last he came to the house of Shee-chóo-hlee-oh, the Old-Woman-Mole,
who was there all alone--for her husband had gone to hunt. They were
dreadfully poor, and the house was almost falling down, and the poor,
wrinkled Old-Woman-Mole sat huddled in the corner by the fireplace,
trying to keep warm by a few dying coals. But when the boy knocked,
she rose and welcomed him kindly and gave him all there was in the
house to eat--a wee bowl of soup with a patched-up snowbird in it.
The boy was very hungry, and picking up the snowbird bit a big piece
out of it.
“Oh, my child!” cried the old woman, beginning to weep. “You have
ruined me! For my husband trapped that bird these many years ago, but
we could never get another; and that is all we have had to eat ever
since. So we never bit it, but cooked it over and over and drank the
broth. And now not even that is left.” And she wept bitterly.
“Nay, Grandmother, do not worry,” said the boy. “Have you any long
hairs?”--for he saw many snowbirds lighting near by.
“No, my child,” said the old woman sadly. “There is no other living
animal here, and you are the first human that ever came here.”
But the boy pulled out some of his own long hair and made snares, and
soon caught many birds. Then the Old-Woman-Mole was full of joy; and
having learned his errand, she said:
“My son, fear not, for I will be the one that shall help you. When
you come into the house of the Trues, they will tempt you with a
seat; but you must sit down only on what you have.[66] Then they will
try you with smoking the _weer_, but I will help you.”
[66] That is, upon his blanket and moccasins, the unvarying
etiquette of the Medicine House.
Then she gave him her blessing, and the boy started away to the east.
At last, after a weary, weary way, he came so near the Sun Lake, that
the _Whit-lah-wíd-deh_[67] of the Trues saw him coming, and went in
to report.
[67] One of an order of medicine-men, who among other duties,
act as guards of the Medicine House.
“Let him be brought in,” said the Trues; and the Whit-lah-wíd-deh
took the boy in and in through eight rooms, until he stood in the
presence of all the gods, in a vast room. There were all the gods
of the East, whose color is white, and the blue gods of the North,
the yellow gods of the West, the red gods of the South, and the
rainbow-colored gods of the Up, the Down, and the Center, all in
human shape. Beyond their seats were all the sacred animals--the
buffalo, the bear, the eagle, the badger, the mountain lion, the
rattlesnake, and all the others that are powerful in medicine.
Then the Trues bade the boy sit down, and offered him a white _manta_
(robe) for a seat; but he declined respectfully, saying that he had
been taught, when in the presence of his elders, to sit on nothing
save what he brought, and he sat upon his blanket and moccasins. When
he had told his story, the Trues tried him, and gave him the sacred
_weer_ to smoke--a hollow reed rammed with _pee-en-hleh_.[68] He
smoked, and held the smoke bravely. But just then the Old-Woman-Mole,
who had followed him underground all this way, dug a hole up to his
very toes; and the smoke went down through his feet into the hole,
and away back to the Old-Woman-Mole’s house, where it poured out in
a great cloud. And not the tiniest particle escaped into the room of
the Trues. He finished the second _weer_[69] without being sick at
all; and the Trues said, “Yes, he is our son. But we will try him
once more.” So they put him into the room of the East with the bear
and the lion; and the savage animals came forward and breathed on
him, but would not hurt him. Then they put him into the room of the
North, with the eagle and the hawk; then into the room of the West,
with the snakes; and lastly, into the room of the South, where were
the Apaches and all the other human enemies of his people. And from
each room he came forth unscratched.
[68] The smoking of the pungent _weer_ is a very severe ordeal;
and it is a disgrace to let any of the smoke escape from the
mouth or nose.
[69] Two being the usual number given a candidate for
initiation into a medicine order.
“Surely,” said the Trues, “this is our son! But once more we will try
him.”
They had a great pile of logs built up (“cob-house” fashion), and the
space between filled with pine-knots. Then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh set
the boy on the top of the pile and lighted it.
But in the morning, when the guard went out, there was the boy
unharmed and saying: “Tell the Trues I am cold, and would like more
fire.”
Then he was brought again before the Trues, who said: “Son, you have
proved yourself a True Believer, and now you shall have what you
seek.”
So the sacred ice was given him, and he started homeward--stopping on
the way only to thank the Old-Woman-Mole, to whose aid he owed his
success.
When the wicked Lake-Man saw the boy coming, he was very angry, for
he had never expected him to return from that dangerous mission. But
he deceived the boy and the woman; and in a few days made a similar
excuse to send the boy to the gods of the South after more ice for
his mother.
The boy started off as bravely as before. When he had traveled a
great way to the south, he came to a drying lake; and there, dying in
the mud, was a little fish.
“_Ah-bóo_ [poor thing], little fish,” said the boy; and picking it
up, he put it in his gourd canteen of water. After awhile he came
to a good lake; and as he sat down to eat his lunch the fish in his
gourd said:
“Friend Boy, let me swim while you eat, for I love the water.”
So he put the fish in the lake; and when he was ready to go on, the
fish came to him, and he put it back in his gourd. At three lakes he
let the fish swim while he ate; and each time the fish came back to
him. But beyond the third lake began a great forest which stretched
clear across the world, and was so dense with thorns and brush that
no man could pass it. But as the boy was wondering what he should
do, the tiny fish changed itself into a great Fish-Animal with a
very hard, strong skin,[70] and bidding the boy mount upon its back,
it went plowing through the forest, breaking down big trees like
stubble, and bringing him through to the other side without a scratch.
[70] It is quite possible that this “Fish-Animal with a hard,
strong skin,” living far to the south, is the alligator. Of
course, the Pueblos never saw that strange saurian; but they
probably heard of it in the earliest days from nomad tribes,
and as a great scientist has pointed out, we may always
depend upon it that there is a nucleus of truth in all these
folk-myths. Such a strange animal, once heard of, would be very
sure to figure in some story.
“Now, Friend Boy,” said the Fish-Animal, “you saved my life, and I
will be the one that shall help you. When you come to the house of
the Trues, they will try you as they did in the East. And when you
have proved yourself, the Cacique will bring you his three daughters,
from whom to choose you a wife. The two eldest are very beautiful,
and the youngest is not; but you ought to choose her, for beauty does
not always reach to the heart.”
The boy thanked his fish-friend and went on, until at last he came
to the house of the Trues of the South. There they tried him with
the _weer_ and the fire, just as the Trues of the East had done, but
he proved himself a man, and they gave him the ice. Then the Cacique
brought his three daughters, and said:
“Son, you are now old enough to have a wife,[71] and I see that you
are a true man who will dare all for his mother. Choose, therefore,
one of my daughters.”
[71] For it must be remembered that all these travels had taken
many years.
The boy looked at the three girls; and truly the eldest were very
lovely. But he remembered the words of his fish friend, and said:
“Let the youngest be my wife.”
Then the Cacique was pleased, for he loved this daughter more than
both the others. And the boy and the Cacique’s daughter were married
and started homeward, carrying the ice and many presents.
When they came to the great forest, there was the Fish-Animal waiting
for them, and taking both on his back he carried them safely through.
At the first lake he bade them good-by and blessed them, and they
trudged on alone.
[Illustration: THE CURSING OF THE LAKE.]
At last they came in sight of the big lake, and over it were great
clouds, with the forked lightning leaping forth. While they were yet
far off, they could see the wicked Lake-Man sitting at the top of his
ladder, watching to see if the boy would return, and even while they
looked they saw the lightning of the Trues strike him and tear him to
shreds.
When they came to the lake the boy found his mother weeping for him
as dead. And taking his wife and his mother,--but none of the things
of the Lake-Man, for those were bewitched,--the boy came out upon the
shore. There he stood and prayed to the Trues that the lake might be
accurst forever; and they heard his prayer, for from that day its
waters turned salt, and no living thing has drunk therefrom.
XVIII
THE MOQUI[72] BOY AND THE EAGLE
[72] Pronounced Móh-kee.
SOME of the folk-stories told in Isleta were evidently invented
in other pueblos, whence the Tée-wahn have learned them in their
trading-trips. There is even a story from the far-off towns of Moqui,
three hundred miles west of here and ninety miles from the railroad.
The Moquis live in northeast Arizona, in strange adobe towns,[73]
perched upon impregnable islands of rock, rising far above the bare,
brown plain. They are seldom visited and little known by white men.
All the other Pueblo towns and tribes have changed somewhat in the
present era of American occupation; but the Moquis remain very much
as they were when the first Spaniard found them--three hundred and
fifty years ago. They retain many customs long extinct among their
kindred, and have some of which no trace is to be found elsewhere.
One of the minor differences, but one which would be almost the first
to strike a stranger, is the absence of captive eagles in Moqui; and
this is explained by the following folk-story:
[73] See “Some Strange Corners of Our Country.” The Century
Co., New York.
The Eagle is Kah-báy-deh (commander) of all that flies, and his
feathers are strongest in medicine.
So long ago that no man can tell how long, there lived in Moqui an
old man and an old woman, who had two children--a boy and a girl. The
boy, whose name was Tái-oh, had a pet Eagle, of which he was very
fond; and the Eagle loved its young master. Despite his youth, Tái-oh
was a capital hunter; and every day he brought home not only rabbits
enough for the family, but also to keep the Eagle well fed.
One day when he was about to start on a hunt, he asked his sister to
look out for the Eagle during his absence. No sooner was he out of
sight than the girl began to upbraid the bird bitterly, saying: “How
I hate you, for my brother loves you so much. If it were not for you,
he would give me many more rabbits, but now you eat them up.”
The Eagle, feeling the injustice of this, was angry; so when she
brought him a rabbit for breakfast the Eagle turned his head and
looked at it sidewise, and would not touch it. At noon, when she
brought him his dinner, he did the same thing; and at night, when
Tái-oh returned, the Eagle told him all that had happened.
“Now,” said the Eagle, “I am very tired of staying always here in
Moqui, and I want to go home to visit my people a little. Come and go
along with me, that you may see where the Eagle-people live.”
“It is well,” replied Tái-oh. “To-morrow morning we will go together.”
In the morning they all went out into the fields, far down in the
valley, to hoe their corn, leaving Tái-oh at home.
“Now,” said the Eagle, “untie this thong from my leg, friend, and get
astride my neck, and we will go.”
The string was soon untied, and Tái-oh got astride the neck of the
great bird, which rose up into the air as though it carried no weight
at all. It circled over the town a long time, and the people cried
out with wonder and fear at seeing an Eagle with a boy on his back.
Then they sailed out over the fields, where Tái-oh’s parents and his
sister were at work; and all the three began to cry, and went home in
great sorrow.
The Eagle kept soaring up and up until they came to the very sky.
There in the blue was a little door, through which the Eagle flew.
Alighting on the floor of the sky, he let Tái-oh down from his back,
and said:
“Now, you wait here, friend, while I go and see my people,” and off
he flew.
Tái-oh waited three days, and still the Eagle did not return; so
he became uneasy and started out to see what he could find. After
wandering a long way, he met an old Spider-woman.
“Where are you going, my son?” she asked.
“I am trying to find my friend, the Eagle.”
“Very well, then, I will help you. Come into my house.”
“But how can I come into so small a door?” objected Tái-oh.
“Just put your foot in, and it will open big enough for you to enter.”
So Tái-oh put his foot in, and, sure enough, the door opened wide,
and he went into the Spider’s house and sat down.
“Now,” said she, “you will have some trouble in getting to the house
of your friend, the Eagle, for to get there you will have to climb a
dreadful ladder. It is well that you came to me for help, for that
ladder is set with sharp arrow-heads and knives of flint, so that
if you tried to go up it, it would cut your legs off. But I will
give you this sack of sacred herbs to help you. When you come to the
ladder, you must chew some of the herbs and spit the juice on the
ladder, which will at once become smooth for you.”[74]
[74] This recalls a superstition of the Peruvian mountain
Indians, ancient and modern. The latter I have often seen
throwing upon a stone at the crest of a mountain pass the quid
of coca-leaves they had been chewing. They believe such use
of this sacred herb propitiates the spirits and keeps off the
terrible _soroche_, or mountain-sickness; and that it also
makes veins of metal easier to be worked--softening the stone,
even as it did for Tái-oh.
Tái-oh thanked the Spider-woman and started off with the sack. After
awhile he came to the foot of a great ladder, which went away up out
of sight. Its sides and rungs were bristling with keen arrow-heads,
so that no living thing could climb it; but when Tái-oh chewed some
of the magic herb and spat upon the ladder, all the sharp points fell
off, and it was so smooth that he climbed it without a single scratch.
After a long, long climb, he came to the top of the ladder, and
stepped upon the roof of the Eagles’ house. But when he came to the
door he found it so bristling with arrow-points that whoever might
try to enter would be cut to pieces. Again he chewed some of the
herb, and spat upon the door; and at once all the points fell off,
and he entered safely, and inside he found his Eagle-friend, and all
the Eagle-people. His friend had fallen in love with an Eagle-girl
and married her, and that was the reason he had not returned sooner.
Tái-oh stayed there some time, being very nicely entertained, and
enjoyed himself greatly in the strange sky-country. At last one of
the wise old Eagle-men came to him and said:
“Now, my son, it is well that you go home, for your parents are very
sad, thinking you are dead. After this, whenever you see an Eagle
caught and kept captive, you must let it go; for now you have been
in our country, and know that when we come home we take off our
feather-coats and are people like your own.”
So Tái-oh went to his Eagle-friend and said he thought he must go
home.
“Very well,” said the Eagle; “get on my neck and shut your eyes, and
we will go.”
So he got on, and they went down out of the sky, and down and down
until at last they came to Moqui. There the Eagle let Tái-oh down
among the wondering people, and, bidding him an affectionate good-by,
flew off to his young wife in the sky.
Tái-oh went to his home loaded down with dried meat and tanned
buckskin, which the Eagle had given him; and there was great
rejoicing, for all had given him up as dead. And this is why, to this
very day, the Moquis will not keep an Eagle captive, though nearly
all the other Pueblo towns have all the Eagle-prisoners they can get.
XIX
THE NORTH WIND AND THE SOUTH WIND
NEARLY every nation has its folk-lore concerning Jack Frost and his
anti-type. The cold North Wind is always the enemy of man, and the
warm South Wind always his friend. The Quères pueblos of Acoma and
Laguna have an allegorical folk-story, in which the good spirit of
heat defeats his icy-hearted rival.
Once, long ago, the _ta-pó-pe_ (governor) of Acoma had a beautiful
daughter, for whom many of the young men had asked in vain, for she
would have none of them. One day there came climbing up the stone
ladder to the cliff-built pueblo a tall and handsome stranger. His
dress glistened with white crystals, and his face, though handsome,
was very stern. The fair _kot-chin-á-ka_ (chief’s daughter), bending
at a pool in the great rock to fill her water-jar, saw and admired
him as he came striding proudly to the village; and he did not fail
to notice the dusky beauty. Soon he asked for her in due form; and in
a little while they were to be married.
But, with the coming of Shó-kee-ah--for that was the name of the
handsome stranger--a sad change befell Acoma. The water froze in the
springs and the corn withered in the fields. Every morning Shó-kee-ah
left the town and went away to his home in the far North; and every
evening he returned, and the air grew chill around. The people could
raise no crops, for the bitter cold killed all that they planted, and
nothing would grow but the thorny cactus. To keep from starving, they
had to eat the cactus-leaves, roasting them first to remove the sharp
thorns. One day, when the _kot-chin-á-ka_ was roasting cactus-leaves,
there came another handsome stranger with a sunny smile and stood
beside her.
“What dost thou there?” he asked; and she told him.
“But do not so,” said the young man, giving her an ear of green corn.
“Eat this, and I will bring thee more.”
So saying, he was gone; but very soon he returned with such a load of
green corn as the strongest man could not lift, and carried it to her
house.
“Roast this,” he said, “and when the people come to thee, give them
each two ears, for hereafter there shall always be much corn.”
She roasted the corn and gave it to the people, who took it eagerly,
for they were starving. But soon Shó-kee-ah returned, and the warm,
bright day grew suddenly cold and cloudy. As he put his foot on the
ladder to come down into the house (all Pueblo rooms used to be
entered only from the roof, and thousands are so yet) great flakes
of snow fell around him; but Mí-o-chin, the newcomer, made it very
warm, and the snow melted.
“Now,” said Shó-kee-ah, “we will see which is more powerful; and
he that is shall have the _kot-chin-á-ka_.” Mí-o-chin accepted
the challenge, and it was agreed that the contest should begin on
the morrow and last three days. Mí-o-chin went to consult an old
Spider-woman as to the best way to conquer his powerful rival, and
she gave him the necessary advice.
Next day the people all gathered to see the trial of strength between
the two wizards. Shó-kee-ah “made medicine,” and caused a driving
sleet and a bitter wind that froze all waters. But Mí-o-chin built
a fire and heated small stones in it, and with them caused a warm
South Wind, which melted the ice. On the second day, Shó-kee-ah
used more powerful incantations, and made a deep snow to cover the
world; but again Mí-o-chin brought his South Wind and chased away
the snow. On the third day Shó-kee-ah used his strongest spell, and
it rained great icicles, until everything was buried under them. But
when Mí-o-chin built his fire and heated the stones, again the warm
South Wind drove away the ice and dried the earth. So it remained to
Mí-o-chin; and the defeated Shó-kee-ah went away to his frozen home
in the North, leaving Mí-o-chin to live happy ever after with the
_kot-chin-á-ka_, whom he married amid the rejoicing of all the people
of Acoma.
XX
THE TOWN OF THE SNAKE-GIRLS
IN the times that were farthest back, the forefathers of those who
now dwell in Isleta were scattered about in many small villages.
You have already heard the myths of how the inhabitants of several
villages finally abandoned their homes and came to live in the
one big town of the Tée-wahn. Three miles north of Isleta, amid
the sandy plain of Los Padillas, stands the strange round mesa of
Shee-em-tóo-ai. It is a circular “island” of hard, black lava, cut
off from the long lava cliffs which wall the valley of the Rio Grande
on the west. Its level top, of over fifty acres, is some two hundred
feet above the plain; the last fifty feet being a stern and almost
unbroken cliff. Upon its top are still visible the crumbling ruins of
the pueblo of Poo-reh-tú-ai--a town deserted, as we are historically
sure, over three hundred and fifty years ago. The mound outlines of
the round _estufa_, the houses and the streets, are still easy to be
traced, and bits of pottery, broken arrow-heads, and other relics,
still abound there. In history we know no more of the pueblo than
that it was once there, but had been abandoned already when Coronado
passed in 1540; but my aboriginal friends and fellow-citizens
of Shee-eh-whíb-bahk have an interesting legend of the pueblo of
Poo-reh-tú-ai and the cause which led to its abandonment.
When the mesa town was inhabited, so was Isleta; and, being but three
miles apart, the intercommunication was constant. At one time, four
hundred years ago or more, there lived in Isleta a very handsome
youth whose name was K’oo-ah-máh-koo-hóo-oo-aí-deh--which means
Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob.
In spite of this serious burden of a title, the young man was greatly
admired, and had many friends. Probably they called him something
else “for short,” or people wouldn’t have had time to associate
with him. There were two sisters, very pretty girls, living in
Poo-reh-tú-ai, and they fell very seriously in love, both with this
same youth. But he had never really found out how handsome he was,
and so thought little about girls anyhow, caring more to run fastest
in the races and to kill the most game in the hunts. The sisters,
finding that he would not notice their shy smiles, began to make it
in their way to pass his house whenever they came to Isleta, and to
say _hin-a-kú-pui-yoo_ (good morning) as they met him on the road.
But he paid no attention to them whatever, except to be polite; and
even when they sent him the modest little gift which means “there is
a young lady who loves you!” he was as provokingly indifferent as
ever.
After long coquetting in vain, the girls began to hate him as hard
as before they had loved him. They decided, no doubt, that he was
_oó-teh_, the Tée-wahn word for “a mean old thing”; and finally one
proposed that they put him out of the way, for both sisters, young
and pretty as they were, were witches.
“We will teach him,” said one.
“Yes,” said the other, “he ought to be punished; but how shall we do
it?”
“Oh, we will invite him to play a game of _mah-khúr_, and then we’ll
fix him. I’ll go now and make the hoop.”
The witch-sisters made a very gay hoop, and then sent word to the
youth to meet them at the sacred sand-hill, just west of Isleta, as
they had important business with him. Wondering what it could be, he
met them at the appointed time and place.
“Now, Brother Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob,” said the eldest
sister, “we want to amuse ourselves a little, so let us have a game
of _mah-khúr_. We have a very nice hoop to play it. You go half-way
down the hill and see if you can catch it when we roll it to you. If
you can, you may have the hoop; but if you fail, you come and roll it
to us and we’ll see if we can catch it.”
So he went down the hill and waited, and the girls sent the bright
wheel rolling toward him. He was very nimble, and caught it “on the
fly”; but that very instant he was no longer the tall, handsome
Young-Man-Who-Embraces-a-Corncob, but a poor little Coyote, with
great tears rolling down his cheeks. The witch-sisters came laughing
and taunting him, and said:
“You see it would have been better to marry us! But now you will
always be a Coyote and an outcast from home. You may roam to the
north and to the south and to the west, but never to the east” (and
therefore not back to Isleta).