belly and lifted his head into the air like a man resting on his elbows.
“Ah ha!” said he, with a wag of his head and a squint of his goggle. “Ah
ha! Very well! I’ll show them that they are not to treat my
grandchildren like that. I’m a warrior, every direction of me--and there
are a great many directions when I get angry, now, I can tell you! I’m
just made to use up life,” said he, with another swagger of his head.
“Listen to that!” said Mátsailéma to his brother.
“To use up life, that’s what I’m for,” added the old man, with
emphasis; “I’ll show the Háwikuhkwe!”
“Will you come to the council?” asked the two boys.
“_Shuathla_,” swaggered the old man--which is a very old-fashioned word
that our grandfathers used when they said: “Go ye but before me.”
So the boys skipped over to the pool at the wood border. There was their
old grandfather, the Turtle, with his eyes squinted up, paddling round
in the scum, and stretching his long neck up to bite off the heads of
the water-rushes.
“Let’s have some fun with the old Shield-back,” said the boys to one
another. “Just you hold a moment, brother elder,” said Mátsailéma as he
fitted an arrow to the string and drew it clean to the point. _Tsi-i-i-i
thle-e-e!_ sang the arrow as it struck the back of the old Turtle; and
although he was as big as the Turtles in the big Waters of the World now
are, the force and fright ducked him under the scum like a chip, and he
came up with his eyes slimy and his mouth full of spittle, and his legs
flying round too fast to be counted. When he spied the two boys, he
cursed them harder than their grandmother did, but they hardly heard
him, for their arrow glanced upward from his back and came down so
straight that they had to run for their lives. “_Atiki!_ troublesome
little beasts, who never knew what shame nor dignity was!” exclaimed the
old fellow.
“Don’t be angry with us, grandpa,” said the boys. “You must be deaf, for
we called and called to you, but you only paddled round and ate rushes;
so we thought we would fire an arrow at you, for you know we couldn’t
get at you.”
“Oh, that’s it! Well, what may my grandchildren be thinking of, in thus
coming to see me? It cannot be for nothing,” reflected the old man, as
he twisted his head up toward them and pushed the scum with his tail.
“Quite true, grandfather; we’ve started out sprouting, and had to come
to our grandfather for advice.”
“Why, what is it then?” queried the old Shield-back.
“You see, we have a flock of Turkeys--”
“Yes, I know,” interrupted the old man, “for they came down here to
drink yesterday and broke my morning nap with their ‘_quit quit
quittings!_’”
“Well,” resumed the boys, “they went toward the Háwikuhkwe, and the
shameless beasts, that they are, turned out and killed very nearly all
of them, and we’re going to even matters with them; that’s why we are
out sprouting.”
“Ah ha!” cried the old man, paddling up nearer to the bank. “Good! Well,
that’s right, my grandchildren; you show that you are the wise boys that
you are to come to me. I’m a great warrior, I am, for though I have
neither bow nor arrow, yet the more my enemies have, the worse for
themselves, that’s all. You two just wait until tomorrow,” and he
stretched his head out until it looked as though he kept a snake in his
shell.
“Will you help us?” asked the boys. (They knew very well he would like
nothing better.)
“Of course, my grandchildren.”
“Will you come to the council?”
“Of course, my grandchildren two. How many will be there?” called the
old fellow.
“The house shall be as full as a full stomach,” retorted the boys,
jousting each other.
“_Thluathlá!_” gruffly said Etawa, for that was the Turtle’s name.
So the boys started for Oak-wood Cañon, and, arrived there, soon had a
large bundle of branches cut down with their big flint knives, and four
stout, dry oak-sticks. They shouldered their “sprouts” and started home,
and, although they had bundles big enough to almost hide them, they
trotted along as though they had nothing. On their way they picked up a
lot of obsidian, and went fast enough until they were near their home,
and then they were “very tired”--so tired that the old grandmother, when
she caught sight of them, pitied them, and hurried down to stir some
mush for them. She buried some corn-cakes in the ashes, too, and roasted
some prairie-dogs in the same way; so that when those two lying little
rascals came up and seemed so worn-out, she hurried so fast to get their
food ready that it made her sinews twitch.
When the boys had eaten all they could and cracked a few prairie-dog
bones, they fell to breaking the sprouts. They worked with their stone
chips very fast, and soon had barked all they wanted. These they
straightened by passing them through their horns[19] and placed them
before the fire. While the shafts were drying, they broke up the
obsidian, and laying chips of it on a stone covered with buckskin,
quickly fashioned them into sharp arrow-heads with the points of other
stones, and these they fastened to the ends of the shafts, placing
feathers of the eagle on the other ends, until they had made enough for
four big bundles. Then they made a bow of each of the four oak-sticks,
and stood them up to dry against the wall.
[19] Fragments of mountain-sheep horn are used to this day by
the Zuñis for the same purpose. They are flattened by heat and
perforated with holes of varying size. By introducing the shaft
to be straightened, and rubbing with a twisting motion the inner
sides of the crooked portions, they are gradually straightened
out, afterward to be straightened by hand from time to time as
they dry before the fire.
As it grew dark they heard something like a dry leaf in a little wind.
“Ah!” said one to the other, “our grandfather comes”; and sure enough
presently Amiwili poked his yellow eyes in at the door, but quickly drew
back again.
“_Kutchi!_” said he, “your fire is fearful; it scares me!”
“The grandfather cometh!” exclaimed the boys. “Come in; sit down.”
“Very well. Ah! you are stretching shafts, are you?” said the old Worm,
crawling around behind the boys and into the darkest corner he could
find.
“Yes,” replied they. “Why do you not come out into the light, grandpa?”
“_Kutchi!_ I fear the fire; it hurts my eyes, and makes me feel as the
sun does after a rain-storm and I have no leaves to crawl into.”
“Very well,” said the boys. “Grandmother, spread a robe for him in the
corner.” Then they busied themselves straightening some of the arrows
and trying their bows. Just as they were pulling one toward the entrance
way, they heard old Etawa thumping along, and immediately the old fellow
called out: “Hold on; don’t thump me against one of those sticks of
yours; they jar a fellow so!”
“Oh, it’s you, is it, grandfather? Well, we’re only trying our new bows;
come in and sit down.” So the old fellow bumped along in and took his
place by the fire, for he did not care whether it was hot or cold.
“Are the councillors here?” asked he, wagging his head around.
“Why, certainly,” said the two boys; “and now our council is so full we
had better proceed to discuss what we had better do.”
When the old Turtle discovered that the boys had been playing him a
joke, he was vexed, but he didn’t show it. “Amiwili here?” asked he.
“_Tchukwe!_ We four will teach those Háwikuhkwe!”
“Yes, indeed!” croaked the Rainbow-worm.
“Well,” said the boys, “at daybreak tomorrow morning, before it is
light, we shall start for Háwikuh-town.”
“Very well,” responded Amiwili. “Come to my place first, and let me know
when you start.”
“And,” added Etawa, “come to my place next and let me know. When you
boys get to Háwikuh and alarm the people, if they get too thick for you,
come back to my house as fast as you can, and you, Mátsailéma, take me
up on your back. Then you two run toward your other grandfather’s house.
I’ll show these Háwikuhkwe that I can waste life as much as anybody,
even if I have no arrows to shoot at them.”
“Yes,” added the Rainbow-worm, “and when you come up to my house, just
run past me and I’ll take care of the rest of them. I’m made to use up
life, I am,” swaggered he.
“And I,” boasted the old Turtle. “Come, brother, let us be going, for we
have a long way to travel, and our legs are short.” So, after feasting,
the two started away.
As soon as they had gone, the two boys went to their corner and lay down
to rest, first filling their quivers with arrows, and laying their
water-shield[20] out on the floor. They were presently quiet, and then
began to snore; so their old grandmother went into another room and
brought out a new bowl which she filled with water. Then she retired
into the room again, and when she came out she was dressed in beautiful
embroidered mantles and skirts and decorated with precious ornaments of
shell and turquoise.
[20] The _kia-al-lan_, or water-shield, is represented in modern
times by a beautiful netting of white cotton threads strung on a
round hoop, with a downy plume suspended from the center. This,
with the dealings of Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma with arrows of
lightning, and the simile of their father the Sun, leaves little
doubt that they are, in common with mystic creations of the
Aryans, representatives of natural phenomena or their agents.
This is even more closely suggested by the sequel.
The noise she made awoke Áhaiyúta, who punched his younger brother, and
said: “Wake up, wake up! Here’s grandmother dressed as though she were
going to a dance!”
Then the younger brother raised his voice to a sharp whisper (they knew
perfectly well what the old grandmother was intending to do): “What
for?”
“Here!” said the old woman, turning toward the bed. “Go to sleep! What
are you never-weary little beasts doing now? For shame! You pretend you
are going out to war tomorrow!”
“Why are you dressed so, grandmother?” ventured the younger.
“What _should_ I be dressed for but to make medicine for you two? Now,
mind, you must not watch me. I shall make the medicine and place it in
these two cane tubes, and you must shoot them into the middle of the
plaza of Háwikuh as soon as you get there. That will make the people
like women; for the canes will break and make the medicine fly about
like mist, and whomsoever gets his skin wet by it, will become no more
of a warrior than a woman. Go to sleep, I say, you pests!”
But the boys had no intention of sleeping. To be sure, they stretched
themselves out and slyly laid their arms across their eyes. The old
grandmother did not notice this at first. She began to wash her arms in
the bowl of water. Then she rubbed them so hard that the _yepna_
(“substance of flesh”) was rolled off in little lumps and fell into the
water. This she began to mix carefully with the water, when Áhaiyúta
whispered to the other: “Brother younger, just look! Old grandmother’s
arms look as bright as a young girl’s. Look, look!” said he, still
louder, for the other had already begun to giggle; but when the old
woman turned to talk sharply at them, they turned over, the rascals, as
dutifully as though they had never joked with their poor old
grandmother. Soon they were indeed sleeping.
Then the grandmother proceeded to fill the canes with the fluid, and
then she fastened these to the ends of two good arrows. “There!” she
exclaimed, with a sigh; and after she had chanted an incantation over
the canes, she laid some food near the boys and softly left the room, to
sleep.
The boys never minded the things they had to do in the morning, but
slept soundly until the coming of day, when they arose, took their bows
and quivers, knives, war-clubs, arrows, and water-shield, and quietly
stole away.
It was not long ere they approached the house of Amiwili. He was fairly
gorging the leaves of all the lizard plants he could lay hold of, and
already looked so full that he must have felt like a ball. But he
munched away so busily that he wouldn’t have looked at the boys had it
been light enough.
“How did our grandfather come unto the morning?” asked they.
“_Thluathlá!_” (“Get out!”) was all the old Worm vouchsafed them
between his cuds; and they sped on.
Soon they reached the home of the old Turtle. This old grandfather was
more leisurely. “You will return at the height of the sun,” said he.
“Now mind what I told you last night. I’ll wait right here on the bank
for you.”
“Very well,” laughed the boys, for little they cared that they were on
the war-path.
By-and-by they neared the town of Háwikuh. It was twilight, for the
morning star was high. The boys sat down a moment and sang an
incantation,--the same our fathers and children, the _Ápithlan Shíwani_,
sing now. Then the younger brother ran round the pueblo to scout. Two or
three people were getting up, as he could see, for nearly everybody
slept on the roofs, it was so warm.
“_Iwolohkia-a-a!_” cried he, at the top of his voice; and as the people
were rousing he drew one of the cane arrows full length in his bow, and
so straight and high did he shoot, that it fell _thl-i-i-i-i!_ into the
middle of the plaza, splitting and scattering medicine-water in every
direction, so that the people all exclaimed, as they rubbed their eyes:
“Ho! it is raining, and yet the sky is clear! And didn’t some one cry
‘Murder, murder!’”
When Áhaiyúta’s arrow struck, it scattered more medicine-water upon
them, until they thought they must be dreaming of rain; but just then
Mátsailéma shouted, “_Ho-o-o!_ Murder!” again, and everybody started to
hunt bows and arrows. Then the boy ran to the hiding-place of his
brother in the grass on the trail toward the wood border, and just as he
got there, some of the people who were shouting and gabbling to one
another ran out to see him.
“Ha!” they shouted, “there they are, on the northern trail.”
So the Háwikuhkwe all poured down toward them, but when they arrived
there they found no enemy. While the people were looking and running
about, _tsok tsok_, and _tsok tsok_, and _tsok tsok_, the arrows of
Áhaiyúta, and Mátsailéma struck the nearest ones, for they had crawled
along the trail and were waiting in the grass. They never missed. Every
man they struck fell, but many, many came on, and when these saw that
there were only two, their faces were all the more to the front with
haste. Still the two boys shot, shot, shot at them until many were
killed or wounded before the remainder decided to flee.
“Come, brother, my arrows are gone,” said the younger brother. “Quick!
put on the water-shield, and let us be off!” Now, the people were
gaining on them faster and faster, but Áhaiyúta threw water like thick
rain from his shield strapped over his back, so that the enemies’
bow-strings loosened, and they had to stop to tighten them again and
again.
Whenever the Háwikuhkwe pressed them too closely, the water-shield
sprinkled them so thoroughly that when they nocked an arrow the sinew
bow-string stretched like gum, and all they could do was to stop and
tighten their bow-strings again. Thus the boys were able to near the
home of their grandfather, the big Turtle, now and then shooting at the
leaders with their warring arrows and rarely missing their marks.
But as they came near, the people were gathering more and more thickly
in their rear, so that Mátsailéma barely had time to take his
grandfather--who was waiting on the bank of the pond--upon his back.
“Now, run you along in front and we’ll follow behind,” said old Etawa,
as he put one paw over the left shoulder and the other under the right
arm, and clasped his legs tightly around the loins of Mátsailéma so as
to hug close to his back.
“Grandfather, _kutchi!_ You are as heavy as a rock and as hard as one,
too,” said the younger brother. “How can I dodge those stinging beasts?”
“That’s all the better for you,” said the old Turtle, loosening his grip
a little; “take it easy.”
“They’re coming! They’re coming!” shouted Áhaiyúta from ahead. “Hurry,
hurry, brother younger; hurry!” But Mátsailéma couldn’t get along any
faster than he could.
Presently the old Turtle glanced around and saw that the people were
gaining on them and already drawing their bows. “Duck your head down and
never mind them. Now, you’ll see what I can do!” said he, pulling into
his shell.
_Thle-e-e, thle-thle-thle-e-e_, rattled the arrows against
old Etawa’s shell, and the warriors were already shouting,
“_Ho-o-o-awiyeishikia!_”--which was their cry of victory,--when
they began to cry out in other tones, for _tsuiya!_ their arrows
glanced from old Turtle’s shell and struck themselves, so that they
dropped in every direction. “Terror and blood! but those beings can
shoot fast and hard!” shouted they to one another, but they kept
pelting away harder and faster, only to hit one another with the
glancing arrows.
“Hold!” cried one in advance of the others. “Head them off! Head them
off! We’re only shooting ourselves against that black shield of theirs,
and the other loosens our bow-strings.”
But just then Áhaiyúta reached the home of his other grandfather,
Amiwili. Behold! he was all swollen up with food and could hardly
move--only wag his head back and forth.
“Are you coming?” groaned the old fellow. “Quick, get out of the way,
all of you! Quick, quick!”
Áhaiyúta jumped out of the way just as Mátsailéma cried out: “_Ha hua!_
I can run no farther; I must drop you, grandfather,”--but he saw
Áhaiyúta jump to one side, so he followed, too.
Old Amiwili reared himself and, opening his mouth, _waah! weeh!_ right
and left he threw the lizard leaves he had been eating, until the
Háwikuhkwe were blinded and suffocated by them, and, dropping their bows
and weapons, began to clutch their eyes from blindness and pain. And old
Amiwili coughed and coughed till he had blown nearly all his substance
away, and there was nothing left of him but a worm no bigger than your
middle finger.
“Drop me and make your winnings,” cried the old Turtle. “I guess I can
take care of myself,” he chuckled from the inside of his shell; and it
was short work for the boys to cast down all their enemies whom Amiwili
had blown upon, and the others fled terrified toward Háwikuh.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the two boys as they began to take off the scalps of
the Háwikuhkwe. “These caps are better than half a flock of Turkeys.”
“Who’ll proclaim our victory to our people?” said they, suddenly
stopping; and one would have thought they belonged to a big village and
a great tribe instead of to a lone house on top of Twin Mountain, with a
single old granny in it; but then that was their way, you know.
“I will! I will!” cried the old Turtle, as he waddled off toward Twin
Mountain and left the boys to skin scalps.
When he came to the top of the low hill south of Master Cañon, he stuck
a stick up in the air and shouted.
“_Hoo-o! Hawanawi-i-i-i!_” which is the shout of victory; and, not
seeing the old woman, he cried out two or three times.
“_Hoo-o! Iwolohkia-a-a!_” which, as you know, means “Murder! Murder!”
The old woman heard it and was frightened. She threw an old robe over
her shoulders, and, grabbing up the fire-poker, started down as fast as
her limping old limbs would let her, and nearly tumbled over when she
heard old Etawa shout again, “_Iwolohkia!_”
“Ha!” said she; “I’ll teach the shameless Turkey killers, if I am an old
woman;” and she shook her fire-poker in the air until she came up to
where the old Turtle was waiting.
Here, just as she came near, the old Turtle pretended not to see her,
but stood up on his legs, and, holding his pole with one hand, cried
out, “_Hoo-o! Hawanawi-i-i-i!_” which was the shout of victory, as I
told you before.
“What is it?” cried the old woman, as she limped along up and said:
“_Ah! ahi!_” (“My poor old legs!”)
“Victory!” said the proud Turtle, scarcely deigning to look at her.[21]
[21] The ridiculousness of the dialogue which follows may
readily be understood when it is explained that each office in
the celebration of victory has to be performed by a distinct
individual of specified clans according to the function.
“Who has this day renewed himself?” she inquired.
“Thy grandchildren,” answered the old Turtle.
“Have they won?” asked the old woman, as she said: “Thanks this day!”
“Many caps,” replied the Turtle.
“Will they celebrate?”
“Yes.”
“Who will purify and pass them?” asked the granny.
“Why, you will.”
“Who will bathe the scalps?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will swing the scalps round the pueblo?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will adopt them?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will bring out the feast?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will be the priest of initiation?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will be the song-master?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will be the dancers?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will draw the arrows and sacrifice them?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will strive for the sacrificed arrows?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will lead the dance of victory?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will be the dancers?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will go to get the women to join the dance?”
“Why, I will.”
“What women will dance?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will take them to preside at the feast of their relatives-in-law?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will be their relatives-in-law?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will be the priests of their Father Society?”
“Why, I will.”
And they might have talked that way till sunset had not the voices of
the two boys, singing the song of victory, been heard coming over the
hill. There they were, coming with two great strings of scalps as big as
a bunch of buckskins.
“Oh! poor me! How shall I swing all those scalps round the pueblo?”
groaned the poor old woman as she limped off to dress for the ceremony.
“Why, swing them,” answered the old Turtle, as he stretched himself up
with the importance of being master of ceremonies.
So the boys brought the scalps up and the old Turtle strung them thickly
on a long pole.
So day after day they danced and sang, to add strands to the width of
the boys’ badges. And the old Turtle was master-priest of ceremonies and
people, low priest, song-master, and dancers; sacrificer of arrows and
striver after the arrows. He would beat the drum and sing a little, then
run and dance out the measure; but it was very hard work.
And the old woman was mother of the children and sisters, and their
clan, and somebody’s else clan, matron of ceremonials, and maidens of
ceremonials--all at the same time;--but it was very hard work,
consequently they didn’t get along very well.
That’s the reason why today we have so many song-masters and singers,
dance leaders and dancers, priests and common people, father clans and
mother clans, in the great Ceremony of Victory.
Thus it happened with Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma and their old
grandmother, and their grandfathers the Rainbow-worm and the old Turtle.
That is the reason why rainbow-worms are no bigger than your finger now,
because their great grandfather blew all his substance away at the
Háwikuhkwe. That’s the reason why the great Turtles in the far-away
Waters of the World are so much bigger than their brothers and sisters
here, and have so many marks on their shells, where the arrows glanced
across the shield of their great grandfather. For old Etawa was so proud
after he had been the great master of ceremonies that he despised his
old pond, and went off to seek a new home in the Western Waters of the
World, and his grandchildren never grew any bigger after he went away,
and their descendants are just as small as they were.
And thus shortens my story.
[Illustration: {Masks}]
[Illustration: THE PINNACLES OF THUNDER MOUNTAIN
Photo by A. C. Vroman]
THE YOUNG SWIFT-RUNNER WHO WAS STRIPPED OF HIS CLOTHING BY THE AGED
TARANTULA
A long, long time ago, in K’iákime, there lived a young man, the son of
the priest-chief of the town. It was this young man’s custom to dress
himself as for a dance and run entirely around Thunder Mountain each
morning before the sun rose, before making his prayers. He was a
handsome young man, and his costume was beautiful to behold.
Now, below the two broad columns of rock which stand at the southeastern
end of Thunder Mountain, and which are called Ak’yapaatch-ella,--below
these, in the base of the mountain, an old, old Tarantula had his den.
Of a morning, as the young man in his beautiful dress sped by, the old
Tarantula heard the horn-bells which were attached to his belt and saw
him as he passed, this young Swift-runner, and he thought to himself:
“Ah, ha! Now if I could only get his fine apparel away from him, what
luck it would be for me! I will wait for him the next time.”