A FUNERAL IN THE REGION OF DEATH
In the great weird wastes which make up the Mojave Desert, Death is
king. He sits enthroned in the terrible region known as Death Valley,
and from that fiery pit he stretches forth his fleshless fingers over
all the desert region, and exacts a fearful toll from the
desert-dwellers and from those who travel through his domain.
To the Mojave Indians, a visit from the Great Destroyer comes as an
event. In their lives few incidents occur to relieve the monotony of
existence in that barren, isolated, and uneventful region, and the
circumstances attending the taking off of a member of the tribe are
made the most of. Even in the case of the death of the most humble
member of the community the rites are elaborate and prolonged.
The traditions of the tribe do not record any funeral so memorable as
was that of the recently deceased chief, Sutuma, who had ruled his
people for more than half a century.
[Illustration: A DESERT DWELLING ON THE COLORADO RIVER
From photograph by C. C. Pierce & Co.]
Sutuma was of a royal line. His father, his fathers father, and his
father's father's father had ruled the tribe before him, even as his
son is now presiding over the affairs of his people. Sutuma's father
was chief of the Mojaves when Padre Junipero Serra, the founder of the
California missions, came into the desert from the San Gabriel Mission
in search of a fabled city supposed to be located in the midst of the
great desert.
This city was reported to be a mighty pile of stately stone buildings,
with walls and towers and domes and spires in profusion. Indians told
the good father of having viewed the city from a distance and,
believing that he was about to discover a civilized race of beings,
Padre Junipero set out for the desert on an expedition of discovery.
When he had passed the barrier of mountains at what is now known as
Cajon Pass, he looked out upon the great desert spread before him and
lo! miles away, plainly outlined against the azure sky, was the
wonderful city. It was, as had been described, a city of walls, and
spires, and lofty buildings. With exultant cries the padre and his
followers made haste toward it.
When they had traveled several hours the city seemed no nearer. When
darkness compelled them to pitch their tents for the night it appeared
to be as far away as when they had started toward it in the morning.
When they arose on the following day and turned their eyes toward the
point whither they had been traveling, the city had disappeared.
Disappointed and filled with alarm, the padre and his men prepared to
return to San Gabriel. Before they had completed their arrangements for
the return journey the city reappeared. When they had journeyed
city-ward half a day, and it seemed still as far away as ever, they met
a party of Indians. These Indians were Mojaves, and at their head was
their chief, the father of Sutuma.
By means of the sign language the Indians made the padre understand
that the city was a phantom and did not really exist, and the
disappointed party turned back. It was the padre's first experience
with the mirage, that phenomenon of refraction and reflection which has
lured so many men to their death in this same desert.
[Illustration: THE DESERT "WHITE HOUSE"
From photograph by C. C. Pierce & Co.]
The Mojaves cremate their dead. When Sutuma passed away, his body was
arrayed in all the splendor which his regal wardrobe afforded and he
was laid in state under the thatched roof of an open approach to the
"White House" of the Mojave Desert. During the three days in which the
silent form lay awaiting the final rites, it was surrounded by a band
of mourners who uttered cries and lamentations unceasingly.
Old Morabico, the aged prophetess of the tribe, with eyes raised
heavenward, recounted, in a chanting monotone, the joys of the Spirit
Land whither the departed chief would go when the fires of the funeral
pile had freed the captive spirit. Braves of the tribe hid their faces
against the supporting posts of the structure and uttered doleful cries
till exhaustion compelled them to give way to other braves who in like
manner wailed their grief. Women and children, seated about the form of
their late chief, added their voices to the mournful chorus.
On the evening of the third day, the body of the old chieftain was
borne on the shoulders of six strong young braves to a huge pyre out on
the plain some distance from the village. Here were found waiting the
men, women, and children of the tribe and the official chanters, or
poets-laureate who officiate on such occasions.
The body was laid upon the pile of fagots, and it was then securely
bound to an upright stake and the torch applied. Two of the chanters
took their places at the head and foot of the body, and the third began
running about the pyre, chanting in a loud voice the virtues of the
departed.
The Indians are natural poets. The simpleness of diction, the imagery
of thought and directness of statement, render their improvised
measures exceedingly attractive. Much of the charm of their poetry is
lost in the translation and the writer cannot give, with any degree of
accuracy a rendition of the poems thus weirdly chanted about the
blazing pile. The following will give an idea of the words of the
chanters:
"He is dead, he is dead!
It is Sutuma our chief, our beloved.
He lived an hundred years and did no evil.
He was the son of an hundred chiefs and he was wise.
His words were like drops of water on thirsty ground.
His deeds were good and they will live forever."
This poet continued to chant his improvised epic as he ran about the
pyre, till he became exhausted, when he exchanged places with one of
his companions who took up the strain and went on:
[Illustration: THE FUNERAL PYRE
From photograph by C. C. Pierce & Co.]
"The sun is darkened because our chief is gone.
The stars weep dewdrops because he is dead.
The wind sings sorrowfully because he lies low.
When he was alive the earth was very glad.
His household rejoiced because of his good sayings.
His braves were fearless because he was strong.
He was great, he was good, he was full of wisdom.
He is dead and the earth groans with its sorrow."
From time to time the chanters changed places, and the poem of praise
and sorrow continued till the fire burned low and died out. Then the
old prophetess, Morabico, lifted from the embers a handful of ashes,
which she cast upon the winds saying:
"To the Glad Land waft thy spirit. Be there happy ever as
thou art entitled to be because of thy goodness and wisdom."
Then, in the blackness of the night, lighted only by the stars above,
the picturesque band journeyed back into the lonely desert village, and
the funeral was at an end.