The ceremony of the Snake Dance begins many days before that public
conclusion the tourist sees. The date of the dance is announced by the
pueblo crier from the housetops. The priests of the Antelope and Snake
clans go to their respective kivas where, amid chants and exorcism, the
wardrobe is looked over and all necessary tools and sacred equipment
are prepared. A certain number of songs are sung each day, according to
a strict ritual. It is during this time that new members are initiated,
whether or not with revolting rites is for those to answer who know.
Then comes the snake-hunt, occupying four days, each day to a different
point of the compass, north, west, south, and east. One would think
that snakes have fixed and respected neighborhoods, so readily do the
hunters procure them; and one monster bull-snake, fully seven feet long
and proportionately thick, must be trained by the Second Mesa devotees,
for it always occupies the centre of the stage at Machongnovi. Very
likely snakes live to participate in many dances.
This facility in procuring snakes caused me to ask a young Hopi how
they were located.
“By tracking,” he answered, pointing to the dusty sand at our feet.
“See! there is a snake’s track. We can follow him home and dig him out,
if you want.”
Well, we didn’t do it, because I had something less dangerous on hand;
and I must confess that I could not discern the delicate trail of the
snake he referred to. But then, too, I have followed Indian trackers as
they sought to run down a man. They would call off his movements as if
reading from a book. As a desert tracker, I was a good Indian Agent.
Armed with a hoe, for excavating the more retiring, with a buckskin
sack of sacred meal,—for this must be sprinkled on the votaries,—a
larger bag in which to carry them, and a snake-whip of feathers, the
hunters go forth. They wear moccasins and a loin-cloth only. An
ordinary member of the snake family, such as a bull snake, no matter
what his size, is picked up with slight ceremonial fuss. But the
rattlesnake often objects. He is most likely to sound his displeasure,
and to coil swiftly for defense. Perhaps he has never attended a Snake
Dance. In this event, the hunter blesses him with meal and proceeds to
attract his attention with caresses of the snake-whip. After several
strokes of the long eagle feathers, the snake uncoils and seeks escape;
but swifter than he is the unerring hand that nips him just back of the
head. He is waved in the air, stroked with a quick pressure along his
spine, and dropped into the sack with the others. And no more attention
is paid to the sack’s contents when carrying it back to the kiva than
if it contained so much corn.
While the Hopi Desert contains large bull snakes and king snakes and
long slender side-winders, the rattlesnake is a short specimen, seldom
more than two feet in length. It is active enough for all purposes,
however, and can produce extraordinary activity of movement on the part
of those not initiated in the Snake clan. Once on a desert road I
alighted from my car to arrange something. I heard a sibilant noise, a
whirring dryish whistle or hiss that, peculiarly enough, is neither.
There is no English word to describe accurately the rattlesnake’s
warning, but it is imperative, and procures immediate attention. In a
thousandth part of a second I discovered the gentleman scuttling
rapidly between my feet. He wished to avoid me, and I shared his
emotions. It is of course impossible to assert exactly how many feet
directly upward and sideward I impelled myself. There was a space of
time in which I was oblivious to everything save the breaking of
leaping records. I came to at a point entirely clear of the road, as my
acquaintance disappeared into the sparse grass at the opposite side.
Then, knowing where he was, and that he was safe and unharmed, I did
not follow to put on any Snake Dance experiments. The swift grasp of
the neck immediately behind the head, the triumphant wave in the air,
the pressure along the spine, and the composure of the snake-gatherer,
all may combine to render said snake harmless or indifferent; but—you
try it!
The public part of the Snake ceremony consumes about twenty minutes of
time. The kisi, a bower of cottonwood boughs, something like a
miniature tepee, is erected midway of the plaza and to one side. The
kisi screens a hole in the rock-floor, and just before the dance begins
a mysterious bag is carried out and placed therein. It contains the
snakes. The hole is covered or roofed by a thick piece of board.
Early in the day the crowd of sightseers has gathered on the mesa-top,
and in late afternoon it begins massing at the Walpi plaza. There is
the usual wrangle over prominent places, and the inevitable bickering
as to who engaged them first. Soon the roofs and terraces and balconies
are hidden by the people. The odd stairways and other points of vantage
cause the crowd to group as if arranged by a stage director. A dozen or
more crown the Snake Rock itself. They wait patiently, expectantly, as
small boys await the head of the circus parade. Old Judge Hooker
arrives, garbed for the occasion, and harangues them with Hopi cries,
announcing to all and several that this great ceremony will positively
be held on this date, once, and once only this season, and imploring
them to grant it the respect it deserves. The Indians present pay
attention to his speech, for on this occasion at least the Judge has
the Agency police within call; but the whites do not know what he has
said, and so care very little about it. This waiting in a too-crowded
place is a monotonous and tiring procedure. There is much stirring
about, leaving a good place and then wishing one had not.
And suddenly comes a distant sounding of rattle-gourds, a faint but
insistent noise, like dried peas blown against glass.
“Here they come!” calls the ever-present small boy, who perches
perilously on a projecting house-pole.
Quietly, ceremoniously, the Antelope priests in single file enter the
plaza. Their gourds sound steadily, and with slow measured steps they
march about the stage four times. When passing the kisi, each man
stamps with his right foot on the board that shelters the snakes. They
sprinkle meal. And they are followed by the guardian of the
bull-roarer, a tall man who carries a huge Indian bow ornamented with
feathers, and who stops in mid-stage to sound his awesome instrument.
With all the force of his arm he whirls that wooden plumb-bob on a
sinew string. It moans with the wind voice of the Desert. Then the
Antelope men form a straight line with the kisi, their backs to the
houses and their faces to the plaza.
Now sounds a hurried noise, much clatter and scuffling, as the Snake
priests approach. They burst into the plaza as if determinedly
answering a call to battle. They are headed by the most robust of the
clan, large powerful men. With rigid faces, fixedly staring, their
elbows set as runners, they stride down the plaza. The crowd massed at
the far end is always in the way. The Snake priests must go to the
farthest end of this shelf on their first round, after which they
shorten each lap until four have been completed. The crowd must fall
back. It has no license to be there at all, and there is nothing in
Snake-clan etiquette signifying change because curiosity has come out
of the East. Their rushing single-file of men is projected straight at
the narrow end of the shelf. Finding that it was impossible to fix such
a throng in place, I would station two guards at that point to warn and
part the spectators. Just what would happen if the whites did not yield
is problematical. I recall that once the head-man of the dancers took
me in the side with his elbow. He did not stop to apologize. It was two
hundred rapidly moving pounds meeting much less than that. I did not
completely recover from the blow until the dance was over. A head-on
crack like that might propel one over the cliff.
These Snake priests are nude to the waist, their upper bodies daubed in
black, with the lightning sign traced in white. Their hair is
disheveled and streaming, and crowned with red feathers. About their
eyes are reddish smears, and a circle of white is thickly painted about
each mouth. They wear ornamented kilts of knee-length, and moccasins;
and with some show of uniformity each man packs all the trumpery the
clan has adopted as part of its regalia. They have armlets and
bracelets of silver, and necklaces of many strands—beads and bone and
turquoise. From the rear of each belt dangle one or more handsome
fox-skins. Fastened just below the right-leg knee are curious clappers
made of tortoise shells. Thus, as they stride tumultuously about, there
sounds above the dry rattling of the Antelope gourds all the hurried
clatter of this moving harness.
Each time they pass the kisi they stamp fiercely on the board. It gives
back a hollow sound. And perhaps the snakes of former spectacles know
that they will soon be wanted on deck. “All hands aloft!”
Then the Snake priests quiet down a bit and align themselves in a long
row, facing the Antelope men. A chant is begun. It is low in tone and
quite ceremonial in spirit. Their bodies sway. A curious waving motion
is made with the hands, one dancer’s wrists engaging his partner’s. The
gourds whir their singing sounds. And an old Indian, a feeble, aged
man, passes down the line with a bowl of water. This he sprinkles at
the kisi. The age of this participant and his evident fervor always
attract notice. He appears and disappears. And it is just at this
point, when the action is most impressive, when all touring eyes are
bulging to a degree, that the inevitable dog wanders into the sanctuary
and begins to investigate. I have never known a Snake Dance that did
not produce its uninvited mongrel at this time. He is never shooed or
kicked away. He is always the most disreputable animal of a people
noted for their impoverished canines. Lank and lean, with a cringing
expression of dog humility on his face, he contrives to spoil the
scene.
There is a noticeable pause. The line of Snake priests breaks into
pairs and, with a curious, half-stamping dance, they pass to the kisi.
The man on the right stoops, plunges his arm into the snake-hole, and
brings forth a snake. The dancer is humped over now, his body bent
forward, his head projecting. The one with him places an arm across his
shoulders, and with a feather-whip attracts the weaving head of the
reptile. The first dancer holds the snake by its middle for a moment,
and then places it in his mouth, permitting the two ends to dangle
freely.
Behind these two steps watchfully the “gatherer,” and follows them
about. With a humping irregular motion the pair dance around the plaza,
and finally the snake is dropped to the ground. The gatherer quickly
retrieves it, if it is a patient, well-behaved snake; but if it is a
rattler and acts unreasonably, proceeding to coil and sound its
warning, the gatherer swiftly acts with the deftness of a juggler. His
eyes never leave the defiant snake. He pinches a bit of meal from his
pouch and sprinkles it toward the unwilling symbol of the gods. Then he
waves his whip over the snake. If it strikes, he will let it alone for
a brief time. There in the little plaza is a fighting rattlesnake, a
vicious coiled spring, fangs darting, restless, angry. The dancers
avoid it. The crowd shrills its approval of the scene.
But the gatherer is watching. Soon the snake gives a quick wriggle and
is off, darting for the mesa edge, and those forming the crowd there
begin anxiously to shift their feet. Another second and the Indian has
pounced down on it, swishing the snake from under the very toes of the
spectators. He waves it through the air in the motion of his capture,
strokes it into limpness as he watches his pair of dancers. Then it
dangles from his left hand, and he proceeds to the next adventure.
Meantime, other couples have approached the kisi and have produced
their snakes. The differences in reptiles now attract attention. There
are long, thin, nervous snakes, and short, fat, sluggish ones. A shout
of amazement goes up when a very large specimen of bull snake is seen,
its tail almost trailing the earth. But varying snakes do not affect
the priests. The Antelope men continue the whirring of their gourds,
and with the Snake men the action becomes faster. Seven or eight
couples are now stamping around, and the gatherers have a busy time of
it.
And then comes the signal that the bag of the kisi is empty. All snakes
have been produced in the open, and danced with, and dropped, and
gathered up. Now two priests describe with meal a large circle on the
ground before the Dance Rock. The dancers approach and throw all the
snakes into this circle. They crowd around it as meal is sprinkled, and
perhaps some exorcism is muttered. For a second they poise there, as if
under a spell; and then certain appointed men thrust their hands into
the squirming mass, catch up as many snakes as possible, and rush from
the plaza to liberate the votaries in the far Desert.
Now one notes the reason for the tunnel leading through the houses to
the west. At First Mesa they may go north, south, and west from the
little plaza; but no dancer jumps off it to the east; the strict ritual
suffers a change to accommodate this natural disadvantage. He seizes
his allotted share of the snakes and proceeds along the edge to some
convenient trail, turning eastward in the lower valley. The uninformed
among the spectators have a happy faculty for packing themselves in
that tunnel. The Indian runner means to go through it, without pausing
or apologies, carrying an armful of active snakes. “Let them fall off”
is his motto.
This distribution of the snake messengers ends what one may term the
intriguing features of the ceremony. Soon the panting runners return to
engage in the so-called “purification” rites, the taking of the emetic;
and a number of the curious follow them to be in at the death. It is
not of importance that one should witness this part of the programme;
it is simply a matter of taste. Physicians may wish to time the potency
of desert brews. The priests are then washed from head to foot by the
women of the clan. Water is poured over them from large bowls.
Dripping, the priests disappear into their kiva. Soon the women are
hurrying there too, bearing in trays all sorts of viands. The dancers,
who have fasted, would absorb a bit of nourishment. God knows they have
earned it!
Dr. Jesse Walter Fewkes, the celebrated ethnologist, writes that after
the Snake Dance of 1883 two of the liberated snakes were caught and
taken to the National Museum at Washington for examination. He states
that their fangs and poison-sacs were found to be intact. He does not
accept the belief that these Hopi Indians have an antidote for the
poison of rattlesnakes. It is his view that the desert rattler can
inflict a deadly bite only after coiling and lunging viciously on its
victim. And there is little to the theory that the snakes have been
drugged or dulled into lethargy, since I have many times seen the
rattlesnakes coil and fight wickedly. Several persons, particularly Mr.
Herbert F. Robinson, the Government Engineer for the Navajo and Hopi
country, claim to have seen Snake priests bitten in the dance. I could
not make such a statement. But it is possible that the paint with which
the priests are liberally daubed has, for snakes, a repugnant odor; and
having anointed their hands and arms, and especially their mouths,
faces, and necks with this ointment, they secure a certain immunity.
And the stroking of the snakes, when picked up, may explain the safety
of the gatherer. This action no doubt produces a partial paralysis of
the snake’s muscular system. But this does not answer for those who
thrust bare hands and arms into the snake-bag at the kisi.
If one must see a Snake Dance, the best show is at Walpi in years of
odd numbers. The ceremony is held also at Machongnovi, Chimopovi, and
Hotevilla. Since 1918 there has been no dance at Oraibi, perhaps
because of factional disputes, although a disciple of Christianity has
claimed part of the credit. There is a solemnity observed at Hotevilla,
among the reactionaries, with prophet Youkeoma, the second man in the
line of Antelope priests; but the men of Walpi preserve more of Indian
color and thrill of action in their performance. Perhaps they have
realized the advantage of a good show, well staged and costumed and
vigorously enacted. While they do not invite the tourists, they keep
them coming, and business in Snake Dance week is brisk along all lines.
Not all of the Hopi people are members of the Snake clan. Those of the
uninitiated are as diffident with rattlesnakes as the rest of us. This
lodge has difficulty in keeping up its membership. Sometimes a Hopi is
invited to join, or is ordered to report for duty in the Snake kiva,
and he declines this honor. It is well for him to remain away from
dances thereafter, or he may have to hold a punishment snake as a
penalty.
It was through the courtesy of Mr. John Lorenzo Hubbell, that early
pioneer and baronial trader of the Navajo Desert, that I chanced to
view the most secret of the Snake Dance rites, the baptism or washing
of the snakes in the kiva. This occurs in the morning of the day of the
public ceremony. Perhaps one might call it the consecration of the
messengers; for, as I have understood it, the snakes are the tribe’s
envoys to the gods, bearing its petition for rain and its thanks for
harvests.
Perhaps, as Moungwi, I might have achieved this success earlier, but it
was my method in dealing with the Hopi, an always suspicious people,
not to display an interest in their secrecies. Of necessity—or perhaps
I should say in good judgment—I had to police their dances, to prevent
possible clashes between the non-understanding Indian and the nearly
always unreasonable and overcurious tourist; but I have never asked an
Indian, anywhere, to give me an “inside” concerning his primitive
beliefs. Having to guide and often to judge that same Indian, it would
have been an unfair advantage to take of my position, and would at once
have classed me, the appointed mentor, as a piece of curiosity no
different from the white men he so often wrangled with. Moreover, I had
other means of acquiring information. The traders told me all they had
garnered through the many years of trafficking with Indians, and each
newcomer—tourist, artist, or itinerant official,—presented me with the
varying chaff of his very swift and gullible gleaning.
The always helpful Mr. Hubbell bridged this dilemma by inviting me as
his guest, and I could accept without losing caste. Hubbell had been
admitted to the kiva many years before. Then Dr. Fewkes in 1899, as he
relates, and since then the Indians have received Mr. Roosevelt,
General Hugh L. Scott, and a few others. Perhaps not more than a score
of white men have witnessed this ceremony.
In our little party were a visiting superintendent, an engineer of the
Desert Service, and Mr. Ford Harvey, son of the immortal Fred who
rescued so many hungry travelers along the Santa Fe in early times, and
to whom should be erected a monument of bronze.
From the poles of the kiva ladder flew the feather-plumes that signify
the progress of secret rites. An Indian met us at the top, and we filed
after him down the ladder, into the cool, dim atmosphere of that
underground rock-walled vault. It had a peculiar odor—perhaps an
earthy, perhaps a snaky smell.
Kivas usually are empty places. Bare and cold, unless filled with
eye-stinging smoke from firebrands, I had not found them inviting on my
rounds of the mesas. I had held councils in them when making the first
steps against factional religious persecution. Again I had sat in them,
chatting with the makers of costumes and drums, smoking their bitter
and powerful tobacco—afterward wishing sincerely I had not. Most often
the kiva is the club for retired old men of the tribe, lonely, feeble
fellows, where they curl up to drowse and sleep, or where they weave
some ceremonial scarf. It is not good form to idle in the neighborhood
of kivas when the feather-plumes are displayed, and one very
distinguished gentleman, who has been referred to as “the great
Caucasian marvel,” was most thoroughly bawled out by the chief Snake
Priest for seeking to introduce himself without first requesting leave.
The ladder ended on a stone platform, raised above the main kiva-floor.
In the corners of this platform stood large clay jars, and greeting us,
albeit silently, from the corners and about the jars, were snakes. Not
just a few snakes that had wandered out of their pottery containers,
but congested wads of snakes, piled carelessly in the corners of the
kiva, and with nothing to prevent their leaving when the spirit moved
them. However, they were now quiet, somnolent, save for beady eyes and
an occasional slithery movement that caused one to watch his step.
At the upper end of the kiva was an elaborate sand-painting after the
fashion of the Navajo, no doubt another adoption, of foreign origin. A
sand-painting is a mosaic-like picture of Indian symbols and fetishes,
worked out in colored sands. This was surrounded or fenced by peeled
wands, placed close together on end. And at this ceremonial altar
stood, practically nude, two of my schoolboys, bronzed lads of about
sixteen, who had taken part that morning in the sunrise race.
Under the ladder and on the main floor a number of older Indians were
grouped, having close to them large bowls of clay holding water or
other liquids. And these priests were arrayed for a ceremony. The
sacred-meal pouches were in evidence. Soon a chant was intoned. The
Hopi chants are primitive, but have in them an echo of Catholic
litanies. I have seen a Hopi priest anoint with and toss the sacred
meal just as his forbears saw the padres bless the people. The Hopi is
an assiduous adapter. And while listening to the chanting, I have often
expected to catch the response: “Ora pro nobis.” The padres were
sacrificed to the desert gods in that red revolt of 1680, but their
peaches dry each season on the pueblo housetops, and Hopi ceremonies
carry an unconscious echo of the black-robes who taught the solemnity
of ritual.
Around the walls of the kiva, at the height of one’s head, were wooden
pegs set in the stone, and draped over these were masks and costumes.
As my position at the end of the platform brought me close to one of
these bundles, I leaned against it and the wall, half turned, to give
an eye to the nearest snakes of my corner, and another eye to the
proceedings of the elders. A snake wriggled out from the pile and came
closer; but the Indian who had received us waved him back with a
feather-whip. Someone was watching that sector, and I grew more
confident.
We stood there for a little time in silence. From above came the noises
of the crowd, thronging through the village streets. One could look up
through the square opening of the entrance and see the blue Arizona
sky. The ladder was very comforting. Several of the guests sat down on
the edge of the platform, but I did not. I leaned comfortably against
my pile of regalia, and kept a wide-angled view of the whole interior.
Then one of the Indians crossed the platform, gathered a few snakes and
passed them swiftly to the old men at the bowls. They uttered
invocations, stretched the snakes out, and anointed them with meal, all
the while chanting in a low tone. A number of the men had lined up
against the wall, carrying rattles and insignia. They too began a
chant. And then suddenly the old men plunged the snakes into the water
of the bowls—a quick, unceremonious ducking; the choir raising its
chant to a savage crescendo. It was no longer rhythmic and solemn. It
was like a scream of death, a wild, unreasoning challenge that ended in
a blood-curdling shriek; and at that final cry the snakes were hurled
up the kiva, to fall on the sand-painting. The peeled wands were
knocked over by their swirling bodies. Somnolent before, the snakes now
waked up, and twisted about, seeking escape, their heads raised, their
tongues darting in and out. A hissing and whirring sounded. Their
movements in the sand caused the design to be obliterated.
Now came another handful of snakes, swiftly passed for the baptism, and
again the low chanting, but faster now, faster, and always that wild
ending of the chant, and the throwing of the reptiles. More and more
snakes squirmed on the wrecked sand-painting. All the wands were down
now. And in among the snakes, with a calmness that chilled the blood,
walked my two schoolboys, nude as Adam, hustling back to the sand those
that darted for the walls. Twice snakes reached the stone bench along
the kiva’s end and, climbing it, sought crevices of the upper wall.
Each time a boy reached for the disappearing truant and nonchalantly
dragged him back to his place in this wildest of pagan rites.
Finally all the snakes had been removed from our corners, and several
inches of them made a moving carpet where had been the mosaic. There
came a pause, a significant cessation of action, as if the priests had
reached an unexpected, unforeseen part of the service. There was a
quick consultation among the head-men. One of the boys, Edward, began
looking around. He went to the nearest peg and removed some of the
costumes, dropping a mask to the floor. He examined the mask. Then he
went to another peg and performed this same search. And then he came
straight toward me, at the end of the platform.
“What is it, Edward?” I asked him.
“We had sixty-five rattlesnakes, Mr. Crane,” he replied stolidly, “and
now we count but sixty-four. Let me look through those dresses you are
leaning against. That other one may be—”
“Excuse me,” I said hurriedly, as I went up the ladder.