The bridge of the stars spans the sky seas; the sun and the moon are
the travellers who pass over it. This was also known in the lodges of
the Isantee, hundreds of years ago. Chaské told it to Hârpam, and when
Hârpam knew he told it to Hapéda; and so the knowledge spread to Hârka,
and from Winona to Wehârka, up and down, across and ever across, woof
and web, until it came to the Island of Grief. And how? God knows!
Wehârka, prattling in the tules, may have told Ne-kâ; and Ne-kâ,
high in the November clouds, may have told Kay-óshk, who told it to
Shinge-bis, who told it to Skeé-skah, who told it to Sé-só-Kah.
Ihó! Inâh! Behold the wonder of it! And this is the fate of all
knowledge that comes to the Island of Grief.
* * * * *
As the red glow died in the sky, and the sand swam in shadows, the girl
parted the silken curtains of her hair and looked at him.
"Ehó!" she whispered again in soft delight.
For now it was plain to her that he was the sun! He had crossed the
bridge of stars in the blue twilight; he had come!
"E-tó!"
She stepped nearer, shivering, faint with the ecstasy of this holy
miracle wrought before her.
He was the Sun! His blood streaked the sky at dawn; his blood stained
the clouds at even. In his eyes the blue of the sky still lingered,
smothering two blue stars; and his body was as white as the breast of
the Moon.
She opened both arms, hands timidly stretched, palm upward. Her face
was raised to his, her eyes slowly closed; the deep-fringed lids
trembled.
Like a young priestess she stood, motionless save for the sudden quiver
of a limb, a quick pulse-flutter in the rounded throat. And so she
worshipped, naked and unashamed, even after he, reeling, fell heavily
forward on his face; even when the evening breeze stealing over the
sands stirred the hair on his head, as winds stir the fur of a dead
animal in the dust.
* * * * *
When the morning sun peered over the wall of mist, and she saw it was
the sun, and she saw him, flung on the sand at her feet, then she knew
that he was a man, only a man, pallid as death and smeared with blood.
And yet--miracle of miracles!--the divine wonder in her eyes deepened,
and her body seemed to swoon, and fall a-trembling, and swoon again.
For, although it was but a man who lay at her feet, it had been easier
for her to look upon a god.
He dreamed that he breathed fire--fire, that he craved as he had never
craved water. Mad with delirium, he knelt before the flames, rubbing
his torn hands, washing them in the crimson-scented flames. He had
water, too, cool scented water, that sprayed his burning flesh, that
washed in his eyes, his hair, his throat. After that came hunger,
a fierce rending agony, that scorched and clutched and tore at his
entrails; but that, too, died away, and he dreamed that he had eaten
and all his flesh was warm. Then he dreamed that he slept; and when he
slept he dreamed no more.
One day he awoke and found her stretched beside him, soft palms tightly
closed, smiling, asleep.