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Title: The man who married the moon, and other Pueblo Indian folk-stories
Author: Charles Fletcher Lummis
Release date: January 28, 2026 [eBook #77804]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Century Co, 1891
Credits: Sam W. and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO MARRIED THE MOON, AND OTHER PUEBLO INDIAN FOLK-STORIES ***
THE MAN WHO MARRIED
THE MOON
AND OTHER PUEBLO INDIAN FOLK-STORIES
BY
CHARLES F. LUMMIS
_AUTHOR OF “SOME STRANGE CORNERS OF OUR COUNTRY”
“A NEW MEXICO DAVID,” ETC._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1894
Copyright, 1891, 1892, 1894,
By The Century Co.
The De Vinne Press.
[Illustration: THE BOY IN THE HOUSE OF THE TRUES. (SEE PAGE
115.)]
To
the Fairy Tale that came true in
the Home of the Tée-wahn
My Wife and Child
CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction: The Brown Story-Tellers 1
I The Antelope Boy 12
II The Coyote and the Crows 22
III The War-Dance of the Mice 24
IV The Coyote and the Blackbirds 27
V The Coyote and the Bear 30
VI The First of the Rattlesnakes 34
VII The Coyote and the Woodpecker 49
VIII The Man who Married the Moon 53
IX The Mother Moon 71
X The Maker of the Thunder-Knives 74
XI The Stone-Moving Song 82
XII The Coyote and the Thunder-Knife 84
XIII The Magic Hide-and-Seek 87
XIV The Race of the Tails 99
XV Honest Big-Ears 103
XVI The Feathered Barbers 106
XVII The Accursed Lake 108
XVIII The Moqui Boy and the Eagle 122
XIX The North Wind and the South Wind 127
XX The Town of the Snake-Girls 130
XXI The Drowning of Pecos 137
XXII The Ants that Pushed on the Sky 147
XXIII The Man who Wouldn’t Keep Sunday 161
XXIV The Brave Bobtails 169
XXV The Revenge of the Fawns 178
XXVI The Sobbing Pine 194
XXVII The Quères Diana 200
XXVIII A Pueblo Bluebeard 203
XXIX The Hero Twins 206
XXX The Hungry Grandfathers 215
XXXI The Coyote 222
XXXII Doctor Field-Mouse 232
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The Boy in the House of the Trues FRONTISPIECE
“As I come in, kindly old Tata Lorenso is just
beginning a Story” 7
The Coyote carries the Baby to the Antelope
Mother 15
Rain falls on Pée-k’hoo 18
“The two Runners came sweeping down the Home-stretch,
straining every Nerve” 20
“As He caught the Hoop He was instantly changed
into a poor Coyote!” 37
“Coyote, are you People?” 41
“As He seized it He was changed from a tall
young Man into a great Rattlesnake” 45
The Coyotes at Supper with the Woodpeckers 50
The Isleta Girls grinding Corn with the
“Mano” on the “Metate” 56
The Moon-Maiden 57
The Yellow-Corn-Maidens throwing Meal at the
pearl “Omate” 59
The Grief of Nah-chu-rú-chu 65
“The Witch made Herself very small, and went
behind the Foot of a big Crane” 95
The Hunter and the Lake-man 111
The Cursing of the Lake 119
South, East, North, and West in Search of
Kahp-too-óo-yoo 153
Kahp-too-óo-yoo calling the Rain 158
The Wolf, and the Coyote with the Toothache 183
The Wolf meets the Boys Playing with their
Bows and Arrows 187
“The Fawns appeared suddenly, and at sight of
Them the Wolf dropped the Spoonful of Soup” 191
“There They Stood Side by Side” 225
“‘How Shall I Get It?’ said the Coyote” 229
These illustrations are from drawings by George Wharton Edwards,
after photographs by the author.
TÉE-WAHN FOLK-STORIES
[Illustration: TÉE-WAHN FOLK-STORIES]
THE BROWN STORY-TELLERS
I FANCY that if almost any of us were asked, “When did people begin
to make fairy stories?” our first thought would be, “Why, of course,
after mankind had become civilized, and had invented writing.” But in
truth the making of myths, which is no more than a dignified name for
“fairy stories,” dates back to the childhood of the human race.
Long before Cadmus invented letters (and I fear Cadmus himself was
as much of a myth as was his dragon’s-teeth harvest), long before
there were true historians or poets, there were fairy stories and
story-tellers. And to-day, if we would seek the place where fairy
stories most flourish, we must go, not to the nations whose countless
educated minds are now devoted to story-telling for the young, but
to peoples who have no books, no magazines, no alphabets--even no
pictures.
Of all the aboriginal peoples that remain in North America, none
is richer in folk-lore than the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico, who
are, I believe, next to the largest of the native tribes left in
the United States. They number nine thousand souls. They have
nineteen “cities” (called pueblos, also) in this Territory, and
seven in Arizona; and each has its little outlying colonies. They
are not cities in size, it is true, for the largest (Zuñi) has only
fifteen hundred people, and the smallest only about one hundred; but
cities they are, nevertheless. And each city, with its fields, is a
wee republic--twenty-six of the smallest, and perhaps the oldest,
republics in the world; for they were already such when the first
European eyes saw America. Each has its governor, its congress, its
sheriffs, war-captains, and other officials who are elected annually;
its laws, unwritten but unalterable, which are more respected
and better enforced than the laws of any American community; its
permanent and very comfortable houses, and its broad fields,
confirmed first by Spain and later by patents of the United States.
The architecture of the Pueblo houses is quaint and characteristic.
In the remote pueblos they are as many as six stories in
height--built somewhat in the shape of an enormous terraced pyramid.
The Pueblos along the Rio Grande, however, have felt the influence
of Mexican customs, and their houses have but one and two stories.
All their buildings, including the huge, quaint church which each
pueblo has, are made of stone plastered with adobe mud, or of great,
sun-dried bricks of adobe. They are the most comfortable dwellings in
the Southwest--cool in summer and warm in winter.
The Pueblos are divided into six tribes, each speaking a distinct
language of its own. Isleta, the quaint village where I lived five
years, in an Indian house, with Indian neighbors, and under Indian
laws, is the southernmost of the pueblos, the next largest of them
all, and the chief city of the Tée-wahn tribe.[1] All the languages
of the Pueblo tribes are exceedingly difficult to learn.
[1] Spelled Tigua by Spanish authors.
Besides the cities now inhabited, the ruins of about fifteen hundred
other pueblos--and some of them the noblest ruins in the country--dot
the brown valleys and rocky mesa-tops of New Mexico. All these
ruins are of stone, and are extremely interesting. The implacable
savages by whom they were hemmed in made necessary the abandonment of
hundreds of pueblos; and this great number of ruins does not indicate
a vast ancient population. The Pueblos _never_ counted above 30,000
souls.
The Pueblo Indians have for nearly two centuries given no trouble
to the European sharers of their domain; but their wars of defense
against the savage tribes who surrounded them completely--with the
Apaches, Navajos, Comanches, and Utes--lasted until a very few years
ago. They are valiant fighters for their homes, but prefer any
honorable peace. They are not indolent, but industrious--tilling
their farms, tending their stock, and keeping all their affairs in
order. The women own the houses and their contents, and do not work
outside; and the men control the fields and crops. An unhappy home
is almost an unknown thing among them; and the universal affection
of parents for children and respect of children for parents are
extraordinary. I have never seen a child unkindly treated, a parent
saucily addressed, or a playmate abused, in all my long and intimate
acquaintance with the Pueblos.
Isleta lies on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, upon the western
bank of the Rio Grande, on a lava promontory which was once an
island--whence the town takes its Spanish name. Its Tée-wahn title is
Shee-eh-whíb-bak.[2] Its population, according to the census taken in
1891, is a little less than twelve hundred. It is nearly surrounded
by fertile vineyards, orchards of peaches, apricots, apples,
cherries, plums, pears, and quinces, and fields of corn, wheat,
beans, and peppers, all owned by my dusky neighbors. The pueblo owns
over one hundred and ten thousand acres of land, the greater part of
which is reserved for pasturing horses and cattle.
[2] The name means “Knife-laid-on-the-ground-to-play-_whib_.”
_Whib_ is an aboriginal foot-race in which the runners have to
carry a stick with their toes. The name was perhaps suggested
by the knife-like shape of the lava ridge on which the pueblo
is built.
The people of Isleta are, as a rule, rather short in stature, but
strongly built. All have a magnificent depth and breadth of chest,
and a beautifully confident poise of the head. Most of the men are
very expert hunters, tireless runners, and fine horsemen. Besides
ordinary hunting they have communal hunts--for rabbits in the spring,
for antelope and deer in the fall--thoroughly organized, in which
great quantities of game are killed.
Their amusements are many and varied. Aside from the numerous sacred
dances of the year, their most important occasions, they have various
races which call for great skill and endurance, quaint social
enjoyments, and games of many kinds, some of which are quite as
difficult as chess. They are very fair weavers and pottery-makers.
The women are good housewives, and most of them excellent
seamstresses.
Yet, with all this progress in civilization, despite their mental
and physical acuteness and their excellent moral qualities, the
Tée-wahn are in some things but overgrown children. Their secret
inner religion[3] is one of the most complicated systems on earth.
Besides the highest deities, all the forces of nature, all animals,
as well as many things that are inanimate, are invested by them with
supernatural powers. They do not worship idols, but images and tokens
of unseen powers are revered. They do nothing without some reason,
generally a religious one, and whatever they observe they can explain
in their own superstitious way. Every custom they have and every
belief they own has a reason which to them is all-sufficient; and
for each they have a story. There is no duty to which a Pueblo child
is trained in which he has to be content with the bare command, “Do
thus”; for each he learns a fairy tale designed to explain how people
first came to know that it was right to do thus, and detailing the
sad results which befell those who did otherwise.
[3] For they are all devout, if not entirely understanding,
members of a Christian church; but keep also much of their
prehistoric faiths.
It is from this wonderful folk-lore of the Tée-wahn that I have
learned--after long study of the people, their language, customs,
and myths--and taken, unchanged and unembellished, this series of
Indian fairy tales. I have been extremely careful to preserve, in
my translations, the exact Indian _spirit_. An absolutely literal
translation would be almost unintelligible to English readers, but I
have taken no liberties with the real meaning.
The use of books is not only to tell, but to preserve; not only for
to-day, but for ever. What an Indian wishes to perpetuate must be
saved by tongue and ear, by “telling-down,” as were the world’s first
histories and poems. This oral transmission from father to son is of
sacred importance with the natives. Upon it depends the preservation
of the amusements, the history, the beliefs, the customs, and the
laws of their nation. A people less observant, less accurate of
speech and of memory, would make a sad failure of this sort of
record; but with them it is a wonderful success. The story goes down
from generation to generation, almost without the change of a word.
The fact that it is told in fixed metrical form--a sort of blank
verse--helps the memory.
[Illustration: “AS I COME IN, KINDLY OLD TATA LORENSO IS JUST
BEGINNING A STORY.”]
Here in Isleta, the quaint pueblo of the Tée-wahn, I became
deeply interested not only in the folk-stories themselves, but
also in the manner of handing them down. Winter is the season for
story-telling. Then the thirsty fields no longer cry for water, the
irrigating-ditches have ceased to gnaw at their banks, and the men
are often at leisure. Then, of an evening, if I go over to visit
some _vecino_ (neighbor), I am likely to find, in the great adobe
living-room, a group of very old men and very young boys gathered
about the queer little corner fireplace with its blazing upright
sticks. They, too, have come a-visiting. The young men are gathered
in another corner by themselves, eating roasted corn, and talking in
whispers so as not to disturb their elders, for respect to age is the
corner-stone of all Indian training. They are not required to listen
to the stories, being supposed to know them already.
* * * * *
If in the far, sweet days when I stood at my grandmother’s knee, and
shivered over “Bluebeard,” or thrilled at “Jack the Giant-killer,”
some one could have shown us a picture of me as I was to be listening
to other fairy tales twenty-five years later, I am sure that her eyes
would have opened wide as mine. Certainly neither of us ever dreamed
that, thousands of miles from the old New England fireplace, when the
dear figures that sat with me before its blazing forestick had long
been dust, I would be sitting where I am to-night and listening to
the strange, dark people who are around me.
The room is long and low, and overhead are dark, round rafters--the
trunks of straight pine-trees that used to purr on the sides of the
most famous mountain in New Mexico. The walls are white as snow,
and you would never imagine that they are built only of cut sods,
plastered over and whitewashed. The floor is of adobe clay, packed
almost as hard as a rock, and upon it are bright-hued blankets, woven
in strange figures. Along the walls are benches, with wool mattresses
rolled up and laid upon them. By and by these will be spread upon the
floor for beds, but just now they serve as cushioned seats. Over in
a corner are strange earthen jars of water, with little gourd dippers
floating, and here and there upon the wall hang bows and arrows in
sheaths of the tawny hide of the mountain lion; queer woven belts of
red and green, and heavy necklaces of silver and coral, with charms
of turquoise--the stone that stole its color from the sky.
There is a fireplace, too, and we are gathered all about it, a dozen
or more--for I have become an old friend here. But it is not like
the fireplace where the little sister and I used to roast our apples
and pop our corn. A wee hearth of clay rises a few inches from the
floor; a yard above it hangs the chimney, like a big white hood; and
a little wall, four feet high, runs from it out into the room, that
the wind from the outer door may not blow the ashes. There is no big
front log, but three or four gnarled cedar sticks, standing on one
end, crackle loudly.
Some of us are seated on benches, and upon the floor. His back
against the wall, squats my host, who is just going to begin
another fairy story. Such a wee, withered, wrinkled old man! It
seems as though the hot winds of the Southwest had dried him as
they dry the forgotten last year’s apples that shrivel here and
there upon lonely boughs. He must be a century old. His children,
grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren
are all represented here to-night. Yet his black eyes are like a
hawk’s, under their heavy brows, and his voice is musical and deep.
I have never heard a more eloquent story-teller, and I have heard
some famous ones. I can tell you the words, but not the impressive
tones, the animation of eye and accent, the eloquent gestures of this
venerable Indian as he tells--what? An Indian telling fairy stories?
Yes, indeed. He is the very man to tell them. If this dusky old
playground for wrinkles, who never saw the inside of a book, could
write out all the fairy stories he knows, Webster’s Unabridged
Dictionary would hardly hold them. His father and his father’s
father, and so on back for countless centuries, have handed down
these stories by telling, from generation to generation, just as
Tata[4] Lorenso is telling his great-great-grandsons to-night. When
these boys grow up, they will tell these stories to their sons and
grandsons; and so the legends will pass on and on, so long as there
shall be a Tée-wahn Indian left in all New Mexico.
[4] “Father.”
But Lorenso is ready with his story. He pauses only to make a
cigarette from the material in my pouch (they call me _Por todos_,
because I have tobacco “for all”), explains for my benefit that this
is a story of the beginning of Isleta, pats the head of the chubby
boy at his knee, and begins again.
I
THE ANTELOPE BOY
ONCE upon a time there were two towns of the Tée-wahn, called
Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee (white village) and Nah-choo-rée-too-ee (yellow
village). A man of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee and his wife were attacked by
Apaches while out on the plains one day, and took refuge in a cave,
where they were besieged. And there a boy was born to them. The
father was killed in an attempt to return to his village for help;
and starvation finally forced the mother to crawl forth by night
seeking roots to eat. Chased by the Apaches, she escaped to her own
village, and it was several days before she could return to the
cave--only to find it empty.
The baby had begun to cry soon after her departure. Just then a
Coyote[5] was passing, and heard. Taking pity on the child, he picked
it up and carried it across the plain until he came to a herd of
antelopes. Among them was a Mother-Antelope that had lost her fawn;
and going to her the Coyote said:
[5] The small prairie-wolf.
“Here is an _ah-bóo_ (poor thing) that is left by its people. Will
you take care of it?”
The Mother-Antelope, remembering her own baby, with tears said
“Yes,” and at once adopted the tiny stranger, while the Coyote
thanked her and went home.
So the boy became as one of the antelopes, and grew up among them
until he was about twelve years old. Then it happened that a hunter
came out from Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee for antelopes, and found this herd.
Stalking them carefully, he shot one with an arrow. The rest started
off, running like the wind; but ahead of them all, as long as they
were in sight, he saw a boy! The hunter was much surprised, and,
shouldering his game, walked back to the village, deep in thought.
Here he told the Cacique[6] what he had seen. Next day the crier was
sent out to call upon all the people to prepare for a great hunt, in
four days, to capture the Indian boy who lived with the antelopes.
[6] The highest religious official.
While preparations were going on in the village, the antelopes
in some way heard of the intended hunt and its purpose. The
Mother-Antelope was very sad when she heard it, and at first would
say nothing. But at last she called her adopted son to her and said:
“Son, you have heard that the people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee are coming
to hunt. But they will not kill us; all they wish is to take you.
They will surround us, intending to let all the antelopes escape
from the circle. You must follow me where I break through the line,
and your real mother will be coming on the northeast side in a white
_manta_ (robe). I will pass close to her, and you must stagger and
fall where she can catch you.”
On the fourth day all the people went out upon the plains. They
found and surrounded the herd of antelopes, which ran about in a
circle when the hunters closed upon them. The circle grew smaller,
and the antelopes began to break through; but the hunters paid no
attention to them, keeping their eyes upon the boy. At last he and
his antelope mother were the only ones left, and when she broke
through the line on the northeast he followed her and fell at the
feet of his own human mother, who sprang forward and clasped him in
her arms.
Amid great rejoicing he was taken to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee, and there he
told the _principales_[7] how he had been left in the cave, how the
Coyote had pitied him, and how the Mother-Antelope had reared him as
her own son.
[7] The old men who are the congress of the pueblo.
It was not long before all the country round about heard of the
Antelope Boy and of his marvelous fleetness of foot. You must know
that the antelopes never comb their hair, and while among them
the boy’s head had grown very bushy. So the people called him
_Pée-hleh-o-wah-wée-deh_ (big-headed little boy).
[Illustration: THE COYOTE CARRIES THE BABY TO THE ANTELOPE
MOTHER.]
Among the other villages that heard of his prowess was
Nah-choo-rée-too-ee, all of whose people “had the bad road.”[8] They
had a wonderful runner named _Pée-k’hoo_ (Deer-foot), and very soon
they sent a challenge to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee for a championship race.
Four days were to be given for preparation, to make bets, and the
like. The race was to be around the world.[9] Each village was to
stake all its property and the lives of all its people on the result
of the race. So powerful were the witches of Nah-choo-rée-too-ee that
they felt safe in proposing so serious a stake; and the people of
Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee were ashamed to decline the challenge.
[8] That is, were witches.
[9] The Pueblos believed it was an immense plain whereon the
racers were to race over a square course--to the extreme
east, then to the extreme north, and so on, back to the
starting-point.
The day came, and the starting-point was surrounded by all the people
of the two villages, dressed in their best. On each side were huge
piles of ornaments and dresses, stores of grain, and all the other
property of the people. The runner for the yellow village was a tall,
sinewy athlete, strong in his early manhood; and when the Antelope
Boy appeared for the other side, the witches set up a howl of
derision, and began to strike their rivals and jeer at them, saying,
“Pooh! We might as well begin to kill you now! What can that _óo-deh_
(little thing) do?”
* * * * *
At the word “_Hái-ko!_” (“Go!”) the two runners started toward
the east like the wind. The Antelope Boy soon forged ahead; but
Deer-foot, by his witchcraft, changed himself into a hawk and flew
lightly over the lad, saying, “_We_ do this way to each other!”[10]
The Antelope Boy kept running, but his heart was very heavy, for he
knew that no feet could equal the swift flight of the hawk.
[10] A common Indian taunt, either good-natured or bitter, to
the loser of a game or to a conquered enemy.
But just as he came half-way to the east, a Mole came up from its
burrow and said:
“My son, where are you going so fast with a sad face?”
The lad explained that the race was for the property and lives of all
his people; and that the witch-runner had turned to a hawk and left
him far behind.
[Illustration: RAIN FALLS ON PÉE-K’HOO.]
“Then, my son,” said the Mole, “I will be he that shall help you.
Only sit down here a little while, and I will give you something to
carry.”
The boy sat down, and the Mole dived into the hole, but soon came
back with four cigarettes.[11]
[11] These are made by putting a certain weed called
_pee-én-hleh_ into hollow reeds.
Holding them out, the Mole said, “Now, my son, when you have reached
the east and turned north, smoke one; when you have reached the north
and turn west, smoke another; when you turn south, another, and when
you turn east again, another. _Hái-ko!_”
The boy ran on, and soon reached the east. Turning his face to the
north he smoked the first cigarette. No sooner was it finished than
he became a young antelope; and at the same instant a furious rain
began. Refreshed by the cool drops, he started like an arrow from the
bow. Half-way to the north he came to a large tree; and there sat the
hawk, drenched and chilled, unable to fly, and crying piteously.
“Now, friend, _we_ too do this to each other,” called the
boy-antelope as he dashed past. But just as he reached the north,
the hawk--which had become dry after the short rain--caught up and
passed him, saying, “We too do this to each other!” The boy-antelope
turned westward, and smoked the second cigarette; and at once another
terrific rain began.[12] Half-way to the west he again passed the
hawk shivering and crying in a tree, and unable to fly; but as
he was about to turn to the south, the hawk passed him with the
customary taunt. The smoking of the third cigarette brought another
storm, and again the antelope passed the wet hawk half-way, and
again the hawk dried its feathers in time to catch up and pass him
as he was turning to the east for the home-stretch. Here again the
boy-antelope stopped and smoked a cigarette--the fourth and last.
Again a short, hard rain came, and again he passed the water-bound
hawk half-way.
[12] I should state, by the way, that the cigarette plays an
important part in the Pueblo folk-stories,--they never had the
pipe of the Northern Indians,--and all rain-clouds are supposed
to come from its smoke.
[Illustration: “THE TWO RUNNERS CAME SWEEPING DOWN THE
HOME-STRETCH, STRAINING EVERY NERVE.”]
Knowing the witchcraft of their neighbors, the people of
Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee had made the condition that, in whatever shape
the racers might run the rest of the course, they must resume human
form upon arrival at a certain hill upon the fourth turn, which was
in sight of the goal. The last wetting of the hawk’s feathers delayed
it so that the antelope reached the hill just ahead; and there,
resuming their natural shapes, the two runners came sweeping down
the home-stretch, straining every nerve. But the Antelope Boy gained
at each stride. When they saw him, the witch-people felt confident
that he was their champion, and again began to push, and taunt, and
jeer at the others. But when the little Antelope Boy sprang lightly
across the line, far ahead of Deer-foot, their joy turned to mourning.
The people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee burned all the witches upon the
spot, in a great pile of corn; but somehow one escaped, and from him
come all the witches that trouble us to this day.
The property of the witches was taken to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee; and as
it was more than that village could hold, the surplus was sent to
Shee-eh-whíb-bak (Isleta), where we enjoy it to this day; and later
the people themselves moved here. And even now, when we dig in that
little hill on the other side of the _charco_ (pool), we find charred
corn-cobs, where our forefathers burned the witch-people of the
yellow village.
During Lorenso’s story the black eyes of the boys have never left
his face; and at every pause they have made the customary response,
“Is that so?” to show their attention; while the old men have nodded
approbation, and smoked in deep silence.
Now Lorenso turns to Desiderio,[13] who is far more wrinkled even
than he, and says, “You have a tail, brother.” And Desiderio,
clearing his throat and making a new cigarette with great
impressiveness, begins: “My sons, do you know why the Coyote and the
Crows are always at war? No? Then I will tell you.”
[13] Pronounced Day-see-dáy-ree-oh.
II
THE COYOTE AND THE CROWS
ONCE on a time many Káh-ahn lived in the edge of some woods. A little
out into the plain stood a very large tree, with much sand under it.
One day a Coyote was passing, and heard the Crows singing and dancing
under this tree, and came up to watch them. They were dancing in a
circle, and each Crow had upon his back a large bag.
“Crow-friends, what are you doing?” asked the Coyote, who was much
interested.
“Oh, we are dancing with our mothers,” said the Crows.
“How pretty! And will you let me dance, too?” asked the Coyote of the
_too-whit-lah-wid-deh_ crow (captain of the dance).
“Oh, yes,” replied the Crow. “Go and put your mother in a bag and
come to the dance.”
The Coyote went running home. There his old mother was sitting in
the corner of the fireplace. The stupid Coyote picked up a stick and
struck her on the head, and put her in a bag, and hurried back to the
dance with her.
The Crows were dancing merrily, and singing: “_Ai nana, que-ée-rah,
que-ée-rah_.” (“Alas, Mama! you are shaking, you are shaking!”) The
Coyote joined the dance, with the bag on his back, and sang as the
Crows did:
“_Ai nana, que-ée-rah, que-ée-rah_.”[14]
[14] _Ai nana_ is an exclamation always used by mourners.
But at last the Crows burst out laughing, and said, “What do you
bring in your bag?”
“My mother, as you told me,” replied the Coyote, showing them.
Then the Crows emptied their bags, which were filled with nothing but
sand, and flew up into the tree, laughing.
The Coyote then saw that they had played him a trick, and started
home, crying “_Ai nana!_” When he got home he took his mother from
the bag and tried to set her up in the chimney-corner, always crying,
“_Ai nana_, why don’t you sit up as before?” But she could not, for
she was dead. When he found that she could not sit up any more, he
vowed to follow the Crows and eat them all the rest of his life; and
from that day to this he has been hunting them, and they are always
at war.
As Desiderio concludes, the old men hitch their blankets around their
shoulders. “No more stories to-night?” I ask; and Lorenso says:
“_In-dáh_ (no). Now it is to go to bed. _Tóo-kwai_ (come),” to the
boys. “Good night, friends. Another time, perhaps.”
And we file out through the low door into the starry night.
III
THE WAR-DANCE OF THE MICE
TO-NIGHT it is withered Diego[15] who begins with his story, in the
musical but strange Tée-wahn tongue, of “Shée-choon t’o-ah-fuar.”
Serious as that looks, it means only “the war-dance of the Mice.”
[15] Pronounced Dee-áy-go.
Once upon a time there was war between the people of Isleta and
the Mice. There was a great battle, in which the Tée-wahn killed
many Mice and took their scalps. Then the Tée-wahn returned to
their village, and the warriors went into the _estufa_ (sacred
council-chamber) to prepare themselves by fasting for the great
scalp-dance in twelve days. While the warriors were sitting inside,
the Mice came secretly by night to attack the town, and their spies
crept up to the _estufa_. When all the Tée-wahn warriors had fallen
asleep, the Mice came stealing down the big ladder into the room, and
creeping from sleeper to sleeper, they gnawed every bowstring and cut
the feathers from the arrows and the strap of every sling. When this
was done, the Mice raised a terrible war-whoop and rushed upon the
warriors, brandishing their spears. The Tée-wahn woke and caught up
their bows and arrows, but only to find them useless. So the warriors
could do nothing but run from their tiny foes, and up the ladder
to the roof they rushed pell-mell and thence fled to their homes,
leaving the Mice victorious.
The rest of the town made such fun of the warriors that they refused
to return to the fight; and the elated Mice held a public dance
in front of the _estufa_. A brave sight it was, the army of these
little people, singing and dancing and waving their spears. They were
dressed in red blankets, with leather leggings glistening with silver
buttons from top to bottom, and gay moccasins. Each had two eagle
feathers tied to the top of his spear--the token of victory. And as
they danced and marched and counter-marched, they sang exultingly:
_Shée-oh-pah ch’-ót-im!
Neh-máh-hlee-oh ch’-ot-im!
Hló-tu feé-ny p’-óh-teh!_
over and over again--which means
Quick we cut the bowstring!
Quick we cut the sling-strap!
We shaved the arrow-feathers off!
For four days they danced and sang, and on the night of the fourth
day danced all night around a big bonfire. The next morning they
marched away. That was the time when the Mice conquered men; and that
is the reason why we have never been able to drive the Mice out of
our homes to this day.
“Is _that_ the reason?” ask all the boys, who have been listening
with big black eyes intent.
“That is the very reason,” says withered Diego. “Now, _compadre_
Antonio, there is a tail to you.”
Antonio, thus called upon, cannot refuse. Indian etiquette is very
strict upon this point--as well as upon all others. So he fishes in
his memory for a story, while the boys turn expectant faces toward
him. He is not nearly so wrinkled as Diego, but he is very, very old,
and his voice is a little tremulous at first. Wrapping his blanket
about him, he begins:
Then I will tell you why the Coyote and the Blackbirds are
enemies--for once they were very good friends in the old days.
IV
THE COYOTE AND THE BLACKBIRDS
ONCE upon a time a Coyote lived near an open wood. As he went to
walk one day near the edge of the wood, he heard the Blackbirds (the
Indian name means “seeds of the prairie”) calling excitedly:
“Bring my bag! Bring my bag! It is going to hail!”
The Coyote, being very curious, came near and saw that they all had
buckskin bags to which they were tying lassos, the other ends of
which were thrown over the boughs of the trees. Very much surprised,
the Coyote came to them and asked:
“Blackbird-friends, what are you doing?”
“Oh, friend Coyote,” they replied, “we are making ourselves ready,
for soon there will be a very hard hail-storm, and we do not wish
to be pelted to death. We are going to get into these bags and pull
ourselves up under the branches, where the hail cannot strike us.”
“That is very good,” said the Coyote, “and I would like to do so,
too, if you will let me join you.”
“Oh, yes! Just run home and get a bag and a lasso, and come back here
and we will help you,” said the Pah-táhn, never smiling.
So the Coyote started running for home, and got a large bag and a
lasso, and came back to the Blackbirds, who were waiting. They fixed
the rope and bag for him, putting the noose around the neck of the
bag so that it would be closed tight when the rope was pulled. Then
they threw the end of the lasso over a strong branch and said:
“Now, friend Coyote, you get into your bag first, for you are so big
and heavy that you cannot pull yourself up, and we will have to help
you.”
The Coyote crawled into the bag, and all the Blackbirds taking hold
of the rope, pulled with all their might till the bag was swung clear
up under the branch. Then they tied the end of the lasso around the
tree so the bag could not come down, and ran around picking up all
the pebbles they could find.
“Mercy! How the hail comes!” they cried excitedly, and began to throw
stones at the swinging bag as hard as ever they could.
“Mercy!” howled the Coyote, as the pebbles pattered against him. “But
this is a terrible storm, Blackbird-friends! It pelts me dreadfully!
And how are you getting along?”
“It is truly very bad, friend Coyote,” they answered, “but you are
bigger and stronger than we, and ought to endure it.” And they kept
pelting him, all the time crying and chattering as if they, too, were
suffering greatly from the hail.
“Ouch!” yelled the Coyote. “That one hit me very near the eye,
friends! I fear this evil storm will kill us all!”
“But be brave, friend,” called back the Blackbirds. “We keep our
hearts, and so should you, for you are much stronger than we.” And
they pelted him all the harder.
So they kept it up until they were too tired to throw any more; and
as for the Coyote, he was so bruised and sore that he could hardly
move. Then they untied the rope and let the bag slowly to the ground,
and loosened the noose at the neck and flew up into the trees with
sober faces.
“Ow!” groaned the Coyote, “I am nearly dead!” And he crawled weeping
and groaning from the bag, and began to lick his bruises. But when
he looked around and saw the sun shining and the ground dry, and not
a hailstone anywhere, he knew that the Blackbirds had given him a
trick, and he limped home in a terrible rage, vowing that as soon as
ever he got well he would follow and eat the Blackbirds as long as he
lived. And ever since, even to this day, he has been following them
to eat them, and that is why the Coyote and the Blackbirds are always
at war.
“Is that so?” cried all the boys in chorus, their eyes shining like
coals.
“Oh, yes, that is the cause of the war,” said old Antonio, gravely.
“And now, brother, there is a tail to you,” turning to the tall,
gray-haired Felipe[16]; and clearing his throat, Felipe begins about
the Coyote and the Bear.
[16] Pronounced Fay-lée-peh.
V
THE COYOTE AND THE BEAR[17]
[17] The Coyote, you must know, is very stupid about some
things; and in almost all Pueblo fairy stories is the victim of
one joke or another. The bear, on the other hand, is one of the
wisest of animals.
ONCE upon a time Ko-íd-deh (the Bear) and Too-wháy-deh (the Coyote)
chanced to meet at a certain spot, and sat down to talk. After a
while the Bear said:
“Friend Coyote, do you see what good land this is here? What do you
say if we farm it together, sharing our labor and the crop?”
The Coyote thought well of it, and said so; and after talking, they
agreed to plant potatoes in partnership.
“Now,” said the Bear, “I think of a good way to divide the crop. I
will take all that grows below the ground, and you take all that
grows above it. Then each can take away his share when he is ready,
and there will be no trouble to measure.”
The Coyote agreed, and when the time came they plowed the place
with a sharp stick and planted their potatoes. All summer they
worked together in the field, hoeing down the weeds with stone hoes
and letting in water now and then from the irrigating-ditch. When
harvest-time came, the Coyote went and cut off all the potato-tops at
the ground and carried them home, and afterward the Bear scratched
out the potatoes from the ground with his big claws and took them to
his house. When the Coyote saw this his eyes were opened, and he said:
“But this is not fair. You have those round things, which are good to
eat, but what I took home we cannot eat at all, neither my wife nor
I.”
“But, friend Coyote,” answered the Bear, gravely, “did we not make an
agreement? Then we must stick to it like men.”
The Coyote could not answer, and went home; but he was not satisfied.
The next spring, as they met one day, the Bear said:
“Come, friend Coyote, I think we ought to plant this good land
again, and this time let us plant it in corn. But last year you were
dissatisfied with your share, so this year we will change. You take
what is below the ground for your share, and I will take only what
grows above.”
This seemed very fair to the Coyote, and he agreed. They plowed
and planted and tended the corn; and when it came harvest-time the
Bear gathered all the stalks and ears and carried them home. When
the Coyote came to dig his share, he found nothing but roots like
threads, which were good for nothing. He was very much dissatisfied;
but the Bear reminded him of their agreement, and he could say
nothing.
That winter the Coyote was walking one day by the river (the Rio
Grande), when he saw the Bear sitting on the ice and eating a fish.
The Coyote was very fond of fish, and coming up, he said:
“Friend Bear, where did you get such a fat fish?”
“Oh, I broke a hole in the ice,” said the Bear, “and fished for them.
There are many here.” And he went on eating, without offering any to
the Coyote.
“Won’t you show me how, friend?” asked the Coyote, fainting with
hunger at the smell of the fish.
“Oh, yes,” said the Bear. “It is very easy.” And he broke a hole in
the ice with his paw. “Now, friend Coyote, sit down and let your tail
hang in the water, and very soon you will feel a nibble. But you must
not pull it till I tell you.”
So the Coyote sat down with his tail in the cold water. Soon the ice
began to form around it, and he called:
“Friend Bear, I feel a bite! Let me pull him out.”
“No, no! Not yet!” cried the Bear, “wait till he gets a good hold,
and then you will not lose him.”
So the Coyote waited. In a few minutes the hole was frozen solid, and
his tail was fast.
“Now, friend Coyote,” called the Bear, “I think you have him. Pull!”
The Coyote pulled with all his might, but could not lift his tail
from the ice, and there he was--a prisoner. While he pulled and
howled, the Bear shouted with laughter, and rolled on the ice and
ha-ha’d till his sides were sore. Then he took his fish and went
home, stopping every little to laugh at the thought of the Coyote.
There on the ice the Coyote had to stay until a thaw liberated him,
and when he got home he was very wet and cold and half starved. And
from that day to this he has never forgiven the Bear, and will not
even speak to him when they meet, and the Bear says, politely, “Good
morning, friend Too-wháy-deh.”
“Is that so?” cry the boys.
“That is so,” says Felipe. “But now it is time to go home.
_Tóo-kwai!_”
The story-telling is over for to-night. Grandmother Reyes is
unrolling the mattresses upon the floor; and with pleasant
“good-nights” we scatter for our homes here and there in the quaint
adobe village.
[Illustration: THE FIRST OF THE RATTLESNAKES]
VI
THE FIRST OF THE RATTLESNAKES
“NOW there is a tail to you, _compadre_ [friend],” said old
Desiderio, nodding at Patricio[18] after we had sat awhile in silence
around the crackling fire.
[18] Pronounced Pah-trée-see-oh.
Patricio had a broad strip of rawhide across his knee, and was
scraping the hair from it with a dull knife. It was high time to be
thinking of new soles, for already there was a wee hole in the bottom
of each of his moccasins; and as for Benito, his shy little grandson,
_his_ toes were all abroad.
But shrilly as the cold night-wind outside hinted the wisdom of
speedy cobbling, Patricio had no wish to acquire that burro’s tail,
so, laying the rawhide and knife upon the floor beside him, he
deliberately rolled a modest pinch of the aromatic _koo-ah-rée_ in a
corn-husk, lighted it at the coals, and drew Benito’s tousled head to
his side.
“You have heard,” he said, with a slow puff, “about Nah-chu-rú-chu,
the mighty medicine-man who lived here in Isleta in the times of the
ancients?”
“_Ah-h!_” (Yes) cried all the boys. “You have promised to tell us how
he married the moon!”
“Another time I will do so. But now I shall tell you something that
was before that--for Nah-chu-rú-chu had many strange adventures
before he married Páh-hlee-oh, the Moon-Mother. Do you know why the
rattlesnake--which is the king of all snakes and alone has the power
of death in his mouth--always shakes his _guaje_[19] before he bites?”
[19] The Pueblo sacred rattle.
“_Een-dah!_” chorused Ramón and Benito, and Fat Juan, and Tomás,[20]
very eagerly; for they were particularly fond of hearing about the
exploits of the greatest of Tée-wahn medicine-men.
[20] Pronounced Rah-móhn, Bay-née-toh, Whahn, Toh-máhs.
“Listen, then, and you shall hear.”
* * * * *
In those days Nah-chu-rú-chu had a friend who lived in a pueblo
nearer the foot of the Eagle-Feather Mountain than this, in the Place
of the Red Earth, where still are its ruins; and the two young men
went often to the mountain together to bring wood and to hunt. Now,
Nah-chu-rú-chu had a white heart, and never thought ill; but the
friend had the evil road and became jealous, for Nah-chu-rú-chu was
a better hunter. But he said nothing, and made as if he still loved
Nah-chu-rú-chu truly.
One day the friend came over from his village and said:
“Friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, let us go to-morrow for wood and to have a
hunt.”
“It is well,” replied Nah-chu-rú-chu. Next morning he started very
early and came to the village of his friend; and together they went
to the mountain. When they had gathered much wood, and lashed it in
bundles for carrying, they started off in opposite directions to
hunt. In a short time each returned with a fine fat deer.
“But why should we hasten to go home, friend Nah-chu-rú-chu?” said
the friend. “It is still early, and we have much time. Come, let us
stop here and amuse ourselves with a game.”
“It is well, friend,” answered Nah-chu-rú-chu; “but what game shall
we play? For we have neither _pa-toles_, nor hoops, nor any other
game here.”
“See! we will roll the _mah-khúr_,[21] for while I was waiting for
you I made one that we might play”--and the false friend drew from
beneath his blanket a pretty painted hoop; but really he had made
it at home, and had brought it hidden, on purpose to do harm to
Nah-chu-rú-chu.
[21] The game of _mah-khúr_, which the Pueblos learned from
the Apaches many centuries ago, is a very simple one, but is
a favorite with all witches as a snare for those whom they
would injure. A small hoop of willow is painted gaily, and has
ornamental buckskin thongs stretched across it from side to
side, spoke-fashion. The challenger to a game rolls the hoop
rapidly past the challenged, who must throw a lance through
between the spokes before it ceases to roll.
[Illustration: “AS HE CAUGHT THE HOOP HE WAS INSTANTLY CHANGED
INTO A POOR COYOTE!”]
“Now go down there and catch it when I roll it,” said he; and
Nah-chu-rú-chu did so. But as he caught the hoop when it came
rolling, he was no longer Nah-chu-rú-chu the brave hunter, but a poor
Coyote with great tears rolling down his nose!
“Hu!” said the false friend, tauntingly, “we do this to each other!
So now you have all the plains to wander over, to the north, and
west, and south; but you can never go to the east. And if you are not
lucky, the dogs will tear you; but if you are lucky, they may have
pity on you. So now good-by, for this is the last I shall ever see of
you.”
Then the false friend went away, laughing, to his village; and the
poor Coyote wandered aimlessly, weeping to think that he had been
betrayed by the one he had loved and trusted as a brother. For four
days he prowled about the outskirts of Isleta, looking wistfully at
his home. The fierce dogs ran out to tear him; but when they came
near they only sniffed at him, and went away without hurting him. He
could find nothing to eat save dry bones, and old thongs or soles of
moccasins.
On the fourth day he turned westward, and wandered until he came to
Mesita.[22] There was no town of the Lagunas there then, and only a
shepherd’s hut and corral, in which were an old Quères Indian and his
grandson, tending their goats.
[22] An outlying colony of Laguna, forty miles from Isleta.
Next morning when the grandson went out very early to let the goats
from the corral, he saw a Coyote run out from among the goats. It
went off a little way, and then sat down and watched him. The boy
counted the goats, and none were missing, and he thought it strange.
But he said nothing to his grandfather.
For three more mornings the very same thing happened; and on the
fourth morning the boy told his grandfather. The old man came out,
and set the dogs after the Coyote, which was sitting a little way
off; but when they came near they would not touch him.
“I suspect there is something wrong here,” said the old shepherd; and
he called: “Coyote, are you coyote-true, or are you people?”
But the Coyote could not answer; and the old man called again:
“Coyote, are you people?”
At that the Coyote nodded his head, “Yes.”
“If that is so, come here and be not afraid of us; for we will be the
ones to help you out of this trouble.”
So the Coyote came to them and licked their hands, and they gave it
food--for it was dying of hunger. When it was fed, the old man said:
“Now, son, you are going out with the goats along the creek, and
there you will see some willows. With your mind look at two willows,
and mark them; and to-morrow morning you must go and bring one of
them.”
The boy went away tending the goats, and the Coyote stayed with the
old man. Next morning, when they awoke very early, they saw all the
earth wrapped in a white _manta_.[23]
[23] This figure is always used by the Pueblos in speaking of
snow in connection with sacred things.
[Illustration: “COYOTE, ARE YOU PEOPLE?”]
“Now, son,” said the old man, “you must wear only your moccasins
and breech-clout, and go like a man to the two willows you marked
yesterday. To one of them you must pray; and then cut the other and
bring it to me.”
The boy did so and came back with the willow stick. The old man
prayed, and made a _mah-khúr_ hoop; and bidding the Coyote stand a
little way off and stick his head through the hoop before it should
stop rolling, rolled it toward him. The Coyote waited till the hoop
came very close, and gave a great jump and put his head through it
before it could stop. And lo! there stood Nah-chu-rú-chu, young and
handsome as ever; but his beautiful suit of fringed buckskin was all
in rags. For four days he stayed there and was cleansed with the
cleansing of the medicine-man; and then the old shepherd said to him:
“Now, friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, there is a road.[24] But take with you
this _faja_,[25] for though your power is great, you have submitted
to this evil. When you get home, he who did this to you will be first
to know, and he will come pretending to be your friend, as if he had
done nothing; and he will ask you to go hunting again. So you must
go; and when you come to the mountain, with this _faja_ you shall
repay him.”
[24] That is, you can go home.
[25] A fine woven belt, with figures in red and green.
Nah-chu-rú-chu thanked the kind old shepherd, and started home. But
when he came to the Bad Hill and looked down into the valley of the
Rio Grande, his heart sank. All the grass and fields and trees were
dry and dead--for Nah-chu-rú-chu was the medicine-man who controlled
the clouds, so no rain could fall when he was gone; and the eight
days he had been a Coyote were in truth eight years. The river was
dry, and the springs; and many of the people were dead from thirst,
and the rest were dying. But as Nah-chu-rú-chu came down the hill, it
began to rain again, and all the people were glad.
When he came into the pueblo, all the famishing people came out to
welcome him. And soon came the false friend, making as if he had
never bewitched him nor had known whither he disappeared.
In a few days the false friend came again to propose a hunt; and
next morning they went to the mountain together. Nah-chu-rú-chu had
the pretty _faja_ wound around his waist; and when the wind blew his
blanket aside, the other saw it.
“Ay! What a pretty _faja_!” cried the false friend. “Give it to me,
friend Nah-chu-rú-chu.”
“_Een-dah!_” (No) said Nah-chu-rú-chu. But the false friend begged so
hard that at last he said:
“Then I will roll it to you; and if you can catch it before it
unwinds, you may have it.”
So he wound it up,[26] and holding by one end gave it a push so that
it ran away from him, unrolling as it went. The false friend jumped
for it, but it was unrolled before he caught it.
[26] Like a roll of tape.
“_Een-dah!_” said Nah-chu-rú-chu, pulling it back. “If you do not
care enough for it to be spryer than that, you cannot have it.”
[Illustration: “AS HE SEIZED IT HE WAS CHANGED FROM A TALL
YOUNG MAN INTO A GREAT RATTLESNAKE.”]
The false friend begged for another trial; so Nah-chu-rú-chu
rolled it again. This time the false friend caught it before it was
unrolled; and lo! instead of a tall young man, there lay a great
rattlesnake with tears rolling from his lidless eyes!
“We, too, do this to each other!” said Nah-chu-rú-chu. He took from
his medicine-pouch a pinch of the sacred meal and laid it on the
snake’s flat head for its food; and then a pinch of the corn-pollen
to tame it.[27] And the snake ran out its red forked tongue, and
licked them.
[27] This same spell is still used here by the _Hee-but-hái_,
or snake-charmers.
“Now,” said Nah-chu-rú-chu, “this mountain and all rocky places shall
be your home. But you can never again do to another harm, without
warning, as you did to me. For see, there is a _guaje_[28] in your
tail, and whenever you would do any one an injury, you must warn them
beforehand with your rattle.”
[28] Pronounced Gwáh-heh.
“And is that the reason why Ch’ah-rah-ráh-deh always rattles to give
warning before he bites?” asked Fat Juan, who is now quite as often
called Juan Biscocho (John Biscuit), since I photographed him one day
crawling out of the big adobe bake-oven where he had been hiding.
“That is the very reason. Then Nah-chu-rú-chu left his false friend,
from whom all the rattlesnakes are descended, and came back to his
village. From that time all went well with Isleta, for Nah-chu-rú-chu
was at home again to attend to the clouds. There was plenty of rain,
and the river began to run again, and the springs flowed. The people
plowed and planted again, as they had not been able to do for several
years, and all their work prospered. As for the people who lived in
the Place of the Red Earth, they all moved down here,[29] because the
Apaches were very bad; and here their descendants live to this day.”
[29] It is a proved fact that there was such a migration.
“Is that so?” sighed all the boys in chorus, sorry that the story was
so soon done.
“That is so,” replied old Patricio. “And now, _compadre_ Antonio,
there is a tail to you.”
“Well, then, I will tell a story which they showed me in Taos[30]
last year,” said the old man.
[30] The most northern of the Pueblo cities. Its people are
also Tée-wahn.
“Ah-h!” said the boys.
“It is about the Coyote and the Woodpecker.”
VII
THE COYOTE AND THE WOODPECKER
WELL, once upon a time a Coyote and his family lived near the
edge of a wood. There was a big hollow tree there, and in it
lived an old Woodpecker and his wife and children. One day as the
Coyote-father was strolling along the edge of the forest he met the
Woodpecker-father.
“_Hin-no-kah-kée-ma_” (Good evening), said the Coyote; “how do you do
to-day, friend Hloo-rée-deh?”
“Very well, thank you; and how are you, friend Too-wháy-deh?”
So they stopped and talked together awhile; and when they were about
to go apart the Coyote said:
“Friend Woodpecker, why do you not come as friends to see us? Come to
our house to supper this evening, and bring your family.”
“Thank you, friend Coyote,” said the Woodpecker; “we will come with
joy.”
[Illustration: THE COYOTES AT SUPPER WITH THE WOODPECKERS.]
So that evening, when the Coyote-mother had made supper ready, there
came the Woodpecker-father and the Woodpecker-mother with their
three children. When they had come in, all five of the Woodpeckers
stretched themselves as they do after flying, and by that showed
their pretty feathers--for the Hloo-rée-deh has yellow and red marks
under its wings. While they were eating supper, too, they sometimes
spread their wings, and displayed their bright under-side. They
praised the supper highly, and said the Coyote-mother was a perfect
housekeeper. When it was time to go, they thanked the Coyotes very
kindly and invited them to come to supper at their house the
following evening. But when they were gone, the Coyote-father could
hold himself no longer, and he said:
“Did you see what airs those Woodpeckers put on? Always showing off
their bright feathers? But I want them to know that the Coyotes are
equal to them. _I’ll_ show them!”
Next day, the Coyote-father had all his family at work bringing wood,
and built a great fire in front of his house. When it was time to go
to the house of the Woodpeckers he called his wife and children to
the fire, and lashed a burning stick under each of their arms, with
the burning end pointing forward; and then he fixed himself in the
same way.
“Now,” said he, “we will show them! When we get there, you must lift
up your arms now and then, to show them that we are as good as the
Woodpeckers.”
When they came to the house of the Woodpeckers and went in, all the
Coyotes kept lifting their arms often, to show the bright coals
underneath. But as they sat down to supper, one Coyote-girl gave a
shriek and said:
“Oh, _tata_! My fire is burning me!”
“Be patient, my daughter,” said the Coyote-father, severely, “and do
not cry about little things.”
“Ow!” cried the other Coyote-girl in a moment, “my fire has gone out!”
This was more than the Coyote-father could stand, and he reproved her
angrily.
“But how is it, friend Coyote,” said the Woodpecker, politely, “that
your colors are so bright at first, but very soon become black?”
“Oh, that is the beauty of our colors,” replied the Coyote,
smothering his rage; “that they are not always the same--like other
people’s--but turn all shades.”
But the Coyotes were very uncomfortable, and made an excuse to hurry
home as soon as they could. When they got there, the Coyote-father
whipped them all for exposing him to be laughed at. But the
Woodpecker-father gathered his children around him, and said:
“Now, my children, you see what the Coyotes have done. Never in your
life try to appear what you are not. Be just what you really are, and
put on no false colors.”
* * * * *
“Is that so?” cried the boys.
“That is so; and it is as true for people as for birds. Now,
_tóo-kwai_--for it is bedtime.”
[Illustration: THE MAN WHO MARRIED THE MOON]
VIII
THE MAN WHO MARRIED THE MOON
AMONG the principal heroes of the Tée-wahn folk-lore, I hear of none
more frequently in the winter story-tellings to which my aboriginal
neighbors admit me, than the mighty Nah-chu-rú-chu. To this day his
name, which means “The Bluish Light of Dawn,” is deeply revered by
the quaint people who claim him as one of their forefathers. He had
no parents, for he was created by the Trues themselves, and by them
was given such extraordinary powers as were second only to their own.
His wonderful feats and startling adventures--as still related by
the believing Isleteños--would fill a volume. One of these fanciful
myths has interested me particularly, not only for its important
bearing on certain ethnological matters, but for its intrinsic
qualities as well. It is a thoroughly characteristic leaf from the
legendary lore of the Southwest.
Long before the first Spaniards came to New Mexico (and _that_ was
three hundred and fifty years ago) Isleta stood where it stands
to-day--on a lava ridge that defies the gnawing current of the Rio
Grande.[31] In those far days, Nah-chu-rú-chu dwelt in Isleta, and
was a leader of his people. A weaver by trade,[32] his rude loom hung
from the dark rafters of his room; and in it he wove the strong black
_mantas_ which are the dress of Pueblo women to this day.
[31] Bandelier has published a contrary opinion, to which I do
not think he would now cling. The folk-lore and the very name
of the town fully prove to me that its site has not changed in
historic times.
[32] In the ancient days, weaving was practised only by the
men, among the Pueblos. This old usage is now reversed, and it
is the women who weave, except in the pueblos of Moqui.
Besides being very wise in medicine, Nah-chu-rú-chu was young, and
tall, and strong, and handsome; and all the girls of the village
thought it a shame that he did not care to take a wife. For him the
shyest dimples played, for him the whitest teeth flashed out, as the
owners passed him in the plaza; but he had no eyes for them. Then,
in the naïve custom of the Tée-wahn, bashful fingers worked wondrous
fringed shirts of buckskin, or gay awl-sheaths, which found their way
to his house by unknown messengers--each as much as to say, “She
who made this is yours, if you will have her.” But Nah-chu-rú-chu
paid no more attention to the gifts than to the smiles, and just kept
weaving and weaving such _mantas_ as were never seen in the land of
the Tée-wahn before or since.
The most persistent of his admirers were two sisters who were called
_Ee-eh-chóo-ri-ch’áhm-nin_--the Yellow-Corn-Maidens. They were both
young and pretty, but they “had the evil road”--which is the Indian
way of saying that they were possessed of a magic power which they
always used for ill. When all the other girls gave up, discouraged at
Nah-chu-rú-chu’s indifference, the Yellow-Corn-Maidens kept coming
day after day, trying to attract him. At last the matter became
such a nuisance to Nah-chu-rú-chu that he hired the deep-voiced
town-crier to go through all the streets and announce that in four
days Nah-chu-rú-chu would choose a wife.
For dippers, to take water from the big earthen _tinajas_, the
Tée-wahn used then, as they use to-day, queer little ladle-shaped
_omates_ made of a gourd; but Nah-chu-rú-chu, being a great
medicine-man and very rich, had a dipper of pure pearl, shaped like
the gourds, but wonderfully precious.
“On the fourth day,” proclaimed the crier, “Nah-chu-rú-chu will hang
his pearl _omate_ at his door, where every girl who will may throw a
handful of corn-meal at it. And she whose meal is so well ground that
it sticks to the _omate_, she shall be the wife of Nah-chu-rú-chu!”
When this strange news came rolling down the still evening air, there
was a great scampering of little moccasined feet. The girls ran out
from hundreds of gray adobe houses to catch every word; and when the
crier had passed on, they ran back into the store-rooms and began
to ransack the corn-bins for the biggest, evenest, and most perfect
ears. Shelling the choicest, each took her few handfuls of kernels
to the sloping _metate_,[33] and with the _mano_, or hand-stone,
scrubbed the grist up and down, and up and down, till the hard corn
was a soft, blue meal. All the next day, and the next, and the next,
they ground it over and over again, until it grew finer than ever
flour was before; and every girl felt sure that her meal would stick
to the _omate_ of the handsome young weaver. The Yellow-Corn-Maidens
worked hardest of all; day and night for four days they ground and
ground, with all the magic spells they knew.
[33] The slab of lava which still serves as a hand-mill in
Pueblo houses.
[Illustration: THE ISLETA GIRLS GRINDING CORN WITH THE “MANO”
ON THE “METATE.”]
Now, in those far-off days the Moon had not gone up into the sky
to live, but was a maiden of Shee-eh-whíb-bak. And a very beautiful
girl she was, though blind of one eye. She had long admired
Nah-chu-rú-chu, but was always too maidenly to try to attract his
attention as other girls had done; and at the time when the crier
made his proclamation, she happened to be away at her father’s ranch.
It was only upon the fourth day that she returned to town, and in a
few moments the girls were to go with their meal to test it upon the
magic dipper. The two Yellow-Corn-Maidens were just coming from their
house as she passed, and told her of what was to be done. They were
very confident of success, and told the Moon-girl only to pain her;
and laughed derisively as she went running to her home.
[Illustration: THE MOON-MAIDEN.]
By this time a long file of girls was coming to Nah-chu-rú-chu’s
house, outside whose door hung the pearl _omate_. Each girl carried
in her left hand a little jar of meal; and as they passed the door
one by one, each took from the jar a handful and threw it against
the magic dipper. But each time the meal dropped to the ground, and
left the pure pearl undimmed and radiant as ever.
At last came the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, who had waited to watch
the failure of the others. As they came where they could see
Nah-chu-rú-chu sitting at his loom, they called: “Ah! Here we have
the meal that will stick!” and each threw a handful at the _omate_.
But it did not stick at all; and still from his seat Nah-chu-rú-chu
could see, in that mirror-like surface, all that went on outside.
The Yellow-Corn-Maidens were very angry, and instead of passing on as
the others had done, they stood there and kept throwing and throwing
at the _omate_, which smiled back at them with undiminished luster.
Just then, last of all, came the Moon, with a single handful of meal
which she had hastily ground. The two sisters were in a fine rage by
this time, and mocked her, saying:
“Hoh! _P’áh-hlee-oh_,[34] you poor thing, we are very sorry for you!
Here we have been grinding our meal four days and still it will not
stick, and you we did not tell till to-day. How, then, can you ever
hope to win Nah-chu-rú-chu? Pooh, you silly little thing!”
[34] Tée-wahn name of the moon; literally, “Water-Maiden.”
But the Moon paid no attention whatever to their taunts. Drawing back
her little dimpled hand, she threw the meal gently against the pearl
_omate_, and so fine was it ground that every tiniest bit of it clung
to the polished shell, and not a particle fell to the ground.
[Illustration: THE YELLOW-CORN-MAIDENS THROWING MEAL AT THE
PEARL “OMATE.”]
When Nah-chu-rú-chu saw that, he rose up quickly from his loom and
came and took the Moon by the hand, saying, “You are she who shall be
my wife. You shall never want for anything, since I have very much.”
And he gave her many beautiful _mantas_, and cotton wraps, and fat
boots of buckskin that wrap round and round, that she might dress as
the wife of a rich chief. But the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, who had seen
it all, went away vowing vengeance on the Moon.
Nah-chu-rú-chu and his sweet Moon-wife were very happy together.
There was no other such housekeeper in all the pueblo as she, and
no other hunter brought home so much buffalo-meat from the vast
plains to the east, nor so many antelopes, and black-tailed deer,
and jack-rabbits from the Manzanos as did Nah-chu-rú-chu. But he
constantly was saying to her:
“Moon-wife, beware of the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, for they have the evil
road and will try to do you harm, but you must always refuse to do
whatever they propose.” And always the young wife promised.
One day the Yellow-Corn-Maidens came to the house and said:
“Friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, we are going to the _llano_[35] to gather
_amole_.[36] Will you not let your wife go with us?”
[35] Plain.
[36] The soapy root of the palmilla, used for washing.
“Oh, yes, she may go,” said Nah-chu-rú-chu; but taking her aside, he
said, “Now be sure that you refuse whatever they may propose.”
The Moon promised, and started away with the Yellow-Corn-Maidens.
In those days there was only a thick forest of cottonwoods where are
now the smiling vineyards, and gardens, and orchards of Isleta, and
to reach the _llano_ the three women had to go through this forest.
In the very center of it they came to a deep _pozo_--a square well,
with steps at one side leading down to the water’s edge.
“Ay!” said the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, “how hot and thirsty is our walk!
Come, let us get a drink of water.”
But the Moon, remembering her husband’s words, said politely that she
did not wish to drink. They urged in vain, but at last, looking down
into the _pozo_, called:
“Oh, Moon-friend! Come and look in this still water, and see how
pretty you are!”
The Moon, you must know, has always been just as fond of looking
at herself in the water as she is to this very day, and forgetting
Nah-chu-rú-chu’s warning, she came to the brink, and looked down upon
her fair reflection. But at that very moment, the two witch-sisters
pushed her head foremost into the _pozo_, and drowned her; and then
filled the well with earth, and went away as happy as wicked hearts
can be.
* * * * *
Nah-chu-rú-chu began to look oftener from his loom to the door as
the sun crept along the adobe floor, closer and closer to his seat;
and when the shadows were very long, he sprang suddenly to his feet,
and walked to the house of the Yellow-Corn-Maidens with long, strong
strides.
“_Ee-eh-chóo-ri-ch’áhm-nin_,” he said, very sternly, “where is my
little wife?”
“Why, isn’t she at home?” asked the wicked sisters as if in great
surprise. “She got enough _amole_ long before we did, and started
home with it. We supposed she had come long ago.”
“Ah,” groaned Nah-chu-rú-chu within himself; “it is as I
thought--they have done her ill.” But without a word to them he
turned on his heel and went away.
From that hour all went ill with Isleta, for Nah-chu-rú-chu held
the well-being of all his people, even unto life and death. Paying
no attention to what was going on about him, he sat motionless upon
the very crosspiece of the _estufa_ ladder--the highest point in
all the town--with his head bowed upon his hands. There he sat for
days, never speaking, never moving. The children that played along
the streets looked up to the motionless figure, and ceased their
boisterous play. The old men shook their heads gravely, and muttered:
“We are in evil times, for Nah-chu-rú-chu is mourning, and will not
be comforted. And there is no more rain, so that our crops are drying
in the fields. What shall we do?”
At last all the councilors met together, and decided that there must
be another effort made to find the lost wife. It was true that the
great Nah-chu-rú-chu had searched for her in vain, and the people had
helped him; but perhaps some one else might be more fortunate. So
they took some of the sacred smoking-weed wrapped in a corn-husk and
went to Shée-wid-deh, who has the sharpest eyes in all the world.
Giving him the sacred gift they said:
“Eagle-friend, we see Nah-chu-rú-chu in great trouble, for he has
lost his Moon-wife. Come, search for her, we pray you, if she be
alive or dead.”
So the Eagle took the offering, and smoked the smoke-prayer; and then
he went winging upward into the very sky. Higher and higher he rose,
in great upward circles, while his keen eyes noted every stick, and
stone, and animal on the face of all the world. But with all his
eyes, he could see nothing of the lost wife; and at last he came back
sadly, and said:
“People-friends, I went up to where I could see the whole world, but
I could not find her.”
Then the people went with an offering to the Coyote, whose nose is
sharpest in all the world; and besought him to try to find the Moon.
The Coyote smoked the smoke-prayer, and started off with his nose to
the ground, trying to find her tracks. He trotted all over the earth;
but at last he too came back without finding what he sought.
Then the troubled people got the Badger to search, for he is best of
all the beasts at digging--and he it was whom the Trues employed to
dig the caves in which the people first dwelt when they came to this
world. The Badger trotted and pawed, and dug everywhere, but he could
not find the Moon; and he came home very sad.
Then they asked the Osprey, who can see farthest under water, and
he sailed high above all the lakes and rivers in the world, till he
could count the pebbles and the fish in them, but he too failed to
discover the lost Moon.
[Illustration: THE GRIEF OF NAH-CHU-RÚ-CHU.]
By now the crops were dead and sere in the fields, and thirsty
animals walked crying along the dry river. Scarcely could the people
themselves dig deep enough to find so much water as would keep them
alive. They were at a loss which way to turn; but at last they
thought: We will go to P’ah-kú-ee-teh-áy-deh,[37] who can find the
dead--for surely she is dead, or the others would have found her.
[37] Turkey-buzzard; literally, “water-goose-grandfather.”
So they went to him and besought him. The Turkey-buzzard wept when
he saw Nah-chu-rú-chu still sitting there upon the ladder, and said:
“Truly it is sad for our great friend; but for me, I am afraid to
go, since they who are more mighty than I have already failed; but
I will try.” And spreading his broad wings he went climbing up the
spiral ladder of the sky. Higher he wheeled, and higher, till at last
not even the Eagle could see him. Up and up, till the hot sun began
to singe his head, and not even the Eagle had ever been so high. He
cried with pain, but still he kept mounting--until he was so close to
the sun that all the feathers were burned from his head and neck. But
he could see nothing; and at last, frantic with the burning, he came
wheeling downward. When he got back to the _estufa_ where all the
people were waiting, they saw that his head and neck had been burnt
bare of feathers--and from that day to this the feathers would never
grow out again.
“And did you see nothing?” they all asked, when they had bathed his
burns.
“Nothing,” he answered, “except that when I was half-way down I saw
in the middle of yon cottonwood forest a little mound covered with
all the beautiful flowers in the world.”
“Oh!” cried Nah-chu-rú-chu, speaking for the first time. “Go, friend,
and bring me one flower from the very middle of that mound.”
Off flew the Buzzard, and in a few minutes returned with a little
white flower. Nah-chu-rú-chu took it, and descending from the ladder
in silence, walked to his house, while all the wondering people
followed.
When Nah-chu-rú-chu came inside his home once more, he took a new
_manta_ and spread it in the middle of the room; and laying the wee
white flower tenderly in its center, he put another new _manta_ above
it. Then, dressing himself in the splendid buckskin suit the lost
wife had made him, and taking in his right hand the sacred _guaje_
(rattle), he seated himself at the head of the _mantas_ and sang:
“_Shú-nah, shú-nah!
Aí-ay-ay, aí-ay-ay, aí-ay-ay!_”
(Seeking her, seeking her!
There-away, there-away!)
When he had finished the song, all could see that the flower had
begun to grow, so that it lifted the upper _manta_ a little. Again
he sang, shaking his gourd; and still the flower kept growing. Again
and again he sang; and when he had finished for the fourth time, it
was plain to all that a human form lay between the two _mantas_. And
when he sang his song the fifth time, the form sat up and moved.
Tenderly he lifted away the over-cloth, and there sat his sweet
Moon-wife, fairer than ever, and alive as before![38]
[38] Nah-chu-rú-chu’s incantation followed the exact form
still used by the Indian conjurors of the Southwest in their
wonderful trick of making corn grow and mature from the kernel
in one day.
For four days the people danced and sang in the public square.
Nah-chu-rú-chu was happy again; and now the rain began to fall. The
choked earth drank and was glad and green, and the dead crops came to
life.
When his wife told him how the witch-sisters had done, he was very
angry; and that very day he made a beautiful hoop to play the
_mah-khúr_. He painted it, and put strings across it, decorated with
beaded buckskin.
“Now,” said he, “the wicked Yellow-Corn-Maidens will come to
congratulate you, and will pretend not to know where you were. You
must not speak of that, but invite them to go out and play a game
with you.”
In a day or two the witch-sisters did come, with deceitful words;
and the Moon invited them to go out and play a game. They went up to
the edge of the _llano_, and there she let them get a glimpse of the
pretty hoop.
“Oh, give us that, Moon-friend,” they teased. But she refused. At
last, however, she said:
“Well, we will play the hoop-game. I will stand here, and you there;
and if, when I roll it to you, you catch it before it falls upon its
side, you may have it.”
So the witch-sisters stood a little way down the hill, and she
rolled the bright hoop. As it came trundling to them, both grasped
it at the same instant; and lo! instead of the Yellow-Corn-Maidens,
there were two great snakes, with tears rolling down ugly faces. The
Moon came and put upon their heads a little of the pollen of the
corn-blossom (still used by Pueblo snake-charmers) to tame them, and
a pinch of the sacred meal for their food.
“Now,” said she, “you have the reward of treacherous friends. Here
shall be your home among these rocks and cliffs forever, but you must
never be found upon the prairie; and you must never bite a person.
Remember you are women, and must be gentle.”
And then the Moon went home to her husband, and they were very happy
together. As for the sister snakes, they still dwell where she bade
them, and never venture away; though sometimes the people bring them
to their houses to catch the mice, for these snakes never hurt a
person.
IX
THE MOTHER MOON
AND do you know why it is that the Moon has but one eye? It is a
short story, but one of the most poetic and beautiful in all the
pretty folk-lore of the Pueblos.
P’áh-hlee-oh, the Moon-Maiden, was the Tée-wahn Eve[39]--the first
and loveliest woman in all the world. She had neither father nor
mother, sister nor brother; and in her fair form were the seeds of
all humanity--of all life and love and goodness. The Trues, who are
the unseen spirits that are above all, made T’hoor-íd-deh, the Sun,
who was to be father of all things; and because he was alone, they
made for him a companion, the first to be of maids, the first to be a
wife. From them began the world and all that is in it; and all their
children were strong and good. Very happy were the Father-all and the
Mother-all, as they watched their happy brood. He guarded them by day
and she by night--only there _was_ no night, for then the Moon had
two eyes, and saw as clearly as the Sun, and with glance as bright.
It was all as one long day of golden light. The birds flew always,
the flowers never shut, the young people danced and sang, and none
knew how to rest.
[39] She is honored in almost every detail of the Pueblo
ceremonials. The most important charm or implement of the
medicine-men, the holiest fetish of all, is typical of her. It
is called Mah-pah-róo, the Mother, and is the most beautiful
article a Pueblo ever fashioned. A flawless ear of pure white
corn (a type of fertility or motherhood) is tricked out with a
downy mass of snow-white feathers, and hung with ornaments of
silver, coral, and the precious turquoise.
But at last the Trues thought better. For the endless light grew
heavy to the world’s young eyes that knew no tender lids of night.
And the Trues said:
“It is not well, for so there is no sleep, and the world is very
tired. We must not keep the Sun and Moon seeing alike. Let us put
out one of his eyes, that there may be darkness for half the time,
and then his children can rest.” And they called T’hoor-íd-deh and
P’áh-hlee-oh before them to say what must be done.
But when she heard that, the Moon-Mother wept for her strong and
handsome husband, and cried:
“No! No! Take my eyes, for my children, but do not blind the Sun! He
is the father, the provider--and how shall he watch against harm,
or how find us game without his bright eyes? Blind me, and keep him
all-seeing.”
And the Trues said: “It is well, daughter.” And so they took away one
of her eyes, so that she could never see again so well. Then night
came upon the tired earth, and the flowers and birds and people slept
their first sleep, and it was very good. But she who first had the
love of children, and paid for them with pain as mother’s pay, she
did not grow ugly by her sacrifice. Nay, she is lovelier than ever,
and we all love her to this day. For the Trues are good to her, and
gave her in place of the bloom of girlhood the beauty that is only in
the faces of mothers.
So mother-pale above us
She bends, her watch to keep,
Who of her sight dear-bought the night
To give her children sleep.
X
THE MAKER OF THE THUNDER-KNIVES
YOU have perhaps seen the beautiful arrow-heads of moss-agate,
petrified wood, or volcanic glass which were used, until very
recently, by the Indians of the Southwest, and are still treasured
by them. At least you are familiar with the commoner flint ones left
by the aboriginal tribes farther eastward. And seeing them, you must
have wondered how they were ever made from such fearfully stubborn
stone--always the very hardest that was accessible to the maker. I
have tried for six hours, with the finest drills, to make a little
hole in the thinnest part of an agate arrow-head, to put it on a
charm-ring; but when the drill and I were completely worn out, there
was not so much as a mark on the arrow-head to show what we had been
doing. If you will take one to your jeweler, he will have as poor
luck.
But the _making_ of the arrow-heads is really a very simple matter;
and I have fashioned many very fair ones. The only implements are
part of a peculiarly shaped bone--preferably from the thigh of the
elk--and a stick about the size of a lead-pencil, but of double the
diameter. The maker of _puntas_ takes the bone in his left hand;
in his right is the stick, against which the selected splinter of
stone is firmly pressed by the thumb. With a firm, steady pressure
against the sharp edge of the bone, a tiny flake is nicked from the
splinter. Then the splinter is turned, and a nick is similarly made
on the other side, just a little ahead of the first; and so on. It is
by this alternate nicking from opposite sides that the stone-splinter
grows less by tiny flakes, and is shaped by degrees to a perfect
arrow-head. If you will notice the edge of an arrow-head, you will
see plainly that the work was done in this way, for the edge is not
a straight but a wavy line--sometimes even a zigzag, recalling the
manner in which saw-teeth are “set.”
Every Indian, and every one who has studied the Indian, knows this.
But if I ask one of my brown old _compadres_ here, where he got the
arrow-head which he wears as a charm about his wrinkled neck, he will
not tell me any such story as that. No, indeed!
Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh, the Horned Toad, gave it to him. So? Oh, yes! He
talked so nicely to a Horned Toad on the mesa[40] the other day, that
the little creature put a _punta_ where he could find it the next
time he went thither.
[40] Table-land.
Whenever a Pueblo sees a Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh, he jumps from his
horse or his big farm-wagon, and makes every effort to capture the
_animalito_ before it can reach a hole. If successful, he pulls from
his blanket or his legging-garters a red thread--no other color will
do--and ties it necklace-fashion around the neck of his little
prisoner. Then he invokes all sorts of blessings on the Horned Toad,
assures it of his sincere respect and friendship, begs it to remember
him with a _punta_, and lets it go. Next time he goes to the mesa,
he fully expects to find an arrow-head, and generally _does_ find
one--doubtless because he then searches more carefully on that broad
reach where so many arrow-heads have been lost in ancient wars and
hunts. Finding one, he prays to the Sun-Father and the Moon-Mother
and all his other deities, and returns profound thanks to the Horned
Toad. Some finders put the arrow-head in the pouch which serves
Indians for a pocket.[41] Some wear it as an amulet on the necklace.
In either case, the belief is that no evil spirit can approach the
wearer while he has that charm about him. In fact, it is a sovereign
spell against witches.
[41] The “left-hand-bag,” _shur-taí-moo_, because it always
hangs from the right shoulder and under the left arm.
The common belief of the Pueblos is that the Horned Toad makes these
arrow-heads only during a storm, and deposits them at the very
instant when it thunders. For this reason an arrow-head is always
called _Kóh-un-shée-eh_, or thunder-knife. The strange appearance
of this quaint, spiked lizard--which is really not a “hop-toad” at
all--doubtless suggested the notion; for his whole back is covered
with peculiar points which have very much the shape and color of
Indian arrow-heads.
Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh is a very important personage in the Pueblo
folk-lore. He not only is the inventor and patentee of the arrow-head
and the scalping-knife,[42] but he also invented irrigation, and
taught it to man; and is a general benefactor of our race.
[42] Which were formerly about the same thing--a large and
sharp-edged arrow-head or similar stone being the only knife of
the Pueblos in prehistoric times.
There is one very sacred folk-story which tells why boys must never
smoke until they have proved their manhood. Pueblo etiquette is very
strict on all such points.[43]
[43] See my “Strange Corners of Our Country” (The Century Co.),
chap. xviii.
Once upon a time there lived in Isleta two boys who were cousins. One
day their grandfather, who was a True Believer (in all the ancient
rites), caught them in a corner smoking the _weer_. Greatly shocked,
he said to them:
“Sons, I see you want to be men; but you must prove yourselves before
you are thought to be. Know, then, that nobody is born with the
freedom of the smoke, but every one must earn it. So go now, each of
you, and bring me Quée-hla-kú-ee, the skin of the oak.”
Now, in the talk of men, Quée-hla-kú-ee is another thing; but
the boys did not know. They got their mothers to give them some
tortillas,[44] and with this lunch they started for the Bosque (a
10,000-foot peak twenty miles east of Isleta). Reaching the mountain,
they went to every kind of tree and cut a little piece of its
bark--for they were not sure which was the oak. Then they came home,
very tired, and carried the bark to their grandfather. But when he
had looked at it all he said:
[44] A cake of unleavened batter cooked on a hot stone. They
look something like a huge flapjack, but are very tough and
keep a long time.
“Young men, you have not yet proved yourselves. So now it is for you
to go again and look for the _oak_-bark.”
At this their hearts were heavy, but they took tortillas and started
again. On the way they met an old Horned Toad, who stopped them and
said:
“Young-men-friends, I know what trouble you are in. Your _tata_ has
sent you for the skin of the oak, but you do not know the oak he
means. But I will be the one to help you. Take these,” and he gave
them two large thunder-knives, “and with these in hand go up that
cañon yonder. In a little way you will see a great many of your
enemies, the Navajos, camping. On the first hill from which you see
their fire, there stop. In time, while you wait there, you will hear
a Coyote howling across the cañon. Then is the time to give your
enemy-yell [war-whoop] and attack them.”
The boys thanked the Horned Toad and went. Presently they saw the
camp-fire of the Navajos, and waiting till the Coyote called they
gave the enemy-yell and then attacked. They had no weapons except
their thunder-knives, but with these they killed several Navajos, and
the others ran away. In the dark and their hurry they made a mistake
and scalped a woman (which was never customary with the Pueblos).
Taking their scalps, they hurried home to their grandfather, and
when he saw that they had brought the real oak-skin (which is an
Indian euphemy for “scalp”), he led them proudly to the Cacique, and
the Cacique ordered the T’u-a-fú-ar (scalp-dance). After the inside
days, when the takers of scalps must stay in the _estufa_, was the
dance. And when it came to the round dance at night the two boys were
dancing side by side.
Then a young woman who was a stranger came and pushed them apart and
danced between them. She was very handsome, and both fell in love
with her. But as soon as their hearts thought of love, a skeleton was
between them in place of the girl--for they who go to war or take a
scalp have no right to think of love.
They were very frightened, but kept dancing until they were too
tired, and then went to the singers inside the circle to escape. But
the skeleton followed them and stood beside them, and they could not
hide from it.
At last they began to run away, and went to the east. Many moons they
kept running, but the skeleton was always at their heels. At last
they came to the Sunrise Lake, wherein dwell the Trues of the East.
The guards let them in, and they told the Trues all that had
happened, and the skeleton stood beside them. The Trues said: “Young
men, if you are men, sit down and we will protect you.”
But when the boys looked again at the skeleton they could not stop,
but ran away again. Many moons they ran north till they came to where
the Trues of the North dwell in the Black Lake of Tears.
The Trues of the North promised to defend them, but again the
skeleton came and scared them away; and they ran for many
moons until they came to the Trues of the West, who dwell in
T’hoor-kím-p’ah-whée-ay, the Yellow Lake Where the Sun Sets. And
there the same things happened; and they ran away again to the south,
till they found the Trues of the South in P’ah-chéer-p’ah-whée-ay,
the Lake of Smooth Pebbles.
But there again it was the same, and again they ran many moons till
they came to the Trues of the Center, who live here in Isleta. And
here the skeleton said to them:
“Why do you run from me now? For when you were dancing you looked at
me and loved me, but now you run away.”
But they could not answer her, and ran into the room of the Trues of
the Center, and told their story. Then the Trues gave power to the
Cum-pa-huit-la-wid-deh[45] to see the skeleton,--which no one else
in the world could see, except the Trues and the two young men,--and
said to him:
[45] Guard at the door of the gods.
“Shoot this person who follows these two.”
So the Cum-pa-huit-la-wid-deh shot the skeleton through with an arrow
from the left side to the right side,[46] and took the scalp.
[46] The only official method of killing a witch, which is one
of the chief duties of the Cum-pa-huit-la-wen.
That was the end of the skeleton, and the young men were free. And
when the Trues had given them counsel, they came to their people, and
told the Cacique all. He made a new scalp-dance, because they had not
stayed to finish the first one.
And when the dance was done, they told all the people what had
happened. Then the principals had a meeting and made a rule which is
to this day, that in the twelve days of the scalp[47] no warrior
shall think thoughts of love.
[47] The period of fasting and purification before and during
the scalp-dance.
For it was because they had love-thoughts of the Navajo girl that
her skeleton haunted them. And at the same time it was made the law,
which still is, that no one shall smoke till he has taken a scalp to
prove himself a man.
For if the boys had not been smoking when they had not freedom to,
their grandfather would not have sent them, and all that trouble
would not have come. And that is why.
XI
THE STONE-MOVING SONG
THE Horned Toad is also a famous musician--a sort of Pueblo Orpheus,
whose song charms the very stones and trees. A short folk-story of
Isleta refers to this.
One day Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh was working in his field. There were many
very large rocks, and to move them he sang a strong song as he pulled:
_Yah éh-ah, héh-ah háy-na,
Yah, éh-ah, heh-ah hay-na,
Wha-naí-kee-ay hee-e-wid-deh
Ah-kwe-ée-hee ai-yén-cheh,
Yahb-k’yáy-queer ah-chóo-hee._
When he sang this and touched the heaviest stone, it rose up from the
ground, and went over his head and fell far behind him.
While he worked so, Too-wháy-deh came along; and seeing what
happened, he wished to meddle, as his way is. So he said:
“Friend Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh, let _me_ do it.”
“No, friend,” said the Horned Toad. “It is better for every one to do
what he knows, and not to put himself in the work of others.”
“Do not think so,” answered the Coyote. “For I can do this also. It
is very easy.”
“It is well, then--but see that you are not afraid; for so it will be
bad.”
Too-wháy-deh laid off his blanket and took hold of the largest rock
there was, and sang the song. When he sang, the rock rose up in the
air to go over his head; but he, being scared, ducked his head. Then
at once the rock fell on him, and he had no bones left. Then the
Horned Toad laughed, and gave the enemy-yell (war-whoop), saying: “We
do this to one another!”
XII
THE COYOTE AND THE THUNDER-KNIFE
ANOTHER Isleta myth tells of an equally sad misadventure of the
Coyote.
Once upon a time an old Coyote-father took a walk away from home; for
in that season of the year his babies were so peevish they would not
let him sleep. It happened that a Locust was making pottery, under a
tree; and every time she moved the molding-spoon around the soft clay
jar, she sang a song. The Coyote, coming near and hearing, thought:
“Now that is the very song I need to put my _óo-un_ to sleep.” And
following the sound he came to the tree, and found Cheech-wée-deh at
work. But she had stopped singing.
“Locust-friend,” said he, “come teach me that song, so that I can
soothe my children to sleep.” But the Locust did not move to answer;
and he repeated:
“Locust-friend, come teach me that song.”
Still she did not answer, and the Coyote, losing his patience, said:
“Locust, if you don’t teach me that song, I will eat you up!”
At that, the Locust showed him the song, and he sang with her until
he knew how.
“Now I know it, thank you,” he said. “So I will go home and sing it
to my children, and they will sleep.”
So he went. But as he came to a pool, half-way home, a flock of
Afraids-of-the-Water[48] flew up at his very nose, and drove out his
memory. He went looking around, turning over the stones and peeping
in the grass; but he could not find the song anywhere. So he started
back at last to get the Locust to teach him again.
[48] The ironical Tée-wahn name for ducks.
But while he was yet far, the Locust saw him, so she shed her skin,
leaving a dry husk, as snakes do, and filled it with sand. Then she
made it to sit up, and put the molding-spoon in its hands, and the
clay jars in front of it; and she herself flew up into the tree.
Coming, the Coyote said: “Friend Locust, show that song again; for
I got scared, and the song was driven out of me.” But there was no
answer.
“Hear, Locust! I will ask just once more; and if you do not show me
the song, I’ll swallow you!”
Still she did not reply; and the Coyote, being angry, swallowed the
stuffed skin, sand, spoon, and all, and started homeward, saying:
“_Now_ I think I have that song in me!”
But when he was half-way home he stopped and struck himself, and
said: “What a fool, truly! For now I am going home without a song.
But if I had left the Locust alive, and bothered her long enough, she
would have shown me. I think now I will take her out, to see if she
will not sing for me.”
So he ran all around, hunting for a black thunder-knife,[49] and
singing:
[49] One of obsidian, or volcanic glass.
Where can I find Shée-eh-fóon?
Where can I find Shée-eh-fóon?
At last he found a large piece of the black-rock, and broke it until
he got a knife. He made a mark on his breast with his finger, saying:
“Here I will cut, and take her out.”
Then he cut. “Mercy!” said he, “but it bites!” He cut again, harder.
“Goodness! but how it bites!” he cried, very loud. And cutting a
third time, he fell down and died. So he did not learn the song of
the pottery-making.
* * * * *
The Quères Pueblos have exactly the same folk-story, except that
they make the Horned Toad, instead of the Locust, the music-teacher.
In their version, the Horned Toad, after being swallowed, kills the
Coyote by lifting its spines. Remembering what I have said of the
maker of the thunder-knives, you will readily see the analogy between
this and the obsidian splinter of the Tée-wahn story. It is, indeed,
one of the most characteristic and instructive examples of the manner
in which a folk-story becomes changed.
[Illustration: THE MAGIC HIDE-AND-SEEK]
XIII
THE MAGIC HIDE-AND-SEEK
I FANCY I must have been dozing after that hard ride; for when a
far-away, cracked voice that could be none other than Grandfather
Ysidro’s said, “_Kah-whee-cá-me, Lorenso-kaí-deh!_” I started up
so hastily as to bump my head against the whitewashed wall. That
may seem a queer sentence to rouse one so sharply; and especially
when you know what it means. It meant that old Ysidro[50] had just
finished a story, which I had altogether missed, and was now calling
upon the old man next him to tell one, by using the customary Pueblo
saying:
[50] Pronounced Ee-seé-droh.
“There is a tail to you, Father Lorenso!”
_Kah-whee-cá-me_ is what a Teé-wahn Indian always says in such a
case, instead of “Now _you_ tell a story, friend.” It is not intended
as an impolite remark, but merely refers to the firm belief of these
quaint people that if one were to act like a stubborn donkey, and
refuse to tell a story when called on, a donkey’s tail would grow
upon him!
With such a fate in prospect, you may be sure that the roundabout
invitation thus conveyed is never declined.
Grandfather Lorenso bows his head gravely, but seems in no haste.
He is indeed impressively deliberate as he slowly makes a cigarette
from a bit of corn-husk and a pinch of tobacco, lights it upon a coal
raked out of the fireplace by his withered fingers, blows a slow puff
eastward, then one to the north, another to the west, a fourth to the
south, one straight above his head, and one down toward the floor.
There is one part of the United States where the compass has _six_
cardinal points (those I have just named), and that is among these
Indians, and in fact all the others of the Southwest. The cigarette
plays a really important part in many sacred ceremonies of the
Pueblos; for, as I have explained, its collective smoke is thought to
be what makes the rain-clouds and brings the rain; and it is also a
charm against witches.
Having thus propitiated the divinities who dwell in the directions
named, Lorenso looks about the circle to see if all are listening.
The glance satisfies him--as well it may. There are no heedless eyes
or ears in the audience, of which I am the only white member--and a
very lucky one, in that I, an “Americano,” am allowed to hear these
jealously guarded stories, and to see the silent smoke-prayer which
would never be made if a stranger were present. There are seven agèd
men here, and nine bright-eyed boys--all _Isleteños_ (inhabitants of
Isleta). We are huddled around the fireplace in the corner of the
big, pleasant room, against whose dark rafters and farther white
walls the shadows dance and waver.
And now, taking a deep puff, Lorenso exclaims:
“_Nah-t’ hóo-ai!_” (In a house.) It has nothing to do with the story;
but is the prologue to inform the hearers that the story is about to
open.
“Ah-h-h!” we all responded, which is as much as to say, “We are
listening--go on”; and Lorenso begins his story.
* * * * *
Once upon a time there was a Teé-wahn village on the other side of
the mountain, and there lived a man and his wife who thought more
of the future of their children than did the others. To care better
for the children they moved to a little ranch some distance from the
village, and there taught their two little sons all they could. Both
boys loved the outdoors, and games, and hunting; and the parents were
well pleased, saying to each other:
“Perhaps some day they will be great hunters!”
By the time the elder boy was twelve and the younger ten, they
both were very expert with the little bows and arrows their father
carefully made them; and already they began to bring home many
rabbits when they were allowed to go a little way from home. There
was only one command their parents gave about their hunts; and that
was that they must never, never go south. They could hunt to the
east, north, and west, but not south.
Day after day they went hunting, and more and more rabbits they
killed, growing always more expert.
One day when they had hunted eastward, the elder boy said:
“Brother, can you say any reason why we must not go south?”
“I know nothing,” replied the younger, “except what I overheard our
parents saying one day. They spoke of an old woman who lives in the
south who eats children; and for that they said they would never let
us go south.”
“Pooh!” said the elder, “I think nothing of _that_. The real reason
must be that they wish to save the rabbits in the south, and are
afraid we would kill them all. There must be many rabbits in that
_bosque_ [forest] away down there. Let’s go and see--_they_ won’t
know!”
The younger boy being persuaded, they started off together, and after
a long walk came to the _bosque_. It was full of rabbits, and they
were having great sport, when suddenly they heard a motherly voice
calling through the woods. In a moment they saw an old woman coming
from the south, who said to the boys:
“_Mah-kóo-oon_ [grandchildren], what are you doing here, where no one
ever thinks to come?”
“We are hunting, Grandmother,” they replied. “Our parents would never
let us come south; but to-day we came to see if the rabbits are more
numerous here than above.”
“Oh!” said the old woman, “this game you see here is _nothing_. Come,
and I will show you where there is much, and you can carry very large
rabbits home to your parents.” But she was deceiving them.
She had a big basket upon her back, and stooping for the boys to get
into it, she carried them farther and farther into the woods. At last
they came to an old, battered house; and setting the basket down, she
said:
“Now we have come all the way here, where no one ever came before,
and there is no way out. You can find no trail, and you will have to
stay here contented, or I will eat you up!”
The boys were much afraid, and said they would stay and be contented.
But the old woman went into the house and told her husband--who
was as wicked as she--to get wood and build a big fire in the
_horno_.[51] All day long the fire burned, and the oven became hotter
than it had ever been. In the evening the old witch-woman raked out
the coals, and calling the boys seized them and forced them into the
fiery oven.
[51] An outdoor bake-oven, made of clay, and shaped like a
beehive.
* * * * *
“_Tahb-kóon-nahm?_” (Is that so?) we all exclaimed--that being the
proper response whenever the narrator pauses a moment.
“That is so,” replied Lorenso, and went on.
* * * * *
Then the old woman put a flat rock over the little door of the oven,
and another over the smoke-hole, and sealed them both tight with
clay. All that night she and her husband were chuckling to think what
a nice breakfast they would have--for both of them were witch-people,
and ate all the children they could find.
But in the morning when she unsealed the oven, there were the two
boys, laughing and playing together unhurt--for the Wháy-nin[52] had
come to their aid and protected them from the heat.
[52] “The Trues,” as the Pueblos call their highest divinities.
Leaving the boys to crawl out, the old woman ran to the house and
scolded the old man terribly for not having made the oven hot enough.
“Go this minute,” she said, “and put in the oven all the wood that it
will hold, and keep it burning all day!”
When night came, the old woman cleaned the oven, which was twice as
hot as before; and again she put in the boys and sealed it up. But
the next morning the boys were unhurt and went to playing.
The witch-woman was very angry then; and giving the boys their bows
and arrows, told them to go and play. She stayed at home and abused
the old witch-man all day for a poor fire-maker.
When the boys returned in the evening, she said:
“To-morrow, grandchildren, we will play _Nah-oo-p’ah-chée_
(hide-and-seek), and the one who is found three times by the other
shall pay his life.”
The boys agreed,[53] and secretly prayed to the Trues to help
them--for by this time they knew that the old man and the old woman
“had the bad road.”
[53] For such a challenge, which was once a common one with the
Indians, could not possibly be declined.
[Illustration]
The next day came; and very soon the old woman called them to begin
the game. The boys were to hide first; and when the old woman had
turned her eyes and vowed not to look, they went to the door and hid,
one against each of its jambs. There you could look and look, and
see the wood through them--for the Trues, to help them, made them
invisible. When they were safely hidden they whooped, “_Hee-táh!_”
and the old woman began to hunt, singing the hide-and-seek song:
_Hee-táh yahn
Hee choo-ah-kóo
Mee, mee, mee?_
(Now, now,
Which way
Went they, went they, went they?)
After hunting some time she called:
“You little fellows are on the door-posts. Come out!”
So the boys came out and “made blind” (covered their eyes) while the
old woman went to hide. There was a pond close by, with many ducks on
it; and making herself very little, she went and hid under the left
wing of the duck with a blue head.[54]
[54] I should tell you that, being a witch, she could not
possibly have gone under the right wing. Everything that is to
the left belongs to the witches.
When they heard her “_Hee-táh!_” the boys went searching and singing;
and at last the elder cried out:
“Old woman, you are under the left wing of the whitest duck on the
lake--the one with the blue head. Come out!”
This time the boys made themselves small and crawled into the quivers
beside their bows and arrows. The old woman had to sing her song over
a great many times, as she went hunting all around; but at last she
called:
“Come out of the quivers where you are!”
Then the witch made herself very small indeed, and went behind the
foot of a big crane that was standing on one leg near the lake. But
at last the boys found her even there.
[Illustration: “THE WITCH MADE HERSELF VERY SMALL, AND WENT
BEHIND THE FOOT OF A BIG CRANE.”]
It was their last turn now, and the old woman felt very triumphant
as she waited for them to hide. But this time they went up and hid
themselves under the right arm of the Sun.[55] The old witch hunted
everywhere, and used all her bad power, but in vain; and when she was
tired out she had to cry, “_Hee-táh-ow!_” And then the boys came
down from under the Sun’s arm rejoicing.
[55] Who is, in the Pueblo belief, the father of all things.
The old witch, taking her last turn, went to the lake and entered
into a fish, thinking that there she would be perfectly safe from
discovery. It did take the boys a great while to find her; but at
last they shouted:
“Old woman, you are in the biggest fish in the lake. Come out!”
As she came walking toward them in her natural shape again, they
called: “Remember the agreement!” and with their sharp arrows they
killed the old witch-woman and then the old witch-man. Then they took
away the two wicked old hearts, and put in place of each a kernel of
spotless corn; so that if the witches should ever come to life again
they would no longer be witches, but people with pure, good hearts.
They never did come to life, however, which was just as well.
Taking their bows and arrows, the boys--now young men, for the
four “days” they had been with the witches were really four
years--returned home. At the village they found their anxious
parents, who had come to ask the Cacique to order all the people out
to search.
When all saw the boys and heard their story, there was great
rejoicing, for those two witch-people had been terrors to the village
for years. On their account no one had dared go hunting to the south.
And to this day the game is thicker there than anywhere else in the
country, because it has not been hunted there for so long as in other
places. The two young men were forgiven for disobedience (which is
a very serious thing at any age, among the Pueblos), and were made
heroes. The Cacique gave them his two daughters for wives, and all
the people did them honor.[56]
[56] This story seems to be one of the myths about the Hero
Twin Brothers, the children of the Sun. They are, next to
Sun-Father and Moon-Mother, the chief deities of all the
southwestern tribes. In the Quères folk-lore they figure very
prominently; but in the Tée-wahn are more disguised.
* * * * *
“Is that so?” we responded; and Lorenso replied, “That is so,”
gathering his blanket and rising to go without “putting a tail” to
any one, for it was already late.
I may add that the game of hide-and-seek is still played by my dusky
little neighbors, the Pueblo children, and the searching-song is
still sung by them, exactly as the boys and the old witch played and
sang--but of course without their magical talent at hiding.
XIV
THE RACE OF THE TAILS
NEARLY every people has its own version of the race of the Hare and
the Tortoise. That current among the Pueblos makes the Rabbit the
hero, by a trick rather cleverer than Æsop’s.
Once the Coyote came where Pee-oo-ée-deh, the little “cotton-tail”
rabbit, sat at the door of his house, thinking.
“What do you think, friend Pee-oo-ée-deh?” said the Coyote.
“I am thinking, friend Too-wháy-deh, why some have large tails like
you; but we have no tails. Perhaps if we had tails like yours, we
could run straight; but now we have to hop.”
“It is true, _ah-bóo_,”[57] said the Coyote, not knowing that the
Rabbit laughed in his heart. “For I can run faster than any one, and
never did any gain from me in the foot-races. But _you_,--you just
hop like a bird.”
[57] Poor thing.
The Rabbit made a sad face, and the Coyote said: “But come, friend
Pee-oo-ée-deh, let us run a race. We will run around the world, and
see who will win. And whichever shall come in first, he shall kill
the other and eat him.”[58]
[58] A challenge of this sort, with life as the stake, was
very common among all Indians; and it was impossible for the
challenged to decline. This story recalls that of the Antelope
Boy. Four days always elapsed between the challenge and the
race.
“It is well,” answered the Rabbit. “In four days we will run.”
Then the Coyote went home very glad. But Pee-oo-ée-deh called a
_junta_ of all his tribe, and told them how it was, and the way he
thought to win the race. And when they had heard, they all said: “It
is well. Fear not, for we will be the ones that will help you.”
When the fourth day came, the Coyote arrived smiling, and threw down
his blanket, and stood ready in only the dark blue _taparabo_,[59]
saying: “But what is the use to run? For I shall win. It is better
that I eat you now, before you are tired.”
[59] Breech-clout, which is the only thing worn in a foot-race.
But the Rabbit threw off his blanket, and tightened his _taparabo_,
and said: “Pooh! For the end of the race is far away, and _there_ is
time to talk of eating. Come, we will run around the four sides of
the world.[60] But _I_ shall run underground, for so it is easier for
me.”
[60] Which the Pueblos believe to be flat and square.
Then they stood up side by side. And when they were ready, the
Capitan shouted “_Haí-koo!_” and they ran. The Coyote ran with all
his legs; but the Rabbit jumped into his hole and threw out sand, as
those who dig very fast.
Now for many days the Coyote kept running to the east, and saw
nothing of Pee-oo-ée-deh. But just as he came to the east and was
turning to the north, up jumped a rabbit from under the ground in
front of him, and shouted: “We do this to one another”; and jumped
back in the hole and began to throw out dirt very hard.
“Ai!” said the Coyote. “I wish I could run under the ground like
that, for it seems very easy. For all these days I have run faster
than ever any one ran; yet Pe-oo-ée-deh comes to the east ahead of
me.” But he did not know it was the brother of Pee-oo-ée-deh, who had
come out to the east to wait for him.
So Too-wháy-deh ran harder; and after many days he came to the end of
the world, to the north. But just as he was to turn west, up sprang a
rabbit in front of him, and taunted him, and went back in its hole,
digging.
The Coyote’s heart was heavy, but he ran _very_ hard. “Surely,” he
said, “no one can run so fast as _this_.”
But when he came to the west, a rabbit sprang up ahead of him, and
mocked him, and went again under the ground. And when he had run to
the south, there was the same thing. At last, very tired and with his
tongue out, he came in sight of the starting-point, and there was
Pee-oo-ée-deh, sitting at the door of his house, smoothing his hair.
And he said: “Pooh! Coyote-friend, we do this to one another. For now
it is clear that big tails are not good to run with, since I have
been waiting here a long time for you. Come here, then, that I may
eat you, though you are tough.”
But Too-wháy-deh, being a coward, ran away and would not pay his
bet. And all the brothers of Pee-oo-ée-deh laughed for the trick they
had put upon the Coyote.
* * * * *
In a case which I knew of, years ago, this folk-story seems to have
given a hint to human racers. A Mexican who owned a large and very
fleet-footed burro, challenged a young Indian of Acoma to a ten-mile
race. The Indian was a very famous runner, and the challenger
depended on the distance alone to wear him out. In accordance with
the conditions the rivals started together from the goal, the Indian
on foot, the Mexican on his burro. For about four miles the Indian
left the galloping donkey far behind; but he could not keep up such
a tremendous pace, and the burro began to gain. About midway of the
course where the trail touches a great lava-flow, the Indian dove
into a cave. Just as the Mexican was passing, out came an Indian,
passed the burro with a magnificent spurt, and after a long run
reached the farther goal about a hundred feet ahead. Unfortunately
for him, however, the trick was detected--he was the twin brother of
the challenged man, and had awaited him in the cave, taking up the
race fresh when the first runner was tired!
XV
HONEST BIG-EARS
NEARLY all of you have seen pictures of the Burro, the quaint little
donkey of the Southwest. He is very small,--not more than half the
weight of a smallish mule,--but very strong, very sure-footed,
and very reliable. And he is one of the drollest, “cutest,”
wisest-looking creatures on earth.
T’ah-hlá-a-hloon, or Big-ears, as the Tée-wahn call him, does not
appear very often in their folk-lore--and for a very natural reason.
Most of these myths were made centuries before a white man ever saw
this country; and until Europeans came, there were neither horses,
donkeys, sheep, goats, cats, nor cattle (except the buffalo) in
either America. It was the Spanish pioneers who gave all these
animals to the Pueblos. Nor did the Indians have milk, cheese, wheat,
or metals of any sort. So when we see a story in which any of these
things are mentioned, we may know that it was made within the last
three hundred and fifty years--or that an old story has been modified
to include them.
There is one of these comparatively modern nursery-tales which is
designed to show the honesty and wisdom of the Burro.
Once Big-ears was coming alone from the farm of his master to Isleta,
carrying a load of curd cheeses done up in buckskin bags. As he came
through the hills he met a Coyote, who said:
“Friend Big-ears, what do you carry on your back?”
“I carry many cheeses for my master, friend Too-wháy-deh,” answered
the Burro.
“Then give me one, friend, for I am hunger-dying.”
“No,” said the Burro, “I cannot give you one, for my master would
blame me--since they are not mine but his, and a man of the pueblo
waits for them.”
Many times the Coyote asked him, with soft words; but Big-ears would
not, and went his way. Then Too-wháy-deh followed him behind, without
noise, and slyly bit the bag and stole a cheese. But Big-ears did not
know it, for he could not see behind.
When he came to the pueblo, the man who awaited him unloaded the
cheeses and counted them. “There lacks one,” he said; “for thy master
said he would send _so_ many. Where is the other?”
“Truly, I know not,” answered Big-ears, “but I think Too-wháy-deh
stole it; for he asked me on the way to give him a cheese. But
wait--I will pay him!”
So Big-ears went back to the hills and looked for the house of
Too-wháy-deh. At last he found it, but the Coyote was nowhere. So he
lay down near the hole, and stretched his legs out as if dead, and
opened his mouth wide, and was very still.
Time passing so, the Old-Woman-Coyote came out of the house to bring
a jar of water. But when she saw the Burro lying there, she dropped
her _tinaja_, and ran in crying:
“_Hloo-hli!_[61] come out and see! For a _buffalo_ has died out here,
and we must take in some meat.”
[61] Old Man.
So Old-Man-Coyote came out, and was very glad, and began to sharpen
his knife.
But his wife said: “But before you cut him up, get me the liver, for
I am very hungry”--and the liver is that which all the foxes like
best.
Then the Old-Man-Coyote, thinking to please her, went into the
Burro’s mouth to get the liver; but Big-ears shut his teeth on
Too-wháy-deh’s head, and jumped up and ran home. The Old-Woman-Coyote
followed running, crying: “_Ay, Nana!_ Let go!” But Big-ears would
not listen to her, and brought the thief to his master. When the
master heard what had been, he killed the Coyote, and thanked
Big-ears, and gave him much grass. And this is why, ever since,
Big-ears strikes with his hind feet if anything comes behind him
slyly; for he remembers how Too-wháy-deh stole the cheese.
XVI
THE FEATHERED BARBERS
THE coyote, one summer day, having taken a bath in the river, lay
down in the hot sand to dry himself. While he was sleeping there, a
crowd of Quails came along; and seeing that he was asleep, they said:
“Huh! Here is that foolish Too-wháy-deh. Let us give him a trick!”
So they cut off all his hair, which makes one to be laughed at, and
ran away.
When the Coyote woke up he was ashamed, and wished to punish those
who had made him _pelado_; and he ran around to see if he could find
the tracks of an enemy. There were only the tracks of the Quails, so
he knew they had done it. Very angry, he followed the trail until it
went into a large hole. He went all around to see if they had come
out; but there were no other tracks, so he went in. First the hole
was big, but then it grew small, and he had to dig. When he had dug a
long time, he caught a Quail, and he said:
“Ho, Ch’um-níd-deh! It is you that cut my hair and left me a
laughed-at. But I am going to eat you this very now!”
“No, friend Too-wháy-deh, it was another who did it. You will find
him farther in, with the scissors[62] still in his hand.”
[62] This indicates that the tale is comparatively modern.
So the Coyote let that Quail go, and dug and dug till he caught
another. But that one said the same thing; and Too-wháy-deh let him
go, and dug after the next one. So it was, until he had let them all
go, one by one; and when he came to the very end of the hole, there
were no more.
With this, the Coyote was very angry, and ran out of the hole,
promising to catch and eat them all. As he came out he met the
Cotton-tail, and cried with a fierce face:
“Hear, you Pee-oo-ée-deh! If you don’t catch me the Ch’úm-nin that
cut my hair, I’ll eat _you_!”
“Oh, I can catch them, friend Coyote,” said the Rabbit. “See, here is
their trail!”
When they had followed the trail a long way, they saw the birds
sitting and laughing under a bush.
“Now you wait here while I go and catch them,” said Pee-oo-ée-deh. So
the Coyote sat down to rest. As soon as the Rabbit was near them, the
Quails flew a little way, and he kept running after them. But as soon
as they were over a little hill, he turned aside and ran home, and
the Coyote never knew if the Quails were caught or not.
[Illustration: THE ACCURSED LAKE]
XVII
THE ACCURSED LAKE
AWAY to the southeast of the Manzano Mountains, two days’ journey
from my pueblo of Isleta, are the shallow salt lakes. For scores of
miles their dazzling sheen is visible--a strange patch of silver on
the vast brown plains. They are near the noblest ruins in our North
America--the wondrous piles of massive masonry of Abó, Cuaray, and
the so-called “Gran Quivira”--the latter the home of the silliest
delusion that ever lured treasure-hunters to their death. The whole
region has a romantic history, and is important to the scientific
student. From that locality came, centuries ago, part of the people
who then founded Isleta, and whose descendants dwell here to this
day. Perhaps you would like to know _why_ those lakes are salt
now--for my Indian neighbors say that once they were fresh and full
of fish, and that the deer and buffalo came from all the country
round to drink there. The story is very important ethnologically,
for it tells much of the strange secret religion of the Pueblos, and
more concerning the method of initiating a young Indian into one of
the orders of medicine-men--both matters which men of science have
found extremely difficult to be learned. Here is the story as it is
believed by the Tée-wahn, and as it was related to me by one of them.
* * * * *
Long ago there was still a village east of Shoo-paht-hóo-eh, the
Eagle-Feather (Manzano) Mountains, and in it lived a famous hunter.
One day, going out on the plains to the east, he stalked a herd of
antelopes, and wounded one with his arrows. It fled eastward, while
the herd went south; and the hunter began to trail it by the drops of
blood. Presently he came to the largest lake, into which the trail
led. As he stood on the bank, wondering what to do, a fish thrust its
head from the water and said:
“Friend Hunter, you are on dangerous ground!” and off it went
swimming. Before the Hunter could recover from his surprise, a
Lake-Man came up out of the water and said:
“How is it that you are here, where no human ever came?”
The Hunter told his story, and the Lake-Man invited him to come in.
When he had entered the lake, he came to a house with doors to the
east, north, west, and south, and a trap-door in the roof, with a
ladder; and by the latter door they entered. In their talk together
the Lake-Man learned that the Hunter had a wife and little son at
home.
“If that is so,” said he, “why do you not come and live with me? I
am here alone, and have plenty of other food, but I am no hunter. We
could live very well here together.” And opening doors on four sides
of the room he showed the Hunter four other huge rooms, all piled
from floor to ceiling with corn and wheat and dried squash and the
like.
“That is a very good offer,” said the astonished Hunter. “I will come
again in four days; and if my Cacique will let me, I will bring my
family and stay.”
So the Hunter went home--killing an antelope on the way--and told
his wife all. She thought very well of the offer; and he went to ask
permission of the Cacique. The Cacique demurred, for this was the
best hunter in all the pueblo,[63] but at last consented and gave him
his blessing.
[63] All hunters give the Cacique a tenth of their game, for
his support.
So on the fourth day the Hunter and his wife and little boy came to
the lake with all their property. The Lake-Man met them cordially,
and gave the house and all its contents into the charge of the
woman.[64]
[64] As is the custom among all Pueblo Indians.
[Illustration: THE HUNTER AND THE LAKE-MAN.]
Some time passed very pleasantly, the Hunter going out daily and
bringing back great quantities of game. At last the Lake-Man, who
was of an evil heart, pretended to show the Hunter something in the
east room; and pushing him in, locked the great door and left him
there to starve--for the room was full of the bones of men whom he
had already entrapped in the same way.
The boy was now big enough to use his bow and arrows so well that he
brought home many rabbits; and the witch-hearted Lake-Man began to
plot to get him, too, out of the way.
So one morning when the boy was about to start for a hunt, he heard
his mother groaning as if about to die; and the Lake-Man said to him:
“My boy, your mother has a terrible pain, and the only thing that
will cure her is some ice from T’hoor-p’ah-whée-ai [Lake of the
Sun],[65] the water from which the sun rises.”
[65] Located “somewhere to the east”; perhaps the ocean.
“Then,” said the boy, straightway, “if that is so, I will take the
heart of a man [that is, be brave] and go and get the ice for my
little mother.” And away he started toward the unknown east.
Far out over the endless brown plains he trudged bravely; until at
last he came to the house of Shee-chóo-hlee-oh, the Old-Woman-Mole,
who was there all alone--for her husband had gone to hunt. They were
dreadfully poor, and the house was almost falling down, and the poor,
wrinkled Old-Woman-Mole sat huddled in the corner by the fireplace,
trying to keep warm by a few dying coals. But when the boy knocked,
she rose and welcomed him kindly and gave him all there was in the
house to eat--a wee bowl of soup with a patched-up snowbird in it.
The boy was very hungry, and picking up the snowbird bit a big piece
out of it.
“Oh, my child!” cried the old woman, beginning to weep. “You have
ruined me! For my husband trapped that bird these many years ago, but
we could never get another; and that is all we have had to eat ever
since. So we never bit it, but cooked it over and over and drank the
broth. And now not even that is left.” And she wept bitterly.
“Nay, Grandmother, do not worry,” said the boy. “Have you any long
hairs?”--for he saw many snowbirds lighting near by.
“No, my child,” said the old woman sadly. “There is no other living
animal here, and you are the first human that ever came here.”
But the boy pulled out some of his own long hair and made snares, and
soon caught many birds. Then the Old-Woman-Mole was full of joy; and
having learned his errand, she said:
“My son, fear not, for I will be the one that shall help you. When
you come into the house of the Trues, they will tempt you with a
seat; but you must sit down only on what you have.[66] Then they will
try you with smoking the _weer_, but I will help you.”
[66] That is, upon his blanket and moccasins, the unvarying
etiquette of the Medicine House.
Then she gave him her blessing, and the boy started away to the east.
At last, after a weary, weary way, he came so near the Sun Lake, that
the _Whit-lah-wíd-deh_[67] of the Trues saw him coming, and went in
to report.
[67] One of an order of medicine-men, who among other duties,
act as guards of the Medicine House.
“Let him be brought in,” said the Trues; and the Whit-lah-wíd-deh
took the boy in and in through eight rooms, until he stood in the
presence of all the gods, in a vast room. There were all the gods
of the East, whose color is white, and the blue gods of the North,
the yellow gods of the West, the red gods of the South, and the
rainbow-colored gods of the Up, the Down, and the Center, all in
human shape. Beyond their seats were all the sacred animals--the
buffalo, the bear, the eagle, the badger, the mountain lion, the
rattlesnake, and all the others that are powerful in medicine.
Then the Trues bade the boy sit down, and offered him a white _manta_
(robe) for a seat; but he declined respectfully, saying that he had
been taught, when in the presence of his elders, to sit on nothing
save what he brought, and he sat upon his blanket and moccasins. When
he had told his story, the Trues tried him, and gave him the sacred
_weer_ to smoke--a hollow reed rammed with _pee-en-hleh_.[68] He
smoked, and held the smoke bravely. But just then the Old-Woman-Mole,
who had followed him underground all this way, dug a hole up to his
very toes; and the smoke went down through his feet into the hole,
and away back to the Old-Woman-Mole’s house, where it poured out in
a great cloud. And not the tiniest particle escaped into the room of
the Trues. He finished the second _weer_[69] without being sick at
all; and the Trues said, “Yes, he is our son. But we will try him
once more.” So they put him into the room of the East with the bear
and the lion; and the savage animals came forward and breathed on
him, but would not hurt him. Then they put him into the room of the
North, with the eagle and the hawk; then into the room of the West,
with the snakes; and lastly, into the room of the South, where were
the Apaches and all the other human enemies of his people. And from
each room he came forth unscratched.
[68] The smoking of the pungent _weer_ is a very severe ordeal;
and it is a disgrace to let any of the smoke escape from the
mouth or nose.
[69] Two being the usual number given a candidate for
initiation into a medicine order.
“Surely,” said the Trues, “this is our son! But once more we will try
him.”
They had a great pile of logs built up (“cob-house” fashion), and the
space between filled with pine-knots. Then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh set
the boy on the top of the pile and lighted it.
But in the morning, when the guard went out, there was the boy
unharmed and saying: “Tell the Trues I am cold, and would like more
fire.”
Then he was brought again before the Trues, who said: “Son, you have
proved yourself a True Believer, and now you shall have what you
seek.”
So the sacred ice was given him, and he started homeward--stopping on
the way only to thank the Old-Woman-Mole, to whose aid he owed his
success.
When the wicked Lake-Man saw the boy coming, he was very angry, for
he had never expected him to return from that dangerous mission. But
he deceived the boy and the woman; and in a few days made a similar
excuse to send the boy to the gods of the South after more ice for
his mother.
The boy started off as bravely as before. When he had traveled a
great way to the south, he came to a drying lake; and there, dying in
the mud, was a little fish.
“_Ah-bóo_ [poor thing], little fish,” said the boy; and picking it
up, he put it in his gourd canteen of water. After awhile he came
to a good lake; and as he sat down to eat his lunch the fish in his
gourd said:
“Friend Boy, let me swim while you eat, for I love the water.”
So he put the fish in the lake; and when he was ready to go on, the
fish came to him, and he put it back in his gourd. At three lakes he
let the fish swim while he ate; and each time the fish came back to
him. But beyond the third lake began a great forest which stretched
clear across the world, and was so dense with thorns and brush that
no man could pass it. But as the boy was wondering what he should
do, the tiny fish changed itself into a great Fish-Animal with a
very hard, strong skin,[70] and bidding the boy mount upon its back,
it went plowing through the forest, breaking down big trees like
stubble, and bringing him through to the other side without a scratch.
[70] It is quite possible that this “Fish-Animal with a hard,
strong skin,” living far to the south, is the alligator. Of
course, the Pueblos never saw that strange saurian; but they
probably heard of it in the earliest days from nomad tribes,
and as a great scientist has pointed out, we may always
depend upon it that there is a nucleus of truth in all these
folk-myths. Such a strange animal, once heard of, would be very
sure to figure in some story.
“Now, Friend Boy,” said the Fish-Animal, “you saved my life, and I
will be the one that shall help you. When you come to the house of
the Trues, they will try you as they did in the East. And when you
have proved yourself, the Cacique will bring you his three daughters,
from whom to choose you a wife. The two eldest are very beautiful,
and the youngest is not; but you ought to choose her, for beauty does
not always reach to the heart.”
The boy thanked his fish-friend and went on, until at last he came
to the house of the Trues of the South. There they tried him with
the _weer_ and the fire, just as the Trues of the East had done, but
he proved himself a man, and they gave him the ice. Then the Cacique
brought his three daughters, and said:
“Son, you are now old enough to have a wife,[71] and I see that you
are a true man who will dare all for his mother. Choose, therefore,
one of my daughters.”
[71] For it must be remembered that all these travels had taken
many years.
The boy looked at the three girls; and truly the eldest were very
lovely. But he remembered the words of his fish friend, and said:
“Let the youngest be my wife.”
Then the Cacique was pleased, for he loved this daughter more than
both the others. And the boy and the Cacique’s daughter were married
and started homeward, carrying the ice and many presents.
When they came to the great forest, there was the Fish-Animal waiting
for them, and taking both on his back he carried them safely through.
At the first lake he bade them good-by and blessed them, and they
trudged on alone.
[Illustration: THE CURSING OF THE LAKE.]
At last they came in sight of the big lake, and over it were great
clouds, with the forked lightning leaping forth. While they were yet
far off, they could see the wicked Lake-Man sitting at the top of his
ladder, watching to see if the boy would return, and even while they
looked they saw the lightning of the Trues strike him and tear him to
shreds.
When they came to the lake the boy found his mother weeping for him
as dead. And taking his wife and his mother,--but none of the things
of the Lake-Man, for those were bewitched,--the boy came out upon the
shore. There he stood and prayed to the Trues that the lake might be
accurst forever; and they heard his prayer, for from that day its
waters turned salt, and no living thing has drunk therefrom.
XVIII
THE MOQUI[72] BOY AND THE EAGLE
[72] Pronounced Móh-kee.
SOME of the folk-stories told in Isleta were evidently invented
in other pueblos, whence the Tée-wahn have learned them in their
trading-trips. There is even a story from the far-off towns of Moqui,
three hundred miles west of here and ninety miles from the railroad.
The Moquis live in northeast Arizona, in strange adobe towns,[73]
perched upon impregnable islands of rock, rising far above the bare,
brown plain. They are seldom visited and little known by white men.
All the other Pueblo towns and tribes have changed somewhat in the
present era of American occupation; but the Moquis remain very much
as they were when the first Spaniard found them--three hundred and
fifty years ago. They retain many customs long extinct among their
kindred, and have some of which no trace is to be found elsewhere.
One of the minor differences, but one which would be almost the first
to strike a stranger, is the absence of captive eagles in Moqui; and
this is explained by the following folk-story:
[73] See “Some Strange Corners of Our Country.” The Century
Co., New York.
The Eagle is Kah-báy-deh (commander) of all that flies, and his
feathers are strongest in medicine.
So long ago that no man can tell how long, there lived in Moqui an
old man and an old woman, who had two children--a boy and a girl. The
boy, whose name was Tái-oh, had a pet Eagle, of which he was very
fond; and the Eagle loved its young master. Despite his youth, Tái-oh
was a capital hunter; and every day he brought home not only rabbits
enough for the family, but also to keep the Eagle well fed.
One day when he was about to start on a hunt, he asked his sister to
look out for the Eagle during his absence. No sooner was he out of
sight than the girl began to upbraid the bird bitterly, saying: “How
I hate you, for my brother loves you so much. If it were not for you,
he would give me many more rabbits, but now you eat them up.”
The Eagle, feeling the injustice of this, was angry; so when she
brought him a rabbit for breakfast the Eagle turned his head and
looked at it sidewise, and would not touch it. At noon, when she
brought him his dinner, he did the same thing; and at night, when
Tái-oh returned, the Eagle told him all that had happened.
“Now,” said the Eagle, “I am very tired of staying always here in
Moqui, and I want to go home to visit my people a little. Come and go
along with me, that you may see where the Eagle-people live.”
“It is well,” replied Tái-oh. “To-morrow morning we will go together.”
In the morning they all went out into the fields, far down in the
valley, to hoe their corn, leaving Tái-oh at home.
“Now,” said the Eagle, “untie this thong from my leg, friend, and get
astride my neck, and we will go.”
The string was soon untied, and Tái-oh got astride the neck of the
great bird, which rose up into the air as though it carried no weight
at all. It circled over the town a long time, and the people cried
out with wonder and fear at seeing an Eagle with a boy on his back.
Then they sailed out over the fields, where Tái-oh’s parents and his
sister were at work; and all the three began to cry, and went home in
great sorrow.
The Eagle kept soaring up and up until they came to the very sky.
There in the blue was a little door, through which the Eagle flew.
Alighting on the floor of the sky, he let Tái-oh down from his back,
and said:
“Now, you wait here, friend, while I go and see my people,” and off
he flew.
Tái-oh waited three days, and still the Eagle did not return; so
he became uneasy and started out to see what he could find. After
wandering a long way, he met an old Spider-woman.
“Where are you going, my son?” she asked.
“I am trying to find my friend, the Eagle.”
“Very well, then, I will help you. Come into my house.”
“But how can I come into so small a door?” objected Tái-oh.
“Just put your foot in, and it will open big enough for you to enter.”
So Tái-oh put his foot in, and, sure enough, the door opened wide,
and he went into the Spider’s house and sat down.
“Now,” said she, “you will have some trouble in getting to the house
of your friend, the Eagle, for to get there you will have to climb a
dreadful ladder. It is well that you came to me for help, for that
ladder is set with sharp arrow-heads and knives of flint, so that
if you tried to go up it, it would cut your legs off. But I will
give you this sack of sacred herbs to help you. When you come to the
ladder, you must chew some of the herbs and spit the juice on the
ladder, which will at once become smooth for you.”[74]
[74] This recalls a superstition of the Peruvian mountain
Indians, ancient and modern. The latter I have often seen
throwing upon a stone at the crest of a mountain pass the quid
of coca-leaves they had been chewing. They believe such use
of this sacred herb propitiates the spirits and keeps off the
terrible _soroche_, or mountain-sickness; and that it also
makes veins of metal easier to be worked--softening the stone,
even as it did for Tái-oh.
Tái-oh thanked the Spider-woman and started off with the sack. After
awhile he came to the foot of a great ladder, which went away up out
of sight. Its sides and rungs were bristling with keen arrow-heads,
so that no living thing could climb it; but when Tái-oh chewed some
of the magic herb and spat upon the ladder, all the sharp points fell
off, and it was so smooth that he climbed it without a single scratch.
After a long, long climb, he came to the top of the ladder, and
stepped upon the roof of the Eagles’ house. But when he came to the
door he found it so bristling with arrow-points that whoever might
try to enter would be cut to pieces. Again he chewed some of the
herb, and spat upon the door; and at once all the points fell off,
and he entered safely, and inside he found his Eagle-friend, and all
the Eagle-people. His friend had fallen in love with an Eagle-girl
and married her, and that was the reason he had not returned sooner.
Tái-oh stayed there some time, being very nicely entertained, and
enjoyed himself greatly in the strange sky-country. At last one of
the wise old Eagle-men came to him and said:
“Now, my son, it is well that you go home, for your parents are very
sad, thinking you are dead. After this, whenever you see an Eagle
caught and kept captive, you must let it go; for now you have been
in our country, and know that when we come home we take off our
feather-coats and are people like your own.”
So Tái-oh went to his Eagle-friend and said he thought he must go
home.
“Very well,” said the Eagle; “get on my neck and shut your eyes, and
we will go.”
So he got on, and they went down out of the sky, and down and down
until at last they came to Moqui. There the Eagle let Tái-oh down
among the wondering people, and, bidding him an affectionate good-by,
flew off to his young wife in the sky.
Tái-oh went to his home loaded down with dried meat and tanned
buckskin, which the Eagle had given him; and there was great
rejoicing, for all had given him up as dead. And this is why, to this
very day, the Moquis will not keep an Eagle captive, though nearly
all the other Pueblo towns have all the Eagle-prisoners they can get.
XIX
THE NORTH WIND AND THE SOUTH WIND
NEARLY every nation has its folk-lore concerning Jack Frost and his
anti-type. The cold North Wind is always the enemy of man, and the
warm South Wind always his friend. The Quères pueblos of Acoma and
Laguna have an allegorical folk-story, in which the good spirit of
heat defeats his icy-hearted rival.
Once, long ago, the _ta-pó-pe_ (governor) of Acoma had a beautiful
daughter, for whom many of the young men had asked in vain, for she
would have none of them. One day there came climbing up the stone
ladder to the cliff-built pueblo a tall and handsome stranger. His
dress glistened with white crystals, and his face, though handsome,
was very stern. The fair _kot-chin-á-ka_ (chief’s daughter), bending
at a pool in the great rock to fill her water-jar, saw and admired
him as he came striding proudly to the village; and he did not fail
to notice the dusky beauty. Soon he asked for her in due form; and in
a little while they were to be married.
But, with the coming of Shó-kee-ah--for that was the name of the
handsome stranger--a sad change befell Acoma. The water froze in the
springs and the corn withered in the fields. Every morning Shó-kee-ah
left the town and went away to his home in the far North; and every
evening he returned, and the air grew chill around. The people could
raise no crops, for the bitter cold killed all that they planted, and
nothing would grow but the thorny cactus. To keep from starving, they
had to eat the cactus-leaves, roasting them first to remove the sharp
thorns. One day, when the _kot-chin-á-ka_ was roasting cactus-leaves,
there came another handsome stranger with a sunny smile and stood
beside her.
“What dost thou there?” he asked; and she told him.
“But do not so,” said the young man, giving her an ear of green corn.
“Eat this, and I will bring thee more.”
So saying, he was gone; but very soon he returned with such a load of
green corn as the strongest man could not lift, and carried it to her
house.
“Roast this,” he said, “and when the people come to thee, give them
each two ears, for hereafter there shall always be much corn.”
She roasted the corn and gave it to the people, who took it eagerly,
for they were starving. But soon Shó-kee-ah returned, and the warm,
bright day grew suddenly cold and cloudy. As he put his foot on the
ladder to come down into the house (all Pueblo rooms used to be
entered only from the roof, and thousands are so yet) great flakes
of snow fell around him; but Mí-o-chin, the newcomer, made it very
warm, and the snow melted.
“Now,” said Shó-kee-ah, “we will see which is more powerful; and
he that is shall have the _kot-chin-á-ka_.” Mí-o-chin accepted
the challenge, and it was agreed that the contest should begin on
the morrow and last three days. Mí-o-chin went to consult an old
Spider-woman as to the best way to conquer his powerful rival, and
she gave him the necessary advice.
Next day the people all gathered to see the trial of strength between
the two wizards. Shó-kee-ah “made medicine,” and caused a driving
sleet and a bitter wind that froze all waters. But Mí-o-chin built
a fire and heated small stones in it, and with them caused a warm
South Wind, which melted the ice. On the second day, Shó-kee-ah
used more powerful incantations, and made a deep snow to cover the
world; but again Mí-o-chin brought his South Wind and chased away
the snow. On the third day Shó-kee-ah used his strongest spell, and
it rained great icicles, until everything was buried under them. But
when Mí-o-chin built his fire and heated the stones, again the warm
South Wind drove away the ice and dried the earth. So it remained to
Mí-o-chin; and the defeated Shó-kee-ah went away to his frozen home
in the North, leaving Mí-o-chin to live happy ever after with the
_kot-chin-á-ka_, whom he married amid the rejoicing of all the people
of Acoma.
XX
THE TOWN OF THE SNAKE-GIRLS
IN the times that were farthest back, the forefathers of those who
now dwell in Isleta were scattered about in many small villages.
You have already heard the myths of how the inhabitants of several
villages finally abandoned their homes and came to live in the
one big town of the Tée-wahn. Three miles north of Isleta, amid
the sandy plain of Los Padillas, stands the strange round mesa of
Shee-em-tóo-ai. It is a circular “island” of hard, black lava, cut
off from the long lava cliffs which wall the valley of the Rio Grande
on the west. Its level top, of over fifty acres, is some two hundred
feet above the plain; the last fifty feet being a stern and almost
unbroken cliff. Upon its top are still visible the crumbling ruins of
the pueblo of Poo-reh-tú-ai--a town deserted, as we are historically
sure, over three hundred and fifty years ago. The mound outlines of
the round _estufa_, the houses and the streets, are still easy to be
traced, and bits of pottery, broken arrow-heads, and other relics,
still abound there. In history we know no more of the pueblo than
that it was once there, but had been abandoned already when Coronado
passed in 1540; but my aboriginal friends and fellow-citizens
of Shee-eh-whíb-bahk have an interesting legend of the pueblo of
Poo-reh-tú-ai and the cause which led to its abandonment.
When the mesa town was inhabited, so was Isleta; and, being but three
miles apart, the intercommunication was constant. At one time, four
hundred years ago or more, there lived in Isleta a very handsome
youth whose name was K’oo-ah-máh-koo-hóo-oo-aí-deh--which means
Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob.
In spite of this serious burden of a title, the young man was greatly
admired, and had many friends. Probably they called him something
else “for short,” or people wouldn’t have had time to associate
with him. There were two sisters, very pretty girls, living in
Poo-reh-tú-ai, and they fell very seriously in love, both with this
same youth. But he had never really found out how handsome he was,
and so thought little about girls anyhow, caring more to run fastest
in the races and to kill the most game in the hunts. The sisters,
finding that he would not notice their shy smiles, began to make it
in their way to pass his house whenever they came to Isleta, and to
say _hin-a-kú-pui-yoo_ (good morning) as they met him on the road.
But he paid no attention to them whatever, except to be polite; and
even when they sent him the modest little gift which means “there is
a young lady who loves you!” he was as provokingly indifferent as
ever.
After long coquetting in vain, the girls began to hate him as hard
as before they had loved him. They decided, no doubt, that he was
_oó-teh_, the Tée-wahn word for “a mean old thing”; and finally one
proposed that they put him out of the way, for both sisters, young
and pretty as they were, were witches.
“We will teach him,” said one.
“Yes,” said the other, “he ought to be punished; but how shall we do
it?”
“Oh, we will invite him to play a game of _mah-khúr_, and then we’ll
fix him. I’ll go now and make the hoop.”
The witch-sisters made a very gay hoop, and then sent word to the
youth to meet them at the sacred sand-hill, just west of Isleta, as
they had important business with him. Wondering what it could be, he
met them at the appointed time and place.
“Now, Brother Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob,” said the eldest
sister, “we want to amuse ourselves a little, so let us have a game
of _mah-khúr_. We have a very nice hoop to play it. You go half-way
down the hill and see if you can catch it when we roll it to you. If
you can, you may have the hoop; but if you fail, you come and roll it
to us and we’ll see if we can catch it.”
So he went down the hill and waited, and the girls sent the bright
wheel rolling toward him. He was very nimble, and caught it “on the
fly”; but that very instant he was no longer the tall, handsome
Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob, but a poor little Coyote, with
great tears rolling down his cheeks. The witch-sisters came laughing
and taunting him, and said:
“You see it would have been better to marry us! But now you will
always be a Coyote and an outcast from home. You may roam to the
north and to the south and to the west, but never to the east” (and
therefore not back to Isleta).
The Coyote started off, still weeping; and the two wicked sisters
went home rejoicing at their success. The Coyote roamed away to
the west, and at last turned south. After a time he came across a
party of Isleteños[75] returning from a trading-trip to the Apache
country. He sneaked about their camp, snapping up odd scraps--for
he was nearly starved. In the morning the Indians spied this Coyote
sitting and watching them at a little distance, and they set their
dogs on him. But the Coyote did not run; and when the dogs came to
him they merely sniffed and came away without hurting him--though
every one knows that the dog and the Coyote have been enemies almost
ever since the world began. The Indians were greatly astonished; and
one of them, who was a medicine-man, began to suspect that there
was something wrong. So, without saying anything to the others, he
walked over to the Coyote and said: “Coyote, are you Coyote-true,
or somebody bewitched?” But the Coyote made no reply. Again the
medicine-man asked: “Coyote, are you a man?” At this the Coyote
nodded his head affirmatively, while tears rolled from his eyes.
[75] Pronounced Eez-lay-táyn-yos.
“Very well, then,” said the medicine-man, “come with me.” So the
Coyote rose and followed him to the camp; and the medicine-man fed
and cared for him as the party journeyed toward Isleta. The last
night they camped at the big barranca, just below the village;
and here the medicine-man told his companions the story of the
bewitchment,--for the Coyote had already told him,--and they were all
greatly astonished, and very sad to learn that this poor Coyote was
their handsome friend, K’oo-ah-máh-koo-hóo-oo-aí-deh.
“Now,” said the medicine-man, “we will make a nice hoop and try a
game.” He made it, and said to the Coyote: “Friend, go and stand over
there; and when I roll this hoop toward you, you must jump and put
your head through it before it stops rolling or falls over upon its
side.”
The Coyote stood off, and the medicine-man sent the hoop rolling
toward him very hard. Just as it came near enough the Coyote
made a wonderful jump and put his head squarely through the
middle of it--and there, instead of the gaunt Coyote, stood the
Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob, handsome and well and strong as
ever. They all crowded around to congratulate him and to listen to
what had befallen him.
“Now,” said the medicine-man, “when we get home, the two
witch-sisters will come to congratulate you, and will pretend not to
know anything of the trouble that befell you, and when you see them
you must invite _them_ to a game of _mah-khúr_.”
It all came about as he said. When the party got back to Isleta all
the people welcomed the young man whose mysterious disappearance had
made all sad. The news of his return spread rapidly, and soon reached
the village of Poo-reh-tú-ai. In a day or two the witch-sisters came
to Isleta, bringing on their heads baskets of the choicest foods and
other gifts, which they presented to him in the most cordial manner.
To see how they welcomed him, one would never fancy that they had
been the wicked causes of his suffering. He played his part equally
well, and gave no sign that he saw through their duplicity. At last,
when they were about to start home, he said: “Sisters, let us come to
the sand-hill to-morrow to play a little game.”
An invitation--or rather a challenge--of that sort must be accepted
under all Indian etiquette; and the witch-sisters agreed. So at the
appointed hour they met him at the sacred hill. He had made a very
beautiful hoop, and when they saw it they were charmed, and took
their positions at the foot of the declivity. “One, two, three!”
he counted; and at the word “three!” sent the hoop rolling down to
them. They both grabbed it at the same instant, and lo! instead of
the pretty, but evil-minded sisters of Poo-reh-tú-ai, there lay
two huge rattlesnakes, with big tears falling from their eyes.
Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob laid upon their ugly, flat heads a
pinch of the sacred meal, and they ran out their tongues and licked
it.
“Now,” he said, “this is what happens to the treacherous. Here in
these cliffs shall be your home forever. You must never go to the
river, so you will suffer with thirst and drag yourselves in the dust
all the days of your life.”
The Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob went back to Isleta, where he
lived to a ripe old age. As for the snakes, they went to live in the
cliffs of their own mesa. The people of Poo-reh-tú-ai soon learned
of the fate of the witch-sisters, and knew that those two great
snakes, with tears in their eyes, were they. That was the beginning
of the downfall of Poo-reh-tú-ai; for the people grew fearful of
one another, lest there might be many more witches, unbeknown,
among them. The distrust and discontent grew rapidly--for to this
day nothing on earth will disrupt any Indian community so quickly
or so surely as the belief that some of the people are witches.
In a very short time the people decided to abandon Poo-reh-tú-ai
altogether. Most of them migrated to the Northwest, and I have not
as yet found even a legend to tell what became of them. The rest
settled in Isleta, where their descendants dwell to this day. There
are old men here now who claim that their great-grandfathers used to
see the two huge rattlesnakes basking on the cliffs of the mesa of
Shee-em-tóo-ai, and that the snakes always wept when people came near
them.
XXI
THE DROWNING OF PECOS
TWENTY-FIVE miles southeast of Santa Fé, New Mexico, lie the deserted
ruins of the ancient Pueblo town of Pecos. The village was finally
abandoned by the Indians in 1840; and their neat houses of adobe
bricks and stone, and their quaint adobe church, have sadly fallen
to decay. The history of the abandonment of Pecos is by no means
startling; but the Indian tradition--for they have already added this
to their countless myths--is decidedly so. The story is related by
two aged Pecos Indians who still live in the pueblo of Jemez.
“Now, this is a true story,” said my informant, an Isleteño, who had
often heard it from them.
Once Pecos was a large village, and had many people.[76] But it came
that nearly all of them had the evil road, and in the whole town were
but five True Believers (in the Indian religion). These were an old
woman, her two sons, and two other young men. Agostin, her elder son,
was a famous hunter, and very often went to the mountains with a
friend of his who had an evil spirit--though Agostin was not aware of
that.
[76] It was, indeed, the largest pueblo in New Mexico, having
at one time a population of about 2000.
One day the friend invited Agostin to go hunting, and next day they
went to the mountains. Just at the foot they found a herd of deer,
one of which Agostin wounded. The deer fled up the mountain, and the
two friends followed by the drops of blood. Half-way to the top they
came to a second herd, which ran off to the right of the trail they
were following, and the evil-spirited friend went in pursuit of them,
while Agostin kept on after the one he had wounded.
He came at last to the very top of the mountain, and there of a
sudden the trail ceased. Agostin hunted all about, but in vain, and
at last started down the other side of the mountain.
As he came to a deep cañon he heard singing, and, peering cautiously
through the bushes, he saw a lot of witch-men sitting around a fallen
pine and singing, while their chief was trying to raise the tree.
Agostin recognized them all, for they were of Pecos, and he was much
grieved when he saw his friend among them. Then he knew that the deer
had all been witches, and that they had led him off on a false trail.
Greatly alarmed, he crept back to a safe distance, and then hurried
home and told his aged mother all that had happened, asking her if he
should report it to the Cacique.
“No,” said she, with a sigh, “it is of no use; for he, too, has the
evil road. There are but few True Believers left, and the bad ones
are trying to use us up.”
Among the five good people was one of the Cum-pah-whit-lah-wen
(guards of the medicine-men); and to him Agostin told his story. But
he also said: “It is of no use. We are too few to do anything.”
At last the bad people falsely accused the old woman, saying that
her power was more than that of all the medicine-men put together
(which is a very serious charge, even to-day, among the Indians); and
challenged her to come before all the people in the medicine-house
and perform miracles with them, well knowing that she could not. The
challenge was for life or death; whichever side won was to kill the
others without being resisted.
The poor old woman told her sons, with tears, saying: “Already we are
killed. We know nothing of these things, and we may make ready to
die.”
“Nay, Nana,” said Agostin.[77] “Despair not yet, but prepare lunch
for Pedro[77] and me, that we go to other villages for advice.
Perhaps there the medicine-men will tell us something.”
[77] Pronounced Ah-gohs-téen and Páy-droh.
So the mother, still weeping, made some tortillas, and, strapping
these to their belts, the young men set out.
Pedro, the younger, went east, and Agostin took the road to the
north. Whatever person they met, or to whatever village they came,
they were to seek advice.
When Agostin came to the foot of the mountains, he was very
thirsty, but there was no water. As he entered a gorge he saw
Hyo-kwáh-kwah-báy-deh, a little bird which builds its nest with
pebbles and clay in the crannies of the cliffs, and is of exactly the
same color as the sandstones. He thought, “Ah, little bird, if you
could speak I would ask you where there is water, for I am fainting
with thirst, and dare not eat, for that would make it worse!”
But the little bird, knowing his thought, said:
“Friend Agostin, I see that you are one of the True Believers, and I
will show you where there is water; or wait, I will go and bring you
some, for it is very far.” And off he flew.
Agostin waited, and presently the little bird came back, bringing an
acorn-cup full of water. Then Agostin’s heart sank, and he thought:
“Alas! what good will that drop do me?”
But the little bird replied: “Do not think that way, friend. Here is
enough, and even more; for when you drink all you wish, there will
still be some left.”
And so it was. Agostin drank and drank, then ate some tortillas and
drank again; and when he was satisfied, the acorn-cup was still
nearly full.
Then the little bird said: “Now come, and I will lead you. But when
we come to the top of the mountain, and I say, ‘We are at the top,’
you must say, ‘No, we are down in the mountain--at the bottom of it.’
Do not forget.”
Agostin promised, and the little bird flew in front of him. At last
they were at the top, and the little bird said:
“Here we are, friend, at the top.”
“No,” answered Agostin, “we are down in the mountain--at the bottom
of it.”
Three times the little bird repeated his words, and three times
Agostin made the same answer.
At the third reply they found themselves in a room in the
mountain. There was a door in front of them, and beside it stood a
Cum-pah-whit-lah-wíd-deh (guard), who said to Agostin--for the little
bird had disappeared:
“Son, how came you here, where none ever think of coming? Do you
think you are a man?”
Agostin told the whole story of the witches’ challenge, and of how he
had gone out to seek advice, and of how the little bird had brought
him here, and the guard said:
“You are coming with the thought of a man; so now come in,” and he
opened the door.
But when Agostin entered the inner room, which was so large that no
end could be seen, he found himself in the presence of the Trues in
human shape.
There sat the divinities of the East, who are white; and of the
North, who are blue; and beyond them were the sacred animals--the
mountain lion, the eagle, bear, buffalo, badger, hawk, rabbit,
rattlesnake, and all the others that are of the Trues. Agostin was
very much afraid, but the guard said to him:
“Do not fear, son, but take the heart of a man, and pray to all
sides.” So he faced to the six sides, praying. When he had finished,
one of the Trues spoke to him, and said:
“What can it be that brought you here? Take the heart of a man and
tell us.”
Then Agostin told his whole story; after which the Trues said to him:
“Do not be worried, son. We will help you out of that.”
The principal True of the East said:
“Son, I will give you the clothes you must wear when you are in
the medicine-house for the contest of power”; and he gave Agostin
four dark-blue breech-clouts and some moccasins for himself and the
three other good young men, and a black _manta_ (robe) and pair of
moccasins for his mother.
“Now,” said the True, “the evil-spirited ones will have this
medicine-making contest in the _estufa_,[78] and when you enter, you
five, you must all be dressed in these clothes. The people will all
be there, old and young, and there will hardly be room for you to
stand; and they will all sneer at you and spit upon you. But do not
be sorry. And take this cane to hold between you. Let your mother
take it with one hand at the bottom, then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh’s
hand, then her other hand, and then his other hand; and last your
brother’s hand, your hand, then his other hand, and your other hand
at the top of all. And when you say, ‘We are at the top of the
mountain,’ he must answer, ‘No, we are down in the mountain--at the
bottom of it.’ This you must keep saying. Now go, son, with the heart
of a man.”
[78] Where it is sacrilegious to make medicine.
Then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh led Agostin out, and the little bird showed
him the way down the mountain.
When he reached home it was the afternoon of the appointed day, and
in the evening the medicine-making contest for life or death was to
come.
In a little while the younger brother arrived, with his new clothes
and moccasins torn to shreds; for he had traveled far in a rough
country, without meeting a soul from whom to ask advice.
Agostin called together the four other True Believers, and told them
all that had happened and what they must do, giving them the sacred
clothing.
In the evening they went to the _estufa_, which was crowded with the
witch-people, so that they had barely room to stand.
Then the evil-spirited ones began to make medicine, and turned
themselves into bears, coyotes, crows, owls, and other animals. When
they were done, they said to the old woman:
“Now it is your turn. We will see what you can do.”
“I know nothing about these things,” she said, “but I will do what I
can, and the Trues will help me.”
Then she and the four young men took hold of the sacred cane as the
Trues had showed Agostin.
“We are on the top of the mountain,” said he.
“No,” answered his brother, “we are down in the mountain--at the
bottom of it.”
This they said three times. At the third saying the people heard
on all sides the _guajes_ of the Trues.[79] At the same moment the
ladder[80] was jerked violently up out of the room, so that no one
could get out.
[79] The thunder is said by the Tée-wahn to be the sacred
dance-rattle of their gods.
[80] The only entrance to any _estufa_ is by a ladder let down
through a door in the roof.
Then the two brothers repeated their words again, and at the
third saying the thunder began to roar outside, and all could hear
plainly the singing and the _guajes_ of the Trues. It began to rain
violently, and the water poured down through the roof-door, and the
lightning stuck its tongue in. The brothers kept repeating their
words, and soon the water was knee-deep. But where the five True
Believers stood, holding the cane, the floor was dusty. Soon the
flood came to the waists of the witch-people, and then to their
necks, and the children were drowning. Then they cried out to the old
woman:
“Truly, mother, your power is greater than ours. We submit.”
But she paid no attention to them, and her sons continued their
words, and the water kept pouring in until it touched the very
ceiling. But all around the five it stood back like a wall, and they
were on dry ground.
At last all the evil-spirited ones were drowned. Then the rain ceased
and the water departed as fast as it had come. The ladder came down
through the roof-door again, and the five True Believers climbed out
and went to their homes.
But it was very desolate, for they were the only survivors. Their
nearest relatives and dearest friends had perished with the other
witch-people. At last they could no longer bear to live in the lonely
valley, and they decided to live elsewhere. On the way the old mother
and one of the men died. Agostin went to the pueblo of Cochití, and
Pedro and the Whit-lah-wíd-deh settled in the pueblo of Jemez, where
they are still living (or were in the spring of 1891).
Such is the Indian version of the abandonment of the great pueblo
which Coronado--that wonderful Spanish explorer--found in 1540. As a
matter of fact, the Hyó-qua-hoon, or people of Pecos, had dwindled
away by war, epidemics, and the like, until only five were left; and
in 1840 these lonely survivors moved to other pueblos, and abandoned
their ruined town forever. But the story is very valuable, not only
for the glimpse it affords of some of their most secret beliefs, but
also as showing how folk-stories of the most aboriginal stamp are
still coined.
Witchcraft is still a serious trouble in all the pueblos, despite
the efforts of the medicine-men, whose special duty it is to keep
down the witches. One little pueblo called Sandia is dying out--as
many others have done before it--because the medicine-men are
quietly killing those whom they suspect of being witches. In 1888 a
very estimable Indian woman of that town was slain by them in the
customary way,--shot through from side to side with an arrow,--and
this form of execution is still practised.
In Isleta they fear the Americans too much to indulge in
witch-killing, for Albuquerque is only a few miles away. But it is
only a little while ago that a young Isletan who was accused spent
three months in the neck-stocks in our aboriginal prison, and much
of the time had to “ride the horse,” sitting with his legs crossed
upon the adobe floor and the heavy weight of the stocks pressing him
down, a torture worthy of the Inquisition. The case was kept out of
the American courts only by the payment of a large sum to his parents
by his accusers.
One whose eyes or lids look red is always regarded with suspicion
here, for witch-people are supposed not to sleep at night, but to
change themselves into animals and roam over the world. Eccentric
actions also lay one open to accusation; and when I first came here I
was dangerously near being classed with the witches because, to amuse
my dusky little neighbors, I imitated various animal cries to their
great edification, but to the very serious doubt of their elders. The
fact that they doubt whether Americans know enough to be first-class
witches was largely instrumental in saving me from serious danger.
[Illustration: The Ants that Pushed on the Sky]
XXII
THE ANTS THAT PUSHED ON THE SKY
A VERY ancient and characteristic story about the origin of Isleta is
based on the historic fact that part of its founders came from east
of the Manzano Mountains, from one of the prehistoric pueblos whose
ruins are now barely visible in those broad plains.
Once upon a time there lived in one of those villages (so runs the
story) a young Indian named Kahp-too-óo-yoo, the Corn-stalk Young
Man. He was not only a famous hunter and a brave warrior against
the raiding Comanches, but a great wizard; and to him the Trues
had given the power of the clouds. When Kahp-too-óo-yoo willed it,
the glad rains fell, and made the dry fields laugh in green; and
without him no one could bring water from the sky. His father was
Old-Black-Cane, his mother was Corn-Woman, and his two sisters were
Yellow-Corn-Maiden, and Blue-Corn-Maiden.
Kahp-too-óo-yoo had a friend, a young man of about the same age. But,
as is often true, the friend was of a false heart, and was really a
witch, though Kahp-too-óo-yoo never dreamed of such a thing.
The two young men used to go together to the mountains to get wood,
and always carried their bows and arrows, to kill deer and antelopes,
or whatever game they might find.
One day the false friend came to Kahp-too-óo-yoo, and said:
“Friend, let us go to-morrow for wood, and to hunt.”
They agreed that so they would do. Next day they started before
sunrise, and came presently to the spot where they gathered wood.
Just there they started a herd of deer. Kahp-too-óo-yoo followed part
of the herd, which fled to the northwest, and the friend pursued
those that went southwest. After a long, hard chase, Kahp-too-óo-yoo
killed a deer with his swift arrows, and brought it on his strong
back to the place where they had separated. Presently came the
friend, very hot and tired, and with empty hands; and seeing the
deer, he was pinched with jealousy.
“Come, friend,” said Kahp-too-óo-yoo. “It is well for brothers to
share with brothers. Take of this deer and cook and eat; and carry a
part to your house, as if you had killed it yourself.”
“Thank you,” answered the other coldly, as one who will not; but he
did not accept.
When they had gathered each a load of wood, and lashed it with
rawhide thongs in bundles upon their shoulders, they trudged
home--Kahp-too-óo-yoo carrying the deer on top of his wood. His
sisters received him with joy, praising him as a hunter; and the
friend went away to his house, with a heavy face.
Several different days when they went to the mountain together, the
very same thing came to pass. Kahp-too-óo-yoo killed each time a
deer; and each time the friend came home with nothing, refusing all
offers to share as brothers. And he grew more jealous and more sullen
every day.
At last he came again to invite Kahp-too-óo-yoo to go; but this time
it was with an evil purpose that he asked. Then again the same things
happened. Again the unsuccessful friend refused to take a share of
Kahp-too-óo-yoo’s deer; and when he had sat long without a word, he
said:
“Friend Kahp-too-óo-yoo, now I will prove you if you are truly my
friend, for I do not think it.”
“Surely,” said Kahp-too-óo-yoo, “if there is any way to prove myself,
I will do it gladly, for truly I am your friend.”
“Then come, and we will play a game together, and with that I will
prove you.”
“It is well! But what game shall we play, for here we have nothing?”
Near them stood a broken pine-tree, with one great arm from its
twisted body. And looking at it, the false friend said:
“I see nothing but to play the _gallo_ race; and because we have no
horses[81] we will ride this arm of the pine-tree--first I will ride,
and then you.”
[81] This mention of the horse is, of course, modern. I think
it is an interpolation. The rest of the story bears traces of
great antiquity.
So he climbed the pine-tree, and sat astride the limb as upon a
horse, and rode, reaching over to the ground as if to pick up the
chicken.[82]
[82] In imitation of one of the most popular and exciting
sports of the Southwestern Indians and Mexicans.
“Now you,” he said, coming down; and Kahp-too-óo-yoo climbed the
tree and rode on the swinging branch. But the false friend bewitched
the pine, and suddenly it grew in a moment to the very sky, carrying
Kahp-too-óo-yoo.
“We do this to one another,” taunted the false friend, as the tree
shot up; and taking the wood, and the deer which Kahp-too-óo-yoo had
killed, he went to the village. There the sisters met him, and asked:
“Where is our brother?”
“Truly I know not, for he went northwest and I southwest; and though
I waited long at the meeting-place, he did not come. Probably he will
soon return. But take of this deer which I killed, for sisters should
share the labors of brothers.”
But the girls would take no meat, and went home sorrowful.
Time went on, and still there was no Kahp-too-óo-yoo. His sisters and
his old parents wept always, and all the village was sad. And soon
the crops grew yellow in the fields, and the springs failed, and the
animals walked like weary shadows; for Kahp-too-óo-yoo, he who had
the power of the clouds, was gone, and there was no rain. And then
perished all that is green; the animals fell in the brown fields; and
the gaunt people who sat to warm themselves in the sun began to die
there where they sat. At last the poor old man said to his daughters:
“Little daughters, prepare food, for again we will go to look for
your brother.”
The girls made cakes of the blue corn-meal for the journey; and on
the fourth day they started. Old-Black-Cane hobbled to the south, his
wife to the east, the elder girl to the north, and the younger to the
west.
For a great distance they traveled; and at last Blue-Corn-Maiden, who
was in the north, heard a far, faint song. It was so little that she
thought it must be imaginary; but she stopped to listen, and softly,
softly it came again:
_Tó-ai-fóo-ni-hlóo-hlim,
Eng-k’hai k’háhm;
Eé-eh-bóori-kóon-hlee-oh,
Ing-k’hai k’háhm.
Ah-ee-ái, ah-hee-ái,
Aim!_
(Old-Black-Cane
My father is called;
Corn-Woman
My mother is called.
_Ah-ee-ái, ah-hee-ái,
Aim!_)
When she heard this, Blue-Corn-Maiden ran until she came to her
sister, and cried:
“Sister! Sister! I think I hear our brother somewhere in captivity.
Listen!”
Trembling, they listened; and again the song came floating to them,
so soft, so sad that they wept--as to this day their people weep when
a white-haired old man, filled with the memories of Kahp-too-óo-yoo,
sings that plaintive melody.
“Surely it is our brother!” they cried; and off they went running to
find their parents. And when all listened together, again they heard
the song.
“Oh, my son!” cried the poor old woman, “in what captivity do you
find yourself? True it is that your father is Old-Black-Cane, and I,
your mother, am called Corn-Woman. But why do you sing thus?”
Then all four of them began to follow the song, and at last they came
to the foot of the sky-reaching pine; but they could see nothing
of Kahp-too-óo-yoo, nor could their cries reach him. There, on the
ground, were his bow and arrows, with strings and feathers eaten away
by time; and there was his pack of wood, tied with the rawhide thong,
ready to be taken home. But after they had searched everywhere, they
could not find Kahp-too-óo-yoo; and finally they went home heavy at
heart.
At last it happened that P’ah-whá-yoo-óo-deh, the Little Black Ant,
took a journey and went up the bewitched pine, even to its top in the
sky. When he found Kahp-too-óo-yoo there a prisoner, the Little Black
Ant was astonished, and said:
“Great _Kah-báy-deh_ [Man of Power], how comes it that you are up
here in such a condition, while your people at home are suffering and
dying for rain, and few are left to meet you if you return? Are you
here of your free will?”
[Illustration: SOUTH, EAST, NORTH, AND WEST IN SEARCH OF
KAHP-TOO-ÓO-YOO.]
“No,” groaned Kahp-too-óo-yoo; “I am here because of the jealousy
of him who was as my brother, with whom I shared my food and labor,
whose home was my home, and my home his. He is the cause, for he was
jealous and bewitched me hither. And now I am dying of famine.”
“If that is so,” said the Little Black Ant, “I will be the one to
help you”; and he ran down to the world as fast as he could. When he
got there he sent out the crier to summon all his nation, and also
that of the _In-toon_, the Big Red Ants. Soon all the armies of the
Little Black Ants and the Big Red Ants met at the foot of the pine,
and held a council. They smoked the _weer_ and deliberated what
should be done.
“You Big Red Ants are stronger than we who are small,” said the
War-Captain of the Little Black Ants, “and for that you ought to take
the top of the tree to work.”
“_Een-dah!_” (No) said the War-Captain of the Big Red Ants. “If you
think we are the stronger, give us the bottom, where we can work
more, and you go to the top.”
So it was agreed, and the captains made their armies ready. But
first the Little Black Ants got the cup of an acorn, and mixed in it
corn-meal and water and honey, and carried it up the tree. They were
so many that they covered its trunk all the way to the sky.
[Illustration]
When Kahp-too-óo-yoo saw, his heart was heavy, and he thought: “But
what good will that very little do me, for I am dying of hunger and
thirst?” “Nay, friend,” answered the Captain of the Little Black
Ants, who knew his thought. “A person should not think so. This
little is enough, and there will be some left.”
And it was so; for when Kahp-too-óo-yoo had eaten all he could, the
acorn-cup was still nearly full. Then the ants carried the cup to the
ground and came back to him.
“Now, friend,” said the Captain, “we will do our best. But now you
must shut your eyes till I say ‘_Ahw!_’”
Kahp-too-óo-yoo shut his eyes, and the Captain sent signals down to
those at the foot of the tree. And the Little Black Ants above put
their feet against the sky and pushed with all their might on the top
of the pine; and the Big Red Ants below caught the trunk and pulled
as hard as they could; and the very first tug drove the great pine a
quarter of its length into the earth.
“_Ahw!_” shouted the Captain of the Little Black Ants, and
Kahp-too-óo-yoo opened his eyes; but he could see nothing below.
“Shut your eyes again,” said the Captain, giving the signal. Again
the Little Black Ants pushed mightily against the sky, and the Big
Red Ants pulled mightily from below; and the pine was driven another
fourth of its length into the earth.
“_Ahw!_” cried the Captain; and when Kahp-too-óo-yoo opened his eyes
he could just see the big, brown world.
Again he closed his eyes. There was another great push and pull,
and only a quarter of the pine was left above the ground. Now
Kahp-too-óo-yoo could see, far below, the parched fields strewn with
dead animals, and his own village full of dying people.
Again the Little Black Ants pushed and the Big Red Ants pulled, and
this time the tree was driven clear out of sight, and Kahp-too-óo-yoo
was left sitting on the ground. He hastily made a bow and arrows and
soon killed a fat deer, which he brought and divided among the Little
Black Ants and the Big Red Ants, thanking them for their kindness.
Then he made all his clothing to be new, for he had been four years
a prisoner in the bewitched tree, and was all in rags. Making for
himself a flute from the bark of a young tree, he played upon it as
he strode homeward and sang:
_Kahp-too-óo-yoo tú-mah-quee,
Nah-chóor kwé-shay-tin,
Nah-shúr kwé-shay-tin;
Kahp-too-óo-yoo tú-mah-quee!_
(Kahp-too-óo-yoo has come to life again,
Is back to his home coming,
Blowing the yellow and the blue;
Kahp-too-óo-yoo has come to life again!)
[Illustration: KAHP-TOO-ÓO-YOO CALLING THE RAIN.]
As he walked and sang, the forgotten clouds came over him, and the
soft rain began to fall, and all was green and good. But only so far
as his voice reached came the rain; and beyond all was still death
and drought. When he came to the end of the wet, he played and sang
again; and again the rain fell as far as his voice was heard. This
time the Fool-Boy, who was wandering outside the dying village, saw
the far storm and heard the singing. He ran to tell Kahp-too-óo-yoo’s
parents; but nobody would believe a Foolish, and they sent him away.
When the Fool-Boy went out again, the rain fell on him and gave him
strength, and he came running a second time to tell. Then the sisters
came out of the house and saw the rain and heard the song; and they
cried for joy, and told their parents to rise and meet him. But the
poor old people were dying of weakness, and could not rise; and the
sisters went alone. When they met him they fell on their knees,
weeping; but Kahp-too-óo-yoo lifted them up and blessed them, gave an
ear of blue corn to Blue-Corn-Maiden, and to Yellow-Corn-Maiden an
ear of yellow corn, and brought them home.
As he sang again, the rain fell in the village; and when it touched
the pinched faces of the dead they sat up and opened their mouths to
catch it. And the dying crawled out to drink, and were strong again;
and the withered fields grew green and glad.
When they came to the house, Kahp-too-óo-yoo blessed his parents, and
then said:
“Little sisters, give us to eat.”
But they answered, “How? For you have been gone these four years, and
there was none to give us rain. We planted, but nothing came, and
to-day we ate the last grain.”
“Nay, little sisters,” he said. “A person should not think so. Look
now in the store-rooms, if there be not something there.”
“But we have looked and looked, and turned over everything to try to
find one grain.”
“Yet look once more,” he said; and when they opened the door, lo!
there was the store-room piled to the roof with corn, and another
room was full of wheat. Then they cried for joy, and began to roast
the blue ears, for they were dying of hunger.
At the sweet smell of the roasting corn came the starving neighbors,
crowding at the door, and crying:
“O Kahp-too-óo-yoo! Give us to taste one grain of corn, and then we
will go home and die.”
But Kahp-too-óo-yoo handed to each an ear, and said:
“Fathers, brothers, go now to your own houses, for there you will
find corn as much as here.” And when they went, it was so. All began
to roast corn and to eat; and the dead in the houses awoke and were
strong again, and all the Village sang and danced.
From that time there was plenty of rain, for he who had the power
of the clouds was at home again. In the spring the people planted,
and in the fall the crops were so great that all the town could not
hold them; so that which was left they brought to Shee-eh-whíb-bak
(Isleta), where we enjoy it to this day.
As for the false friend, he died of shame in his house, not daring to
come out; and no one wept for him.
XXIII
THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T KEEP SUNDAY
AMONG the folk-stories of the Pueblos which show at once that they
are not of such antiquity as the rest, is this. It is plain that the
story is post-Spanish--that it has been invented within the last
three hundred and fifty years. That seems to us a long time to go
back in the history of America, but to the Pueblos it is a trifling
dot on the long line of their antiquity.
The following tale is an amusing instance of the fashion in which
some of the myth-makers have mixed things. It is an Indian fairy
tale, but with a Christian moral--which was learned from the noble
and effective Spanish missionaries who toiled here.
Once upon a time, in a pueblo south of Isleta,--one of its old
colonies known as P’ah-que-tóo-ai, the Rainbow Town, but deserted
long ago,--there were two Indians who were great friends. They
started in life with equal prospects, married young, and settled in
the same town. But though friends, their natures were very different.
One was a good man in his heart, and the other was bad. The good man
always observed Sunday, but the other worked every day. The good
man had better luck than the bad; and the latter became jealous. At
last he said: “Friend, tell me, why is it that you always make more
success than I?”
“Perhaps,” answered Good, “because I keep Sunday, but work hard all
the other days of the week, while you work every day.”
Time went on, and both the friends accumulated considerable wealth in
servants, stock, and ornaments. The good man let his servants rest on
Sunday, but the bad made his work every day, and did not even give
them time to smoke. Good prospered most, and had more servants, more
stock, and more ornaments than Bad, who grew more jealous daily.
At last Bad said to Good: “Friend, you say that you have good luck
because you keep Sunday, but I’ll bet I am right in _not_ keeping it.”
“No,” replied Good; “I’ll bet _I_ am right, and that Sunday ought to
be kept.”
“Then I will bet all my stock against all your stock, and all my
lands against your lands, and everything we have except our wives.
To-morrow, be ready about breakfast-time, and we will go out into the
public road and ask the first three men we meet which of us is right.
And whichever gets the voice of the majority, he shall be the winner,
and shall take all that is of the other.”
Good agreed--for an Indian cannot back out of a challenge,--and so
the next morning the two friends took the public road. In a little
while they met a man, and said to him: “Friend, we want your voice.
Which of us is right, the one who observes Sunday and lets his
_peons_ rest then, or he who does not?”
Now it happened that this person was not a man, but an old devil who
was taking a walk in human form; and he promptly answered: “Without
doubt he is right who does not keep Sunday,” and went his road.
“Aha!” said Bad to Good. “You see I got the first voice.”
They started on again and soon met another man, to whom they asked
the same. But it was the same old devil, and he gave them the same
answer.
“Aha!” said Bad. “Now I have the second voice, you see.”
Presently they met a third man, and asked him the same, and he
answered the same; for it was the same old devil in another body.
“Aha!” said Bad, “I am the winner! Get down from that burro, and let
me have her and her colt, for now all that was yours is mine, as we
agreed.”
Good got down from the burro with tears in his eyes, for he was
thinking of his wife, and said:
“Now, friend, having gained all, you are going back to our home; but
I shall not. Tell my wife that I am going to the next pueblo to seek
work, and that I will not be back until I have earned as much as I
have lost in this bet, or more; but tell her not to be sad.”
Then they shook hands and parted, Bad riding home full of joy, and
Good trudging off through the sand toward Isleta, which was the
largest and wealthiest pueblo of the tribe. On the road night
overtook him, and seeing an abandoned house in a field, he hastened
to it for shelter from the cold of night. A portion of the roof still
remained, with the _fogon_ (corner fireplace) and chimney, and he
began to brush a place to lie down. Now it happened that this house
was the place where all the devils of that country used to meet at
night; and before Good went to sleep he heard noises of the devils
coming. He was very much frightened, and to hide himself climbed up
into the chimney and stood upon its crosspiece.
In a moment the devils began to arrive singly or in pairs; and at
last came the old devil--the very one who had played the trick on
Good. He called the meeting to order, and asked them what they had
been doing. A young devil arose and said:
“The next pueblo is the largest and wealthiest of this nation. For
three weeks now, all its people, and all the people along that river,
have been working at the spring from which the river comes, but have
not been able to undo me. Three weeks ago I came to that spring and
thought how nice it would be to stop up the spring, and how the
people would swear if their gods did not send rain. So I stuck a big
stone in the spring and stopped all the water; and ever since, the
water will not come out, and the people work in vain, and they are
dying of thirst, and all their stock. Now they will either forsake
their gods and serve us, or die like the animals, thinking nothing of
their past or future.”
“Good!” said the old devil, rubbing his hands. “You have done well!
But tell me--is there no way to open the spring?”
“There is only one way,” said the young devil, “and one man could do
that--but they will never think of it. If a man took a long stick,
shaped like a sword, and went and stood on top of the stone, and
struck it with the full length of the stick first east and west, and
then north and south, the water would come out so hard that the stone
would be thrown out upon the banks and the spring could never be
stopped again.”
“Is _that_ the only way?” said the old devil. “You have done very
well, for they certainly will never think to do that. Now for the
next.”
Then another young devil arose and reported this:
“I, too, have done something. In the pueblo across the mountain I
have the daughter of the wealthiest man sick in bed, and she will
never get well. All the medicine-men have tried in vain to cure her.
She, too, will be ours.”
“Good!” said the old devil. “But is there no way in which any one may
cure her?”
“Yes, there is one way, but they never will think of that. If a
person should carry her to the door just as the sun is rising, and
hold her so that its very first rays would touch the top of her head,
she would be well at once, and never could be made sick again.”
“You are right,” said the old devil, “they will never think of that.
You have done well.”
Just then a rooster crowed, and the old devil cried, “You have a
road!”--which means, “an adjournment is in order.” All the devils
hurried away; and when they were gone, poor Good crawled down from
the chimney half dead with fright, and hurried on toward Isleta. When
he got there he found the people in great trouble, for their crops
were withering and their cattle dying for want of water.
“I see,” thought Good to himself, “that these devils told the truth
about one thing, and so perhaps they did about all. I will try to
undo them, even if I fail.” Going to the Cacique he asked what
they would give him if he would open the spring. The Cacique told
the _principales_, and they held a _junta_, and decided to let the
stranger name his own price.
“Well,” said he, “I will do this if you will give me half the value
of the whole village.”
They agreed, and asked how many men he would need to help him, and
when he would begin.
“I need no men. Lend me only a hard stick the length of my
outstretched arms, and a horse.”
These were given him, and he went to the spring alone. Leaping upon
the stone he struck it with the full length of the stick east and
west, and then north and south, and sprang nimbly to the bank. At
that very instant the water rushed out harder than it had ever done.
All the people and cattle along the river came to the banks and drank
and revived. They began to irrigate their fields again, and the dying
crops grew green.[83] When Good got back to the pueblo, half of all
the grain and money and dresses and ornaments were piled up in a
huge pile waiting for him, and half the horses and cattle and sheep
were waiting in big herds. It was so that he had to hire a great many
men to help him home with his wealth, which was more than any one
person ever had before. He appointed a mayordomo to take charge of
this caravan, and to meet him at a certain point on the way home. He
himself, taking a horse, rode away at once to the other pueblo, where
the rich man’s daughter was sick. Arriving at nightfall, he stopped
at the house of an old woman. While he ate, she told him how sad was
all the village; for the girl who had been so kind to all was dying.
[83] Here, as in several other stories in this volume, is a
touch of the arid character of the Southwest. The country is
always so dry that irrigation is necessary in farming, and in
very bad years the streams have not water even for that. The
Rio Grande itself frequently disappears in September between
certain points in its course in sandy New Mexico; and within
ten miles below Isleta I have seen its bed bone-dry. Ignorance
of this fact has caused serious blunders on the part of
historians unfamiliar with the country of which they wrote.
“But,” said he, “I can cure her.”
“_In-dah_,” said the crone; “for all the medicine men have tried
vainly, and how shall you?”
“But I can,” he insisted; and at last the old woman went to the rich
man, and said there was a stranger at her house who was sure he could
cure the girl.
The _rico_ said: “Go and tell him to come here quickly,” and the old
woman did so. When Good came, the rich man said: “Are you he who says
he can cure my daughter?”
“I am the one.”
“For how much will you cure her?”
“What will you give?”
“Half of all I have, which is much.”
“It is well. To-morrow be ready, for I will come just before the sun.”
In the blue of the morning Good came and waked the girl, and carried
her to the door. In a moment came the sun, and its first ray fell
upon her bent head. In an instant she was perfectly well, and
stronger and prettier than ever.
That very day her father gladly divided all his wealth into two
equal shares, and gave half to Good, who again had to hire many
cow-boys and men with _carretas_ to help him transport all this. At
the appointed spot he found his mayordomo; and putting all the stock
together, with many herders, and all the wagons full of corn and
dresses and ornaments and money together, started homeward, sending
ahead a messenger on a beautiful horse to apprise his wife.
When the jealous Bad saw this fine horse going to the house of his
friend, he ran over to see what it meant; and while he was still
there, Good arrived with all his wealth. Filled with envy, Bad asked
him where he had got all this; and Good told the whole story.
“Well,” said Bad, “I will go there too, and perhaps I will hear
something.” So off he rode on the burro he had won from Good, till he
came to the deserted house, and climbed up in the chimney.
Soon the devils met, and the two young ones told their chief that the
spring had been opened and the girl cured, and that neither could
ever be bewitched again.
“Somebody must have listened to us last night,” said the old devil,
greatly troubled. “Search the house.” In a little while they found
the jealous friend in the chimney, and supposing him to be the one
who had undone them, without mercy puffed him to the place where
devils live.
XXIV
THE BRAVE BOBTAILS
WHEN it came old Anastacio’s turn, one night, to tell a story to
the waiting circle, it was several minutes before he responded to
the quaint summons; and at last Lorenso repeated: “There is a tail
to you, _compadre_ Anastacio!” The words seemed to remind him of
something; for he turned to his fat grandson, and said:
“Juan! Knowest thou why the Bear and the Badger have short tails? For
once they had them long as Kéem-ee-deh, the Mountain Lion. _In-dah?_
Then I will tell thee.”
* * * * *
Once in the Days of the Old, it was that a young man lived here in
Shee-eh-whíb-bak whom they called T’hoor-hlóh-ah, the Arrow of the
Sun. He was not of the Tée-wahn, but a Ute, who was taken in war
while yet a child. When the warriors brought him here, a Grandmother
who was very poor took him for her son, and reared him, loving him
greatly, and teaching him all the works of men. Coming to be a young
man, he was a mighty hunter; but so good in his heart that he loved
the animals as brothers, and they all loved him. When he went out to
hunt, the first game he killed he always dressed and left there for
his animal-friends to eat. Sometimes it was Kéem-ee-deh, king of the
four-feet, who came to the feast Sun-Arrow had made; and sometimes
Kahr-naí-deh, the Badger, who is best of all to dig, and who showed
Those of Old how to make their caves; and sometimes the smaller ones.
They were all grateful; for no other was so kind to feed them.
Now the Grandmother would never let Sun-Arrow go to war, fearing
that he would be killed; and all the other young men laughed at
him, because he had never taken the sacred _oak-bark_. And when the
others danced the great round-dance, he had to stand alone. So he
was ashamed, and vowed that he would prove himself a man; and taking
secretly his bow and arrows and his thunder-knife, he went away by
night alone, and crossed the Eagle-Feather Mountains.
Now in that time there was always great war with the Comanches,
who lived in the plains. They came often across the mountains and
attacked Isleta by night, killing many people. Their chief was
P’ee-kú-ee-fa-yíd-deh, or Red Scalp, the strongest and largest
and bravest of men. For many years all the warriors of Isleta had
tried to kill him, for he was the head of the war; but he slew all
who came against him. He was very brave, and painted his scalp red
with _páh-ree_, so that he might be known from far; and left his
scalp-lock very long, and braided it neatly, so that an enemy might
grasp it well.
Now Sun-Arrow met this great warrior; and with the help of an old
Spider-woman,[84] slew him and took his scalp. When the people of
Isleta saw Sun-Arrow returning, the young men began to laugh and say:
“Va! T’hoor-hlóh-ah has gone to make war again on the rabbits!”
[84] About equivalent to our “fairy godmother.”
But when he came into the plaza, saying nothing, and they saw that
_oak-bark_ which all knew, all cried out: “Come and look! For here is
Sun-Arrow, who was laughed at--and now he has brought the bark of Red
Scalp, whom our bravest have tried in vain to kill.”
So when he had taken the scalp to the Cacique, and they had had the
round-dance, and the days of purification were over, they called
Sun-Arrow the greatest warrior of the Tée-wahn, and made him second
to the Cacique. Then all who had daughters looked at him with good
eyes, and all the maidens wished for so brave a husband. But he saw
none of them, except the youngest daughter of the Cacique; for he
loved her. When the Grandmother had spoken to the Cacique, and it was
well, they brought the young people together, and gave them to eat of
the betrothal corn--to Sun Arrow an ear of the blue corn, and to her
an ear of the white corn, because the hearts of maidens are whiter
than those of men. When both had eaten the raw corn, every seed of
it, the old folks said: “It is well! For truly they love each other.
And now let them run the marrying-race.”
Then all the people gathered yonder where are the ashes of the
evil-hearted ones who were burned when Antelope Boy won for his
people. And the elders marked a course, as of three miles, from
there to the sacred sand-hill beside the Kú-mai. When they said
the word, Sun-Arrow and the girl went running like young antelope,
side by side. Up to the Place of the Bell they ran, and turned back
running; and when they came to the people, the girl was a little in
front, and all cried:
“It is well! For now Eé-eh-chah has won a husband, and she shall
always be honored in her own house.”
So they were married, and the Cacique blessed them. They made a house
by the plaza,[85] and Sun-Arrow was given of the fields, that he
might plant.
[85] Public square in the center of the pueblo.
But of the maidens there was one who did not forgive Sun-Arrow that
he would not look at her; and in her heart she thought to pay him. So
she went to a Spider-woman,[86] and said: “Grandmother, help me! For
this young man despised me, and now I will punish him.”
[86] Here equivalent to a witch.
Then the Spider-woman made an accursed prayer-stick of the feathers
of the woodpecker, and spoke to the Ghosts, and said to the girl:
“It is well, daughter! For I am the one that will help you. Take
only this Toad, and bury it in your floor, _this_ way, and then ask
T’hoor-hlóh-ah to come to your house.”
The girl made a hole in her floor, and buried P’ah-foo-ée-deh, the
Toad. Then she went to Sun-Arrow and said: “Friend T’hoor-hlóh-ah,
come to my house a little; for I have to talk to you.”
But when Sun-Arrow sat down in her house, his feet were upon the
floor over the hole; and in a moment the Toad grew very great, and
began to swallow him by the feet. Sun-Arrow kicked and fought, for
he was very strong. But he could do nothing; and in a little, he was
swallowed to the knees. Then he called in a great voice for his wife;
and all the people of the Tée-wahn came running with her. When they
saw him so, they were very sad; and Eé-eh-chah took his hand, and the
Grandmother took his other, and all the people helped them. But all
were not so strong as the great Toad; and fast it was swallowing him,
until he was at the waist. Then he said:
“Go, my people! Go, my wife! For it is in vain. Go from this place,
that you may not see me. And pray to the Trues if they will help me.”
So they all went, mourning greatly.
In that time it came that Shee-íd-deh, the House-Mouse, stirred from
his hole; and seeing Sun-Arrow _so_, he came to him, weeping.
“Oh, Friend Sun-Arrow!” he cried. “You who have been a father to us
all, you who have fed us, and have proved yourself so brave--it is
not deserved that you should be thus. But we for whom you have cared,
we will be the ones to help you!”
Then Shee-íd-deh ran from the house until he found the Dog, and to
him told it all. And Quee-ah-níd-deh, whose voice was big, ran out
into the plains, up and down, _pregonando_[87] to all the animals;
and they came hurrying from all places. Soon all the birds and all
the four-feet were met in council in the room where Sun-Arrow was;
and the Mountain Lion was captain. When he had listened to them, he
said:
[87] The technical (Spanish) word for the official heralding by
which all announcements are still made among the Pueblos.
“Now let each tribe of you choose from it one who is young and
strong, to give help to him who has fed us. For we cannot leave him
to die so.”
When every kind that walks or flies had chosen its strongest one, the
chosen stood out; Kéem-ee-deh called them by name to take their turns.
“Kóo-ah-raí-deh!” he called; and the Bluebird of the mountains came
to Sun-Arrow, who was now swallowed up to his armpits. Sun-Arrow
grasped her long tail with both hands, and she flew and flew with all
her might, not caring for the pain, until her tail was pulled off.
But Sun-Arrow was not budged a hair.
Then the captain called Ku-íd-deh, the Bear, to try. He gave his
long tail to Sun-Arrow to hold; and when he had counted “One, two,
_three_!” he pulled with a great pull, so hard that his whole tail
came off. And still Sun-Arrow was not stirred.
Then it was to the Coyote. But _he_ said: “My ears are stronger”; for
he was a coward, and would not give to pull on his pretty tail, of
which he is proud. So he gave to Sun-Arrow to hold by his ears, and
began to pull backward. But soon it hurt him, and he stopped when his
ears were pulled forward.
“Now it is to you, Kahr-naí-deh,” said the Mountain Lion; and the
Badger came out to try. First he dug around Sun-Arrow, and gave him
to hold his tail. Then he counted _three_, and pulled greatly, so
that his tail came off--and Sun-Arrow was moved a very little. But
the Badger did not fear the pain, and said:
“Let it be to me twice again, Kah-báy-deh.”[88]
[88] Commander.
“It is well!” said the Mountain Lion. “So let it be.”
So the Badger dug again, and gave the stump of his tail, and pulled.
And Sun-Arrow was loosened a little more; but the stump slipped
through his hands, for it was very short.
“_Around_ me, friend,” said the Badger, when he had dug a third time;
and Sun-Arrow clasped his hands around the Badger’s body, behind the
fore legs. Then for the third time Kahr-naí-deh pulled--so mightily
that he dragged Sun-Arrow clear out from the Toad’s mouth. At that,
all the animals fell upon the wicked Toad, and killed it; and gave
thanks to Those Above for the deliverance of their friend.
When they had prayed, Sun-Arrow thanked all the animals, one by one;
and to the Bluebird, the Bear, and the Badger, he said:
“Friends, how shall I thank you who have suffered so much for me?
And how can I pay you for your help, and for the tails that you have
lost?” But to the Coyote he did not say a word.
Then said the Badger:
“Friend T’hoor-hlóh-ah, as for me, your hand has always been held out
to me. You have fed me, and have been as a father: I want no pay for
this tail that I have lost.”
And the Bear and the Bluebird both answered the same thing.
So Sun-Arrow again gave them many thanks, and they went away to
their homes. As for Sun-Arrow, he hurried to the Medicine House,
where all the Tée-wahn were making medicine[89] that he might be
saved. And when they saw him entering, his wife ran and cried on his
shoulder, and all the people gave thanks to the Trues.
[89] Not compounding remedies, but going through the magic
dance and incantations to which the Indians always resort in
time of trouble. For a description of a medicine-making, see
“Some Strange Corners of Our Country.”
Sun-Arrow told them all that was; and when the Father-of-all-Medicine
looked in the sacred _cajete_[90] he saw the evil-hearted girl paying
the Spider-woman. Then the Cum-pah-whít-la-wen[91] went running with
their bows and arrows, and brought the girl; and she was punished as
are they that have the evil road. As for the Spider-woman, she was
already dead of shame; for she knew all that had been.
[90] A jar of magic water, in which the chief conjuror is
supposed to see all that is going on in the world.
[91] Armed guards of the Medicine House.
In a time it came that his father-in-law the Cacique died; and they
made Sun-Arrow Cacique in his place. For many years he was so,
bringing great good to his people; for he was very wise.
As for the Bear, the Badger, and the Bluebird, they would never
go to the medicine-men of their tribes to have their tails mended
to grow again; for they were proud that they had suffered to help
their friend. And to this very day they go with short tails, and
are honored by all the animals, and by all True Believers. But
Too-wháy-deh, the coward, he who would not hurt himself with
pulling--he is a laughed-at to this day. For his ears cannot lie
back, as is well for beasts, but always point straight forward, as
Sun-Arrow pulled them.
* * * * *
Any one who has ever seen the Coyote, or any other of the wolf or
fox tribe, must have noticed the alert forward pricking of the ears.
Among the Pueblos, any such peculiarity of nature--and particularly
of animal life--is very sure to have a folk-story hung to it. It has
always seemed to me that the boy who always wants to know “why?” has
a better time of it among my Indian friends than anywhere else. For
there is always sure to be a why, and an interesting one--which is
much more satisfactory than only learning that “it’s bedtime now,” or
that “I’m busy.”
[Illustration: THE REVENGE of the FAWNS]
XXV
THE REVENGE OF THE FAWNS
“DON CARLOS,” said Vitorino, throwing another log upon the fire,
which caught his tall shadow and twisted it and set it dancing
against the rocky walls of the cañon in which we were camped for the
night, “did you ever hear why the Wolf and the Deer are enemies?” And
as he spoke he stretched out near me, looking up into my face to see
if I were going to be interested.
A few years ago it would have frightened me very seriously to find my
self thus--alone in one of the remotest corners of New Mexico save
for that swarthy face peering up into mine by the weird light of the
camp-fire. A stern, quiet but manly face it seems to me now; but once
I would have thought it a very savage one, with its frame of long,
jet hair, its piercing eyes, and the broad streak of red paint across
its cheeks. By this time, however, having lived long among the kindly
Pueblos, I had shaken off that strange, ignorant prejudice against
all that is unknown--which seems to be inborn in all of us--and
wondered that I could ever have believed in that brutal maxim, worthy
only of worse than savages, that “A good Indian is a dead Indian.”
For Indians are men, after all, and astonishingly like the rest of us
when one really comes to know them.
I pricked up my ears--very glad at his hint of another of these
folk-stories.
“No,” I answered. “I have noticed that the Wolf and the Deer are not
on good terms, but never knew the reason.”
“_Si, señor_,” said he,--for Vitorino knows no English, and most of
our talk was in Spanish, which is easier to me than the Tée-wahn
language,--“that was very long ago, and now all is changed. But once
the Wolf and the Deer were like brothers; and it is only because
the Wolf did very wickedly that they are enemies. _Con su licencia,
señor._”[92]
[92] “With your permission, sir.”
“_Bueno; anda!_”[93]
[93] “All right; go ahead!”
So Vitorino leaned his shoulders against a convenient rock and began.
* * * * *
Once upon a time, when the Wolf and the Deer were friends, there
were two neighbors in the country beyond the Rio Puerco, not far
from where the pueblo of Laguna (a Quères town) now is. One was a
Deer-mother who had two fawns, and the other a Wolf-mother with two
cubs. They had very good houses of adobe, just such as we live in
now, and lived like real people in every way. The two were great
friends, and neither thought of going to the mountain for firewood or
to dig _amole_[94] without calling for the other to accompany her.
[94] The root of the palmilla, generally used for soap
throughout the Southwest.
One day the Wolf came to the house of the Deer and said:
“Friend Peé-hlee-oh [Deer-woman], let us go to-day for wood and
_amole_, for I must wash to-morrow.”
“It is well, friend Káhr-hlee-oh,” replied the Deer. “I have nothing
to do, and there is food in the house for the children while I am
gone. _Toó-kwai!_ [Let us go].”
So they went together across the plain and into the hills till they
came to their customary spot. They gathered wood and tied it in
bundles to bring home on their backs, and dug _amole_, which they put
in their shawls to carry. Then the Wolf sat down under a cedar-tree
and said:
“_Ai!_ But I am tired! Sit down, friend Deer-woman, and lay your head
in my lap, that we may rest.”
“No, I am not tired,” replied the Deer.
“But just to rest a little,” urged the Wolf. The Deer good-naturedly
lay down with her head in the lap of her friend. But soon the Wolf
bent down and caught the trusting Deer by the throat, and killed
her. That was the first time in the world that any one betrayed a
friend, and from that deed comes all the treachery that is.
The false Wolf took off the hide of the Deer, and cut off some of the
meat and carried it home on her load of _amole_ and wood. She stopped
at the house of the Deer, and gave the Fawns some of the accursed
meat, saying:
“Friends, Deer-babies, do not fear, but eat; your mother met
relatives and went to their house, and she will not come to-night.”
The Fawns were very hungry, and as soon as the Wolf had gone home
they built a big fire in the fireplace and set the meat to cook. But
at once it began to sputter and to hiss, and the Fawn who was tending
it heard it cry, “Look out! look out! for this is your mother!”
He was greatly frightened, and called his brother to listen, and
again the same words came from the meat.
“The wicked old Wolf has killed our _nana_! [mama],” they cried, and,
pulling the meat from the fire, they laid it gently away and sobbed
themselves to sleep.
Next morning the Wolf went away to the mountain to bring the rest of
the deer-meat; and when she was gone her Cubs came over to play with
the Fawns, as they were used to doing. When they had played awhile,
the Cubs said:
“_Pee-oo-weé-deh_ [little Deer], why are you so prettily spotted, and
why do you have your eyelids red, while we are so ugly?”
“Oh,” said the Fawns, “that is because when we were little, like
you, our mother put us in a room and smoked us, and made us spotted.”
“Oh, Fawn-friends, can’t you spot us, too, so that we may be pretty?”
So the Fawns, anxious to avenge the death of their mother, built a
big fire of corn-cobs in the fireplace, and threw coyote-grass on it
to make a great smoke. Then, shutting the Cubs into the room, they
plastered up the door and windows with mud, and laid a flat rock on
top of the chimney and sealed it around with mud; and climbing down
from the roof, they took each other’s hands and ran away to the south
as fast as ever they could.
After they had gone a long way, they came to a Coyote. He was walking
back and forth with one paw to his face, howling dreadfully with the
toothache. The Fawns said to him very politely:
“_Ah-bóo!_ [poor thing]. Old-man friend, we are sorry your tooth
hurts. But an old Wolf is chasing us, and we cannot stay. If she
comes this way, asking about us, do not tell her, will you?”
“_Een-dah._ Little-Deer-friends, I will not tell her”--and he began
to howl again with pain, while the Fawns ran on.
When the Wolf came to her home with the rest of the meat, the Cubs
were not there; and she went over to the house of the Deer. It was
all sealed and still; and when she pushed in the door, there were her
Cubs dead in the smoke! When she saw that, the old Wolf was wild with
rage, and vowed to follow the Fawns and eat them without mercy. She
soon found their tracks leading away to the south, and began to
run very swiftly in pursuit.
[Illustration: THE WOLF, AND THE COYOTE WITH THE TOOTHACHE.]
In a little while she came to the Coyote, who was still walking up
and down, howling so that one could hear him a mile away. But not
pitying his pain, she snarled at him roughly:
“Say, old man! have you seen two Fawns running away?”
The Coyote paid no attention to her, but kept walking with his hand
to his mouth, groaning, “_Mm-m-páh! Mm-m-páh!_”
Again she asked him the same question, more snappishly, but he only
howled and groaned. Then she was very angry, and showed her big teeth
as she said:
“I don’t care about your ‘_Mm-m-páh! Mm-m-páh!_’ Tell me if you saw
those Fawns, or I’ll eat you this very now!”
“Fawns? _Fawns?_” groaned the Coyote--“I have been wandering with the
toothache ever since the world began. And do you think I have had
nothing to do but to watch for Fawns? Go along, and don’t bother me.”
So the Wolf, who was growing angrier all the time, went hunting
around till she found the trail, and set to running on it as fast as
she could go.
By this time the Fawns had come to where two Indian boys were playing
_k’wah-t’hím_[95] with their bows and arrows, and said to them:
[95] A sort of walking archery.
“Friends boys, if an old Wolf comes along and asks if you have seen
us, don’t tell her, will you?”
The boys promised that they would not, and the Fawns hurried on. But
the Wolf could run much faster, and soon she came to the boys, to
whom she cried gruffly:
“You boys! did you see two Fawns running this way?”
But the boys paid no attention to her, and went on playing their game
and disputing: “My arrows nearest!” “No; mine is!” “’T ain’t! Mine
is!” She repeated her question again and again, but got no answer
till she cried in a rage:
“You little rascals! Answer me about those Fawns, or I’ll eat you!”
At that the boys turned around and said:
“We have been here all day, playing _k’wah-t’hím_, and not hunting
Fawns. Go on, and do not disturb us.”
So the Wolf lost much time with her questions and with finding the
trail again; but then she began to run harder than ever.
In the mean time the Fawns had come to the bank of the Rio Grande,
and there was _P’ah-chah-hlóo-hli_, the Beaver, hard at work cutting
down a tree with his big teeth. And they said to him very politely:
“Friend Old-Crosser-of-the-Water, will you please pass us over the
river?”
The Beaver took them on his back and carried them safely across to
the other bank. When they had thanked him, they asked him not to tell
the old Wolf about them. He promised he would not, and swam back to
his work. The Fawns ran and ran, across the plain, till they came to
a big black hill of lava that stands alone in the valley southeast of
Tomé.
[Illustration: THE WOLF MEETS THE BOYS PLAYING WITH THEIR BOWS
AND ARROWS.]
“Here!” said one of the Fawns, “I am sure this must be the place
our mother told us about, where the Trues of our people live. Let us
look.”
And when they came to the top of the hill, they found a trap-door
in the solid rock. When they knocked, the door was opened and a
voice called, “Enter!” They went down the ladder into a great room
underground; and there they found all the Trues of the Deer-people,
who welcomed them and gave them food.
When they had told their story, the Trues said:
“Fear not, friends, for we will take care of you.”
And the War-captain picked out fifty strong young bucks for a guard.
By this time the Wolf had come to the river, and there she found the
Beaver hard at work and grunting as he cut the tree.
“Old man!” she snarled, “did you see two Fawns here?”
But the Beaver did not notice her, and kept on walking around the
tree, cutting it and grunting, “_Ah-oó-mah! Ah-oó-mah!_”
She was in a terrible rage now, and roared:
“I am not talking ‘_Ah-oó-mah!_’ to you. I’m asking if you saw two
Fawns.”
“Well,” said the Beaver, “I have been cutting trees here by the river
ever since I was born, and I have no time to think about Fawns.”
The Wolf, crazy with rage, ran up and down the bank, and at last came
back and said:
“Old man, if you will carry me over the river I will pay you; but if
you don’t, I’ll eat you up.”
“Well, wait then till I cut around the tree three times more,” said
the Beaver; and he made her wait. Then he jumped down in the water
and took her on his neck, and began to swim across. But as soon as
he came where the water was deep, he dived to the bottom and stayed
there as long as he could.
“Ah-h-h!” sputtered the Wolf when he came to the surface. As soon as
the Beaver got a breath, down he went again; and so he kept doing all
the way across, until the Wolf was nearly drowned--but she clung to
his neck desperately, and he could not shake her off.
When they came to the shore the old Wolf was choking, coughing, and
crying, and so mad that she would not pay the Beaver as she had
promised--and from that day to this the Beaver will never again ferry
a Wolf across the river.
Presently she found the trail, and came running to the hill. When she
knocked on the trap-door a voice from within called, “Who?”
“Wolf-woman,” she answered as politely as she could, restraining her
anger.
“Come down,” said the voice, and hearing her name the fifty young
Deer-warriors--who had carefully whetted their horns--stood ready.
The door flew open, and she started down the ladder. But as soon as
she set her foot on the first rung, all the Deer-people shouted:
“Look what feet!” For, though the Deer is so much larger than the
Wolf, it has smaller feet.
At this she was very much ashamed, and pulled back her foot; but soon
her anger was stronger, and she started down again. But each time
the Deer-people laughed and shouted, and she drew back.
[Illustration: “THE FAWNS APPEARED SUDDENLY, AND AT SIGHT OF
THEM THE WOLF DROPPED THE SPOONFUL OF SOUP.”]
At last they were quiet, and she came down the ladder. When she had
told her story the old men of the Deer-people said:
“This is a serious case, and we must not judge it lightly. Come,
we will make an agreement. Let soup be brought, and we will eat
together. And if you eat all your soup without spilling a drop, you
shall have the Fawns.”
“Ho!” thought the Wolf. “_That_ is easy enough, for I will be very
careful.” And aloud she said: “It is well. Let us eat.”
So a big bowl of soup was brought, and each took a _guayave_[96] and
rolled it like a spoon to dip up the soup. The old Wolf was very
careful, and had almost finished her soup without spilling a drop.
But just as she was lifting the last sup to her mouth the Fawns
appeared suddenly in the door of the next room, and at sight of them
she dropped the soup in her lap.
[96] An Indian bread made by spreading successive films of
blue corn-meal batter on a flat hot stone. It looks more like
a piece of wasp’s nest than anything else, but is very good to
eat.
“She spilled!” shouted all the Deer-people, and the fifty chosen
warriors rushed upon her and tore her to pieces with their sharp
horns.
That was the end of the treacherous Wolf; and from that day the Wolf
and the Deer have been enemies, and the Wolf is a little afraid of
the Deer. And the two Fawns? Oh, they still live with the Deer-people
in that black hill below Tomé.
XXVI
THE SOBBING PINE
ANOTHER folk-story told by the Quères colony in Isleta also relates
to Acoma, perched upon the great round cliff in its far, fair valley.
Among the folk-lore heroes of whom every Quères lad has heard is
Ees-tée-ah Muts, the Arrow Boy. He was a great hunter and did many
remarkable things, but there was once a time when all his courage
and strength were of no avail,--when but for the help of a little
squirrel he would have perished miserably.
On reaching manhood Ees-tée-ah Muts married the daughter of
the Kot-chin (chief). She was a very beautiful girl and her
hunter-husband was very fond of her. But, alas! she was secretly a
witch and every night when Ees-tée-ah Muts was asleep she used to fly
away to the mountains, where the witches held their uncanny meetings.
You must know that these witches have dreadful appetites, and that
there is nothing in the world of which they are so fond as boiled
baby.
Ees-tée-ah Muts, who was a very good man, had no suspicion that his
wife was guilty of such practices, and she was very careful to keep
him in ignorance of it.
One day, when the witch-wife was planning to go to a meeting, she
stole a fat young baby and put it to cook in a great _olla_ (earthen
jar) in the dark inner room. But before night she found she must go
for water, and as the strange stone reservoir at Acoma is a laborious
half-mile from the houses, she would be gone some time. So, as she
departed with a bright-painted _tinaja_ upon her head, she charged
her husband on no account to enter the inner room.
When she was gone Ees-tée-ah Muts began to ponder what she had said,
and he feared that all was not well. He went to the inner room and
looked around, and when he found the baby cooking he was grieved,
as any good husband would be, for then he knew that his wife was a
witch. But when his wife returned with water, he said not a word,
keeping only a sharp lookout to see what would come.
Very early that night Ees-tée-ah Muts pretended to go to sleep, but
he was really very wide awake. His wife was quiet, but he could feel
that she was watching him. Presently a cat came sneaking into the
room and whispered to the witch-wife:
“Why do you not come to the meeting, for we await you?”
“Wait me yet a little,” she whispered, “until the man is sound
asleep.”
The cat crept away, and Ees-tée-ah Muts kept very still. By and by
an owl came in and bade the woman hurry. And at last, thinking her
husband asleep, the witch-wife rose noiselessly and went out. As
soon as she was gone, Ees-tée-ah Muts got up and followed her at a
distance, for it was a night of the full moon.
The witch-wife walked a long way till she came to the foot of the
Black Mesa, where was a great dark hole with a rainbow in its mouth.
As she passed under the rainbow she turned herself into a cat and
disappeared within the cave. Ees-tée-ah Muts crept softly up and
peered in. He saw a great firelit room full of witches in the shapes
of ravens and vultures, wolves and other animals of ill omen. They
were gathered about their feast and were enjoying themselves greatly,
eating and dancing and singing and planning evil to mankind.
For a long time Ees-tée-ah Muts watched them, but at last one caught
sight of his face peering in at the hole.
“Bring him in!” shouted the chief witch, and many of them rushed out
and surrounded him and dragged him into the cave.
“Now,” said the chief witch, who was very angry, “we have caught you
as a spy and we ought to kill you. But if you will save your life
and be one of us, go home and bring me the hearts of your mother and
sister, and I will teach you all our ways, so that you shall be a
mighty wizard.”
Ees-tée-ah Muts hurried home to Acoma and killed two sheep; for he
knew, as every Indian knows, that it was useless to try to escape
from the witches. Taking the hearts of the sheep, he quickly returned
to the chief witch, to whom he gave them. But when the chief witch
pricked the hearts with a sharp stick they swelled themselves out
like a frog. Then he knew that he had been deceived, and was very
angry, but pretending not to care he ordered Ees-tée-ah Muts to go
home, which the frightened hunter was very glad to do.
But next morning when Ees-tée-ah Muts awoke he was not in his own
home at all, but lying on a tiny shelf far up a dizzy cliff. To jump
was certain death, for it was a thousand feet to the ground; and
climb he could not, for the smooth rock rose a thousand feet above
his head. Then he knew that he had been bewitched by the chief of
those that have the evil road, and that he must die. He could hardly
move without falling from the narrow shelf, and there he lay with
bitter thoughts until the sun was high overhead.
At last a young Squirrel came running along the ledge, and, seeing
him, ran back to its mother, crying:
“_Nana! Nana!_ Here is a dead man lying on our ledge!”
“No, he is not dead,” said the Squirrel-mother when she had looked,
“but I think he is very hungry. Here, take this acorn-cup and carry
him some corn-meal and water.”
The young Squirrel brought the acorn-cup full of wet corn-meal, but
Ees-tée-ah Muts would not take it, for he thought:
“Pah! What is so little when I am fainting for food?”
But the Squirrel-mother, knowing what was in his heart, said:
“Not so, _Sau-kée-ne_ [friend]. It looks to be little, but there will
be more than enough. Eat and be strong.”
Still doubting, Ees-tée-ah Muts took the cup and ate of the blue
corn-meal until he could eat no longer, and yet the acorn-cup was not
empty. Then the young Squirrel took the cup and brought it full of
water, and though he was very thirsty he could not drain it.
“Now, friend,” said the Squirrel-mother, when he was refreshed by his
meal, “you cannot yet get down from here, where the witches put you;
but wait, for I am the one that will help you.”
She went to her store-room and brought out a pine-cone, which she
dropped over the great cliff. Ees-tée-ah Muts lay on the narrow ledge
as patiently as he could, sleeping sometimes and sometimes thinking
of his strange plight. Next morning he could see a stout young
pine-tree growing at the bottom of the cliff, where he was very sure
there had been no tree at all the day before. Before night it was a
large tree, and the second morning it was twice as tall. The young
Squirrel brought him meal and water in the acorn-cup twice a day, and
now he began to be confident that he would escape.
By the evening of the fourth day the magic pine towered far above his
head, and it was so close to the cliff that he could touch it from
his shelf.
“Now, Friend Man,” said the Squirrel-mother, “follow me!” and she
leaped lightly into the tree. Ees-tée-ah Muts seized a branch and
swung over into the tree, and letting himself down from bough to
bough, at last reached the ground in safety.
The Squirrel-mother came with him to the ground, and he thanked her
for her kindness.
“But now I must go back to my home,” she said. “Take these seeds
of the pine-tree and these piñon-nuts which I have brought for you,
and be very careful of them. When you get home, give your wife the
pine-seeds, but you must eat the piñons. So now, good-by,” and off
she went up the tree.
When Ees-tée-ah Muts had come to Acoma and climbed the dizzy stone
ladder and stood in the adobe town, he was very much surprised.
For the four days of his absence had really been four years, and
the people looked strange. All had given him up for dead, and his
witch-wife had married another man, but still lived in the same
house, which was hers[97]. When Ees-tée-ah Muts entered she seemed
very glad to see him, and pretended to know nothing of what had
befallen him. He said nothing about it, but talked pleasantly while
he munched the piñon-nuts, giving her the pine-seeds to eat. Her new
husband made a bed for Ees-tée-ah Muts, and in the morning very early
the two men went away together on a hunt.
[97] It is one of the fundamental customs of the Pueblos that
the house and its general contents belong to the wife; the
fields and other outside property to the husband.
That afternoon the mother of the witch-wife went to visit her
daughter, but when she came near the house she stopped in terror, for
far up through the roof grew a great pine-tree, whose furry arms came
out at doors and windows. That was the end of the witch-wife, for
the magic seed had sprouted in her stomach, and she was turned into
a great, sad Pine that swayed above her home, and moaned and sobbed
forever, as all her Pine-children do to this day.
XXVII
THE QUÈRES DIANA
THERE is a fragmentary Quères folk-story which bears internal
evidence that its heroine was the mother of the Hero Twins--that is,
the Moon. The adventure described here is one of those which befell
the Moon-Mother, as related in several myths; though it has been
varied, evidently by some later story-teller, and the identity of the
heroine does not appear at first sight. It is a story common to all
the Quères, and is undoubtedly ancient; but as I heard it first in
Isleta its scene is laid in Laguna, a pueblo only two hundred years
old.
Once upon a time the Tah-póh-pee[98] of Laguna had a daughter, who
was the belle of the village. She was very fond of hunting, and
killed as much game as any of the young men. Several miles south of
Laguna is a very large sandstone dome rising in the plain, and in the
heart of this rock the Governor’s daughter had hollowed out a room in
which she used to camp when on her hunting-expeditions.
[98] Governor.
One day there came a snow that covered the ground so that one could
easily track rabbits, and taking her bow and arrows she started off
to hunt.
She had unusual luck, and by the time she reached the hunting-lodge
she was loaded down with rabbits. The evening was very cold, and she
was hungry; so, going into the rock-house, she built a fire on the
hearth and began to roast a rabbit. Just as it was cooking a strong
west wind came up and carried the savory smell from her chimney far
to the east, till it reached a dark cavern in the Sandia Mountains,
fifty miles away. There lived an old giantess, the terror of all the
world, and when she caught a whiff of that sweet meat she started up
and rubbed her big red eye.
“Um!” she cried, “that is good! I am going to see where it is, for I
have had nothing to eat to-day.”
In two steps she was at the rock-house, and, stooping down, she
called at the door: “Quáh-tzee? [How are you?] What are you cooking
in there?”
“Rabbits,” said the girl, dreadfully scared at that great voice.
“Then give me one,” shouted the old giantess. The girl threw one out
at the door, and the giantess swallowed it at a gulp and demanded
more. The girl kept throwing them out until all were gone. Then
the giantess called for her _manta_ (dress), and her shawl and her
buckskin leggings, and ate them all, and at last said:
“Little girl, now you come out, and let me eat you.”
The girl began to cry bitterly when she saw that great savage eye
at the door, which was so small that the giantess could not get
her huge hand in. She repeated her commands thrice, and when the
girl still refused to come out, picked up a great boulder and began
to hammer the rock-house to pieces. But just as she had broken off
the roof and stooped to pick out the girl, two hunters chanced to
pass and hear the noise. They crept up and shot the giantess through
the neck with their strong arrows and killed her, and, bringing new
clothes for the girl, took her home safely to Kó-iks (the native name
for Laguna), where she lived for many years.
XXVIII
A PUEBLO BLUEBEARD
ANOTHER fragmentary story of the Quères seems to refer to this same
remarkable woman. You will see the connection when you remember
that the Moon disappears every month; and I should judge that the
following myth means that the Storm-King steals her.
Once upon a time a chief of Acoma had a lovely daughter. One day a
handsome stranger stole her and took her away to his home, which
was in the heart of the Snow Mountain (Mt. San Mateo). He was none
other than Mast-Truan, one of the Storm-Gods. Bringing his captive
home, the powerful stranger gave her the finest clothing and treated
her very nicely. But most of the time he had to be away from home,
attending to the storms, and she became very lonesome, for there was
no one to keep her company but Mast-Truan’s wrinkled old mother.
One day when she could stand the loneliness no longer, she decided to
take a walk through the enormous house and look at the rooms which
she had not seen. Opening a door she came into a very large room
toward the east; and there were a lot of women crying and shivering
with cold, for they had nothing to wear. Going through this room
she came to another, which was full of gaunt, starving women, and
here and there one lay dead upon the floor; and in the next room
were scores of bleached and ghastly skeletons. And this was what
Mast-Truan did with his wives when he was tired of them. The girl saw
her fate, and, returning to her room, sat down and wept--but there
was no escape, for Mast-Truan’s old hag of a mother forever guarded
the outer door.
When Mast-Truan came home again, his wife said: “It is now long that
I have not seen my fathers. Let me go home for a little while.”
“Well,” said he, “here is some corn which must be shelled. When you
have shelled it and ground it, I will let you out”; and he showed her
four great rooms piled from floor to ceiling with ears of corn. It
was more than one could shell in a year; and when her husband went
out, she sat down again to cry and bemoan her fate.
Just then a queer little old woman appeared before her, with a kindly
smile. It was a _cumúsh-quio_ (fairy-woman).
“What is the matter, my daughter?” asked the old fairy, gently, “and
why do you weep?”
The captive told her all, and the fairy said: “Do not fear, daughter,
for I will help you, and we will have all the corn shelled and ground
in four days.”
So they fell to work. For two days the girl kept shelling; and though
she could not see the old fairy at all, she could always hear at her
side the click of the ears together. Then for two days she kept
grinding on her _metate_, apparently alone, but hearing the constant
grind of another _metate_ close beside her. At the end of the fourth
day the last kernel had been scrubbed into blue meal, and she was
very happy. Then the old fairy-woman appeared again, bringing a large
basket and a rope. She opened the doors to all the rooms where the
poor women were prisoners, and bade them all get into the basket one
by one. Mast-Truan had taken away the ladder from the house when he
left, that no one might be able to get out; but with her basket and
rope the good old fairy-woman let them all down to the ground, and
told them to hurry home--which they did as fast as ever their poor,
starved legs could carry them. Then the fairy-woman and the girl
escaped, and made their way to Acoma. So there was a Moon again--and
that it _was_ the Moon, we may be very sure; since this same girl
became the mother of the Hero Twins, who were assuredly Children of
the Moon.
XXIX
THE HERO TWINS
THAT the heroes of “The Magic Hide-and-Seek” were really the Pueblo
Castor and Pollux, the twin offspring of the Sun-Father and the
Moon-Mother, is more than probable. For some reason which I do not
know, these demigods do not figure as clearly in the Tée-wahn myths
as among the other Pueblos, the Navajos and the Apaches; but that
they are believed in, even in Isleta, there can be no doubt. They
were the ones who led mankind forth from its first home in the dark
center of the earth.[99] The rainbow is their bow, the lightnings
are their arrows. Among the other Pueblos there are countless
folk-stories about these Hero Twins; and the following example myth
will quickly remind you of the boys who played hide-and-seek. It
is told in Isleta, though I have never heard it from the Tée-wahn
people there. Ever since the great drouth of a generation ago, about
one hundred and fifty Quères, starved out from the pueblos of Acoma
and Laguna, have dwelt in Isleta, and they are now a permanent
part of the Village, recognized by representation in the civil
and religious government, though speaking an altogether different
language. Tée-wahn and Quères cannot understand each other in their
own tongues, so they have to communicate in Spanish.
[99] They are represented in the sacred dances by the
Káh-pee-óo-nin, “the Dying-of-Cold” (because they are always
naked except for the breech-clout).
Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee, as the Hero Twins are named in Quères, had
the Sun for a father. Their mother died when they were born, and lay
lifeless upon the hot plain. But the two wonderful boys, as soon as
they were a minute old, were big and strong, and began playing.
There chanced to be in a cliff to the southward a nest of white
crows; and presently the young crows said: “_Nana_, what is that over
there? Isn’t it two babies?”
“Yes,” replied the Mother-Crow, when she had taken a look. “Wait and
I will bring them.” So she brought the boys safely, and then their
dead mother; and, rubbing a magic herb on the body of the latter,
soon brought her to life.
By this time Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee were sizable boys, and the
mother started homeward with them.
“Now,” said she when they reached the edge of the valley and could
look across to that wondrous rock whereon stands Acoma, “go to yonder
town, my sons, for that is Ah-ko, where live your grandfather and
grandmother, my parents; and I will wait here. Go ye in at the west
end of the town and stand at the south end of the council-grounds
until some one speaks to you; and ask them to take you to the
Cacique, for he is your grandfather. You will know his house, for
the ladder to it has three uprights instead of two. When you go in
and tell your story, he will ask you a question to see if you are
really his grandchildren, and will give you four chances to answer
what he has in a bag in the corner. No one has ever been able to
guess what is in it, but there are birds.”
The Twins did as they were bidden, and presently came to Acoma and
found the house of the old Cacique. When they entered and told their
story, he said: “Now I will try you. What is in yonder bag?”
“A rattlesnake,” said the boys.
“No,” said the Cacique, “it is not a rattlesnake. Try again.”
“Birds,” said the boys.
“Yes, they are birds. Now I know that you are truly my grandchildren,
for no one else could ever guess.” And he welcomed them gladly, and
sent them back with new dresses and jewelry to bring their mother.
When she was about to arrive, the Twins ran ahead to the house and
told her father, mother, and sister to leave the house until she
should enter; but not knowing what was to come, they would not go
out. When she had climbed the big ladder to the roof and started down
through the trap-door by the room-ladder, her sister cried out with
joy at seeing her, and she was so startled that she fell from the
ladder and broke her neck, and never could be brought to life again.
Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee grew up to astounding adventures and
achievements. While still very young in years, they did very
remarkable things; for they had a miraculously rapid growth, and at
an age when other boys were toddling about home, these Hero Twins
had already become very famous hunters and warriors. They were very
fond of stories of adventure, like less precocious lads; and after
the death of their mother they kept their grandmother busy telling
them strange tales. She had a great many anecdotes of a certain
ogre-giantess who lived in the dark gorges of the mountains to the
South, and so much did Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee hear of this wonderful
personage--who was the terror of all that country--that their boyish
ambition was fired.
One day when their grandmother was busy they stole away from home
with their bows and arrows, and walked miles and miles, till they
came to a great forest at the foot of the mountain. In the edge of it
sat the old Giant-woman, dozing in the sun, with a huge basket beside
her. She was so enormous and looked so fierce that the boys’ hearts
stood still, and they would have hidden, but just then she caught
sight of them, and called: “Come, little boys, and get into this
basket of mine, and I will take you to my house.”
“Very well,” said Máw-Sahv, bravely hiding his alarm. “If you will
take us through this big forest, which we would like to see, we will
go with you.”
The Giant-woman promised, and the lads clambered into her basket,
which she took upon her back and started off. As she passed through
the woods, the boys grabbed lumps of pitch from the tall pines and
smeared it all over her head and back so softly that she did not
notice it. Once she sat down to rest, and the boys slyly put a lot of
big stones in the basket, set fire to her pitched hair, and hurriedly
climbed a tall pine.
Presently the Giant-woman got up and started on toward home; but in
a minute or two her head and _manta_ were all of a blaze. With a
howl that shook the earth, she dropped the basket and rolled on the
ground, grinding her great head into the sand until she at last got
the fire extinguished. But she was badly scorched and very angry, and
still angrier when she looked in the basket and found only a lot of
stones. She retraced her steps until she found the boys hidden in the
pine-tree, and said to them: “Come down, children, and get into my
basket, that I may take you to my house, for now we are almost there.”
The boys, knowing that she could easily break down the tree if they
refused, came down. They got into the basket, and soon she brought
them to her home in the mountain. She set them down upon the ground
and said: “Now, boys, go and bring me a lot of wood, that I may make
a fire in the oven and bake you some sweet cakes.”
The boys gathered a big pile of wood, with which she built a roaring
fire in the adobe oven outside the house. Then she took them and
washed them very carefully, and taking them by the necks, thrust them
into the glowing oven and sealed the door with a great, flat rock,
and left them there to be roasted.
But the Trues were friends of the Hero Twins, and did not let the
heat harm them at all. When the old Giant-woman had gone into the
house, Máw-Sahv and Oó-yah-wee broke the smaller stone that closed
the smoke-hole of the oven, and crawled out from their fiery prison
unsinged. They ran around and caught snakes and toads and gathered up
dirt and dropped them down into the oven through the smoke-hole; and
then, watching when the Giant-woman’s back was turned, they sneaked
into the house and hid in a huge _olla_ on the shelf.
Very early in the morning the Giant-woman’s baby began to cry for
some boy-meat. “Wait till it is well cooked,” said the mother; and
hushed the child till the sun was well up. Then she went out and
unsealed the oven, and brought in the sad mess the boys had put
there. “They have cooked away to almost nothing,” she said; and she
and the Giant-baby sat down to eat. “Isn’t this nice?” said the baby;
and Máw-Sahv could not help saying, “You nasty things, to like that!”
“Eh? Who is that?” cried the Giant-woman, looking around till she
found the boys hidden in the _olla_. So she told them to come down,
and gave them some sweet cakes, and then sent them out to bring her
some more wood.
It was evening when they returned with a big load of wood, which
Máw-Sahv had taken pains to get green. He had also picked up in the
mountains a long, sharp splinter of quartz.[100] The evening was
cool, and they built a big fire in the fireplace. But immediately, as
the boys had planned, the green wood began to smoke at a dreadful
rate, and soon the room was so dense with it that they all began to
cough and strangle. The Giant-woman got up and opened the window and
put her head out for a breath of fresh air; and Máw-Sahv, pulling out
the white-hot splinter of quartz from the fire, stabbed her in the
back so that she died. Then they killed the Giant-baby, and at last
felt that they were safe.
[100] A thunder-knife.
Now the Giant-woman’s house was a very large one, and ran far back
into the very heart of the mountain. Having got rid of their enemies,
the Hero Twins decided to explore the house; and, taking their bows
and arrows, started boldly down into the deep, dark rooms. After
traveling a long way in the dark, they came to a huge room in which
corn and melons and pumpkins were growing abundantly. On and on they
went, till at last they heard the growl of distant thunder. Following
the sound, they came presently to a room in the solid rock, wherein
the lightning was stored. Going in, they took the lightning and
played with it awhile, throwing it from one to the other, and at last
started home, carrying their strange toy with them.
When they reached Acoma and told their grandmother of their wonderful
adventures, she held up her withered old hands in amazement. And
she was nearly scared to death when they began to play with the
lightning, throwing it around the house as though it had been a
harmless ball, while the thunder rumbled till it shook the great rock
of Acoma. They had the blue lightning which belongs in the West; and
the yellow lightning of the North; and the red lightning of the
East; and the white lightning of the South; and with all these they
played merrily.
But it was not very long till Shée-wo-nah, the Storm-King, had
occasion to use the lightning; and when he looked in the room
where he was wont to keep it, and found it gone, his wrath knew no
bounds. He started out to find who had stolen it; and passing by
Acoma he heard the thunder as the Hero Twins were playing ball with
the lightning. He pounded on the door and ordered them to give him
his lightning, but the boys refused. Then he summoned the storm,
and it began to rain and blow fearfully outside; while within the
boys rattled their thunder in loud defiance, regardless of their
grandmother’s entreaties to give the Storm-King his lightning.
It kept raining violently, however, and the water came pouring down
the chimney until the room was nearly full, and they were in great
danger of drowning. But luckily for them, the Trues were still
mindful of them; and just in the nick of time sent their servant,
Teé-oh-pee, the Badger, who is the best of diggers, to dig a hole up
through the floor; all the water ran out, and they were saved. And so
the Hero Twins outwitted the Storm-King.
* * * * *
South of Acoma, in the pine-clad gorges and mesas, the world was
full of Bears. There was one old She-Bear in particular, so huge and
fierce that all men feared her; and not even the boldest hunter dared
go to the south--for there she had her home with her two sons.
Máw-sahv and Oó-yah-wee were famous hunters, and always wished to go
south; but their grandmother always forbade them. One day, however,
they stole away from the house, and got into the cañon. At last
they came to the She-Bear’s house; and there was old Quée-ah asleep
in front of the door. Máw-sahv crept up very carefully and threw in
her face a lot of ground _chile_,[101] and ran. At that the She-Bear
began to sneeze, _ah-hútch! ah-hútch!_ She could not stop, and kept
making _ah-hútch_ until she sneezed herself to death.
[101] The fiery red-pepper of the Southwest.
Then the Twins took their thunder-knives and skinned her. They
stuffed the great hide with grass, so that it looked like a Bear
again, and tied a buckskin rope around its neck.
“Now,” said Máw-sahv, “We will give our grandma a trick!”
So, taking hold of the rope, they ran toward Acoma, and the Bear came
behind them as if leaping. Their grandmother was going for water; and
from the top of the cliff she saw them running so in the valley, and
the Bear jumping behind them. She ran to her house and painted one
side of her face black with charcoal, and the other side red with the
blood of an animal;[102] and, taking a bag of ashes, ran down the
cliff and out at the Bear, to make it leave the boys and come after
her.
[102] Ancient tokens of mourning.
But when she saw the trick, she reproved the boys for their
rashness--but in her heart she was very proud of them.
XXX
THE HUNGRY GRANDFATHERS
A DISOBEDIENT child is something I have never seen among the Pueblos,
in all the years I have lived with them. The parents are very kind,
too. My little _amigos_ in Isleta and the other Pueblo towns--for
they are my friends in all--are never spoiled; but neither are they
punished much.[103] Personal acquaintance with a spanking is what
very few of them have. The idea of obedience is inborn and inbred.
A word is generally enough; and for extreme cases it only needs the
threat: “Look out, or I will send for the Grandfathers!”
[103] I must qualify this now. In the last two years I have
seen one spoiled child--just one, in ten years’ acquaintance
with 9000 Pueblos!
Now, perhaps you do not know who the Grandfathers are; but every
Pueblo youngster does. It has nothing to do with the “truly” grandpa,
who is as lovely an institution among the Tée-wahn as anywhere else.
No, the _Abuelos_ were of an altogether different sort. That name is
Spanish, and has three applications in Isleta: real grandparents;
the remarkable masked officials of a certain dance; and the bad Old
Ones. These last are called in the Tée-wahn tongue _T’ai-kár-nin_
(Those-Who-Eat-People). They were, in fact, aboriginal Ogres, who
once sadly ravaged Isleta.
The _T’ai-kár-nin_ had no town, but dwelt in caves of the lava
mountain a couple of miles west of this village--the _Kú-mai_ hill.
It is a bad place at best: bleak, black, rough, and forbidding--just
the place that a properly constituted Ogre would choose for his
habitation. In the first place, it is to the west of the town,
which is “bad medicine” in itself to any Indian, for that point
of the compass belongs to the dead and to bad spirits. Then its
color is against it; and, still worse, it is to this day the common
stamping-ground of all the witches in this part of the country,
where they gather at night for their diabolical caucuses. Of its
serious disrepute I can convey no better idea to the enlightened and
superstitionless American mind than by saying that it is a sort of
aboriginal “haunted house.”
So the hill of _Kú-mai_ was a peculiarly fit place for the Ogres to
dwell in. Deep in its gloomy bowels they huddled on the white sand
which floors all the caves there; and crannies overhead carried away
the smoke from their fires, which curled from crevices at the top of
the peak far above them. Ignorant Americans would probably have taken
it for a volcanic emission; but the good people of Shee-eh-whíb-bak
knew better.
These Ogres were larger than ordinary men, but otherwise carried no
outward sign of their odious calling. Their teeth were just like
anybody’s good teeth, and they had neither “tushes” nor horns nor
hoofs. Indeed, except for their unusual size, they would have been
easily mistaken for Indians of some distant tribe. But, _ay de mi_!
How strong they were! One could easily whip five common men in a
bunch--“men even as strong as my son, Francisco,” says Desiderio; and
Francisco is as stout as a horse.
They were people of very fastidious palates, these Ogres. Nothing
was good enough for them except human flesh--and young at that.
Their fare was entirely baby--baby young, baby brown, and baby very
fat. They never molested the adults; but as often as they found an
appetite they descended upon the village, scooped up what children
they could lay their hands upon, and carried them off to their caves.
There they had enormous _ollas_, into which half a dozen children
could be thrown at once.
There seemed to be some spell about these Ogres--besides their
frequent hungry spells--for the Pueblos, who were so brave in the
face of other foes, never dared fight these terrible cave-dwellers.
They continued to devastate the village, until babies were at a
premium, and few to be had at any price; and the only way the people
dared to try to circumvent them was by strategy. In time it came
about that every house where there were children, or a reasonable
hope of them, had secret cubby-holes back of the thick adobe walls;
with little doors which shut flush with the wall and were also
plastered with adobe, so that when they were shut a stranger--even if
he were a sharp-eyed Indian--would never dream of their existence.
And whenever arose the dreaded cry, “Here come the _T’ai-kár-nin_!”
the children were hustled, shivering and noiseless, into the secret
recesses, and the doors were shut. Then Mr. Ogre could come in
and peer and sniff about as he liked, but no chance to fill his
market-basket could he find. And when parents were forced to go away
and leave the babies behind, the poor young ones were inclosed in
their safe but gloomy prisons, and there in darkness and silence had
to await the parental home-coming. These inconveniences were gladly
borne, however, since they preserved the children--and we all know
that preserved baby is better than baby-stew. It was, of course,
rather rough on the Ogres, who began to find all their belts most
distressfully loose; but no one seemed to consider their feelings.
They were pretty well starved when the Spaniards came and delivered
the suffering Isleteños by driving off these savage neighbors. This
looks suspiciously as if the whole myth of the Ogres had sprung from
the attacks of the cruel Apaches and Navajos in the old days.
There was one queer thing about these Ogres--on their forages they
always wore buckskin masks, just like those of the _Abuelos_ of the
sacred dance. Their bare faces were seen sometimes by hunters who
encountered them on the _llano_, but never here in town. It was
in connection with these masks that Isleta had a great sensation
recently. The Hungry Grandfathers had been almost forgotten, except
as a word to change the minds of children who had about quarter of a
mind to be naughty; but interest was revived by a discovery of which
my venerable friend Desiderio Peralta was the hero.
This dear old man--news of his death has come to me as I write this
very chapter--was a remarkable character. He was one of “the oldest
inhabitants” of New Mexico--older than any other Indian among the
twelve hundred of Isleta, except tottering Diego; and that is saying
a great deal. His hair was very gray, and his kindly old face such
an incredible mass of wrinkles that I used to fancy Father Time
himself must have said: “No, no! You apprentices never do a thing
right! Here, _this_ is the way to put on wrinkles!” and that he then
and there took old Desiderio for a model, and showed the journeymen
wrinkle-makers a trick they never dreamed of. Certainly the job was
never so well done before. From chin to hair-roots, from ear to
ear, was such a crowded, tangled, inextricable maze of furrows and
cross-harrow lines as I firmly believe never dwelt together on any
other one human face. Why, Desiderio could have furnished an army of
old men with wrinkles! I never saw him smile without fearing that
some of those wrinkles were going to fall off the edge, so crowded
were they at best!
But if his face was _arrugada_, his brain was not. He was bright
and chipper as a young blackbird, and it was only of late that a
touch of rheumatism took the youth out of his legs. Until recently
he held the important position of Captain of War for the pueblo;
and only two years ago I had the pleasure of going with two hundred
_other_ Indians on a huge rabbit-hunt which was under his personal
supervision, and in which he was as active as any one, both on his
feet and with the unerring boomerang. His eyes were good to find
about as much through the sights of a rifle as anybody’s; and on the
whole he was worth a good deal more than I expect to be some seventy
years from now. He was a good neighbor, too; and I had few pleasanter
hours than those spent in talking with this genial old shrivel, who
was _muy sabio_ in all the folk-lore and wisdom of his unfathomable
race; and very close-mouthed about it, too--as they all are. Still,
there were some things which he seemed willing to confide to me; and
he always had an attentive listener.
Desiderio was not yet too old to herd his own cattle during the
season when they roam abroad; and, while thus engaged, he made a
discovery which set the whole quiet village agog, though no other
outsider ever heard of it.
One day in 1889 Desiderio started out from the village, driving
his cattle. Having steered them across the _acequia_ and up the
sand-hills to the beginning of the plain, he climbed to the top of
the _Kú-mai_ to watch them through the day--as has been the custom
of Isleta herders from time immemorial. In wandering over the rocky
top of the peak, he came to a ledge of rocks on the southeast spur of
the hill; and there found a fissure, at one end of which was a hole
as large as a man’s head. Desiderio put his face and his wrinkles
down to the hole to see what he could see; and all was dark inside.
But if his eyes strained in vain, his ears did not. From far down in
the bowels of the mountain came a strange roaring, as of a heavy
wind. Desiderio was somewhat dismayed at this; for he knew at once
that he had found one of the chimneys of the Ogres; but he did not
run away. Hunting around awhile, he found in the fissures of the
rocks some ancient buckskin masks--the very ones worn by the Ogres,
of course. He put them back, and coming to town straightway told the
medicine-men of the Black Eyes--one of the two parties here. They
held a _junta_; and after mature deliberation decided to go and get
the masks. This was done, and the masks are now treasured in the
Black Eye medicine-house.
I have several times carefully explored the _Kú-mai_--a difficult and
tiresome task, thanks to the knife-like lava fragments which cover it
everywhere, and which will cut a pair of new strong shoes to pieces
in an afternoon. It is true that in this hill of bad repute there
are several lava-caves, with floors of white sand blown in from the
_llano_; and that in these caves there are a few human bones. No
doubt some of the savage nomads camped or lived there. None of those
famous _ollas_ are visible; nor have I ever been able to find any
other relics of the Hungry Grandfathers.
[Illustration: THE COYOTE.]
XXXI
THE COYOTE
ALL the animals with which the Tée-wahn are familiar--the buffalo
(which they used to hunt on the vast plains to the eastward), the
bear, deer, antelope, mountain lion, badger, wild turkey, fox,
eagle, crow, buzzard, rabbit, and so on--appear in their legends and
fairy tales, as well as in their religious ceremonials and beliefs.
Too-wháy-deh, the Coyote,[104] or little prairie wolf, figures in
countless stories, and always to his own disadvantage. Smart as he
is in some things, he believes whatever is told him; and by his
credulity becomes the butt of all the other animals, who never tire
of “April-fooling” him. He is also a great coward. To call an Indian
here “_Too-wháy-deh_” is one of the bitterest insults that can be
offered him.
[104] Pronounced Coy-óh-ty.
You have already heard how the Coyote fared at the hands of the
fun-loving Bear, and of the Crows and the Blackbirds. A very popular
tale is that of his adventure with a bright cousin of his.
Once upon a time Too-wháy-shur-wée-deh, the Little-Blue-Fox,[105] was
wandering near a pueblo, and chanced to come to the threshing-floors,
where a great many crows were hopping. Just then the Coyote passed,
very hungry; and while yet far off, said: “Ai! how the stomach cries!
I will just eat Little-Blue-Fox.” And coming, he said:
[105] He is always a hero, and as smart as the Coyote is
stupid. His beautiful pelt is an important part of the costume
worn in many of the sacred dances of the Tée-wahn.
“Now, Little-Blue-Fox, you have troubled me enough! You are the cause
of my being chased by the dogs and people, and now I will pay you. I
am going to eat you up this very now!”
“No, Coyote-friend,” answered the Little-Blue-Fox, “_don’t_ eat me
up! I am here guarding these chickens, for there is a wedding in
yonder house, which is my master’s, and these chickens are for the
wedding-dinner. Soon they will come for the chickens, and will invite
me to the dinner--and you can come also.”
“Well,” said the Coyote, “if _that_ is so, I will not eat you, but
will help you watch the chickens.” So he lay down beside him.
At this, Little-Blue-Fox was troubled, thinking how to get away; and
at last he said:
“Friend Too-wháy-deh, I make strange that they have not before now
come for the chickens. Perhaps they have forgotten. The best way is
for me to go to the house and see what the servants are doing.”
“It is well,” said the Coyote. “Go, then, and I will guard the
chickens for you.”
So the Little-Blue-Fox started toward the house; but getting behind
a small hill, he ran away with fast feet. When it was a good while,
and he did not come back, the Coyote thought: “While he is gone, I
will give myself some of the chickens.” Crawling up on his belly to
the threshing-floor, he gave a great leap. But the chickens were
only crows, and they flew away. Then he began to say evil of the
Little-Blue-Fox for giving him a trick, and started on the trail,
vowing: “I will eat him up wherever I catch him.”
After many miles he overtook the Little-Blue-Fox, and with a bad face
said: “Here! Now I am going to eat you up!”
The other made as if greatly excited, and answered: “No, friend
Coyote! Do you not hear that _tombé_[106]?”
[106] Pronounced tom-báy. The sacred drum used in Pueblo dances.
The Coyote listened, and heard a drum in the pueblo.
“Well,” said the Little-Blue-Fox, “I am called for that dance,[107]
and very soon they will come for me. Won’t you go too?”
[107] In all such Indian dances the participants are named by
the officials.
“If that is so, I will not eat you, but we will go to the dance.” And
the Coyote sat down and began to comb his hair and to make himself
pretty with face-paint. When no one came, the Little-Blue-Fox said:
[Illustration: “THERE THEY STOOD SIDE BY SIDE.”]
“Friend Coyote, I make strange that the _alguazil_ does not come.
It is best for me to go up on this hill, whence I can see into the
village. You wait here.”
“He will not dare to give me another trick,” thought the Coyote. So
he replied: “It is well. But do not forget to call me.”
So the Little-Blue-Fox went up the hill; and as soon as he was out of
sight, he began to run for his life.
Very long the Coyote waited; and at last, being tired, went up on the
hill--but there was no one there. Then he was very angry, and said:
“I will follow him, and eat him surely! _Nothing_ shall save him!”
And finding the trail, he began to follow as fast as a bird.
Just as the Little-Blue-Fox came to some high cliffs, he looked
back and saw the Coyote coming over a hill. So he stood up on his
hind feet and put his fore paws up against the cliff, and made many
groans, and was as if much excited. In a moment came the Coyote, very
angry, crying: “Now you shall not escape me! I am going to eat you up
now--now!”
“Oh, no, friend Too-wháy-deh!” said the other; “for I saw this cliff
falling down, and ran to hold it up. If I let go, it will fall and
kill us both. But come, help me to hold it.”
Then the Coyote stood up and pushed against the cliff with his fore
paws, very hard; and there they stood side by side.
Time passing so, the Little-Blue-Fox said:
“Friend Too-wháy-deh, it is long that I am holding up the cliff,
and I am very tired and thirsty. You are fresher. So you hold up
the cliff while I go and hunt water for us both; for soon you too
will be thirsty. There is a lake somewhere on the other side of this
mountain; I will find it and get a drink, and then come back and hold
up the cliff while you go.”
The Coyote agreed, and the Little-Blue-Fox ran away over the mountain
till he came to the lake, just as the moon was rising.
But soon the Coyote was very tired and thirsty, for he held up the
cliff with all his might. At last he said: “Ai! how hard it is! I am
so thirsty that I will go to the lake, even if I die!”
So he began to let go of the cliff, slowly, slowly--until he held
it only with his finger-nails; and then he made a great jump away
backward, and ran as hard as he could to a hill. But when he looked
around and saw that the cliff did not fall, he was very angry, and
swore to eat Too-wháy-shur-wée-deh the very minute he should catch
him.
Running on the trail, he came to the lake; and there the
Little-Blue-Fox was lying on the bank, whining as if greatly excited.
“Now I _will_ eat you up, this minute!” cried the Coyote. But the
other said: “No, Friend Too-wháy-deh! Don’t eat _me_ up! I am waiting
for some one who can swim as well as you can. I just bought a big
cheese[108] from a shepherd to share with you; but when I went to
drink, it slipped out of my hands into the water. Come here, and I
will show you.” He took the Coyote to the edge of the high bank, and
pointed to the moon in the water.
[108] Of course chickens and cheeses were not known to the
Pueblos before the Spanish conquest; and the cheese is so
vital a part of the story that I hardly think it can be an
interpolation. So this tale, though very old, is probably not
ancient--that is, it has been invented since 1600.
[Illustration: “‘HOW SHALL I GET IT?’ SAID THE COYOTE.”]
“M--m!” said the Coyote, who was fainting with hunger. “But how shall
I get it? It is very deep in the water, and I shall float up before I
can dive to it.”
“That is true, friend,” said the other. “There is but one way. We
must tie some stones to your neck, to make you heavy so you can go
down to it.”
So they hunted about until they found a buckskin thong and some large
stones; and the Little-Blue-Fox tied the stones to the Coyote’s neck,
the Coyote holding his chin up, to help.
“Now, friend Too-wháy-deh, come here to the edge of the bank and
stand ready. I will take you by the back and count _weem_, _wée-si_,
_p’áh-chu_! And when I say _three_, you must jump and I will
push--for now you are very heavy.”
So he took the Coyote by the back of the neck, swaying him back and
forth as he counted. And at “_p’áh-chu!_” he pushed hard, and the
Coyote jumped, and went into the deep water, and--never came out
again!
XXXII
DOCTOR FIELD-MOUSE
IT was the evening of the 14th of March. In the valley of the Rio
Grande, that stands at the end of the winter. Now it is to open the
big mother-canal that comes from the river to all the fields, giving
them to drink after their long thirst; and now to plow the _milpas_,
and to uncover the buried grape-vines, and make ready for the
farmer’s work.
As the door opened to admit stalwart Francisco to the big flickering
room where we were all sitting in silence, the long, shrill wail
of a Coyote, away up on the Accursed Hill, blew in after him on
the boisterous March wind. The boys pricked up their ears; and
bright-faced Manuelito[109] turned to his white-headed grandfather,
and said:
[109] Pronounced Mahn-way-lée-to.
“_Tata_, why is it that Too-wháy-deh always howls so? Perhaps he
has a pain; for he has been crying ever since the beginning of the
world--as they told us in the story of the Fawns and the She-Wolf.”
“What, Unknowing!” answered the old man, kindly. “Hast thou never
heard of the Coyote’s toothache, and who was the first medicine-man
in all the world? It is not well not to know that; for from that
comes all that we know to cure the sick. And for that, I will
tell--but it is the last story of the year. For to-morrow is
_Tu-shée-wim_, the Spring Medicine-Dance; and the snakes are coming
out from their winter houses. After that, we must not tell of the
Things of Old. For it is very long ago; and if one made a mistake in
telling, and said that which was not all true, _Ch’áh-rah-ráh-deh_
would bite him, and he would die.[110] But this one I will tell thee.”
[110] A fixed belief among the Pueblos, who will tell none of
their myths between the Spring Medicine-Making, in March, and
the Fall Medicine-Making, in October, lest the rattlesnake
punish them for some slip from the truth.
* * * * *
In the First Days, when the people had broken through the crust of
the earth, and had come up out of their dark prison, underground, and
crossed Shee-p’ah-póon, the great Black Lake of Tears, they came to
the shore on this side. Then it came that all the animals were made;
and very soon the Coyote was sent by the Trues to carry a buckskin
bag far south, and not to open it until he should come to the Peak
of the White Clouds. For many days he ran south, with the bag on his
back. But there was nothing to eat, and he grew very hungry. At last
he thought: “Perhaps in this bag there is to eat.” So he took it from
his back, and untied the thongs, and looked in. But there was nothing
in it except the stars; and as soon as the bag was opened they all
flew up into the sky, where they are to this day.
When the Trues saw that Too-wháy-deh had disobeyed, they were angry,
and made it that his punishment should be to wander up and down
forever, howling with the toothache and finding no rest.
So Too-wháy-deh went out with his toothache, running all over the
world groaning and crying; and when the other four-feet slept he
could only sit and howl. Because he came to talk with the other
animals, if they could not cure him, they caught the toothache too;
and that is the reason why they sometimes cry. But none have it like
the Coyote, who can find no rest.
In those times there were no medicine-men in the world,--not even of
the people,--and the animals found no cure.
Time passing so, it came one day that T’hoo-chée-deh, the smallest of
Mice, who lives in the little mounds around the chapparo-bush, was
making his road underground, when he came to a kind of root with a
sweet smell. T’hoo-chée-deh was very wise; and he took the root, and
put it with others in a buckskin pouch he carried under his left arm.
In a few days Kee-oo-ée-deh, the Prairie-Dog, came with his head all
fat with toothache, and said:
“Friend Field-Mouse, can you not cure me of this pain? For all say
you are very wise with herbs.”
“I do not know,” answered T’hoo-chée-deh. “But we will try. For I
have found a new root, and perhaps it is good.”
So he mixed it with other roots, all pounded, and put it on the cheek
of Kee-oo-ée-deh; and in a little, the toothache was gone.
In that time it was that there was so much toothache among the
animals that the Mountain Lion, Commander of Beasts, called a council
to see what should be done. When every kind that walks on the ground
had met, he asked each of them if they had found no cure; but none of
them knew any. The Coyote was there, howling with pain; but all the
other sick were at home.
At last it was to the Field-Mouse, who is the smallest of
all animals, and who did not wish to seem wise until all the
greater ones had spoken. When the Mountain Lion said, “And thou,
T’hoo-chée-deh--hast thou a cure?” he rose in his place and came
forward modestly, saying: “If the others will allow me, and with the
help of the Trues, I will try what I found last.”
Then he drew from his left-hand bag the roots one by one; and last
of all, the root of the _chee-ma-hár_, explaining what it had done
for Kee-oo-ée-deh. He pounded it to powder with a stone, and mixed
it with fat; and spreading it on flat leaves, put it to the Coyote’s
jaw. And in a little the pain was gone.[111]
[111] This cure is still practised among the Tée-wahn. The
sovereign remedy for toothache, however, is to go to the
_estufa_ after dark, carrying food in the left hand, march
round inside the big circular room three times, leave the food
under the secret recess in the wall where the scalps taken in
old wars are kept, and then come out. The toothache is always
left behind!
At that the Mountain Lion, the Bear, the Buffalo, and all
the other Captains of Four-feet, declared T’hoo-chée-deh the
Father-of-All-Medicine. They made a strong law that from that time
the body of the Field-Mouse should be held sacred, so that no animal
dares to kill him or even to touch him dead. And so it remains to
this day. But only the birds and the snakes, who were not at the
Council of the Four feet, they do not respect T’hoo-chée-deh.
So the Field-Mouse was the first medicine-man. He chose one of each
kind of four-feet to be his assistants, and taught them the use of
all herbs, and how to cure pain, so that each might practise among
his own people--a Bear-doctor for the Bears, and a Wolf-doctor for
the Wolves, and so to all the tribes of the animals.
Of those he taught, there was one who was not a True Believer--the
Badger. But he listened also, and made as if he believed all.
With time, the teaching was done; and T’hoo-chée-deh sent all his
assistant doctors home to their own peoples to heal. But whenever one
of them was asked with the sacred corn-meal[112] to come and cure a
sick one, he always came first to get the Father, the Field-Mouse, to
accompany and help him.
[112] The necessary accompaniment, among the Pueblos, of a call
for the doctor. In some cases, the sacred smoking-herb was
used. Either article was wrapped in corn-husk. See, also, “Some
Strange Corners of Our Country,” chapters xviii and xx.
But all this time Kahr-naí-deh, the Badger, was not believing; and at
last he said to his wife:
“Now I will _see_ if Old T’hoo-chée-deh is really a medicine-man. If
he finds me, I will believe him.”
So from that day for four days the Badger touched no food, until he
was almost dead. And on the fifth day he said:
“_In-hlee-oo wáy-ee_, wife of me, go now and call T’hoo-chée-deh, to
see if he will cure me.”
So the Badger-wife went with meal to the house of the Field-Mouse,
making to be very sad; and brought him back with her. When they came,
the Badger was as if very sick and in great pain.
T’hoo-chée-deh asked nothing; but took off the little pouch of roots
and laid it beside him. And then rubbing a little wood-ashes on his
hands, he put them on the stomach and breast of the Badger, rubbing
and feeling. When he had felt the Badger’s stomach, he began to sing:
_Káhr-nah-hlóo-hlee wee-end-t’hú
Beh-hú hoo-báhn,
Ah-náh káh-chah-him-aí
T’hóo-chée-hlóo-hlee t’oh-ah-yin-áhb
Wee-end-t’hú beh-hú hoo-báhn._
(Badger-Old-Man four days
Has the hunger-killing,
To know, to know surely
If Field-Mouse-Old-Man
Has the Medicine Power.
Four days, four days,
He has the hunger-killing.)
When he had finished rubbing and singing, he said to the Badger:
“There is no need of a remedy. In my teaching I found you
attentive--now be true. You have wasted, in trying my power. Now get
up and eat, to make up for the lost. And do not think that way again.”
With that, he took his pouch of roots and went home. As soon as he
was out of the house, the Badger said to his wife:
“My wife, now I believe that Mouse-Old-Man _has_ the Power; and never
again will I think _that_ way.”
Then the Badger-wife brought food, and he ate--for he was dying of
hunger. When he had eaten, the animals came in to see him, for they
had heard that he was very sick. He told them all that had been, and
how T’hoo-chée-deh had known his trick. At that, all the animals were
afraid of the Field-Mouse, and respected him more than ever--for it
was plain that he indeed had the Power.
Time passing so, it came that one day the Men of the Old made
_nah-kú-ah-shu_, the great round-hunt. When they had made a great
circle on the _llano_, and killed many rabbits, some of them found
T’hoo-chée-deh, and made him prisoner. They brought him before the
_principales_, who questioned him, saying:
“How do you gain your life?”
“I gain it,” he answered, “by going about among the animals who are
sick, and curing them.”
Then the elders said: “If that is so, teach us your Power, and we
will set you free; but if not, you shall die.”
T’hoo-chée-deh agreed, and they brought him to town with honor.
For twelve days and twelve nights he and the men stayed shut up
in the _estufa_, for two days fasting, and one day making the
medicine-dance, and then fasting and then dancing again, as our
medicine-men do to this day.
On the last night, when he had taught the men all the herbs and
how to use them, and they had become wise with practice, they sent
T’hoo-chée-deh out with a strong guard, that nothing should harm him.
They set him down at the door of his own house under the chapparo.
A law was made, giving him full liberty of all that is grown in the
fields. To this day, all True Believers honor him, so that he is not
called small any more. When they sing of him in the sacred places,
they make his house great, calling it _koor-óo-hlee naht-hóo_, the
Mountain of the Chapparo. And him they call not T’hoo-chée-deh, the
Field-Mouse, but _Pee-íd-deh p’ah-hláh-queer_, the Deer-by-the-River,
that he may not seem of little honor.[113] For he was the Father of
Medicine, and taught us how to cure the sick.
[113] This is not an exception. Nearly all the animals known to
the Tée-wahn have not only their common name, but a ceremonial
and sacred one, which is used exclusively in the songs and
rites.
* * * * *
“_Tahb-kóon-ahm?_” cried the boys. “Is _that_ why the Coyote always
cries? And is that why we must never hurt the Field-Mouse, but show
him respect, as to elders?”
“That is the very why,” said Manuelito’s grandfather, gravely; and
all the old men nodded.
“And why--” began ’Tonio. But his father shook his head.
“_Tah!_ It is enough. _Tóo-kwai!_”
So we stepped out into the night to our homes. And from the _Kú-mai_,
black against the starry sky, the howl of Too-wháy-deh, wandering
with his toothache, swelled across the sleeping village of the
Tée-wahn.
[Illustration: Is that so?
Yes; that is so.
The End]
Transcriber’s Note
All inconsistencies in hyphenation and accent use are preserved as
printed.
Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.
The following typographic errors have been fixed:
Page 79--stanger amended to stranger--Then a young woman who
was a stranger ...
Page 126--seen amended to see--After this, whenever you see an
Eagle ...
The frontispiece has been moved to follow the title page. Other
illustrations have been moved where necessary so that they are not
in the middle of a paragraph.
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