This myth and all that follow it belong to the Yanas, a nation of Indians described in the notes. The nine preceding myths are of the Wintus, neighbors of the Yanas.The languages of these two nations are radically different.PERSONAGESAfter each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.Chuhna, spider;Halai Auna, morning star;Igupa Topa, ——;Ochúl Márimi, mountain lion;Pul Miauna, colored bow, the rainbow;Pun Miaupa, son of rainbow;Tuina, the sun;Utjamhji, mock sun;Wakara, the moon;Wediko, meteor;Marimimeans woman.
This myth and all that follow it belong to the Yanas, a nation of Indians described in the notes. The nine preceding myths are of the Wintus, neighbors of the Yanas.
The languages of these two nations are radically different.
PERSONAGES
After each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.
Chuhna, spider;Halai Auna, morning star;Igupa Topa, ——;Ochúl Márimi, mountain lion;Pul Miauna, colored bow, the rainbow;Pun Miaupa, son of rainbow;Tuina, the sun;Utjamhji, mock sun;Wakara, the moon;Wediko, meteor;Marimimeans woman.
OLD Pul Miauna had a son, Pun Miaupa, a wife, and two daughters.
Pun Miaupa had a quarrel with his father and made up his mind to leave him. “I am going away,” said he to his father and mother one day. “I am tired of living here.”
The mother began to cry.
“Which way are you going?” asked the father.
Pun Miaupa gave no answer; wouldn’t tell his father where he was going. The father stood up and walked out of the house. The mother stopped crying and said,—
“I want you to go straight to my brother, your uncle Igupa Topa. Tell him where you are going. Do not go without seeing him.”
Pun Miaupa left his mother, went to his uncle’s, stood on the roof of the sweat-house. The old man was very busy throwing out grass that day. A great many people had gambled at his house a day earlier; they had left much grass in it.
“Uncle, are you alive?” asked Pun Miaupa.
The old uncle looked up and saw his nephew, who said,—
“Uncle, I am full grown. I am going on a very long journey, I am going far away. My mother told me to come here and see you.”
“Where are you going, my nephew?”
“To the north.”
“I thought so,” said the old man, who knew that his nephew would go to get Wakara’s youngest daughter.
Wakara took all his daughter’s suitors to Tuina’s sweat-house, and they were killed there. Igupa Topa knew this and said, “Wait a little, nephew, I will go with you.”
“Uncle,” said Pun Miaupa, “you are too old. I don’t want you to go; the journey would kill you. I want to travel very fast on this journey.”
“I will go at my own pace, I will go as I like,” said the uncle.
“Well, come with me if you can go fast.”
Igupa Topa dressed, took a staff, and looked very old. “Go on, I am ready,” said he.
Pun Miaupa started. He turned around to look at his uncle, and saw the old man; saw him fall while coming out of the sweat-house. Pun Miaupastopped, held down his head, and thought, “He will not go, even as far as Wajami.”
The uncle rose and followed on.
“You are too old, uncle; you cannot walk well. Stay at home; that is better for you.”
“Go ahead,” said the old man; “walk fast. I will come as I can.”
Pun Miaupa went on; his uncle followed. Igupa Topa stumbled every few steps, fell, hurt himself, tore his skin. Pun Miaupa looked back very often. The uncle was always tumbling. “He must be bruised and broken from these falls,” thought the nephew.
Pun Miaupa was on a hill beyond Chichipana. He sat down and smoked. His uncle came up while he was sitting there.
“Let me smoke; then I want to see you jump to that mountain over there,” said the old man, pointing to it.
“I shall leave you behind if I do that.”
“Leave me to myself,” said the old man.
Pun Miaupa put on deerskin leggings and a beaded shirt,—a splendid dress. He went then with one spring to the top of the opposite mountain and looked back to see his uncle; but old Igupa Topa had jumped too. He was just passing Pun Miaupa and went far beyond him.
“I thought you were too old to jump,” said Pun Miaupa, coming up to him.
They jumped again, jumped to a second mountain, and the uncle was ahead the second time. After that they walked on. The old man fellvery often, but Pun Miaupa did not pity him any longer; he laughed when his uncle fell. They travelled a good while, travelled fast, and when both reached Wajami Mountain, they sat down to rest there.
“I want Wakara to send out his youngest daughter for wood,” said Pun Miaupa in his mind; and the next minute Wakara, who was far away in his own sweat-house, told his youngest daughter to take a basket and go for wood. This daughter was Halai Auna.
At that moment, too, Wakara’s wife, Ochul Marimi, said to the girl: “Why do you lie asleep all the time and not help me? I want you to get me leaves for acorn bread.”
Halai Auna took the basket and went upon the mountain side to find wood and leaves. Pun Miaupa saw the girl filling her basket.
“That is Wakara’s daughter,” said he to his uncle.
“Stop! Be careful!” said Igupa Topa.
The uncle put himself into his nephew’s heart now to strengthen him. There was only one person to be seen. Igupa Topa went into his nephew, went in because he knew that Tuina killed all men who tried to get Halai Auna, and he wished to save his sister’s son, Pun Miaupa.
When the girl had her basket full and turned to place it on her back, she saw Pun Miaupa behind her; she could not move, she was so frightened.
“Why are you afraid? Am I so ugly?” asked Pun Miaupa.
He pleased her; but she said not a word, just ran, hurried home with the basket, and threw it down at the door.
“What is your trouble?” asked the mother. “You don’t like to work, I think.”
“What is the matter?” asked Wakara. “You are frightened.”
“I saw a man on the mountain, a man with woodpecker scalps on his head.”
“The southern people wear woodpecker scalps,” said Wakara; “that must be one of the southern people.”
Pun Miaupa sprang through the air, came down in front of Wakara’s sweat-house, went in and sat near Halai Auna on a bearskin. Nice food was brought for all, and when they had finished eating, Wakara said,—
“Now, my daughters, and you, my wife, Ochul Marimi, make ready; let us go. I wish to see my brother, Tuina, and hear what he says of Halai Auna’s new husband.”
They dressed, put on beads, and put red paint on their faces. Halai Auna said nothing. She sat with her head down; she was sorry; she liked Pun Miaupa, she felt sure that they would kill him.
When all were ready, Wakara took his wife’s hand and danced around the fire with her. He had two unmarried daughters besides Halai Auna; one of these took her father’s hand, the other took Halai Auna’s, and all danced around the fire and circled about Pun Miaupa. They put him in the middle and danced in a circle; they began to sing,and rose in the air then and danced right up out of the sweat-house, went through the smoke-hole and moved westward, singing as they went,—
“I-nó, i-nó, i-nó, no-máI-nó, i-nó, i-nó, no-má.”
“I-nó, i-nó, i-nó, no-máI-nó, i-nó, i-nó, no-má.”
“I-nó, i-nó, i-nó, no-máI-nó, i-nó, i-nó, no-má.”
They moved faster as they went, and danced all the time. It was dark when they danced up through the roof of the sweat-house; no one saw them, though there were many people round about. Old Wakara’s sons-in-law lived in that place; all the stars were his daughters, and his daughters were married, except Halai Auna and the two who danced around the fire. Wakara went without being seen. He would let no one have Halai Auna unless one whom Tuina could not kill.
Now, a little before daylight they reached Tuina’s house. Wakara stood on the roof of the sweat-house and called, “My brother, I want you to spring out of bed.”
Tuina was asleep in the sweat-house. He had three daughters and no son. The daughters were called Wediko, and his wife was Utjamhji. Wakara went down into the sweat-house and sat at the side of Tuina. Tuina took a bearskin and put it down at his other hand, and told Halai Auna and her husband to sit on it. Tuina took up a big sack of tobacco and a large pipe cut out of maple wood. The tobacco was made of his own hair, rolled and cut fine. He put this in the pipe and gave it to Pun Miaupa. Wakara and Tuina watched now, and looked at him. The young man smoked all the tobacco and gave back the pipe.
Tuina filled the pipe now with a different, a stronger tobacco. He used to rub his skin often, and what he rubbed off he dried and made fine. This was his tobacco of the second kind. He had a sackful of this stored away, and he filled his pipe now with it.
Pun Miaupa smoked, seemed to swallow the smoke. It was not he who was smoking, though, but the uncle in his heart. He emptied the pipe and returned it. Tuina took now tobacco of a third kind,—his own flesh dried and rubbed fine. He filled the pipe, gave it to Pun Miaupa, and waited to see him fall dead at the second if not at the first whiff.
The country outside the sweat-house was full of dead people, all killed by Tuina’s tobacco. Some of the bodies were fresh, others decayed; some were sound skeletons, others a few old bones.
Pun Miaupa smoked out this pipe, gave it back empty. Tuina handed him a fourth pipe. The tobacco was made of his own brains, dried and rubbed fine. Pun Miaupa smoked this and gave the empty pipe back to Tuina.
Tuina now tried the fifth pipe. He filled it with marrow from his own bones, gave it to Halai Auna’s husband. Wakara and Tuina watched now, waiting to see him fall. Pun Miaupa swallowed all and gave the pipe back.
Tuina had no other kind of tobacco and could do no more. He dropped his head. “I don’t know what kind of person this is,” thought he. All at once he remembered old Igupa Topa, and thought:“This may be a young one of that kind. I can do nothing with him, he has beaten me.”
Halai Auna was very glad to have such a husband. This was the first man of all who had come to see her who had not been killed by Tuina. She laughed all this time in her mind.
Pun Miaupa went out, killed five deer, and brought them in. The women cooked a great deal that day. Wakara and Tuina sat in the house, talked and ate Pun Miaupa’s fresh venison. The next night all slept. Igupa Topa went out of Pun Miaupa’s heart, went about midnight, and sat north of the pillar in the side of the house, sat without saying a word. He had a white feather in his head, and looked very angry and greatly dissatisfied.
Early next morning Tuina and Wakara were up and saw the old man sitting there with that big feather in his head, and they looked at him.
“Oh,” said Tuina, “I know now why Halai Auna’s husband can smoke my tobacco. I know that old Igupa Topa this long time. I know what that old fellow can do.”
They put plenty of food before Igupa Topa, but he would eat none of it. Pun Miaupa killed five deer that morning and brought them in. The two old men were glad to see such nice venison, and see so much of it. Igupa Topa sat by himself, and ate nothing.
“Uncle, why do you not eat?” asked Pun Miaupa.
He made no answer, but watched till all wereasleep; then he stood up and ate, ate the whole night through, ate all the acorn bread, all the roots, ate all that there was in the house, except venison. That was not his kind of food; he would not touch it. He sat down on the north side of the central pillar when he had finished eating.
“You must work hard to cook food enough,” said Tuina next morning to the women. “Some one in this house must be very hungry.”
The women worked hard all that day; in the evening the house was full of good food again. Pun Miaupa’s uncle would not eat a morsel placed before him, but when night came he ate everything there was except venison.
“There must be some one in this house who is very hungry,” said Tuina, when he rose the next morning. “Make ready more food to-day, work hard, my daughters.”
“We will not work to-day; that nasty old fellow eats everything in the night time. We will not carry wood and water all day and have nothing to eat the next morning.”
“I don’t like him, either,” said Tuina; “he will go very soon, I hope.”
Igupa Topa heard these words and remembered them. Tuina’s wife and Wakara’s wife, both old women, had to work that day without assistance. In the middle of the forenoon a great cloud rose in the south. Pun Miaupa’s uncle raised it. “Let rain come, thick heavy rain,” said he in his mind. “I want darkness, I want a big storm and cold rain.”
The cloud was black; it covered all the sky; every one came in, and soon the rain began. It rained in streams, in rivers; it filled the valleys, filled all places. The water reached Tuina’s sweat-house, rushed in, and filled the whole place; all had to stand in water; and the rain was very cold.
Old Tuina and Wakara were shivering; their teeth knocked together; their wives and daughters were crying. Igupa Topa had taken his nephew and Halai Auna up to his place on the north side, near the roof of his sweat-house, where they were dry.
The sweat-house was nearly full of water. All were crying now. Some time before daylight one of Tuina’s daughters was drowned, and then the other two, and Wakara’s two daughters. About dawn Tuina and Wakara with their two wives were drowned. All were dead in the sweat-house except Igupa Topa, his nephew, and Halai Auna. At daylight the rain stopped, the water began to go down, and all the bodies floated out through the doorway. The place was dry. Pun Miaupa made a fire. Halai Auna came to the fire and began to cry for her father, her mother and sisters.
“You must not cry,” said Pun Miaupa; “my uncle did this. He will bring all to life again quickly.”
But Halai Auna was afraid, and she cried for some time.
Just after midday Igupa Topa went outside, saw the dead bodies, and said: “Why sleep all day?It is time to be up, you two old men and you five young girls!”
Tuina and Wakara sprang up, went to the creek, and swam. “No one but Igupa Topa could have done this to us,” said they.
All the women rose up as if they had been only sleeping.
“My brother, I shall go home to-morrow,” said Wakara. “It is time for me.”
Very early next morning Wakara and his wife began to dance, then the two daughters, then Halai Auna and her husband. They danced out by the smoke-hole, rose through the air, sang, and danced themselves home.
Wakara had been five days away, and all his daughters’ husbands were saying: “Where is our father-in-law? He may have been killed.” All were very glad when they saw old Wakara in the sweat-house next morning.
Before leaving Tuina’s sweat-house Igupa Topa had gone into his nephew’s heart again. When Wakara came home, he took his new son-in-law to try a sport which he had. The old man had made a great pole out of deer sinews. This pole was fixed in the ground and was taller than the highest tree. Wakara played in this way: A man climbed the pole, a second bent it down and brought the top as near the foot as possible. He let the top go then, and it shot into the air. If the man on the pole held firmly, he was safe; if he lost his grip he was hurled up high, then fell and was killed.
“Come, my son-in-law,” said Wakara one day, “I will show you the place where I play sometimes pleasantly.”
They went to the place. The old man climbed first, grasped the pole near the top. Pun Miaupa pulled it down; his uncle was in his heart, and he was very strong. He brought the top toward the ground, did not draw very hard, and let the pole fly back, again. It sprang into the air. Wakara was not hurled away; he held firmly. Pun Miaupa brought down the pole a second time, he brought it down rather softly, and let it go. Wakara held his place yet. He tried a third time. Wakara was unshaken.
“That will do for me,” said Wakara. “Go up now; it is your time.”
Pun Miaupa went on the pole and held with his uncle’s power. It was not he who held the pole, but Igupa Topa. “I will end you this time,” thought Wakara. He bent the pole close to the ground and let go. Wakara looked sharply to see his son-in-lawshoot through the air,—looked a good while,did not see him. “My son-in-law has gone very high,” thought he. He looked a while yet in the sky; at last he looked at the pole, and there was his son-in-law.
He bent the pole a second time, bent it lower than before; then let it fly. This time Wakara looked at the pole, and Pun Miaupa was on the top of it.
Wakara was angry. He bent the pole to the ground, bent angrily, and let it go. “He will flyaway this time, surely,” thought he, and looked to the sky to see Pun Miaupa, did not see him; looked at the pole, he was on it. “What kind of person is my son-in-law?” thought Wakara.
It was Wakara’s turn now to go on the pole, and he climbed it. Pun Miaupa gave his father-in-law a harder pull this time, but he held his place. The second time Pun Miaupa spoke to Wakara in his own mind: “You don’t like me, I don’t like you; you want to kill me. I will send you high now.”
He bent the pole, brought the top almost to the foot of it, and let it fly. He looked to the top, Wakara was gone. He had been hurled up to the sky, and he stayed there.
Pun Miaupa laughed. “Now, my father-in-law,” said he, “you will never come down here to live again; you will stay where you are now forever, you will become small and die, then you will come to life and grow large. You will be that way always, growing old and becoming young again.”
Pun Miaupa went home alone.
Wakara’s daughters waited for their father, and when he didn’t come back they began to cry. At last, when it was dark and they saw their father far up in the sky, they cried very bitterly.
Next morning Pun Miaupa took Halai Auna, his wife, and his uncle, and went to his father’s house.
Chuhna, the greatest spinner in the world, lived among Wakara’s daughters. All day those women cried and lamented.
“What shall we do?” said they; “we want to go and live near our father. Who can take us up to him?”
“I will take you up to him,” said Chuhna, the spinner, who had a great rope fastened to the sky.
Chuhna made an immense basket, put in all the daughters with their husbands, and drew them up till they reached the sky; and Wakara’s daughters, the stars, are there on the sky yet.
PERSONAGESAfter each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.Darí Jowá, eagle;Haka, flint;Hakayámchiwi, the whole Haka people;Ilhataina, lightning;Tenna, grizzly bear;Tsawandi Kamshu, red flint clover;Tsawandi Kamshupa, young red flint clover;Tsuwalkai, a reddish flint.Marimimeans woman.
PERSONAGES
After each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.
Darí Jowá, eagle;Haka, flint;Hakayámchiwi, the whole Haka people;Ilhataina, lightning;Tenna, grizzly bear;Tsawandi Kamshu, red flint clover;Tsawandi Kamshupa, young red flint clover;Tsuwalkai, a reddish flint.Marimimeans woman.
AT first about two hundred people lived with the old woman, Tsuwalkai Marimi, in one great house; they were all descended from her. They were the Hakayamchiwi,—all the Haka people.
Now, there was a deadly quarrel between the Hakas and the Tennas, who lived near them, and it began in this way: The Tennas invited the Hakas to a hunt in the mountains; ten of each people were to make a party of twenty. One Tenna went early the first morning to make a fire at some distance from the sweat-house, at a meeting-place for the hunters of both sides. Ten Hakas went out early, were first at the fire; but the Tennas came, and then the twenty stood around to warm themselves,—the Tennas on the north and the Hakas on the south side of the fire.
The Hakas had flint arrow-heads, good ones; the Tennas had arrow-heads of pine bark. While theywere warming themselves, a Tenna said to a Haka, “Let me see your arrow-point.”
“Here it is,” said the Haka; “look at it.”
“He, he, he!” laughed the Tenna; “that point is no good!” He held it out, looked at it, and laughed again. “If I put it down my throat, it won’t hurt me.”
“Let me see your arrow-point,” said the Haka.
“Here it is,” said the Tenna.
The Haka looked at the pointed pine bark, laughed, and said: “That is no arrow-head; that is nothing but pine bark. If I stab myself behind with your arrow-head, it won’t hurt me. I shall not die.”
“Let me see you stab yourself,” said the Tenna.
“Look at me. I’ll stab myself behind with it.”
The Haka stabbed himself, and the Tenna’s arrow-head broke; it did not hurt him a bit. “You see,” said he, “I am not dying.”
“Let me see your arrow-head,” said the Tenna.
He gave the arrow-point, and the Tenna stabbed himself in the same way that the Haka had. The arrow-head was very sharp and went into him, cut him,—cut his intestines. He fell over and lay on the ground, lay there groaning.
“You see that my arrow-head is good; it will kill any one,” said the Haka.
Right away the Tenna was dying; very soon he was dead. When the Tennas saw that their brother was dead, they rushed at the ten Hakas and killed them hand to hand before they could use arrows, before they could save themselves.
The Tennas went home, but the Hakas did not go home that evening.
Next morning early one of the Tennas came to the house of the Hakas, and called out,—
“Come to the fire, cousins; come to the fire. We will meet you there. Oh, cousins, it is time to go hunting; be up. Your brothers who went yesterday are going again to-day.”
“We will go,” said the Hakas, who did not know that their brothers were killed.
The Tennas had a fire in the same place as the first day, and were there waiting. After a time the ten Hakas came and stood at the fire in the same way as their brothers had stood a day earlier. They did not quarrel now, but went to the woods soon. The Tennas had everything ready for hunting; other Tennas were hidden in the woods, and ten more Hakas were killed by them that day.
On the third morning a Tenna came to the Hakas and called,—
“Cousins, it is time to be up, time to hunt. Your brothers of yesterday and the day before are all waiting.”
“We will go, we will go,” said the Hakas.
The fire was ready; the Tennas were there. They came earlier, and acted just as they had acted the second day. Ten more Hakas were killed by them that day.
The Hakas would not go on the fourth day. The Tennas began now to kill Hakas whenever they found them out hunting, or fishing, whenever they saw them in the woods anywhere. When theHaka women went to dig roots, or find worms, or gather acorns, the Tennas killed them wherever they caught them. When the children went out to play or went to get water, they killed them. The Tennas killed on till only one old woman, Tsuwalkai Marimi, and her grandson, Tsawandi Kamshu, were left of all the Hakas.
One evening Tsawandi Kamshu hung his bow (an old bow bound around closely with deer sinew) over his bed on the south side of the sweat-house. With this bow he hung an otter-skin quiver full of arrows.
“My grandmother,” said he in the night, “I may not come back to-morrow. If anything happens, the bow and the quiver and all that are with them will fall on the bed. You will know then that some one has killed me. But a child will rise from the spittle which I have left near the head of the bed; a little boy will come up from the ground.”
Tsuwalkai Marimi listened, said nothing, made no answer. Tsawandi Kamshu went out the next morning at daybreak, stayed out all that day. At dusk the bow fell with the quiver.
The old woman began to cry. She cried bitterly. “All our people are dead,” said she. “All our people are gone, and I am alone.”
She went around crying; went along the four sides of the house; went to where the bows, arrows, and otter-skin quivers were hanging; cried all that night, cried all the next day.
The Tennas watched for the old woman, watched closely. They wanted to kill her, but they couldnot break, into the house, and she would not go out to them. They wanted to kill her and put an end to the last of the Hakas.
While Tsuwalkai was crying the second night, the Tennas were near the house listening and watching.
“The old woman is laughing,” said they. “She is having some feast; that is why she is laughing. She must be glad, that old woman.”
Tsuwalkai heard these words of her enemies. “Oh, Tennas, do not talk that way,” said she. “Something may happen yet that will hurt you. Some one may come who will make your hearts sore. You may drop tears yet, you may be sorry.”
The old woman cried the third night and third day. The fourth night she dropped no tears, but she could not sleep. In the middle of the fourth night she heard crying on the ground near Tsawandi Kamshu’s sleeping-place. A little baby was crying, rolling, struggling, wailing. The old woman listened, she heard “U ná, u ná.” She was frightened at first.
“I must be dreaming of a baby, I must be dreaming,” said she. “Oh, my people are making me dream. I hear a noise like the crying of a baby in my sweat-house. Oh, it is no baby; I am only dreaming.”
The baby cried on, kept crying. The old woman went to the spot where the crying was, looked, found a baby covered with dirt, mud, and ashes. She had not carried the ashes out since her grandson had gone; she could not carry them. The Tennas were watching outside for her, watching to kill the oldwoman. The baby rolled around in the dirt and the ashes.
“I don’t think any one brought that baby into this house,” said the old woman to herself. “Tsawandi Kamshu said that a baby would come from the ground, would rise from his spittle. Maybe this is his spirit that has come back and is a baby again. I will call this baby Tsawandi Kamshupa.”
She took up the baby, a little boy, washed him, washed him all night, the little child was so dirty. She washed him in cold water, and he grew while she washed. She washed him till morning, but gave him no food.
The Tennas heard now the noise of two people inside. Tsuwalkai Marimi felt glad, she had the company of this little boy. All day and two nights she washed the child. He ate nothing.
“I want you to live and grow large, little boy,” said the old woman. “I want you to grow quickly; you will be a great help to me.”
The little boy did not know what was said yet. She washed the child, talked three days and three nights to him. The little boy could creep around the house now, could creep through every part of it. She washed him in the night, in the day; washed him often. He grew very fast. In ten days he was a man full grown. He could talk now as well as any one, and one day he asked the old woman,—
“What house is this? What people live here?”
She told him the whole story of her people; told how all had been killed by the Tennas in the woods, in the fields, on the water.
“I am sorry to hear what you tell,” said he.
He asked now for a bow. She gave him a fresh one. He broke it.
“I want one to kill birds outside with it.”
“You must not go out,” said the old woman; “bad people are near us.”
“I only want to kill birds. Whose arms are these?” asked he, pointing to knives, bows, and arrows on the walls.
“Oh, it makes me sorry to tell you, it makes me sorry to talk of them. These are the arms of many men. The Tennas killed all of them.”
She went to the west side of the house and gave him bows. He broke one after another. He broke every bow on the walls except one. When he came to his own bow, his old bow, he laughed. He took it himself without asking. He tried and could not break it; tried again, laughed, and was glad.
“Tsuwalkai, whose bow is this?” asked he.
“That was the bow of a good man.”
“He was a good man, I think,” said Tsawandi Kamshupa; “why did he die? There was a good man in this house; he had that bow; he was a great fighter.”
Tsawandi Kamshupa tried again to break the bow with his feet and hands, but he could not.
“There was a good man in this house,” said the old woman, “the best man of all the Haka people. That was his bow.”
“I wished to go hunting to-day, but I will go very early to-morrow. I will go before daylight,”said Tsawandi Kamshupa. “I am going to look around. I am going a short distance to hunt. I will come back; have no fear.”
The old woman was afraid. She had lost the owner of the bow, the best of her grandsons.
“I will only go down south a little way,” said he.
Early next morning he took a deerskin, wrapped it around his body, tied a belt around his waist, and took his arrows. There was dew on the grass yet. He looked down the mountain-side, saw many people near a big fire, and said,—
“I know who those people are; they are Teptewi” (Tenna women).
There were fifty of them. They had come to that swampy mountain-side early in the morning. They had come before daybreak to dig worms and gather clover. Each had a stick to dig worms with.
The young man stood watching these women, and said to himself: “What shall I do? These Tennas have killed all my people except my old grandmother. They tried to kill her. They will kill her and me if they can. What shall I do? There are a great many women there. I will kill a lone one to begin with, then hide my bow and quiver and go to those farther down.”
He went along the slope somewhat, came to one Tenna woman, and killed her. The others did not see him, did not know that he was on the mountain, thought that all the Hakas were dead.
He opened the Tenna’s throat, took her heart, put it inside his blanket, and left the body deadon the ground. The other Tenna women were working not far from a fire. These women had taken their teeth out and hung them on a tree near the fire. Whenever they were angry the women put these teeth in their mouths to bite with.
Tsawandi went along the mountain-side carefully. “I will go to that fire,” thought he. Then he sprang up and stood near the fire, warmed his hands. The women did not see him yet. One looked up at the fire, but saw no one. “Hei!” cried he, “you women are out very early. Come here and warm yourselves. Cook worms for me; I am hungry, I want worms.”
The women gave no answer, said nothing. They were afraid; they could not bite, for their teeth were out. “If I had my teeth, I would kill that man,” thought each woman.
Tsawandi kept his eye on the teeth, which were at one end of the fire; he would let no woman come near them. “Come up! come up!” called he. At last they came up and sat near the fire, but could not get their teeth. “I did not know that women go out in the morning so early,” said he. “I saw a deer some distance back here and killed it. I was in a great hurry. I took only a small piece of meat.”
He took out the heart, cut it into pieces, roasted them by the fire; then he gave some to each woman. The women were hungry, and were glad to get meat.
“Have you no bread?” asked Tsawandi.
“We have no bread,” said the women.
“Well, I have acorn bread.” He had no bread, but he put his hand in his bosom and thought, “I want bread of red flint meal.” This bread came to his bosom, and he gave each woman a piece of it. “My grandmother makes good bread,” said he. “I carry it with me always to show people and let them have some to eat. Every one likes my grandmother’s bread.”
The bread tasted well; all ate. He watched their teeth closely. Very soon a woman fell dead; then all fell quickly and died. He cut their hearts out—fifty hearts—and carried them under his deerskin. He went farther south now; ran quickly. He saw fifty more women working near a fire; went near the fire, sprang up to it, and cried,—
“Hu, hu! women, you are out early; why so early? It is cold; come warm your hands. Give me something to eat; give me worms and clover; give me something to eat, and I will give you something; I will give bread, I will give venison.”
These women had come out to dig roots; their teeth were hanging on a tree near the fire. The Tenna women never kept their teeth in their mouths while they were working. “I wish my teeth were in my mouth,” thought each woman, “I would kill that man.”
All these fifty women came up to the fire, ate acorn bread as the others had eaten, and died.
From this fire Tsawandi Kamshupa went to another, and that morning he killed all the Tenna women who were out; not one was left alive, except a few who had remained at home in the sweat-house.He went farther south now; went to their sweat-house. It was still early morning. All the Tenna men were at home. “How shall I kill them?” thought Tsawandi. “I will go into the house and say that I am sent by my brother to invite them to a feast and a hunt. They’ll believe that.”
He looked down from the top of the house. There were many Tennas there. All the Tenna men were in the sweat-house. Tsawandi Kamshupa went in boldly; sat near the fire, warming his hands. The Tennas whispered to each other, “That’s my blood, sister; that’s my blood, brother!” meaning, “he’s my share; I’ll eat him.”
“Oh, you Tenna people, what are you talking of? I am your neighbor. I do not live very far from you, I am no stranger. I have come down here early this morning to invite you to a feast, to a hunt. Tsawandi Kamshu sent me down here to ask you; he would like to see you at his sweat-house.”
“This one here looks like Tsawandi Kamshu himself,” whispered some.
“Oh, no,” whispered others. “Tsawandi Kamshu is dead this good while. We killed him.”
“What are you telling each other?” interrupted Tsawandi Kamshupa. “I am not Tsawandi Kamshu. He does not look like me. He is my brother. He sent me to ask you to hunt. I killed some deer on the way here, but could bring only their hearts. Here are the hearts.”
He cut the hearts into pieces, gave them all to the Tennas. They roasted the hearts and ate them. He gave flint bread to them, as he had to thewomen on the mountain slope. All ate the bread, praised it, asked for more, ate it very eagerly. They began soon to fall on every side. Four Tennas only would not eat the flint bread. They closed the ground door, fastened it outside, went to the top of the sweat-house, and watched. Soon every Tenna in the sweat-house was dead.
Tsawandi Kamshupa looked up and saw the four Tennas there looking down at him. Their four heads were close together, and they looked very angry.
“Why are you four looking down here so? What are you watching for, what are you trying to do up there? The people down here have all gone to sleep, and can’t talk with me. I want you men to talk a while. Come down, you, and talk with me; then I’ll go home.”
The four Tennas said nothing.
“You want to catch me; I know that. I will show you how I can jump.”
They said nothing, watched sharply, sitting opposite each other with their long teeth sticking out. When he saw that they would not leave the opening, he said again, “I will show you how I can jump.”
He bent to one side a little, shot up like an arrow, darted out between the four. The next thing the Tennas saw was Tsawandi Kamshupa in the field beyond the house.
When he had passed through the opening, the Tennas closed their jaws with a snap, and almost bit each other’s noses off. Their bite was too late.
Tsawandi Kamshupa now sent three arrows from his old bow. They went through the hearts of three Tennas; they dropped dead where they stood. The fourth ran away, ran with all his strength, was never seen in that place again. He ran northwest, and from that Tenna come all that are in the world in our time.
Tsuwalkai Marimi could go out now and dig roots. She was free to go anywhere. While digging one day she saw the strong stalk of shitpayu sticking out of the ground. She dug around it and below the roots, found a little baby. The stem was growing out of the child’s navel. She took the baby, twisted the stalk off, and bound up the child. She had nothing to wrap around the little one; so she took her skirt made of buckskin, the only clothing she wore, and wrapped it around the baby. Holding it close to her breast, she fondled the child and said,—
“Grow, little boy, grow quickly; you will be company yet for your grandmother.”
She brought the boy home, washed him, washed him many times, put him in a wildcat skin. When Tsawandi Kamshupa came and saw Tsuwalkai with the baby, he wondered and cried,—
“Oh, grandmother, where did you find the little boy?”
She told how she had found him in the field, dug him out of the ground, and brought him home. That same day Dari Jowa, Tsawandi Kamshupa’s great friend, came, and, seeing the little boy, laughed loudly.
“Oh, my aunt,” said he, “that is not your baby. Where did you find that little boy?”
She told him the same story that she had told her grandson.
The baby grew quickly, grew large in a little while.
“Oh, my aunt,” said Dari Jowa, “give this boy to me. I want to hear him talk. I want him for myself. I will take good care of him. I want to hear him talk, I want to hear him shout. He will be a great shouter. Oh, my aunt, give this little boy to me.”
The old woman agreed at last. Dari Jowa took the boy and called him Ilhataina. One day Dari Jowa brought Ilhataina to the sweat-house and said, “Talk now.”
Ilhataina began to talk, and the sweat-house trembled. He shouted; the whole earth shook. He was thundering.