Drums in Northern-Tradition Shamanism

This article starts with a controversy, which I will describe and then sidestep. In many of the Norse/Germanic reconstructionist religious sects, there is debate over whether the early- medieval Nordic folk ever used drums as part of their religious ceremonies. (It's part and parcel of the argument over whether their religion was shamanic in nature.) There are a few vague references to things that could be seen as drumming, but nothing definitively conclusive.

As I've said before, I accept the fact that the Nordic religion of the "lore-period", which was mostly Christianized at that point anyway, does not have enough remnants of shamanic practice to accurately call it a shamanic religion. However, at one point far back in the pre- written-records past, it was. Some of those traditions and beliefs lingered, disguised in the later practices which were more suited to a society that found itself to be less about tribe and clan and more about city-states and agricultural nations. There was also the ambient knowledge that if anyone wished to learn shamanic religion or technique, all one had to do was to ask their Saami neighbors, who (not infrequently, according to historical sources) intermarried with the Norse people. The Saami did have a tradition of shamanism and drumming, and do to this day among their noiade.

All that aside - and here's that sidestep that I warned you about - when I began my training in earnest, I was told that I needed to have drums. Not just one, but three. Two are currently in my possession; the other is still to be made, and I will update this article when it comes into existence. I am still very much a novice in this study, and having noncorporeal teachers doesn't make it any easier.

There seem to be three kinds of drums in the shamanic tradition I am being taught that are useful to the modern-day shaman. The first type is a Worldwalker. These are generally flat frame drums, and are used both for moving between worlds and for doing divination. Its energy is a combination of Fire and Air. The second type is a healing drum, for healing rituals, and it is cylindrical, made of fired clay like the earth, although wood is a secondarily acceptable medium. Its energy is a combination of Earth and Water. The third is a large drum carved out of a single log, probably stationary, with a whole animal skin as a top. It is used for public ceremonies, and for calling the Dead. Its energy is Earth and Air.

I've been told that there were other sorts of drums long ago, but I have not been introduced to their energy. One was be the hunting drum, which the shaman uses to call the herds and the prey animals close to human habitation, so that the tribe would not starve. Its energy was Earth and Fire. Another was a weather drum, which could be used for calling or turning storms, but the spirits that it was associated with were dangerous and capricious, and playing it sometimes invited disaster. Its energy was Air and Water. Yet another drum was played for sexual fertility rites by the community; its energy was Fire and Water. In this article, I'll share my experiences with finding and using my own drums, as I was instructed by the Gods and spirits who I am apprenticed to.

The first drum had to be a frame drum. Size didn't seem to be important, but it had to be round or oval, broad and shallow and flat. It also had to be a gift. Fortunately my wife took the initiative and bought me a Pakistani frame drum from a shop for my birthday. I sat with that blank white surface and drummed it, experimenting with different beats, until I got my next instruction. I was supposed to hang things all around it, things that jingled and rattled. I experimented with different jangles over the next several months, trying them out and seeing if they brought the spirit's approval. (Generally I get a yes or a no pretty quickly, like within minutes.)

I ended up drilling tiny holes all around the exterior of the drum, and I attached tambourine jingles from another, broken drum. Each of the jingles conveniently had a dangling ring attached, and from then I hung more things - metal cone bells, a jangly metal earring given to me by a friend, an anklet of Indian bells from another friend, rattly beads. My friend Tannin of Bones and Flowers, who specializes in magical items made of bone and animal parts, cleaned and dried the hooves from four of the goat kids that we slaughtered, and I drilled them out and hung them on the drum as rattles. When my buck goat Phil died, she cleaned three of his shinbones for me, and I drilled the tops and hung them on the inside. I found that with this modification, I could hang the drum from one hand and walk, swinging it rhythmically, and Phil's bones would beat it for me. I had the distinct feeling that there was a little of Phil left in them, and that he very much liked being able to kick the drumhead. I jokingly called it "the drum that beats herself".

I was finally told what was to go on her head. I drew the World Tree, with the Nine Worlds around it. I drew it looking from the top down, and in its branches I drew dozens of tiny figures which came to me while half in trance. I wasn't sure what these were for, although I had the strong feeling that they were more than symbolically useful. This decoration, and all the jangles and hooves and bones, made me feel like my drum was some sort of bizarre mutant, especially when compared to the drums I saw in the hands of others. Most of the people that I met at Pagan gatherings, drum-and-dance groups, and the occasional powwow had drums that were Native American or African in style, or they had Celtic bodhrans. These were generally plain and streamlined and elegant. If there were designs on the top, they were spare and simple, and didn't cover the whole drumhead in a jumble of lines. Jingles or rattly decoration was considered tacky. I had never seen anything like what I had been told to make, and it worried me a little, especially when I would take my mutant drum out at drum circles and people would raise their eyebrows.

Much later, I read some anthropology and stumbled across the drum of the Saami shamans, which is called a runebom. While it can come in many sizes and levels of decoration, it is a frame drum, often hung with metal jangles and rattly bits. The pictures I saw had drumheads completely cluttered with seemingly random symbols, including usually drawings of a World Tree and at least three levels of worlds. I immediately recognized my bastard child, and realized that I was far from the first person to create a drum like this. I read that the tiny symbols drawn on the top were for a form of divination - a ring or tiny personal object was placed on the drumhead, and the shaman would beat the drum from underneath and do a reading from where the ring lands. "You're supposed to do that," said the spirit-voices in my ear.

The spirit of the drum was very feminine - both of my drums have been like that - and I did a ritual to ask her name, and formally name her. She had two names, Yggdrasil Moonsong. Yggdrasil for her first job, which is to be used to walk between the worlds. Moonsong for her divinatory abilities. The jingles were Air, and her beat was Fire. Although I have a piece of stag antler for a beater, I tend to play her with my hand anyway.

My second drum had to be made of wood or clay, and preferably clay. It didn't necessarily have to be a frame drum, so I used a clay doumbek from Greece - not northern, but then Yggdrasil Moonsong had originally hailed from Pakistan, so I suppose we first-re-generation shamans have to do the best we can with what we can get. She was also very feminine, even more so than my first drum, and was painted blue-green. My assistant Joshua spent hours hanging strings of shells on her (mostly culled from trashpicked macrame plant-hangers) until she had a gentle, delicate rattle whenever I played her. She's a healing drum, to be used for trances whereby one moves through the body of the client. When the summer comes, I will dip her base into the ocean, fully awakening her and finding her name.

I am not going to describe how to use a drum for the purposes I mention here, because there is no way to describe it in writing. If you are apprenticed to the spirits, they'll help you out, but generally the best way to learn is just to make and awaken the drum, and then work with it. Each drum, when awakened, has a spirit. It's alive. It can teach you things, but you have to put in the time and the attention. Don't worry about how to do it. Just do it. Learn what rhythms put you into what kind of trance by working with these creatures.

It should go without saying that you should treat your drums with respect. That means not ever neglecting them - it is said that a drum left alone without attention for a year and a day goes to sleep again and must be reawakened. It means taking care of them, and making sure that if for whatever reason you decide to no longer work with a drum, you must ask the spirits to find someone to give it to, someone who will value and use it. These are very much like your children, and you should give it as much thought as you would in giving up a child for adoption, if you got to pick the parents.

While we're talking about drums, I have to bring up the sticky point of rattles. I was told by the spirits that I am apprenticed to - flat out - that rattles are not part of our tradition. It wasn't that I couldn't own or use one, but they would not come for one, nor have anything to do with it. No rattles. Is there something wrong with a rattle, I asked? After all, it seems to have been adopted as the beginning shamanic practitioner's tool of choice, although perhaps that's because they are cheaper and easier to use than drums. The answer seemed to be that there was nothing particularly wrong with them, but that they were simply not part of our tradition. Period. "You won't need one," I was assured.

So, all right, no rattles. I concentrated on learning my drum, inside and out. And then, one night when I was very tired - hours of drumming will do that to you - I ended up exhausted enough that all I could do was to lay on my bed and rest the edge of the drum on my belly and shake it...and I discovered why I didn't need any rattles. The runebom-style drum is, in itself, a rattle as well. When I made my second drum and discovered that I was supposed to hang rattling shells all around her, I wasn't surprised. In this tradition, the drums are multipurpose instruments, and the different soundmakers call different things. And for some reason, the spirits are picky about that.

Ideally, in the shamanic practice of our tradition, the shaman builds their own drum as part of a week-long retreat. A similar process is described as part of traditional Saami shamanism by Jaana Kouri in his presentation "The Other Side Of The Drum". I expect that it's possible that eventually I'll have to do this. Although it's acceptable to start out with an already-made drum, this is a good way for any would-be NT shamanic practitioners to start dealing with spirit drums, especially if they aren't sure what this drumming thing is all about. Sometimes going about things the long, hard, ritual way can help you to form a better understanding of what you're supposed to be doing.

1. The would-be drum-maker spends time in a piece of land, ideally one with whom s/he has a good relationship with the land-wight. In fact, I would suggest that this be the first order of business, because a cooperative land-wight can help you find the right tree. Saami folk make their drums out of pine, mostly due to its availability. Ash wood is good as well, as it recalls the World Tree, and oak will do, although it is harder to bend. The best wood was chosen from trees which are grown in a swamp beside a rock, with the caveat that there may not be any spruces nearby. Offerings are made to the spirit of the tree, who must be willing to sacrifice themselves. They should be sung to, and asked that their spirit will pass into the drum.

2. The tree is cut down, split, and the long narrow board that will be the drum's frame is sawed out of it along the heart. Each end should be cut with a bevel at least 2" long, facing in opposite directions so that when the board is bent in a circle, the two beveled ends will overlap and join perfectly together. The length of the board will determine the diameter of the frame; for an 18" or thereabouts frame you want at least five to six feet. Have the ideal measure ready beforehand. Smaller drum-makers might want a littler drum; there's no shame in that. As the tree is cut, a song is sung in praise of Earth, who gives us these resources. The board is placed in a stream, lake or pond overnight to soak. The drum-maker rests, meditates, and sings.

3. The next morning a fire is built, ideally a sacred fire (see chapter on Mastering Fire), and a large cauldron of water, preferably from a lake or river or stream, placed on it. A song is sung in praise of Fire. The rest of the tree is burned on the fire. The board is drawn from the water like a midwife draws a baby from the watery womb, and with the same attitude. A song of birth should be sung while it is drawn out, and a song in praise of Water.

4. Then the wet wood is laid across the cauldron - or if you can do it, several cauldrons - and steamed until it can be bent by the hands. The drum-maker has to keep moving it around so that all parts can catch the steam, removing it, bending it, and then putting it back to steam again. When it can be bent like a bow, a very long strap (about 12' long) with a buckle and holes along its whole length is placed down its length on the outer curve, and buckled where a bowstring would be. At this point, a song is sung for the Hunter. At any point in the steaming, a song can be sung in praise of Air. The four elements must be present and active for any birthing, including the drum, but Air is last, of course - it is the first breath drawn.

5. The drum-maker keeps steaming the wood and cranking down the strap. This should be done quickly - don't delay. Strike while the iron is hot; bend while the wood is wet. No part of it can be allowed to dry out. If any part looks as if it is drying out too fast, dunk it in the boiling water. Songs are sung to the fire to keep it going, and to the drum to keep it bending. This part of the ritual symbolizes how the shaman is cut, bent, submitting to their fate to become a tool of the spirits.

6. Another tree is found. It should be a live tree of any kind, but with special energy, preferably close to the fire-site, and exactly as big around as the interior of your drum. (It should probably be found and measured beforehand.) The strap is temporarily taken off, the board bent entirely around the living tree so that its two beveled ends meet, and the strap rewrapped again to hold it in place. More straps can be added if need be. This "mother tree" will be the mold for the new drum, which is left overnight to set.

7. When the frame is entirely dry - which may take an overnight our a couple of days, depending on the weather and humidity - it is removed form the mother tree, and the mother tree is thanked with an offering on her roots. Two small holes are drilled in the overlapping ends of the frame, and two small wooden pegs are hammered in. If necessary, wood epoxy can also be applied, if you're not sure that mere pegs will hold. When that is dry and firm, the frame is sanded.

8. A skin is found for the head. This can be deerskin, goatskin, or what-have-you, but ideally it is from an animal that you got to know while it was still alive, and saw killed. Some of the animal's blood should be saved to anoint the inside of the drum frame, giving it life. The skin should have been thoroughly scraped, stretched, and dried, and then it is soaked overnight, possibly in the water of the great cauldron. It is stretched over the frame while wet, trimmed so that it extends only to a couple of inches beyond where it wraps around the frame, and holes are punched in the edge. Rawhide is laced through the edges, lacing them to a metal ring about the size of a coaster, which should "float" in the center of the back of the drum. As the skin is put onto the frame, the meditation is of how we ourselves are a skin stretched over a frame, how we are drums for the Gods to make music and magic upon.

9. After much adjusting and retightening, the skin is allowed to dry. If it is too loose when dry, it is pulled off, soaked again, and retied tighter. The tightening is done to the four directions, East, South, West, North, asking for blessings from all these directions. When it is at its best tightness, and makes a good sound when struck, it can be nailed to the frame with tacks, or laced to the frame (which keeps it adjustable, but requires drilling a series of holes around the back edge of the frame).

10. Then the drum is awakened fully in a ritual which will vary depending on what its purpose is to be. Sometimes one might make a drum thinking of one purpose, and the drum that is made will actually end up being for a different one, so the spirit of the drum should be asked before it is forced into a job. The drum will give you its name, and then it is alive, and your responsibility. It should be blessed with the elements that are associated with its final purpose - healing drums are generally dipped in the ocean or a lake, and then laid at the roots of a tree; worldwalkers are waved around a fire, and so forth.

Raven Kaldera
cauldronfarm@hotmail.com

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