thou art unfinished. But if thou thus love me, go back when I leave thee
and plume many prayer-sticks. Choose a light, downy feather and dye it
with ocher. Wrap up in thy blanket a lunch for four daylights; bring
with thee much prayer-meal; come to me at midnight and sit by my
grave-side, and when in the eastward the day-land is lighting, tie over
my forehead the reddened light feather, and when with the morning I fade
from thy vision, follow only the feather until it is evening, and then
thou shalt see me and sit down beside me.”
So at sunrise the young man went away and gathered feathers of the
summer birds, and cut many prayer-sticks, whereon he bound them with
cotton, as gifts to the Fathers. Then he found a beautiful downy feather
plucked from the eagle, and dyed it red with ocher, and tied to it a
string of cotton wherewith to fasten it over the forehead of the spirit
maiden. When night came, he took meal made from parched corn and burnt
sweet-bread, and once more went down to the plaza and sat by the
grave-side.
When midnight came and the light glowed forth through the grave-sands,
lo! the maiden-spirit came out and stood by his side. She seemed no
longer sad, but happy, like one going home after long absence. Nor was
the young man sad or single-thoughted like one whose mind errs; so they
sat together and talked of their journey till the day-land grew yellow
and the black shadows gray, and the houses and hills came out of the
darkness.
“Once more would I tell thee to go back,” said the maiden’s spirit to
the young man; “but I know why thou goest with me, and it is well. Only
watch me when the day comes, and thou wilt see me no more; but look
whither the plume goeth, and follow, for thou knowest that thou must tie
it to the hair above my forehead.”
Then the young man took the bright red plume out from among the feathers
of sacrifice, and gently tied it above the maiden-spirit’s forehead.
As the light waved up from behind the great mountain the red glow faded
out from the grave-sands and the youth looked in vain for the spirit of
the maiden; but before him, at the height of one’s hands when standing,
waved the light downy feather in the wind of the morning. Then the
plume, not the wife, rose before him, like the plumes on the head of a
dancer, and moved through the streets that led westward, and down
through the fields to the river. And out through the streets that led
westward, and down on the trail by the river, and on over the plains
always toward the land of evening, the young man followed close the red
feather; but at last he began to grow weary, for the plume glided
swiftly before him, until at last it left him far behind, and even now
and then lost him entirely. Then, as he hastened on, he called in
anguish:
“My beautiful bride! My beautiful bride! Oh, where art thou?”
But the plume, not the wife, stopped and waited. And thus the plume and
the young man journeyed until, toward evening, they came to the forests
of sweet-smelling piñons and cedars. As the night hid the hills in the
shadows, alas! the plume disappeared, but the young man pressed onward,
for he knew that the plume still journeyed westward. Yet at times he was
so weary that he almost lost the strength of his thoughts; for he ran
into trees by the trail-side and stumbled over dry roots and branches.
So again and again he would call out in anguish: “My beautiful wife! My
beautiful bride! Oh, where art thou?”
At last, when the night was divided, to his joy he saw, far away on the
hill-top, a light that was red and grew brighter like the light of a
camp-fire’s red embers when fanned by the wind of the night-time. And
like a star that is rising or setting, the red light sat still on the
hill-top. So he ran hastily forward, until, as he neared the red light,
lo! there sat the spirit of the beautiful maiden; and as he neared her,
she said:
“Comest thou?” and “How hast thou come to the evening?”
As she spoke she smiled, and motioned him to sit down beside her. He was
so weary that he slept while he talked to her; but, remember, she was a
spirit, therefore she slept not.
Just as the morning star came up from the day-land, the maiden rose to
journey on, and the young man, awaking, followed her. But as the hills
came out of the shadows, the form of the maiden before him grew fainter
and fainter, until it faded entirely, and only the red plume floated
before him, like the plume on the head of a dancer. Far ahead and fast
floated the plume, until it entered a plain of lava filled with sharp
crags; yet still it went on, for the maiden’s spirit moved over the
barriers as lightly as the down of dead flowers in autumn. But alas! the
young man had to seek his way, and the plume again left him far behind,
until he was forced to cry out: “Ah, my beautiful bride, do wait for me,
for I love thee, and will not turn from thee!” Then the plume stopped on
the other side of the crags and waited until the poor young man came
nearer, his feet and legs cut and bleeding, and his wind almost out.
Then the trail was more even, and led through wide plains; but even thus
the young man could scarce keep the red plume in sight. But at night the
maiden awaited him in a sheltered place, and they rested together
beneath the cedars until daylight. Then again she faded out in the
daylight, and the red plume led the way.
For a long time the trail was pleasant, but toward evening they came to
a wide bed of cactus, and the plume passed over as swiftly as ever, but
the young man’s moccasins were soon torn and his feet and legs cruelly
lacerated with the cactus spines; yet still he pursued the red plume
until the pain seemed to sting his whole body, and he gasped and wailed:
“Ah, my beautiful wife, wait for me; do wait, for I love thee and will
not leave thee!” Then the plume stopped beyond the plain of cactus and
waited until he had passed through, but not longer, for ere he had
plucked all the needles of the cactus from his bleeding feet, it floated
on, and he lifted himself up and followed until at evening the maiden
again waited and bade him “Sit down and rest.”
That night she seemed to pity him, and once more spoke to him: “_Yo á!_
My lover, my husband, turn back, oh, turn back! for the way is long and
untrodden, and thy heart is but weak and is mortal. I go to the Council
of Dead Ones, and how can the living there enter?”
But the youth only wept, and begged that she let him go with her. “For,
ah,” said he, “my beautiful wife, my beautiful bride, I love thee and
cannot turn from thee!”
And she smiled only and shook her head sadly as she replied: “_Yo á!_ It
shall be as thou willest. It may be thy heart will not wither, for
tomorrow is one more day onward, and then down the trail to the waters
wherein stands the ladder of others, shall I lead thee to wait me
forever.”
At mid-sun on the day after, the plume led the way straight to a deep
cañon, the walls of which were so steep that no man could pass them
alive. For a moment the red plume paused above the chasm, and the youth
pressed on and stretched his hand forth to detain it; but ere he had
gained the spot, it floated on straight over the dark cañon, as though
no ravine had been there at all; for to spirits the trails that once
have been, even though the waters have worn them away, still are.
Wildly the young man rushed up and down the steep brink, and
despairingly he called across to the plume: “Alas! ah, my beautiful
wife! Wait, only wait for me, for I love thee and cannot turn from
thee!” Then, like one whose thoughts wandered, he threw himself over the
brink and hung by his hands as if to drop, when a jolly little striped
Squirrel, who was playing at the bottom of the cañon, happened to see
him, and called out: “_Tsithl! Tsithl!_” and much more, which meant “_Ah
hai! Wananí!_” “You crazy fool of a being! You have not the wings of a
falcon, nor the hands of a Squirrel, nor the feet of a spirit, and if
you drop you will be broken to pieces and the moles will eat up the
fragments! Wait! Hold hard, and I will help you, for, though I am but a
Squirrel, I know how to think!”
Whereupon the little chit ran chattering away and called his mate out of
their house in a rock-nook: “Wife! Wife! Come quickly; run to our corn
room and bring me a hemlock, and hurry! hurry! Ask me no questions; for
a crazy fool of a man over here will break himself to pieces if we don’t
quickly make him a ladder.”
So the little wife flirted her brush in his face and skipped over the
rocks to their store-house, where she chose a fat hemlock and hurried to
her husband who was digging a hole in the sand underneath where the
young man was hanging. Then they spat on the seed, and buried it in the
hole, and began to dance round it and sing,--
“_Kiäthlä tsilu,
Silokwe, silokwe, silokwe;
Ki′ai silu silu,
Tsithl! Tsithl!_”
Which meant, as far as any one can tell now (for it was a long time ago,
and partly squirrel talk),
“Hemlock of the
Tall kind, tall kind, tall kind,
Sprout up hemlock, hemlock,
Chit! Chit!”
And every time they danced around and sang the song through, the ground
moved, until the fourth time they said “_Tsithl! Tsithl!_” the tree
sprouted forth and kept growing until the little Squirrel could jump
into it, and by grabbing the topmost bough and bracing himself against
the branches below, could stretch and pull it, so that in a short time
he made it grow as high as the young man’s feet, and he had all he could
do to keep the poor youth from jumping right into it before it was
strong enough to hold him. Presently he said “_Tsithl! Tsithl!_” and
whisked away before the young man had time to thank him. Then the sad
lover climbed down and quickly gained the other side, which was not so
steep; before he could rest from his climb, however, the plume floated
on, and he had to get up and follow it.
Just as the sun went into the west, the plume hastened down into a
valley between the mountains, where lay a beautiful lake; and around the
borders of the lake a very ugly old man and woman, who were always
walking back and forth across the trails, came forward and laughed
loudly and greeted the beautiful maiden pleasantly. Then they told her
to enter; and she fearlessly walked into the water, and a ladder of
flags came up out of the middle of the lake to receive her, down which
she stepped without stopping until she passed under the waters. For a
little--and then all was over--a bright light shone out of the water,
and the sound of many glad voices and soft merry music came also from
beneath it; then the stars of the sky and the stars of the waters looked
the same at each other as they had done before.
“Alas!” cried the young man as he ran to the lake-side. “Ah, my
beautiful wife, my beautiful wife, only wait, only wait, that I may go
with thee!” But only the smooth waters and the old man and woman were
before him; nor did the ladder come out or the old ones greet him. So he
sat down on the lake-side wringing his hands and weeping, and ever his
mind wandered back to his old lament: “Alas! alas! my beautiful bride,
my beautiful wife, I love thee; I loved thee, but I knew not thee and
killed thee!”
Toward the middle of the night once more he heard strange, happy voices.
The doorway to the Land of Spirits opened, and the light shot up through
the dark green waters from many windows, like sparks from a chimney on a
dark, windless night. Then the ladder again ascended, and he saw the
forms of the dead pass out and in, and heard the sounds of the _Kâkâ_,
as it danced for the gods. The comers and goers were bright and
beautiful, but their garments were snow-white cotton, stitched with
many-colored threads, and their necklaces and bracelets were of dazzling
white shells and turquoises unnumbered. Once he ventured to gain the
bright entrance, but the water grew deep and chilled him till he
trembled with fear and cold. Yet he looked in at the entrances, and lo!
as he gazed he caught sight of his beautiful bride all covered with
garments and bright things. And there in the midst of the _Kâkâ_ she sat
at the head of the dancers. She seemed happy and smiled as she watched,
and youths as bright and as happy came around her, and she seemed to
forget her lone lover.
Then with a cry of despair and anguish he crawled to the lake-shore and
buried his face in the sands and rank grasses. Suddenly he heard a low
screech, and then a hoarse voice seemed to call him. He looked, and a
great Owl flew over him, saying: “_Muhaí! Hu hu! Hu hu!_”
“What wilt thou?” he cried, in vexed anguish.
Then the Owl flew closer, and, lighting, asked: “Why weepest thou, my
child?”
He turned and looked at the Owl and told it part of his trouble, when
the Owl suddenly twisted its head quite around--as owls do--to see if
anyone were near; then came closer and said: “I know all about it, young
man. Come with me to my house in the mountain, and if thou wilt but
follow my counsel, all will yet be well.” Then the Owl led the way to a
cave far above and bade him step in. As he placed his foot inside the
opening, behold! it widened into a bright room, and many Owl-men and
Owl-women around greeted him happily, and bade him sit down and eat.
The old Owl who had brought him, changed himself in a twinkling, as he
entered the room, and hung his owl-coat on an antler. Then he went away,
but presently returned, bringing a little bag of medicine. “Before I
give thee this, let me tell thee what to do, and what thou must
promise,” said he of the owl-coat.
The young man eagerly reached forth his hand for the magic medicine.
“Fool!” cried the being; “were it not well, for that would I not help
thee. Thou art too eager, and I will not trust thee with my medicine of
sleep. Thou shalt sleep here, and when thou awakest thou shalt find the
morning star in the sky, and thy dead wife before thee on the trail
toward the Middle Ant Hill. With the rising sun she will wake and smile
on thee. Be not foolish, but journey preciously with her, and not until
ye reach the home of thy fathers shalt thou approach her or kiss her;
for if thou doest this, all will be as nothing again. But if thou doest
as I counsel thee, all will be well, and happily may ye live one with
the other.”
He ceased, and, taking a tiny pinch of the medicine, blew it in the face
of the youth. Instantly the young man sank with sleep where he had been
sitting, and the beings, putting on their owl-coats, flew away with him
under some trees by the trail that led to Mátsaki and the Ant Hill of
the Middle.
Then they flew over the lake, and threw the medicine of sleep in at the
windows, and taking the plumed prayer-sticks which the young man had
brought with him, they chose some red plumes for themselves, and with
the others entered the home of the _Kâkâ_. Softly they flew over the
sleeping fathers and their children (the gods of the _Kâkâ_ and the
spirits) and, laying the prayer-plumes before the great altar, caught up
the beautiful maiden and bore her over the waters and woodlands to where
the young man was still sleeping. Then they hooted and flew off to their
mountain.
As the great star came out of the day-land, the young man awoke, and
lo! there before him lay his own beautiful wife. Then he turned his face
away that he might not be tempted, and waited with joy and longing for
the coming out of the sun. When at last the sun came out, with the first
ray that brightened the beautiful maiden’s face, she opened her eyes and
gazed wildly around at first, but seeing her lonely lover, smiled, and
said: “Truly, thou lovest me!”
Then they arose and journeyed apart toward the home of their fathers,
and the young man forgot not the counsel of the Owl, but journeyed
wisely, till on the fourth day they came in sight of the Mountain of
Thunder and saw the river that flows by Salt City.
As they began to go down into the valley, the maiden stopped and said:
“_Hahuá_, I am weary, for the journey is long and the day is warm.” Then
she sat down in the shadow of a cedar and said: “Watch, my husband,
while I sleep a little; only a little, and then we will journey together
again.” And he said: “Be it well.”
Then she lay down and seemed to sleep. She smiled and looked so
beautiful to the longing lover that he softly rose and crept close to
her. Then, alas! he laid his hand upon her and kissed her.
Quickly the beautiful maiden started. Her face was all covered with
sadness, and she said, hastily and angrily: “Ah, thou shameless fool! I
now know! Thou lovest me not! How vain that I should have hoped for thy
love!”
With shame, indeed, and sorrow, he bent his head low and covered his
face with his hands. Then he started to speak, when an Owl flew up and
hooted mournfully at him from a tree-top. Then the Owl winged her way to
the westward, and ever after the young man’s mind wandered.
Alas! alas! Thus it was in the days of the ancients. Maybe had the young
man not kissed her yonder toward the Lake of the Dead, we would never
have journeyed nor ever have mourned for others lost. But then it is
well! If men and women had never died, then the world long ago had
overflown with children, starvation, and warring.
Thus shortens my story.
[Illustration: {A young man and young woman}]
THE YOUTH AND HIS EAGLE
In forgotten times, in the days of our ancients, at the Middle Place, or
what is now Shíwina (Zuñi), there lived a youth who was well grown, or
perfect in manhood. He had a pet Eagle which he kept in a cage down on
the roof of the first terrace of the house of his family. He loved this
Eagle so dearly that he could not endure to be separated from it; not
only this, but he spent nearly all his time in caring for and fondling
his pet. Morning, noon, and evening, yea, and even between those times,
you would see him going down to the eagle-cage with meat and other kinds
of delicate food. Day after day there you would find him sitting beside
the Eagle, petting it and making affectionate speeches, to all of which
treatment the bird responded with a most satisfied air, and seemed
equally fond of his owner.
[Illustration: THE YOUTH AND HIS EAGLE
Photo by Hillers]
Whenever a storm came the youth would hasten out of the house, as though
the safety of the crops depended upon it, to protect the Eagle. So,
winter and summer, no other care occupied his attention. Corn-field and
melon-garden was this bird to this youth; so much so that his brothers,
elder and younger, and his male relatives generally, looked down upon
him as negligent of all manly duties, and wasteful of their substance,
which he helped not to earn in his excessive care of the bird.
Naturally, therefore, they looked with aversion upon the Eagle; and
one evening, after a hard day’s work, after oft-repeated remonstrances
with the youth for not joining in their labors, they returned home tired
and out of humor, and, climbing the ladder of the lower terrace, passed
the great cage on their way into the upper house. They stopped a moment
before entering, and one of the eldest of the party exclaimed: “We have
remonstrated in vain with the younger brother; we have represented his
duties to him in every possible light, yet without effect. What remains
to be done? What plans can we devise to alienate him from this miserable
Eagle?”
“Why not kill the wretched bird?” asked one of them. “That, I should
say, would be the most simple means of curing him of his infatuation.”
“That is an excellent plan,” exclaimed all of the brothers as they went
on into the house; “we must adopt it.”
The Eagle, apparently so unconscious, heard all this, and pondered over
it. Presently came the youth with meat and other delicate food for his
beloved bird, and, opening the wicket of the gate, placed it within and
bade the Eagle eat. But the bird looked at him and at the food with no
apparent interest, and, lowering its head on its breast, sat moody and
silent.
“Are you ill, my beloved Eagle?” asked the youth, “or why is it that you
do not eat?”
“I do not care to eat,” said the Eagle, speaking for the first time. “I
am oppressed with much anxiety.”
“Do eat, my beloved Eagle,” said the youth. “Why should you be sad?
Have I neglected you?”
“No, indeed, you have not,” said the Eagle. “For this reason I love you
as you love me; for this reason I prize and cherish you as you cherish
me; and yet it is for this very reason that I am sad. Look you! Your
brothers and relatives have often remonstrated with you for your neglect
of their fields and your care for me. They have often been angered with
you for not bearing your part in the duties of the household. Therefore
it is that they look with reproach upon you and with aversion upon me,
so much so that they have at last determined to destroy me in order to
do away with your affection for me and to withdraw your attention. For
this reason I am sad,--not that they can harm me, for I need but spread
my wings when the wicket is opened, and what can they do? But I would
not part from you, for I love you. I would not that you should part with
me, for you love me. Therefore am I sad, for I must go tomorrow to my
home in the skies,” said the Eagle, again relapsing into moody silence.
“Oh, my beloved bird! my own dear Eagle, how could I live without you?
How could I remain behind when you went forward, below when you went
upward?” exclaimed the youth, already beginning to weep. “No! Go, go, if
it need be, alas! but let me go with you,” said the youth.
“My friend! my poor, poor youth!” said the Eagle, “you cannot go with
me. You have not wings to fly, nor have you knowledge to guide your
course through the high skies into other worlds that you know not of.”
“Let me go with you,” cried the youth, falling on his knees by the side
of the cage. “I will comfort you, I will care for you, even as I have
done here; but live without you I cannot!”
“Ah, my youth,” said the Eagle, “I would that you could go with me, but
the end would not be well. You know not how little you love me that you
wish to do this thing. Think for a moment! The foods that my people eat
are not the foods of your people; they are not ripened by fire for our
consumption, but whatever we capture abroad on our measureless hunts we
devour as it is, asking no fire to render it palatable or wholesome. You
could not exist thus.”
“My Eagle! my Eagle!” cried the youth. “If I were to remain behind when
you went forward, or below when you went upward, food would be as
nothing to me; and were it not better that I should eat raw food, or no
food, than that I should stay here, excessively and sadly thinking of
you, and thus never eat at all, even of the food of my own people? No,
let me go with you!”
“Once more I implore you, my youth,” said the Eagle, “not to go with me,
for to your own undoing and to my sadness will such a journey be
undertaken.”
“Let me go, let me go! Only let me go!” implored the youth.
“It is said,” replied the Eagle calmly. “Even as you wish, so be it.
Now go unto your own home for the last time; gather large quantities of
sustaining food, as for a long journey. Place this food in strong
pouches, and make them all into a package which you can sling upon your
shoulder or back. Then come to me tomorrow morning, after the people
have begun to descend to their fields.”
The youth bade good-night to his Eagle and went into the house. He took
of parched flour a great quantity, of dried and pulverized wafer-bread a
large bag, and of other foods, such as hunters carry and on which they
sustain themselves long, he took a good supply, and made them all into a
firm package. Then, with high hopes and much thought of the morrow, he
laid himself to rest. He slept late into the morning, and it was not
until his brothers had departed for their fields of corn that he arose;
and, eating a hasty breakfast, slung the package of foods over his
shoulders and descended to the cage of the Eagle. The great bird was
waiting for him. With a smile in its eyes it came forth when he opened
the wicket, and, settling down on the ground, spread out its wings and
bade the youth mount.
“Sit on my back, for it is strong, oh youth! Grasp the base of my wings,
and rest your feet above my thighs, that you may not fall off. Are you
ready? Ah, well. And have you all needful things in the way of food?
Good. Let us start on our journey.”
Saying this, the Eagle rose slowly, circling wider and wider as it went
up, and higher and higher, until it had risen far above the town, going
slowly. Presently it said: “My youth, I will sing a farewell song to
your people for you and for me, that they may know of our final
departure.” Then, as with great sweeps of its wings it circled round and
round, going higher and higher, it sang this song:
“Huli-i-i--Huli-i-i--
Pa shish lakwa-a-a--
U-u-u-u--
U-u-u-u-a!
Pa shish lakwa-a-a--
U-u-u-u--
U-u-u-u-a!”
As the song floated down from on high, “Save us! By our eyes!” exclaimed
the people. “The Eagle and the youth! They are escaping; they are
leaving us!”