PERSONAGESAfter each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.Ahalamila, gray wolf;Demauna, pine marten;Gowila, lizard;Ilhataina, lightning;Jul Kurula, woodgrub;Jupka, butterfly of the wild silkworm;Tsoré Jowá, a kind of eagle.
PERSONAGES
After each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.
Ahalamila, gray wolf;Demauna, pine marten;Gowila, lizard;Ilhataina, lightning;Jul Kurula, woodgrub;Jupka, butterfly of the wild silkworm;Tsoré Jowá, a kind of eagle.
NEAR Jigulmatu lived Tsore Jowa, a very old woman. Once in the spring she went west to dig roots, and found a great clump of them. “I’ll come to-morrow and dig these,” thought she, and went home.
Next morning she went to get the roots. She dug around the whole clump, but could not pull it up. She dug deeper, pulled and tugged; at last the roots came, and on them a little boy with eyes staring out of his head. She pushed the eyes back, cured him, put him in a rabbit-skin blanket which she wore, and went home. She washed the boy all day, and did not sleep at night. She washed him all the time. When five days old, he had grown a good deal. On the sixth day he crept; on the ninth he walked. When fifteen days old, he was a strong but very small boy.
“I want a bow and arrows,” said he.
“You must not go out,” said the old woman, “you must not leave my sight.”
He teased till at last she gave him a bow and said, “You must stay on the housetop, and not go away.”
While he was on the house a bird flew up, perched on a tree-top, and asked, “Why doesn’t your mother nurse you?”
The bird repeated this and flew away. The boy cried; came down and told his grandmother.
“Where are our people? Tell me,” said he.
“Our people were many,” said she, “but Gowila killed them all. We have no people now.”
“Who is Gowila?”
“Oh, he is strong and terrible; you must not see Gowila.”
The boy walked around the house then, looked at the walls, and asked, “May I have that bow hanging there?”
“You may if you like,” said she, “but you are too weak to use it. You are very small, a little fellow.”
He started at the east side of the sweat-house and went northward, tried the first bow, broke it; went on, took another, broke that. Then he went around the whole house, breaking every bow that he came to, till on the south side he reached the last bow. It was made of deer sinew. He bent that, tried his best, tried again and again, could not break it. “What kind of a bow is this?” thought he. “It is the ugliest, the oldest, but I cannot break it.” He took the bow and a big stone to crush it. The bow flew out of his hand, and the stone fell.
“How did the man die who used this bow?” asked the boy.
“Gowila killed him, and those who had the other bows,” answered the old woman.
“I will go for wood now and sweat.”
“Do not go far,” said Tsore Jowa.
The boy ran off to the east, seized a big pine-tree, tore it up with one pull, and took it home in one hand. He made a big fire and put stones on it.
“Bring water, my grandmother,” said he; “then I will tell you what to do.” The old woman filled a great basket with water. The stones were dropped in when red-hot, and the water boiled quickly.
“Grandmother, put me into the boiling water.”
The old woman was frightened, but did what he told her.
“Cover me closely,” said the boy.
She covered him with another tight basket. He lay in the water till the cover flew from the basket, and he was thrown through the opening in the top of the sweat-house and dropped on the roof outside. He ran down, swam in the river close by, and then went back and talked with the old woman.
“You will be very strong,” said she. “You will be called Ilhataina.”
He ran east a second time; brought sugar-pines. He did not sleep, he sang without stopping. Rocks were made hot as before, and dropped into a bigger basket. The old woman put in Ilhataina, and covered him with four closely woven baskets. He was in the boiling water till the four covers burst off,and he flew up through the opening in the top of the sweat-house. He ran down again to the river, and while swimming talked to himself, saying,—
“I will meet Gowila to-day, I will meet Gowila to-day.”
At sunrise he went home. “Grandmother, I am going out a short way,” said he, taking down his old bow and one arrow.
“Oh, grandson, you must not go far; you must not leave my sight,” said the old woman.
He counted twenty otter-skin quivers filled with arrows, and said, “I will take these.”
She cooked roots for his breakfast, and brought a small basket full for him to take with him. He went west to a grove of trees, made a fire there, and caused salmon to hang all around on the tree branches. Crowds of men and women were heard talking and laughing near by. He made it so. There were no people in the place. He made the noise to entice Gowila.
He began to dig roots then. He dug without raising his head, dug and worked on, singing songs as he worked. Soon a big ugly old man from the north came. This was Gowila. He had a great dog, and a deer head was hanging at his back, with long horns on each side of it.
“You sing a nice song,” said he.
Ilhataina never looked up.
“Come to the fire,” said Gowila.
The boy said nothing; dug all the time.
“Come to the fire; I am hungry,” said Gowila.
After a time Ilhataina went to the fire.
“You sing well,” said Gowila. “Where did you come from?”
“From Jigulmatu. People sing well at Jigulmatu, and they dance well.”
Gowila sat down near the fire. “Put roots in my mouth. Put in more,” said he, when the boy gave him some.
The boy fed Gowila until he had eaten all the roots in the basket.
“How many people are digging roots around here?” asked he.
“I do not know; a great many,” said Ilhataina.
A loud noise of people was heard a short distance away,—a noise of men and women laughing and talking. Gowila saw blankets and baskets near the fire. Ilhataina made the appearance of them. There was nothing there but the twenty otter-skin quivers and the ugly old bow and one arrow in his hand.
“Give me your bow,” said Gowila; “let me look at it.”
He asked again and again till the boy gave the bow. Gowila threw it into the fire.
“Why do that?” asked Ilhataina, snatching his bow from the fire. “Let me see your bow.”
Gowila handed the bow to him. Ilhataina broke it with his left hand, and then sprang toward the east. Gowila was very angry, and said “Teh!” to his dog. The dog rushed at the boy. Ilhataina shot and hit the dog. He shot all the arrows but one from ten quivers. Every arrow hit but did noharm to the dog. Just then one of the seven stars (the Pleiades) called to Ilhataina,—
“Shoot him in the little toe and he will die.”
The boy hit the dog’s little toe. He fell dead.
Ilhataina ran to the fire where Gowila was standing. “You cannot kill me,” said he to Gowila; “you are big and strong, but you cannot hurt me.”
“I will kill you,” said Gowila; and he sent an arrow at him. It missed.
Ilhataina shot his arrow and it struck. Every arrow that he sent went into Gowila, but no arrow struck Ilhataina. All the arrows but one were gone from the second ten quivers. That moment one of the seven stars called to Ilhataina,—
“Shoot at his little toe. If you hit him there, he will die.”
Ilhataina struck Gowila’s little toe, and he dropped dead.
Ilhataina skinned Gowila, stripped him from head to foot, put the skin on himself, and became just like his enemy. Next he struck the dog with a red rose switch, and the dog jumped up alive and glad to see his master. Ilhataina hung the deer head behind his shoulders, took his quivers, and went home. Gowila’s dog followed him. When near the house, he made heavy steps, and the old woman looked out.
“Oh, Gowila is coming! Gowila is coming!” cried she, terribly frightened.
“Grandmother, don’t be afraid; it is I. Gowila is dead. I have killed him. I am wearing his skin. I am as big and as ugly as he was. I will go to hishouse to-night, I think. I have brought his liver and lights with me.”
“Go, grandson, go. I fear nobody now.”
Ilhataina went away, saying, “I will be here about sunrise to-morrow.”
He went north to Gowila’s sweat-house, went a long way, went quickly, walked up to the house, was just like Gowila. A great many people lived in that house. All kinds of snake people were there,—rattlesnakes, bull-snakes, water-snakes, striped snakes, all kinds of snakes.
He hung Gowila’s liver and lights outside, went in, and sat down between Gowila’s two wives. The dog lay down in his own place. The wives were Pupila women, two sisters.
“Bring in the meat which I hung up outside and cook it,” said Ilhataina to the elder wife.
He cut the liver and lights into small bits, and the two women boiled them. There was a great steam and a strong smell from these pieces. All in the house were blind except the two wives, and only one of the blind people spoke, Gowila’s younger brother. “I smell Gowila’s flesh,” said he.
“How could you smell Gowila’s flesh when I am Gowila?”
Ilhataina was very angry, and dashed live coals through the house. All were terrified. All ate of the meat except Gowila’s younger brother. He was very wise and wouldn’t touch it.
Ilhataina went out and found a great many legs around the house. Gowila had eaten the bodies of thousands of people and thrown the legs away.Ilhataina gathered these into one place and went back to the house.
“Blind people,” said he, “I wish you would sing, and you, my wives, dance for me. I’ll go to sleep then.”
“We will sing,” said they, “and dance.”
The blind people sang, and the two women danced. Soon the men and the two women stopped. Ilhataina made them all drowsy, and they fell asleep. Then he went out, fastened the door, and said,—
“I want the walls of this house to be covered with pitch.”
The whole house was covered with pitch, and then he set fire to it. Soon he heard terrible screaming inside and crowds running around in the sweat-house. None could get out, and all were burned to death quickly.
Ilhataina tied the legs together with a long grapevine and carried them home. He was there about daylight. He placed them all in the river and went to the sweat-house.
“Hide me, and then lie on your face with your arms under your head,” said he to his grandmother.
The old woman put him in one basket and covered him with another, then lay herself as he had directed.
In the middle of the forenoon there was a great noise of people rising out of the river. They came in through the top of the sweat-house. When all were inside, the old woman stood up. All her people were alive there before her,—Demauna, Jupka, and others; all had come back.
“Who brought us to life again?” asked Demauna. “Show me the person.”
The old woman took Ilhataina out of the basket and carried him to them. Demauna caught him in his arms. “Well done, my brother!” said he. All the rest called him brother.
“Let me have him,” said Ahalamila.
“No,” answered Demauna; “I will keep him myself.”
They asked the old woman where she had found Ilhataina. She would not tell.
“Will you sweat?” asked Ilhataina.
“Yes,” said all the people.
“I will bring wood,” said he.
When he ran out, the sweat-house danced in its place. All thought he was too small to carry wood, but when he snatched a tall fir the earth trembled. When he touched a big sugar-pine, he crushed it. He brought great trees in a moment, and when he put them down the place shivered. All were in terror.
When Ilhataina talked the whole world was afraid, and when he moved the ground which he walked on was quivering.
All sweated, swam in the river, and went back to the old woman’s. Ilhataina walked across the house, and his heart shook as if it would jump from his body.
“I am not going to stay here,” said he.
When Demauna heard this, he cried, and the old woman cried.
“My brother,” said Demauna, “I should like to know where you are going. I wish you would stay with us.”
Ilhataina made no answer.
“My brother,” said Jupka, “if you will not stay here, I wish you would go to the sky. Now,” said Jupka, “will you take beads as a gift from me?”
“No.”
“Shells?”
“No.”
“Wolf robes?”
“No.”
“Wildcat robes?”
“No.”
“Foxskin robes?”
“No.”
Jupka wore an old ragged rabbit-skin robe. He had worn it a long time. “I think you like this,” said he.
“Yes,” answered Ilhataina, “that’s what I want.” He took the old robe and tied it with weeds around his waist. “Now I am ready to leave you. Come out and see me go.”
There was a black cloud in the sky. Ilhataina had brought it there. “I will go up to that place,” said he. “Whenever rain comes in future, it will be water falling from my rabbit robe.”
All hurried out. Jupka’s son, Jul Kurula, who was wrapped in a black bearskin, came down into the sweat-house and cried; he didn’t wish to lose Ilhataina.
“Now, my friends,” said Ilhataina, “I leave you; hereafter when you see me travel I shall go like this;” and he went with a flash to the black cloud.
He was taken into it, and now he stays there.
PERSONAGESAfter each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.Hitchinna, wildcat;Hitchín Marimi, wildcat woman, his wife;Hitchinpa, young wildcat;Metsi, coyote;Putokya, skull people, or head people.
PERSONAGES
After each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.
Hitchinna, wildcat;Hitchín Marimi, wildcat woman, his wife;Hitchinpa, young wildcat;Metsi, coyote;Putokya, skull people, or head people.
HITCHINNA had a wife and a son a few days old. Hitchinpa, the little son, was sleeping, and Hitchin Marimi, the wife, was taking care of her child. Hitchinna had dreamed the night before, and his dream was a bad one.
“I had a dream last night,” said he to his wife, “a very bad dream.”
“What did you dream?” asked she.
“I dreamed that I climbed a big pine-tree; the tree was full of cones. I was throwing them down, had thrown down a great many, when at last I threw down my right arm. I dreamed then that I threw down my left arm.”
He told her no more. That morning early, before he had talked of his dream, the woman said,—
“I should like to have pine-nuts; I want to eat pine-nuts; I am hungry for pine-nuts.”
He went out to find the nuts, and she went with him, taking the baby. They came to a large pine-tree, and he climbed it. Hitchin Marimi put thebaby aside on the ground, and made a fire at some distance to roast the pine-cones.
Hitchinna threw down cones; she roasted them to get out the nuts. He threw down a great many cones. She roasted these cones and pounded the nuts out.
After a while Hitchinna’s right arm fell off; he threw that to the ground, then he threw down his left arm. His left leg came off; he threw it down. Next his right leg dropped off, and he threw that to the ground.
The woman was roasting and pounding the pine-cones; she did not look around for a good while. At last she went to the tree, found blood on it, and looking up, saw that her husband was throwing himself down, that there was not much left of his body.
Hitchin Marimi was scared half to death; she ran away home. She was so terrified that she left the little child behind, forgot all about it. When she reached home, she called the people together and said,—
“My husband went up into a pine-tree; he threw down a great many pine-cones. Then he began to throw himself down; first he threw one arm, then the other. We must hurry and hide somewhere; he will be bad very soon; he will kill us all if he finds us.”
The people asked, “Where can we go to hide from him,—north, south, east, or west?”
“I know a good place,” said one man, “and it is not too far from here,—Wamarawi.”
“Well, we must go to that place, and go veryquickly,” said Hitchinna’s wife; and all the people agreed with her.
The people ran to Wamarawi, which is a round mountain; they ran the whole way and went into a cave in the mountain. When all were inside, they closed the entrance very firmly, shut it up tight. Nothing could get in through that door.
After his wife had run home, Hitchinna threw down his ribs one by one, and kept asking his wife if she was there. He got no answer. She was gone and he did not know it. He threw down first all the ribs of his right side, then all of his left side. Every time he threw a rib he called, “Uh! Uh!” to his wife.
At last there was nothing left of him on the tree but his head, and that came down soon after. His eyes were very big now, sticking out, staring with a wild and mad look. The head lay under the tree a while. Hitchinna had become another kind of people. He had become a Putokya. He was one of the skull people, a very bad terrible people. Each one of them is nothing but a skull.
Putokya is new now. He has a new mind, new wishes. He is under the tree, and lies there a little while. He cannot walk any more. He can only roll on the ground like a ball. After resting and thinking a while, he starts to find his wife; rolls till he comes to the fire. There is no woman there. He looks around, cannot find her, looks again, and sees the baby. He rolls to the baby, catches it in his mouth, eats up the baby in one moment. The head talks then, and says,—
“I dreamed last night that I ate up my own son.”
He is dreadful now. He scatters the pine-cones, quenches the fire, rages, roars awfully, a real Putokya. He rolls, bounds, knocks against a tree, cuts it down, breaks it to pieces, scatters it.
Next he starts for the village, springing and bounding along like a football, making a terrible wind as he goes, reaches the house, looks through it. All are gone from the house and from the village. All have run off to Wamarawi.
First he knocks against his own house, breaks it, smashes it to pieces, and then he breaks all the other houses in the same way, one after another. He scatters and smashes up everything, wrecks the whole village, just as if a strong whirlwind had gone through it. The people are all in Wamarawi, in the stone cave in the mountain, a very great crowd of them.
Putokya looks around, finds tracks, follows the people southward, goes with a terrible roar, raising a storm as he moves. He breaks everything he strikes, except rocks. From these he bounds off like a football.
He follows the people of the village, follows on their tracks, stops before Wamarawi, rolls up to the entrance, listens quietly, hears a sound inside like the buzzing of bees. Putokya is glad. He stops a while and thinks what to do. “You cannot go from me now,” says he.
All the people were inside except Metsi; he had gone north somewhere.
“I will break in the cave,” said Putokya.
He began at the west side, went back a whole mile, bounded, rushed, hurled himself at the mountain, whistled through the air with a noise like the loudest wind, struck the mountain, made a great hole in it, but could not go through to the cave. Putokya felt sure that he could break through. He went back a whole mile again from the north side, bounded, rushed forward, made a tremendous hole in the north side; but he could not go through, and the rock closed again.
The people inside are glad now; they are laughing, they think themselves safe,—jeer at Putokya. Putokya hears them. He is angrier than ever, he is raging. “I will try the east side,” said he; “that is better.”
He went back as before, bounded forward, made a deep hole in the east, but it closed again, and he left it. He tried the south. It was just like the other sides. Putokya stops a while, is afraid that he cannot get in, that he cannot get at the people.
“The Yana are not very wise,” said he. “I should like to know who told them what to do. They did not know themselves. Who told them to go to Wamarawi?”
He tried to go to the top of the mountain and make a hole there. He could not roll up in any way. He fell back each time that he tried. He could travel on level ground only, he could only rise by bounding.
“I cannot go up there, I am not able,” said he.
He lay down close to the entrance of the cave and thought a while. He made up his mind to bound like a ball, to spring from point to point, higher and higher, on neighboring mountains, till he got very high, and then come down on the top of Wamarawi. He did this, went far up on the top of other and higher mountains till at last he was very high; then with a great bound he came down on the top of Wamarawi, came down with a terrible crash. He made an awfully big hole in it, bigger than all the four holes he had made in the sides put together; and this hole did not close, but it did not reach the cave.
After that blow he came again to level ground. He lay there and said to himself: “I have tried five times to get at those people. I will try once more. I may get at them this time.”
He went high up in the sky, higher than before. He was angrier and madder than ever, and he came down with a louder crash; the whole mountain shook and trembled. No one inside the cave was laughing now; all the people were terrified.
Putokya went almost through to the cave. The rock above the people was very thin after this blow, and the hole did not close again.
“I will not try any more,” said Putokya; “I cannot get at the people.” He was discouraged, and left Wamarawi.
All the people within were in terror. “If he tries once more, we are lost,” said they. “He will burst through and eat us, eat every one of us.”
The great hole remained on that mountain top,and people say that there is a lake up there now with goldfish in it.
Putokya started north, went toward Pulshu Aina, his own village. As he went toward home, he made a great roaring and wind, cut down trees and brush, people, beasts, everything that he met; he left a clean road behind. He swept through Pulshu Aina, and went farther north, went almost to Jigulmatu.
Metsi was coming down to the south, along the same trail; he was very well dressed. Metsi always dressed well. He wore a splendid elkskin belt and a hair net; he was fine-looking.
Metsi was right in the middle of the trail. He had learned that Putokya was out killing people in the south; he heard the roar a great way off, and said to himself,—
“I hear Putokya; he is killing all the people.”
Metsi thought over what he was to do. “I will meet him. I will say to this Putokya, ‘You are smart, you are good, but you are sick. I will cure you.’”
Metsi took off all his fine clothes in a hurry and hid them, made himself naked. “I must be quick,” said he; “the noise and wind are coming nearer and nearer. I wish a rusty old basket to be here before me.” The basket was there. He wished for an old strap to carry it. The old strap was there with the basket.
Metsi made buckskin rings around his arms and legs, turned himself into an old, very old woman, all bent and wrinkled, with a buckskin petticoat. He put the rusty basket on his back.
Putokya was hurrying on; the roar grew louder and nearer. Metsi knew that Putokya was very dangerous, and that he must be careful. He took white clay, painted his face, made a regular old woman of himself. Putokya came near. Metsi was ready, the basket on his back and a stick in his hand. He was walking along slowly, a very old woman and decrepit. The old woman began to cry, “En, en, en!”
Putokya stopped on the road, made no noise, listened to the old woman.
“He has stopped; he is listening to me,” said Metsi; and he cried more, cried in a louder voice and more pitifully.
Putokya was quiet. Metsi walked right up to him, looked at him, and said, “I came near stepping on you.” Metsi was crying more quietly now.
“Are you a dead person?” asked Metsi.
Putokya was silent.
“I heard you from where I was,” said Metsi; “when you had a bad dream, I heard you in the south, heard you everywhere, heard you when you turned to be a Putokya, one of the head people, and wanted to kill everybody. You used to be good, you used to be wise, but now you are sick; you will die, and be among people no longer unless you are cured. That is why I started to come south; I started south to find you, to see you. It is a good thing that you came up here; now I see you. I am your relative, your cousin. I want you to be healthy, to be as you were before; to have yourarms and legs again, to feel well. I want to cure you.”
Metsi was sobbing all this time. He pretended to be awfully sorry; he wasn’t, for Metsi wasn’t sorry for any one, didn’t care for any one on earth; he only wanted to put Putokya out of the way, to kill him. Metsi was a great cheat.
“A good while ago,” said Metsi, “I met a man like you. He had had a dream, and he was nothing but a head, just like you. I travelled then as I am travelling to-day, and met this man just as I meet you now on this road. If you believe what I tell you, all right; if you don’t believe, it’s all the same to me. I will tell you what I did for that man, how I cured him. Do you want me to tell you what I did for him?”
Putokya was looking all the time with great wildcat eyes at the old woman. Now he spoke, saying: “Talk more, tell me all, old woman. I want to hear what you have to say.”
“Well, I made a man of that head,” said the old woman. “I cured that Putokya; I made him over. I made him new, and he walked around as well as before; I gave him legs and arms; all the bad went out of him; I made him clean and sound and good again.”
“How did you do that, old woman?” asked Putokya. “How can you make a man over again? I want to see that.”
“I will tell you how I do it. I will fix you; I will fix you right here on this road, just as I fixed that other man. I made a hole in the ground; along hole, a pretty big one. I lined it with rocks; I made a little fire of manzanita wood, and when it was nice and warm in the hole, I put plenty of pitch in, and put the man on top of the pitch. It was good and soft for him, and nice and pleasant on the pitch. I put a flat rock over the hole. He stayed there a while and was cured.”
Putokya believed all this; had full faith in Metsi, and said,—
“Very well, you fix me as you fixed that other man; make me new again, just as I used to be.”
Metsi added: “I put pitch very thick, one foot all around, and put him in the warm hole; covered him up. Pretty soon he began to stretch and grow; grew till he was as good as ever. That is how I cured that man.”
“That is good,” said Putokya. “Fix me in that way; fix me just as you fixed him.”
“I will,” said Metsi. “I will fix you just as I fixed that man, and you will come out just as he did; you will be in the right way and have no more trouble; you will never be sick again.”
Metsi did everything as he had said; made a long deep hole, put in fire and a great deal of pitch, a foot thick of it.
He placed Putokya on the pitch; put a wide flat stone over him, put on others; put the stones on very quickly, till there was a great pile of them.
The pitch began to burn well, to grow hot, to seethe, to boil, to blaze, to burn Putokya.
He struggled to bound out of the pitch; thestones kept him down, the pitch stuck to him. He died a dreadful death.
If Putokya had got out of the hole, there would have been hard times in this world for Metsi.
When Putokya was dead under the pile of rocks, Metsi threw away his old things, his basket and buckskin petticoat, put on his nice clothes, and went along on his journey.
Metsi was a great cheat. He could change himself always, and he fooled people whenever he had a chance; but he did a good thing that time, when he burned up Putokya.
PERSONAGESAfter each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.Chíchepa, spotted chicken-hawk;Chikpina, weasel;Hapawila, water snake;Jewinna, chicken-hawk;Jewinpa, young chicken-hawk;Kedila, soaproot plant;Matsklila, turkey buzzard;Pakálai Jáwichi, water lizard;Tirúkala, lamprey eel;Wirula, red fox.Weanmaunameans the hidden one.
PERSONAGES
After each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.
Chíchepa, spotted chicken-hawk;Chikpina, weasel;Hapawila, water snake;Jewinna, chicken-hawk;Jewinpa, young chicken-hawk;Kedila, soaproot plant;Matsklila, turkey buzzard;Pakálai Jáwichi, water lizard;Tirúkala, lamprey eel;Wirula, red fox.Weanmaunameans the hidden one.
TIRUKALA lived near Jamahdi, on the Juka Mapti Mountain, and he was thinking, thinking for a long time, how to change this world, how to make it better.
“I have to fix this country. I will fix it now,” said Tirukala. “I will make it better to live in.”
When he had said this he went off walking and began to sing. All the mountains stood too near together at that time, and Tirukala pushed the mountains apart from one another, made room between them. He put creeks everywhere, and big and little rivers. He made springs in different places and swamps. He put salmon and other fish into rivers and creeks, plenty of them everywhere.
Tirukala had two persons to help him, Pakalai Jawichi and Hapawila. The three lived together, working and making the world better to live in.
Tirukala never ate anything; never took food of any kind. He worked always, and sang while atwork. Hapawila made salmon traps and caught many salmon. Just like Tirukala, he sang all the time. After a while two young girls heard this singing. They were the two daughters of Kedila. They went out to get wood one day and heard the singing.
They filled their baskets and went home, put the wood down, then went out and listened to the singing. They thought it was very sweet and beautiful.
“Let us go nearer to the singing,” said the younger sister.
They went a little way from the house, sat down, and listened. Again they stood up and went on. Two or three times they did this, going farther and farther. Soon they came in sight of a salmon trap and went up to it.
“I see no one here,” said each of the sisters. “Who can be singing?”
They looked on all sides of the trap and saw no one. They looked up and down the river. There was no one in sight. They sat down near the trap, watched and listened. At last the younger girl saw who was singing. She saw Hapawila in the river, where he was singing.
When he saw the girls sitting and listening, Hapawila came out to them.
“Which way are you going?” asked he.
“We heard singing, and came out to listen. That is why we are here,” answered the elder.
“Let us go home,” said the younger.
“Take some of my salmon to your father,” said Hapawila; and he gave them two very nice salmon.
They took the salmon home to their father.
“Where did you get these salmon?” asked Kedila.
“A man who sings and has salmon-traps sent them to you.”
That evening Hapawila went to old Kedila’s house. The girls saw him coming and were frightened. They liked his singing, but they did not like his appearance. They ran away, found a great tree, climbed it, and thought to spend the night there. But Hapawila tracked them, came to the foot of the tree, looked up, and saw the two sisters near the top. He walked around, and looked at the tree.
“Let him come up,” said the elder sister, “let him talk a while: we may like him better if he talks to us.”
“No,” said the younger sister, “I don’t like him; I don’t want to talk with him.”
He tried to climb the tree, but could not. The trunk was smooth, and the tree had no branches except at the top. Now the elder sister fixed the tree so that he could climb to them; she wished for branches on the trunk—they were there at once, and Hapawila climbed up to Kedila’s two daughters.
The younger sister was angry at this; hurried down the tree, ran home, and told her father that her sister and Hapawila were talking to each other in the tree-top.
Old Kedila said nothing, and went to bed. A few minutes later the elder sister was at home. She, too, ran from Hapawila when she saw him the third time.
Early next morning Kedila was very angry. He caught his elder daughter, thrust her into the fire, burned her, and threw her out of doors. The younger sister took up her sister’s body, and cried bitterly. After a while she carried it to a spring, crying as she carried it. She washed her sister’s body in the water. It lay one night in the spring. At daylight next morning the elder sister came out of the water alive, with all her burns cured and not a sore left on her.
“Where can we go now? Our father is angry; he will kill us if we go home,” said the younger sister.
Both started west, singing as they travelled.
“I wish that I had a basket with every kind of nice food in it,” said the younger sister toward evening. Soon a basket was right there. It dropped down in front of her. She looked. There were pine nuts in the basket, different roots, and nice food to eat.
Now, Jewinna lived in the west. He had a very large sweat-house and many people. His youngest and only living son he kept wrapped up and hidden away in a bearskin.
At sunset the two girls came to Jewinna’s house, and put down their basket of roots near the doorway. Jewinna’s wife went out and brought in the two girls. Jewinna himself spread out a bearskin and told the girls to sit on it. He said to his son, who was wrapped up and hidden away,—
“Come out and sit down with these two young girls who have come to us.”
The youth looked through a small hole in his bearskin; saw the two women, but said nothing; didn’t come out. When night fell, the two girls went to sleep. Next morning they rose, washed, dressed, and combed nicely. Then they went eastward, went toward their father’s house.
Jewinna’s son, Jewinpa, came out soon after, swam, dressed, ate, and followed the two girls. They went very fast, went without stopping; but Jewinpa caught up and went with them to their father’s house.
Kedila was pleased with Jewinpa, and treated both his own daughters well. He spoke to them as if nothing had happened.
Old Jewinna in the west called all his people and said: “I want you, my people, to sweat and swim, then come here and listen to me.”
After they had done this, Jewinna said: “I am sorry that my son has gone. I must follow him to-morrow. I don’t know why he went. I do not wish him to go far from this place. Be ready, all of you, and we will go to-morrow.”
Jewinna rose before daylight, called all his people, and said: “I cannot eat. I am sorry that my son has gone.”
All took plenty of arrows and beads and otter-skins and red-headed woodpecker scalps, and started to follow the young man. As he started, Jewinna sang,—
“I-no-hó, i-no-hó no-há, i-no-hó!”
“I-no-hó, i-no-hó no-há, i-no-hó!”
“I-no-hó, i-no-hó no-há, i-no-hó!”
A great many followed and repeated,—
“I-no-hó, i-no-hó no-há, i-no-hó!”
“I-no-hó, i-no-hó no-há, i-no-hó!”
“I-no-hó, i-no-hó no-há, i-no-hó!”
They went on all day, went quickly, and at sunset they were on a smooth plain, not far from Kedila’s place. Kedila had a large, rich sweat-house, and it was full of people. The old chief had a great many sons-in-law, and a great many people to serve him.
Jewinna and his men reached the place some time before nightfall, and Kedila went to the top of his sweat-house and said to the strangers,—
“I want you all to come in and enjoy yourselves. Perhaps my house is small; we will make it bigger.”
He blew toward all the four sides then, and said, “Be bigger, my sweat-house, be bigger!”
The sweat-house stretched out and was very large. There was room for every one, and all came in.
“Bring food, my sons-in-law, for Jewinna and his people,” said Kedila.
They brought in all kinds of good food, and fed every one gladly.
“Bring your beads, otter-skins, and red-headed woodpecker scalps, and put them down here at this side of the sweat-house,” said Jewinna to his people.
All were brought in and given to Kedila. He took these rich things gladly, and put them away.
Kedila put down on his part wolfskins with deerskins and gave them to Jewinna.
“Let ten of you go out and hunt squirrels,” said Jewinna to his people next morning; “let others fix heads on their arrows.”
One of the ten saw a squirrel on a tree; he took a club, climbed after the squirrel, and killed it; he saw another and another; the tree was filled withsquirrels. A second man saw squirrels in a second tree, and then a third and a fourth in other trees. Right away the ten were killing squirrels on ten trees, and soon they had ten piles of squirrels, each pile as large as one man could carry.
The two chiefs were delighted when they saw the ten loads of game, and there was a great feast of squirrel flesh that day at Kedila’s.
Both sides sat down then to gamble, played with sticks, gambled all day, played till sunset. They bet all kinds of skins. Jewinna’s men won a great many things, and won more than the presents.
Next morning Kedila’s sons-in-law wanted to win back the beautiful skins and other things which they had played away, but before noon they had lost everything. When all was gone, Kedila’s men were angry.
“You don’t play fairly,” said they to Jewinna’s men; “you shall not have these things.”
“We have won everything fairly,” said Jewinna’s men, “and we will take these things home with us.”
They began to fight at once. Kedila’s sons-in-law attacked Jewinna’s men as soon as they were outside the sweat-house.
“We are here to fight if there is need,” said Jewinna; “go ahead, my men, you are likely to die, every one of you.”
Jewinna’s men fought, going westward, fought carrying with them what they had won. Jewinna fought bravely, and sang as he fought. Kedila’s people followed.
They fought till near sunset. All were killed now but eight men, four on each side,—Jewinna, his half-brother, and two more western people. Kedila and three others of the eastern people were alive yet.
These eight closed once more in fight; both chiefs fell with Jewinna’s half-brother and Kedila’s youngest son-in-law. Matsklila was so sorry for this last one that he threw away bow and arrows and fell to the ground crying bitterly. Seeing this, Chikpina picked up a rock and beat Matsklila’s brains out. Wirula on Kedila’s side killed Chikpina, and there were only two left,—Chichepa, the last of Jewinna’s men, and Wirula, the last on Kedila’s side.
“Now,” said Wirula, “we have fought enough. You are alone. Go home and tell the women that your people are all killed. I am alone. I will go home and say that all our people are dead.”
Jewinna had taken his son with him when he left Kedila’s house, and he, too, had been killed in the struggle.
Now Wirula and Chichepa started off in opposite directions; went a little way; lay down and rolled along the ground, crying and lamenting. Wirula sprang up and said,—
“I will kill that Chichepa. I will kill him surely, and there will not be one left of our enemies.”
Wirula turned and followed Chichepa slowly; drew his bow and sent an arrow after him. But Chichepa dodged; the arrow missed. Then Wirula ran away.
“I will kill that Wirula now,” said Chichepa.
He turned and followed carefully, cautiously;came up with him, and struck him fairly on the skull. Wirula dropped dead.
Chichepa turned homeward now, crying all the time. When he was near home, the women saw him stagger, then saw him fall. When he reached the top of the sweat-house, he fell in, rolled along the floor, and cried. He ate nothing that night; he was too sorry for his people. He slept a while and then woke up crying.
Early next morning he took ten otter-skins; went back to the dead people, pulled one hair from the head of each one of them, and filled the ten otter-skins with the hairs. He had the work done before sunset.
“Build a good fire,” said he to the women when he reached home that night. “Give me four big water-baskets.” They gave the baskets. He filled these with water, and put hot rocks in them. Then he emptied the ten otter-skins into the water.
“Stay all night in your houses. Let no one put a head out. I will stay in the sweat-house,” said he.
The four baskets boiled hard. Just at daylight the largest basket fell over; then the second, the third, and the fourth fell. After that there were voices all around the sweat-house, hundreds upon hundreds of them.
“We are cold; open the door,” cried the voices.
When full daylight had come, Chichepa opened the door, and all hurried in. Jewinna came first, and with him his son. All followed them, dressed as they had been when they went to Kedila’s; all aliveand well, strong and healthy. Jewinna laughed. He was glad.
On the way home Kedila’s two daughters had two sons, the sons of Jewinpa. The boys were born the next day after Jewinpa had looked on their mothers. They had come from the eyes of their father. He had just looked through his fingers at Kedila’s two daughters.
After Jewinna’s son had been killed and then brought to life by Chichepa, he went east to Kedila’s great sweat-house, stayed five days and nights there, then took his two wives and two sons and went back to his father’s.
Kedila’s youngest son, born when his father was old, came to life. He had sat always at the central pillar, at the edge of the ashes, and had always kept moving his arms, but he had never danced on that or on any floor. He had burned his face because he had sat so near the fire, and had sweated often from being so near it.
Every one laughed at him; jeered at that “Burnt Face,” who sat night and day in the ashes. He spat always in one place. Kedila’s eldest son had said many times,—
“If we are killed, we shall come back to life again.”
“I don’t think that you will,” said Burnt Face; “but when I am killed I shall live again through my own power.”
Burnt Face went out to fight, and was killed with the others. Now a little baby came right up out of the spittle of Burnt Face, a boy. Thewomen took him and washed him. In one hour he had grown a good deal, in two hours still more. On the following day he had full growth.
Then this young man who had risen from the spittle went out of the house. He followed the course of the struggle, found all Kedila’s people dead, struck each with his foot, turned him over. All came to life and rose up, as well as ever.
When Jewinna came for his wives, their brothers and brothers-in-law gave the women presents; but when his two wives and two sons went home with him and old Jewinna saw them coming, he took two bearskins quickly, and when they were on top of the sweat-house, he caught the young boys, put them into the bearskins, rolled them up, and put them away to be Weanmauna.