The Relational Life of Trees. Ontological Aspects of “Tree-Ness” in the Early Bronze Age of Northern Europe
https://doi.org/10.1515/opar-2018-0024Received April 24, 2018; accepted September 9, 2018
Abstract: During the Early Bronze Age in northern Europe, tree-like features appear in henges, burials, and rock art in ways that differ from earlier periods. Rather than investigating this phenomenon in symbolic or metaphorical terms, a concept of tree-ness is explored that focuses on the real constitution of trees and what trees actually do. It is suggested that the accentuation of tree-ness in Early Bronze Age ritual contexts can be related to an ontological shift in conjunction with emerging bronze technology in which different entities can merge or take advantage of each other’s generative properties.
Keywords: Bronze Age, trees, rock art, oak-coffin burial, henges
1 Introduction Trees comprise an essential resource for many societies in terms of practical affordances and as a metaphor in ritual and cosmological contexts (e.g. Buhl 1947; Rival, 1998; Schama, 1995; Ingold, 2000; Jones & Cloke, 2002; Brophy & Millican, 2015). Besides being a vital source of wood and timber, the structure of a tree, from its roots to the branches and leaves, tends to be “good to think with” (Bloch, 1998). Consequently, ethnographic accounts frequently report how trees are integrated into cosmology and myth, such as the “world tree” in which the whole world is understood through arboreal metaphors (Rival, 1998; Porteous, 2002; Hageneder, 2005). It is thus not surprising to find trees involved in ritual contexts in the past as well (Aldhouse-Green, 2000; Andrén, 2004; Skoglund, 2012a). One particularly interesting example concerns the Early Bronze Age in northern Europe when trees and tree-like features are accentuated in henges, burials, and in rock art. It is crucial here to distinguish between trees on the one hand and wood and timber on the other – they are not necessarily the same in an ontological sense. Wood in the form of timber and planks was employed in the construction of Neolithic henges, mounds, and long barrows long before the Bronze Age (e.g. Hodder & Shand, 1988; Eriksen & Andersen, 2017). In the Early Bronze Age, however, there is an emphasis on tree-ness (the real constitution of trees) rather than only using wood as a material.
Hitherto, trees in ritual contexts have mainly been understood as symbols and metaphors rather than as real, living entities with their own particular characteristics and agencies. In order to explore this dimension of tree-ness, an ontological approach is employed in which binary categories, such as culture—nature, living—dead, or human—non-human, are not as strictly separated (e.g. Alberti & Bray, 2009; Holbraad, 2010; Fahlander, 2017a). This is not merely a theoretical stance but involves a methodological procedure of working with the material from the ground up rather than from the top down (Fowler, 2013; see Fahlander,
Original Study
*Corresponding author: Fredrik Fahlander, Department of Archaeology and Classical Studies, Stockholm University, Lilla Frescativägen 7, SE-104 05 Stockholm, Sweden, E-mail: [email protected]
2008). In order to understand ontological difference and alterity, we need to focus on what there actually “is” and less on what we expect to find (Latour, 2016; Holbraad & Pedersen, 2017). Such an ontological perspective can open fertile spaces that help make the apparently queer or strange understandable (Holbraad, 2010; Salmond, 2014, p. 24). The accentuation of tree-ness in ritual contexts during the Early Bronze Age is an excellent example of a phenomenon that seems familiar at the same time as it is peculiar. A focus on the real constitution of trees and what trees actually do, allows us to examine another dimension of trees and tree-ness in these contexts that does not rely on symbolism alone. By relating the ways in which trees are interwoven with other contemporary developments, it is possible to reach a more elaborate view, not only of the ontological status of trees in the Early Bronze Age, but of the relations between humans and the non-human in general during a formative period in European prehistory.
2 The Animacy of Trees, Timber, and WoodIt is safe to assume that trees must have been of central importance for most societies in the past (Harding, 2000, p. 243, Cummings & Whittle, 2003). They offer plenty of affordances as a building material, fuel, shade, shelter, lookout points, and sources for fruits, nuts, and leaves, as well as inspiration for cosmology and myth (Rival, 1998; Wohlleben, 2016). Different types of wood from trees offer a multi-purpose material for making a wide array of tools, weapons, buildings, carriages, houses, boats, etc. Its capacity for combustion is vital for cooking, forging metal, and fuelling cremations etc. It is important, however, to properly differentiate between trees, timber, and wood. Unlike abiotic materials such as stone, the boundary between a tree (biotic entity) and its wood, branches, leaves etc. (biotic materials) is fluid. Unlike a killed animal, a cut-down tree is not immediately transformed into dead matter, but can under certain conditions continue some of its biological processes. This particular property seems to have affected the ways in which trees and wood are appropriated from an ontological point of view. For instance, Victor Turner (1968, p. 72ff) has discussed the production of certain wooden idols, which make use of the blood-resembling gum of the Mukula tree for ritual purposes (the idols still “bleed” the same gum). In this case, wood is not dissociated from a rooted tree in terms of being alive or not. The Mukula tree is worshipped both in its living form and as carved idols made from its wood; they are both seen as alternative forms of the Mukula tree. Also Marilyn Strathern has pointed out that a dugout canoe in Melanesian ontology can still be perceived as a living tree, a tree that enfolds the seafarers (1991, p. 65). These examples should not be seen as eclectic anthropological analogies, but serve to emphasize how real material agencies of trees, timber, and wood can be stressed in ontologies other than the western scientific one.
However, although there can be a fluid relation between trees and wood, we should not assume that any wooden object (or anything made out of branches, leaves, bark etc.) is ontologically the same as trees. The Bronze Age examples discussed in this text do not concern living trees, but rather constructions, features, and representations that emphasize tree-ness. What would be considered as tree-ness can range from a twig to a full-size representation, but to be meaningful, such a feature, object, or representation needs to include some aspect of, or allude to, the form of trees and/or its agential properties – its haecceity (see e.g. Morton, 2013, p. 26). The wooden idols in Turner’s example embody a certain tree-ness of the Mukula tree in the way that they still “bleed” the same blood red gum. They do the same thing as the living tree. The cases discussed here all comprise tree-like features which refer to the agential properties of trees – what they actually do. There is a grey zone here between what may be considered affordances of trees and what can be termed “material agency” (Jones & Boivin, 2010). Some may object to the use of the term agency for non-sentient entities such as trees and plants. However, what is discussed here are not conscious acts, but generative properties, that is, the ability to affect the world. Notwithstanding questions of terminology, trees do affect and respond to the animacy of the world in various ways. Suffice it to mention a few examples: In the long-term trees migrate and populate new areas or disappear from others. They all grow and develop over quite a long time (normally exceeding the human lifespan). In the short term, some trees shred and grow leaves (regenerate) according to the season. They also make sounds in the wind, consume water, float, and move rocks and stones about by their growing roots etc. Of course, trees also turn carbon dioxide into
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oxygen and convert light energy into chemical energy by photosynthesis. The list can be continued, but the main point here is how and in which ways their animacy (generative abilities) allow them to be active participants in particular social circumstances. Consider, for instance, Jones and Cloke’s (2002) study of the Victorian Arnos Vale cemetery where trees have actively intervened in shaping the atmosphere of the site, as well as accelerating the decay of the monuments by gradually moving blocks about (fig. 1). Trees were originally planted in Arnos Vale to impose order, but have by their own “transformative effects” over time altered the cemetery into the relative chaos which has given the place its special aura of “pastness” (Jones & Cloke, 2002, p. 152, 2008, p. 91f). Another example is provided by Adrian Franklin (2008) who shows how the Australian gum tree (eucalyptus) has been actively entangled in changing relations with humans and the environment over time. Because of its flammable properties, it poses a continuous problem for the rural settlements. Franklin points out that this situation had quite a significant impact on Australian social life (2008, p. 36). For instance, the spatial outline of the rural communities is planned with the danger of wildfires in mind. This involves a special outline of buildings and streets which most certainly have unintended effects on the way in which inhabitants interact. People also organize a civil defence against wildfires in the form of local community groups, which affects how community relations are formed and maintained. Intriguingly, Franklin can also show how the gum tree actually encourages a significantly higher percentage of arsonists in Australia. It may seem contradictory, but the emphasis on the constant danger of fires seems to spark an unhealthy interest in some individuals. Franklin concludes that the gum tree has played an active part in shaping modern Australian ideology and society in which nature and the social are “inextricably intertwined in a becoming” (2008, p. 41).
Although Jones and Cloke’s and Franklin’s examples are attractive, it is difficult to establish similar consequences and causal effects of trees in the past because of the lack of direct access to human-tree relations. Here is where the concept of “tree-ness” comes into play. There are not many instances in which we can trace the animacy of particular trees in the past, but it is possible to follow assemblages and situations where tree-ness is accentuated. In prehistoric assemblages, tree-ness may involve timbers still carrying bark or having branches or leaves attached. Timber can also be “planted” in watery sediments as if they would “drink” as living trees do (compare with Christmas trees). Most wooden constructions such as palisades or building-posts of houses do not necessarily retain such a relation to living and active trees. The distinction can never comprise a straightforward question but needs to be considered on a case-to-case
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basis. In the following, I will discuss a few examples of tree-ness that can be found in Early Bronze Age henges, burials, and rock art in northern Europe.
2.1 Tree-Ness in Early Bronze Age Henges
A prominent example of accentuated tree-ness is found in the feature of “Seahenge” (Holme I) in Norfolk on the British east coast (Pryor, 2002; Brennand & Taylor, 2003; Watson, 2005). It consists of a slightly oval (approx. 6×7 m) wooden palisade of 65 split poles enclosing a partly buried upturned tree (fig. 2). It is established by dendrochronology that both the tree and the planks were cut down in the spring of 2049 BC. Speculations concerning the meaning and purpose of this construction follow the traditional archaeological tropes. Seahenge has been interpreted as an “excarnation platform” or a “mortuary table” which is thought to have “carried the soul of the departed down to a netherworld of the ancestors, transferring life from this world to a below-ground universe” (Hooke, 2014, p. 228; Pryor, 2002, p. 271). In general terms, Seahenge has been associated with ideas of the world tree and Freudian-inspired theories of fertility rites. It has also been associated with accounts in Hindu Veda texts and in Sami tradition, where an upturned tree can work as a link between our world and the underworld (Bradley, 2000; Hooke, 2014, p. 228). Analogies like these are at best inspirational, but can also limit the way we think about the past and undermine the possibilities of understanding anything new and surprising (Taylor, 2003, p. 37).
Figure 2. Seahenge at Holme-next-the-Sea, Norfolk, England. Photo: Mark Brennand, Norfolk Archaeological Unit/English Heritage, used with permission.
The only artefacts associated with Seahenge are a couple of deposited bronze axes, a few potsherds, some fire-cracked stones, but none of those are contemporary with the wooden construction (Brennand & Taylor, 2003, p. 8). Even though there are no contemporary artefacts found at the site, there are nonetheless interesting details of the construction itself that may prove informative. Most discussions have focused on the upturned tree while the circle of posts tends to be comprehended as merely an enclosing feature. It might, however, be fruitful to consider the whole construction as one composite feature. It is of some importance that all the parts were felled at the same time. It was thus never the case that the upturned tree was encircled at a later point of time or vice versa (Brennand & Taylor, 2003, p. 32). It is also interesting that the encircling split poles are heterogeneous, far from straight and full of knots, and they still carried their
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bark on the side that faced outwards (Brennand & Taylor, 2003, p. 16). It is difficult to establish the original height of the palisade, but judging from the age of the oaks it would not have been higher than about 2–3 m (Brennand & Taylor, 2003, p. 62, 66). What Seahenge may represent is thus not necessarily an enclosure around an upturned tree, but the whole construction of tightly fitted planks with bark may in fact have looked like a huge tree stump, or perhaps even a living tree if small branches with leaves were also still attached (see Watson, 2005, p. 77; Roberts et al., 2016, p. 252). As such, it would not be just any tree, but a tree one could walk into. The remaining bark may not only be left for appearance. It should have been well known that trees depend on the bark to survive, although its particular function of transporting nutrients between the branches and the root, may not have been evident. By letting the poles keep their bark, Seahenge may thus not only appeared as a tree, but it also has “worked” as one. It is thus significant that Seahenge was not originally built by the sea, but well behind a coastal barrier. The groundwater table was nonetheless quite high, and the posts were actually placed in water-filled pits and ditches – which is also a reason for their preservation (Brennand & Taylor, 2003, p. 61, 64). This instance, which also distinguishes Seahenge from other henges, could be interpreted as this particular “tree” was “planted” in water in order to prolong the remaining biotic processes of the cut wood (i.e. its tree-ness).
The second similar timber circle (Holme II) located about 100 metres east of Holme I displays a slightly different facet of tree-ness (Roberts et al., 2016). It was erected the same year as Holme I, but is twice the size (approx. 13 m in diameter). It is not as well-preserved; the outer timber circle only consists of a few planks, which makes it hard to interpret its original appearance and level of tree-ness. The timber of the outer palisade was partly debarked but does nonetheless show a similar preoccupation with tree-ness as Holme I. The palisade of Holme II does not encircle an upturned tree, but a fenced pit containing two oak logs laid flat with the bark left intact (Brennand & Taylor, 2003, p. 10; Roberts et al., 2016, p. 235, 242). Just as in the case of Holme I there are no additional contemporary artefacts found at Holme II. Even though Holme II does not include anything as evocative as an upturned tree, the fenced logs are no less interesting. It is assumed that Home II is a burial monument, partly based on traces of smaller posts around the logs that is suggested to have supported something on which a body “might” have been placed (Brennand & Taylor, 2003, p. 12; Roberts et al., 2016, p. 248). Be that as it may, the two logs are the actual focus of the monument in a similar way to the upturned tree in Holme I.
2.2 Tree-Ness in Bronze Age Barrows
The henges of Holme I and II tend to be discussed in terms of a queer incident of preservation, but a similar emphasis on tree-ness is also found in other contemporary contexts. Many of the oak coffins in the Early Bronze Age barrows also allude to living trees in similar ways. In Britain, oak coffin burials begin to appear around the same time as the construction of Holme I and II in the late third millennium (Parker-Pearson, Sheridan, & Needham, 2013, p. 40). The hollowed out oak logs in these barrows are traditionally seen as practical containers for the dead (but see Brophy & Millican, 2015). There are, however, a few aspects of this burial tradition that relate them to the henges in terms of tree-ness. To begin with, there is a general analogous relation between the fenced logs of Holme II and log-coffins in the burial mounds. Some of the hollowed oak coffins are also found with the bark still attached as well as other features which accentuate tree-ness. One example is the Gristhorpe burial (c. 2100 BC), in which a man was buried in a hollow-out log with the bark still left and with two oak branches placed on top (Melton et al., 2010, p. 810). A few centuries later, when oak-coffin burial is introduced in southern Scandinavia, there are similar cases that accentuate tree-ness. For example, at least ten of the about thirty preserved oak coffins in Denmark have bark intact (Muldbjerg, Storehøj, Guldhøj, Store Kongehøj, Nybøl, Terkelshøj, Lille Dragshøj, Sortehøj, Nordhøj, and Ølby) (Boye, 1896, p. 31, 8, 72, 82, 107, 113, 114; see also Christensen, 2006). The Danish oak-coffin barrows were mainly excavated during the 19th century, often by farmers or handy-men, and much information about the logs was either lost or not deemed significant. Wilhelm Boye did, however, carefully note if the coffins were debarked or not in his seminal survey of the south Scandinavian Bronze Age mounds (1896). The barrows of Muldbjerg (c. 1365 BC), Guldhøj (c. 1389 BC), and Store Kongehøj (c. 1385 BC), are especially interesting in this respect. In these cases, the oak coffins that contained the dead had been covered by
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a second layer of rough cut tree-like trunk-wrapping with the bark left on the outside. The coffin in the Muldbjerg barrow was enclosed by a more than half of a large oak trunk (fig. 3), while the oak coffins of Guldhøj and Store Kongehøj are fully enveloped by raw cut and crooked oak trunk halves full of knots – essentially a tree cut in half and hollowed out (fig. 4). The extra wrappings do not fulfil any apparent function in the mound, besides adding a certain tree-ness to the burials.
Figure 3. The Muldbjerg burial in which a de-barked oak coffin was covered by a half-hollowed tree trunk with the bark still left on the outside. Drawing by: A.P. Madsen (modified after Boye, 1896, Pl. III, and Glob, 1970, pp. 58–61).
A B
Figure 4. Two examples of oak coffin burials enclosed within additional trunks with bark and knots (A) Guldhøj, Denmark, (B) Store Kongshøj, Denmark. Drawings by: A.P. Madsen (modified after Boye, 1896, Pl. XIII and XVI).
It is also significant that the Early Bronze Age oak coffin barrows are waterlogged. In several of the excavated mounds, water was reported to splash out when the inner core was reached. In Flodhøi, for instance, the locals reported to have heard “clucking sounds” from within the mound, and when opened, water flushed out (Boye, 1896, p. 21). Previously, the waterlogging and preservation of the contents in the Danish Bronze Age barrows was assumed to be due to incidental natural processes, but is now reconsidered as deliberate
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practice. An experiment conducted to re-create the special environment of the Bronze Age mounds showed that adding water during the construction process is essential to produce the right conditions (Breuning-Madsen, Holst, & Rasmussen, 2001; Habekost-Nielsen, Engesgaard, & Breuning-Madsen, 2015). There can be several reasons why water was included in the mounds. It could be an attempt to preserve the body and the interments by creating an encapsulating iron pan inside the mound. Others have suggested that the oak coffins resemble hollowed-out log boats and thus represent symbolic “death-ships” appropriately placed in water (Parker-Pearson, Sheridan & Needham, 2013, p. 47). The latter option does, however, not fit well with either the blunt shape of the logs, nor with their dual construction (consisting of two halves) as well as the sometimes extra logs covering the coffin. Most oak logs are also well positioned into a stone packing (as visible in fig. 3). A third alternative for adding water to the mounds is related to the tree-ness of the oak logs and their wrappings. The main point in this scenario would be, as in the case of Holme I and II, to sustain the tree-ness of the logs inside the mound.
But why would it be meaningful to place corpses in water-logged oak logs? Anthony Harding (2000, p. 109) has discussed burial in a tree-trunks in terms of placing the corpse “inside a tree”. He associates this “to the source of life, a re-enclosing within the womb from which all humans sprang”. Indeed, the emphasized tree-ness in the cases discussed here evoke Strathern’s example of the log boat as a living tree, encapsulating the paddlers. Such an interpretation is partly sustained by the apparent attempts to emphasise the tree-ness of the coffins. Even though the oak logs are not real trees, their tree-ness might have been deemed sufficient to transfer their agencies to the dead individual (or vice versa). One thing real trees “do” with water is to “drink” to survive and regenerate, keep the leaves green, and continue to grow nuts and fruit. A reason to place corpses in waterlogged oak logs is thus to exploit the long life or annual regeneration processes of oaks in order to sustain or help the dead in the afterlife. This suggestion, based on the tree-ness of the logs, do not exclude symbolic connotations, but underscores the ontological dimension of the relations between the human and the non-human and in particular between humans and biotic entities such as trees.
2.3 Representations of Tree-Ness in Bronze Age Rock Art
In this context is it not surprising to find representations of trees in Bronze Age rock art. The production of rock art in Northern Europe began already in the Mesolithic, but it was during the Early Bronze Age a particular southern tradition emerged in southern Scandinavia. The most common motif of the Bronze Age figurative rock art is the boat in different shapes and forms. Other figurative motifs are relatively few in comparison and are traditionally interpreted as sun-wheels, foot-soles, weapons, anthropomorphs, and different kinds of zoomorphs (Goldhahn & Ling, 2013). It is thus interesting that Bronze Age rock art also comprise quite a few representations of trees (Fredell, 2003, p. 46; Skoglund, 2012a, 2012b, pp. 10-25). Because of the formalised and limited figurative repertoire, the mere existence of tree motifs are significant and a strong indication of their special status in the Bronze Age. Tree-motifs occur at all significant figurative rock art sites in Sweden: Uppland, Norrköping, and Bohuslän (e.g. Kjellén & Hyenstrand, 1977, p. 41; Hauptman-Wahlgren, 2002, p. 57; Fredell, 2003, p. 46; Broström & Ihrestam, 2013), in Hordaland and Østfold in Norway (Mandt, 1986, p. 118; Coles, 2005, p. 221), and in Denmark on the portable carved rock from Bjergagergård (Glob, 1970, p. 125f). On a few panels, the trees appear as independent motifs (fig. 4a), but are most commonly found fused with, or related to, other figures. Tree motifs can be placed right above boats, which also is a common way to position images of bronze utensils such as axes, daggers, etc. (Skoglund, 2016, p. 40). In some instances, the motifs are merged with each other in which the trees seem to “grow” out of the boats (fig. 5b & 5c). These constellations of trees and boat motifs have been interpreted as ways to represent transportation of trees (or perhaps migration). One of the tree figures on the Lökeberg panel (5b) looks very much like a spruce, a species that was rare in southern Scandinavia during the Bronze Age. If the identification of species is correct, it is thus not just any tree, but a special, perhaps even exotic one. However, the tree-boat relation could also stress the tree-ness of the wooden boat, echoing Strathern’s example of the tree still living as a boat and thus linking building and use of wood (culture) with trees (nature). In relation to the previous discussion concerning the dead as encapsulated or merged with trees in
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Bronze Age barrows, a particular motif from Litslena parish in S-W Uppland, Sweden stand out as especially interesting (fig. 5d). On this panel, an anthropomorphic entity with tree-like extensions instead of a head seems to be standing on a boat. A similar tree-human hybrid can also be seen on a contemporary German bronze plate carving (Fredell, 2003, p. 241).
Figure 5. A variety of tree motifs on rock art in South Scandinavia. Top left (a): individual tree motifs from Borg, Östergöt-land (modified from Broström and Ihrestam 2013). Top right (b): two trees (one a possible spruce) from the Lökeberg panel, Bohuslän (modified from Holmberg, 1848, p.134). Bottom left (c): Trees growing out of a boat? From Himmelstalund, Östergöt-land (modified from Nordén, 1926, p. 261). Bottom right (d): A hybrid tree-anthropomorph on a boat (modified from original documentation by E. Kjellén, Museum of Enköping).
No matter how evocative the rock art may seem, we need to be careful not to take the imagery at face value. A common suggestion is that what we see on the rock panels are ritualized representations of the experience of a situation, myth, or cosmology (Skoglund, 2012a, p. 286; Goldhahn & Ling, 2013). Be that as it may, a petroglyph resembling the outline a tree is not merely a picture of a tree. The high level of repetition of a limited number of motifs produced only in certain coastal areas suggests that the images are not only representations, but rather magical contraptions produced with the aim of affecting the world (Fahlander, 2018; see Gell 2008, p. 9). From such a perspective, the tree-like petroglyphs on the rocks are contraptions to evoke and accentuate tree-ness in the rocks as a way of channelling some of their animacy into action. The manner in which representations of trees in rock art relate to other motifs on the panels can prove informative. Especially the human-tree hybrid is interesting in the way it resonates with the burials in hollowed-out logs where dead bodies become “merged” with trees. In relation to the previously mentioned henges and burials, it is also significant that Bronze Age rock art is generally produced in close relation to water. Some are situated at parts of the rock that is continuously sprinkled with water while others are cut close to the water’s edge, and are thus regularly splashed with water from waves (Ling, 2008; Fahlander, 2017b). If the rock art figures are meant to be activated by water or if they are produced to affect certain bodies of water is an open question, but the close relation between rock art and water is nonetheless evident.
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3 Discussion: The Ritual Life of Trees in the Early Bronze AgeAlthough the cases discussed here to some extent comprise disparate instances, they all represent examples of how trees and tree-ness appear accentuated in several Early Bronze Age ritual contexts. Of course, Stone Age wooden monuments may also have had both bark and twigs attached that have not survived the passing of time. There are, however, no such examples in Noble’s recent survey of Stone Age wooden constructions (2017). He suggests that the Haddenham long barrow with its wooden chamber retains some tree-like aspects. Because the chamber is largely derived from a single massive oak tree, he suggests, inspired by Seahenge, that “entering this space would have involved entering a tree” (2017, p. 158, 176). However, although Haddenham is an impressive wooden construction, it does not articulate tree-ness in the ways discussed here. Unlike Neolithic timber constructions, Holme I and II stand out in the way that tree-ness, not the enclosing aspect, is the main focus of the monument. Furthermore, Seahenge is apparently not only made to look like a tree, but also “functioned” as a living one because it was planted in water and had the bark left on the poles. The oak-coffin burials also emphasize tree-ness in the way the coffins and additional covers of split tree-trunks had their bark intact and were placed in watery sediments inside the mounds. Of course, the waterlogging is the main reason why the wood is preserved in these cases. It is therefore important that representations of trees, as well as human-tree hybrids, in the contemporary rock art, are equally situated in close relation to water (see also Yates & Bradley, 2010 on Bronze Age depositions in water).
A question that inevitably arises is why tree-ness is accentuated in these contexts during this period. A traditional interpretation would perhaps argue for a “tree cult” in analogy with historical and ethnographical cases (e.g. Buhl, 1947; Turner, 1968; Hooke, 2014). Whether such a cult would refer to ancestor veneration, fertility, or death depends on which aspects (and analogies) one wishes to stress. However, from an ontological perspective, the rock art hybrids, the similar practices devoted to the logs of Holme II, and human burials in hollowed-out logs, also indicate a less dichotomized relation between nature and culture in general and humans and trees in particular. A more interesting question would thus be to ask why such emphasis on human-tree relations came about in the first place. There are seldom singular aspects behind such processes; any alteration in ontology is rather an effect of both intended and unintended consequences in the way in which relations are articulated through a range of different practices (e.g. the building of houses and boats, the disposal of the dead etc.). The trees themselves probably didn’t “do” anything differently than they had before, but for some reason, tree-ness and human-tree relations apparently found new roles at the beginning of the Bronze Age.
3.1 Relational Ontology, Animacy, and Vitalist Technologies
One reason to engage with tree-ness in ritual contexts is to harvest, explore or influence the animacy of trees, what they do, and exploit their generative properties for other means. Such practices need not be about attributing sentient powers to other-than-humans, but rather about how they respond and act towards the movements and rhythms of the world (Jones, 2012; Porr & Bell, 2012, p. 187). The point is thus not to argue that Bronze Age people were particularly animist nor that they could not separate abiotic things such as stones from biotic trees and humans, but that some entities, such as trees, in certain circumstances can appear as perceptive and responsive. If inert matter performs as if it is animated, it is not far-fetched to assume that it also can be manipulated and even controlled, for instance by ritual practices such as building tree-like henges or cutting representations of trees on the rocks. This type of engagement with the world need not rely on symbols or supernatural powers but is perhaps better defined as a type of “vitalist technology” that harvest or exploit the animacy of the world (see Gell, 1998; Jones, 2012; Fahlander, 2018, p. 150ff).
In the case of Holme I and II, we have little means to understand the purpose or how the monuments were used due to the lack of additional material evidence. From the perspective of a vitalist technology, however, the upturned tree can be comprehended as an attempt to “reverse” the power of trees in order to either stop or aid a failing process. The wood of Holme I is rather crooked and bent (Pryor, 2003, p.256),
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which is a typical indication that the trees grew solitary rather than in a dense forest (see Back-Danielsson, 2007, p. 221). This is one indication that oaks became scarce already in the Early Bronze Age (see Harding, 2000, p. 108). In south Scandinavia, there are also indications of rapid deforestation during the Early Bronze Age (Kähler Holst et al., 2013). The emphasis on tree-ness in these contexts may thus have been part of a magical technology to reverse that process.
The hybrid human-tree relation found in iconology and in burials may in a similar way seek to combine the animacy of one entity to the other or to merge humans and trees into an altogether new type of entity. Such a hybrid ontology is inherent in the contemporary bronze production. The making of bronze is not an independent technology added to society, but rather a set of practices deeply integrated into the social and the natural that had substantial cosmological, ideological, and ontological consequences (e.g. Goldhahn & Østigård, 2007; Engedal, 2009; Kuijpers, 2012). Instead of viewing bronze-making only as technical practice, it can be understood as a transgressive process in which different substances merge into something new and different (both fluid and solid). Engedal, inspired by Gell (1992), has discussed the ontological aspects of the process in terms of a “technology of enchantment” (Engedal, 2009, p. 38). From an ontological perspective, the transformative process in which tin and copper merge into another substance with the aid of fire may thus not be much different from merging humans and trees with the aid of water. The emphasis of the hybrid and agential aspects of trees in ritual contexts need not be a direct consequence of the new metal, but indicate a similar relational ontology of reconciliation and relating different substances and entities.
It is striking that bronze technology and the emphasis of tree-ness in ritual contexts emerges simultaneously in northern Europe. Bronze was produced in the British Isles from around 2150 BC (contemporary with Holme I and II), but only several hundred years later in Scandinavia. The same “delay” also applies to the emphasized articulation of trees in burials and rock art. In Britain, Holme I and II and the practice of burial in hollowed-out logs coincide with the emergence of bronze in the late third millennium while the Scandinavian log burial, and rock art appear similarly slightly after bronze has become frequent also in this region.
The ontological aspects of the bronze-making process may also affect human-tree relations in a more esoteric manner. For example, the new bronze tools have the ability to temporarily transform humans into human-bronze “hybrids” (see Latour, 2000, p. 176ff). A prime example in this case would be the Early Bronze Age flanged bronze axe, which significantly streamlined the cutting of trees and woodworking in general (Coles, 1979, p. 168). Indeed, it has been established that the palisades of Holme I and II were made from trees felled with such bronze axes (Watson, 2005, p. 63, Brennand & Taylor, 2003, p. 30). This kind of hybrid relations need not be fully conscious, but a secondary effect of how new materialities alter the relations between, for example, humans and trees similarly to the relational effects described in Franklin’s case of the eucalyptus in Australia. Such processes are probably much more intricate and complex than what can be outlined here, but the ontological perspective on animacy, hybridization, and the agentive properties of non-human entities can indeed “open fertile spaces” to make sense of apparently strange phenomenon such as the emphasis on tree-ness in the Early Bronze Age.
4 SummaryDuring the Early Bronze Age in northern Europe, tree-ness become articulated in henges, burials, and rock art in ways that differ from earlier periods. The wooden trunks and palisade of Holme I and II and the oak logs in Bronze Age burials all encompass a certain degree of tree-ness. The bark which is necessary to keep trees alive was left on the poles and trunks which also were endorsed with constant access to water. The emphasis of tree-ness is thus not primarily understood in symbolic terms or through arboreal metaphors, but on the real properties and agencies of trees. The manner in which dead bodies are placed inside “trees” in the form of hollowed-out logs is echoed in representations of human-tree hybrids in the contemporary rock art. This suggests an ontology in which distinct categories of nature and culture do not fully apply. From such a perspective, it can be argued that that humans and biotic entities such as trees were not considered ontologically distinct, but could form hybrids or draw on each other’s animacies.
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Intriguingly, this emphasis on tree-ness runs in concordance with the emergent bronze technology, which carries similar ontological facets. One example is the “transgressive” aspect of bronze making, whereby different materials such as copper and tin (including wood or bark) are transformed by fire into new substances. To place dead humans inside waterlogged “trees” to form a new entity thus corresponds to a similar kind of ontology. The accentuated interest in tree-ness in ritual contexts during this period should not, however, be understood as a direct cause of the new metal technology. From a relational point of view, a change in any part of the assemblage often has indirect and unforeseen consequences for all the actants involved. Trees are thus neither symbols nor representations of bronze; but they are, to paraphrase Franklin, inextricably intertwined in a becoming.
Acknowledgements: I wish to thank the two anonymous reviewers for useful comments and valuable suggestions which have greatly contributed to the finalised version of the text.
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