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“Did it happen or did it not?”: Dream stories,

worldview, and narrative knowing

Donald Braid

To cite this article: Donald Braid (1998) “Did it happen or did it not?”: Dream stories,
worldview, and narrative knowing, , 18:4, 319-343, DOI: 10.1080/10462939809366235

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Text and Performance Quarterly
18 (1998): 319-343

"Did it happen or did it not?": Dream

Stories, Worldview, and Narrative Knowing
Donald Braid
In this paper I address questions about how narrative discourse works as a way of knowing and
communicating about the world through exploring a particularly interesting category of oral narratives
I encountered during my research among The Travelling People of Scotland. Traveller Duncan
Williamson called these narratives "dream stories" because they defy the ability of listeners to follow
the narrative and consequently leave them wondering: "Did it actually happen or was the narrative
protagonist dreaming?" I argue that the confusion evoked in dream narrative performances is
intentional and serves to enhance the efficacy of narrative performance as a medium of communication.
I also argue dream stories provide a metanarrative commentary on the nature of narrative knowing by
highlighting the creativity of the performance process and by focusing attention on the dialectical
relationship between coherence-making and worldview that informs interpretations of narrative
performances. Key words: narrative, Travelling People of Scotland, folktale, belief

I first became aware of the Travelling People of Scotland in the Fall of 1985. My
interest in traditional Scottish stories, and a suggestion from Hamish Henderson
of the School of Scottish Studies at the University of Edinburgh, brought me to the
door of Duncan Williamson, a Traveller and a gifted storyteller and ballad singer. It
was my fascination with the depth and artistry of Duncan's storytelling that led me to
visit other Travellers and, eventually, to my research on the interconnections
between Traveller stories and Traveller lives. In order to provide a context for the
analysis of Traveller dream stories I present in this paper, I focus attention on several
important facets of Traveller experience with the goal of exploring both the
underlying beliefs they embody and the insights they offer into the role of stories in
Traveller culture.1
The Travelling People of Scotland are a minority cultural group, at one time
known as "tinkers" because some used to make, repair, and sell tinware.2 Their
nomadic way of life has also inspired names such as die "Gan-aboot folk" (the going
about folk) or the "mist-folk" (Whyte). Some Travellers, bothered by how the term
"tinker" has come to be used pejoratively by non-Travellers and by how "Traveller"
seems to reduce their culture to a function of nomadic lifestyle, are contemplating
adopting their own term "Nawkins" (or "Nachins") as a way of avoiding the
problematic meanings of earlier names.
Popular images of Travellers in Scotland might include visions of nomadic
families walking the road; hawking hand-made items such as tin pots, willow baskets,
heather scrubbers, wooden clothes pegs, and horn spoons to die settled folk in the
villages; and living in small tents made from bent branches with canvas covers. Yet
diese images reflect Traveller life from fifty or a hundred years ago more than they
describe the present. While some Travellers remain predominantly nomadic, they
now travel by car or truck and live in trailers. Other Travellers have setded in

Donald Braid teaches Folklore, English, and Anthropology at Butler University.

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TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY OCTOBER 1998

houses. Some still occasionally make baskets or wooden flowers, but they are more
likely to sell manufactured items such as furniture, peat moss, or rolls of carpet. New
occupations such as dealing in scrap metal, collecting shellfish, or blacktop repair are
constantly emerging. Where Travellers once traded horses, they might now deal in
second-hand cars. Any given individual may simultaneously work at a number of
different occupations.
Given the divergent practices that characterize Traveller life, it might be tempting
to conclude that Travellers do not constitute a coherent cultural group or that
changes over time have led to the extinction of some "authentic" Traveller culture.
Yet this apparent divergence is largely the product of an unchanging Traveller belief
in the freedom of the individual. Travellers want to be in control of their own lives.
They want to think and act for themselves. The emphasis they place on individuality
fosters individual creativity and flexibility by forcing each person to survive through
the use of his or her own wits. The implications of this emphasis can be seen most
easily in the diversity of economic strategies employed by Travellers. They have
survived for generations by finding work where others cannot. Unwilling to sell their
time, some Travellers work for themselves by selling items door to door, dealing in
antiques or other merchandise, or gathering items such as fresh water pearls or
whelks. Others contract with farmers for work harvesting potatoes, daffodils, or
berries, or they may independently contract for tree trimming, garden work, or other
small jobs. Once contracted, they can work when and how hard they choose—usually
opting to work vigorously and therefore maximizing their income for a given time.
As work opportunities have changed over time, Traveller occupations have changed
with them.
Traveller nomadism may similarly be understood as a manifestation of the desire
for autonomy—the flexibility to live wherever and in the company of whomever one
chooses. Many Travellers who live in houses still own trailers and will travel at least
some part of the year. Others are willing to stay in houses as long as the potential for
travel is still present and can be acted on when needed. A settled life with fixed
dwelling and fixed neighbors does not allow this independence.
The value placed on individual freedom means there is little political organization
among the Travellers. In describing Traveller culture to me, for example, one
Traveller simply said it was "anarchical" (TS93035; see also Gentleman and Swift
57, 93). Yet, I believe the emphasis on individualism enhances the viability of
Traveller communities. It ensures that communities are composed of individuals
who choose to interact with each other. Each participant necessarily brings a unique
sense of creativity, wit, and experience into community interaction, thereby enhanc-
ing the diversity of the group in a number of key dimensions.
In this sense, individualism is not in conflict with a second core Traveller
belief—the importance of social interaction and community. The value placed on
interaction and community is particularly evident in the close ties that are found in
Traveller families and in the intensity of interactions that take place between friends
or members of extended families wherever and whenever they meet. During these
interactions a premium is placed on witty conversation, or "crack" (cf. Glassie 36),
and especially on the performance of stories, ranging from personal experience
narratives to legends to traditional folktales and ballads. These narrative perfor-
mances are centrally important in Traveller life. They may serve a number of
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functions, including entertainment, providing an escape from the hardships of

Traveller life, exchanging information, and education. They also provide a potent
discourse medium that is used to communicate experiences, to re-create past events,
and to remember and traditionalize interactions (Braid, "Negotiation" 93-107). In
this sense, stories may literally serve as the threads that form the fabric of commu-
nity. For example, performances of newsing stories that replay important events and
experiences for those who were not present can function to link community
members to each other. These stories can literally create a symbolic community for
people who do not share a fixed spatial relationship to each other. Genealogical
stories about ancestors similarly connect individuals through time, extending com-
munity to those who are no longer alive (101-103). Legends, folktales, and ballads
that embody a symbolic sense of Travellerness may be used to connect individuals
to key aspects of Traveller identity (Braid, "Construction"). For example, a Traveller
version of "The Fox and the Crow," Aarne and Thompson Type 57,3 embodies a
narrative validation of the importance of wit in survival (Braid "Our Stories").
In contemplating Traveller lives and stories it is essential to remember that
Travellers do not live in isolation from the settled population. Travellers are
immersed in the settled community and survive in relation to it by exploiting the
cracks in the settled economy. Yet, despite valuable services Travellers often
provide, the relationship is not one of equality. Travellers are often perceived by the
settled population as a lazy, thieving, dirty other that is a "problem to be dealt with"
rather than as a valuable component of Scottish cultural diversity. Consequently,
Travellers have endured discrimination for centuries. This discrimination is ex-
pressed in both face-to-face encounters and through government policies.4 In the
1500s, for example, Travellers could be executed just for being Travellers. An entry
in a law book from the turn of the century puts this law in almost comical
perspective: "At first the mere fact of a man being [a Traveller] led to his conviction
of a capital crime; afterwards the court required, in addition to proof of this fact,
evidence that the accused had actually committed a theft or other crime" (Chisholm
4:383). Although the strategy is a little different, current social policy still seeks to
eliminate the "Traveller problem" by eliminating the Travellers themselves. The
goal of this policy appears to be to assimilate Travellers by forcing them to abandon
their nomadic lives and settle on government sites or in permanent housing (see
Iiegeois 88; Fraser 130-90).
In spite of, or perhaps because of, ongoing discrimination, Travellers maintain a
strong sense of their own culture and identity. They avoid interactions with
non-Travellers, except where demanded by economic necessity or where mutual
respect has resulted in trusting relationships. Given the importance of stories in
Traveller life it is also not surprising that stories are invoked as a resource for dealing
with the atmosphere of discrimination. Within Traveller circles, these stories play a
significant role in exploring Traveller understandings of the multicultural world in
which they live. They may be used to warn others of potential danger in dealing with
outsiders. Stories may also be invoked as a powerful resource for negotiating issues
of identity with outsiders (Braid "Construction"). For example, among the Travel-
lers the story of "The Fox and the Dog," Aarne and Thompson Type 201, has
become a metaphorical commentary on Traveller-settled relations. The logic of the
story contrasts the worldview of the well-fed but constrained dog (settled person)
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TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY OCTOBER 1998

with the hungry but free fox (Traveller) (55-60). While the story does not argue that
one worldview is better than the other, it does support the viability of the life
Travellers live.
In this paper I examine one particularly interesting category of oral narratives I
encountered during my field research among the Travellers.5 Duncan Williamson
called these fictional narratives "dream stories." Dream stories are intriguing
because they unfold complex and ambiguous temporal references that cannot be
resolved into a coherent sequence of "what happened." They defy the ability of
listeners to "follow the narrative" and consequently leave them wondering: "Did it
actually happen or was the narrative protagonist dreaming?"
In exploring dream stories, I adopt the analytical framework for understanding
oral storytelling as performance that Richard Bauman sets forth in his 1986 book
Story, Performance, and Event. His approach, predicated on understanding the skill and
artistry of storytelling as verbal performance (see Bauman, Verbal Art; Bauman and
Braid), highlights the relationships between stories and social interaction by empha-
sizing how narrative performances are "doubly anchored in human events" (Bau-
man, Story 2). First, narrative performances are anchored in the narrative event, the
event in which die narrative is performed. Secondly, oral performances are an-
chored in the narrated event, the event that is replayed or evoked through the formal
features of verbal performance.
Using this framework, the questions I address in this paper can be stated concisely.
Why do Travellers tell stories that do not evoke a coherent narrated event? Are diese
stories, therefore, failures or are they intentional artistic products? What functions
and meanings do these stories serve for participants in the performance event? What
insights do these stories offer for understanding how narrative performances engage
the world of lived experience and dierefore how they function as a potent way of
knowing?
In what follows, I explore the significance of dream stories on several levels. First,
I focus on the dynamics of the performance interaction. I argue that dream stories
are an artistically coherent and intentional genre of Traveller storytelling. In this
sense, the confusion that the listener feels in trying to figure out "what happened" in
the narrated event is an intentional product of the artistry of performing a dream
story. I further argue that Travellers tell dream stories because the incoherency they
embody makes dream story performances particularly engaging. This engaging
quality allows dream stories to be used as effective entertainment that gives relief
from the omnipresent worries of Traveller life. This engaging quality also enhances
the retention of meanings encoded in narrative performances. Next, I focus on the
narrated events constituted through the formal features of performance. I argue that
dream stories not only index Traveller virtuosity in narrative performance, but that
they function as an important commentary on the creative and interpretive nature of
narrative performance and therefore on the validity of narrative knowing-a crucial
issue in a culture that relies heavily on narrative communication. In a final section, I
explore parallels between dream stories and contemporary legends in order to take a
closer look at how narrative performances engage the world of lived experience.
This exploration leads to an understanding of the dialectical relationship between
coherence and worldview that lies at the heart of the process of narrative knowing.
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Dream Stories-Some Examples

During my research with the Travellers I encountered a number of dream stories.
Since Betsy Whyte's performance of "The Black Laird and the Catdeman" is a good
example of the genre, I begin my discussion with this narrative. This story is widely
known among Traveller families (TS93005). It is alternately known as "The Bailer"
or "The Man With No Story to Tell." The following performance was recorded by
Peter Cooke and Linda Headlee in Betsy's home in Montrose, Scotland in 1975.6

The Black Laird and the Catdeman7

Aye, that [the previous story] was one o' my grandfather's too.
My mother used to tell us it.
To make us laugh she telled this one.
But it was aboot this eh
Black Laird,* you see?
He'd this big farm.
And every year they used to just have a meetin
and a carry on
and what we cry a ceilidh.
And they didna have much tae eat or drink,
but whatever they had, N
they enjoyed it.
And everyone had to tell a story, you see?
And whoever told the best story
they got a guinea from this Black Laird.
But it had to be the biggest lie, you see?
This story had to be the biggest lie.
So.
They were all gathered round into this farm hoose,
and they hed a great big pot o' sowans§ . . .
So they were all sitten telling their stories,
and telling their stories,
and telling their stories,
and-
This cattleman,
he was a bit saft, you ken?
No very good
and just lived in a bothy,f
and never had seen very much in aa his life.
He was there.
And they said, "Come on now.
It's your turn to tell us a story."
He says, "Ah, ye ken fine I cannae tell nae stories."
He says, "I dinnae ken nothin tae tell.
I've never seen nothin."
He says, "Jist-now you've got to tell us something."
He says, "You could tell as big a lie as well as anybody else."
"Well," he says, "I dinnae ken nothing."

*Laird = owner of landed property or an estate.

§sowans = a sour oat porridge
†bothy = bunkhouse or other accommodation for farm workers.
324
TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY OCTOBER 1998

So the Black Laird says tae him,

"Well," he said,
"if ye can tell nothing," he says,
"make yoursel useful somehow," he says.
"Go doon tae the river
and clean my boat."
He says, "It's been lying there fir ages.
And see that it's waterproof an that."
So down he goes,
down to the river.
And he started t o -
He says, "This things lettin in water.
It's aa moss and fogt and everything."
You ken, yon green stuff off o' the water?
So he goes intae it
and starts tae bail it oot
But this boat,
it's off wi him.
It started away wi him,
right across the water a n d -
and across the water.
And he says, "I cannae stop this thing."
He says, "This is terrible."
But he looked doon
(and says, "What's this?")
Ye see, he hed on his auld
corduroy moleskin troosers, ye ken?
And big guttery* boots
wi dung and aa things sticking on them.
When he looked down and
there's this dainty little shoes,
and silk stockings
and-
(?) and he was wearing them.
And he says, "Whits this?"
But anyway, he jist couldna dae anything aboot it.
And this boat's keepin goin wi him.
And he couldnae,
he had nothing,
nae paddles nor nothing,
and he couldna dae anything wi it anyway.
So anyhow,
he landed right away at the other side o' this river.
And when he got tae the other side o' this river
he wis just aboot
tae come oot o' the boat,
and boat was goin like this, ye ken, [rocking]
when a young man came down the bank
and took
and took him by the hand.
And took him oot o' the boat.

‡fog = grass, moss, or lichen.

*guttery = muddy.
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TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY BRAID

And says, " O h goodness,

what are you doing there,
a nice lookin girl like you
all on your own?
You could get drowned, you know?" [laughter]
Anyway,
they got to know each other.
And he lived there for quite a while.
And eventually they got married
and had two o' a family
and are very happy.
But one day in the spring o' the year-
oh, it must have been
three years later.
And they had these two bairns.*
And they [were] walking doon the banks o' the river again.
And she says, " O h look, darling!" she says,
"That's the little boat I came in.
Oh just look," she said.
"I must go down and see it.
I must go down."
So,
down she goes.
And she stepped intae it, you see?
But this boat's away with her again.
Right away on,
no stopping.
And he's shouting and runnin in the water.
But it was no use.
He couldn't stop it.
It's away.
And halfway across the water-
She was standing and almost capsizing the boat
tae try and get back tae her husband you see?
But,
half-way across,
she stopped
and she looked down.
And this was this auld boots, all dung.
And troosers all coo shairnf and everything, [laughter]
And he put up his hand felt the stubble o' a beard.
And, "Ohhhh,"
started to greetin and roaring
and greetin and cairryin on.
But the boat took him right back to where he had come from, you see?
So he come out,
but he was greeting
and just breakin his hert.
And he came wanderin up.
But when he came u p -
and they were aa just sittin the same way.
Sowans wis still on the fire.
and, eh—

*bairns = children.
†coo shairn = cow dung.
‡greetin and roaring = crying, weeping.
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TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY OCTOBER 1998

"Come in!"
And the Laird says tae him, "Well,"
he says, "did ye see the boat?"
/"Oh, aye," he says,
/"Oh, dinnae speak tae me," he says.
"Leave me alane, would ye?"
He says, "Whits adae* wi ye?"
He says, "Dinnae (?) dinnae speak tae me," tears tripping him.
He says, "Come on in and tell us aboot it."
So he came in and he sat.
Between tears rolling down his cheeks
he telt them aboot this man and his bairns.
And the Laird says,
"Well, that's the best lie we've heard the nicht.
So ye'll get the, [laughter]
ye'll get the golden guinea." (SA75.10)

While this is a fascinating performance that deserves close analysis, I limit my

comments here to the question of coherency. Betsy's narration does not yield a
coherent account of what happened in the narrated event. The narrative does not
resolve the contradiction between the twenty minutes the cattleman has been gone
in the Laird's experience and the three years he has been away raising children in the
cattleman's experience. The listener is left to ponder a number of possibilities. Did
the cattleman dream his experience of becoming a woman? Did he fabricate this
experience as a lie? Was this some enchantment put on him by the Black Laird? Did
it actually happen? While any of these frames might provide a solution to the
narrated events, the performance itself remains ambiguous on this point.
I should note that in a post performance comment Betsy does suggest that the
experience was somehow the product of the Black Laird's powers: "But it was really
the Black Laird t h a t - . . . . He thought he'd been away for three or four years you see?
But he'd only been away about . . . twenty minutes or so!" (SA75.10). Betsy's
comment appears to present a possible resolution to the narrative incoherency, but it
really only substitutes one mystery for another. How is it possible for the Black Laird
to impart years of vivid experience to the cattleman in die space of twenty minutes?
Why does the cattleman accept his experience as reality? This interpretation,
however, does raise interesting questions about the relationship between narrative
coherence and the beliefs audience members must accept in order to follow the
story. I return to this point at the end of this paper.
Not all dream stories follow the same format. Some dream stories confound the
coherence-making of the listener by providing tangible "evidence" that inhibits
resolution during the following process. This is the case for "The Boy and the
Blacksmith," a story Duncan Williamson learned from his father. Since space
precludes a full transcription, I summarize the key points of this story:8
I A blacksmith rents his smithy to a young man dressed in green who "heals" a
woman by cutting off her head, burning it to ashes, and magically reconstructing it.
II The young man pays the blacksmith seven golden sovereigns and warns him not to
try and repeat the procedure that he witnessed.
Ill The blacksmith tries the procedure on his wife-hoping it will restore her beauty.
The procedure fails and the wife is killed.

*Whit's adae = what's the matter.

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TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY BRAID
IV The blacksmith flees and travels for a year. He then tries to repeat the healing
procedure with the head of an ailing princess. He fails again.
V The young man reappears, saves the princess, and reiterates his warning.
VT He pays the blacksmith another seven golden sovereigns.
VII The blacksmith finds himself back at home. His wife is still alive-as if all had been
a dream.
VIII The blacksmith finds seven sovereigns in his pocket.

As with Betsy's narration, no clear sequence of events can be extracted from this
performance. What really happened in the narrated event? Did the boy in green
heal the young woman in the blacksmith's shop? Did the blacksmith decapitate his
wife? Did he try and save the princess? Was he saved by the young man and
returned to his wife? Part of what prevents the resolution of the narrated event is the
presence of the gold sovereigns that alternately are only a dream and yet quite real.
Part VII reframes all or part of the preceding events as a potential dream sequence,
but the money in his pocket in part VIII implies that the young man must somehow
be real. A further complication comes in the fact that the blacksmith (presumably)
only has seven sovereigns in his pocket when the young man gave him a total of
fourteen-though it might be argued that he spent the first seven during his time on
the road. This does allow a potential resolution in which parts I and II are real while
III-VII are purely dream but the narrative does not provide a clear resolution of this
point. Yet this interpretation does not resolve all of the loose ends in the narrated
event. If part II is real, this implies that the young man did have the power to heal the
first young woman by decapitating her and bringing her back to life. Who is the
young man and where does this power come from? Does he additionally have the
power to change reality and bring the blacksmith's wife back to life? How much,
then, of the rest of this story is real and how much a dream?

Wondering What Really Happened

In both narratives given above, and in dream stories in general, no coherent
narrated event is presented through narration. Instead these narratives are stub-
bornly unfollowable. They remain a narrative "knot" that can be rethought but not
unraveled. Yet, as I hope the two examples demonstrate, dream stories do not yield
hopelessly chaotic or failed performances. Dream story performances are intention-
ally formed artistic wholes. A great deal of artistry goes into the successful perfor-
mance of a dream story—especially in terms of evoking the confusion listeners feel in
trying to figure out "what happened" in the narrated event.
The artistry of dream story performance leaves traces in the text. For example,
note the indirect descriptive language Betsy Whyte uses to mark the cattleman's
transformation to a woman. Note also her masterful play with the pronouns "he"
and "she" throughout the transformation episode of her story-especially the shift
that takes place when the cattleman sees the boat down by the river in preparation
for being carried off for the second time.
But why intentionally inject incoherence into narrative performances? What
possible value can there be in intentionally confusing listeners? With respect to the
dynamics of the performance event, I suggest Travellers tell dream stories because
they are particularly engaging. During an interview about Traveller storytelling,
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TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY OCTOBER 1998

Duncan Williamson commented that Travellers loved dream stories because they
left them with something puzzling to think about.
Everybody told different types of stories . . .
But the one who told the dream story
to give somebody something to think about,
it was: "Laddie whar did you hear that?"
"Eh, that was an interesting thing," you know?
"It's got me puzzled."
"I cannae fathom it."
"I cannae think about it."
Do you see what I mean?
Well this is what the idea was-
that the dream stories were made to make you think,
"Did it happen or did it not?" (TS92021)

This sense of engagement persists well beyond the performance event. As Duncan
commented: "Now away in their mind, after t h e . . . storytelling night was over, [was]
the simple thought in their mind, 'I wonder what really happened'" (TS92021).
One consequence of this deeper engagement with dream stories is that their
entertainment potential is enhanced. Duncan Williamson, for example, pointed out
that dream stories effectively function to take listeners' minds off the omnipresent
worries of Traveller life.
They loved the dream stories.
Because it gave them something to think about
It gave them something to puzzle in their mind, you know?
Of course they had their worries, you know, too, Donald.
Travellers had their worries:
where their next bite was coming from,
where they would camp the next day,
or was the police coming to shift them, you know?
And it give them—
well, actually it took them away from their way of life.
Do you know what I mean?
Some, (?) "That was a strange story."
And then they'd discuss it and talk to you.
And they'd ask questions among each other, like you and I [do]. (TS92021)

In this way, dream stories allow a pleasurable focus on puzzling but not life
threatening problems, a way of diverting unproductive worry from problems that
may not have an immediate solution.
A second consequence of this deeper engagement with dream stories is an
enhancement in the ability of dream stories to evoke meanings in an effective and
memorable way. Despite their lack of coherence in one dimension, dream stories do
communicate coherently in other dimensions. Betsy's story "The Black Laird," for
example, carries potential meanings about the importance of being able to entertain
fellow Travellers. That Travellers might place value on the ability to entertain is not
surprising given that oral communication is a primary medium of interaction among
Traveller groups. During ceilidhs, for example, Duncan Williamson insists that
everyone contribute to the event. His rule is "tell a story, sing a sang, show your
 329
TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY BRAID

bum, or out you gang" (cf. Whyte 21). Ian MacGregor said his family similarly
encouraged participation as keyed by the phrase: "Tell, sing, or bing*."
Similarly, "The Boy and the Blacksmith" embodies pragmatic meanings about
Traveller life. Minimally, this story communicates about the importance of au-
tonomy by commenting on the morality and wisdom of copying the actions of
others. This message is explicitly stated in the boy's warnings to the blacksmith,
"Now old man remember/never try and do what you see me doing." This story also
implicitly comments on the value of being satisfied with what you have rather than
trying to recast this in another form (literally in terms of the blacksmith's wife)-a
meaning found in other Traveller stories (e.g. see Braid, "Traveller").
My point is that the confusion engendered in dream story performance motivates
an ongoing interpretive struggle to make sense out of what happened in the narrated
event. As listeners struggle to disentangle the incoherent dimension of the story,
their attention will engage other, more coherent messages encoded in the perfor-
mance. I believe this ongoing, focused attention not only makes these meanings
stand out clearly, but also enhances their retention in memory.
The overall goal in performing a dream story, therefore, is not confusion for its
own sake. Generating confusion serves the purpose of engaging listeners, thereby
focusing interpretive attention on a problematic narration. This engagement in-
creases entertainment potential by drawing individuals into the narrative world and
away from daily worries. This engagement also ensures that listeners will explore the
narrative sufficiently to understand and remember the key meanings suggested by
the narrator through the formal features of his or her performance.

The Validity of Narrative Knowing

Further insight into why Travellers tell dream stories emerges from a consider-
ation of how stories work as a way of knowing. By "way of knowing" I mean that
narrative discourse can be used as a unique way of understanding the world and
communicating this understanding to others. This view of narrative is not new. For
example, Dell Hymes and Courtney Cazden write that narrative is a viable but often
undervalued mode of thought (Cazden and Hymes). Similarly, philosopher of
history Louis Mink claims that "narrative is a primary cognitive instrument-an
instrument rivaled, in fact, only by theory and metaphor as irreducible ways of
making the flux of experience comprehensible" (129).
My conception of narrative as a way of knowing builds on two generally accepted
properties of narrative discourse. First, it builds on the perception that narratives
embody a temporally ordered sequence of events. The first part of Labov and
Waletzky's classic definition of narrative, for example, centrally implicates this
quality: "narrative will be considered as one technique for recapitulating experience,
in particular, a technique of constructing narrative units which match the temporal
sequence of that experience" (13).
Second, my conception of narrative as a way of knowing builds on the view that
narratives are coherent. This characterization derives from the realization that
narrative is more than simple sequence or chronology (White 1-25). Narratives are
organized by a relatedness or coherence that transforms the sequence of events into
*Bing = Traveller cant for "leave" or "go away."
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a meaningful whole. This idea is implicitly at the heart of Aristotle's conception that
a plot needs to have a beginning, a middle, and an end (Hutton 52). It is largely the
perception of coherence in a narrative that makes narrative sequence interpretable
and meaningful.9
Understanding how narratives work as a way of knowing requires understanding
how narrative sequence and coherence are related to each other and to events in the
real world. On the surface, this relationship appears to be fairly simple. Aristotle, for
example, argues that for poetic narrative the relationship is one of mimesis, events in
narrative are an imitation of events in the world. In this view, the coherence of a
given plot is understood to derive from the coherence of the events being imitated.
Recent theories of narrative similarly recognize this relationship as one of parallel-
ism or iconicity (e.g. Enkvist; McDowell; Scholes). Yet an iconic relationship
between events and a narrative representation of those events does not necessarily
imply it is the events that inform the narrative with coherence. Hayden White, for
instance, asks: "Does the world really present itself to perception in the form of
well-made stories, with central subjects, proper beginnings, middles, and ends, and a
coherence that permits us to see 'the end' in every beginning?" (24). Consequently,
some scholars emphasize the creative role of the narrator in selecting, interpreting,
organizing, and presenting events in the world so that they form coherent and
meaningful wholes (e.g. see Bauman, Story; Mink; White). From this perspective,
coherence is more a property of the formal features of narrative discourse than it is of
events in the world.
Yet, coherence does not derive from universal qualities or truths. Specific formal
patterns, beliefs, meanings, presentational styles, and so on evoke a sense of
coherence and meaning precisely because they are warranted by underlying facets
of worldview (Braid, "Personal Narrative" 12-18). For this reason, the creative
process of narration (and especially the prerequisite act of narrativizing experience)
does not simply function to turn events into coherent, well rounded stories. It also
functions as a potent way of comprehending or knowing the world by harmonizing
events with respect to beliefs, patterns, and expectations that are constitutive of
worldview. In other words, if we can form a coherent and cohesive narrative out of
an experience, we feel we have understood the event and discovered its meaning.10
Coherent narrative performances also provide a potent medium for communicat-
ing experiences, ideas, values, and beliefs to others. Listeners, however, do not
passively absorb narrative performances.11 Listening is an interactive and experien-
tial process diat is best described as one of "following" the performed narrative (see
Braid, "Personal Narrative"; Gallie 22-50). The listener follows the narrative
sequence as it unfolds, at any given moment trying to integrate the emerging
narrative information into a coherent sense of "what happened" in the event being
narrated. This process is non-linear. Listeners must accept wild contingencies as long
as the narrative shows them to be "acceptable after all" as it moves toward an
unpredictable conclusion. Following a narrative therefore involves a repeated and
contingent refraining of the perceived events in an attempt to predict the narrative
course and grasp the coherence that informs the narrative and gives it meaning.
If a narrative is coherent, as listeners struggle to understand the unfolding
narrative they will re-experience the event being narrated. Because this reexperienc-
ing parallels the coherence-making diat takes place in direct experiencing, it
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similarly functions as a way of knowing (Braid, "Personal Narrative;" see also

Gregory). Performers can replay past events, or even fictional events in such a way
that they are foregrounded and open for re-experiencing, evaluation, and analysis in
the performance event. Performers may also use narratives to encode significant
meaning. Yet, interpretation of the narrated event is not solely in the hands of the
performer. Although listeners' interpretations will be guided by the formal features
of the performance text and the performed coherence, interpretation will take place
with respect to the listener's own worldview, life experience, and apprehension of
the dynamics of the performance interaction. The coherence listeners discover in
following will therefore be their own. Different listeners may perceive coherence
differently. A listener's experience of following, therefore, must be understood as a
way of knowing that is strongly influenced by the performed coherence, but not fully
determined by it.
So far, I have been discussing how coherent narratives work as a way of knowing
and communicating about the world. But what happens if a narrative lacks coher-
ence? What about Traveller dream stories that deliberately inhibit the normal
process of prediction and following that takes place in following a narrative? As I
noted earlier, these performances play with the temporal referencing and coherence
making functions of narrative thereby creating ambiguity. This play can be seen as
an index of Traveller narrative competency on a purely abstract level. But I believe
this play has much deeper significance.
As I argued in the introduction, Traveller narratives are deeply interconnected
with Traveller lives, providing a potent medium for understanding, negotiating, and
creating their world. But remember that narrative performance is a creative act.
Narrators are not limited to iconically re-presenting events and experiences. Narra-
tors play an active role in constructing the temporal references, formal patternings,
and coherencies that are central to their ability to suggest meaning for the listener
(Braid, "Personal Narrative" 16-18). Fictional narratives in particular allow narra-
tors broad license to create events without the need to conform to experience or
even to the possible. Narrators may also transform events to fit their own purposes.
As Richard Bauman notes, not only does narrative have the potential to make "the
flux of experience" comprehensible: "it may also be an instrument for obscuring,
hedging, confusing, exploring, or questioning what went on, that is, for keeping the
coherence or comprehensibility of narrated events open to question" (Bauman, Story
5-6). Performances may therefore lead to distortions and even expressive lies that
play with or transcend the boundaries of believability.
I propose the deliberate lack of resolvability that is characteristic of dream stories
functions as a metanarrative commentary on the intrinsic creativity of the narrativiza-
tion process and therefore on the validity of narrative knowing. Inherent in the
ability to perform and understand dream stories is the recognition that the coherence
of narrative does not derive from some objective quality of the real world, but that
this coherence is at least partly constructed in the act of narration. Dream stories may
therefore serve as a reminder that stories of "what happened"—including experien-
tial stories and the narrative quality of experience itself—rest on an equally non-
objective coherence making and not objective truth.
Yet the message communicated by dream stories is not that narratives are
fabrications and therefore devoid of significant meaning. Rather, dream stories
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caution that, because narrative is a creative medium, this creativity must be taken
into account in interpreting narrative performances and in understanding how and
what narratives mean. By presenting unresolvable or incoherent narratives that still
meaningfully communicate about the world, dream stories intimate that all sto-
ries -no matter what creative transformations or artistic devices are employed-may
similarly embody meaningful communications about the world. By highlighting the
kinds of transformations, literary devices, formal pattemings, goals, genres, and so
on that inform narrative knowing, dream stories enhance interpretive skills and
thereby enrich the potential and effectiveness of narrative as a mode of communica-
tion. In this sense, dream stories remind listeners that life does not happen like
stories, but they do it in a way that suggests that stories can be used to make sense out
of life.

Coherence and Worldview

Because dream stories highlight the role of creativity in narrative performances,
they implicitly focus attention on the relationship between coherence and worldview
that lies at the heart of narrative knowing. In the previous section I argued that
narrative knowing involves a process of coherence-making that is warranted by
worldview. I further argued that success in constructing coherent interpretations of
experiences, including the experience of following a narrative performance, is taken
as a sign that the events have been understood and that whatever meaning or
message they embody has been apprehended. But, as dream stories caution, not all
narratives are coherent. In this section I therefore focus on the relationship between
legends and dream stories in order to explore what happens when narrative
performances cannot be reconciled with respect to worldview.
As a preface to this discussion it is important to clarify what I mean by worldview.
I use the term worldview to refer to the shared ideational systems, belief systems, or
"webs of signification" (Geertz 3-30) that are generated through the unfolding of
individual experience in relation to community interaction.12 In my conception,
worldviews exist as emergent personal constructs that are not necessarily systematic
or coherent but pragmatic—providing an essential framework that orients individuals
to their world and to their community.
Several important properties of worldview follow from this definition. First, by
virtue of differing experiences and needs, individuals will form differing constructs of
worldview. Listeners may therefore make sense out of a given experience in different
and divergent ways.
Second, while worldviews are personal, constructs of worldview are not formed in
isolation. It is therefore possible to talk about worldview as being shared by the
members of a community because personal constructs are formed, negotiated, and
attuned through the continuity of interaction between individuals. Where attune-
ment does take place, individuals may come to identify with a social or cultural
group and contrast this cultural identity with outsiders. In this sense, communities
may have differing perceptions of what is and is not coherent, and consequently
what is and is not narratable.
Finally, worldviews are not comprehensive or immutable. Because worldviews
are pragmatically formulated, they are only as complete or coherent as a individual's
struggle to understand experience has required them to be. Consequently, world-
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views are open to being reformulated as needed in order to account for new
experiences. By this I do not mean to imply that worldview is a superficial construct.
Worldview is deeply intertwined with the perception of meaning. It is rooted in a
continuity of experience that begins at birth and integrates both personal experience
and symbolically mediated associations with other people and ancestors. New
experiences, however, may challenge the completeness or coherency of worldview.
If the challenge is strong enough and there is sufficient adaptive benefit, these
experiences may precipitate a reformulation of worldview.
I argue narrative discourse provides a fertile symbolic medium in which construc-
tions, negotiations, and attunements of worldview can take place (Braid, "Construc-
tion" 46-47). While most narrations as individual encounters will yield coherent
followings-and therefore may serve to validate existing constructs of worldview-
some narrations will resist coherent understanding. When a narrative performance
proves to be unfollowable, that is, when an individual's worldview does not enable a
coherent reading of the events, the struggle for coherence will create interpretive
tensions. These tensions can be resolved if the performance is rejected as nonsense
or if changes in worldview are made to accommodate the apparent coherence of the
narrated events. These changes may be subtle or they may be profound. Note that
performers may evoke interpretive tensions as part of a deliberate strategy to
challenge and negotiate worldview.
How directly a given narrative performance is perceived to engage the real world,
and therefore to challenge worldview, is an issue that is normally framed in terms of
genre. Experientially based genres such as legend and personal experience narrative
are often believed to be "true" and therefore to have direct relevance to comprehend-
ing the world of lived experience; fictional genres are frequently believed to be
fantasies that require a "willing suspension of disbelief and therefore to have no
direct relevance to the world of lived experience (Bascom; Ben-Amos). Yet this
sharp distinction between experiential and fictional genres is misleading-a point
that is clearly illustrated with reference to questions of genre in dream stories.
I have framed dream stories as fictional folktales, yet, depending on the resources
invoked by tellers and drawn into interpretation by listeners, dream stories evoke
characteristics of a number of different genres. With regard to "The Black Laird and
the Cattleman," for example, Betsy's version of the story seems to incorporate
elements of both folktale and riddle. When Willie MacPhee tells this story as a first
person narration, the story blurs the boundaries between personal experience
narrative and tall tale (cf. Bauman, Story 11-32). When Duncan Williamson com-
ments that many dream stories "could have happened" he raises questions about the
relationship between dream stories and legends (TS92016). This ambiguity of genre
should be understood as a creative achievement of performance (Briggs and
Bauman). It is one example of the way dream story performances deepen the
interpretive struggle by multiplying the number of possible interpretive strategies a
listener might need to adopt in following the performance.
This ambiguity of genre also affords insight into the nature of the relationship
between coherence and worldview that lies at the heart of narrative knowing.
Consider, for example, the following story that Duncan Williamson told during an
interview on the topic of dream stories.
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DW I'll tell you a wee story.

A modern folktale.
Probably you have heard this story.
There may be more versions of this.
But this story
is supposed to have happened in Aberdeenshire.
This taxi driver in Aberdeenshire,
when the first taxis came out,
he took a gentleman on a long journey,
one way journey,
way out on the other side of Aberdeen,
away up to EUon.
And he dropped the gentleman off.
And it was a terrible rainy night.
And he paid him and,
"Thank you very much," he said, "my son," he said.
"Thank you very much," he said.
"I'm glad you took me home," he said,
"because it was a very terrible night
and the taxis was very scarce."
Which it was (with?) the first old cabbies.
But on the way back from Ellon,
he saw a young woman.
And she waved him down.
And he stopped.
And she said, "I'm sorry sir," she said,
"it is a terrible night,
I'm very soaking wet.
I don't have any money."
"Well," he said, "I've been paid, my dear, for coming this way.
So I have got an empty car.
I'll take you back."
He said, "Where have you been?"
"Oh," she says, "I'm very cold and I'm wet."
"Well," he says,
"Come on, come on in.
Sit down beside me."
So she sat down beside him.
He said—.
She started to shiver.
And he could see that she was very pale.
So he took his jacket off.
"Put that round you dear," he says.
"That will probably bring some heat in your body."
You know?
And he drove her into Aberdeen.
And he says, "Where do you stay?"
She says, "I stay down in Seaton."
So he took her to-
She says, "That's my mother's house over there."
"Well," he said,
"I don't want to trouble your mother."
Because it was late at night time.
"I don't want to trouble your mother tonight."
She says, "I'll be all right."
And she said eh, "Thank you very much sir."
And she run off.
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And he saw the light at the door.

He saw the door opening
and he saw her going in
and he saw the door closing.
And then he drove-
And then he remembered.
He forgot to get back his jacket from her.
He forgot to get his jacket back.
"Ah never mind," he said.
"I'll pick it up some other time.
I'll pick it up later.
I'll pick it up tomorrow."
Took the address-of the house and number.
And the next day it was a beautiful sunny morning and the rain was gone.
And he actually took a passenger to Seaton.
And he thought while he was there he would go and pick up his jacket.
Because it was a very expensive jacket and it cost a lot.
It was one of these tweed jackets.
It cost a lot of money.
Harris Tweed jacket.
And he went to the door and knocked, [knocks on the table]
A woman came out.
He says, "I'm sorry miss," he says, "to trouble you this morning.
But," he said,
"Eh, I took your daughter home last night."
She says, "You did?"
"Took your daughter home last night," he says.
And he said, "I picked her up near Ellon.
And," he said eh, "I was-
She was wet and cold.
And," he says, "I gave her my jacket to keep her warm.
And I dropped her off because I was taking a gentleman to Ellon."
Which is about twenty miles away.
"And," he said, "I took her back and I dropped her off here."
And the woman began to cry, hey?
She had tears running down her cheeks.
She began to cry.
The tears was running down her cheeks.
She said, "It's so sad," she said, "so sad."
He says, "What's so sad about it?"
'Just let me talk to her and get my jacket back.
She'll tell you the truth."
She said, "I think you'd better come in."
She brought him in the little house.
And she (?)
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
So she gave him a cup of tea.
And he was wondering what it was all about.
And the tears was still running.
And she was drying her eyes with her apron. You know?
He says, eh, "Can you tell your daughter and I'll get my jacket back?"
She says, "I'm terrible sorry sir," she says.
She says, "My daughter was killed in Ellon," she says,
"five years ago,
with a car."
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He says, "You're having me on."

"No," she said, "Sir.
I'm telling you the truth.
My daughter was killed with a car in EUon five years ago."
"But," he says,
"it's impossible.
I picked her up in Ellon."

And he told the bad bend where he picked her up.

She said, "That's right.
That's where she was killed five years ago."
She said, "She went to meet her boyfriend,
and she was ran over with a car and killed.
And she's buried in the little church in Seaton.
And if you don't believe me," she says,
"come."
"I'm going, I'm just going to visit."
And the woman had a bunch of flowers sitting on the table.
"I'm just off to visit her."

And the two of them walked

to the churchyard in Ellon, in Seaton. Sorry.
And she went to the grave.
And the woman went down on her knees
and she was crying,
the tears running down her cheeks.
And she placed the flowers on the grave.
And folded up on the top of the grave
was his jacket.

DB That's wild.
DW That's true.
Folded nice and tidy on the top of the grave
was his jacket that he gave her in the (?) car.
DB How do you know that, story?
I mean how do you know the story?
DW I was told that story by a chap
who was supposed to have known the guy
who was the taxi driver in Aberdeen,
when I worked in Aberdeen.
DB Oh yeah.
DW And he swore that was a true story.
Now that is a ghost story.
Now we cannae say that guy was telling a lie could we?
DB No.
DW Because we don't know.
DB Right.
DW He never made it up.
And he took his jacket back and it was dry as could be.
DB Hmm.
DW And he put it on.
And he thanked the woman for the tea and he walked back.
And to the day he went to his grave,
he never, never, knew,
did that actually happen or did it not? (TS92021)
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Duncan frames this story as a "modern folktale," and later as a "ghost story," but
folklorists will recognize this as a well-told version of the "Vanishing Hitchhiker"
legend (Brunvand 24-46). The story also exhibits many characteristics of the dream
stories I have discussed above-and I believe this is Duncan's point in telling the
story during our interview. The story cannot be resolved into a coherent picture of
"what happened" in the narrated event. How could the cab driver give a ride to a
woman who was dead for five years? How could he find the house where the woman
lived if she had not directed him to it? How could his coat appear on the gravestone
unless he had loaned it to the woman? How is it possible his coat was dry when it was
raining the night he lost it? This story cannot be resolved into a clear account of
events unless ghosts are real and can interact in the world of the living. With a legend
performance this is exactly the point (Degh 30; Oring 126). Legends challenge
listeners in their struggle to find coherence, and force them to consider the possibility
that their worldviews must be modified in order to accommodate the narrated
events. In other words, the believability of the narrated events is at issue. Is it
possible that x happened? If x has happened, what do I need to believe about the
way the world works to understand how and why it has happened?
Since dream stories are not explicitly framed as true events they may not appear
to challenge listeners' worldviews. Yet dream stories frequently embody many of the
characteristics typically associated with legends. Dream story performances ask
listeners to ponder issues of belief and believability. With respect to the "Black Laird
and the Cattleman," for example, what is more believable: a vivid dream, the magic
power of the Laird, the propensity of farm hands to lie, or the possibility of strange
happenings in the world? Additionally, dream stories, like legends, can be coher-
ently resolved if listeners accept certain beliefs about how the world works. For
example, if the Black Laird does have the power to collapse several years experience
into the space of twenty minutes or if the cattleman had a particularly vivid
hallucination, then a coherent following of the narrated event is possible.
My point, however, is not that dream stories and legends are identical, but that
there are significant parallels in terms of how these genres work as ways of knowing.
These parallels arise, in part, because the same process of following underlies the
interpretive experience for both genres. This process necessarily engages issues of
belief, believability, and worldview-even with fictional narratives. In following a
folktale, for example, listeners must discover the properties of the fictional world
which, when accepted, enable the narrated event to be resolved coherently. These
contingently accepted properties or beliefs may derive from generic conventions or
from careful interpretation of the tale itself. But where narrations demand listeners
entertain strange or divergent beliefs in order to follow the performance, these
beliefs do not directly motivate a reformulation of worldview. Rather, by prompting
listeners to contingendy accept strange or divergent beliefs, fictional narrations ask
listeners to contemplate and experience alternate coherencies that may differ from
their lived world in subtle or radical ways.
The influence of this process on worldview is indirect. By contingently accepting
alternate coherencies the possibility is raised that listeners will apply the beliefs,
ideas, relationships, and interpretive strategies embodied in these coherencies to
events in the lived world. Where these applications prove useful or revealing in
understanding experience, they may be integrated into worldview. In odier words,
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where legends communicate about what is, folktales communicate about the pos-
sible, about what might be.
Despite the indirectness of the influence on worldview, this imaginative play with
possibility is serious business. Fictional stories may, for example, present veiled
critiques of events or metaphorical analogies that have profound influence on how
listeners interpret experience (e.g. Braid, "Traveller;" "Construction"). Fictional
stories may communicate significant practical knowledge (L. Williamson). Most
importantly, this play provides a potent way of exploring alternate worlds and
meanings without invoking resistance that might accompany direct challenges to
accepted conceptions of worldview. In this way, play with possibility embodies a
potent adaptive strategy that facilitates survival (Bateson; Csikszentmihalyi).
Because dream stories bend conventions and ways of understanding in novel and
memorable ways, they are a particularly effective genre to use in playing with
possibility. But performances of dream stories hint at something more. By asking
listeners to explore a number of possible assumptions that might plausibly lead to a
coherent resolution of the narrated event, and by inhibiting a fully coherent
resolution of these events, dream story performances force listeners to entertain a
range of alternate coherencies that appear to have equal validity. Since each of the
potential coherencies may invoke a different set of beliefs, dream stories embody the
metanarrative suggestion that multiple coherencies and therefore multiple world-
views may equally lead to coherent understandings of the world.
While this insight may seem to undermine the pragmatic value of maintaining a
shared worldview as a foundation for daily life, it does help Travellers survive in
their world. Understanding the value of this insight requires recalling that Travellers
do not exist independently of non-Travellers but coexist with them. It is therefore
crucial that Travellers not only understand that non-Travellers are different but also
that they understand how they are different, that they understand how non-
Travellers think and make sense of their world. For example, when deals are made
with non-Travellers it is essential that both participants feel that they are getting a
good deal. Since the beliefs and values that inform perceptions of "good dealness"
are different for Travellers and non-Travellers, knowledge of how non-Travellers
comprehend economics gives Travellers an edge.
Similarly, knowledge of non-Traveller worldview is essential for survival in a
world where non-Travellers set the rules and frequently discriminate against Travel-
lers. Understanding non-Traveller worldview enables Travellers to respond and act
in productive ways. Understanding alternate worldviews is especially important in
comprehending discourse that takes place between Travellers and non-Travellers.
• Consider, for example, narratives that try and make sense out of the ongoing
conflicts over Traveller camping (see Gentleman and Swift 86-9; Gentleman).
Arrest warrant requests, newspaper accounts, or neighborhood gossip may string
together legal precedents and "common sense" into coherent narratives that con-
demn Traveller camping practices (in specific instances or in general). Travellers
need to be able to follow these accounts in order to understand the underlying beliefs
and assumptions that give them their apparent validity. Once they understand the
implicit worldview behind these perceptions, Travellers can and do respond in
effective ways that make use of settled beliefs to challenge the validity of these
narrative interpretations. These responses may take the form of physical acts such as
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producing contradictory evidence or challenging the legal authority that warrants

the conclusions and actions motivated by the underlying beliefs (e.g. see Braid,
"Construction" 50-51). These responses may also take symbolic form. For example,
understanding the underlying beliefs and values of non-Traveller worldview enables
Travellers to construct narratives that make sense to non-Travellers yet which
embody a potent critique of the history of interaction between Travellers and
non-Travellers (Braid, "Negotiation" 218-27). Sympathetic media attention (though
rare), scholarly interest, and the performance stage allow Travellers the opportunity
to present these alternate interpretations to the non-Traveller audience and thereby
challenge outsider conceptions of who the Travellers are (254-7).

Conclusion
I have based my discussion of narrative knowing on an ethnographic exploration
of dream stories as they are found among the Travelling People of Scotland, but it is
my hope that the points I raise here will provide insights that can be applied to
narrative study in general. While broad generalizations cannot be made without
further study, I will sketch some tentative conclusions about why narrative discourse
is such a potent medium for comprehending and communicating about the world.
First, narrative discourse is a potent way of knowing because the interpretive
process it elicits is experientially based. In following, listeners struggle to make sense
out of a performance and grasp the coherence of the narrated event. Listeners may
entertain coherencies suggested in performance, but they actively apprehend and
construct these coherencies with respect to their own knowledge and experience. In
this sense, following can giv6 rise to experiential resources that can be thought with
and thought through in ongoing interpretations of the world (Braid, "Personal
Narrative" 20). These resources may acquire significant influence over interpreta-
tion if they are incorporated into personal constructions of worldview.
A second reason why narrative discourse provides a potent way of knowing lies in
the way narrative performances engage listeners. A narrator's creativity and his or
her artistic patterning of the text play a significant role in motivating this engage-
ment. The desire to follow might be motivated by a sense of identification with
effectively constituted characters or events in a story (Gallie 41-48). Involvement in
the narrated event may also be encouraged through sound symbolism (Nuckolls
52-55), ostension (McDowell 133-35), or significant formal patternings that evoke
an expectation of fulfillment (Burke). Interestingly, dream stories raise the possibility
that incoherency is a powerful way of engaging listeners by creating puzzles to be
solved. But whatever the underlying motivation, the deeper the sense of engagement
a performer manages to evoke, the more effectively the narrative performance can
work as a communicative medium-evoking meaning, teaching, negotiating world-
view, fostering intercultural understanding, affecting listeners, and so on.
Finally, narrative discourse provides a potent way of knowing because creativity
permeates the dynamic exchange that takes place between performer and audience.
This creativity not only enables performers to adapt stories to accomplish valuable
functions within the performance event, it also gives performers freedom to play
with possibility and explore the dialectic between coherence and worldview. Stories
can therefore be used to suggest alternate beliefs, ideas, relationships, and interpre-
tive strategies. It is because of this creative freedom that narrative performances
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TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY OCTOBER 1998

provide a potent medium within which worldviews can be effectively created,

attuned, affirmed, challenged, negotiated, or transformed.
Because narrative knowing is experientially based, engaging, and creative, narra-
tive discourse is an ideal medium for communicating across cultural boundaries.
Narrative performances can foster understanding because they afford listeners an
engaging experience of similarity and difference (e.g. Braid, "Traveller"). These
same qualities also make narrative discourse an attractive medium for studying
differences in worldview. Yet the relationship between narrative and worldview is
complicated by the agency and artistry of the performance process. As dream stories
caution, this agency must be taken into account when trying to interpret expressions
of worldview in a given narrative performance. While some performances embody
statements or affirmations of worldview, other performances may incorporate
transformations or strategic presentations of worldview intended for outsiders. If,
however, the agency and artistry of performance are taken into account, the study of
narrative discourse can yield deep insights into how individuals and communities
conceptualize and play with their understanding of the world in which they live.

Notes
An earlier version of this paper was presented at the 1995 meetings of the American Folklore Society in Lafayette,
Louisiana. I would like to thank Richard Bauman, Mary Ellen Brown, Mollie Cleveland, Henry Glassie, Susan
Grizzell, John McDowell, and Brooke Sanderson for comments on previous drafts of this work.
1
This introduction to Traveller life and storytelling traditions is necessarily brief. For further information see
Gentleman and Swift, one of the recent accounts of Traveller life (Leitch; Neat; Whyte; Williamson, Horsieman), or one
of my own works (Braid, "Traveller," "Negotiation," "Construction," "Our Stories").
2
The term "tink" is linked iconically to the sound of hammer on tin (Grant and Murison 9:338-39).
3
These numbers are given for reference purposes and refer to the classification under which similar versions of this
story can be found in Aarne and Thompson's The Types of the Folktale.
4
For an general overview of Traveller social environment see Gentleman and Swift.
5
These stories are not unique to the Travellers. They can be found in many, perhaps all cultures. In terms of general
classification, these stories fall under motifs F1068 "realistic dream" and F1068.1 "tokens from a dream."
6
I thank Peter Cooke for not only giving me permission to use this performance but also for providing me with his
transcription of the performance. While I have preserved the spellings used in the original transcription, I have
significantly modified the presentational form of the transcription. The original tape of this performance is archived at
the School of Scottish Studies at the University of Edinburgh. I would like to thank the School for allowing me to use
this story here.
7
I have broken the narratives into lines that are based partly on the pauses in delivery (Tedlock), and partly on
syntactical structures (Hymes 309-41). Blank lines mark the boundaries between verses. Words enclosed in
parenthesis with a question mark "(xxx?)" represent my best guess at transcribing words or passages I found difficult to
hear. I have marked uninterpretable utterances with "(?)." Comments in square brackets "[ ]" are my comments about
non verbal aspects of the performance, such as audience response, gestures, or my comments intended to clarify the
narrative. They were not spoken by the narrator.
8
This story is a version of Aarne and Thompson Type 753, "Christ and the Smith." I give a complete transcription of
this story in Braid, "Negotiation" 116-23. A similar performance is transcribed in Williamson, A Thorn 78-85; cf.
Douglas 138-40 and Groome 247-50. For similarly structured dream stories see Robertson 63-67 and Williamson,
The Genie 73-80.
9
There is a good deal more that could be said about narrative coherence. For an excellent overview of textuality,
cohesion, and coherence see Hanks.
10
From a phenomenological perspective, human consciousness itself may have a fundamentally narrative character.
This idea is explored in detail in Carr. Building on Carr's ideas, John M. Allison develops the suggestion that human
beings are constantly creating and living stories as a part of their ongoing temporal engagement in the world.
11
Since my focus in this paper is on oral storytelling, I focus my comments on this communicative mode. Many of
my comments, however, can be adapted to apply to written forms of narrative communication.
12
For an overview of the issues raised in using the term worldview see Schrempp.
 341
TEXT AND PERFORMANCE QUARTERLY BRAID

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