Magical Red Yarn and Greek Folk Storytelling

Everything is true, nothing is real: opening and closing the liminal circle

Nov 28, 2024

Welcome back to Thyrathen and Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends and readers!

Today’s scheduled article was to have been Part 5 of my Greek Women’s Magic series.

However, I am reshuffling the order of publication, because I have been working on a sequence to cover the festive season. To get the dates right, I needed to use this week to provide some context and get everyone in the mood!

I will slip in the missing article sometime in the next few weeks as I’m trying to keep a consistent posting schedule.

In the meantime, I’ve been bounding down the rabbit holes of Greek magical folk culture and bring for your delectation a spinning wheel with magical yarn…

Rabbit holes and red threads

I’m very excited about the upcoming festive series as the research has led me along some wondrous paths that I can’t wait to share with you! Next week’s instalment features some extra special wondertales, and a number of surprises.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.

Many middle-aged Greeks (of which I am one) remember our grandmothers, aunts, even nursery school teachers beginning their storytelling with the words:

Κόκκινη κλωστή δεμένη, στην ανέμη τυλιγμένη…
Red crewel corded, wound around the spinning wheel…
(Crewel is loosely twisted woollen yarn).

None of us ever knew what it really meant, but it signalled story time, and that was good enough.

Here’s an excerpt from the “story tale opening”. This was used regardless of which story was being told.

In Greek it’s in rhyming couplets; I’ve done my best to work in some rhymes without losing meaning, but the rhythm cannot be fully replicated in English:

Red crewel corded,
wound around the spinning wheel,
give it a kick to make it turn,
for the story to begin.
Wondertale, tale, tale,
The broad-bean and the chickpea
Quarrelled at the well.
And the lentil came by
And put them in gaol.
But the fava bean shouted:
“Lentil, let them out, all is well.”
…
Good evening all, bow and stern,
and all the strapping lads.
Good evening good sir,
Honourable mariner.
…
Lies, lies and truth,
That’s how stories go.
A tale, a tale, a great big yarn,
Your belly is a barn.
And they ate, and they drank,
and they were starving.

Spinning yarns

I’ve been sharing Greek wondertales weekly for a few weeks now, without giving much context. These were recorded in the 19th century; until then, they formed part of the oral tradition that has been passed down among illiterate communities for generations. Their core features are recorded in historical texts, so we know that their roots are far older.

However, before searching for their meanings and influences, it’s worth thinking about how and why these stories were actually shared. I’ll get to the red thread at the end.

Storytelling was certainly the province of grandmothers and aunts as it has been in my day, but once upon a time it was also the domain of semi-professional storytellers. Though children were among the audience, the stories were not strictly for children, but for the whole neighbourhood, or clan, or random gathering of village folk.

Hut near Ioannina, 1920s-1930s, Margaret Hasluck collection. Photo source with more photographs of Greek rural regions in this period.

Winter nights especially, were long, dark, and cold, and storytelling by the fireside, or while baking, or working, not so much a cliché as a necessity to drive away the shadows. Sailors and fishermen knew many stories, and when they were home they would often be called on to spin their yarns, however risqué. Waiting for dawn to break before embarking for the day’s work, fishermen would tell each other stories on the docks or at sea. Note the lines in the poem above:

…Good evening all, bow and stern,
and all the strapping lads.
Good evening good sir,
Honourable mariner…

suggesting that this verse at least derives from a marine context. The preceding verse with what is almost a nonsense story about the chickpea and lentil quarrelling, is more typical of humorous children’s tales; other parts reflect more adult, esoteric themes (see below).

Shepherds overwintering in the mountains would share their stories around campfires; millers were renowned for their storytelling, and would entertain their customers as they waited, sharing tales literally as old as the hills. Listeners would take these tales with them and retell them in fresh contexts, adding or embellishing depending on their audience, skill, and imagination.

During the fasting period before Christmas, as well as during Lent, when strict dietary restrictions were in place and days were dull between festivities, a tradition known as ‘The Lenten stories’ (Του Σαραντάμερου τα παραμύθια) was kept; specific individuals who knew the old stories installed as chief storytellers, and the evening - or noon - tales regaled at the kapheneion (coffee shop), or by the fire.

Village troubadours

The customary gathering at one or other village house of an evening specifically for story time was known as sperokathismata (evening sitting), and a professional storyteller (akin to a troubadour) would be summoned if available, otherwise the villagers would take it in turns to tell the stories they knew. Storytellers were mostly, but not only, middle-aged and elderly men; women tended to share their own stories while baking at the communal oven, or indeed while spinning, weaving, or sewing. Older women narrated stories to younger ones; younger ones to their younger siblings and friends (See more on Greek women’s magic and its cultural context in my series starting here).

Analysis of stories and testimonials recorded in the Greek provinces reveals that older men told the most detailed stories, with deeper “psychological” dimensions, whereas women preserved and passed on stories with more ancient features and richer language, though they tended to be shorter. In some areas, storytelling competitions would be held, to see who could tell the best, or the longest story.

Evgenios Spatharis, (1924-2009), one of the most famous shadow theatre players and modern storytellers. My generation grew up watching his shadow theatre on Greek national television. It was instrumental to my learning Greek as a small child and my first contact with the tradition.

Some travelling storytellers were known, and good ones would be favoured by nobles and invited for private storytelling evenings, or even taken along on voyages, employed to keep the sailors entertained. Names, details, and testimonials of such famous historical storytellers have been recorded by Greek folklorists in various regions. Yet by and large, storytellers were members of a stable, closed community, who honed their craft over time in the context of this common custom.

Some still exist today, now found either as performers of Greek shadow-theatre (on which more in future offerings), on television as narrators of children’s stories animated with puppets (common when I was growing up in the 1980s), or as part of theatrical performances and school workshops that continue narrating the traditional stories to ensure their transmission to the next generation.

Workshops are run at Greek schools, telling the children traditional stories, then teaching them the art of oral storytelling and collective story development for themselves. They also run workshops for teachers and other adults to keep the tradition alive. Image source.

A communal ritual

The actual act of storytelling in the context of village life and oral traditions was central to social cohesion. It seems to have played a similar role to that of ancient theatre, albeit in a smaller, agrarian circle: a communal sharing and transmission of memory, and value systems; aesthetic exchange, emotional bonding and catharsis.

Revival of the Dionysian dithyramb by Labrys religious community at the annual Prometheia festival. The elements embedded in Greek folklore are not revivals, but entangled continuities.

Sometimes they had didactic content, but this was largely reserved for children's stories. Those aimed at the community in general held more profound meanings ensconced in deceptively simple narratives. Understanding the context - familiar to the majority of Greeks - is critical to grasping what these stories meant to the people who shared them.

These wondertales were never meant to be read, and certainly not meant to be read silently. Stories were not simply narrated, they were performed, with an emphasis on vocal variation, suspense, body language, facial expressions, interaction with the crowd, even call-and-response elements (as found in pantomime). As many parents will know from experience, the storyteller’s own emotional input was crucial to a powerful delivery; there are records of them weeping, growing angry, and openly sympathising with their heroes and heroines.

The sheep are crossing the bridge…

Sometimes they would pause to comment on the story or add depth, and no two storytellers told the tale alike; they made liberal use of poetic license, adapting the title and detail to their audience or personal preference. Exclamations such as “God help us!” or apologetic remarks with a glance at the crowd “because what else could she do?” or comments directed at their protagonist “oh, little one, you’re in for it now!” were just some of the devices used to intensify the audience’s emotional investment.

Kostas Ladopoulos, a Greek storyteller and author, who has taught his craft in Greece and Sweden.

Building suspense, especially in the wondertales with horror elements, was a key skill. Storytellers would slow their pace, pause to take a sip of wine or tsipouro, break the narrative to languidly roll a cigarette: “wait, wait a moment, let us roll one…” or even use the narrative to create the break; “the sheep are crossing the bridge now, let me roll a cigarette until they’ve crossed…” They might toy with the audience; upon hearing cries of frustration at the break: “now we don’t want to rush the sheep do we? Their milk will sour!” and so on.

A frequent device was breaking the narrative on a cliff-hanger, citing the late hour, according to testimonials from audience members. Despite many stories being familiar, whether from other narrations or from folk songs, the testimonials note that the sense of building suspense and drama was always powerful. The “tension and release” arc was especially significant in the storytelling ritual.

Greek shepherd Nikos Kellas from Trikala posts frequent Instagram updates about his life as a farmer. He, his wife, sheep and sheepdogs live in a caravan in the mountains with only solar power. He uses no modern technology but maintains traditional methods of sheep farming, preserving an old and rare breed of Greek indigenous sheep. Nikos’ lifestyle reflects the way the storytellers would have lived. Story source.

Equally, audience members would interject and comment amongst themselves as if watching the story play out - “did you see what she looked like?!”; “Oh, he deserved it!”, turning it into a fully experiential event. There were no actors; the audience themselves identified with the characters and, guided by the storyteller’s art, became the actors in a communal emotional expression not normally possible within the confines of everyday life. This intimate emotional exchange among members of a community would be impossible in the context of everyday life; the storytelling ritual provided a ‘safe space’ within which to allow it, through identification with the characters.

In this sense, the storytelling ritual was as vital and cathartic as ancient theatre and dance; originally a magicoreligious and therapeutic process closely attached to one or other religious observance in the ancient world. For instance, performances at Epidaurus preceded visits to the Asclepieion sleep sanctuary for the afflicted; the improvised dithyramb had an acknowledged cathartic function.

The living dance traditions in Greek life today, all of which carry shorter or longer narratives, form yet another example of how the ritualised aspects of Greek culture maintain protected space within which to slip from the quotidian into the sacred and back again.

This is neither for entertainment’s sake alone, nor a throwback; it is a core part of how Greeks face the world. If many folk traditions are maintained in today’s villages, equally as many have found creatively expressive evolution in the cities (see gallery below), preserving the core of the narrative in both performance and educational initiatives and scholarship, while keeping oral narratives - and the liminality within the quotidian - alive.

Today, traditional wondertales are also delivered in the context of theatre, educational workshops for educators, and theatrical adaptations of traditional stories. First two images from the Municipal Theatre of Piraeus (advertising workshops on narration/adaptation of stories by actress Filia Dendrinou. Note the ball of red yarn); third picture: To Sklavi, traditional folk story adapted for the stage by Xenia Kalogeropoulou, Kalamata Experimental Theatre; 4th picture: musical accompaniment to narration of folk tales at a dedicated festival in Samos. These are the typical modern urban expressions and evolutions of the humble wondertale, and a very popular form of entertainment enjoyed by many Greeks, but rarely encountered by tourists in search of a romanticised classical Greece or the nearest beach with cheap cocktails...

Regarding its sociocultural value, it has been argued that “the balancing function of the dance of ancient tragedy lies in the formation of an inseparable relationship between the Apollonian and the Dionysian element, which compose the opposite aspects of human existence.” (Mousouraki et al, The Therapeutic Function of Dance in Ancient Greek Drama,” 2022).

Further: …”catharsis means the completion of a process which stimulates emotions, balances, harmonises and engenders liberation and redemption from the afflictions of the soul.” (Lazou Anna, “Dance and therapy in Ancient Greece”, in: Archaeology & Arts (90), pp. 47-52, 2004.) The notion of “afflictions of the soul” is very significant in the context of Orthodox theology, but this will have to wait for another time.

(I am indebted to the study by Chrysoula Chatzitaki-Kapsomenou, The Neohellenic Greek Folk Story (Institute of Neohellenic Studies, 2012) for the development of this section of the article.

Liminality

Creating a liminal space for the experiential dimension of the story, and manipulating the willing audience’s emotions were core to the storytelling tradition. The traditional opening: “Red crewel corded… lies, lies and truth” and closing: “I wasn’t there, and you shouldn’t believe a word of it,” oppositions such as “they ate, they drank, they were starving,” or: “who can tell truth from lies, but that’s how stories go!” are clear ritualistic signals framing the liminality and allowing for willing suspension of disbelief as well as time. The one begins the spell, the other breaks it, drawing the audience safely back across the threshold.

Within this liminal space, several layers of magic occur:

The storyteller tells the audience that they are being lied to, and they invest emotionally into this shared “lie.” They are all equal, young, old, rich, poor, nobleman, peasant; as they step into the circle.
As the storytelling ‘circle’ opens, the audience steps into the world conjured by the storyteller. This is not only a result of their skill, but of the tradition of using enchanting or quasi-mythical names: Ηλιοδύτη (Sundiver); Αυγερινίνα (Dawnine); Τρισευγενή (Thrice-noble); Μαρταπρίλης (Marchapril); Τριμάτηδες (Three-eyes). The personification so typical of Greek myth making extends to every detail. Devices such as opposition, paradox, surprise, fatal flaws, sudden plot twists all inflame the imagination and contribute to the immersive experience.
In this liminal space (Lies, lies and truth…) of course magic is possible, shapeshifting, supernatural beings and magical feats are part of that world. The emotional investment is key, for this is not just entertainment; it is communication and authentic social bonding that at once exorcises the shadows of the long nights, the weariness of the agricultural life, banishes the oppressor, promises the lost king will return (a very common motif in some Greek heroic tales) - and brings these communities together in this shared mythos.
Due to this emotional investment, when the story ends, the emotional release is real. Whether through shared laughter, tears, righteous anger, or hope, with every story-evening, the community has gone through another shared ritual, has bonded, and has renewed a sense of the sacred, of enchantment, overlaid on their quotidian life of toil and hardship that they will carry with them during their daytime labours.
When the spell is broken : “and I wasn’t even there, and don’t believe a word of it,” laughter chases away the shadows - and it is an alibi for the emotional immersion. But the experiential realisations can be profound, the resolution of tensions applicable to everyday life; a form of group therapy almost lost to more industrialised cultures. If they maintain their magic, it is because the Greek perception of time, the entanglement of sacred and quotidian, the ritualisation of the commonplace, and the powerful connection to place are still predominant in modern Greek culture.

The Red Thread

By now the role of the red thread should be clear. Red was the colour used for the sacred robes of Ancient Greek priests and priestesses; red too, is the cloth and ribbons used by young girls in living divinatory practices. Talismans against evil in Greek grimoires (on which more in the New Year) are to be made of red felt; and all manner of other magical workings require red thread - including a spell to control Christmas goblins.

There is an urban legend circulating on the Greek internet according to which the red thread of folktales echoes the thread of life spun by the Moires (the Fates) of Greek myth. I have not been able to document evidence for this, and suspect that this is a mistaken assumption based on syncretisation with Chinese folklore in which red thread indeed represents fate.

However, there is no question that red thread has magical properties in the Greek worldview, and that this association goes back to Hellenistic times at the very least (based on the magical texts available).

Its role in wondertales, as the thread through the labyrinth, in and out of the liminal magical space, as the circle where everything is possible and catharsis achieved, is especially powerful. The participatory inclusion of the audience is clear from the very next lines:

…give it a kick to make it turn,
for the story to begin…

and so it does.

Storytelling today

My generation encountered such storytelling as children by and large through books, already at a remove from their original context. Some oral storytelling persisted - and still persists - in the context of nursery and elementary education, along with dramatisation and experiential theatre.

These are harder to come by in adulthood, and then one must search for them. Thankfully, events such as those pictured above are frequent, but still require carving time out of a busy schedule. In the urban environment, one no longer visits a neighbour’s house with the certainty that half the village will be there for the nightly storytelling sitting.

The stories are in no danger of being lost, they are too well-loved and the relevant institutions well aware of their value. In recent years both their enjoyment and their study are undergoing a resurgence, possibly as a reaction to the isolation and alienation that is a side-effect of both technological evolution, and modern urbanisation.

Festival of Greek storytelling in Peristeri, a district of Athens, 2013.

Yet, just like poetry, these stories were never meant to be read, and they were not meant to be heard alone either; the participative, communal element is key to the full experience.

Some modern storytellers are now adapting the genre to reflect modern concerns; where once the occupying forces, bandits and wild animals were the dangers to be exorcised, today’s audiences are haunted by ecological catastrophes, global threats of war, political turmoil and social injustice. In our shared isolation we turn to social media and howl into the void, searching for community, the obvious need for oral connection reduced to Tiktok videos.

Yet the communal experience is still possible, it just requires adaptation.

My Christmas Special at Thyrathen

When I began this journal I decided early on to loosely follow the Greek cyclical year as a structure for the topics I would publish while researching behind the scenes.

Given the popularity of the wondertales I have been publishing, I knew I had to tell you all about Greek Christmas goblins, the dreaded Kallikantzaroi who enter the human world during the twelve days of Christmas to cause havoc.

Kalikantzaroi - Greek Christmas goblins. Print by Hambis Tsaggaris.

So, I have partnered with Treadwell’s Events, where I will be delivering a course next year based on my research here on Thyrathen (and further courses will be announced soon).

I have selected and translated (unabridged) a bumper collection of original wondertales about Greek Christmas Goblins. This will drop here at Thyrathen next week.

To bring it to life, I’m making a video recording that will be exclusively available from Treadwell’s Events where I narrate these stories as they would originally have been told: before the fireplace, having taken all precautions to ensure the goblins don’t come down the chimney!

—> Sign up as a Friend of Treadwell’s to receive this and many more seasonal delights!

Disclosure: I partner with Treadwell’s to teach some of my courses, but I do not receive benefits from subscriptions. However, Friends of Treadwell’s do receive a generous discount on my upcoming courses.

December posting schedule

Part 1 in the series features the original wondertales about Kallikantzaroi.
Part 2 explores the origins, names, and attributes of the Kallikantzaroi in folk legend, and looks at the magical ways to protect against them (including a recipe for purifying incense).
Part 3 looks more closely at Greek Christmas customs.
Part 4 focuses on the major feast of Epiphany, explains how goblins are banished anew for another year, and unfolds the deep magic in the ritual.

These instalments are scheduled to drop weekly on Tuesdays until the New Year.

In between, on Thursdays, are more seasonal offerings: magical Christmas recipes and shocking hidden meanings in Greek carols.

Join me and let’s spin the wheel

If you can access the video of the wondertales via Treadwell’s, then I invite you to sit comfortably with your loved ones, and participate as best you can.

I will be narrating the tales by the fire, with little Skoutzikas (pictured) and the rest of my merry band of renegade kittens charged with keeping the goblins out!

And when the spell breaks, take it with you. This is the closest we can come to recreating the atmosphere of the old storytelling circles. Alternatively, read them yourselves. Speak them. Make up words, change details, add details from your own culture and childhood stories. Expand them. But speak them, and speak them to others, and experience them as you do so.

Subscribe for free to receive them as soon as they are published. Please remember this is a reader-supported publication and I will be deeply grateful for your support. Every penny helps me continue devoting time to research to share here.