About dark that evening, Klakherrit, the counterfeit Pitis, _Hero-Tales of Ireland

HERO-TALES

IRELAND

COLLECTED BY

JEREMIAH CURTIN

LONDON

MACMILLAN AND CO.

1894

University Press:

JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN MORLEY,

SECRETARY OF STATE FOR IRELAND.

SIR,—

To you, a thinker who values every age of human history, and a statesman

who takes deep interest in the nation which produced and kept these

tales, I beg to dedicate this volume.

JEREMIAH CURTIN.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

INTRODUCTION ix

ELIN GOW, THE SWORDSMITH FROM ERIN, AND THE COW GLAS GAINACH 1

MOR’S SONS AND THE HERDER FROM UNDER THE SEA 35

SAUDAN OG AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE KING OF SPAIN; YOUNG CONAL

AND THE YELLOW KING’S DAUGHTER 58

THE BLACK THIEF AND KING CONAL’S THREE HORSES 93

THE KING’S SON FROM ERIN, THE SPRISAWN, AND THE DARK KING 114

THE AMADAN MOR AND THE GRUAGACH OF THE CASTLE OF GOLD 140

THE KING’S SON AND THE WHITE-BEARDED SCOLOG 163

DYEERMUD ULTA AND THE KING IN SOUTH ERIN 182

CUD, CAD, AND MICAD, THREE SONS OF THE KING OF URHU 198

CAHAL, SON OF KING CONOR, IN ERIN, AND BLOOM OF YOUTH, DAUGHTER

OF THE KING OF HATHONY 223

COLDFEET AND THE QUEEN OF LONESOME ISLAND 242

LAWN DYARRIG, SON OF THE KING OF ERIN, AND THE KNIGHT OF

TERRIBLE VALLEY 262

BALOR ON TORY ISLAND 283

BALOR OF THE EVIL EYE AND LUI LAVADA, HIS GRANDSON 296

ART, THE KING’S SON, AND BALOR BEIMENACH, TWO SONS-IN-LAW OF

KING UNDER THE WAVE 312

SHAWN MACBREOGAN AND THE KING OF THE WHITE NATION 335

THE COTTER’S SON AND THE HALF SLIM CHAMPION 356

BLAIMAN, SON OF APPLE, IN THE KINGDOM OF THE WHITE STRAND 373

FIN MACCOOL AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE KING OF THE WHITE NATION 407

FIN MACCOOL, THE THREE GIANTS, AND THE SMALL MEN 438

FIN MACCOOL, CEADACH OG, AND THE FISH-HAG 463

FIN MACCOOL, FAOLAN, AND THE MOUNTAIN OF HAPPINESS 484

FIN MACCOOL, THE HARD GILLA, AND THE HIGH KING 514

THE BATTLE OF VENTRY 530

NOTES 547

INTRODUCTION.

The tales included in this volume, though told in modern speech, relate

to heroes and adventures of an ancient time, and contain elements

peculiar to early ages of story-telling. The chief actors in most of

them are represented as men; but we may be quite sure that these men are

substitutes for heroes who were not considered human when the stories

were told to Keltic audiences originally. To make the position of these

Gaelic tales clear, it is best to explain, first of all, what an ancient

tale is; and to do this we must turn to uncivilized men who possess such

tales yet in their primitive integrity.

We have now in North America a number of groups of tales obtained from

the Indians which, when considered together, illustrate and supplement

one another; they constitute, in fact, a whole system. These tales we

may describe as forming collectively the Creation myth of the New World.

Since the primitive tribes of North America have not emerged yet from

the Stone Age of development, their tales are complete and in good

preservation. In some cases simple and transparent, it is not difficult

to recognize the heroes; they are distinguishable at once either by

their names or their actions or both. In other cases these tales are

more involved, and the heroes are not so easily known, because they are

concealed by names and epithets. Taken as a whole, however, the Indian

tales are remarkably clear; and a comparison of them with the Gaelic

throws much light on the latter.

What is the substance and sense of these Indian tales, of what do they

treat? To begin with, they give an account of how the present order

of things arose in the world, and are taken up with the exploits,

adventures, and struggles of various elements, animals, birds, reptiles,

insects, plants, rocks, and other objects before they became what they

are. In other words, the Indian tales give an account of what all those

individualities accomplished, or suffered, before they fell from their

former positions into the state in which they are now. According to the

earliest tales of North America, this world was occupied, prior to the

appearance of man, by beings called variously “the first people,” “the

outside people,” or simply “people,”—the same term in all cases being

used for people that is applied to Indians at present.

These people, who were very numerous, lived together for ages in harmony.

There were no collisions among them, no disputes during that period;

all were in perfect accord. In some mysterious fashion, however, each

individual was changing imperceptibly; an internal movement was going

on. At last, a time came when the differences were sufficient to cause

conflict, except in the case of a group to be mentioned hereafter, and

struggles began. These struggles were gigantic, for the “first people”

had mighty power; they had also wonderful perception and knowledge. They

felt the approach of friends or enemies even at a distance; they knew

the thought in another’s heart. If one of them expressed a wish, it was

accomplished immediately; nay, if he even thought of a thing, it was

there before him. Endowed with such powers and qualities, it would seem

that their struggles would be endless and indecisive; but such was not

the case. Though opponents might be equally dexterous, and have the power

of the wish or the word in a similar degree, one of them would conquer in

the end through wishing for more effective and better things, and thus

become the hero of a higher cause; that is, a cause from which benefit

would accrue to mankind, the coming race.

The accounts of these struggles and conflicts form the substance of

the first cycle of American tales, which contain the adventures of the

various living creatures, plants, elements, objects, and phenomena in

this world before they became what they are as we see them. Among living

creatures, we are not to reckon man, for man does not appear in any of

those myth tales; they relate solely to extra-human existences, and

describe the battle and agony of creation, not the adventures of anything

in the world since it received its present form and office. According to

popular modes of thought and speech, all this would be termed the fall

of the gods; for the “first people” of the Indian tales correspond to

the earliest gods of other races, including those of the Kelts. We have

thus, in America, a remarkable projection of thought, something quite as

far-reaching for the world of mind as is the nebular hypothesis for the

world of matter. According to the nebular hypothesis, the whole physical

universe is evolved by the rotary motion of a primeval, misty substance

which fills all space, and which seems homogeneous. From a uniform motion

of this attenuated matter, continued through eons of ages, is produced

that infinite variety in the material universe which we observe and

discover, day by day; from it we have the countless host of suns and

planets whose positions in space correspond to their sizes and densities,

that endless choral dance of heavenly bodies with its marvellous figures

and complications, that ceaseless movement of each body in its own

proper path, and that movement of each group or system with reference

to others. From this motion, come climates, succession of seasons, with

all the variety in this world of sense which we inhabit. In the theory

of spiritual evolution, worked out by the aboriginal mind of America,

all kinds of moral quality and character are represented as coming from

an internal movement through which the latent, unevolved personality

of each individual of these “first people,” or gods, is produced. Once

that personality is produced, every species of dramatic situation and

tragic catastrophe follows as an inevitable sequence. There is no more

peace after that; there are only collisions followed by combats which are

continued by the gods till they are turned into all the things,—animal,

vegetable, and mineral,—which are either useful or harmful to man, and

thus creation is accomplished. During the period of struggles, the gods

organize institutions, social and religious, according to which they

live. These are bequeathed to man; and nothing that an Indian has is of

human invention, all is divine. An avowed innovation, anything that we

call reform, anything invented by man, would be looked on as sacrilege,

a terrible, an inexpiable crime. The Indian lives in a world prepared

by the gods, and follows in their footsteps,—that is the only morality,

the one pure and holy religion. The struggles in which creation began,

and the continuance of which was creation itself, were bequeathed to

aboriginal man; and the play of passions which caused the downfall of

the gods has raged ever since, throughout every corner of savage life in

America.

This Creation myth of the New World is a work of great value, for by aid

of it we can bring order into mythology, and reconstruct, at least in

outline, and provisionally, that early system of belief which was common

to all races: a system which, though expressed in many languages, and

in endlessly varying details, has one meaning, and was, in the fullest

sense of the word, one,—a religion truly Catholic and Œcumenical, for it

was believed in by all people, wherever resident, and believed in with

a vividness of faith, and a sincerity of attachment, which no civilized

man can even imagine, unless he has had long experience of primitive

races. In the struggle between these “first people,” or gods, there were

never drawn battles: one side was always victorious, the other always

vanquished; but each could give one command, one fateful utterance,

which no power could resist or gainsay. The victor always said to the

vanquished: “Henceforth, you’ll be nothing but a ——,” and here he named

the beast, bird, insect, reptile, fish, or plant, which his opponent was

to be. That moment the vanquished retorted, and said: “You’ll be nothing

but a ——,” mentioning what he was to be. Thereupon each became what his

opponent had made him, and went away over the earth. As a rule, there is

given with the sentence a characteristic description; for example: “The

people to come hereafter will hunt you, and kill you to eat you;” or,

“will kill you for your skin;” or, “will kill you because they hate you.”

One opponent might be turned into a wolf, the other into a squirrel;

or one into a bear, the other into a fox: there is always a strict

correspondence, however, between the former nature of each combatant and

the present character of the creature into which he has been transformed,

looked at, of course, from the point of view of the original myth-maker.

The war between the gods continued till it produced on land, in the

water, and the air, all creatures that move, and all plants that grow.

There is not a beast, bird, fish, reptile, insect, or plant which is

not a fallen divinity; and for every one noted there is a story of its

previous existence.

This transformation of the former people, or divinities, of America

was finished just before the present race of men—that is, the

Indians—appeared. This transformation does not take place in every

American mythology as a result of single combat. Sometimes a great hero

goes about ridding the world of terrible oppressors and monsters: he

beats them, turns them into something insignificant; after defeat they

have no power over him. We may see in the woods some weak worm or insect

which, in the first age, was an awful power, but a bad one. Stories

of this kind present some of the finest adventures, and most striking

situations, as well as qualities of character in the hero that invite

admiration.

In some mythologies a few personages who are left unchanged at the eve of

man’s coming, transform themselves voluntarily. The details of the change

vary from tribe to tribe; but in all it takes place in some described

way, and forms part of the general change, or metamorphosis, which is

the vital element in the American system. In many, perhaps in all, the

mythologies, there is an account of how some of the former people, or

gods, instead of fighting and taking part in the struggle of creation,

and being transformed, retained their original character, and either went

above the sky, or sailed away westward to where the sky comes down, and

passed out under it, and beyond, to a pleasant region where they live in

delight. This is that contingent to which I have referred, that part of

“the first people” in which no passion was developed; they remained in

primitive simplicity, undifferentiated, and are happy at present. They

correspond to those gods of classic antiquity who enjoyed themselves

apart, and took no interest whatever in the sufferings or the joys of

mankind.

It is evident, at once, that to the aborigines of America the field for

beautiful stories was very extensive.

Everything in nature had a tale of its own, if some one would but tell

it; and during the epoch of constructive power in the race,—the epoch

when languages were built up, and great stories made,—few things of

importance to people of that time were left unconsidered; hence, there

was among the Indians of America a volume of tales as immense, one might

say, as an ocean river. This statement I make in view of materials which

I have gathered myself, and which are still unpublished,—materials which,

though voluminous, are comparatively meagre, merely a hint of what in

some tribes was lost, and of what in others is still uncollected. What

is true of the Indians with reference to the volume of their stories, is

true of all races.

From what is known of the mind of antiquity, and from what data we have

touching savage life in the present, we may affirm as a theory that

primitive beliefs, in all places, are of the same system essentially as

the American. In that system, every individual existence beyond man is

a divinity, but a divinity under sentence,—a divinity weighed down by

fate; a divinity with a history behind it, a history which is tragedy or

comedy as the case may be. These histories extend along the whole line of

experience, and include every combination conceivable to primitive man.

Of the pre-Christian beliefs of the Kelts, not much is known yet in

detail and with certainty. What we may say at present is this, that

they form a very interesting variant of that aforementioned Œcumenical

religion held in early ages by all men. The peculiarities and value of

the variant will be shown when the tales, beliefs, and literary monuments

of the race are brought fully into evidence.

Now that some statement has been made touching Indian tales and their

contents, we may give, for purposes of comparison, two or three of them,

either in part or condensed. These examples may serve to show what Gaelic

tales were before they were modified in structure, and before human

substitutes were put in place of the primitive heroes.

It should be stated here that these accounts of a former people, and the

life of the world before this, as given in the tales, were delivered in

one place and another by some of these “former people” who were the last

to be transformed, and who found means to give needful instruction to

men. On the Klamath River, in Northwestern California, there is a sacred

tree, a former divinity, which has been a great source of revelation. On

a branch of the Upper Columbia is a rock which has told whole histories

of a world before this.

Among the Iroquois, I found a story in possession of a doctor,—that is, a

magician, or sorcerer,—who, so far as I could learn, was the only man who

knew it, though others knew of it. This story is in substance as follows:

Once there was an orphan boy who had no friends; a poor, childless

widow took the little fellow, and reared him. When the boy had grown up

somewhat, he was very fond of bows and arrows, became a wonderful shot.

As is usual with orphans, he was wiser than others, and was able to hunt

when much smaller than his comrades.

He began to kill birds for his foster-mother; gradually he went farther

from home, and found more game. The widow had plenty in her house now,

and something to give her friends. The boy and the woman lived on in this

fashion a whole year. He was good, thoughtful, serious, a wise boy, and

brought game every day. The widow was happy with her foster-son.

At last he came late one evening, later than ever before, and hadn’t half

so much game.

“Why so late, my son; and why have you so little game?” asked the widow.

“Oh, my mother, game is getting scarce around here; I had to go far to

find any, and then it was too late to kill more.”

The next day he was late again, a little later than the day before, and

had no more game; he gave the same excuse. This conduct continued a week;

the woman grew suspicious, and sent out a boy to follow her foster-son,

and see what he was doing.

Now what had happened to the boy? He had gone far into the forest on the

day when he was belated, farther than ever before. In a thick and dense

place he found a round, grassy opening; in the middle of this space was

a large rock, shaped like a millstone, and lying on one side, the upper

part was flat and level. He placed his birds on the rock, sprang up, and

sat on it to rest; the time was just after midday. While he was sitting

there, he heard a voice in the stone, which asked: “Do you want me to

tell a story?” He was astonished, said nothing. Again the voice spoke,

and he answered: “Yes, tell me a story.”

The voice began, and told him a wonderful story, such as he had never

heard before. He was delighted; never had he known such pleasure. About

the middle of the afternoon, the story was finished; and the voice said:

“Now, you must give me your birds for the story; leave them where you put

them.” He went away toward home, shot what birds he could find, but did

not kill many.

He came the next day, with birds, and heard a second story; and so it

went on till the eighth day, when the boy sent by the foster-mother

followed secretly. That boy heard the story too, discovered himself,

and promised not to tell. Two days later the widow sent a second boy to

watch those two, and three days after that a third one. The boys were

true to the orphan, however, and would not tell; the magic of the stories

overcame them.

At last the woman went to the chief with her trouble; he sent a man to

watch the boys. This man joined the boys, and would not tell. The chief

then sent his most trusty friend, whom nothing could turn aside from his

errand. He came on the boys and the man, while they were listening to a

story, and threatened them, was very angry. The voice stopped then, and

said: “I will tell no more to-day; but, you boys and you men, listen to

me, take a message to the chief and the people,—tell them to come here

to-morrow, to come all of them, for I have a great word to say to every

person.”

The boys and men went home, and delivered the message. On the following

day, the whole people went out in a body. They cleared away the thick

grass in the open space; and all sat down around the stone, from which

the voice came as follows:—

“Now, you chief and you people, there was a world before this, and a

people different from the people in the world now,—another kind of

people. I am going to tell you of that people. I will tell you all about

them,—what they did; how they fixed this world; and what they became

themselves. You will come here every day till I have told all the stories

of the former people; and each time you will bring a little present of

what you have at home.”

The stone began, told a story that day, told more the next day. The

people came day after day, week after week, till the stone told all it

knew. Then it said: “You have heard all the stories of the former world;

you will keep them, preserve them as long as you live. In after times

some man will remember nearly all of these stories; another will remember

a good many; a third, not so many; a fourth man, a few; a fifth, one

story; a sixth, parts of some stories, but not all of any story. No man

will remember every story; only the whole people can remember all. When

one man goes to another who knows stories, and he tells them, the first

man will give him some present,—tobacco, a bit of venison, a bird, or

whatever he has. He will do as you have done to me. I have finished.”

Very interesting and important are these statements touching the origin

of stories; they indicate in the Indian system revelation as often as it

is needed. In Ireland, the origin of every Fenian tale is explained in a

way somewhat similar. All the accounts of Fin Mac Cool and his men were

given to Saint Patrick by Ossian, after his return from Tir nan Og, the

Land of the Young, where he had lived three hundred years. These Fenian

tales were written down at that time, it is stated; but Saint Patrick

gave an order soon after to destroy two-thirds of the number, for they

were so entertaining, he said, that the people of Erin would do nothing

but listen to them.

In every case the Fenian tales of Ireland, like the tales of America,

are made up of the adventures of heroes who are not human. Some writers

assert that there have never been such persons on earth as Fin Mac Cool

and his men; others consider them real characters in Irish history. In

either case, the substantial character of the tales is not changed. If

Fin and his men are historical personages, deeds of myth-heroes, ancient

gods of Gaelic mythology, have been attributed to them, or they have been

substituted for heroes who were in the tales previously. If Fin and his

men are not historical, they are either the original non-human heroes,

or a later company of similar character substituted in the tales for the

original heroes, or for some successors of those heroes; at this date it

would be difficult to decide how often such substitutions may have been

made.

The following tale of Pitis and Klakherrit, though condensed, is

complete; it is given here not because it is the best for illustration,

but because it is accessible. The tale is dramatic; the characters

are well known; it is ancient, and may be used to show how easily the

character of stories may be modified without changing their structure,

simply by changing the heroes. This tale of Pitis and Klakherrit is not

more than third rate, if compared with other Indian tales, perhaps not so

high in rank as that, still, it is a good story.

At a place called Memtachnokolton lived the Pitis people; they were

numerous, all children of one father. They lived as they liked for a

long time, till one of them who had gone hunting did not return in the

evening. Next day two of his brothers went to look for him, and found his

headless body four or five miles away, at the side of a deer-trail. They

carried the body home, and buried it.

On the following day, another went to hunt, and spent the night out in

like manner. Next day his headless body was found, brought home, and

buried. Each day a Pitis went to hunt till the last one was killed; and

the way they died was this:—

Not very far south of the deer-trail were the Klak people, at

Klakkewilton. They lived together in one great house, and were all blind

except one Klakherrit, who was young and strong, bad, a great liar, and

very fond of gambling. This Klakherrit hated the Pitis people, and wanted

to kill them all; he used to go out and watch for them. When a Pitis went

hunting, and was following the deer, Klakherrit sat down at the trail,

some distance ahead; and, as the Pitis came up, he would groan, and call

out, “Oh, I have a big splinter in my foot; I cannot take it out alone,

help me!”

The Pitis pitied him always, and said: “I will pull it out for you;” then

he sat down, took the foot in his hand, looked at it, and pulled at the

splinter.

“Oh, you cannot pull it out with your fingers; you must take it between

your teeth.” The Pitis took the end of the splinter between his teeth,

and began to pull; that moment Klakherrit cut his head off, and carried

it to Klakkewilton, leaving the body by the roadside.

When Klakherrit killed the last Pitis, he took his skin, put it on and

became just like Pitis. He went then to Memtachnokolton, and said to the

Pitis women and children, “I killed a deer to-day; but Klakherrit ran off

with it, so I come home with nothing.”

“We have enough to eat; never mind,” said the women, who thought he was

their man.

About dark that evening, Klakherrit, the counterfeit Pitis, killed all

the women and children except one little child, a boy, who escaped by

some wonderful fortune, and hid under the weeds. Klakherrit burned the

village then, and went home, thinking: “I have killed every Pitis.”

Next morning little Pitis came out of his hiding-place, and wandered

around the burnt village, crying. Soon an old woman, Tsosokpokaila, heard

the child, found him, took him home, called him grandson, and reared him;

she gave him seeds to eat which she took from her own people,—a great

many of them lived in her village. She was a small person, but active.

In a few days, little Pitis began to talk; and soon he was able to run

around, and play with bows and arrows. The old woman said to him then:

“My grandson, you must never go to the south nor to the east. Go always

to the north or west, and don’t go far; you needn’t think to meet any of

your people, they are dead, every one of them.”

All this time Klakherrit went out every morning, and listened long and

carefully; hearing no sound of a Pitis, he went in one day, and said to

his blind relatives: “I hear nothing, I see nothing of the Pitis people;

they are all dead.”

There was one old man in the house, an uncle of Klakherrit, and he

answered: “My nephew, I can’t see anything; but some day you may see a

Pitis. I don’t think all the Pitis people are dead yet; I think some are

living in this world somewhere.”

Klakherrit said nothing, but went out every morning as before; at last he

saw far away in the west a little smoke rising, a slender streak of it.

“Some people are living off there,” thought he; “who can they be, I must

know.” He hurried to the house for his choicest clothes, and weapons, and

made ready. He took his best bow, and a large quiver of black fox-skin,

this he filled with arrows; then he put beads of waterbone on his neck,

and a girdle of shining shells around his waist. When dressed to his

wish, he started, and went straight toward the fire. As he came near

it, he walked slowly, to see who was there; for a time he saw no one,

but he heard pounding at the other side of a big pine-tree. He went

around slowly to the other side, and saw a man pounding something. He

would pound a while, and then pick up nuts, crack the shells with his

teeth, and eat the kernels. This person was Kaisusherrit; and he was so

busy that he did not see Klakherrit, who stood looking on a good while.

“Hallo, my friend!” said Klakherrit, at last, “why are you alone; does no

one else live around here?”

Kaisusherrit said nothing; he went on pounding pine cones, getting nuts

out of them, didn’t look at the stranger. Around his neck he had a net

bag filled with pine nuts. After a while he stopped pounding, cracked

some nuts, put the kernels in his mouth, and then pounded pine cones

again.

“My friend, you are alone in this place. I came here by myself; there

are only two of us. I saw your smoke this morning; and I said, before I

started, ‘I will go and see a good man to-day.’ I thought that you were

here, and I found you.”

Kaisusherrit said nothing, but pounded away.

“My friend, why not talk to me; why not say something? Let us gamble:

there is plenty of shade under the trees here; we might as well play.”

Kaisusherrit was silent, didn’t take his eyes off the pine cones.

“Why not talk to me, my friend? If you don’t talk to me, who will; there

are only two of us in this place. I came to see you this morning, to have

a talk with you. I thought you would tell me what is going on around

here where you live; and I would tell you what I know. Stop eating;

let’s gamble, and have a good talk.”

Klakherrit talked, and teased, and begged, all the forenoon. He didn’t

sit down once; he was on his feet all the time. At last, a little after

noon, Kaisusherrit looked up, and said: “Why do you make all this fuss?

That is not the way for one grown person to talk to another. You act like

some little boy, teasing, and talking, and hanging around. Why don’t you

sit down quietly, and tell me who you are, what you know, and where you

live? Then I can tell you what I like, and talk to you.”

Klakherrit sat down, and told who he was. Then he began again: “Well, my

friend, let us play; the shade is good here under the trees.”

“Why do you want to play?” asked Kaisusherrit; “do you see anything here

that you like? I have nothing to bet against your things.”

“Oh, you have,” said Klakherrit,—“you have your pounding stone, your net

full of nuts, your pine cones.”

“Very well,” said Kaisusherrit; “I will bet my things against yours;”

and he placed them in one pile. Klakherrit took off his weapons and

ornaments, and tied them up with Kaisusherrit’s things in one bundle, so

that the winner might have them all ready to carry away. Kaisusherrit

brought sticks to play with, and grass to use with the sticks. He sat

down then with his back to the tree, and motioned to the other to sit

down in front. The bundle was near the tree, and each had a pile of grass

behind him.

“Let us go away from this tree to the shade out there; I don’t like to be

near a tree,” said Klakherrit.

“Oh, I can’t go there; I must have my back against a tree when I

play,” said Kaisusherrit. “Oh, come, I like that place; let us go out

there.” “No, my back aches unless I lean against a tree; I must stay

here.” “Never mind this time; come on, I want to play out there,” urged

Klakherrit. “I won’t go,” said Kaisusherrit; “I must play here.”

They talked and disputed about the place till the middle of the

afternoon: but Kaisusherrit wouldn’t stir; and Klakherrit, who was dying

to play, agreed at last to let Kaisusherrit put his back to the tree, and

to sit opposite himself. They began, and were playing about two hours,

when Klakherrit was getting the advantage; he was winning. Both were

playing their best now, and watching each other. Kaisusherrit said then

in his mind, “You, Klakherrit’s grass, be all gone, be grass no more,

be dust.” The grass in Klakherrit’s hand turned to dust. He reached

behind to get more grass, but found none; then he looked to see where it

was. That moment Kaisusherrit snatched the bundle, and ran up the tree.

Klakherrit sprang to his feet, looked through the branches; and there he

saw Kaisusherrit with the bundle on his back.

“Oh, my friend,” cried he, “what is the matter; what are you doing?”

Kaisusherrit said nothing, sat on a limb, and looked at the stranger.

“Oh, my friend, why go up in the tree? Come, let us finish the game;

maybe you’ll win all my things. Come down.”

Klakherrit talked and talked. Kaisusherrit began to come down slowly,

stopping every little while; he reached the lower limbs. Klakherrit

thought he was coming surely; all at once he turned, and hurried up

again, went to the very top, and sat there. Klakherrit walked around

the tree, persuading and begging. Kaisusherrit slipped down a second

time, was near the ground, seemed to be getting off the tree; Klakherrit

was glad. Kaisusherrit didn’t get off, though; he went up to the next

limb, smiled, and looked at Klakherrit, who was getting terribly angry.

Kaisusherrit went higher. Klakherrit could hold in no longer; he was

raging. He ran, picked up sharp rocks, and hurled them at Kaisusherrit.

The first one hit the limb on which he was sitting, and cut it right

off; but he was very quick and sprang on to another. Klakherrit hurled

stone after stone at the tree, with such force and venom that a limb

fell whenever a stone struck it. At dusk there wasn’t a limb left on the

tree; but Kaisusherrit was there yet. He was very quick and resolute, and

dodged every stone. Klakherrit drew breath a moment, and began again to

hurl stones at Kaisusherrit; wherever one struck the tree, it took the

bark off. At dark the tree was all naked and battered, not a branch nor

a bit of bark left. Kaisusherrit was on it yet; but Klakherrit couldn’t

see him. Klakherrit had to go home; when he went into the house, he said,

“Well, I’ve met a man to-day who is lucky; he won all my things in play.”

“My son,” said Klakherrit’s father, who was very old, “you have been

telling us that you are a great player; but I thought all the time that

you would meet a person some day who would beat you. You have travelled

much to find such a one; you have found him.”

Next morning Klakherrit went out, and saw a smoke in the west. “That

is my friend,” said he; “I must see him.” He took his best dress and

weapons, and soon reached the fire. “Hallo, my friend,” said Klakherrit,

“I’ve come to play with you to-day.” “Very well,” answered Kaisusherrit,

who was wearing Klakherrit’s clothes that he had carried up the tree.

“But, my friend, you won’t do as you did yesterday?” “Oh, no; I’ll

play nicely to-day, I’ll play to please you.” They tied the stakes in

one bundle, brought sticks and grass. Kaisusherrit put his back to a

tree much larger than the first one. Klakherrit wished to play in the

open; Kaisusherrit wouldn’t go there. They disputed and quarrelled till

Klakherrit had to yield; but he made up his mind not to let Kaisusherrit

go up the tree this time.

They played as before till the middle of the afternoon, when Klakherrit

was winning. Kaisusherrit turned the grass into dust, and was up the

tree before Klakherrit could stop him. The deeds of the day before

were repeated with greater force. Kaisusherrit was more cynical in his

conduct. Klakherrit was more enraged; he cut all the limbs, and stripped

all the bark from this tree with stone-throwing. At dark he had to go

home, leaving Kaisusherrit unhurt.

On the third morning, Klakherrit was watching for smoke; he wanted to

win back what he had lost in the west. Soon he saw a herd of deer pass,

followed by a Pitis.

It was the end of summer; little Pitis had grown very fast, was a young

man now. While Klakherrit was gambling, Pitis told his grandmother that

he wanted to hunt. “Oh, my grandson,” said she, “you must never go

hunting; all your people were killed while out hunting. I don’t want you

to hunt; I don’t want you to be killed.”

“I don’t want to be killed, my grandmother; but I don’t like to stay

around the house here all the time. I want to find food and bring it

home; I want, besides, to see where my people were killed. I want to see

the place where they died; I want to look at the person who killed them.”

“My grandson, I don’t like to hear you talk in that way; I don’t want you

to go far from this house. There is a very bad person south of us: he is

the one who killed all your people; he is Klakherrit.”

“My grandmother, I can’t help going,—I must go; I must see the place

where my people were killed. If I can find him, I must look at

Klakherrit, who killed all my relatives.”

Next morning, young Pitis rose, and dressed himself beautifully. He took

a good bow, and a quiver of black fox-skin; his arrows were pointed with

white flint; in his hair he had Winishuyat[1] to warn him of danger. “My

grandmother,” said he, at parting, “do the best you can while I am gone.”

The old woman began to cry, and said, “Oh, my grandson, be on the watch,

and guard yourself well; take good care, my grandson.”

Pitis started off; and, when out of sight, Winishuyat said, “My brother,

a little ahead of us are deer. All your relatives were killed by

Klakherrit for the sake of these deer. The deer obeyed your people, and

went wherever they told them.” Pitis saw twenty deer, and, a few moments

later, twenty more. He shouted; they ran around, stopped, and looked at

him. “I want you, deer,” said Pitis, “to go toward the south, and go past

Klakherrit’s house, so that he can see you and I can see him.”

Pitis shouted three times; and Klakherrit, who was watching for

Kaisusherrit’s smoke, heard him. The forty deer went on one after another

in a line, Pitis following. When Klakherrit saw them, he ran into the

house, and called to his relatives: “Deer are coming; and a Pitis is with

them!”

“Oh, my nephew,” cried the blind uncle, “you kept saying all the time

that there was not another Pitis in this world; but I knew there were

some left somewhere. Didn’t I say that you would see Pitis people; didn’t

I tell you that you hadn’t killed all that people, my nephew? You will

meet a Pitis to-day.”

Klakherrit made no answer; he took his bow and quiver quickly, and

hurried out. The deer had passed the house and Pitis was just passing.

Klakherrit saw him well; and Pitis had a good look at Klakherrit.

Klakherrit went away on one side of the trail, got ahead of the deer, and

sat down at the side of the trail near a rock. When they came up, the

deer passed him; but Winishuyat said to Pitis, “My brother, Klakherrit

is near that rock right there; when you pass, don’t stop, don’t speak to

him. It is he who killed our people; he wants to kill you.”

When Pitis came to the rock; Klakherrit jumped up on one leg, and cried,

“Oh, my friend, I can’t travel farther. I was going to help you, but I

have this great splinter in my foot; draw it out for me.” Pitis didn’t

look at him, went straight past. A little later, Winishuyat said, “My

brother, on the other side of that clump of bushes your enemy is sitting:

go by; don’t speak to him.” When Pitis came, Klakherrit begged him again

to pull the splinter out of his foot; but Pitis didn’t stop, didn’t speak

to him. Five times that day did Klakherrit run ahead by side-paths, and

beg Pitis to pull a splinter out of his foot; but Pitis never stopped,

never answered him. In the evening, Pitis said to the deer, “You, deer,

meet me in the morning where you met me to-day.” That night, Pitis said

to his grandmother, “I saw Klakherrit; he bothered me all day. Five times

he was ahead of me with a sore foot; but if his foot is sore, how can he

travel so? There must be a great many of his people just like him.”

“My grandson, Klakherrit has many relatives; but he is the only one of

that people who can travel. All the rest are blind; he is the one who was

ahead of you all day.”

“Well, grandmother, I have seen Klakherrit; I know all about him. I know

what I can do to him; I shall follow the deer to-morrow.” (Pitis didn’t

hunt deer; he just followed them.) Next morning, Pitis rose very early,

bathed in the creek, ate his breakfast, and dressed for the road; then

he brought two flat stones, a blue and a white one, each about a foot

wide, put them down before the old woman, and said, “My grandmother,

watch these two stones all day. If you see thick black spots of blood

on the blue stone, you may know that I am killed; but if you see light

red blood on the white stone, you may know that I am safe.” The old

woman began to cry; but he went to the place where he met the deer the

day before. He sent them by the same road; and, after a while, he met

Klakherrit, who begged him to pull the splinter out of his foot. Pitis

passed in silence; when out of sight, he stopped the deer, and said,

“Now, my deer, let the strongest of you go ahead; and if Klakherrit is

by the trail again, run at him, and stamp him into the ground with your

fore-feet; jump on him, every one of you.”

Some distance farther on, they saw Klakherrit sitting at the side of the

trail. The first deer ran and thrust his hoofs into his body; the second

and the third did the same, and so did the whole forty. He was all cut

to pieces, one lump of dirt and blood. The deer went on; Pitis followed.

Soon Pitis called to the deer, “We’ll go back again;” and he walked ahead

till they returned to where they had trampled his enemy. Klakherrit was

up again, begging, “Oh, my friend, pull this great splinter out of my

foot; I cannot do it alone, help me!” Pitis sent the deer at him again;

they trampled him into the ground, and went on. When they had gone

perhaps two miles, Klakherrit was sitting at the roadside as before, and

begged Pitis to pull the splinter out of his foot. Pitis was terribly

angry now; he stopped in front of Klakherrit, and walked up to him. “My

friend,” said he, “what are you talking about; what do you want? Are you

one person, or are there many like you? You bothered me all yesterday;

what do you want to-day?”

“I am only one person,” said Klakherrit; “but, my friend, pull this

splinter out; my foot pains me terribly.”

“But how do you run so fast, and go ahead of me every time, if your foot

is hurt; how do you pull the splinter out?”

“I get it out at last, and run ahead; but by that time there is another

splinter in my foot.”

“Why do you follow me; what do you want; why don’t you let me alone?”

inquired Pitis, sitting down.

“Oh, my friend, pull this splinter out; my foot is so sore I cannot talk.

Pull the splinter, and I will tell you.”

Pitis took hold of the splinter and pulled, but no use, he could not

draw it out. “Take it between your teeth, that is the only way,” said

Klakherrit.

“My brother,” said Winishuyat, “look out for your life now; that is the

way in which Klakherrit killed all your people. Do what he says; but

dodge when I tell you.”

Pitis took the splinter between his teeth, and began to pull. That moment

Klakherrit drew his knife, and struck; but before the knife came down,

Winishuyat cried, “Dodge to the left!” Pitis dodged, and just escaped.

Pitis struck now with his white-flint knife. Every blow he gave hit

Klakherrit; he dodged every blow himself so that it struck only his

clothes. Klakherrit was very strong, and fought fiercely. Pitis was

quick, and hit all the time. The fight was a hard one. In the middle

of the afternoon, Pitis was very tired, and had all his clothes cut to

pieces; and Klakherrit’s head was cut off. But the head would not die; it

fought on, and Pitis cut at it with his knife.

Now Winishuyat called out, “My brother, you can’t kill Klakherrit in that

way; you can’t kill him with any weapon on this earth. Klakherrit’s life

is in the sky; Klakherrit’s heart is up there on the right side of the

place where the sun is at midday.”

Pitis looked up, and saw the heart. He stretched out his right hand then,

pulled down the heart, and squeezed it; that moment Klakherrit died.

Pitis took the skin off Klakherrit’s body, put it on himself, and

became just like him. He cut up his enemy’s flesh, then carried it to

Klakkewilton, went into the house and said, “I have some venison to-day;

I will roast it.” He roasted Klakherrit’s flesh, and gave it to his

relatives. All ate except the old uncle, who grumbled, and said, “This

meat doesn’t seem right to me; it has the smell of our people.” Pitis

walked out, pulled off Klakherrit’s skin, threw it into the house,

and was himself again; then he set fire to the house, and stopped the

door. He listened; there was a great noise inside and an uproar. If any

broke through, he threw them back again. At last one woman burst out,

and rushed away; she escaped, and from her were born all the Klaks in

the world. But she and they were a people no longer; they had become

rattlesnakes. The Pitis people became quails, and Kaisusherrit’s people,

gray squirrels.

The old woman, Tsosokpokaila, who reared Pitis, became a weed about a

foot high, which produces many seeds; the quails are fond of these seeds.

The following summary shows in outline the main parts of a tale which

could not be so easily modified as the preceding, and one which is much