the mistress would do. One evening,

after the work, he crawled into the barn and hid in the corner to see what the mistress

would do. When everything was silent, the mistress came in, unbraided her hair, took off

her skirt and shirt, murmured some words and called: “Cruk the big, cruk the small, cruck

the smallest!” As soon as she began to call like that, toads started to come out of all the

corners until the whole barn was almost full. The boy’s heart had turned sore, seeing all

that. Once the mistress had finished feeding her spirits, they all went back, each in its

own corner—where they had came from, they went.

Note: Witches’ food is cottage cheese, milk, butter, buckwheat porridge, and also

cream; the drink—whipping cream. Witches feed in the barns and basements. The keeper

of witches always fed them in distinct places, mostly in bath houses. When feeding, they
 290

called: “Cruk the big, cruk the small, cruck the smallest!” (J. Anitēns in Jaunlaicene. D.

Ozoliņa in “Raganas”. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13L0106.htm)

The Fire Mother

The Fire Mother (Uguns māte), according to Šmits (n.d.), is an extra-human

power with similar functions to the House-Master, the Haul, and dragons. The Fire

Mother may have been an earlier mythological being later replaced by the House-Master

and the Haul, and then by dragons.

Fire Branch

Once there were two travelers who went into an inn to spend a night. One of them

said: “I won’t sleep here.” “Why can’t you sleep here?” asked the other. The first one

responded: “This inn will burn in the night.” The innkeeper heard it and asked why it

would burn. Then the traveler took him to a doorpost and said: “Take it out. In this

doorpost, there is a fire branch. If you leave it there, it will burn and with it the inn.” The

innkeeper took the doorpost out and brought it halfway down the other road. The

travelers then went to sleep. In the morning, the doorpost had burned down. (A student,

H. Fridrichsons from his 50-year-old father K. Lielozols.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13I0102.htm)
 291

Fire-Roads40

People say that in the forest that the forester Škapars41 of Naudīte42 oversees,

there are fire-roads in some places. After the sunset one can know where such roads are

because there is a hot steam coming from those places. There is a fire-road next to the

Dēli43 lake of Naudīte. One must not sleep or build a house on a fire-road. Next to the

barn of Mazbraņķi44 there is said to be a fire-road. There, don’t know how many years

ago, a barn was being built. An old beggar, passing by, had said to the workers: “You

labor in vain! This place belongs to the Fire Mother!” And it was right: as soon as the

first match was lit and the oven fired, the whole barn caught flames and burned down to

the bottom.

Our elders still believe that one should not build houses on fire-roads because

they burn down there; that one should not sleep on them because one is then tormented

40
Note: (According to “Latviešu Avīze” (Latvian Newspaper) of 1835, there are

many trees in forests that are called fire-trees. One must guard oneself when taking those

trees as logs, because those trees have their set time when they self-ignite and burn down

whole buildings. Such fire-trees have 2 cores.

41
Škapars is the last name of a person. The word škapars resembles the verb

skapēt, which means to obtain something with difficulty.

42
Naudīte is a village. Its name resembles the word nauda (money).
43
Dēli is the plural of the word dēls (son).
44
Mazbraņķi. The name is formed from two words: mazs (small) and braņķis an

archaic form of sēklis meaning a shallow spot or a sandbank in water.

 292

and made ill. (Naudižnieks in Naudītē, 1888.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13I0101.htm)

Three Scoops for the Fire

In the house of Aumeisteri45 lived an old woman. When she made a new porridge

or boiled meat, she did not allow anyone else to taste it and did not eat it herself until the

food was ready. When the meal was ready, she first poured three scoops into the fire and

only then gave it to others to eat and ate herself. (H. Skujiņa, from the 73-year-old Zana

Briede in Palsmane. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13I0104.htm)

The Pot Hook

In the old times, when the old Latvians from Maliena46 did not know the flint fire,

they guarded fire as the dearest thing, covering the glowing coal with ashes. They

honored the pot hook as the fire god. That is why the fire burned only where the hook

was being honored. When entering the house to get the fire, people sang:

“The house is smoking,

The house is smoking,

Who is smoking the house?

Who sits in the house,

Holding the fire in its hand?

45
Aumeisteri. The word may thought as consisting of (a) Au—the chemical

element of gold, and (b) meisteri or meistari (singular meistars), which mean a qualified

skilled worker or someone who is really good at what he does, for example, a carpenter,

watchmaker, and plumber can be called “meistars” in Latvian.

46
Maliena. The word resembles the word mala (side or margin).
 293

Where could the fire be gotten

If the hook did not guard it?

Good morning, hook!

Good morning, hook!”

Everyone who entered the house touched the hook saying: “Good morning, hook!

Good morning!” And when the fire had been gotten: “Thank you, hook, thank you!” If

there was anyone who did not touch and did not greet the hook, he did not get the fire.

But the fire god took a revenge on the offender, sending a fierce weakness, so that

sometimes one had to die.

One such shrine of the fire god is in Zeltiņi47 manor at Vilki48 village. In the

house of a farmer, there was an old, old, holy and scorched pot hook. The people honored

it and greeted it by singing every morning. That is why the fire was never lacking in the

stove, and those from other villages came for the fire too. But when the old ones died, the

young ones did not know how to honor the god, and the fire went out and did not burn

any more. The farmer insisted that the old house be torn down and threw the hook to the

fence. But then the farmer got weak, almost ready to die: his stomach burned in pain.

They went after Līze from the Kalns49 barn and Ilze from Puntuži.50 They both rubbed

and rubbed and they used a spine cup, but he wasn’t getting any better.

47
Zeltiņi. The word has a common root with the word zelts (gold).
48
Vilki. The word vilki is a plural of vilks (wolf).
49
Klans means mountain in Latvian.
50
Puntuži. The word resembles another word puntūzis, which means potato

porridge or either a fat bellied or quarrelsome person.

 294

Then one day, Andrs, from the Lejas51 barn, going on the night-watch, saw

something glowing by the fence. Ridging though the gate, he (all frightened) noticed a

tiny, little, old man, with a crooked back, gray beard, black mouth and red eyes. He, lips

twisted, showed his fist to Andrs. Andrs, in fear, fell off the horse, ran huffing puffing

inside and told the others what he had seen. Everyone went to check, but didn’t see either

the fire or the old man; only the old hook lied there in that place. Now Ilze of Puntuži

began to think that the god had been angered. She took and brought the hook into the

house and hung it above the entrance. And see, the next morning, the farmer was healthy

as a horse and the fire glowed, the smoke rising. (Krēsliņš Jānis in Alsviķi parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13I0103.htm)

Gnomes

Gnomes (Latvian, rūķis) are small, dwarflike beings (men or boys) who live in the

underworld or the hollows of trees and come out to help humans during the dark hours of

nights. They are usually good to people, but they do not like to be seen by humans. If

seen, they flee and never return. The legends tell us that gnomes do not like to be

rewarded for their good work—they run away if given food or clothing.

Gnomes are found only in Latvian legends and not in other folk narratives (Šmits,

n.d.). In Šmits’ view, the name gnome came from German folktales and legends. The

mythical helper itself, however, was Latvian and in its activities similar to a dragon. The

word rūķis has a common root with verbs rakt (dig), rakstīt (to write), and rēķināt

(calculate). It appears that a similar root is there in the noun roka (hand). They point

toward rūķis being associated with work (like digging earth, writing, doing calculations)

51
Lejas. The word is a plural of leja (valley).
 295

and helpful hands. Gnomes, differently than the other mythical beings of the study, are

the creatures that appear to help not only farmers but also craftsman, like shoemakers.

Naked Gnomes

Gnomes are small people. They walk around naked. One night, gnomes came to a

poor farmer and worked. The farmer, seeing them naked, put a set of clothes and

beautiful shoes for each gnome the next night. The gnomes took the clothes, shoes, and

brought lots of money for the farmer. Since then, the gnomes did not come again because

they now had both clothes and shoes.

Note: In German folktales too, these kinds of gnomes run away once the farmer

gives them some gifts. (G A. Neslers and Kanaviņa in Gulbene.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13M0101.htm)

The Gnome with a Riding Stick

There was a farmer who had a gnome that brought him this and that. This gnome

had something like a riding stick—he rode it in the air and he could ride and creep in

through all keyholes. Another farmer had a beautiful horse. The farmer who had the

gnome ordered it to bring him the horse. Well—the gnome went after the horse right

away. But as the gnome was approaching the horse, it kicked and killed the gnome. (J.

Rubenis in Gulbene. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13M0102.htm)

Gnomes’ Child

The old people tell and believe too that under the earth there are gnomes or the

earth people.

There was once a mother who had put her child to bed and laid down to rest close

by. Just around midnight, two gnomes brought their child and exchanged it with the
 296

woman’s child. They took the woman’s child and left theirs in its place. But the woman

heard the gnomes saying when they were leaving: “This child will do well, but who

knows how our child will do. If the woman will beat it until bleeding for three nights, we

will exchange them back.”

As soon as the gnomes left, the woman began to whip the child. That helped—on

the third night, they carried the woman’s child back and brought away the flogged one.

Note: These gnomes are similar to devils and the holy maidens. (Plaudis Jānis in

Jaundubulti. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13M0103.htm)

Gnomes’ Work Horses

There was a farmer whose horses were taken out of the stables and worked all wet

every night. He wanted to know who was doing that and went to guard. Well. As

midnight was approaching, the stable became full of tiny people. They took out the

horses, harnessed them with ploughs and all began ploughing in the yard. The farmer was

not allowed to do anything: he was afraid to deal with so many. So the tiny people

ploughed and ploughed, pulling up the whole yard. At last, they took the worked down,

wet horses back into the stable and then immediately vanished.

In the morning, the farmer told the others about the wonders he had seen. Then

one of the people advised him to nail many small crosses on the front of stable door

because then the tiny people would not come even if begged. He did as told and, true, no

one worked the horses again. (Jēkabs Egle and Kanavllrš in Gulbene.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13M0105.htm)
 297

A Shoemaker’s Gnome

There was a shoemaker who was so poor that he had nothing to eat. But then,

luckily, gnomes showed up by him—they helped him work. When, in the evening, the

shoemaker had cut the hides and left them on the table, then, in the night, the gnomes

made boots.

Unfortunately, the shoemaker’s wife had decided to see the gnomes, to look at

them closely. Without saying a word to her husband, she boiled peas dry to have

something at night to eat to stay awake and to spread on the floor for the gnomes. Then

she climbed behind the stove and watched. Around midnight, the gnomes showed up,

sewed boots, ate peas and hung around—such an eye’s pleasure. But then, one doesn’t

know how, the wife moved a bit in behind the stove. The gnomes noticed that and were

away like a storm. Since that time the shoemaker became as poor as before. (O. Kuda and

Kanaviņš in Gulbene. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13M0108.htm)

Dragons

Dragon (pūķis) is another form of a mythical being that has also manifested itself

in shape of the House-Master, Haul, Lingering Mother, and gnomes. The legends tell us

that having a dragon as a helper secures wealth that may come in the form of grain, dairy

products, and money. The dragon, if fed well, would bring all the riches to its keeper. If

not fed well or angered in any other way, would burn the keeper’s house and barns, make

the keeper ill or even kill him or her. The origins of the mythical dragon are as

mysterious as of the other creatures. Šmits (n.d.) suggested that those theorists who

favored natural explanations would explain the dragon’s origins with a natural
 298

phenomenon—meteoroids. The animists, on the other hand, would see the dragon as a

soul of a dead person.

According to Šmits (n.d.), the earliest information about the pagan gods of the

Balts appeared in writing in the 16th century when the Balts—Latvians, Lithuanians, and

Prussians—had already been Christianized. Therefore, the pre-Christian myths had been

largely forgotten. Šmits was skeptical about the reliability of the chronicles of the 16th

and later centuries that dealt with the folk stories of the Baltic tribes. He contended that

the writers of the chronicles were not Balts themselves but rather foreigners who, having

very little knowledge of the Baltic languages and the people, could not have fully

understood either the mythological beings or the stories about them. At the same time,

Šmits acknowledged that the Balts themselves may not have known which of the beliefs

and legends were their own from the pagan times and which ones had been borrowed

from the neighbors. By the time when the chronicles began to describe the mythological

beliefs of the Balts, both the storytellers and the chronicle writers were under the

influence of the Christian church and its beliefs.

Exploring the etymology of the Latvian word “pūķis” (dragon), Šmits (n.d.)

concluded that it was taken from the German language and, thus, not Baltic in its origin.

The Prussian word pilvitis had also been borrowed from Germans. Lithuanians used the

word pūkvs, but did it less often. They instead called their dragons “kauks,” “aitvars,”

“spirūks,” and “smaks.” The former name had been borrowed from Poles, who called

their dragon “pikols,” which was similar to the Christian Devil.

Šmits (n.d.) did not think, however, that all the Latvian legends about the dragon

had come from Germans. There had been mythological beings in the Latvian pagan
 299

myths that had fulfilled functions similar to the dragon. Those beings, Šmits asserted,

were the House-Master, Haul, Lingering Mother, and an even older mythical creature

called ruņģis (or “runduliņš,” “runkuliņš,” and “runcītis”). Ruņģis was a helpful sprite

most often associated with crops. In Šmits’ view, all these helpers—the haulers of

goods—had affected the other mythical beings of the legends, such as gnomes and

witches; and all of them were also found in the stories of other European cultures.

Dragons as Cats and Roosters

Dragons are said to appear in all kinds of forms: some as a rooster, some as a

terribly big cat with huge eyes, and some in another shape. They used to be kept at home

inside a special pantry, and they had to be watched closely. When the bread was baked, it

had to be given to the dragon first or it would get angry and burn down the house or run

away. These dragons could get in and out everywhere—as through a key hole so through

the smallest chink. At nights, they went to other people’s barns, filled sacks, and brought

them to their keepers. Many times then one could see the dragons run: fire spreading

behind them like a broom. But if such a dragon got shot, only the grain fell to the ground.

(Celmiņu Kārlis in Nagliņi, Lubāna parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0102.htm)

The Money and Grain Dragons

Dragons used to be different: a money dragon, a grain dragon, and so on. The

money and the grain dragon looked like a skunk. It ran in the air as a bird, but had no

wings. When it ran empty, it was light red, if full—then dark red. One could buy dragons

in Rīga. In a house there lived an elderly gentleman who sold them. The buyers had to

swear and sign with their own blood. If that was done, the gentleman took a picture of the
 300

buyer and gave him either a rooster or a cat. When the buyer came home, the rooster or

cat was let inside the cattle-shed, stables, or mill. If the buyer wanted some good for the

cattle, he let the dragon into the shed, if for the bread—then into the mill. (Gasiņš of

Esmiņi in Suseja. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0105.htm)

The Dragons with Wide Pants

Dragons have wide pants. They stuff stolen barley from other farmers and deliver

to their keepers. Once there was a dragon that stuffed its pants so full of barley that the

pants broke and the dragon could not bring grains ever again. (A. Neslers in Gulbenē.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0113.htm)

The Lame Dragon

There was a farmer who used to sneak into the bathhouse on the great Friday. His

farmhand caught it and watched by the bathhouse window to see what the farmer would

do. The farmer made a rooster out of branches of a venik.52 The farmhand made the same

sitting outside the window. The farmer made a good rooster, but the farmhand’s came out

one-legged.

As soon as the farmer had made it, the rooster asked: “What will I haul for you?”

The farmer responded: “Haul me wheat.” The farmhand’s rooster asked him: “What will

I haul for you?” The farmhand responded: “Lame you are; whatever the farmer’s rooster

hauls, haul it to my barn!”

52
Venik is a broom made of small branches of leafy trees for giving massages in

bath houses.
 301

In the morning the farmhand’s barn was so full of wheat that the wheat was

coming out of the door, but the farmer’s barn was empty. (Kārlis Birznieks in Zemītnieki

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0106.htm)

The Dragon in a Hay Load

A husband and a wife went to steal hay from the manor house one night. One took

a load and the other took a load, put them on their heads, and were ready to walk home.

The husband had a smaller load and the wife a bigger one. They walked for a while when

the husband began to complain: his load was terribly heavy, he had to drop it. But the

wife scolded him. What kind of thinking was that! She was carrying the biggest load and

even then was thinking to get home in one go. But the husband complained the whole

way. Finally, they had reached their yard. They were now opening the loads. The wife

opened hers—nothing, all good. Then the husband opened his—oh dear god! Out of the

load ran like a fiery snake, twisting and hissing, rising up in the air—shssss! Out through

the roof! The husband had happened to tie in his load the manor’s grain dragon. (A. Doks

in Dzelzava. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0108.htm)

A Bachelor’s Dragon

There was a bachelor who had a dragon. The bachelor married the mistress of

another house and went to be the master in the wife’s house. After the wedding, the

dragon together with the other things needed to be brought to the new home. The dragon

was put in a small wooden box. The box was placed on a carriage pulled by six horses.

Although it was not far to go, the horses were sweating by the time they reached the new

home. (H. Skujiņa in Zvārtava.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0109.htm)
 302

Dragon as a Thaler

A poor farmer went to Rīga to buy a dragon, as there the house owners sold them

for a thaler. As soon as he gave a thaler to the house owner, he threw the thaler into fire;

and the fireplace burned in full flames. The house owner said: “If you want your soul to

dance in hell like this thaler dances in the fire, here—take the Dragon; if not—then

don’t’!” The farmer looked at the fireplace and, seeing that the thaler danced awfully in

the fire and not wanting to give his soul to the Devil, made a cross, and said: “I do not

want!” He returned home without the dragon. (Jansons Jānis in Liel-Platone.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0127.htm)

Horse Apples from a Money Dragon

There was a farmer who had a money hauling dragon. At night, the farmer slept

on a seat next to a window and the dragon handed him things in through the window. The

farmhand had noticed that and lay down in his master’s place one time. Well. He slept

and slept—then, at about midnight, he heard somebody calling outside the window:

“Open, open!” The boy opened the window. As he had opened it, the voice called out

again: “Hold the hat, hold the hat!” The boy held it and the dragon filled it full with

money. Don’t know how, but the dragon looked and saw it wasn’t the farmer but the boy.

Right away it took all the money out of the hat again. In the morning the boy found his

hat full of horse apples. (A. Lerchis-Puškaitis in Džūkstē.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0168.htm)

The Chick Dragon

A framer once heard a little chick screaming. The chick was a dragon, but the

farmer did not know that. He took the chick home, put it in front of the barn, and also
 303

gave it some grain to pick. In a little while the farmer went to see if the grain was eaten.

Surprise! He saw a big pile of money next to the chick; at least a bushel. No time wasted!

He put the chick into the grain bin to lay there some more. The next morning the farmer

found the bin full of money.

And so, for a while the farmer lived blissfully happy and kept his chick fine and

well. But then, the chick began to pester the farmer to buy manor houses and live

wastefully like wastrel. The farmer did not like it a bit and, wanting or not, had to come

into a squabble with the chick. But the chick decided—it will take revenge.

One day the farmer saw: a black stripe came through the air and the black one had

fire shooting out of its eyes. Then it turned straight over the famer’s house and put all

buildings on fire.

Somebody else from Džukste53 told the story this way. An old woman was out in

the pasture tending cows. It was raining hard. Suddenly, by chance she saw a tiny chick

all wet between stubble. The women took the chick home and put it on top of the stove to

dry overnight there. In the morning, she went to see the chick and saw a great pile of rye

next to the chick. Then she took the chick and locked it up in the barn. The next morning

she went to check again and saw a big sack of rye had showed up next to the chick. Now

she realized that the chick was a dragon because she had heard that dragons could turn

into whatever they wished. The woman lamented; how to get rid of such a thing? But that

was nothing yet. The next day the chick clamored for the women to go stealing here and

there. That, of course, she did not do. The chick then went awfully mad, came with the

53
Dzūkste. The word džūkste means a swampy place or a big puddle.
 304

fire, and burnt down the barn. (A. Lerchis-Puškaitis in Džūkste.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0224.htm)

The Wee Dragon

There was a man who wanted to get a dragon badly. Wishing to have it, he went

to Rīga. He walked into a little shop and asked the gentleman: “Please, could you sell a

small, tiny, wee dragon?” (The kind that would not cost too much, would not be worth

too much.) The gentleman responded: “Why not?” and gave it to him. Once home, the

dragon began to haul wee. The man brought and carried the wee away but could not get it

emptied. At last, he spoke to the dragon and found out that it was a wee dragon because

the man himself had asked for a small, tiny, wee dragon when buying it in Rīga. (Štīlers

in Gulbene. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0129.htm)

The Dragon of Horse Dung

A farmer drove down to Rīga,54 went into a little shop where dragons were sold,

and asked for a dragon. The shop clerk gave him a paper bundle saying that it was in

there already. The farmer, having given the needed payment, drove home cheerfully. On

the way home, he took the bundle, wanting to see the new dragon. But when he opened

the bundle, he saw only horse dung. Mad about such the trickery, he threw the bundle

into the forest. The next year, driving through the same forest, he thought of the previous

year’s incident and went to see if the bundle would be in the same spot. He did not find

what he was looking for, but instead he found a good pile of money that the dragon had

hauled. The dragon could not be found although the farmer looked for it carefully. The

54
Rīga is the capital of Latvia.
 305

farmer did take the money but was not too joyful as he could not get the dragon itself.

(From Grāvendālieši. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0143.htm)

The Dragon as a Black Cat

The farmer of the house P. had a dragon. He lived in plenty: hefty horses, lots of

grain. The farm girls, though, had to always mill in darkness, and they could not mill the

buckets empty—never. Then one time, they noticed a black cat sitting there at the top of

the mill and pouring grain into the buckets again and again. They killed it. The mistress

whined then: “Ay, you, cheaters, killed our black cat! How can we ever ride strong

horses, how can we ever take from full bins?”

Those who have a dragon, at the time of their death, must give the dragon

someone else in their stead. And so, P., when he was dying, mentioned his son and gave

him to the dragon. But the son lost his mind and soon died too. (Atis of Māteri in

Grenčenieki, Tukums parish. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0607.htm)

Rye Sprite

There was once a farmer who was secretly feeding a rye sprite in his barn. His

wife had seen that the farmer kept a big, big barrel in the barn, but what was in it she did

not know and she did not ask. At the end of his life, on his death bed, the farmer called

his wife to his bedside and said: “That barrel that is in the barn, put it next to me in my

coffin. In there is my rye sprite.”

The farmer dies, but the wife does not put the sprite in the coffin. One night goes

by—nothing, another night goes by—nothing, on the third night the farmer climbs out of

his grave and, standing behind the door, asks that his sprite is returned to him. The wife

does not give it; and so the night passes. But the next night, the farmer is out of the grave
 306

again and is now turning everything upside down. Nothing doing—in the morning, the

grave had to be dug open and the sprite’s bucket put into the coffin. The next night there

was no farmer coming home and doing buffoonery.

Some days later the neighbor man happens to pass by the cemetery around

midnight. He comes up right to the cemetery, oh, what an unseen wonder—there, without

any wood, burns a small bright light on the grave of the dead neighbor. (A. Lerchis –

Puškaitis in Džūkste - Pienava.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0705.htm)

Butter Dragon

A farmer from Nereta55 drove to Augškurzeme56 to visit his brother who was also

a rich farmer. It was summer time and when there was no more space for the visitor to

sleep inside the house, a place was made for him in the barn.

The visitor went to sleep in the barn. In the barn he saw lots of dishes, tubs, pots,

and pails for butter—all clean washed, but empty. The guest lay down and, not being able

to sleep, just lay there. Suddenly, he heard noise from the barn loft. The noise maker was

coming down the stairs, pulling something like a big sack behind. It heaved up a plenty,

rumbled up the stairs, and all became silent again. The guest wondered: what could it be?

He could not sleep any longer. And so, he heard the puker return two more times doing

the same thing.

55
Nereta. The name is formed from: (a) ne (not) and (b) rets (rare or not

occurring often).
56
Augškurzeme is a part of Latvia and means the high or the Northern part of

Kurzeme, which is located in the West.

 307

In the morning, the guest got up and saw that all the pots were full of butter. Now

he understood that the brother had a butter dragon. The farmer asked that his horses are

yoked right away, saying that he needed to rush to a doctor; that he had gotten sick.

Although the brother asked him to have breakfast, the guest was afraid he would be fed

the puked up butter, and he left. After that, he never went to visit the brother again. (J.

Vitiņš in Augškurzeme. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0155.htm)

Money Dragon and a Grain Dragon

A farmer bought two dragons in Rīga: a money and a grain dragon. Both dragons

were inside a small box. The gentleman from Rīga urged the farmer no to open the box

while on the way home. But the farmer did open the box to see. In the box there was an

old horse hobble and a dried out frog leg. The farmer got angry and threw the hobble and

the frog leg out on the roadside. When the farmer went to Rīga again, he found a big pile

of grain and next to it a big pile of money on the same spot where he had thrown away

the hobble and the frog leg. (H. Skujiņa in Aumeisteŗi parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0148.htm)

A Horse Dragon

In the old days dragons could be bought in towns—especially in Jelgava.57 The

grain dragon was sold as a piece of coal, the money dragon as a rusted piece of iron, the

horse dragon as a piece of bark rope. The seller sometimes advised how to handle the

dragon, how to feed it.

A farmer went to Jelgava. His horses were very weak. A gentleman showed up

and said: buy a horse dragon! So, for a ruble, he bought something like a bark rope that

57
Jelgava is a town in Latvia.
 308

had to be kept in a bucket. On his way home the horses ran—one could not hold them.

Later, at home, the dragon fed the horses with oats: the feed bunks were full each

morning. (Ētmanis in Kazdanga.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0124.htm)

Raven Dragon

A man went to Rīga to by a dragon but could not find an inexpensive one and

walked sadly around the streets. A gentleman, passing by, suddenly called out to him:

“Why, my friend, are you so sad?” So and so. “Well, I will get you a dragon for two

rubles!” And soon the gentleman gives the man a small paper cornet saying: “The dragon

will do for you whatever you will wish, but, first, you need to give up God and, when

greeting your wife and children at home, say these words: “The Devil in my heart and the

Devil in your hearts, too!” Yes, yes—he promises too. But, on the way home, then man

wants to see what the gentleman from Rīga had put in the cornet. He unwraps it without

waiting when on the bridge over the Gauja. When he opens it, he sees a piece of a mat.

The man got angry and threw the piece of the mat into the Gauja. Right away, the

water began bubbling and croaking, and from the bottom of the river a black raven came,

which flew toward Rīga. (M. E. Bērziņš in Umurga.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0221.htm)

A Dragon’s Scooper

A man was winnowing grain. He then went in the barn for a smoke and forgot to

put a cross on the heap. He smoked and smoked—then, suddenly, he saw a dragon run in
 309

through the door crack. The dragon scooped the grain, measuring it and reciting:

“Hundred lasti58 into the pūrs,59 hundred loads in the pūrs!”

The man then jerked the door open and wacked the dragon with a shovel. The

dragon ran away, forgetting its scooper (a pig’s hoof) it had taken along. The man took

the scooper (the pig’s hoof) and scooped the grain, saying the same words as the dragon:

“Hundred loads in the pūrs, hundred loads in the pūrs!” As many hooves he scooped, as

many loads of grain fell in. From that time, the man always carried the dragon’s scooper

with him and became a rich man in three years. Then, one time, he went to the bathhouse

and set the scooper on the windowsill, where the dragon snapped its scooper back.

(Andrejs from Edas of Oškalne in Linde.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0166.htm)

Three Morsels for the Dragon

This is the way dragons were fed. Every time when food was being made, three

morsels of the ready-made food had to be placed on the hook holding the pot above the

fire.

There was one farmer who always fed his dragon that way and became rich. But

one time only the servant girl was at home and she did not put the food on the hook. The

dragon took its revenge and set the house on fire. The man, having gone out to for a visit,

saw the fire and ran back home. He threw the old carriage wheel into the burning roof

58
Lasti is a plural form of the word lasts, which is an old unit of measurement of

mass, approximately 160 kilograms or 352 pounds.

59
Pūrs is an archaic name for a container the size of which is about 48 kilograms

(if it is a liquid container, it could be as big as 70-100 liters or 18.5-26.4 gallons).

 310

where the dragon lived and the fire died down right away. (Ētmanis in Kazdanga.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0211.htm)

How to Kill a Flying Dragon

A dragon that runs in the air can be shot this way. First, one should aim with the

butt-end of the shotgun and then quickly turn the right end of the gun tube and shoot.

Then a dragon is down. A dragon that runs in the air can also be shot with a golden (or a

silver) bullet; then it falls down and splits open. A thunder bullet is a small round stone

that can be found where lighting has hit. (Note: The old stone axes are also called thunder

bullets.) (R. Auniņš in Cesvaine.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0103.htm)

The Bread Dragon

A mistress baked some bread, put it on the floor, and began to call the dragon as

the sweetie-pie: “Come, sweetie-pie, hop all over my flat cakes!” The sweetie-pie hopped

all over the loaves and they became as hard as wood. The servants could not really eat

such hard bread and so the bread lasted. The servants, the farmhands nagged the dragon

sometimes, beating it lame, but were unable to kill it all together. The dragon had to be

handled well or it would take revenge on its keeper himself. (Note: The dragon here is

similar to the Lingering Mother.)

(Ārons Matīss in Liezere.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13L0110.htm)

The Mill Dragon

A mistress had a dragon. She kept the dragon in the mill and made her servant

boy and girl mill every night. The servants were surprised: “Surprise, what a surprise!
 311

Two weeks ago the mistress gave us a sieks60 of rye to mill. We have been milling and

milling from the same bucket; but it is still full of rye. The mill is full of flour and the

grain is here as before.” The next evening, the boy and the girl were milling again. The

boy finally thought: “There must be something to it. I should turn on the light!” And for

sure—he found a dragon sitting on the mill handle. It was pouring more and more gain

into the bucket. Oh! The boy got mad and struck the dragon dead with a stick.

The next evening, the mistress told the boy and girl to mill again. This time, the

unconquerable bucket of rye got milled quite quickly and they soon went to bed. Right

away the mistress noticed what had happened. She then took a white woolen shawl, went

outside and laid it on the ground, calling: “Hop, hop, sweetie, come onto my white

shawl!” But the dragon did not come any more—call as much as you want. (A. Lerchis-

Puškaitis in Džūkste. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0506.htm)

The Barn Dragon

There was a mistress who had a dragon that she kept in the barn. She therefore did

not let anyone in there. Once, when she was kneading bread, she ran out of flour. She

sent a servant girl to fetch some, and urged her not to keep the barn door open for long.

While the girl was scooping the flour, she noticed that on the edge of the corn bin sat a

small red bird. Wanting to catch the bird, she began to chase it. She chased it until it ran

out of the barn.

Having come back with the flour, the girl told the mistress about the red bird; that

she had chased it; and that it had ran out. The mistress rushed outside, but it was too late:

60
Sieks is an archaic name for a round container used for grains and legumes, the

size of which was about 15 kilograms or 33 pounds.

 312

the barn was on fire. (Andrejs in I.inde.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0513.htm)

The Money Dragon

There were two neighbors: one rich, the other one poor. The rich one always

teased the poor one: he did not know how to live, how to deal with devils—he knew

nothing. It was then that the poor neighbor began to grumble about his dearth and started

to call for the Devil’s help. Right away, the Devil sent his servant dragon to help. The

dragon promised to make the man rich in no time if he did not mention God. The poor

man promised not to call upon God. And truly, in a while the wealth began to grow. But

then the dragon thought of something different. He badgered his keeper to go to his rich

neighbor’s house three times a week, to stand there facing East (the dragons always fly

from East to West) and catch the rich neighbor’s money hauling dragon. In the moment

when the dragon flew home with its sack, the man had to shout three times:

“Shtrooramin, shtrooramin, shtrooramin!” Well, the man did as told. As he said the

words, the neighbor dragon’s load fell to the ground and the poor man’s dragon got a

hefty snatch. It then hauled all the money to its keeper and made it filthy rich.

But then one time the two neighbors met and began to discuss their wealth. The

neighbor who used to be rich was puzzled how the one who used to be poor was doing so

well, while he was not. Then the former poor one, what a fool, blurted out: “How would I

not be doing so well if I stop your money dragon by saying such and such words

(Shtrooramin!) and then my dragon carries the load to my house.” The other neighbor got

happy upon hearing that: “I’m schooled now!” He began to stop the neighbor’s dragon

with the same word: “Shtrooramin!” The two dragons then got into a feud. The former
 313

poor neighbor’s dragon then told his keeper: “You babbled what was not to be told. You

will have my revenge!” In the same instant the dragon threw fire onto the keeper’s houses

and hid itself in an empty beehive while the buildings were on fire. (Kārlis Mačulāns in

Baltāsmuiža (Weissensee) of Lesiņi in Ilūkste parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0403.htm)

A Dragon as a Horse’s Hoof

There was a farmer who fed a dragon in the hay loft. The dragon looked like a

horse’s hoof. The servant found it and threw it into the pond. Soon after that the farmer

went broke. (Kārlis Skujiņa in Smiltene.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0537.htm)

A Dragon in an Old Broomstick

In the parish of Liel-vircava,61 there was a farmer who had a dragon, but he did

not feed it well. The dragon decided to take revenge—it set the farmer’s house on fire

one night.

At that time, a servant lad was coming home after taking horses to the pastures

and saw something red running into an old broom that was thrust onto a fence pole. Right

away he thought that it was a dragon. The lad went quickly to the fence, took the old

broom from the fence post, and threw it into the fire, saying: “If all is burning, let this old

broom find its end in the fire too!” In the instant the broom fell into the fire and the lad

61
Lielvircava is a village in the central part of Latvia. The word lielvircava has

two parts: (a) liels (big) and (b) vircava (the meaning of this is not clear as it could be

related to the word virca (slurry), but it is unlikely given its lack of appeal).
 314

had uttered the words, the fire went out. (Nameits Juris in Liel-Vircava.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0210.htm)

The Devil in the Pig’s Heart

A framer bought a dragon in Rīga. The seller wrapped the dragon in a small chest,

telling the farmer to say these words upon arriving home: “Good day, dear wife! The

Devil in your heart!” The farmer lived really well with his wife and thought: “How can I

say that to my wife?” And he changed the words this way: “Good day, dear wife, the

Devil in the pig’s heart!” The instant he said it—the Devil jumped out of the chest and

ran away shouting: “Should I be living in the pig’s heart?”

Note: Julius Egle from Gulbene wrote that it was when the wife saw the devil she

shouted: “Oh, dear God, how beautiful!” Right then the devil ran away. (Andrejs in

Linde. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0220.htm)

The Engure Dragon

In the old days those living in Džūkste62 had to go get wood from Engure.63 One

of the locals went to Engure exactly on the guising night (or, perhaps, it was some other

night; can’t remember that well) and stayed overnight at a farmer’s there. That evening,

the farmer had a strange celebration—there were baked flat breads there, meat was

stewed, and the entire household sat around the table in silence, as if waiting for

something. Then suddenly the man from Džūkste saw something like a toad or not a

62
Džūkste is a village in the central part of Latvia. The word džūkste means a

swampy place or a puddle.

63
Engure is a fisherman’s village of Latvia. The word engure shares the root with

the word enga, which means a plug or a rowlock.

 315

toad—hard to say what exactly—crawling in over the doorstep and trudging closer and

closer to the food. Those from Engure stood there, hands folded, without uttering a

squeak.

My mate from Džūkste could not forbear; he felt spooky; he jumped up and

shouted: “If you, the kind of toad, are a good spirit, then walk on your feet; stop

slouching! And, if you are not the good one—get out the door!” As soon as he said that,

the toad, or whatever it was, went over the doorstep at lightning speed and disappeared.

What a hullaballoo broke out! Those from Engure, as if on fire, came down on the

Džūkste man. “Such lepers, scoundrels turn up here and chase our dear god away! One

must not say wicked words to it. Who are you to dare ask what kind of spirit it is? Go

sleep in the forest; you don’t freeze, do you?” Well, they left. No one knows what

happened to that god. (A. Lerchis-Puškaitis in Džūkste.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0230.htm)

Tāmiņš’s Dragon

Tāmiņš,64 the old dragon keeper, had two sons. When the old man was dying, he

wanted to leave his belongings to his sons, but they would not take them, and so the old

man had a hard death. After his death, before he got buried, he came to his sons telling

them: “Sons, take the dragon, the good House Gnome!” The sons would not take it. A big

storm arose on Sunday when the old man was being taken to his grave. It tore the lid off

the coffin and took the old Tāmiņš somewhere, no one knows where.

The next Sunday the oldest son went to the church. Suddenly, he saw his father

walking toward him saying, “Son, take the dragon, the good House Gnome! If you won’t

64
Tāmiņš. The word tāmiņš means a clumsy, gullible person or a simpleton.
 316

do that, it’ll be bad.” The son did not take it. When he got home, he found all the

buildings and belongings in ashes. Everybody cried and shouted, but the sons told them:

“Better be poor with God’s help than rich with the Devil’s.” (A. E. Plakāne.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0604.htm)

The Dragon Stepiņš

In the old days, the mistress of Bērznieki65 kept a strange black tomcat. The cat

was called Stepiņš.66 In reality, it was not some cat—it was an invisible spirit—a devil.

The mistress herself could see it. She used to hold it on her lap and she kept it behind the

stove. The others were lucky to secretly see it sometimes. Most often nobody else saw it.

They only knew that there was such Stepiņš behind the stove and that it looked like a

black tomcat. Sometimes, when the people of the house asked, “Stepiņš, would you do

this or that—bring water?” Stepiņš obliged right away but did not show itself. They saw

only water buckets came up from the well, but the one who carried the buckets could not

be seen or felt.

The farmhands came with fat oak wood one time. There were huge heaps of snow

in the middle of the yard, and the horses could not pull any longer. What to do? It was the

evening by then. They suddenly remembered, “Oh! Dear Stepiņš! Would you bring the

oakwood to the threshing-floor?” As soon as they had said it, the oak lumber walked

speedily over to the threshing-floor.

65
Bērznieki. The name “bērznieki” is derived from the word bērzi (singular

bērzs)—birch.
66
Stepiņš. The word stepiņš shares the root with the word stepis (a burly

teenager).
 317

Nobody was allowed to tease Stepiņš, or the teaser would be overcome with

trouble. The mistress herself used to throw some rubbish, wood chips, and bones behind

the stove top every Friday and, especially, on the Big Friday, and also on Saint Hans

morning. She did the same under benches and in other buildings.

Every Friday the mistress went to mill and turned the mill to the left. It was said

that she poured in only few grains but that a lot of flour poured out. Animal hair was

always found around the mill stones, but where it came from, I do not know.

One time, the forest master came to visit the house. He wanted to see Stepiņš by

all means. The people of the house told him, “Don’t go behind the stove! Don’t go behind

the stove!” Told or not, the forest master went anyway. He went in, ready to look, but a

long whip showed up out of the blue and began to flog the man driving him out the door.

Small stones, sand, and other things kept flying after the forest master even as he was

getting onto his carriage. Later, though, a big scholar showed up carrying his Bible; he

went looking for Stepiņš behind the stove. That day Stepiņš left the stove and moved to

the bathhouse stove. He lived there for a long time.

The bather pleaded many times: “Stepiņš, Stepiņš, kindly stoke me with a lovely

steam!” Right away, the birch twig venik67 went up in the air and lashed the bather as

good as ever. Finally, the prayers chased Stepiņš away from the bathhouse stove. (Some

say that a Jewish tallit bag was placed in the bathhouse.) On a night when a new snow

had just fallen, Stepiņš took the master’s sledge, put the bathhouse stove on it, and

crawled to woods. In the morning, the people searched following the tracks of the sledge,

67
Venik is a broom made of small branches of leafy trees for giving massages in

bath houses.
 318

but neither the sledge nor Stepiņš was found. (A. I.erchis-Puškaitis from the 78-year-old

Kaspars, Ezers in Džūkste. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0174.htm)

The Captured Dragon’s Rye

There was a place not far from the small manor of Jaunroze’s68 Ingciga that was

known for dragons running at the edge of the forest. A man named Veška,69 the father of

the tall Peter, once made a promise to capture a dragon and destroy it. He went down to

the spot where the dragons ran, exactly at the time that the biggest dragon ran. He tore his

shirt in half from top to bottom in the instant that the dragon was over his head.

Immediately, the dragon began to wiggle and wobble until it died bursting, the sparks of

fire flying in all directions. A big pile of rye fell to the ground. Not even pigs wanted to

eat it. It stood there until it rotted.

Note. A boy from Gaujenieši70 had captured a dragon once but did not know how

to let it go. While the dragon was standing in the air, the boy began to be tormented by

terrible pains. He fell to the ground, foam gushing from his mouth. Suddenly, an old man

came up to him and taught him the “letting-go” words. At once the dragon ran away

hissing and the boy became well. (S. Mazjānis in Jaun-Roze.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0402.htm)

68
Jaunroze. The name “jaunroze” is made up of two words: (a) jauns (new or

young) and (b) roze (rose).

69
The name Veška may be related to the word večka, meaning an elder or

someone with gray hair.

70
Gaujinieši are people who live on the banks of the river Gauja.
 319

A Dragon Stopped by a Knife

There were two neighbors. One of them had a dragon, and he was rich because

the dragon carried crops from the neighbor’s barn to him. One day, the dragon told his

keeper that it could not get to the crops in the neighbor’s barn, as there was a knife thrust

into the doorstep. That was why the dragon could not get in there. The knife had to be

pulled out. The dragon’s keeper went and pulled out the knife. Then the dragon brought

crops again. (Āronu Matīss in Liezere.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0404.htm)

A Dragon Cut by a Knife in the Doorstop

A farmer was driving home from Rīga. On his way home, he met a dragon

walking toward him, swollen quite fat. The farmer pulled from his pocket a knife he had

bought in Rīga and thrust it into the rail of the sledge. In that instant the dragon burst and

the rye that it had held inside its full belly, fell to the ground. The dragon had been

carrying the rye to some other farmer who was its keeper. In anger, the dragon burned the

farmer’s house. (Āronu Matīss in Liezere.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0405.htm)

A Dragon Tied to a Fence Post

The travelers slept in the Nagla71 inn when on their way to Rīga. One of the men

went outside and saw a dragon running in the air. Using a charm, he tied the dragon to a

fence post to have it thrash around there until the morning. When leaving in the morning,

he lashed the dragon a couple of times with his whip, saying to the other travelers that

71
Nagla. The word nagla means nail—the small metal spike to hammer into

wood to join things.

 320

they would see who was the owner of the dragon. They had not travelled too far when

they saw that a farmer’s barn was on fire. (In Apse.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0407.htm)

The Words to Stop Dragons

There was an old hag who had words to stop dragons, make them empty what

they were carrying, and let them go again. The words for letting the dragons go were

“Chick, chick, chick the big ones; chick, chick, chick the small ones; the tub is open!” (H.

Skujiņa in Aumeisteŗi parish. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0412.htm)

A Dragon Stopped by a Ring

On dark autumn nights, we can see a dragon run in the air: it has a black tangle in

the front, and in the back—a fiery ball. It can be shot with a quicksilver bullet.

A forester went on a rabbit watch to guard oat sheaves on an autumn night. He

saw a black tangle running in the air. Right away, he recognized that bird. He pulled the

silver ring from his finger, loaded it into the rifle, and shot it. The dragon fell to the

ground, but it did not stay there. It ran into the forest, the fire crackling against the trees.

In the spot where the dragon had fallen down, the forester found two buckets of such flax

that even the single thread could not be broken. (Pēteris Krievāns from Krievāna Anna of

Dūnavieši in Ilūkste. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0413.htm)

A Dragon Stopped by a Knife between the Legs

A farmer saw his neighbor’s dragon and decided to use it for his own good. He

had heard from the old people that a dragon’s load could be taken away if a new knife

was put between one’s legs. Well. He sees the neighbor’s dragon running one time. Right

away, the knife is out of his pocket and between his legs. Yes, it is right, in that instant
 321

the dragon cannot carry its load anymore and spills lots of crop onto the ground. The

farmer grabbed the crops and got rich. (Kārlis Mačulāns from J. Poriņš of Zvirbuļi in Laši

parish. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0414.htm)

A Dragon Stopped by a Naked Bottom

A servant saw a red glow dashing towards his master’s barn one day. He quickly

showed his naked bottom and heard the sound of money. He looked—there was no

dragon any more, but on that spot he found a heap of money. Ho took what he found, got

rich, and lived like a master. (Kārlis Mačulāns from J. Poriņš of Zvirbuļi in Laši parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0415.htm)

A Dragon Stopped When Pants Are Dropped

One evening, an old man saw a dragon that looked like a black rooster running in

the air. The dragon had a golden bowl in front, all sparkly and shiny. The man called the

other people out and told them how and where he had seen the dragon. They gave him

advice to drop his pants to get the dragon’s load when the dragon would soon come

walking the same way. A long time passed, but nothing miraculous happened. Then

suddenly, one evening, the same old man was walking home from the inn. Around the

same place as before, he saw a dragon running again in the air as a blue and black rooster,

with a big black tail in its back. It was not as bright this time as the man had seen it

before, and there was no golden bowl in front. The old man, as he was taught, dropped

his pants to the ground, and the dragon threw down a whole load of rye onto the oldie’s

pants. (Teacher Braslinš of Suntaži in Latgale.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0418.htm)
 322

A Dragon Killed by the Maid

In the old days people milled flour in hand mills at their homes. There were water

mills too that belonged to the manor houses, but the farmers did not want to give a grain

sack to the landlords. One of the farmers kept a dragon that lived in the mill chamber and

poured the grains there. The maid who milled the grain did not know that the farmer had

a dragon. When milling, she noticed that the dragon kept pouring more grain. She killed

it right away, thinking it to be a devil. The mistress of the house was very angry with the

maid, but could do nothing. The farmers then had to be thrifty with the bread, because the

house had no grain hauler any longer. (P. Šmits from his father’s father in Rauna.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0501.htm)

A Dragons Perishes in a Hub

The farmer had two red dragons that brought him all that was needed. One time,

the farmer gave his farmhand some food to feed the dragons. The farmhand ate the food

himself and gave the dragons an empty dish. The dragons got mad and set the house on

fire. The farmer grabbed the dragons, locked them inside an old hub where they spent

nine years and, after that, perished. (Pēteris of Sebeži in Gulbenē.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0503.htm)

The Dragon who Pestered the Shepherd Girl

In the house of a farmer there was a mighty crop dragon. It would not leave the

shepherd girl alone in the evenings, insisting that she say “The Devil in my heart!” But

the girl always replied, “The Devil in my bottom!” For that reason the dragon tortured her

one night, and she died.

 323

It happened so that a Russian gelder (castrator of stallions) came to the house.

Already walking up to the house, he had noticed that the water in the little river was

murky. He began to question the people of the house that same evening. The farmer felt

sorry for his dragon and tried to keep silent about the matter, but the other people told

about it. The gelder promised to clear the house. Since that night, neither the gelder nor

the dragon has been seen any more. (R. Kaufmanis from A. Pureniņš in Linde parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr13/13V0533.htm)

Devils

Devils of the Latvian mythological legends are mischievous, evil, and also helpful

beings that live in lakes, swamps, threshing-barns, and sometimes also underground. The

devils walk upright, and they have black hairy skin. They also have horns of a goat, and a

tail. In Šmits’ (n.d.) view, these mythological creatures came to Latvia legends from

other European cultures with the expansion of Christianity. In some legends the devil is

described as the singular, evil being that stands in opposition to the benevolent God of

Christianity. Those legends, though, are not as common as the ones with many devils.

The word devil in Latvian is vells (plural velli) or velns (plural velni). These

words in Latvian and vēlinas, velnias in Lithuanian were known by the Baltic people

more than 2000 years ago (Šmits, n.d.). All these words are derivatives of another word

velis, which means a soul of a deceased person. In the mythological legends included

here (as well as in most Latvian traditional mythological legends), the word vells or velns

is translated as devil and the plural velli or velni—as devils.

 324

The Little Tiny Devil

A farmhand went into the threshing-barn. Suddenly, a big black man came in and

said: “Let there be light!” And there was light. He went on, “Let there be food!” The food

appeared. Then devils as guests showed up—they ate, drank, and danced. The farmhand

jokingly said, “Let there be food for me too!”—and the food turned up. The farmhand

called the devils to come and eat from his food too. The devils came to his food and

among them came a little tiny devil. The little devil ate and said: “I will stay with you

forever because the old devil gives me only as much food as in a teeny beaker for the

whole day.” Since that day the farmhand thrived—he got rich. (Lebeža in Gulbenē.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A0604.htm)

Two Devils Reward a Peasant

It was in the old times when a peasant drove down this road to Valmiera.72 In his

cart he had two buckets of flax that he wanted to sell in Valmiera. He was very poor and

he needed money badly, so there was nothing left to do but to sell those couple of

buckets.

He set out on his way already around midnight to arrive to Valmiera with the light

of dawn. He had driven through the forest and down to the swamp when he saw blue and

green lights sparking. Coming closer, he saw two devils in a terrible fight. The peasant’s

blood ran cold, but one of the devils came up to him, stopped the horse, and told him to

resolve their fight or to go no further. The devil said, they are fighting over the swamp;

who it belongs to; they are both brothers. The farmer told them that if they are two good

72
Valmiera is a city in North-Eastern Latvia.
 325

brothers, they should divide the swamp in two because there is a border—a road—in the

middle of the swamp.

The devils agreed, but insisted that each half needed a name. The farmer then

suggested that one half could be called Vilki73 forest and the other Vilki swamp, because

wolves used to live there. The devils were very pleased; they let the farmer go, saying

that he might be rewarded for his wisdom.

The peasant came to Valmiera. The merchants took the fax and began to weigh it,

but what a surprise! There seemed to be so little flax, but it weighed two birkavs.74 They

thought and pondered, weighed the flax the second and the third time, but the weight was

and remained the same. Nothing doing! They paid the peasant hefty money for the two

birkavs, and he went home happy. Driving home, he realized that this was the devils’

reward for his wisdom. (Emma Vēbere of Sēļi parish in Valmiera region.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A0606.htm)

The Devil for a Friend

There was a rich farmer, and all people talked about the farmer being friends with

the devil himself. Every day before the evening came, the farmer called his workers

home, told them to eat and go to sleep with the sunset; nobody was allowed to walk

around the house after that. A young farmhand lived by the farmer. One day the

farmhand decided to find out what was the matter that the farmer chased the workers to

bed so early and did not let anyone walk around in the dark. One evening the farmhand

73
Vilki. The word vilki is a plural of vilks (wolf).
74
Birkavs is an old Russian unit of measurement of mass approximately 164

kilograms or 162 pounds.

 326

sneaked out of the room and hid under the rafters in the barn. He wanted to watch and

see. Surely! It may have been around midnight when a stately gentleman came riding into

the yard on a black stallion; he dragged a full sack into the farmer’s barn and poured out

jingling coins. Then the black gentleman rode away. The farmhand understood then what

kind of a black gentleman it was who was driving money and things to the master. It had

been the devil himself who was the master’s friend. (N. Skujiņa from the 52-year-old J.

Gaiļis in Aumeisteŗi. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A0607.htm)

Bread for the Devil Himself

The mother-in-law was baking bread. It was exactly midday when she pulled the

bread out of the oven. The mother-in-law said to the daughter-in-law: “Go, bring it to the

barn! If there is a black gentleman sitting there at the grain-bin, do not touch him or say a

word!” The daughter-in-law brought the bread to the barn. Surely, the black gentleman

was sitting there and was rolling his eye terribly. The daughter-in-law said not a word and

hurried out of the barn. The gentleman sitting there was the Devil himself, because the

master of the house was a sorcerer. (H. Skujiņa in Aumeisteri parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A0609.htm)

The Black Gentleman and Workers

There was a poor farmer. He had tried this and that, but could not get on a roll.

One day the farmer went walking in the forest. Suddenly, out of the blue, a black

gentleman showed up next to him.

He greeted the farmer and asked why he was so sad. The farmer told him: “I’ve

tried this and that, but I’m not getting ahead no matter what. I am poor and cannot have

many workers.” The gentleman tells him if that is the only calamity, then there is nothing
 327

to be sad about. The farmer should catch a black cat and bring it to the crossroads; the

gentleman will be there and will give him the workers. The farmer does as told—catches

the cat and, on the agreed-upon day, goes to the crossroads. He sees, surely, the

gentleman is already there. The gentleman asks where the cat is. The farmer responds:

“In the sack,” and asks: “Where are the workers?” The gentleman responds: “In the

sack,” and pulls them out. He pulls out a farmhand and a maid. The gentleman then

explains how they should be treated. They must not get food or drink. If they get tired,

they should be soaked in water and they must sleep on a perch like chickens. But in three

times seven years the farmer must return the workers to the gentleman. The farmer gives

thanks and goes home.

As it was the evening, he sent the workers to sleep. In the morning before the

sunrise, the farmhand and the maid got up and waited for the farmer’s orders. They did

not eat, but they were hardworking and diligent. That way the farmer got rich fast and

saved up a whole box of money.

Then one morning the farmer waited but the workers did not come. He went to

check on top of the byre, to see why they were not coming. But he never came back.

Only later his wife remembered that it was the exact day when the three times seven

years had passed. She could not wait for her husband to come back. Then she thought:

what’s lost is lost; she could keep the money. But it turned out that there were only leaves

of birch in the box. (Erna Briņķe from Bāliņš in Suntaži.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A0610.htm)
 328

The Evil House God

In the old days there was a farmer who had a House God that had made the farmer

wealthy, but that did not give the farmer any peace. When the farmer left the house, it

was always at the window asking his wife: “Baba,75 is Mača76 home?” The wife, the poor

thing, was not allowed to respond. If she said “yes,” it would come in asking for children.

If she said “no,” it would go out on the road to meet the husband and wear him out.

Sometimes Mača was out riding. In the evenings, it [the House God] always met Mača

and pulled him from the horse to the ground. As he got up on one side, he fell down on

the other side, until he finally went home on foot. At home, it always came to Mača’s bed

asking: “Will you give me the hen and the chicken (the wife and children)?” If he

promised, then there was peace. But when one of the children was home, the House God

was there too every night. None of the farmer’s children grew up, because the evil one

took them right after birth. The farmer and his wife tried to have foster children, but they

did not do any better. One of them was taken by the evil one to the hay loft right away; it

was a torture to get the child out. The same happened every night until they finally had to

give the child back to the real parents. (P. Lapsiņš in Rūjiena.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A1406.htm)

The Devil Helps a Greedy Farmer

There was a greedy farmer who was taken by the devil to a money cellar where

the devil wanted to give him money. They both went into the cellar, and the devil struck

75
Baba is a name used for an old woman.
76
Mača is a man’s name here, but it also means a kind of bread that is thin, made

without salt and without fermentation (Jews eat it on the Great Friday).
 329

its finger against its teeth right away. The finger lit up as a candle. The farmer began

laughing upon seeing such a thing, but the devil did not like it. It ran out of the cellar,

slamming the door and leaving the farmer, who could not get out. In the morning, the

farmer was found in the money cellar and was taken to be hung. As the farmer was going

to be hung, the devil dashed back, grabbed him, and put a sack of hey in his stead.

Thinking that it was the farmer, it was hung. (Note: Šmits (n.d.) has noted that this motif

occurs also in folktales.) (H. Skujiņa from the 76-year-old J. Ābele in Aumeisteŗi.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A1001.htm)

The Devil and the Thirsty Miller

The miller was awfully thirsty one night. Fumbling and crawling around in the

barn, he was looking for drink, but could not find it. Finally, he shouted quite angrily:

“Wish the devil himself would bring me a drop of water with the speed of wind!” As

soon as he said it, the devil came into the barn asking: “What are you looking for, old

man?” “Looking to drink.” “Come out, I have water in the carriage.” The miller went out

and climbed into the carriage thinking to drink; but the devil whipped the horses and off

they went, wind whistling in their ears. The miller asked:” Where are you going? Where

are you going?” The devil answered: “Into the forest to get water!” The miller got up and

wanted to hold the rains. The blow of the wind pulled off his hat and pushed the miller

back down to sit. Now the miller began to beg to stop to find his hat; but the devil

responded: “Forget about the hat! It is now some hundred versts77 back where it fell. We

will get to the town and you can buy yourself a different hat.”

77
Versts is a unit of length in an obsolete Russian measurement system,

approximately 1067 meters or 1167 yards.

 330

In a short while, they drove into the town. The devil took the miller into a shop,

grabbed a sausage, and began biting into it like a glutton. The miller shouted: “Who,

God, father, made you so voracious that you bite like that!” In that instant the devil

disappeared and the sausage with him; the farmer was left alone in the shop behind the

closed door. Nothing doing; he waited for the morning. In the morning, the shopkeeper

found the stranger in his shop and was wondering how he could have gotten in through

the locked doors. The miller then told everything, forgetting no details, about what had

happened to him. The shopkeeper then sent the poor man back home. That town was far

away from the barn, but for the devil it had been just an earshot away. (D. Ozoliņš in

Jaun-Roze. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A1002.htm)

The Master of Ķeiži Manor and the Night guard

The master of Ķeiži78 manor lived with devils. They brought him so much money

that he was richer even than the squire himself. One time the master came up to the night

guard of the manor and ordered him to come along. The master took him to the barn, and

they both went in. He then took a piece of ham, cut a hefty slice, ate one himself and gave

one to the night guard, too. In a big fright, the night guard noticed that the master had

awfully big teeth. He exclaimed: “Oh my God, dear master, what big teeth you have!” All

immediately all went dark, the master of the manor disappeared; just something like a

key locking sounded by the door. The night guard wanted to go outside, but he found that

the barn door was locked. In the morning, the guard heard the door being opened and

thought that he would be mistaken for a thief. But to his surprise, the one opening the

door was the master himself, who let him out and admonished him not to tell anyone

78
Ķeiži is a village in North-Eastern Latvia.
 331

about the night’s events. He had no big teeth that had been there at night. The night guard

then thought that he had not met the master of the manor at night but the devil himself.

(P. Šmits from P. Zeltiņa in Rīga.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A1005.htm)

The Dead Master and the Devil

A rich farmer in Kurmene79 parish had a big party once. Unfortunately, there was

not enough liquor at the party. For the guests not to say that they had been starved to

death, the farmer himself drove to Šēnberga80 to purchase liquor. When he came to the

liquor shop, the clock showed half an hour to midnight. After gulping a čarka81 and

having bought all that was needed, he drove home.

At the gate to the manor, he met the old master, who had long been dead. The

master of the manor offered him liquor. The farmer, though drunk, was surprised about

such an offer. Thinking that one should not resist the stroke of luck, he followed the

master.

Both of them went into the barn that is still standing on the east side of Šēnberga’s

school. The master, having closed the door slightly, took a handsome piece of meat and

79
Kurmene is a village in Southern central part of Latvia on the border with

Lithuania.
80
Šēnberga is the old name for a place now called Skaistkalne located in South of

Latvia on the border with Lithuania. The word skaistkalne is derived from skaists

(beautiful) and kalns (mountain).

81
Čarka is a small (glass) container of approximately 0.12 liters or 3.5 ounces of

liquid.
 332

began to chew it with his teeth. The farmer realized that the master wanted to bite the

piece through, and the chewing went really well for him. When the piece was almost

bitten through, the farmer looked more closely into the master’s face and saw two small

horns on his forehead. His eyes were very light and big, his teeth long and red, and he

had a cow’s tail behind his boot shaft.

The farmer got so afraid that he could hardly make the sign of the cross. As soon

as the farmer made the sigh, the master disappeared. Then the farmer was even more

scared and wanted to find the door; he found it only after a couple of hours. But what a

disaster—the door was locked. There was nothing else to do but to wait until morning. In

the morning, when the servants of the manor found the farmer, they were wondering how

he could have gotten in. They questioned him and let him go. (G. Pols from the student S.

Kalnieka in Bauska parish. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14A1006.htm)

Fire

There are 51l legends recorded by Šmits (n.d.) in which money appears as fire

(Latvian uguns). The images of the Fire-Mother, the dragons, and the fire itself are

linked, and they share the functions of wealth bringing or dealing of misfortunes. In the

legends that follow below, the fire is mythical and mysterious. It appears and disappears

without human influence. It is a sign of riches, usually coins that need to be seen and

collected. One might imagine silver or gold coins shining in the sun, but that is not the

case, as the legends tell us. These are coins that shine at night like a burning fire and that

require luck and courage to be obtained. It is no ordinary fire, but rather a strange and

mysterious power that makes one consider one’s attitudes and take actions that are

beyond those of everyday dealings.

 333

The Devil’s Stone and Money

A farmhand, while out on a horse night-watch, intentionally lay down to sleep at

the so called the Devil’s stone that was haunted. Around the midnight, he woke up and

saw a small fire burning on the stone. The farmhand just slept again. But in a short while,

there was such a thundering roar, as if heaven and earth had fallen together. The

farmhand jumped up and saw a green goat and a slim maiden standing next to the fire.

The goat was poking the fire with its leg to make it burn better. The maiden was raking

coals with a shovel and, even more, she asked that the farmhand held his hat, so she could

pour in some coals. The farmhand did not know what to say and held his hat. The girl

poured a shovel full of glaring coal, but the farmhand shouted: “Oh dear God! My hat

will burn away.” As soon as he had said the words, the girl disappeared, the goat

disappeared, the fire died.

The farmhand wondered a bit and slept again. Waking up with the first light to

take horses home, to his astonishment, he found the hat full of gold. The farmhand built a

splendid house and, with this gold, lived in plenty all his life. (Vasīlnieks with Sierāns in

Nogale. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0601.)

A Bonfire and Money

A man was walking in a forest and saw a bonfire. He walked to the fire and took

one piece of coal to light his pipe. Having walked a little while, he suddenly noticed a

silver coin fallen behind his sleeve. The man then began to wonder whether the bonfire

he had walked up to had not been money. He then turned back and found a pile of silver

money in the place of the fire. (P. Šmits from P. Zeltiņa in Rīga.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0603.htm)
 334

Fire in the Field

It was a dark and rainy autumn night when the one who told this story walked

back home from the Pabuļi82 inn together with his neighbor. Having walked through the

Pabuļi pines, they noticed that in the field there was fire burning and an old stooping man

was sitting at the bonfire in a tattered coat. They were surprised about the strange fire and

its keeper, especially on such a rainy night. The one who told this story wanted to go and

check out the bonfire, but his fellow traveler would not go along for anything. So they

left the fire without seeing. They had not walked even a hundred steps when the fire

suddenly went out. The next morning the teller went to see the place where the fire had

been burning. But there was not even the smallest coal or a log there. Only the black

plowed field. Then he understood that it had been money drying there the previous night.

(H. Skujiņa in Smiltene. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0604.htm)

Fire in a Hay Barn

On a Sunday, walking back from the church of Kolka,83 an old lady saw a blue

light glowing in the corner of a hay barn. The flames went glistening higher and lower.

She thought that the barn was on fire and ran all she could to the closest house calling

that the barn was burning and that people ran to put out the fire. The people came

82
Pabuļi. The word pabuļi is the plural of pabulis that has many meanings: (a) a

knot or thickening in a thread of yarn, (b) a foam bubble on beer or the thin skin on top of

a liquid, (c) sty or an inflamed swelling on the edge of an eyelid, and (d) a tiny white

could.
83
Kolka is a village located at the most North-Western tip of Latvia clasped by

the Baltic Sea.

 335

running, but there were no flames there. The barn was standing as fine as ever. Then one

man understood what kind of fire it had been. Later he went alone and dug up a pot of

money by the corner of the barn. (K. Bankers of Cepeļleja in Dundaga.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0609.htm)

Money and Servants

In Liezere84 parish, next to the house of Svelme,85 there is a grove where there is

money. It has been seen many times parching there. One time the farmer of the Svelme

house went outside and saw something bright in the grove. He awoke his servants right

away and sent them to find out what it was. But as soon as the servants reached the grove,

the fire disappeared. It was because they were not fated to receive the money. (Hugons of

Deļļi in Liezere. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0610.htm)

Coal for a Boy

Not far from the house of Liezere’s Svelmes, there is said to be money hidden in

the pastures. One time, the night horse-watcher went to those pastures. They had

forgotten to take fire along. There was a young boy with them, a son of a very poor

father. When they had tied the horses, they noticed a small fire burning in the distance.

As they did not want to go get the fire themselves, they sent the boy after it. He went as

told.

He walked up to the fire and saw two men sitting by it. The boy asked for a

couple of pieces of coal to use for kindling. The men gave willingly and even poured the

corner of the boy’s coat full of burning coal. The boy, having understood what had

84
Liezere is a place in Western part of Latvia.
85
Svelme. The word svelme means heat or swelter.
 336

happened, did not go back to the horse-watcher but went to his father. When he got there,

the coal had turned into pieces of gold. (Hugons in Liezere.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0619.htm)

Money and a Shepherd Girl

A shepherd girl was watching cattle by the Ķeša86 field on a late autumn evening.

Then suddenly, she noticed a small blue light on the edge of Ķeša. The girl got scared

and ran home with all the cattle. There she told an old hag what had happened, and she

understood immediately that money had appeared to the girl. She then told the girl that if

the money appeared again, a thing should be thrown over it; if nothing else is there—a

shoe (pastala87). As thick is the thing thrown over, as deep one will need to dig for the

money.

The next day, when the girl was watching the cattle, she saw money appear again

burning with a blue flame. The shepherd girl quickly grabbed her shoe and was making

ready to throw it to the fire when suddenly, right next to the fire, a big black buck shot up

out of the ground. Looking at the girl, it laughed terribly. She almost fainted in fear and

forgot to through the shoe onto the fire. With a big thundering bang, the money

disappeared into the ground together with the black buck. (Vilis of Runtuļi in Vilce,

Kurzeme. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0613.htm)

86
Ķeša is a synonym for kabata (pocket).
87
Pastala is simple footwear made of cow hide and strung onto the foot by thin

strips of the same material.

 337

A Slap and a Golden Coin

This had happened in Ance88 (on the way from the Zvinguļi89 river to Trumpe).90

A man was walking home late at night and noticed a fire on the side of the road. Three

men stood there stirring it. He walked up and took one coal to light his pipe. But one of

those stirring the fire slapped his face; it burned. When the man came home, his cheek

was blue and swollen; also the finger marks of the hitter were still visible. But the coal on

the pipe had turned into a golden coin. The man fell ill right then and died in three days.

(K. Bankers of Cepeļleja in Dundaga.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0614.htm)

Money in the Corner of the Coat

A night horse-watcher saw a black man raking coal. He asked to let him light a

smoke. The black one said: “Hold the corner of your coat; I will pour some for you!” He

held it as told. The stranger poured in a whole handful. The night-watcher went to his

sleeping place and looked: there was golden money in the corner of his coat and in his

pipe. He looked back: there was no fire, no stranger any longer. (K. Bankers of Cepeļleja

in Dundaga. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0618.htm)

A Money-Fire and the Farmer’s Mother

On a Saturday night women were returning from the bathhouse. The old mother

of the farmer suddenly shouted: “See there, the money is perching!” The old mother

grabbed a besom from the entrance of the bathhouse and ran. She began to whip the

88
Ance is a village in North-Western part of Latvia.
89
Zvinguļi. The word zvinguļi shares the root with žvingulis (drunkenness).
90
Trumpe is a river in Latvia.The word trumpe share the root with trumpis (ace).
 338

money-fire furiously. On the next morning the ground there was full of silver money. (H.

Skujiņa in Bilska region. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0625.htm)

Come, Tend the Fire

A man was walking to the house of Šēnberga on a late autumn night. Having gone

to the Silezers91 lake, he saw a small fire burning on the hill. He thought those were

gypsies burning it. In curiosity, he began to walk there. His hands were a bit cold and he

thought to warm them up. He walked and walked, but the fire appeared someplace farther

in the grove. Suddenly, the man heard someone calling: “Come, tend the fire; come, tend

the fire!” The man thought that somebody had gotten lost and was calling for help. He

hurried there. He had wanted to break a branch to add to the fire. He tried to break it but

could not. Then he noticed that he was sinking, like in water. He began to look—yes. He

grabbed a branch of a fir tree, but the legs were already up to his shins in water. The man

then came to his senses that something was not right and crawled out. It had been money

perching there. Sometimes it tricks people into lakes. (A. Šķēre in Šēnberga.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0631.htm)

The Goat’s Fire

A man noticed that there was a place where a fire was always burning during the

night. One time he went to look at what kind of fire it was. There was a black goat with

big horns standing next to the fire. The man thought he would wait for the owner of the

fire to light a smoke, but the goat began to butt him right then and it did not let him take

the fire. Without meeting anyone, the man went home. The fire was again burning on the

same spot later. And so he went to see it again one night. There was nobody else by the

91
Silezers. The word silezers is derived from sils (pine forest) and ezers (lake).
 339

fire but the same goat. As soon as he tried to take the fire, the goat butted him. The man

began to suspect money being parched. One night he took a spade and went to the fire.

The man waited for a rooster to crow. Just around that time, the man pushed the spade

into the coal and as soon as the rooster began to crow, he threw the coals out. The fire

stopped right that moment and the thrown coals had turned into gold. (A. Vaskis in

Tukums. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0639.htm)

The Hag’s Fire

This happened to me one time. It must have been some thirty years ago; I was

over forty then. I was walking from the Loberģi92 inn on an autumn night; I was

completely smashed.

It was a dark autumn night, the rain was drizzling. I was walking through

Dampurs.93 I stopped by a fir tree next to the swamp, put some tobacco in my pipe, and

wanted to light it. Fumbled through my pockets but found no matches. “Oh,” thought I, “I

must have forgotten them at the inn.” I was real high. Walked into the swamp a bit and

saw: a fire burning! That’s great; I’d light up the pipe there. Walked up, surprised—the

fire burning. An old hag sits by the fire wrapped in a gray blanket. I greeted her good

evening and asked: “Why are you, dear old mother, sitting here lost in the rain?” But she

did not say a word. “Aren’t you an old tease? Making fire in the rain; mute as a fish!” But

the old hag said nothing; mute as mute. I went to the fire, took a coal and put it on the

pipe. But the hag sits there staring into the fire without even a blink. I thwacked the hag

92
Loberģi is a place in Eastern part of Latvia.
93
Dampurs is the name of a swampy are in the Eastern part of Latvia. The word

dampurs is derived from “dam” plus the word purvs (swamp).

 340

in her chest; she fell over on her back. I kicked the fire and then got ready to disappear

from there. I had not made even a few steps before the pipe went out. Thought to myself:

I’ve got to go back. Took the pipe form my mouth and was surprised. On the pipe there

was an old Swedish coin. Went back to the fire. No sign of the hag or the fire! But the

ground covered with those same coins. (H. Skujiņa in Smiltenes parish.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0646.htm)

Fire in the Lake

The master of the Svelme94 house found a pot of money on the banks of the river

Ogre95 and brought it home. But once the pot got home, it was as if an evil spirit had

come into the house. Things did not go well any more. Everything began to fall apart.

The master of Svelme saw it was bad and took the pot and brought it to the blacksmith

Juris who lived in the Tenteni smithy. But he had the same fate. Every day he had to

squabble with his wife and he had all kinds of troubles. Finally he went to the Tulki96

lake and threw the pot in it. The smith had peace at home, but the master of Svelme went

broke. Since that time, no matter who came to live in the house, nobody could live there

long. Sometime later a man happened to pass the lake and saw a big fire in the middle of

the lake (it had happened right at lunch time). The man looked in surprise not able to

94
Svelme in Latvian means heat or swelter.
95
Ogre is the name of a river in Latvian. The name of the river does not have the

same meaning as the English word “ogre.” It may be imagined that the word “ogre” has

similarities with “ogle,” which means coal.

96
Tulki—the word “tulki” is plural of “tulks” that in Latvian means a “translator.”
 341

understand a thing, and then suddenly the fire went out. (O. Biteniece from the 69-year-

old J. Šmits in Ogresgals. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0649.htm)

Ghosts

Ghosts in the legends below are the souls of departed ancestors or they are some

other underworld beings. In these legends, the ghosts appear to grant or to take away

money that would make a human rich or poor. The encounters with the ghosts happen in

cemeteries, forests, and also in barns, and homes of people. These encounters are not

always filled with fear, but they always require taking courage to turn the meeting into

riches for the human who has faced the underworld being.

The Latvian name for ghost is velis (singular) or veļi (plural). The departed souls

or veļi are believed to take veļu laiva (ghosts’ boat) to the other world—the world beyond

the sun—veļu valstība (ghosts’ domain or kingdom). In that word, Veļu Māte (the

Mother of the Ghosts) looks after them, cares for the souls. There is a special time of the

year when ghosts come to visit the living. It is called veļu laiks (ghosts’ time) and it is

believed to be in October. During this month, people are visited by their deceased

ancestors. To receive them, people perform dedicated rituals called veļu kults (ghosts’

cult or worship).

The word velis (ghost) seems to have resemblance with the verb velēt (to wash)

and the adjective vēls (late). The departure of a person often takes place in his or her late

age and, thus, explains the linkages between these words. The closeness with the word

velēt (wash) can be linked to the ritual of washing the deceased before they are placed

into their new home (coffin) that carries them into the underworld.
 342

A Money Maiden

In the garden of Maz-braņķi97 of Naudite,98 one of the current master’s ancestors

had buried his money. Once, when a poor man was passing there coming from work, a

beautiful maiden stood in front of him, asking to be touched. He touched her. The maiden

then fell to pieces jingling. “Thank you. I am redeemed!” The poor man found a heap of

shiny coins on the road. (Naudišnieks of Naudīšnieki, 1889.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0502.htm)

The Greedy Maiden

A noblewoman had a greedy daughter. She had put all her belongings and the

belongings of her father in a chest, and she would not step away from it. The mother was

asking her to go to church some Sundays, but the daughter did not listen. One Sunday,

when the mother came back and saw the daughter sitting by the chest, she shouted out in

anger: “Wish you drove into the ground with all your money!” As soon as she had uttered

those words, the daughter sunk into the ground together with her chest. After that,

nobody could live in the daughter’s room, because it was haunted. Seven years later, a

young man happened to come by and ask for a place to stay overnight. As other rooms in

the manor were occupied, he was told that only one room was free, but that it was

haunted by nights. The young man said that he was not afraid of ghosts. So he stayed

there for the night.

97
Maz-braņķi is derived from 2 words “mazs” meaning “small” and “braņķis”

meaning “ford.”
98
The name “Naudīte” is a derivative from “nauda” meaning “money.”
 343

He was ready to go to sleep when he heard a big noise and, after a short while, he

saw a maiden with a chest. The young man wanted to approach her and shake hands, but

she said: “Do not come, it will only be bad for you and me. Instead, go tomorrow and

bring the priest here to bless me, so I could get back to the living. Just do not forget that

the candles lit for the blessing are not to be blown out.” The young man promised it all

and the maiden disappeared then. The next day at the set time, the priest showed up. Soon

the maiden appeared with her chest and the priest blessed her. In a hurry, he forgot the

young man’s warning and blew out the blessing candles. Seeing that, the maiden shouted

in anger: “I am cross with you. I had already slept for seven years and now I will need to

sleep for the rest of the times.” With these words she sunk into the ground again together

with the chest. (P. Šmits from P. Zeltiņa in Ikšķile.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0505.htm)

The Money in the Barn

There was once a poor laborer. He sweated his guts out, but was poor as ever.

One evening, he was coming home from work; it was raining hard. Walking there, he saw

a threshing barn next to the road. He thought, let me go to the barn and wait there until

the rain stops. He walked up to the barn and stood there under the roof.

Suddenly, a man came out of the barn and began to usher him into the barn. The

laborer, thinking nothing bad, followed the man. (In the old days, people used to work in

the barns, and so, the laborer thought that the man was one of the barn workers.) They

both went into the barn; all silent and dark. The laborer got frightened, but nothing could

be done. He thought: what will be, will be. The man then took the worker to a corner of

the barn and told him to hoe the ground. He now got terrified, but he plucked up his
 344

courage, thought to himself—what is, is—and began to hoe. He dag and dag and finally

dag up a big pot of money. Then the laborer lifted it out of that bog. The stranger said to

him: “You can take this money home and it belongs to you. I had to guard it every night

and I could find no one to give it to. All were afraid and ran away as fast as they could.

And now, bring your money home and good night.” Saying that, he disappeared. The

laborer took the money pot on his shoulders, brought it home, and lived merrily and

happily with the found money to the end of his life. (A student A. Jurģis.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0506.htm)

Bones and Money

Late at night, a woman was nursing her child. Suddenly, she saw a big, black cat

coming at her. She shouted: “What are you crawling for in here?!” and kicked the cat.

The cat turned into money and fell to pieces onto the floor. At night, she had a dream in

which a man told her: “This money is earned honestly and you will be able to keep it.

Just go to the forest where there are my bones buried under to such and such treat. Burry

those in the cemetery; say a grace and you will be happy.” The woman did it all and

became rich after that. (P. Šmits from P. Zeltiņa in Ikšķile.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0508.htm)

The Wrongful Money

Since the old days, the Kalnmuiža99 house was praised to be rich. In those days,

the house was inside a deep forest. One day, the master of the house had found a big

black chest on a road in the forest. He secretly took it home. Not so long after that, a valet

99
Kalnmuiža may be translated as “Hillmanor.” The name is made up of two

words: kalns (hill) and muiža (manor).

 345

came to him, white as a corpse, asking: have you found such and such chest? It had fallen

out of his wagon. The master denied, saying he knew nothing. The valet was then

convicted of being a thief. But the wrongful money did not bring any blessing to the man

who had lied—one of the members of his family had to guard the chest, lying in bed sick

all the time. The chest was kept under the bed. If the weakling climbed out of the bed for

a short while and walked away, a black dog immediately showed up there on top of the

chest. (Anna Brigadiere in Kalnamuiža.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0511.htm)

The Ditch of Maiden

There is a small, not so deep glen overgrown with fir and leaf trees on the border

with the house of Vērmes100 in Bullēni101 of Medzūla102 parish. It was spring and the

plowman was tilling the earth when, suddenly, a beautiful maiden came up stepping

slowly from the ditch. She came very close up to the plowman and began to entice and

100
Vērmes is a word derived from vērmele, which in English is known as

mugwort, also called a felon herb, chrysanthemum weed, wild wormwood, old Uncle

Henry, sailor’s tobacco, naughty man, old man, and St. John’s plant. In Latin, its name is

artemisa vulgaris. The name describes the preference of the plant to grow in wild or

uncultivated places. Its Latin name artemisa vulgaris invites analogies with the Greek

goddess Artemis—the wild huntress who was the protectress of young girls and the

bringer of diseases as well as health to women. The word vērmes can also be a synonym

for the word sūkalas (whey).

101
Bullēni is a diminutive and a plural word derived from the word bullis (bull).
102
Medzūla is a place in the Eastern part of Latvia.
 346

tempt him. The plowman, being fearful and scared by old stories, not knowing what

trouble it might bring, did not dare to approach her. The maiden got as if angry. Slowly,

she sunk back into the ground, and the plowman only heard these words: “If you, boy,

had touched me even if with just the tip of your whip, you would have become a rich

man. I would have turned into a barrel of money.” Since that day the ditch is call the

Ditch of Maiden. ( J. Ķemeris of Mēdzūla in Liezere.

http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0706.htm)

Money—the Beautiful Maiden

A poor woman had to earn her living and leave her little girl home alone. Every

time, when the mother returned, the little girl told her that a beautiful maiden had come

and played with her. The mother gave the little girl a stick and told her to hit the maiden

with it. The little girl hit her and the maiden turned into a pile of money. (Jēkabs

Ozolnieku of Kalniņi in Līči. http://valoda.ailab.lv/folklora/pasakas/gr14/14F0710.htm)