ready and be happy, for in four days they should dance the _Óinahe_.
When they had done calling, they descended, and the people said to one
another: “Surely she will come out when we dance the _Óinahe_, for she
will be delighted with it, and we shall yet see her. She was very
beautiful when she was a little girl.” Then both of the warriors
climbed to the top of Thunder Mountain, where Áhaiyúta and his brother,
Mátsailéma, the Gods of War, and their grandmother lived in the middle
of the summit. As they approached the presence of the two gods, they
exclaimed: “_She-e!_”
“_Hai!_” the gods replied.
“Our fathers, how is it that ye are, these many days?” they asked, and
the Twain replied: “We are happy. Come in; sit down”; and they placed a
couple of stools for the warriors. “What is it that ye would of us?”
they continued; “for it would be strange if ye came up to our house for
nothing.”
“True it is,” replied the warriors. “It is in our hearts as your two
chosen children--as the war-priests of our nation--that our people
should be made happy as the days of the year go by; and we therefore
think over all the beautiful dances, and now and then command that the
most fitting of them shall appear. Now, our children, the people of the
Home of the Eagles, are anxious to see our child, the daughter of the
priest-chief, who has not come forth from her house, and whom we have
never seen since she was a little girl. We have thought to order your
dance of the _Óinahe_, and we would that without fail our daughter
should be made to come forth or else die; therefore, our fathers, we
have come to consult ye and to ask your advice.”
“Aha!” cried the Twain. “Then ye are anxious that this should be, are
ye?”
“Yes,” they replied.
“Well, it shall come to pass as ye wish it, and the girl must die if she
come not forth at the bidding of the _Óinahe_!”
“Aha!” ejaculated they both. “Thanks!”
“Yea, it shall be as ye wish. Make our days for us--name the times for
preparation, and we shall be with ye to lead the _Óinahe_. The first
time our dance will come forth, and the second time our dance will come
forth, and the third time our dance will come forth, but the fourth time
our dance comes forth, it will happen as ye wish it. It will certainly
be finished as ye wish it.”
“Well! Thanks; we go!” (good-by).
“Go ye,” said the gods to their children; and they went.
The Eagle was very unhappy with all this. He knew it all, for he
understood everything that was said. Next morning he hung his head at
the window with great sadness; so the girl, after she had eaten her
morning meal, took some dainty bits to the window and said: “Why are you
so unhappy? See, I have brought you some food. Eat!”
“I will not eat; I cannot eat,” replied the Eagle.
“Why not?” asked she. “I will not harm you; I am happy; I love you just
as much as ever.”
“Alas, alas! my mother,” said the Eagle. “It is not with thoughts of
myself that I am unhappy, but your father’s two war-priests are anxious
that their children shall be made happy, and their children, the people
of our town under the mountain, are longing to see you. They have said
to one another that you never come forth; they have never seen you.
Therefore they have ordered the _Óinahe_, that you may be tempted out.
They went up to the home of Áhaiyúta and his younger brother, where they
live with their grandmother, on the top of Thunder Mountain, and the two
gods have said to them: ‘It shall come to pass as ye wish it.’ Therefore
they will dance, and on the fourth day of their dancing it shall come to
pass as they wish it. Indeed, it shall happen, my poor mother, that you
shall be no more. Alas! I can do nothing; you can do nothing; why should
I tarry longer with you? You must loosen my bonds and let me free.”
“As you like,” said the girl. “I suppose it must be as you say.” Then
she loosened the Eagle’s bonds, and, straight as the pathway of an
arrow, away he flew upward into the sky--even toward the zenith where
the Sun rested at noon-time, and whither he soon arrived himself.
“Thou comest,” said the Sun.
“I do, my father. How art thou these many days?” said the Eagle to the
Sun.
“Happy. Here, sit down.” There was a blanket already placed for him, and
thereupon he sat; but he never looked to the right nor to the left, nor
yet about the Sun-father’s splendid home. He said not a word. He only
drooped his head, so sad was he.
“What is it, my child?” asked the Sun. “I suppose thou hast some
errand, else why shouldst thou come? Surely it is not for nothing that
thou wouldst come so far to see me.”
“Quite true,” answered the Eagle. “Alas! my child; alas, my mother! Day
after day down in the home under the mountain the people dance that they
may tempt her forth; yet she has never appeared. So her father’s
war-priests are angry and have at last been to see the Twain in their
home on Thunder Mountain, and the Twain have commanded that soon it
shall come to pass as the people wish or that our beautiful maiden shall
perish. Even tomorrow it shall be; so have the Twain said; and when the
fourth dance comes out it shall come to pass, and our beautiful maiden
shall be no more; thus have the Twain said. I cannot enrich my mother,
the daughter of the priest-chief, thy beautiful child, with words of
advice, with aid of mine own will; hence come I unto thee. What shall I
do?”
“What shalt thou do?” repeated the Sun. “I know it is all as thou hast
said. Know I not all these things? The Twain, whose powers are surpassed
only by mine own, have they not commanded that it shall be? What shalt
thou do but descend at once? Tell her to bathe herself and put on her
finest garments tomorrow morning. Then, when the time comes, mount her
upon thy shoulders and bear her up to me. Only possibly thou wilt have
the great good fortune to reach my house with her. Possibly in thy
journey hither it shall come to be, alas! as the Twain have said; for
have not they said it should be, and are they not above all things else
powerful?”
“Well, we’ll try to come.”
“But I will watch thee when thou art about to reach the mid-heavens.”
“Well, I go,” said the Eagle, rising.
“Very well,” responded the Sun; “happily mayest thou journey.” And the
Eagle began to descend.
Meanwhile the daughter of the priest-chief opened the sky-hole and
placed a sacred medicine-bowl half full of water on the floor where the
sunlight would shine into it, and where it would reflect the sky, and
there she sat looking intently down into the water. By-and-by the Eagle
came in sight, and she saw his shadow in the water.
Just then the Sun drew his shield from his face. Oh! how hot it was down
there on the earth. The sky was ablaze with light, and no one dared to
look at it; and the sands grew so hot that they burned the moccasins of
those who walked upon them. Everybody ran into the houses, and the Eagle
spread his wings and gently descended, for he too was hot. And when he
came near to the house, the girl let him in and welcomed him.
“Thou comest, father,” said she.
He only drooped his head and flapped his wings, unable even to speak, so
hot was he.
She saw that he was near to fainting. Therefore she fanned him--made
cool wind for him with the basket tray and her mantle--and sprinkled
cold water upon his head.
“Thou hast been to the home of our father?” she asked, when he had
recovered.
“Yes,” replied the Eagle.
“What has he advised that we should do?” asked she.
“This,” said the Eagle; “tomorrow morning at the dawn of day thou wilt
arise and bathe thyself. Then at sunrise thou shalt put on thy finest
garments. The dance will come forth; and then it will come forth the
second time, and the third time, and again it will come the fourth time.
Then I will mount thee upon my shoulders and bear thee away toward the
Sun, who will be waiting for us. It may be that we shall have the good
fortune to reach his home; and it may be that we shall get only a little
way when everything shall come to pass unhappily and thou wilt be no
more.” That is what he said to her.
It grew night. The girl collected all the basket-trays that she had made
for her father’s sacred plumes; these by the fire-light she spread out,
and then began to divide them into different heaps.
Now, her parents, who were sitting in the next room, heard her until it
was late at night, and they said to each other: “Wonder what it is that
keeps our daughter up?” So the old priest-chief arose and entered her
room.
“My child, art thou not at rest yet?” asked he.
“No,” replied she. “I am dividing the trays I have made for thee.
These,” said she, pointing to a heap of yellow ones, “shall pertain to
the north-land; these, the blue, to the west-land; the red to the land
of the south, the white to the east, the variegated to the upper
regions, and the black to the regions below. For tomorrow, beloved
father, thou shalt see me no more.”
“It is well,” said the father, for he was a great priest and knew the
will of the gods, and to this he always said: “It is well. What,
therefore, should I say?” So the old man left her.
Then as morning approached she bathed herself. And the Eagle, looking
down, said: “My child, my mother, lie down and rest thyself, for we are
about to undertake a long journey. Never fear; I will wake thee at the
right time.” So she lay down and slept. The Eagle perched himself above
her and watched for the dawn.
By-and-by the great star arose. Then he knew that the Sun would soon
follow it, and he said: “Mother, arise! dress thyself, for the time is
near at hand.”
Outside on the house-tops called the two war-priests to their children:
“Hasten, hasten! Prepare for the dance!
Hasten, hasten! Eat for the dance!
Hasten, hasten, our children all!”
Then the girl went into another room and brought forth her finest
dresses, and these, garment after garment, she put on--not one dress,
but many. Upon her shoulders she placed four mantles of snow-white
embroidered cotton. Then she said to the Eagle: “Wait a moment; I have
yet to think of our children in the Home of the Eagles.” Therefore she
brought forth her basket-bowls of fine meal with which she had been
accustomed to powder her face. There was meal of the yellow corn, the
blue corn-meal, the red corn-meal, the white corn-meal, the speckled
corn-meal, and the black corn-meal. “See,” said she, as she regarded the
various vessels of meal; “my children, by means of these shall ye
beautify flesh; by means of these be precious against evil; by means of
these shall ye finish preciously your roads of life. I am to be no more.
Far off and to an unknown region go I. Possibly I may reach it, and
live; probably not reach it, and die. These do I leave as your
inheritance. My children, good-by.”[40]
[40] The maiden here addresses mankind generally.
Then the Eagle descended. The drum began to sound outside; the dance was
coming--for the first time, mind you, not the fourth. Then said the
Eagle, as he lowered himself: “Place thyself upon my back; grasp me by
the shoulders.” And the girl did as she was bidden. She reclined herself
lengthwise on the back of the Eagle, and grasped with her left hand his
shoulders. “Now, place one foot on one of my thighs and the other on the
other.” She placed one foot on one of his thighs and the other on the
other; and the Eagle spread his tail and raised it that she might not
fall off. “All ready?” asked he, as the drum of the coming dance sounded
outside.
“Yes,” said the girl; and they arose.
“Open the wicket!” and _shoa!_ the Eagle spread his wings and away off
up into the sky he sprang with the maiden. Round and round, round and
round, they circled in the sky, but those below saw nothing as they
danced in the shadows of the great houses. The dancers retired. Then
they came forth again. Again they retired and came forth. Then the girl
said: “Father, slower. Let me sing a farewell song to my people, my
children of Earth, that they may know I am going.”
The Eagle spread his wings and sailed gently through the air as the
maiden sang. Then the people in the plaza below heard the song, and
said: “Alas, alas! ye Twain!” said they to the two gods who led the
dance. “Our mother, our child, away off through the skies goes she! Ye
are fools that ye have let her escape and deceive us!”
Some listened to the song and learned it. Others did not. For the third
time the dancers came forth. “Once more have we to dance,” said the two
gods. “Where are they now?”
“In the mid-heavens,” said the people.
“Take it easily, my child,” said the Eagle. “Once more are they to come
forth. Possibly we will yet have the great good fortune to reach the
home of our father.” And they sped along through the air, nearer and
nearer to the home of the Sun-father, while the dancers below danced
harder and harder--many so joyful that they listened not to the
complainings of the people around, but danced only more vigorously.
Then the dancers retired and came out for the fourth and last time. In
the van danced the two gods, their faces blackened with the paint of
war, their hands bearing bows and arrows with which to destroy the
daughter of the priest-chief.
Yes, they were almost there. Now, the Eagle’s heart was high with hope.
When the two gods below reached the center of the plaza they turned to
the people and asked: “Where are they? Where have they gone?”
“There they are in the skies--almost there,” replied the people.
“Humph!” responded the gods. “Suppose they _are_ almost there; they
shall never reach the home of our father!”
“Now, then, hurry, brother younger!” exclaimed the elder; “with which
hand wilt thou draw the arrow?”
“With thy hand, my right,” said the younger.
“Very well; with thy hand, my left,” said the elder.[41]
[41] The twin children of the Sun were, in the days of creation,
the benignant guardians of men; but when the world became filled
with envy and war, they were changed by the eight gods of the
storms into warriors more powerful than all monsters, gods, or
men. The elder one was right-handed, the younger, left-handed;
hence the form of expression here used.
So they drew their medicine-pointed arrows to the heads. _Tsi-ni-i-i!_
sang the arrows as they shot through the air. Soon they reached the home
of the Sun, crossed one another over his face, and shot downward more
swiftly than ever toward the coming Eagle and the maiden. “Alas! my
mother, my child,” said the Sun as the arrows flew past him and from
him, “thou art no more.” And the arrows shot downward on their course.
_Tsook!_ sang the arrow of the elder god as it pierced the back of the
girl and entered her heart. _Tso-ko!_ sang the arrow of the younger as
it struck in the middle of her back.
“Alas! my mother, my mother,” cried the Eagle, “it is over, alas, alas!”
said he, as she released her hold, and, fainting, he left her to fall
through the air. Over and over, this way and that, fell the beautiful
maiden; and as the people strained their eyes, nearer and nearer to the
town neath the mountain she fell. Soon, over and over, this way and
that, she came falling even with the top of the mountain.
Then the people rushed past one another out of the plaza toward the
place where they thought she would strike. And just over there below the
Home of the Eagles, where the Waters of the Coyote gush forth from the
cliff-base, fell the beautiful maiden.
Then there were born twin children--two wee infants who rolled off into
the rubbish and were concealed under sticks and stones.
Down rushed the people, and an Acoma spectator seized her body. “Mine!”
cried he, triumphantly, as he raised the body above him.
“Thine!” cried the people, for they had lost the beautiful maiden.
“Ours!” cried the Acomas, one to another, who had come to witness the
dances. “Great good fortune this day has smiled on us.” And they bore
her body away to their pueblo in the east.
Now, under the other end of Thunder Mountain was the home of the
Badgers, and an old Badger who lived there was out hunting. After the
people had again gathered in the city, he passed near the Waters of the
Coyote and heard the voices of the infants crying among the rubbish.
“Ah!” said he, “I hear the cry of children. My little boys, my little
girls,” cried he, “whichever ye may be”; and he hastily searched and
found them where they were rolling about and crying among the refuse.
“Twins!” cried he. “Boys! Somebody has left them here. Soon he will come
back to reclaim them. Let me walk away for a few moments.”
So he walked all around, but found no traces of the parents, only the
tracks of many men who had gathered near.
“Mine!” said he, as he trotted back; and with soft grass he rubbed them
till they were free from the mud and refuse. “Thanks, thanks! Splendid!
Children have I, and boys at that, and when I am older grown they will
take from me the cares of the chase. Goodness! Thanks! Nothing but boys
shall be my children!” So he rubbed them dry and clean with more soft
grass, and they stopped crying. Then he took some dry grass and made a
bundle and put them in it, and started off for his home in the Red
Hills.
The old Badger-woman was up on top of their house looking around,
running back and forth and jumping in and out of her doorway. “Hai!”
said she; “thou comest?”
“Yes, hurry!” said the old Badger. “Come down and meet me.”
“What have you?” asked the Badger-woman, as she ran down to meet him.
“What have I,” said the old Badger, “but a couple of wee little
children! Here, take them and carry them up to the house.”
So the old woman took the bundle of grass and opened it and began to
fondle the children. “O my poor little children; poor little babes!”
said she.
“Ah! stop playing with them and hurry along!” commanded the old Badger.
So the old woman hurried up to their doorway as fast as possible and ran
in. The old Badger followed, and she said to him: “Where in the world
did you get these little children?”
“Why,” replied he, “I had the greatest luck in the world. I was out
hunting, you know, and found these two little fellows down in Coyote
Cañon, just this side of those men’s houses. They’re boys, both of them.
When they grow up, old wife, perhaps they can hunt for us, and then I
shall rest myself from the labors of the hunt, with plenty of meat for
you and me every day of the year. What are you standing there for?” said
he. “Why don’t you go and get them something to eat and make them a
bed?”
“Oh, yes!” responded the old woman. “My poor little children!” So she
made a little nest at the bottom of the hole and laid them on it. Then
she ran and fetched some green-corn ears and, picking the kernels off,
made some gruel of them, and fed the little fellows. So the boy babies
ate till they kicked their heels with satisfaction, and that night the
old Badger-mother took one in her arms and slept with it, and the old
Badger-father slept with the other.
Now, every day they grew as much as the children of men do in a year, so
that in eight days they were as large and knew as much as children
usually do in eight years. There was no little animal that they could
not kill unfailingly, for they were the children of the Sun, you know.
But, alas! they grew weary of killing birds around their doorway, and
their old father kept telling them every morning never to go out of
sight of their house; and the old woman kept watching them always for
fear that they would run off and get lost, or somebody would find and
claim them. Yes, they grew impatient of this. They wanted to kill
prairie-dogs and cottontails, but they could not get near enough to
them. So one night when the old Badger came home they said to him:
“Father, come now; do make us some bows and arrows so that we can hunt
rabbits, and you and mother can have all that you want to eat.”
“All right,” replied the old man. And the next day he went off to the
Cañon of the Woods, and somehow he managed to cut down a small oak and
get a lot of branches for arrows. He brought these home, and that night
with a piece of flint, little by little he managed to make each of the
boys a bow and some arrows. But when he tried to put feathers on the
arrows he was very awkward (for you know badgers don’t have fingers like
men), so he had to take a single feather for each arrow and split it
and twist it around the butt of the shaft. That very night, do you know,
it snowed; yes, a great deal of snow fell, and the little fellows looked
out and said to each other and to the old Badgers: “Now then, tomorrow
we will go rabbit-hunting.”
“O mother, make a lunch for us!” they exclaimed.
“Where are you going?” asked the old woman.
“We are going out among the hills and down on the plains where the trees
grow, to hunt rabbits.”
“O my poor little boys! What will you do?--you will freeze to death, for
you have no clothes and no wool grows on your backs.”
“Well, mother, we’re tough. We will get up tomorrow and wait until the
sun shines warm--then we can go hunting.”
“How in the world will you carry your food? You have no blanket to wrap
it in.”
“Oh, you just make some corn-cakes,” answered the boys, “and string them
on a little stick, and we can take hold of the middle of the stick and
carry them just as well as not.”
“_Hi-ta!_” cried the old woman. “Listen, father.” So she made the
corn-cakes and strung them on little sticks, and the two boys went to
bed. But they couldn’t sleep very well, being so impatient to go hunting
rabbits, and they kept waking each other and peeping out to see how long
it would be before daylight.
In the morning the old Badger got up early and collected a lot of bark
which he rubbed until it was soft, and then he wove the boys each a
curious pair of moccasins that would come half-way up to the knees. So
the elder brother put on his moccasins and ran out into the snow.
“_U-kwatchi!_” exclaimed he. “First rate!” So the other little boy put
on his bark moccasins, and they took their strings of corn-cakes and
bows and arrows, and started off as fast as they could. Well, they went
off among the hills at the foot of Thunder Mountain. It was only a
little while ere they struck a rabbit trail, and the first arrow they
shot killed the rabbit. So they kept on hunting until they had a large
number of rabbits and began to get tired. Although there was snow on the
ground, the sun was very warm, so they soon forgot all about it until
they began to grow hungry, and then they looked up and saw that it was
noon-time, because the sun was resting in the mid-heavens. So they went
up on top of a high hill, and carried their rabbits there one by one, to
find a place where the snow was shallow. Here they brushed a space clear
of the snow, and, depositing the rabbits, sat down to eat their
corn-cakes, which they laid on a bundle of grass. While they sat there
eating, the Sun looked down and pitied his two poor little children.
“Wait a bit,” said he to himself, “I’ll go down and talk to the little
fellows, and help them.” So by his will alone he descended, and lo! he
stood there on the earth just a little way from the two boys,--grand,
beautiful, sublime. Upon his body were garments of embroidered cotton;
fringed leggings covered his knees, and he was girt with many-colored
girdles; buckskins of bright leather protected his feet; bracelets and
strings of wampum ornamented his neck and arms; turquoise earrings hung
from his ears; beautiful plumes waved over his head; his long, glossy
hair was held with cords of many colors, into which great plumes of
macaw feathers were stuck. Fearful, wonderful, beautiful, he stood.
Suddenly one of the boys looked up and saw the Sun-father standing
there.
“Blood!” cried he to the other. “_Ati!_ Somebody’s coming!”
“Where?” asked the other. “Where?”
“Right over there!”
“_Ati!_” he exclaimed.
Then the Sun, with stately step, approached them, dazzling their eyes
with his beauty and his magnificent dress. So the poor little fellows
huddled together and crouched their knees close to their bodies (for
they had no clothes on), and watched him, trembling, until he came near.
Then one of them said faintly: “Comest thou?” as though he just
remembered it.
“Yea, I do, my children,” said the Sun. “How are ye these many days?”
“Happy,” responded they; but they were almost frightened out of their
wits, and kept looking first at the Sun-father and then at each other.
“My children,” said the Sun-father tenderly, “ye are my own children; I
gave ye both life.” But they only gazed at him, not believing what he
said.
“Ye are both mine own children,” he repeated.
“Is that so?” replied they.
“Yea, that is true; and I saw ye here, and pitied ye; so I came to speak
with ye and to help ye.”
“_Hai!_” exclaimed they. But they still looked at each other and at the
Sun-father, and did not believe him.