PERSONAGESAfter each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.Hinwu, big owl;Kele, mountain wolf;Kleréu Lulimet, wild lily;Pili Lúlimet, reed grass blossom;Pokok, ground owl;Pom Piweki, crooked land;Satok Pokaila, ——;Sas, the sun;Tsurat, red-headed woodpecker;Tunhlucha, frog.
PERSONAGES
After each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.
Hinwu, big owl;Kele, mountain wolf;Kleréu Lulimet, wild lily;Pili Lúlimet, reed grass blossom;Pokok, ground owl;Pom Piweki, crooked land;Satok Pokaila, ——;Sas, the sun;Tsurat, red-headed woodpecker;Tunhlucha, frog.
IN Puidal Winnem lived Kele. Olelbis built a great sweat-house there, and told him to stay in it. Kele was old and lived all alone in that place; lived there a long time, thinking, making up his mind what to do,—he was lonely and thirsty. “Why did Olelbis put me here?” thought he.
Once he rose about daybreak, hurried out, went westward, went to a creek. A great clump of mountain maples stood near the bank. Kele saw a straight stick among all the others. He cut the stick, drew it out, and took off a short piece. On the way home he split the stick, smoothed it, and fixed it as he walked. He put the two sticks overhead in the sweat-house, went out a second time, found a white oak sapling, firm and strong, cut a piece two feet long from it, put it at the hearth. The next day he lay with his back to the fire, lay there all night without sleeping. Just before daybreak he heard steps, and was struck on the back.A minute later he was struck again in the same place. The old man rose then and made a good fire of manzanita wood.
It was daylight, and Kele said: “My children, come to the fire, warm yourselves, sweat, and then swim in the creek.”
Two girls came to the fire, warmed themselves standing, and soon they were sweating from heat.
“My daughters,” said Kele, “there is a creek near here. Go and swim in it.”
These girls were from the stick that Kele had split in two parts and put in the house wall. The girls bathed in the creek, came back, and were good-looking. When they came in, Kele brought venison for his two daughters to eat.
“My daughters,” said the old man, “I will tell you something. You must go to work, do good things. There are roots in the woods all around us, roots fit for food. You need to walk. Go out and get roots.” They went out to dig wild lily roots. After that they went every morning.
Soon they began to say: “We should like to have other food; we should like to have game to eat. We saw mountain quail to-day; we saw deer.” At last they talked this way every night. Kele listened, thinking what to do. These girls had a nice bed made of skins, and they talked every night to each other; but one night they went to bed early and fell asleep right away. Kele had wished them to sleep; that is why they fell asleep quickly. He hurried down to some mountain-ash trees, went to the middle of them, and cut off five sticks. Hewhittled these, made them smooth, cut each in two. He had ten smooth sticks then. Next he cut five other sticks. These he left rough; cut them also in two; had ten of them. Kele placed the twenty sticks overhead in the house on the north side, and lay with his back to the fire. The fire was a good one, a hot manzanita fire. His club of green oak was there at the fireplace.
Kele lay without sleeping and waited. He was awake and was thinking. The two girls were sound asleep all the time. Just before daybreak he heard a sound as if some barefooted person had sprung from above to the floor. Next moment some one took the club and struck him. Another came down in the same way and struck him. Ten times he was struck with the club.
The ten smooth sticks had turned into people. Each man gave him a blow, went to the wall of the house, and sat there. Kele did not rise yet. He heard some one barefoot jump down and seize the club. This one hit Kele once. A second one sprang down and hit him twice, a third three times, a fourth four times, and so on to the tenth, who struck him ten times. There were twenty in all; ten from the smooth and ten from the rough sticks.
The first ten sticks he had whittled smooth, and they made ten good sons, but from the ten untrimmed sticks came ten rough, uproarious sons. Kele hadn’t smoothed them, and they struck him many times. When the tenth rough son struck him the last blow, Kele stood up and made a bigfire; he could barely move, he had been so beaten with the club. He lay down then and said,—
“Now, my boys, come here; warm yourselves, dance and sweat, then go to the creek to swim, and come here again.” He sang then, and made his sons dance. The boys danced, and hurried to the creek to swim, shouting as they went. They came back to the sweat-house good-looking persons.
The two girls rose now. They knew already what their father had done.
“Go, my daughters, and cook for your brothers,” said Kele.
The two sisters made the food ready and placed it before their brothers.
“Now, my sons, eat what we have,” said Kele. “You will go out after that, you will hunt, and bring game.”
The first ten, the smooth men, had good sense; the second ten were inferior; the ninth and tenth of the second ten were very bad. The first ten took each only one mouthful; of the second ten, the first took one mouthful, the second two, the third three, and so on to the tenth, who took ten mouthfuls. After that they sat back and made ready to go out.
“What are we to do?” asked the first ten. “We have nothing to hunt with.”
Kele brought out bows and quivers with arrows, and gave them to each; gave five ropes to them also, ropes of grass fibre. “You are armed now,” said Kele; and he showed them where to set snares for deer.
They went far down to the foot of the mountainand set snares. The ten smooth brothers stood on the mountain top; the second ten, who were rough, drove the deer. “You must shout so that we can hear you all the time,” said the smooth brothers. Toward evening the smooth brothers saw deer in the snares. The smooth ten took the bodies, the best of the game; the rough ten the legs, ears, horns, all the poor parts. The smooth ten took the best meat to the house; the rough ten made a great uproar—they had little sense. The two sisters cooked roots and venison for all.
Next morning Kele made a big fire of manzanita wood. “Be up, my boys,” called he. “Go and swim.” That day the twenty stayed at home, and the sisters went for roots.
They lived this way a long time, the brothers hunting, the sisters digging roots and cooking, till at last the sisters wished to see other persons besides their brothers. One day when they went for roots they sat down on the mountain slope. “What are we to do?” said one sister; “we wish to see people, we see no one now but our brothers and father.”
That evening, when all had lain down, the elder sister went to Kele and sat near him. “My father,” said she, “I wish to know my name.”
“Your name is Klereu Lulimet,” said Kele; “your sister’s name is Pili Lulimet.”
She told her sister what their names were. Both liked the names, and were glad to have them. Every day the men sweated and swam, killed deer and snared them. The sisters dug lily roots and cooked them.
One time instead of digging roots they went high on the mountain side and sat there, sat looking westward. They could see very far, and things seemed right there before them, though away off near the edge of the great western water.
This was the first time that the sisters had a chance to see far. Till that day they had only a mountain slope or a forest opening in front of them; now they had the whole country to look at. Just after midday they saw a man going northward, going slowly.
“What a nice man that is! Look at him,” said one sister to the other.
He stopped all at once, seemed to sit down and disappear through the earth. That day they saw him no more.
“Oh, we should like to see that man,” said the sisters, “and talk to him.” They watched, talked, and forgot to dig roots. At last, a short time before sunset, they said, “Let us go for roots!” They ran down the mountain, dug a basketful quickly, and hurried home.
“Oh, father, will you teach us how to sing?” said the younger sister to Kele that evening. “We tried all day to sing. I tried to teach my sister, she tried to teach me. We could do nothing.”
“You can sing this way,” said Kele, and he began,—
“O wi, no á, O wi, no í,O wi, no á, O wi, no í.”
“O wi, no á, O wi, no í,O wi, no á, O wi, no í.”
“O wi, no á, O wi, no í,O wi, no á, O wi, no í.”
“That is good,” said she, going away. She said nothing to her sister and lay down.
Soon after the twenty brothers came. Ten of them made a great noise. The house just trembled and shook from the uproar. The second ten had smeared themselves with deer blood, hung deer entrails around their necks. They looked wild and ferocious. When inside, they were quiet; in going out and coming in they always rushed and shouted.
Next morning Kele kept the twenty brothers in the sweat-house. “Rest a day,” said he.
The sisters went to the mountain top and looked westward. Soon they saw some one go toward the north, as on the first day.
“Did our father tell you how to sing?” asked the elder sister.
“He did, but I have forgotten.”
She tried to remember the song, and soon after it came to her,—
“O wi, no á, O wi, no í,O wi, no á, O wi, no í.”
“O wi, no á, O wi, no í,O wi, no á, O wi, no í.”
“O wi, no á, O wi, no í,O wi, no á, O wi, no í.”
“This is the way our father sang,” said she. “You try it, sister.”
The elder began; soon both sang together.
“Oh, we have a nice song now,” said they.
Their song went straight to where the man was, a long distance. This man was Sedit. He was getting red earth for acorn bread. Water soaked through red earth was used to moisten acorn meal. Sedit was covered with shells. He was very splendid to look at. As he dug the earth, it seemed to him that he heard something. He stopped, listened, listened with all his ears. The sisters stopped singing, and he dug again; again he heard thesinging and stopped. When he stopped, the sisters ceased to sing; when he dug, they began again. Thus it continued the whole afternoon. They kept Sedit all day there doing little, almost nothing.
Sometime before sunset the sisters dug their roots and went home. Sedit went home too. He lived at the house of Satok Pokaila.
“What were you doing? I waited all day, forenoon and afternoon, for you. It is too late to make bread now,” said Satok.
This old woman lived alone till Sedit in his wanderings came to her and worked, brought wood, and dug red earth for her.
“I got a headache,” said he, “and had to lie down all day nearly.”
“I am sorry,” said the old woman; and she gave him food, but he did not want any. Next day Sedit went for red earth. He did not eat much that morning. He had not slept all the night. He was thinking of that song on the mountain.
That day the sisters went to the mountain top, looked westward. Soon Sedit came to the same place and worked, put two or three handfuls in his basket, heard singing, heard it plainly, stopped, strained his eyes to see who was singing, saw no one. Again he dug, again they sang; again he stopped work, again they ceased singing; again he worked, again they sang. Sedit thinks now how to follow the singers, tries to whistle their music—cannot catch it—looks around, sees no one. “Well, I must sing,” says he. He sings, and this time he catches the music.
The sisters sang now in response to him. They moved on, as he thought, and he followed. But they were not moving, they stayed in one place. They simply made their singing seem farther each time.
Sedit followed till they stopped at last, would not sing any longer. He could not tell what to do. “It is better for me to go back to my basket,” said he at last. He went back, put his basket on the bank east of the pit, and said: “Now, my basket, I will leave you a while, I am going away. I place you east of the pit. Rootstick, I place you east of the basket. If Satok Pokaila asks where I am, you will move east, basket, and you will fall east, rootstick. She will know which way I went.”
He went eastward, went a short distance, forgot the song, stopped, thought what to do. The song then came back to him. The sisters began to sing again. Sedit followed their song.
Satok Pokaila waited for red earth, waited till midday, then thought, “I’ll go and see if Sedit has a headache.” She found the basket partly filled with red earth, and the stick standing east of it. She looked in the pit where Sedit had dug, and thought, “He must be here somewhere.” She searched, but could not find him.
“Where is Sedit?” asked she of the basket. “Where did he go?—Where is Sedit?” asked she of the rootstick.
The basket moved eastward till it reached the stick, the stick fell toward the east. Old Satok knew now what had happened. She took the basketand digging-stick home with her, put them up safely.
Sedit followed the sisters, sang himself, and listened to their song. The song went southward, went away from the mountain. He followed till he reached Tayam Norel. Sedit sat down. People asked where he came from, where he was going. He would not tell, would not talk, did not care for people’s words. He thought of nothing, heard nothing but the song of Kele’s daughters.
He sat only a little while, and went away singing and listening to the song of the sisters. Now it went eastward. He followed it to a mountain, where he saw an old man setting a trap. This was old Pokok.
“Uncle, where are you going in such a great hurry?” asked Pokok.
“I am going east,” replied Sedit. “You will not see me pass this way again.”
He hurried down the mountain, crossed a creek, and went straight up another mountain; was just at the top, when he saw a very big man coming toward him on the right hand as Sedit was going east. Sedit stopped, looked, was afraid somewhat. The two stared at each other. The stranger was very tall and very thick. Sedit was frightened. The big man never stopped, went straight ahead westward. Sedit looked at him a long time, didn’t move, watched him going down the mountain. After he had gone Sedit stood a long time, and then sat down.
“Why did he not speak to me?” thought Sedit.“He is the first person I have met who wouldn’t speak to me. Who is he? I should like to know.”
Sedit sat and thought all that day about the big man. He heard the song always, at times very near him, but he thought so much about the big man that he didn’t follow it. He wondered if the big man would come again, and said to himself, “I will wait and see.”
About night Sedit thought, “If he comes and will not speak to me, I’ll kill him.” All night he waited. He rose very early, had not slept any. About sunrise he saw a man coming from afar, from the east, moving westward. Sedit watched, had his bow and arrows ready. It was he who would not speak the day before. Sedit shot him in the breast, shot again. The big man paid no heed, passed right along. Sedit shot twenty arrows. The stranger looked all the time at Sedit, said nothing. Sedit shot twenty arrows more—spent all his arrows.
After he had shot away the forty arrows, and the man had passed right close to him, Sedit sat down and thought, “Who is this that I cannot kill him?” He thought a long time, and then knew that he must be Sas Kiemila.
It was old Sas. Sas had been fooling Sedit, just as Kele’s daughters had fooled him.
Sedit heard the song again, and followed it. He went to the Bohema Mem at Sawal Pom, went up Norken Mem till he came to Hin Pom where he heard a great noise. Many people were dancing there.
“Oh, there is Sedit coming,” said they. “Where is he going so fast?”
“Uncle, where are you going in such a great hurry?” asked one of the men. “What news have you? Tell us what you have seen on your journey.”
“I am travelling this country to look at it. I saw no one, can give you no tidings of any one. I shall not pass this way again.”
The man who spoke and the dancers were Hinwa people. Sedit rushed on, came to a flat, saw a spring, and many persons drinking water.
“My grandsons, what are you doing, why do you drink so much water? Water is bad for young people” (these people were birds of all sorts). Sedit called the place Chilchil balus (bird drinking). He went on without stopping or talking,—had no time for either. He listened, heard the singing near a hill, ran there; heard talking of many people, the Tsurats arguing about acorns.
Sedit passed these people, crossed the Norken Mem, ran along the trail, came to an old man lying across it at the foot of a mountain. Sedit, going fast, thought to jump over the old man, but he moved, and Sedit stopped. “Grandson, what are you doing?” asked Sedit. This was Pom Piweki. “I cannot tell what to do,” said Pom. “I am old, I cannot travel; so I lay down here.”
“I will go on,” said Sedit, “and come back this way, I think.” He heard the song nearer now; followed it, followed till sunset, when it ceased. He stayed all night in that place.
Next morning, some time after sunrise, the song began again. Sedit answered, and followed it. Then it ceased; he stopped again; then the song began a second time; he followed; the song ceased. The song circled around the mountain, going a little higher gradually; sometimes it was near, sometimes it seemed far away, but he never came up to it.
After wandering ten days, perhaps, he reached the top of the mountain by going round and round the side of it. The singing was in the mountain now all the time. He was on the highest part of Kele’s sweat-house. Kele, his twenty sons, and two daughters were inside, and the girls and old man knew that some one was walking on the roof of their sweat-house. Kele’s sons went out each morning, and so did his daughters. Although they were many, Sedit never saw one of them,—they fooled him. At last, when Sedit was on the mountain, Kele shouted,—
“If any one is on my house, let him go down to the western door of it.”
Sedit heard, and went back the way by which he came. He went to Pom Piweki and asked: “Do you know where the door to this sweat-house is?”
Pom Piweki made no answer. He stood up and pulled open a door; it seemed as though he had been lying across the entrance. When he opened the door, Sedit saw far into the house.
“Sedit, if you are here to go in, this is the way for you,” said Pom Piweki. “You will see an old man lying on the east side, go to him and talk; this is his sweat-house.”
Sedit went in and sat down near Kele, said nothing. Kele rose up and gave Sedit food, talked to him, told him what kind of person he, Kele, was, and about his children, and said: “Sedit, if you have come here to stay, you must do what I tell you; you must be careful. I have rough sons; if they know that you are here, they will make trouble. I will hide you. They will make a noise, but you will not suffer if you keep quiet; if you move, they will find you, and abuse you, surely.”
Kele put Sedit in a basket in the ground, hid him there, leaving a small hole to look through. “You may look out, but do not move,” said Kele.
As soon as Sedit was hidden the girls came in with roots, and sat down at their sleeping-place. Sedit was near them. He thrust out his hand and pinched the younger sister. She said nothing.
“Sister, have you seen any one?” asked she, after a time; “some one pinched me.”
“’Sh!” said the elder, “be quiet and say nothing; don’t let our father hear.”
The elder went to cook, and Kele’s twenty sons came hammering and tramping.
The first ten, the smooth ones, came, as always, quietly; the second ten came with a rush and an uproar. Sedit peeped out at them.
The younger sister pushed him back. “Be still,” said she.
Sedit tried to rise; she kept him down.
The first man of the second ten cried, “Pshu! I smell Sedit.”
The second said, “Pshu! I smell Sedit; throw him out!”
“Be quiet, boys; don’t talk so,” said Kele. “Sedit is your uncle.”
“Phew! I smell Sedit,” cried all the second ten.
Kele could hardly keep his sons from taking Sedit. After they had eaten they grew more excited. “Where is Sedit?” cried they. “Let us find Sedit!”
At last they found Sedit, dragged him out, played ball with him, threw him around the whole night from one side of the great house to the other. Kele could do nothing, could not stop them. He went and lay down. About sunrise Sedit screamed. He was almost dead. Kele’s ten rough sons were covered with deer blood and shouted all night. The smooth ten sat still, could do nothing against the rough ten.
About sunrise Sedit could hardly breathe. He had a root under his left arm, and as he was hurled across the house it fell into the fire and made a great smoke. The odor was very pleasant. Kele’s sons liked it. They threw Sedit back to where they found him, left him, and began to breathe in the smoke.
“My sons,” said Kele, “I told you last night not to hurt or harm Sedit; let him alone. That root which he dropped will be good for you, and hereafter you will like it. Future people when going to hunt will take this root, tsarauhosi, hold it out, and say, ‘Kele, give us deer.’ They will give you the root, and you will give them deer. When they gohunting and have bad luck, they will make a fire, burn this root, hold it out while it smokes, and say, ‘Kele, will you put deer where we can see and kill them?’” (Wintu hunters carry this root and burn it if they have bad luck in finding deer. Kele likes the odor and sends them deer). Kele rubbed Sedit with deer marrow, put him on the west side of the sweat-house, and said, “This is your place; you will stay here.”
The boys went to hunt, the girls to dig roots as before.
“How did you get those sons, brother?” asked Sedit once.
“You have no need to know; I will not tell you,” replied Kele.
“How did you build this house? Two old men should not live in one house. If I had a house, your sons could visit me when they wished, see their uncle’s house, and stay all night, perhaps.”
“I don’t think you could have sons, Sedit, or keep a house. I don’t believe you have strength for it; these things are hard to do,” said Kele.
But Sedit talked on about sons and a sweat-house. Kele asked Sedit to sing for his sons while they danced and sweated. He sang twice and sang fairly. “I could sing well if I had a house and sons of my own,” remarked Sedit.
“I will build a sweat-house for him,” thought Kele, at last. “He may go through as I have. I don’t think he will, but I can let him try.”
The next night Kele made all sleep soundly. He went north a short distance and wished for a sweat-house.A mountain stood in front of him next moment. Kele went home before daylight and lay down. That day Sedit talked on as before.
“Come,” said Kele; and he took him to the new mountain. “You can live here if you like. This is your house.” Kele left him then.
Sedit made a fire, found a pipe and tobacco, smoked, stayed many days and nights by himself there. “I should like to know how Kele got his sons,” thought he one night. “I must ask him.”
“I come to tell you,” said Sedit one morning, “that I am lonesome. I want to know how you got your sons and daughters.”
Kele made no answer for a long time. At last he told him how he got his daughters.
Sedit went home, did exactly as Kele had done, then lay down without sleeping. Toward morning he heard some one jump to the floor; next he got a blow on the back, then a second. The two persons went away and sat down. Sedit rose, made a big fire, and began singing for a sweat-dance. Two girls stood near the fire, sweated, then went to the creek, swam, and went home. They had very long hair and were nice looking. Sedit gave them wooden combs and mink-skins for their hair, gave them food and nice baskets painted red, told each to dig roots and cook them.
Sedit lived a while with his daughters, till he thought once, “I want to have sons.” He went to Kele, and Kele told how he had got sons, told carefully.
Sedit cut the sticks, did everything as Kele said,and lay by the fire, but he could not keep from looking up; the moment he looked all the sticks fell to the ground. Sedit put them in place again, lay by the fire, looked up. The sticks fell a second time; he put them up again, lay down, looked a third time. The sticks fell a third time. He was putting the sticks up till daylight, when he had to stop. Sedit went to Kele that day. “My sticks were falling all night,” said he.
Kele knew what had happened already. “Why not do as I told you? I told you not to look up.”
“I will not look any more,” said Sedit.
Next night he put up sticks again and waited, took the blows till the last one of the second ten was giving him ten blows, then he sprang up and screamed. All the twenty sons dropped down and were sticks again. It was just daylight. Sedit gathered the sticks into a basket, and looked to see if the girls were awake. They were sticks as well as the others.
Sedit felt very sorry, could not tell what to do. He put the two sticks with the other twenty, took one at a time, held it up, and said, “This was my son, this was my daughter.” He was sorry and wondered if he could make others. He went to Kele and said,—
“My brother, I could not stand it.”
“What did I tell you?”
“Can I not make more?”
“Perhaps you cannot endure it.” Kele did not want him to try.
“I am sorry for my girls,” said Sedit, “I want them back; I was fond of them.”
“You may try for sons, but those girls will not come back.”
Sedit tried a third time. The beating was so hard that he almost screamed; but he held out this time, and had twenty sons. Sedit’s house was full of sons, but he had no daughters; the sticks would not turn to girls again, though he did with them as he had the first time.
Sedit sent his sons to hunt. “Go wherever you like,” said he. “On the west side is a ridge; go on that ridge, keep in one line, and when you turn some one may see you and think, ‘What a crowd of nice boys!’”
Kele’s boys were hunting that day, and saw Sedit’s sons in a long line. “Look at that row of men on the ridge,” said they. “Those are our cousins,” said one of the smooth ten; “those are Sedit’s sons.”
Sedit’s sons went to a flat, danced and played all the day, took yellow clay, made paste of it, painted themselves yellow—that is why coyotes are yellow to this day; the paint would not wash off. All went home in a line. Sedit had supper for them.
“Why do you come without deer?” asked Sedit.
“We danced on the flat and painted.”
Sedit said nothing. All ate; then Sedit thought, “I wish you boys to sleep.” All fell asleep. Sedit went to Kele, woke him up, and said,—
“My sons went to hunt, but came home without deer. What shall I do with them?”
“Let them hunt birds. Let them hunt gophers and grasshoppers in the meadows. Gophers are as good as deer.”
“All right,” said Sedit; and he went home and slept.
They brought grasshoppers and gophers from the hunt next day, and Sedit was satisfied.
“Let them live on that kind of food,” thought he.
They told of their hunting that day. “We wanted water,” said one of them, “and met an old woman. ‘We are dry and cannot find water,’ said we to her. ‘I will give you water,’ said the old woman; ‘come with me.’ We followed her a while. I was afraid and said to my brothers, ‘Do not drink the water she gives.’ One of my brothers shouted at the old woman and frightened her. She fell back and turned into a swamp with a spring in the middle of it. We didn’t go near the spring, but were nearly lost in the swamp.”
“That is a wicked old woman,” said Sedit. “That is Tunhlucha Pokaila. She drowns people often. I met her once and she came near drowning me. Don’t you go near her again. Hunt gophers and grasshoppers elsewhere.”
“Now, my sons,” said Sedit, some days later, “go and scatter around through this country. Whenever you want to see me come here to my sweat-house.”
Sedit’s sons scattered north, south, east, and west. They were at every ridge and point, in every valley and meadow, at every spring and river.
Kele’s sons stayed at their great mountain sweat-house, doing the same things, living in the same way. The two sisters never married, and all Kele’s people are in that mountain now. When they go out they look like wolves; but when inside, when at home in the mountain, they are people.
KOL TIBICHI was born at Norpat Kodiheril on Wini Mem, just before daylight. When a small boy, he used to go out by himself. If he went to play with other boys sometimes, he would not stay with them. He went out of sight, disappeared, and was lost. Then his father or mother or others would find him in this place or that unexpectedly. Sometimes they found him at home, sometimes at a distance, far away in some gulch or on some mountain. It happened that his mother would look at his bed in the night-time and see him there sleeping. She would look again and find that he was gone. She would look a third time, and find him just as at first. In the day he would be seen in one place and be gone the next moment.
Once he was playing with children; they turned aside to see something, then looked at him. He was gone. After a while they saw him in the water under the salmon-house. Another time he disappeared.
“Where has he gone?” asked one boy.
“I cannot tell,” answered another.
Soon they heard singing.
One asked, “Do you hear that?”
“Yes,” said the other; “where is it?”
They listened and looked. Soon they saw Kol Tibichi sitting near the north bank of the river, under water.
“We must run and tell his father and mother.”
Two of the boys ran to tell his father and mother. “We lost your son,” said they. “He went away from us. We looked for him a long time and could not find him. Now we have found him; we have seen him sitting under water; we don’t know what he is doing.”
His mother hurried out; ran to the river.
“We think he must be dead,” said people who had gathered there. “We think that some yapaitu [spirit] has killed him.”
They soon saw that he was alive; he was moving. “Come, my son,” called his mother, stretching her hands to him,—“come, my son; come out, come to me.” But he stayed there, sitting under water.
A quarter of an hour later they saw that the boy had gone from the river. The people heard singing in some place between them and the village. They looked up and saw that the boy was half-way home and going from the river.
“That is your son,” called they to the woman.
“Oh, no,” said the woman; but she ran up and found that it was her son.
Another time the boy goes south with some children. These lose him, just as the others had. In half an hour they hear singing.
“Where is he?” ask some.
“On this side,” says one.
“On that,” says another.
South of the river is a great sugar-pine on a steep bank. They look, and high on a limb pointing northward they see him hanging, head downward, singing.
They run to his mother. “We see your son hanging by his feet from a tree.”
The woman hurries to the river, runs in among the rocks and rubbish around the tree, reaches toward the boy, throws herself on the rocks, crying, “Oh, my child, you’ll be killed!”
In a moment he is gone; there is no sign of him on the tree. Soon a shouting is heard at the house: “My wife, come up; don’t cry, our son is here!”
She crawls out of the rocks and dirt, runs home, finds the boy safe with his father.
The people began now to talk of the wonderful boy. Soon every one was talking of him. There were many people in the place. Norpat Kodiheril was a very big village.
“Some yapaitu is going to take that boy’s life,” said they; “some yapaitu will kill him.”
One morning the boy went down on the north side of the river with children, but apart from them, behind, by himself. He looked up, saw a great bird in the air flying above him. “Oh, if I had those wing feathers!” thought the boy. Then he blew upward and wished (olpuhlcha). That moment the great bird Komos Kulit fell down before him. Just after the bird fell he heard a voice in the sky, a voice high, very high up, crying,—
“Now, you little man, you must call yourselfKol Tibichi. You are to be the greatest Hlahi [doctor] on Wini Mem.”
“Look at that boy!” cried the other boys. “See! he has something.”
They were afraid when they saw the great bird, and the boy stretching the wings and handling the wonderful Komos Kulit. Some of them ran to his mother and said to her,—
“Your son has a very big bird. It fell down from the sky to him. We are afraid of that bird. We could not lift such a big bird.”
Old people ran down; saw the boy handling Komos Kulit. “How did you get that bird?” asked they. “Did he fall to you?”
“Yes. I saw the shadow of a big bird on the ground. I looked up. It fell, and was here.”
The old people talked,—talked much, talked a long time. There were many of them.
“We do not know what to do; we do not know what to think. We do not know why that bird fell,” said some. “We ought not to talk about the bird, but we ought to think about this boy, find out what he is doing.”
“Oh,” said others, “he made that bird fall by blowing at it. That boy will be a great Hlahi.”
The boy killed the bird with a yapaitu dokos (spirit flint); he wanted its wings.
The father and mother of the boy said: “Two wise men should pull out the longest wing feathers for the boy. He wants them; he wants them to keep.”
“Let that be done,” said the people; and theyfound two men to pull out the two longest wing feathers. The boy went to one side while they were pulling them, pretended not to see or care what they were doing; but the two men knew that he knew why he did so. When the two men had pulled out the feathers, the boy said to his father,—
“I like those feathers; save them for me; I want them.”
His father took the feathers home and saved them.
Another time this boy was walking up Wini Mem—some time before he had been at a Hlahi dance, and had seen there beautiful collars of flicker-tail feathers, and remembered them. He walked forward and said to himself,—
“I wonder where that man found those feathers. I would like to have feathers like them.”
“Pluck a bunch of grass with your mouth,” said the yapaitu, “drop it into your hand, and look at it.”
He did so, and flicker feathers were in his hands. He counted them, and found five hundred. “These are nice feathers; I will keep them,” said the boy.
“Kol Tibichi is your name,” said the yapaitu. “You will be the greatest Hlahi on Wini Mem, but you must obey us. You must listen to our words, you must do what we tell you.”
Kol Tibichi took the flicker feathers and walked westward, walked across a wide gulch till he came to a black-oak tree above Norpat Kodiheril.
“I like that oak-tree,” said Kol Tibichi. “I think that is a good place for my mother to getacorns.” He blew then, and said: “You must be very big, wide, and high, give many acorns every fall. I will call your place Olpuhlchiton” (blowing upward place,i. e.wishing place).
He went home then, and gave the flicker-tail feathers to his mother. “Now, my mother,” said he, “I wish you to keep these feathers for me.”
“Where did you find them, my son?” asked she. “You are always doing something. You did not find these yourself; the yapaitu got them. I will keep them. I am sorry for you, but I cannot stop what you are doing. You cannot stop it yourself. But I will keep these feathers for you; I will keep them safely.”
All the people talked much of Kol Tibichi now.
Once there was a doctor’s dance, and the boy remained at home till one night when the yapaitu came to him and he began to hlaha. His father and mother did not know what the trouble was.
“Bring him here,” said the oldest doctor.
“He is a Hlahi,” said the doctors, when they saw him. “Sak hikai [the rainbow] is his yapaitu. You must give him to us till the yapaitu leaves him. While the yapaitu is with him, let him stay inside.”
They were five or six days making Hlahis (doctors). The boy stayed in the sweat-house six days, never eating, never drinking; some others ate and drank, but Kol Tibichi neither ate nor drank.
“Something must be done to make that yapaitu leave him. You must put a band around Kol Tibichi’s head,” said the chief, “and the yapaitu will leave him.”
They got a white wolf-tail headband. The yapaitu did not go. “This is not the right kind of a headband,” said the doctor, after a while. They tried fox, wildcat, coyote, a white-deer band, without effect.
“We don’t know what he wants,” said some Hlahis.
Next they tried otter, fisher, coon, badger, black bear, grizzly bear, silver-gray fox, mink, beaver, rabbit, red-headed woodpecker.
“What does he want?” asked some.
“Now,” said the old doctor, “you ought to know that this boy should have food and drink, and he cannot have them till the yapaitu goes. You should know that the headband that his yapaitu wants is a tsahai loiyas” (woman’s front apron made of maple bark, painted red).
They brought this apron, made the headband, and tied it on his head.
“This is the one,” said the yapaitu.
Kol Tibichi began to sing; the Hlahi danced a few minutes. The boy blew then, and the yapaitu left him. Kol Tibichi ate venison first and drank water, then took other kinds of food. From that time on Kol Tibichi was a Hlahi.
Soon after the great Hlahi dance, perhaps two weeks, Notisa, chief of Norpat Kodiheril, fell sick; he began to have a bad feeling at midday, and in the evening all his friends thought he would die. In the early night people in Norpat Kodi saw a light going to Kol Tibichi’s house.
“People are coming; there must be some onesick in the village,” said the boy’s father and mother. “People are coming. See, there is a big light moving this way.”
Two men came to the door. “Come in,” said Kol Tibichi’s father. “We thought some one was sick when we saw your light coming.”
“We are here because Notisa is sick,” said the men. “He got sick at noon.”
The two men spread out a marten skin and said: “We brought this to show it to you and your son. We have heard that he is a powerful Hlahi. The chief gave us this skin to show you. We are afraid that Notisa will die. We want your son to go with us to see him.”
They gave the skin to Kol Tibichi. It was the best skin in the chief’s house.
“We will go,” said Kol Tibichi’s father. “I do not say that my son is a Hlahi, but he can do something.”
They waked the boy, made him ready to go. “Come,” said his mother; and she carried him to the chief’s house.
“My mother, put me down,” said Kol Tibichi, when they had come near the house.
“I do not like to put you down,” said the mother.
“Put me down, put me down a moment,” said the boy.
His mother put him down. Then he saw some one looking around Notisa’s house, pushing about, looking, watching in the dark, lurking around, holding arrows. This was a yapaitu, ready to shoot Notisa and kill him.
Kol Tibichi called his own yapaitu, who went to the one who was watching and said: “What are you doing here? What do you want at this house?”
“I am doing nothing,” answered the yapaitu.
“You are waiting to do something. You want to do harm.”
“Oh, no; I am only looking around here, just trying to find the door. I wanted to see some one.”
“You are ready to shoot a yapaitu dokos. You want to kill Notisa. You are watching around here to kill him.”
“Oh, no, I am not. I am just looking around, not doing anything.”
“You are ready to kill Notisa, the chief. You are waiting to kill him,” said Kol Tibichi’s yapaitu, who just took hold of the strange yapaitu, twisted him, killed him right there, and buried him.
Kol Tibichi’s mother took her son into the chief’s house. The boy knew what had been done. His yapaitu told him what he had done, and came in with him. The boy sat down near Notisa.
People thought the chief ready to die, thought that he might die any moment. “Let the boy put his hand on the sick man,” said they.
“Put your hand on the chief,” said the father. “You must do what you can. You must try, do your best to cure him.”
Kol Tibichi spat on his hands, passed them over Notisa’s breast and face. “I am sleepy, my mother, oh, I am so sleepy,” said the boy, when he had passed his hands over the chief.
“He cannot do more to-night,” said the father. “We will go home.”
Next morning people in the sweat-house heard a man talking outside. He came in and said, “I am well!” This was Notisa.
“We are glad,” said the people. “Kol Tibichi has saved you.”
The boy grew up and became a great Hlahi. When twenty years old, he was the greatest Hlahi on Wini Mem.
One year there was a Hlahi dance in El Hakam. Kol Tibichi was a man. He was thirty years old then. He went to the dance. Tulitot was the great Hlahi in that place, and he thought himself better than Kol Tibichi. While dancing, Tulitot took a snake from his mouth, a large rattlesnake, and held it in both hands as he danced. The snake was his own child. Kol Tibichi looked, and thought he could do better; and, dancing forward, he blew, as Hlahis do, and threw out long burning flames on both sides of his mouth. All present were afraid, and with Tulitot ran back before him in fear.
When the dance was over, Kol Tibichi went to Norpat Kodi and lived on, a great Hlahi: lived till he was a hundred years of age and more. He could not walk any longer. He knew that he could not live. “I cannot live any more,” said he. “My yapaitu tells me this,—I cannot walk. I cannot do anything. My yapaitu tells me that I must leave Norpat Kodiheril. [He was not sick, but decrepit.] My yapaitu is going to take me and leave my bones in this place with you. When I gofrom my body, do not bury it. Leave it on the ground out there. Let it lie one night. Next morning you will see a large rock in place of it. When people are sick, let them come and take a piece of the rock, or some earth, or some moss from it; that will cure them.”
“We will not do that,” said Notisa, a son of the first chief; “we bury every body, and we will bury yours like all others.”
“Do not bury my bones,” said Kol Tibichi.
“We should not like to see your bones all the time. We have no wish to see a rock in place of them.”
“Well, take my body to the black-oak tree, put it eight or ten feet from the ground, leave it there one night; next morning you will see water in a hollow of the oak. Any man may come and get that water, rub it on his body, and drink some. It will cure him.”
“No,” said the chief, “we don’t want to see the tree there every day. We do not wish to look at it all the time.”
“Dig a deep grave, then,” said Kol Tibichi; “put my body in with nothing around it. When you come to mourn, do not stand east of the grave-mound. On the morning after my burial you will see a rainbow coming out of the grave.”
Kol Tibichi died. They did everything just as he told them. All saw the rainbow and said, “We ought to have left his body above ground, and to have done all that he asked of us at first. The yapaitu is mourning for him.”
The rainbow stood there two days and two nights at the grave, then moved two feet eastward. Next morning it was four feet away, then eight, going farther day by day till it was at the salmon-house where Kol Tibichi used to go when a boy. It stood there by the salmon-house five days. Next it was on the north bank of the river, then on the hillside beyond, then on the hilltop, then on the mountain-slope, then on the mountain-top. Next all the people in Norpat Kodiheril heard a noise and knocking in the grave-mound one night, and early next morning they saw an immense bird rising out of Kol Tibichi’s grave. First the head came, and then the body. At sunrise it came out altogether, and flew to the sugar-pine from which Kol Tibichi had hung head downward in childhood. It perched on the tree, stayed five minutes, and then flew away, flew to the mountain, to the rainbow, went into the rainbow. The bird and rainbow went away, disappeared together. The bird was Komus Kulit. The rainbow was Kol Tibichi’s yapaitu.