THE TWO RED FEATHERS
“I am hungry and weary,” said Wise-as-a-she-wolf.
“My cooking-pot is full,” replied the other, “and I have many soft
skins for bedding; but I fear me, chief, that to sleep in my lodge you
will first have to practise magic on the throat of the new warrior, or
on your own ears.”
“Nay, friend, a couch in the open will suit my taste,” replied the
youth. “So that the young warrior is not in pain, let him yell. ’Tis
the great spirit of him giving voice against the littleness of his body
and the weakness of his legs.”
So they set out for the fisherman’s wigwam, each carrying a load of the
silver fish. The cooking-fire was burning brightly when they stepped
from the woods, and the slender form of Singing Bird, eldest child of
Run-all-day and Red Willow, was seen bending above the tree stump, that
had been hollowed to serve as a pot, which stood near the fire. The
stew in the pot was boiling vigorously, for the girl had dropped stones
into it which she had first heated near to the bursting-point among
the coals of the fire. Two smaller figures--and these of boys--skipped
about in the ruddy glow and shouted that they were quite ready for
their meal; still another was seen dabbling in the shallow water at the
edge of the river; and from the interior of the pointed lodge sounded
the crying of an infant.
Wise-as-a-she-wolf let his string of fish slip to the grass, and looked
at the scene before him with something of amusement and something of
consternation in his face.
“A fine family,” he remarked. “And surely that littlest warrior has the
voice of a great chief.”
Run-all-day was highly delighted at these words, being as foolish in
such matters as are the fathers of our own time. With a self-satisfied
grunt, he led the stranger to a seat by the fire and fetched him a bark
cup full of spring water, that he might quench his thirst before eating.
The magician ate very little for a hungry youth, and yet the stew was
excellent. Before he touched the food, he was seen to cast aside from
his waist a girdle of white leather painted with many wonderful figures
of gods and men and beasts. He slept well that night, on a couch of
bear skins, in the shelter of a spruce which stood midway between the
lodge and the fire. He was awakened, in the early morning, by the
voice of Singing Bird. Opening his eyes, he beheld her busy at the
cooking-fire, singing as she worked.
The breakfast was as good as the evening meal; and the magician,
pointing to the belt which hung loosely above his hips, said, “You are
fortunate, my friend. You have no need, with such a cook, of a magic
Hunger-Belt like this.” His gaze rested kindly on Singing Bird.
“But the meat must first be caught, chief,” replied Run-all-day.
When Wise-as-a-she-wolf was ready to continue his journey, the
fisherman walked from the camp with him, for a short distance.
“I am going northward,” said the magician, “on very urgent business. I
have had dealings with many great people--even with the gods--and so
I have awakened envy in more than one dark heart. For all my magic,
friend, my life is not so good a one as yours. You love and are loved.
You keep your family fed and are at peace with the world. No evil magic
is worked against you and the wrath of the gods is aimed so high that
it goes over your head. I have my days of glory and my victories; but
strange weapons are ever being shaped for my undoing.”
“Yes, chief, I am content with my humble life,” replied Run-all-day.
The young man placed two small red feathers in the other’s hand.
“These are for the littlest warrior,” he said. “They are great
magic--great for good or evil, as the heart prompts. When he is large
enough to run here and there, place one of these feathers in each of
his moccasins, flat on the sole of his foot. Let him cherish them, for
they will help him in his play, and, later, in the chase, and they have
the power to save him even from death.”
At the last word he stepped aside from the trail and was gone, with no
more noise than the slipping away of a shadow.
Run-all-day continued to stare at the spot where Wise-as-a-she-wolf had
so lately stood, for fully a minute. This magic was no light thing.
Courageous though he was, his legs shook under him as if with cold. A
dozen sea-eagles could not have made him flinch; but he trembled at
the touch of the two little feathers in his hand.
“He is a great man,” he said at last, “and possessed of wonderful
magic; but perhaps he was not wise in his gift to the littlest warrior.
Magic is for gods and mighty chieftains; it is too potent a thing for
humble folks like me and mine. Did he not say himself, but a moment
ago, that power breeds powerful enemies and that even the gods bend
their ears to the affairs of magicians?”
He gazed fearfully at the bright feathers in his hand.
“He is a great chief; a kind and a good young man, a cousin of the
gods, I do not doubt,--but I fear he has made a mistake. He has been
too generous.”
He let the feathers fall from his hand to the moss at the side of the
trail, turned quickly and hastened back to the clearing and the lodge.
He found Red Willow lying on a couch of soft skins, well and happy.
Old Blowing Fog, her mother, squatted beside her with the baby in her
wrinkled arms.
“The stranger has gone,” said Run-all-day. “He is a great magician and
his name is Wise-as-a-she-wolf. But he envied me my humble contentment,
for all of that. He gave me two red feathers, for a gift for that
little warrior, and said that they are possessed of magic power; and
then he was gone, like the first whiff of smoke from a newly lighted
fire.”
“Where are the feathers?” inquired Red Willow, her face aglow with
interest.
The brave shook his head and smiled wisely.
“The gift was meant well,” he said; “but a man must judge of some
things for himself, even if he be but a hunter and fisherman. Magic may
be well enough for the great men whose feet are set in high places;
though I think even they would be safer without it. They may hunt with
the gods and the north-lights if they please; but the meat of the
caribou and beaver is better suited to my taste.”
“And what does all this grand talk lead to?” asked old Blowing Fog.
“I dropped the feathers on the ground and let them lie,” said the man.
“Then what do I see in your belt?” asked the old woman, peering between
half-closed lids.
Run-all-day put his hand to his leather girdle--and drew out the two
red feathers. He gasped. His swarthy cheeks turned white as the bark of
the birch. Had one of those little, fat savages from the frozen west
(who sometimes crossed the Narrow Sea and fought with the islanders)
appeared and stuck a spear into his flesh, he could not have looked
more horrified.
“Give them to me. I do not fear their magic,” cried Red Willow.
Run-all-day obeyed her with a sigh of relief. He would face the
magician himself--but those little, slim, red feathers--ah, they made
his blood run cold as ice. Red Willow took them fearlessly and admired
their bright colour; and yet she was in the habit of fleeing, with
covered head, from bats flickering in the twilight. She laughed at her
big, trembling husband.
“It is foolish to throw away a gift,” she said. “And it is even more
foolish to run away from two little feathers that were given you by a
friend.”
Old Blowing Fog laughed, as she rocked the baby in her arms.
“When I was young we saw greater magic than that, almost every day,”
said she. “My father once worked such magic on his bow that it shot
the arrows so high into the air that they never came down.”
“But I’ve heard that he couldn’t shoot a standing caribou, for all
that,” replied the man, recovering something of his assurance. He often
argued with Blowing Fog.
“Give me honest arrows, honest muscles and honest feathers sticking in
the tails of honest birds,” he continued. “I do not need any magic, old
or new, to keep the pot full of meat and fish and the rain out of my
lodge. And I’d feel like a fool shooting my arrows so high in the air
that they’d never come down.”
Both the women laughed at him.
“Oh, I am wiser than you think,” said he, and stalked out of the lodge.
But he left the two magic feathers in Red Willow’s hand.