A great while ago, the Shawanos nation took up the war-talk against the
Walkullas, who lived on their own lands, on the borders of the Great
Salt Lake[A], and near the Burning Water[B]. Part of the nation were not
well pleased with the war. The head chief and the counsellors said the
Walkullas were very brave and cunning, and the priests said their god
was mightier than ours. The old and experienced warriors said the
counsellors were wise, and had spoken well; but the Mad Buffalo(1), and
the young warriors, and all who wished for war, would not listen to
their words. They said that our fathers had beaten their fathers in many
battles, and that the Shawanos were as brave and strong now as they ever
were, and the Walkullas much weaker and more cowardly. They said, the
old and timid, the faint heart, and the failing knee, might stay at home
and take care of the women and children, and sleep and dream of those
who had never dared bend a bow, or look upon a painted cheek, or listen
to a war-whoop; while the young warriors went to war, and drank much
blood. And, when two moons were gone, they would come back with many
prisoners and scalps, and have a great feast, and eat Walkullas roasted
in the fire. The arguments of the fiery young orators prevailed with all
the youthful warriors; but the elder and wiser listened to the priests
and the counsellors, and remained in their villages, to see the leaf
fall and the grass grow, and to gather in the nut and follow the trail
of the deer.
[Footnote A: Great Salt Lake, the ocean.]
[Footnote B: A boiling stream, near the mouth of the river Walkulla, in
Florida.]
Two moons had passed--then a third--then came the night enlivened by
many stars--but the warriors returned not. As the land of the Walkullas
lay but a woman's journey of six suns from the villages of our nation,
our people began to fear that our young men had been overcome in battle,
and were all slain. The head chief and the counsellors, and all the
warriors who had remained behind, came together in the great wigwam[A],
and called the priests, to tell them where their sons were. Chenos, who
was the wisest of them all, as well he might be (for he was older than
the oak-tree whose top dies by the hand of Time), answered that they
were killed by their enemies, the Walkullas, assisted by men of a
strange speech and colour, who lived beyond the Great Salt Lake, fought
with thunder and lightning, and came to our enemies on the back of a
great bird with many white wings. When he had thus made known to our
people the fate of the warriors, there was a dreadful shout of horror
throughout the village. The women wept aloud, and the men sprung up and
seized their bows and arrows, to go to war upon the Walkullas, and the
strange warriors who had helped to slay their sons; but Chenos bade them
sit down. "There is one yet living," said he. "He will soon be here. The
sound is in my ear of his footsteps, as he crosses the hollow hills. He
has killed many of his enemies; he has glutted his vengeance fully; he
has drunk blood in plenteous draughts. Long he fought with the men of
his own race, and many fell before him; but he fled from the men who
came to the battle armed with the red lightning, and hurling unseen
death. Even now I see him coming. The shallow streams he has forded, the
deep rivers he has swum. He is tired and hungry; and his quiver has no
arrows, but he brings a prisoner in his arms. Lay the deer's flesh on
the coals, and bring hither the pounded corn. Taunt him not, for he is
valiant, and has fought like a hungry lion."
[Footnote A: Great wigwam, an Indian expression, signifying the
council-house.]
As the wise Chenos spoke these words to the grey-headed counsellors and
warriors, the Mad Buffalo walked, calm and cool, into the midst of them.
There he stood, tall and straight as a young pine; but he spoke no word,
looking with a full eye on the head chief and the counsellors. There was
blood upon his body, dried on by the sun, and the arm next his heart was
bound up with the skin of the deer. His eye looked hollow, and his body
gaunt, as though he had fasted long. His quiver had no arrows; but he
had seven scalps hanging to the pole on his back, six of which had long
black hair, but that which grew upon the seventh was yellow as the
fallen leaf, and curled like the tendrils of the wild ivy.
"Where are our sons?" enquired the head chief of the warrior.
"Ask the wolf and the panther," he answered.
"Brother, tell us where are our sons!" exclaimed the head chief, louder
than before. "Our women ask us for their sons--they want their sons.
Where are they?"
"Where are the snows of the last year?" asked the head warrior. "Have
they not gone down the swelling river into the Great Lake? They have,
and even so have your sons descended the stream of Time into the lake of
Death. The great star sees them as they lie by the water of the
Walkulla, but they see him not. The panther and the wolf howl unheeded
at their feet, and the eagle screams, but they hear him not. The vulture
whets his beak on their bones; the wild cat rends their flesh: both are
unfelt--because they are dead."
When the head warrior had told these things to our people, they set up
their loud death-howl. The women cried; but the men sprung up, and took
down their war-spears, and their bows and arrows(2), and filled their
skins with parched corn, and prepared to dry meat for their journey,
intending to go to war with the Walkullas and their allies, the slayers
of their sons. But the chief warrior rose again, and said--
"Fathers and warriors, hear me, and believe my words, for I will tell
you the truth. Who ever heard the Mad Buffalo lie, and who ever saw him
afraid of his enemies? Never, since the time that he chewed the bitter
root, and put on the new mocassins(3), has he lied, or fled from his
foes. He has neither a forked tongue nor a faint heart. Fathers, the
Walkullas are weaker than we; their arms are not so strong, their hearts
are not so big, as ours. As well might the timid deer make war upon a
hungry wolf, as the Walkullas upon the Shawanos. We could slay them as
easily as a hawk pounces into a dove's nest and steals away her
unfeathered little ones; the Mad Buffalo alone could have taken the
scalps of half the nation. But a strange tribe has come among them--men
whose skin is as white as the folds of the cloud, and whose hair shines
like the great star of day. They do not fight, as we fight, with bows
and arrows and with war-axes, but with spears[A], which thunder and
lighten and send unseen death. The Shawanos fall before it, as the
grapes and acorns fall when the forest is shaken by the wind in the
Beaver-Moon(4). Look at the arm nearest ray heart; it was stricken by a
bolt from the stranger's thunder. But he fell by the hand of the Mad
Buffalo, who fears nothing but shame, and his scalp lies at the feet of
the head chief.
[Footnote A: Muskets, which were termed "spears" by the Indians in the
earlier part of their intercourse with the Europeans.]
"Fathers, this was our battle. We came upon the Walkullas, I and my
brothers, when they were unprepared. They were just going to hold the
dance of the green corn. The whole nation had come to the dance; there
were none left behind, save the sick and the very old. None were
painted; they were all for peace, and were as women. We crept close to
them, and hid in the thick hazles which grew upon the edge of their
camp; for the Shawanos are the cunning adder, and not the foolish
rattlesnake. We saw them preparing to offer a sacrifice to the Great
Spirit. We saw them clean the deer, and hang his head, and his horns,
and his entrails, upon the great white pole with a forked top, which
stood over the roof of the council-wigwam. They did not know that the
Master of Life(5) had sent the Shawanos to mix blood with the
sacrifices. We saw them take the new corn, and rub it upon their hands,
and breasts, and faces. Then the head chief, having first thanked the
Master of Life for his great goodness to the Walkullas, got up, and gave
his brethren a talk. He told them that the Great Spirit loved them, and
had made them victorious over all their enemies; that he had sent a
great many fat bears, and deer, and mooses, to their hunting-grounds;
and had given them fish, whose heads were very small and bodies very
big; that he had made their corn grow tall and sweet; and had ordered
his suns to ripen it in the beginning of the harvest-moon, that they
might make a great feast for the strangers, who had come from a far
country on the wings of a great bird to warm themselves at the
Walkullas' fire. He told them they must love the Great Spirit, take care
of the old men(6), tell no lies, and never break the faith of the pipe
of peace; that they must not harm the strangers, for they were their
brothers, but must live in peace with them, and give them lands, and
wives from among their women. If they should do these things, the Great
Spirit, he said, would make their corn grow taller than ever, and direct
them to hunting-grounds where the mooses should be as thick as the
stars.
"Fathers and warriors, we heard these words, but we knew not what to do.
We feared not the Walkullas; the God of War(7), we saw, had given them
into our hands. But who were the strange tribe? Were they armed as we
were, and was their Great Medicine[A] like ours? Warriors, you all knew
the Young Eagle, the son of the Old Eagle, who is here with us; but his
wings are feeble, and he flies no more to the feast of blood. Now, the
Young Eagle feared nothing but shame. He said, 'I see many men sit
around a fire, I will go and see who they are.' He went. The Old Eagle
looks at me as if he would say, Why went not the head warrior himself? I
will tell you. The Mad Buffalo is a head taller than the tallest man of
his tribe. Can the moose crawl into the fox's hole?--can the swan hide
himself under a hazle-leaf? The Young Eagle was little, save in his
soul. He was not full grown, save in his heart. He could go, and not be
seen or heard. He was the cunning black snake, which creeps silently in
the grass, and none think him near till he strikes; not the foolish
rattlesnake, which makes a great noise to let you know he is coming.
[Footnote A: Great Medicine, Supreme Being; medicine simply means a
spirit.]
"He came back, and told us that which made us weep. He told us, there
were many strange men a little way from us, whose faces were white, and
who wore no skins, whose cabins were white as the snow upon the Backbone
of the Great Spirit[A], flat at the top, and moving with the wind like
the reeds on the bank of a river; that they did not talk like the
Walkullas, but spoke a strange tongue, the like of which he had never
heard before. Many of our warriors would have turned back to their own
lands; the Flying Squirrel said it was not cowardice to do so. But the
Mad Buffalo never turns on his heel till he has tasted of the blood of
his foes. And the Young Eagle said he had eaten the bitter root, and put
on the new mocassins, and had been made a man, and his father and the
old warriors would cry shame on him if he took no scalp. Both he and the
Mad Buffalo said they would go and attack the Walkullas and their allies
alone. But the young warriors said they would also go to the battle, and
with a great heart, as their fathers had done. And then the Shawanos
rushed upon their foes.
[Footnote A: Backbone of the Great Spirit, the Alleghany Mountains.]
"The Walkullas fell before us like rain in the summer months; it was as
a fire among the dry rushes. We went upon them when they were
unprepared--when they were as children; and for a while the Great Spirit
gave them into our hands. But a power rose against us, which we could
not withstand. The strange men came upon us armed with thunder and
lightning. Why delays my tongue to tell its story? Fathers, your sons
have fallen, like the leaves of the forest-tree in a high wind; like the
flowers of spring after a frost; like drops of rain in the
Sturgeon-Moon. Warriors, the sprouts which shot up from the roots of the
withered oaks have perished. The young Braves of our nation lie, food
for the eagle and the wild cat, by the arm of the Great Lake.
"Fathers, the bolt from the strangers' thunder entered my flesh, yet I
did not fly: these six scalps I tore from the Walkullas; but this has
yellow hair. Have I done well?"
The head chief and counsellors answered he had done well; but Chenos
answered "No. You went into the Walkullas camp," said he, "when the
tribe were feasting to the Great Spirit, and you disturbed the
sacrifice, and wickedly mixed human blood with it. Therefore has this
evil come upon us; for the Great Spirit is very angry."
The head chief and the counsellors asked Chenos what must be done to
appease the Master of Breath.
Chenos answered--"The Mad Buffalo, with the morning, will offer to him
that which he holds dearest."
The Mad Buffalo looked fiercely on the priest, and said--"The Mad
Buffalo fears the Great Spirit; but he will offer none of his kin,
neither his father nor his mother, nor the children of his mother; but
he will kill a deer, and, with the morning, it shall be burned to the
Great Spirit."
Chenos said to him, "You have told the council how the battle was
fought, and who fell; you have showed the spent quiver, and the seven
scalps, one of which has shining hair, but you have not spoken of your
prisoner. The Great Spirit keeps nothing hid from his priests, of whom
Chenos is one. He has told me you have a prisoner, one with tender feet
and a trembling heart."
"Let any one say the Mad Buffalo ever lied," said the head warrior. "He
never spoke but truth. He has a prisoner, a woman, taken from the
strange camp; a daughter of the sun; a maiden from the happy islands,
which no Shawano has ever seen. And as soon as I have built my house,
and gathered in my corn, and hunted, and brought home my meat, she shall
live with me and become the mother of my children."
"Where is she?" asked the head chief.
"She sits on the bank of the river, at the bend where we dug up the
bones of the great beast, beneath the tree which the Master of Breath
shivered with his lightnings. I placed her there because the spot is
sacred, and none dare disturb her. I will go and fetch her to the
council fire. But let no one touch her, or show anger, for she is
fearful as a young deer, and weeps like a child for its mother."
Soon he returned, and brought with him a woman whose face was hidden by
a veil whiter than the clouds. The head chief bade her, by signs, to
throw the covering from her face, and stand forth before the council.
She did so; but she shook like a reed in the winter's wind, and many
tears ran down her cheeks, though the head warrior kept at her side,
and with his eyes bade her fear nothing. The Indians sat as though their
tongues were frozen, they were so much taken with the strange woman.
Well might they be. Why? Was she beautiful? Go forth to the forest when
it is clothed with the flowers of spring, look at the tall maize when it
waves in the wind, and ask if they are beautiful. Her skin was white as
the snow which falls upon the mountains beyond our lands, save upon her
cheeks, where it was red; not such red as the Indian paints when he goes
to war, but such as the Master of Life gives to the flower which grows
among thorns. Her eyes shone like the star which never moves[A], and
which guides the bewildered Indian hunter through the untravelled
wilderness to his home. Her hair curled over her head like wild vines
around a tree, and hung upon her brow in clusters, like bunches of
grapes. Her step was like that of a deer when he is scared a little. The
Great Spirit never made any thing so beautiful, not even the sun, the
clouds, or the stars.
[Footnote A: The North Star, in their beautiful, poetical language, "the
star which never moves," and "The Hunter's Star."]
The Mad Buffalo said to the council, "This is my prisoner. I fought hard
for her. Three warriors, tall, strong, and painted, three pale men
armed with the red lightning, stood at her side. Where are they now? I
bore her away in my arms, for fear had overcome her; and, when night
came on, I wrapped skins around her, and laid over her the leafy
branches of the tree to keep off the cold, and kindled a fire, and
watched by her till the sun rose; for I love her. Who will say that she
shall not live with the Mad Buffalo, and be the mother of his children?"
Then the Old Eagle got up, but he could not walk strong, for he was the
oldest warrior of his tribe, and had seen the flowers bloom many times,
and the infant trees of the forest die of old age, and the friends of
his boyhood laid in the dust. He went to the woman, and laid his hands
on her head, and wept(8). The other warriors, who had lost their kindred
and sons in the war with the Walkullas, did the same, shouting and
weeping very loud. The women also wept, but they did not come near the
prisoner.
"Where is the Young Eagle?" asked the Old Eagle of the Mad Buffalo. The
other warriors, in like manner, asked for their kindred who had been
killed.
"Fathers, they are dead," answered the head warrior. "The Mad Buffalo
has said they are dead, and he never lies. But let my fathers take
comfort. Who can live for ever? The foot of the swift step, and the
hand of the stout bow, become feeble; the eye of the true aim grows dim,
and the heart of many days quails at the fierce glance of warriors.
'Twas better that they should die like brave men in their youth, than
become old men and grow faint."
"We must have revenge. We will not listen to the young warrior, who
pines for the daughter of the sun[A]; revenge we will have!" they all
cried. Then they began to sing a very mournful song, still weeping. The
Mad Buffalo offered them the pipe of peace, but they would not take it.
[Footnote A: "Daughter of the Sun."--See the Tradition _infra_.]
Song.
Where are our sons,
Who went to drink the blood of their foes?
Who went forth to war and slaughter,
Armed with tough bows and sharp arrows?
Who carried long spears, and were nimble of foot
As the swift buck, and feared nothing but shame?
Who crossed deep rivers, and swam lakes,
And went to war against the Walkullas?
Ask the eagle--he can tell you:
He says, "My beak is red as the red leaf,
And the blood of the slain of your land has dyed it."
Ask the panther if he is hungry?
"No," he shall say; "I have been at a feast."
What has he in his mouth?
Look! it is the arm of a Shawanos warrior!
Why do our old men weep,
And our women, and our daughters, and our little ones?
Is it for the warriors who went forth to battle?
Is it for them who went forth in glory,
And fell like the leaves of the tree in autumn?
Is it for them?
What doth the Indian love?--Revenge.
What doth he fight for?--Revenge.
What doth he pray for?--Revenge.
It is sweet as the flesh of a young bear;
For this he goes hungry, roaming the desert,
Living on berries, or chewing the rough bark
Of the oak, and drinking the slimy pool.
Revenged we must be.
Behold the victim!
Beautiful she is as the stars,
Or the trees with great white flowers.
Let us give her to the Great Spirit;
Let us make a fire, and offer her for our sons,
That we may have success against the Walkullas,
And revenge us for our sons.
When the strange woman saw them weeping and singing so mournfully, she
crept close to the head warrior for protection. Tears rolled down her
cheeks, and she often looked up to the house of the Great Spirit, and
talked; but none could understand her, save Chenos, who said she was
praying to her god. All the time, the Old Eagle, and the other
warriors, who had lost their sons, were begging very hard that she
should be burned to revenge them. But Chenos stood up, and said:
"Brothers and warriors! our sons did very wrong when they broke in upon
the sacred dance the Walkullas had made to their god, upon the coming in
of the new corn, and he lent his thunder to the strange warriors, and
they killed ours easily. Let us not draw down his anger farther upon us
by doing we know not what. It may be if we offer this woman upon his
fire, he will himself come with his thunder and strike us, as he did the
sacred tree, and we shall all die. Let the beautiful woman remain this
night in the wigwam of the council, covered with skins, and let none
disturb her. To-morrow we will offer a sacrifice of deer's flesh to the
Great Spirit; and, if he will not give her to the raging fire and the
torments of the avengers, he will tell us so by the words of his mouth.
If he do not speak, it shall be done to her as the Old Eagle and his
brothers have said."
The head chief said, "Chenos has spoken well; wisdom is in his words.
Make for the strange woman a soft bed of skins, and treat her kindly,
for it may be she is the daughter of the Great Spirit."
Then the Indians all returned to their cabins and slept, save the Mad
Buffalo, who, fearing for the life of his prisoner, laid himself down at
the door of the lodge and watched.
When the morning came, the head warrior went to the forest and killed a
deer, fat and proper for an offering, which he brought to Chenos, who
prepared it for a sacrifice; and he sang a song while the flesh lay on
the fire:--
Song of Chenos.
We have built the fire;
The deer we have kill'd;
The skin and the horns we have parted from the flesh;
The flesh is laid on the burning coals;
The sweetness thereof goes up in the smoke:--
Master of Life, wilt thou come and claim thine own?
Wilt thou come, Great Spirit of our fathers,
And say if we may harbour revenge, and not anger thee?
Shall we plant the stake, and bind the fair-one?
The beautiful maid, with her hair like bunches of grapes,
And her eyes like the blue sky,
And her skin white as the blossoms of the forest-tree,
And her voice as the music of a little stream,
And her step as the bound of the young fawn?
Shall her soft flesh be torn with sharp thorns,
And burn'd with fiery flames?
"Let us listen," said Chenos, stopping the warriors in their dance. "Let
us see if the Great Spirit hears us."
They listened, but could not hear him singing. Chenos asked him why he
would not speak, but he did not answer. Then they sung again:--
Shall the flame we have kindled expire?
Shall the sacrifice-embers go out?
Shall the maiden be free from the fire?
Shall the voice of revenge wake no shout?
We ask that our feet may be strong
In the way thou wouldst have us to go;
Let thy voice, then, be heard in the song,
That thy will, and our task, we may know.
"Hush," said Chenos, listening; "I hear the crowing of the Great
Turkey-Cock[A]; I hear him speaking." They stopped, and Chenos went
close to the fire, and talked with his master, but nobody saw with whom
he talked. "What does the Great Spirit tell his prophet?" asked the head
chief.
[Footnote A: Thunder, also called the "hissing of the Great Serpent."]
Chenos answered, "He says the young woman must not be offered to him; he
wills her to live, and become the mother of many children."
Many of the chiefs and warriors were pleased that the beautiful woman
was to live. They wished to make her their daughter; but those who had
lost their brothers and sons in the war were not appeased. They said,
"We will have blood. We will have revenge for our sons. We will go to
the priest of the Evil Spirit, and ask him if his master will not give
us revenge."
Not far from where our nation had their council-fire there was a great
hill, covered with stunted trees, and moss, and rugged rocks. There was
a great cave in it, how great none of the Indians could tell, save
Sketupah, the priest of the Evil Spirit, for no one but he had ever
entered it. He lived in this cave, and there did worship to his master.
It was a strange place, and much feared by the Indians. If a man but
spoke a word at the mouth of it, somebody from within mocked him in a
strange, hoarse voice, which sounded like the first of the thunders. And
just so many and the same words as the man at the mouth of the cave
spoke, the spirit in the cave repeated.[A]
[Footnote A: The Indians think that echoes are the voice of a spirit.]
Sketupah was a strange old creature, whom the oldest living man of the
nation never saw but as he now was. He would have been very tall if he
had been straight, but he was more crooked than a warped bow. His hair
looked like a bunch of snakes, and his eyes like two coals of fire. His
mouth reached from ear to ear, and his legs, which were very long, were
no bigger than a sapling of two snows. He was, indeed, a very fearful
old man, and the Indians feared him scarcely less than the Evil One.
Many were the gifts which our nation made to Sketupah, to gain his
favour and the favour of his master. Who but he feasted on the fattest
buffalo hump? Who but he fed on the earliest ear of milky corn?--on the
best things which grew on the land or in the water? The fears of the
Indian fed him with the choicest things of the land.
The Old Eagle went to the mouth of the cave, and cried with a loud
voice, "Sketupah!"
"Sketupah," answered the hoarse voice of the Evil Spirit from the hollow
cave. Soon Sketupah came, and asked the Old Eagle what he wanted.
"Revenge for our sons, who have been killed by the Walkullas and their
friends, who live beyond the Great Lake, and came on the back of a great
bird. Revenge we must have."
"Revenge we ask, revenge we must have," said the hoarse voice in the
cave.
"Will your master hear us?" asked the Old Eagle of the priest.
"My master must have a sacrifice, he must smell blood," said the ugly
old man. "Then we shall know if he will give you revenge. Go in the
morning to the woods, and take a wolf, a rattlesnake, and a tortoise,
and bring them to me at the mouth of the cave, when the great star of
day is coming out of the Suwaney."
The Old Eagle, and the other chiefs and warriors who asked revenge, did
as Sketupah bade them. They went to the woods, and took a wolf, a
tortoise, and a rattlesnake, and brought them, the wolf growling, the
snake hissing, and the tortoise snapping his teeth, to the priest.
He bade them build a fire of pine, and the tree which bears poisonous
flowers[A], and the hemlock, and the grape-vine which bears no fruit.
They did as he bade them, and made the fire flame high. Then Sketupah
prepared the sacrifice. First he skinned the wolf, then he shelled the
tortoise. He bound the wolf's skin upon himself with the snake, and with
his entrails he fastened the shell of the tortoise upon his head. Then
he laid the carcasses of the wolf, and the snake and the tortoise, upon
the fire, and danced around it, while he sang to his master the
following song:--
Song of Sketupah.
We have slain the beasts:--
The hissing snake, with poisonous fangs;
The wolf, whose teeth are red with Indian blood;
And the creeping tortoise, the dweller in deep fens;
We have slain them.
Lo! they are laid on hissing coals:
Wilt thou come, Spirit of Evil, and claim thine own?
The sons of the Shawanos lie low,
Far from the burial-place of their fathers;
Red wounds are on their breasts,
Cold and stiff are their limbs;
Their eyes see not the ways of men,
Nor the rising or setting of the great star,
Nor the blooming of spring-flowers,
Nor the glad glances of young maidens:
They sleep in the vale of death.
They fell, and no revenge,
No torments of foes, appease them in the land of spirits;
No shoutings of brother warriors
Gladden their shades;
The camp of their nation is mute;
They are forgotten by their women;
The bright eyes of their maidens
Have no tears in them:
They sleep forgotten by all.
Shall they have no revenge?
Shall we not plant the stake, and bind the fair-one?
The beautiful maid, with her hair like bunches of grapes,
And her eyes like the blue sky,
And her skin white as the blossoms of the forest-tree,
And her voice as the music of a little stream?
Shall she not be torn with sharp thorns,
And burned in fiery flames?
[Footnote A: The Magnolia, whose flowers are said to be poisonous.]
He ceased singing, and listened, but the Evil Spirit answered not. Just
as he was going to begin another song, they saw a large ball rolling
very fast up the hill towards the spot where they stood. It was the
height of a man. When it came up to them it began to unwind itself
slowly until at last a little strange-looking man crept out of the ball,
which was made of his own hair. He was no higher than my shoulders. One
of his feet made a strange track, the like of which the Indians had
never seen before. His face was as black as the shell of the butter-nut,
or the feathers of the raven, and his eyes as green as grass. And
stranger yet was his hair, for it was of the colour of moss, and so long
that, as the wind blew it out, it seemed the tail of a fiery star. There
he stood, grinning and laughing very loud. "What do you want of me?" he
asked Sketupah.
The priest answered, "The Shawanos want revenge. They want to sacrifice
the beautiful daughter of the sun, whom the Mad Buffalo has brought from
the camp of the Walkullas."
"They shall have their wish," said the Evil Spirit. "She shall be
sacrificed. Go and fetch her to the hill."
Then the Old Eagle, and the chiefs and warriors, went to fetch the
beautiful maiden to the hill of sacrifice. They found her sitting in her
cabin, with the chief warrior watching at her door. He would have fought
for her, and had already raised his spear to strike the foremost
warrior, when Chenos commanded him to be still; "for," said he, "my
master will see that she does not suffer. Before the star of day sets in
the Mighty River, the nation of Shawanos shall see whose god is greatest
and strongest--Sketupah's, or mine."
Then they built the fire, fixed the stake, and bound the beautiful woman
to it. Till now the head warrior had stood still, for he looked that the
priest of the Great Spirit should snatch her away from the Evil One. But
when he saw her bound to the stake, and the flames beginning to arise,
he shouted his war-cry, and rushed upon the priest of the Spirit of
Evil. It was in vain; Sketupah's master did but breathe upon the face of
the stern warrior, when he fell as though he had stricken him with a
blow, and never breathed more. The Evil Spirit then commanded them to
seize Chenos.
Then they seized the priest of the Master of Breath, to bind him for the
flames. But Chenos shouted aloud, "Come, Master of Life, for the hands
of the Evil One are upon me. Come, break my bands, and redeem me from
the flames they have kindled for me."
As soon as he had said this, very far over the tall hills, which Indians
call the Backbone of the Great Spirit, the people saw two great lights,
brighter and larger than stars, moving very fast towards the lands of
the Shawanos. One was just as high as the other, and they were both as
high as the goat-sucker flies before a thunderstorm. At first they were
close together, but as they came nearer they grew wider apart. Soon our
people saw, by their twinkling, that they were two eyes, and in a little
while the body of a great man, whose head nearly reached the sky(9),
came after them. Brothers, the eyes of the Great Spirit always go before
him, and hence nothing is hid from his sight. Brothers, I cannot
describe the Master of Life as he stood before the warriors of our
nation. Can you look steadily on the star of the morning? No. Nor could
you look upon the mighty being whom the voice of Chenos in distress had
called from beyond the River of Rivers. When you tried to do so, you
were dazzled with his brightness, and turned away your eyes to look upon
trees and streams.
When the Evil Spirit saw the Spirit of Good coming, he began to grow in
stature, and continued swelling until he was as tall and big as he. When
the Spirit of Good came near, and saw how the Evil Spirit had grown, and
that he had thrown away the calumet of peace, he stopped, and, looking
very angrily at the Evil Spirit, said, with a voice that shook the very
hills, "You lied."
"I did not," answered the Evil Spirit.
"You did. You promised to stay among the white people, and the nations
towards the rising sun, and not trouble my Indian people any more."
"Ay, ay," answered the Evil Spirit, "but this woman came from my
country; she is white, she is mine. I came for her."
"You came to destroy her; do I not find her bound to a stake, and the
flames kindled to destroy her? Nor was she yours, for I gave her for a
wife to the warrior whom you have killed."
"I must have her," said the Spirit of Evil saucily.
"When your strength grows to be greater than mine, and your eyes see
farther, and your spirit waxes stronger, and your heart fuller of
justice and valour, then you may say _must_. Tell me no more lies, bad
Manitou, lest I punish you. Go back to the nations of the East, and see
you trouble my brave Indians no more."
The cowardly spirit made no answer, but shrunk down to the size he was
of when he first came to our people. Then he began as before to roll
himself up into his own hair, which he soon did, and then rolled away as
he came into the hollow hill. When he was gone, the Great Spirit also
shrunk till he was no larger than a Shawano, and began talking to our
people in a soft and sweet voice:--
"Men of the Shawanos nation, I love you, and have always loved you. I
bade you conquer your enemies, I gave your foes into your hands. I sent
great herds of fat deer, and many bears and mooses, to your
hunting-grounds, and made my suns so shine upon your fields, that your
corn grew up like trees. Who lived so well, who fought so bravely, as
the Shawanos? Whose women bore so many sons as yours? Is not the Suwany
a lovely river? Are not the young sprouts of the oak, and the heart of
the ash which grow upon its banks, the stoutest and the toughest in all
the land for bows? The grass grows high, the water is cold and sweet, is
it not a pleasant land? It is, and the Shawanos have been a favoured,
and a happy people.
"Why did you disturb the sacrifice which the Walkullas were offering to
me at the feast of green corn? Why did you fall upon them when they had
laid down their weapons, and wiped off their paints to dance in my name?
You even slew the priest who offered me the offering. I was angry, and
gave your warriors into the hands of their enemies, only I let the head
warrior escape to tell you the fate of your young men.
"Men of the Shawanos nation! The strange people, who came over the Salt
Lake on the great bird, are your brothers. Though they are white, and
you are red, though their hair is of the colour of the setting sun, and
yours is as black as charred wood, yet you are brothers. I made you all,
and I made you all alike. The Shawanos are red, because fear never
enters their hearts to scare the blood from their cheeks: the heart of
the white man is the heart of a bird; it is chilled with fear, therefore
he is pale. I brought the Shawanos from the land of white men; then he
was white, but living among bears, and snakes, and tigers, and
bloody-minded warriors, has made him strong in heart, and he has lost
his paleness.
"My good Shawanos! The Walkullas and their allies, from over the Great
Lake, killed many of your warriors, and have thinned your nation, but I
will give you other and stronger men. You have now but three
tribes--soon there shall be four, and the fourth shall be great and
powerful beyond all other Indians.
"Shawanos, hear my words and forget them not; do as I bid you, and you
shall see my power and my goodness. Offer no further violence to the
white maiden, but treat her very kindly. If you do not so, then shall my
anger be upon your nation, and you shall fall by the hands of women, and
wild beasts, and the lightnings of my breath.
"Go now, and rake up the ashes of the sacrifice-fire into a heap,
putting all the coals together, and gathering up the brands. When the
great star of evening rises, open the ashes, put in the body of the Mad
Buffalo, lay on much wood, and kindle a fire in it. Let all the nation
be called together, for all must assist in laying wood upon the fire.
But they must put on no pine, nor the tree which bears white flowers,
nor the grape-vine which yields no fruit, nor the shrub whose dew
blisters the flesh. The fire must be kept burning two whole moons; it
must not go out, it must burn day and night. On the first day of the
third moon, put no wood on the fire, but let it die. On the morning of
the second day, the Shawanos must all come to the heap of ashes, every
man, woman, and child, must come, and the aged who cannot walk must be
helped thither. Then Chenos and the head chief must bring out the
beautiful woman, and place her near the ashes. Be not terrified at what
you see, and do what Chenos shall tell you; this is the will of the
Great Spirit."
When he had finished these words, he began to swell until he had reached
his former bulk and stature. Then at each of his shoulders came out a
wing of the colour of the gold-headed pigeon. Gently shaking these, he
took flight from the land of the Shawanos, and was never seen in those
beautiful regions again.
The Shawanos did as he bade them. They put the beautiful woman into the
house of the great council, and then went and raked up the coals of the
fire and the unquenched brands, and covered them with ashes. When the
morning came, they laid the body of the head warrior on the ashes, and
built a great fire over it. They kept this fire burning two whole moons.
But they were careful to burn no pine, nor the tree which bears
poisonous flowers, nor the vine which yields no grapes, nor the shrub
whose dew blisters the flesh. On the first day of the third moon, they
let the fire go out, and with the next sun all the Shawanos, men, women,
and children, even the aged whose knees trembled so much that they could
not walk, came or were brought together beside the embers. Then the
priest and the head chief brought the beautiful woman from the cabin,
and placed her beside the ashes. The Mequachake tribe, who were the
priests of the nation, stood nearest, then the Kiskapocoke tribe, who
were the greatest warriors. By and by, there was a terrible puffing and
blowing in the ashes, which flew towards the sun, and the great star,
and the River of Rivers, and the land of the Walkullas. At last, the
priests and warriors who could see began to clap their hands, and dance,
crying out "Piqua!" which in the Shawanos tongue means "a man coming out
of the ashes," or a "man made of ashes." They told no lie. There he
stood, a man tall and strait as a young pine, looking like a Shawanos,
but he was handsomer than any man of our nation. The first thing he did
was to utter the war-whoop, and cry for paint, a club, a bow and arrow,
and a hatchet, which were given him. But looking around he saw the white
maiden, and straight dropping all his weapons of war, he walked up to
her and gazed in her eyes. Then he came to the head chief, and said, "I
must have that woman for my wife."
"What are you?" asked the head chief.
"A man made of ashes," he answered.
"Who made you?"
"The Great Spirit. And now let me go, that I may take my bow and arrows,
and kill my deer, and come back, and take the beautiful maiden to be my
wife."
The chief said to Chenos, "Shall he have her? Does the Great Spirit give
her to him?"
Chenos said, "Yes, for they love each other. The Great Spirit has willed
that he shall have her, and from them shall arise a tribe to be called
'Piqua.'"
Brothers, I am a Piqua, descended from the "man made of ashes." If I
have told you a lie, blame not me, for I have but told the story as I
heard it. Brothers, I have done!
* * * * *
Though it could not be doubted that the Indians were delighted with the
tale which had just been related to them, for they relish story-telling
with as much zest as the Wild Arabs, they did not express their
pleasure by any of those boisterous emotions of joy and satisfaction
which, in civilized countries, and among men of a less taciturn
disposition, are accorded to a good story well told. They neither
shouted, nor clapped their hands, nor gave any other indication of
pleasure. It is a strong as well as universal trait of the Indian that
he is perfectly master of his feelings, never suffering them under any
circumstances to escape from his controul and management. At the stake
and the feast, in the field and the council, he alike subdues his mind,
and utters but a gruff "Hah!" at scenes and tales which would make an
Englishman very noisy and boisterous. That they liked the stories which
had been told them, could be gathered from nothing that they said or
did. It would have been accounted highly disgraceful to testify their
approbation by exclamations. But their perfect silence and deep
stillness spoke their satisfaction as plainly as the noisiest joy could
have done. The attention of an Indian is more all-absorbing than that of
a white man. It is never distracted or divided, he is never listless or
absent. With dilated nostrils, and in a posture slightly inclined
forward, he listens with his whole soul. Not a word escapes him. While
an educated white man would be continually snapping the thread of the
narrative by a reference in his mind to parallel passages in his former
reading, the savage sees nothing but the present speaker, hears nothing
but a tale fraught with incidents to which his own recollections are not
permitted to offer a parallel. The next portion of the manuscript
carries us to the Tale of Pomatare, or the Flying Beaver.