Blaiwas Eagle
Dûnwa Stone Mortar
Gäk Crow
Gáukos Moon
Kaiutois Wolf
Lĭsgaga
Lóluk Fire
Naulintc
Wekwek Magpie
Wûlkûtska Marten
When Látkakáwas went to Kumush’s sweat-house with the disk, her five
brothers started for the east, traveling a little toward the north.
After a long time they came to a village where there were many people.
All those people had their heads shaven and covered with cedar pitch,
for they were mourning.
In the house at the edge of the village lived three orphans, the
Naulintc children, two girls and a boy. They were so poor that they had
nothing to eat.
Látkakáwas’ brothers went in and sat down by the fire. They put their
elbows on their knees and their heads on their hands. They felt
lonesome, for they were mourning for their brother-in-law.
The little boy, Gáukos, began to cry, for he was scared. His elder
sister scolded him, and said: “Be quiet; these men didn’t come here to
hurt you. If you don’t stop crying, I will throw you out!”
Gáukos kept on crying, and at sunset his sister threw him out. She
threw him his blanket and laughed at him, and said: “You can go to the
gauwams [4] on the mountains, talk to the earth, and swim. Maybe you
will be a great doctor, and know how to do things.”
Lĭsgaga, the younger sister, went to Gáukos. She was crying, also. “Let
us go to the village and stay with our friends,” said the little girl.
“I don’t want to go there,” said Gáukos. “You must get a string and
help me tie my blanket around my waist. I am going to the gauwams on
the mountains, but I will come back.”
“You are a little fellow,” said his sister; “you are not old enough to
go so far alone.”
“I can take care of myself,” said Gáukos. “I will make myself strong. I
will talk to the earth and mountains and get them to give me power.”
Lĭsgaga tied his blanket together and Gáukos walked off quickly. With
every step he took, he grew. He had a song that he sang as he traveled;
the song said: “I’ve been thrown out, I’ve been given to the earth!”
The trail Gáukos followed went into a ravine; when he came up on the
other side of the ravine he was as large as a full-grown man.
Lĭsgaga was watching, and when she saw that her brother had grown large
and strong, she went back to the house. The elder sister laughed, and
said: “Our little brother has gone to get wise and great, but the crows
will eat him.” Lĭsgaga didn’t say a word.
After a while Látkakáwas’ five brothers went to Blaiwas’ house. The
eldest brother married Blaiwas’ daughter; the second brother married
Kaiutois’ daughter; the third Wûlkûtska’s daughter; the fourth
Wekwek’s; the fifth married the daughter of Kutyelolinas.
For five days Lĭsgaga sat on the top of the house, making a tula grass
mat, and waiting for her brother. Often her sister threatened to push
her off, made fun of her, and asked: “Who are you looking for? Your
brother,” said she, “has gone for wisdom and power, but some wild beast
will eat him; you will never see him again.”
The sixth morning, when Lĭsgaga went to the top of the house, she heard
her brother’s song. It sounded far away, near the mountains.
As Gáukos came along the trail, he saw nice things,—blankets worked
with porcupine quills, buckskin dresses, beads, and bows and arrows. He
took a wonderful buckskin dress, for his little sister. There were no
seams in the dress and it was covered with beads; there was not another
such a dress in the world. Gáukos thought he would be kind to his elder
sister, so he took a buckskin dress for her, but it wasn’t as nice as
Lĭsgaga’s.
When his little sister saw him coming, she went down the ladder into
the house. Everybody in the village saw Gáukos coming and wondered who
the stranger was. He was like the moon; his body was changed and he was
bright and beautiful. When the elder sister saw him, she laughed and
said to Lĭsgaga: “Maybe that young man is your brother. Maybe Gáukos
looks like that now.”
Lĭsgaga didn’t say a word. She spread down the tula grass mat she had
made and it became bright and beautiful. The elder sister took it up,
and spread it on her own place for the stranger to sit on; she thought
he might be coming to marry her.
Lĭsgaga said: “I made that mat for my brother to sit on. You have
always said that he soiled your mats.” She took the mat and put it down
on her own side of the house.
The elder sister brought water from the spring, and then began to pound
seeds to give to the stranger. Lĭsgaga took seeds from her own basket
and put them in a basket for her brother.
When Gáukos got home, he left his presents on the top of the house and
went in and sat down by Lĭsgaga. She was still small, but Gáukos was a
full-grown man. She gave him the tula grass mat to sit on, and gave him
seeds to eat.
The elder sister knew him now and was ashamed. After Gáukos had eaten
the seeds, he asked Lĭsgaga to comb his hair.
When night came and Gáukos was going to lie down near Lĭsgaga, the
elder sister said: “Why do you lie near that child? She will give you
lice. I am glad to see you; I will lie on your mat,” and she went to
his side of the house.
“Don’t come so near,” said Gáukos. “It is too hot,” and he pushed her
away. She came again, and again he pushed her away. In the night when
he woke up, she was lying by his side; and he rolled over toward his
little sister. The next morning he said to Lĭsgaga: “Wash your face and
comb your hair. I have brought you a new dress.”
He went to the creek and bathed, then he gave Lĭsgaga both dresses, and
said: “Give this one to our sister.” He gave Lĭsgaga a belt to wear
when she danced her maturity dance, and porcupine quills for her hair.
When the little girl put on her new dress, she looked very nice. She
gave the other dress to her sister, and said: “This is how our brother
pays you for throwing him out.”
“Why did you bring such a nice dress to this dirty child?” asked the
sister. Gáukos didn’t answer.
While Lĭsgaga was gone for wood, the elder sister put pounded ges [5]
in a basket and placed the basket in front of Gáukos. He asked: “Why do
you do this? I heard, when I was a child, that young women, when in
their father’s house, gave ges to their husbands. It should not be
given to a brother.” He pushed the basket away. His sister didn’t say
anything, but she was angry. When Gáukos went out, she said to Lĭsgaga:
“He likes you, but he doesn’t care for me.”
“You threw him out,” said Lĭsgaga. “I have always been kind to him; but
he likes you, for he brought you a nice dress.”
That night when Gáukos lay down on his mat, he told Lĭsgaga to lie near
him, then he whispered to her, and told her his elder sister’s
thoughts; he knew them all. Lĭsgaga listened, but she didn’t say
anything.
In the night the elder sister tied three strands of her hair to Gáukos’
hair. When he woke up and wanted to turn over he couldn’t, for his hair
was tied. In the morning he said to Lĭsgaga: “To-night I am going away;
I can’t stay here.”
“If you go toward the east,” said Lĭsgaga, “you will be safe, and will
find people to help you.”
When the elder sister came with water, and saw Gáukos talking to the
little girl, she asked: “What are you saying to that child?” He did not
reply. That night she again tied three strands of her hair to her
brother’s hair.
When he woke up he said to himself: “Let her sleep till I reach the
first house.” To Lĭsgaga he said: “I am going east and I must travel
fast, for our sister will turn to a man-eater and follow me.”
Gáukos crossed a wide flat at a step, sprang from one mountain to
another, and early in the morning came to the first house. There were
many mountains between it and his sisters’ house. In that house lived
two sisters, old women who were wise and had power; they could even
make themselves young if they wanted to.
Gáukos said to the old women: “I am in trouble; you must save me.”
“We don’t know how to save you,” said the sisters. He begged hard, and
at last they turned him into a baby, put him on a board and swaddled
him.
When the girl woke up and found her brother gone, she turned to a
man-eater and followed him. She tracked him across flats and over
mountains. In the evening she came to the house where the old women
lived, and asked: “Where is the young man who came here?”
“We haven’t seen a young man,” said the sisters. “Nobody comes here.”
“His tracks stop at your house,” said the sister. She looked in, saw
the baby, and said: “Oh, you have a baby!” She went in, picked up the
child, and said: “He looks like the man I am following.”
“That baby was born this morning,” said one of the sisters.
The woman put the baby back where it had been, then she lay down and
went to sleep. She couldn’t help it, for the sisters made her sleep.
One of them covered her, and said: “Let her sleep till her brother is
near the place where he wants to go.”
As soon as the woman was asleep, the sisters unswaddled the baby. That
minute he was a man and started off, saying: “If I live, I will not
forget you.”
About daylight the sister woke up, and asked: “Where is your baby?”
“He has gone.”
“I thought so. I should have eaten him last night. When I come back I
will pay you for this!” She started off quickly; she could step and
jump as far as Gáukos could.
“Oh,” said the sisters, laughing, “you will not come back if you go
where your brother is,” and they threw ashes after her, that fire might
burn her up.
When Gáukos came to the house where old Lóluk and his wife, Dûnwa,
lived, he asked Dûnwa to save him. Dûnwa didn’t speak. When Lóluk said
“Um, um!” (he wanted his wife to save the young man) Dûnwa stood up and
told Gáukos to go down in the hole where she had been sitting.
Gáukos thought: “Maybe she will sit on me and kill me.”
Dûnwa said: “You mustn’t think that; I won’t hurt you.”
He went into the hole, and Dûnwa sat down again.
Old Lóluk’s daughters were out hunting. When they went off to track
deer they left their clothes at home and wore only a breech-clout. The
minute Gáukos hid in the hole, each sister’s bowstring broke. The girls
were frightened, for they knew that something had happened, and right
away they started for the house. When they were putting on their
clothes, the elder sister said: “I feel as if somebody were looking at
me.”
“I feel so, too,” said the younger sister.
They went into the house. Just then Gáukos’ sister came in like a
whirlwind.
“Tell me where my brother is!” screamed she.
Nobody answered. The sisters didn’t know what she meant.
“Where is he?” cried she. “I have tracked him to your house. Tell me
where he is!”
The elder sister put back her hair, and said: “We have been hunting; we
don’t know anything about your brother. Ask our father or our mother.”
Gáukos’ sister didn’t ask but she began to poke the fire around. That
made the girls angry, for she was scratching their father’s face.
“Why do you scratch my father?” screamed the elder sister.
“This is not a living person; it is nothing but fire. I want to warm
myself.”
“That isn’t a common fire,” said the girl. “That’s our father! Let him
alone!” She pushed her away.
Gáukos’ sister jumped on the girl, opened her mouth and was going to
chew her up and swallow her but the younger sister pulled her back by
the hair. Old Lóluk said “Um! um!” Dûnwa raised herself up, rolled over
on the girl and broke her legs. The old man opened his mouth wide, like
two walls, the sisters caught hold of the girl and threw her into his
mouth. Lóluk swallowed her.
The elder sister said: “You will not do such things again. You will no
longer be a person; you will be a bird, and lay eggs in the holes of
cedar trees. People will kill you, for you will be good to eat.”
Old Lóluk called Gáukos out of his hiding-place and fixed him a place
between his two daughters. Dûnwa brought him seeds to eat; he was her
son-in-law now.
The next morning Gáukos asked for a bow and arrows. The elder sister
brought him hers.
He tried the string of the bow, and said: “This is not strong enough.”
The younger sister brought her bow; he tried the string and said: “This
will do.” Then he started.
Dûnwa said to her elder daughter: “You must go, too. This place is new
for him; he may have bad luck.”
The young woman took her bow and arrows and followed Gáukos. When he
looked back and saw her coming, he stopped and asked: “Why have you
come?”
“I came to show you where the deer are.”
Right away they saw under a tree two deer hiding from flies. Gáukos
crept up and shot both of them with one arrow. Then he told the woman
to stay by the two while he looked for others. Soon he shot two more,
and again two, and farther on he killed five; he put the nine deer in
his belt and went back to his wife.
“Put the deer down,” said she, “I want to tell you about my father and
mother. My sister and I kill ten deer each day. Each night our mother
eats all the bones of those ten deer and in the morning not a bone is
left; our father eats the meat and the livers. As soon as we get home,
we cut the deer open, take out the livers and put five of them in our
father’s mouth. We give him meat three times each day. You mustn’t
think about my father or my mother, for they know your thoughts.”
Gáukos said: “I will kill the deer for you; I am a good hunter.” He put
the eleven deer in his belt, and they went home.
Dûnwa asked: “How many deer did my son-in-law kill?”
“Eleven,” said her daughter. The old woman was glad.
Gáukos cut open the deer and gave five of the livers to Lóluk; then he
gave the back and leg bones and all the other bones to his
mother-in-law; she pounded them fine and ate them.
The sisters cooked meat, for themselves and Gáukos, on their father’s
face, without scratching or hurting him.
When they were through eating, the elder sister asked: “Where shall we
hang meat to dry?”
Gáukos went off a little way, pulled up a big tree, brought it to the
house and stuck it down in the ground. On the branches of the tree they
hung the meat of the eleventh deer.
That night Gáukos said: “I will stay ten days and hunt, then I must go
and see my little sister.”
He killed eleven deer each day for ten days. As soon as they had ten
big trees full of meat, he started for home. He spent the first night
with the two old women. When they asked about his sister, he said:
“Lóluk ate her up.” That night he heard singing and the rattle of a
belt; Lĭsgaga was dancing her maturity dance. It was the fifth night.
When young men came to ask the old women where the singing was, Gáukos
told them.
Early the next morning Gáukos got home. Lĭsgaga was glad to see him;
she had on her buckskin dress and her face was painted red. He said: “I
have two wives now. I am going to make this house big enough for us
all. I am afraid to live in the house with old Lóluk and my
mother-in-law, for they know my thoughts. If I should think something
bad about them, they might kill me.” He thought hard, and right away
the house was big and full of nice things.
The next morning he started back. He spent the first night with the two
old women and was at Lóluk’s house in the evening. That night he told
Dûnwa’s daughters that he wanted to live in his old home. When he
talked, neither Lóluk nor his wife knew what he said, they knew only
when he thought. The elder sister told her mother in thought what
Gáukos said.
“Is he going to leave you here?” asked Dûnwa.
“No, he wants us to go with him.”
“Our married daughters don’t belong to us,” said the old woman. “We
keep them while they are single, but married they belong to another
house.”
The next morning the young man killed ten deer. For ten days he killed
ten deer each day, and on the eleventh day he killed many more.
Old Lóluk and his wife never went out; they stayed always in one place.
The girls went every day to dig roots. They put them in baskets of
different sizes and arranged the baskets in a row, a large basket at
one end, and a small one at the other end. The old woman put a cap on
the head of the largest basket.
When Gáukos and the two sisters were ready to start, Dûnwa asked if
they would come back. When her son-in-law said that one of her
daughters would come and bring her deer meat, she was satisfied.
The three started and all the baskets followed; the basket with the cap
went ahead.
Gáukos and the two sisters spent the first night with the old women.
Gáukos gave the woman who had turned him into a baby and saved him from
his sister, the second basket. It was full of roots that were sweet and
tasted good.
The next morning the three went on, and the baskets followed. When
Gáukos got home, Lĭsgaga stored away the roots and put up the baskets.
Gáukos hunted deer for ten days and killed twenty each day. In the
largest basket, the one with the cap, he put all the bones; in the
other baskets he put livers and meat. Then he said to the elder sister:
“You must take these baskets to your father and mother.”
The younger sister said: “She can stay here, I will go with the
baskets.”
“We had better do as we are told,” said the elder.
“Make the journey in one day and don’t camp anywhere,” said Gáukos.
The elder sister started, and the baskets followed, walking one behind
the other. The younger sister cried, for she was lonesome.
Gáukos said: “When we left your father and mother, I promised that one
of you should go back with meat; that is why I sent your sister. If you
want to go, get ready.”
She started and overtook her sister. The elder sister went ahead of the
baskets, the younger walked behind them. When the sisters were near
Lóluk’s house, old man Gäk saw them and was scared. He said: “Be-e-au!
Where did all those baskets come from? And why are they walking? They
will never do that again. Hereafter people will carry on their backs
whatever they put into baskets. Baskets will not walk like that.” Right
away the baskets turned to stone.
Then Gäk said to the sisters: “You will no longer be living women; you
will be rocks, and stay right here on the trail.” When he came to
Lóluk’s house, he said: “Old woman Dûnwa, you will no longer be great.
In later times people will pound roots on you.” To old man Lóluk he
said: “Hereafter you will be kin to no man; you will burn all alike.”
As Gäk spoke, Lóluk became common fire.
When Gáukos’ wives were turned to stone his bowstring broke, and right
away he knew what had happened.