Gäk Crow
Gapni Louse
Kaltsik Spider
Kûlta Otter
Skóla Meadow Lark
Tekewas
Tohós A Duck
Tûtats
Wámanik Bull Snake
Yaukùl “One of the Stone People”
Yahyáhaäs or Yá-hi-yas or Yáhyahiyáas, always represented
as a one-legged man
On the south side of Lake Klamath lived five brothers. The eldest was
married to Skóla. Four of the brothers were without wives. Tekewas,
their sister, was married to Kûlta, and lived not far away. The
brothers were bad men. The name of the youngest brother was Tûtats.
When he was a child his sister was fond of him; then her mother made
her forget him, but after a long time she remembered him again, and
thought: “I wonder where Tûtats is. I used to nurse him; he was nice
when he was a baby. I will go and find him.”
Tekewas got to her brothers’ house at midday. When she had been there a
while they asked: “Why don’t you go home?”
“I am not going,” said the sister. “I have come to stay all night.”
They tried to drive her away, but she wouldn’t go. The next day, when
Tekewas’ brothers told her to go home, she went to her mother, who was
outside pounding seeds, and asked: “What have you done with Tûtats? Is
he dead?”
“What do you care if he is?” said her mother. “You had better go home.
The next time you come I will tell you about Tûtats.”
Tekewas went home then, for she was glad. As soon as she was out of
sight the old woman took Tûtats from under the ground, where she kept
him in a big bark basket, and his brothers carried him to the river and
let him swim.
The eldest brother said to his mother: “I am the only person who knows
what my sister thinks. She thinks bad; she will come again. You must
make Tûtats dry and put him back.”
While swimming, Tûtats lost a hair out of his head. It was a beautiful,
bright hair. The mother didn’t notice it; she wiped him quickly, rubbed
him with deer fat, put him in the basket, and carried him back under
the ground.
The next morning, when Skóla was starting off to dig roots, she saw
something red on the ridge of the mountains. Her husband said: “That is
Tekewas lying there; she means to kill us.” The brothers were so
frightened that they wouldn’t go out of the house, but sat inside; they
wouldn’t even look out. But Skóla watched.
When Tekewas came to the house, the eldest brother asked: “Why do you
come so often? You were here yesterday.”
Tekewas stayed all day; while she was swimming in the river she found
the long bright hair. She took it to her mother and asked: “Who is so
beautiful as to have this kind of hair?”
“No matter,” said her mother. “Why do you come to trouble your
brothers? You are Kûlta’s wife; you should stay with him.”
The next day Tekewas brought five pairs of nice moccasins, and told her
mother to give them to her brothers, and tell one of them he must go
home with her and get some of Kûlta’s beads. The eldest brother said:
“I will go.”
“I don’t want you to go,” said Tekewas.
“Your second brother is ready to go,” said her mother.
“I don’t want him; he has enough of my beads.” One after another, the
brothers got ready, but Tekewas refused each one. “No,” said she, “you
have had enough of Kûlta’s beads. I want Tûtats to go with me.”
“Who is he?” asked her mother.
“You know that you can’t fool me. I have a young brother; I want him to
go with me. It is getting late; where is he?” Every time Tekewas turned
her body she talked to the sun, told it to go quick, so it would be
dark soon.
Her brothers didn’t want her to stay all night, so they took the basket
from under the ground, and got Tûtats ready to go. They let down his
hair and combed it. It was blue and beautiful, and reached to his feet.
He cried all the time they were combing it, for he didn’t want to go
with his sister. When she started, he walked behind her, crying.
Tekewas talked to the sun, told it to go down, scolded it to make it
hurry. The sun was scared and it went as though it were sliding down a
slippery place. When they came to a clump of cedar trees, it was
already dark. Tekewas stopped and said: “We will camp here.”
“It is too near,” said Tûtats; he was crying.
“It is too dark to follow the trail,” said Tekewas. She built a fire
and gave Tûtats roots from her basket. After eating, he lay down on one
side of the fire and she on the other; then she thought: “Let him go to
sleep quick.” When he was asleep, she went over to lie by him.
He woke and got up; he was still crying. “Let her sleep till I get
half-way to the sky,” said he to himself. He found a log, put it by his
sister’s side, and told it to keep her asleep. Then he hurried home.
“What is the trouble?” asked his brothers. “Why did you come back?”
“I don’t like my sister. I left her asleep. When she wakes up she will
come to kill us. We must get away from here.”
The brothers hired old man Kaltsik to help them. Kaltsik made a basket
and put the five brothers into it; then he made a web, took the basket
up into the air, let it down into the web, and started.
“Don’t look down till I tie you to the sky,” said the old man. “If you
do, you will fall out and get killed.”
When Tekewas woke up, she ran back to the house and asked: “Where are
my brothers?”
“I don’t know,” said the old woman.
“Yes, you do. Here is a trail going up to the sky!” Tekewas was so mad
that she ran around the house so fast and so many times that she set it
on fire.
Old man Kaltsik was half-way to the sky when he saw the blaze, and
said: “Your house is burning!” The eldest brother forgot and looked
down, over the edge of the basket. That minute the web broke, and the
five brothers fell out, one after another.
The mother and daughter were fighting; each had a wooden paddle. When
Tekewas saw her brothers falling, she said to her mother: “You mustn’t
say: ‘Fall this side’; you must say: ‘fall in the middle.’”
“Fall this side! Fall this side!” cried the mother.
Tekewas knocked the paddle out of her hand into the fire. Four of the
brothers fell into the fire. When sparks flew out, Tekewas pushed them
back with her paddle. As often as her mother got her paddle out of the
fire, Tekewas knocked it in again. The youngest brother fell last.
“This side! This side!” cried his mother.
Tekewas jumped on her and fought with her. Tûtats swayed back and
forth, back and forth, and fell outside the fire, but his sister pushed
him into it, and he was burned up.
His mother ran to the south side of the fire, his sister to the north
side. The old woman knocked Tûtats’ heart out of the fire, for she was
on the right side. She said to the heart: “We shall see who will live,
you or your sister. You will be a great mountain with a white top, and
will live always. In later times people will come to you to get wisdom,
to be great talkers, and brave warriors, and you will talk to them and
help them.”
The heart flew north and became Mount Shasta; then the mother stirred
the fire till four hearts flew out and off toward the north. Each heart
became a mountain. The heart of the eldest brother went as far as the
ocean. But the youngest brother is the largest of the five, and he is
the only one who always has snow on his head.
Tekewas, when she thought she had killed her brothers, went home to
Kûlta; then the old woman remembered Skóla, and hunted for her. At last
she found her; she was dead, but by her side were two babies. The
grandmother pressed them together with her hands, and they became one.
She was glad and called the child Wéahjukéwas. She made a hole in the
ground and hid him.
That night the old woman took the baby out and rubbed him with ashes.
In the morning he noticed things. Each night she rubbed him with ashes;
each morning he was larger and stronger. She talked to the earth, to
the mountains, and to the springs, and asked them to make her grandson
strong and make him grow fast.
One morning the grandmother saw Tekewas lying on the ridge of a hill;
she was red and beautiful. The old woman was frightened; she thought
Tekewas had seen the little boy.
Tekewas came to the grass house and asked for seeds and roots. The
grandmother had forgotten the boy’s deerskin blanket; she had left it
in the house when she put him under the ground as she always did in the
daytime. Tekewas saw the blanket, and said: “You have a baby! Whose is
it?”
The old woman said: “My daughter, you shouldn’t talk so to me. I am
old; I had children, but now I am alone; you have killed all my sons.
Go away! You know where the seeds and roots are; take them and go off.”
Tekewas got the seeds and started, but she came back and said: “I know
whose baby it is. It is Skóla’s, and you must give it to me.”
“Skóla is dead,” said the old woman; “she had no children.” She drove
Tekewas away and followed her to see that she didn’t stop on the
mountain to watch the house. She was sorry that Tekewas had seen the
blanket. When she came back, she rubbed the boy and talked to the
earth, to the mountains, to the trees, to everything for a long time;
then she put him away under the ground.
Each night and morning the old woman rubbed the little boy with deer’s
fat, and soon he was large enough to run around and play. Then she said
to him: “My grandson, you mustn’t show yourself; you must always play
in the tall grass; never go away from it!”
Tekewas came every day; sometimes she wanted to stay, but her mother
drove her off. When the boy was large enough to trap birds, his
grandmother said: “Stay near the house; don’t go far, for if you do,
you will get killed.” One evening she asked: “What have you been doing
all day?”
“Playing with birds,” said the boy. “They can talk to me now.”
“The best way to play is with a bow and arrows. You can shoot an arrow
toward the sky, then watch and see where it falls.”
One day the boy noticed that his shadow was two, and he was one. The
next morning, when he went out to play, he shot an arrow up to the sky;
then he held his head down and listened. The arrow came back, hit him
on the top of the head and split off one half of him; there was another
boy just like him. He wished the second boy to be small, to be a baby.
He called the baby by his own name. He went to a clump of brush,
scratched a place in the middle of it, put his blanket down there, put
the baby on it, and said: “Don’t cry; if you do, our aunt will come and
eat us up.”
For a long time he sat and talked with his little brother, then he went
home. It was night and his grandmother was frightened; she thought that
Tekewas had killed the boy.
“Why did you stay so long?” asked she.
“I lost my blanket. I put it down in the brush and then couldn’t find
it.”
The next morning his grandmother gave him a wildcat skin blanket, and
he went out to play; but he didn’t play, he sat by his little brother
and cried, he was so sorry for him. When it was dark, he covered the
child with brush and went home. “What is the matter?” asked his
grandmother. “Why have you been crying?”
“I shot at a bird and then couldn’t find my arrow.”
“I can make you as many arrows as you want; don’t cry,” said his
grandmother.
The next morning, when he was starting out, the boy said: “I must take
a few seeds with me; I get hungry.”
She gave him seeds, tied them up in a squirrel skin and said: “Be
careful this time, don’t lose your blanket or arrows.”
When he came home in the evening, he said: “Grandmother, you must pound
seeds for me to carry to-morrow. I don’t like whole seeds, and I can’t
eat the roots in my arms, I bite myself.”
The next day he took pounded seeds to his little brother, fed him,
petted him, and talked to him till night, then he wrapped his wildcat
skin blanket twice around the child, took his old blanket, and went
home.
“Where is your new blanket?” asked his grandmother.
“I found my old one. I like it better. I left the new one in the
brush.”
When four days old, the little boy could walk. The fifth day the elder
boy cried all the time; he was wondering who had killed his father and
mother. His grandmother had never told him; she only frightened him to
make him careful. His little brother could play with him now.
That night his grandmother asked: “What ails you? Why do you cry?”
“Because I have nobody to play with.”
“You are a lonely child, but you mustn’t think of that,” said his
grandmother, and she began to cry.
“To-morrow will you fill my sack full of pounded seeds?” asked the boy.
“You can’t eat all I give you; you must waste it,” said his
grandmother, “but you shall have all you want.”
The little boy could eat a great deal; he ate the pounded seed his
brother brought and that afternoon he cried for more. The elder boy
made five straw rings to shoot at and roll around to amuse the little
fellow. The next day, when the child began to cry for more seeds his
brother went home, and said: “Grandmother, you must give me more
pounded seeds. I shot my arrow up, and when it was coming down to hit
me on the head, I ran away and it hit my sack and spilt all the seeds.”
“You must be more careful,” said his grandmother.
“You told me you would give me all I wanted to eat.”
“Yes, but you must not waste things.”
She filled a willow pan, and told him to go away before any one saw
him.
When night came, the boy gave his brother his bow and arrows, covered
him with grass, and went home, crying.
“What is the matter?” asked his grandmother.
“I have lost my bow and arrow. I dropped them to follow a bird and kill
it with a stone; when I came back I couldn’t find them.”
“Don’t cry,” said his grandmother. “I will make you another bow and
more arrows. You shall have everything you want.”
“I threw away my moccasins to-day; I want a new pair,” said the boy.
The next morning he had a nice pair of new moccasins. The two boys
played all day, rolling straw rings and shooting at them with arrows.
That night the old woman looked at her grandson and said: “You have
only one head; where is the other?”
“I didn’t have two heads,” said the boy, and he began to cry.
“You had two heads.”
“I had only one.”
“You have always had two; now you have one. Where is the other?” At
last he told her about his brother. “After it is dark,” said she, “go
and bring your brother to the house.”
He brought the little boy on his back. The old woman cried when she saw
him; she rubbed him with ashes, and talked to the earth and mountains,
asking them not to hurt him. In the morning she put both of the
children in the hole where the first child had been and threw a straw
mat over the hole.
That day Tekewas came for roots. She saw the mat and asked: “Why did
you throw away that nice mat?”
“Go off!” cried her mother. “Don’t torment me. You have killed your
brothers. My spirit is old; you can kill me if you want to, but don’t
torment me. Go away and let me alone!” She drove her off.
The next morning Tekewas went early to look for tracks. She found the
place where the boys had rolled straw rings and saw that some of the
tracks were very small. She followed the larger tracks till she came to
her mother’s house. “You didn’t tell me the truth!” cried she. “There
are children here! Every afternoon I hear little boys laughing.”
The old woman scolded her, drove her off, watched her till she was out
of sight; then she took the boys out of the hole and told them to go
and play, but not to run around; if they did a bad woman would catch
them.
That day the boys followed a white-necked duck. They tried to shoot it
but couldn’t. At night the elder boy said: “Grandmother, you must give
me an arrow with a strong head; then I can kill ducks.”
She gave him one and all the next day he followed the duck; at last he
hit it. The bird screamed like a man and hid in the bushes. Ever since
that time ducks like that one scream in the same way. When the boy
found the bird, it said: “Don’t kill me. I always bring good news. Take
this arrow out and I will talk to you.”
The boy pulled out the arrow, then the bird said: “Little boys, don’t
think that you have a father and a mother. Your aunt killed them. She
loved her youngest brother, but he didn’t love her, so she killed him
and all of her brothers. Now she is trying to kill you. I hear her sing
in her heart: ‘I will kill my nephews, I will kill my nephews!’ When
you are large enough to shoot ducks from a canoe, you can kill her if
you try. She swims in the lake in the form of a duck; when she is in
the form of a woman she has long red hair. She will call you as though
she loved you, but you must remember my words. Don’t tell your
grandmother that you know about your aunt; she wouldn’t let you kill
her. She could have saved your father if she had killed her daughter.”
“Grandmother,” asked the boy that night, “is there any place around
here where there are green-headed ducks?”
“Yes, but you can’t kill them; you are too small.”
The boy went to the lake, sat in the reeds, and watched till he saw two
green-headed ducks and killed them. The next day he killed five
green-headed ducks. The old woman was frightened. She didn’t dare to
let a feather drop or fly away for fear Tekewas would see it. She
burned each feather and roasted the ducks in hot ashes.
“When I kill a duck, I shiver, and am cold,” said the boy.
“Why is that?” asked the grandmother.
“Because I want a canoe.”
“To-morrow, when you go to the lake, you will find a canoe.”
He was glad. “I will take my brother,” said he.
“No,” said the grandmother, “he is too small; he might fall into the
water and you couldn’t get him out.”
The boy started off alone, then he thought: “My arrows are not strong
enough to kill big birds.” He ran back and his grandmother gave him
five strong arrows and a straw mat to wrap them in. That day he killed
many ducks, and his grandmother was glad.
The next morning he said: “When I am in the reeds at the edge of the
water, I always feel that somebody is looking at me to scare me.”
“Don’t be afraid,” said his grandmother; “maybe the earth is trying to
get hold of you.” She thought of Tekewas, but she didn’t want to tell
the boys about her.
“No,” said he. “I feel that somebody is looking at me. I want my
brother to go with me.”
“He can go, but be careful; don’t let him fall into the water.”
All day the little boy slept in the canoe; when the sun went down, his
brother cooked him a duck to eat, and then the two went home.
That lake was their aunt’s swimming-place. One day when the boy had
killed a good many ducks, and had gone to the shore to cook one for his
brother, he saw something swimming in the water; only a head could be
seen,—a great, ugly head, with long red hair floating around it. As
soon as the boys saw the head, they made themselves small. The little
boy screamed. The woman called to them and tried to go to them, but she
could only come up out of the water as far as her waist. “I shall see
you another day,” screamed she. “I will wait till you are larger.”
When the boys got home, the grandmother asked: “Why did you scream so
loud?”
“My brother swallowed a duck bone,” said the elder boy. “You must cook
seeds for him to eat.”
Every day the brothers went for ducks. Many times the aunt floated up
to their canoe, put her breast against the side of it, and almost
tipped it over. Each time the little boy screamed. The elder boy drove
her away. He was angry, but he was waiting for his brother to get older
and stronger. Sometimes the woman didn’t come; she was with Kûlta, who
lived in the lake near the place where the boys hunted for ducks.
The grandmother gave the older boy a knife to sharpen his arrows. “I
want a stronger one.” said he. She gave him another, a very strong,
sharp knife. That day Tekewas put her breast to the canoe and almost
tipped it over. The little boy screamed, he was so scared.
When they went home, the grandmother asked: “Why did your brother
scream so loud?”
“He cut his finger.”
“That is because I gave you a sharp knife. You shouldn’t let him have
it.”
The next day they killed a good many ducks. When the aunt came toward
them the boy said to his little brother: “Don’t scream.” But when the
head looked up over the edge of the canoe the child couldn’t help
screaming.
“Why does he always scream?” asked the grandmother. “You must be
careful when you are down by the water.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the earth sometimes has a pain, and wants people.”
“Don’t be afraid, grandmother, we belong to the earth; it won’t hurt
us.”
One day when the grandmother asked why the little boy screamed, his
brother said: “He got choked with a bone. I got it out, but he was
almost dead, and I cried.”
“You must leave him at home.”
“No, the water looks ugly. I’m afraid when I’m alone.”
The next time Tekewas came to the canoe and tried to tip it over, the
boy cut her head off with his sharp knife. He threw the head down in
the end of the canoe, then dragged the body into a deep hole among the
rocks in the water. The water around that place is Tekewas’ blood, and
to this day it is as black as ink. As they pushed the body down into
the hole, the elder boy said to it: “You will never be great again. You
will be small and weak, and people will say you are too nasty to eat.”
The spirit came out of the body and flew around the lake, an ugly bird.
The brothers shot ducks and piled them up on the head in the end of the
canoe. When they got home, the elder boy said: “Grandmother, give us
plenty of seeds and roots to eat.” While they were eating, the old
woman began to bring in the ducks. Each time she went for a load, the
elder brother talked to the fire, to the water, to the wood, to the
bows and arrows, talked to the pounder, to the basket, and to the
digging sticks, talked to everything in the house and everything
outside, told them not to tell where he and his brother went,—but he
forgot to tell awl. When he thought he had told everything, he took his
brother and went down in the ground near the fire. He put a coal over
the hole and started toward the east.
Each time the old woman brought in a basketful of ducks, she asked:
“Are you here, boys?” and the spirit in the wood and the fire answered:
“We are here.”
She found blood in the canoe, and wondered where it came from. When she
got hold of the head, she screamed and ran to the house. She pulled her
clothes off and was going to kill her grandsons. “Where are you?” cried
she.
“We are in the corner.”
She went there, but didn’t find them. Then she called again: “Where are
you?”
“We are on the top of the house.”
She looked for them there, then called: “Where are you?”
“We are in the grass of the house.” The house was made of twigs and
grass.
Then they said they were among the wood. She pulled the logs apart and
threw them out, but she didn’t find the boys. “We are in the canoe.”
She went there, and when she failed to find them, she screamed: “Where
are you?”
“We are where your roots are.”
She scattered the roots.
“We are sitting in the fire.”
She threw out the wood and coals. She hunted all night but couldn’t
find them.
At last awl said: “What are you going to do, old woman? The boys are
not to blame. Your daughter was a bad woman; she killed her brothers,
and then she wanted to kill her nephews. Your grandsons are a long way
off; you can’t catch them. Look at that little coal. Under it is the
hole where they went down in the ground.”
The old woman saw the coal, picked it up, found the hole, and started
to follow her grandsons.
The boys traveled toward where the sun comes up. They wanted to be
servants of Sun, to be of use to him. The first house they came to was
on the south side of Tula Lake; Tohós, Wámanik’s wife, lived there; she
was their aunt.
Tohós had a great red lump on her forehead. The little boy laughed at
her, and said: “That looks like a boil. It don’t look well. I don’t
like to see it. People who come hereafter may look as you do.” He took
his fire-drill and pressed the swelling downwards. From that time fowls
and beasts do not carry their young in their foreheads.
“Oh, my nephew,” said his aunt, “what have you done? Your uncle is a
bad man; he will be mad and maybe he will kill you.”
Wámanik was off hunting; when his bowstring broke he knew what had
happened at home. He let himself out full length, then made a circle
around the world and began to press in trees, rocks, mountains,
everything. When he began to press his own house, the elder nephew went
on the top of it, lay down, drew his bowstring, snapped it, and sent an
arrow into Wámanik’s head and killed him. Then he cut his body into
small pieces. Each piece turned to a rock, and the rocks made a great
mountain. The spirit of Wámanik came out and was a snake. The nephew
said: “You will be of no use; only dirty people will eat you.”
When the boys started toward the east, Tohós’ spirit followed them a
while, then said: “My nephews, tell me where you are going and when you
are coming back.”
“We are not coming back,” said the boys. “It is a lonesome world. We
have no father or mother; our aunt has killed them. We don’t want to
live here any longer. We shall never come back; we are going to where
the sun comes up.” And they went on.
“I am dry,” said the little boy; “I want to drink.”
“I don’t know this country,” answered the elder boy. “I don’t know
where the springs are.” As they traveled they came to a place where
water flowed out of two holes in a rock. They drank there and the elder
brother named the place Gádûm (Stone Springs). While they were drinking
a little snake ran into the spring. The younger boy laughed and said to
the snake: “In later time, if strangers come here to drink, you and
your people will show yourselves and scare them.”
They started on, but hadn’t gone far when the little boy wanted water
to drink. The elder boy shot his arrow off toward the east, but he saw
no water. He shot a second arrow and a third; then he shot through a
mountain and into a lake, and water came through the mountain and made
a spring that he called Ktsiskăsalkis. (People have to crawl in under
the rocks to drink from it.)
They crossed a high mountain and came to a lake. “I am hungry,” said
the little boy.
“Sit down, and I will go into the water and get tuls [9] for you,” said
his brother.
While they were eating the grass, they saw a catfish. When the elder
brother shot at it, a great many fish came up out of the water. He
caught some and cooked them. The place where the boys sat while eating
is called Eŭdélis, and to this day a great many catfish are caught in
the river near there.
As the boys traveled on, they came to a muddy stream. The elder brother
scratched the mud away, multiplied the fish that were there, and said:
“You will be of use for my people.” There were a good many eels in the
water and along the bank, and the little boy was afraid of them. He
took his fire-drill, picked them up, one by one, threw them off into
the lake, and said: “You are not living people. I don’t want you to be
around here. In later times people will roast and eat you, and say you
are good.”
Near their camping-place that night there were a great many round,
smooth stones. The younger brother didn’t know that those stones were
people, so he played with them, broke some of them, and struck one
against another. When it grew dark, the stones began to fight; they
flew at one another, pounded one another, and made a terrible clatter.
The boy was frightened; he struck at them with his fire-drill, and
said: “Hereafter you will be stones, not people! You will stay in the
water, but in the evening and early in the morning you will make just
such a noise as you have made to-night.” To this day the noise made by
those stones can be heard evening and morning. The place is called
Dănwagáiyas.
As the brothers traveled east, they came to a place where there were
large rocks. “I’m hungry,” said the little boy. His brother scolded him
for being always hungry, but said: “We will sit down by the rocks;
perhaps we’ll see a squirrel.”
After a while a squirrel, on its way to the flat, passed them; they
killed and roasted it, ate half of it, and took half with them. They
came to a place on the top of smooth, level rocks, where at night there
was a lake, and in the daytime only a little muddy water. There they
caught one large fish. The little boy wanted to catch more, but his
brother said: “No, this world was made before we came. Those fish were
made for some purpose; we must leave them here.”
They went on till they came to a hill. There were no trees on the hill,
but it was covered with grass, and from the top of the hill they could
see a long distance.
“Let us stay here,” said the little boy. “Let us have this hill for our
home.”
“No,” said his brother, “this is a lonely world; I don’t want to stay.
We will go where we can be of use; we will go to where the sun comes
up.”
Then they talked about which one they would rather serve, Sun or Moon.
The elder brother said: “I would rather serve Sun.” The younger said:
“I would like to serve Moon, for then people can’t see me.”
“People will always look at us,” said his brother. “They will watch for
us, and be glad when they see us.”
Soon the boys came to a wide plain at the foot of a mountain. They dug
roots, cleaned, and ate them, then climbed the mountain. “This
mountain,” said the elder boy, “is brother to Salwáhe. Hereafter people
will come to this place for rock to make knives of.”
“Let us stay here,” said the little boy.
“No,” said his brother. “I know what it is best to do; I am older than
you are. This world isn’t for us to live in always.”
That night they camped at a place which the elder brother named
Wélosina. The next morning they climbed a hill, and looking down into
the valley on the other side, saw a great dirt house.
“When shall we get to that house?” asked the little boy.
“It isn’t safe to go there in the daytime,” said his brother. “Old
Yaukùl, the man who lives there, kills people by twisting their wrists;
he has a knife stuck in the ground near the fire, and after he kills a
man he cuts him up and burns the pieces. No one ever comes away from
his house. We will go there in the night.”
“Don’t go to that bad place,” said the little boy.
“If I go, maybe I can kill that man; I don’t think he has the power to
live always.”
The elder brother gathered the strongest wood he could find and made
bones of it. He put the bones into his brother’s wrists and into his
own, and outside of those he put bones made of brittle wood. When night
came, they went to the valley and climbed to the top of the house. Then
they turned themselves into dead coals and dropped through the smoke
hole.
Yaukùl had two servants, Gäk and Gapni. The old man and Gäk were
asleep, but Gapni was awake and he called out: “Something fell in!
Something fell in!” They didn’t hear him; they were sound asleep: he
had to call to them a good many times. Even if dust fell, Gapni heard
it and called out: “Something fell in.” At last they woke up. “What can
you see with your little eyes?” asked Gäk.
“I can see everything in the world, and I can count everything.” Gäk
hated Gapni.
Yaukùl got a torch and looked around the fire. Gäk wouldn’t look, for
he didn’t believe that anything fell in. Gapni kept repeating:
“Dwûhélibina!” (Something fell in).
“I can look through the world,” said Gäk; “I know that nothing fell
in.”
“I know for myself that something came in,” said Yaukùl. He lighted the
fire and hunted. At last the old man was tired; he put his hands on his
knife, leaned on it, and rested. Then the elder brother changed into a
man and stood in front of him.
“Oh, I am glad you have come!” said Yaukùl. (He thought he would have
something to eat.) “Gäk,” said he, “I knew that Gapni didn’t lie; he
never lies, he always tells the truth. He can see farther and hear
better than you can; he shall be chief.”
Gäk was ashamed and mad.
The younger brother then stood up. “I am glad that you have come,” said
Yaukùl. “Gapni was right; he said there were two. What do you want?”
“We came to visit you.”
“Then I will play with you.”
“I am too small to play with such a big man as you are,” said the
little boy. Yaukùl took hold of his wrists. When the brittle bones
cracked, he was glad. “I can kill him easy,” thought he.
“You can’t play with him first,” said the elder brother, “you must play
with me; I am older than he is.”
When Yaukùl took hold of the elder boy’s wrists, the bones cracked, and
he was glad.
“Now it is my turn,” said the boy. He caught hold of Yaukùl’s wrists,
broke them, and killed him. Then he tore out the old man’s arms, and
said: “You will no longer be a person and have arms; you will be a bird
with legs, and you will stand by the water to watch which way the wind
blows, so as to find dead fish to eat. You, Gäk, will no longer be a
man; you will fly in the air and go around among the rocks to watch for
what hunters throw away, and what you find you will eat.” Then he said
to Gapni: “You will no longer be the wisest man in the world; you will
live in people’s heads. Some will crack you, like this”—he took him in
his fingers and cracked him—“others will put you in the fire, and
others will catch you in their heads and will bite you to pay you for
biting them. You will waken people at night, and they will catch and
kill you.” He burned up the dirt house, and said: “Hereafter, Yaukùl,
you will have no home, you will live everywhere in the world.”
Tohós, their aunt, had told them that after passing Yaukùl’s house,
they would be out of their own country and must go along at the foot of
mountains, for on the mountains a one-legged man was always walking
around. But they were traveling east and couldn’t go around the
mountains. On the first one they came to, they met the one-legged man,
Yahyáhaäs. He had a great, bushy head, his face and body were painted
red, his blanket was made of untanned elk-skin, and rattled as he
walked. On his back he carried a straw quiver. He had only one leg, but
he traveled very fast. He came up to the boys, and sitting down said:
“I didn’t think that I should meet anybody.”
“I didn’t expect to see you,” said the elder boy, “but a little while
ago I felt that somebody was looking at me.”
“Why don’t you light your pipe?” asked Yahyáhaäs. (This was always his
question.)
“I have no pipe,” said the younger boy.
“Everybody who travels should have a pipe,” said the man. He lighted
his own and handed it to the elder brother. The first whiff the boy
drew the pipe broke.
“Why did you bite my pipe and break it?” asked Yahyáhaäs.
“I didn’t break it; I drew a whiff, and the pipe fell apart.”
“You are the first man to break my pipe. Let me take your pipe.” When
he had it, he said: “I will keep this to pay for mine.”
“No,” said the boy, “that pipe rests me when I am tired; you can’t have
it.”
“I shall keep it to pay for mine,” said Yahyáhaäs. He drew a whiff,
handed the pipe back, and said: “Put in more tobacco.” When he had the
pipe again, he struck it against a rock, but it didn’t break; then he
took a rock and pounded it.
“Don’t break my pipe,” said the boy. “I didn’t mean to break yours.”
Yahyáhaäs threw the pipe against a great rock, and the pipe rolled to
its owner. He picked it up, put it in his pouch, and put the pouch into
his quiver.
The one-legged man built a fire. “Now we will wrestle,” said he.
“Why did you build the fire?” asked the boy.
“The one that gets beaten will be thrown into the fire and burned up.”
While Yahyáhaäs was fastening his leg to a rock, the elder boy said to
his little brother: “Take our quivers and bows and stand on the north
side of the fire with your back toward us. When we begin to wrestle,
run as fast as you can and don’t look back, no matter who calls to you.
Run till you are on the other side of that high mountain over there and
then wait for me. I shall kill this man and burn up his body, but his
spirit will follow us as far as we go.”
The two began to wrestle. A good many times Yahyáhaäs swung the boy
around and almost killed him, but the boy clung to him, and at last
bent him back with a twist and broke his leg off. He threw the leg and
the body into the fire, poked the fire up around them, and ran off as
fast as he could toward the mountain, where he had told his brother to
wait for him.
“Come back and wrestle with me,” called Yahyáhaäs’ spirit. “You haven’t
thrown me. Come back!” Then he called to the younger brother: “Come
back, little boy; I have thrown your big brother into the fire.” The
boy didn’t turn. His brother soon overtook him, and they went on
together.
“Yahyáhaäs’ spirit will follow as far as we go,” said the elder
brother.
They traveled a good many days; one day Yahyáhaäs’ spirit went ahead,
then turned and came toward them. The spirit looked exactly as
Yahyáhaäs had looked. Yahyáhaäs had a deer on his back. The boys
couldn’t turn, for they were always going east.
The spirit stopped on the trail, took the deer off his back and built a
fire. When the boys came to the place, they sat down. Yahyáhaäs didn’t
offer them meat, but he said: “Let us smoke,” and he gave his pipe to
the elder brother. With the first whiff, the pipe broke. “Let me smoke
your pipe,” said Yahyáhaäs. When he couldn’t break the pipe by drawing
on it, he tried in every other way. At last the boy said: “You sha’n’t
break my pipe; it is the only one I have.” He snatched it away from
Yahyáhaäs, put it in his pouch, and started to go.
“Stop and wrestle with me,” said the spirit. “Did you meet a man who
lives straight west on this road? He is a bad man; he kills every man
that passes his house.”
The boy didn’t listen; he hurried on. The spirit pretended to turn
back, but only went aside till they were out of sight, then followed
them.
They traveled a good many days. The little boy was used to walking now;
he didn’t get tired or hungry, so they traveled day and night. One day,
when they were near a river, they saw the spirit of Yahyáhaäs again.
He stopped them, and asked: “Have you a pipe?”
“No,” said the boy.
“Every man has one when he travels,” said the spirit.
“I have no time to smoke. I am looking for a place to cross this river.
Do you know of one?” asked the boy.
“Yes, above here there is a place where the river is shallow. How did
you pass the one-legged man’s house? He lives on the road you came
over. His house is under the rocks; all you can see of it is the smoke
that comes out.”
“We are going to Sun’s house,” said the elder boy. “We must hurry on;
we’ve no time to talk.”
They left the spirit at the crossing. There was a big stump in the
middle of the river; it was Yahyáhaäs’ crossing-place. He leaped from
the bank to the rock and from there to the other bank. The elder boy
took his little brother under his arm and jumped across the river.
“Stop! stop!” called Yahyáhaäs’ spirit. “Give me your pipe.”
The brothers paid no heed; they went on, and at the end of two days
came to a house covered with deerskins. Some of the skins were dry;
others were fresh. Around the house there was a great deal of deer
meat.
“Let us go to that house and get something to eat,” said the little
boy.
“Don’t go there,” answered his brother. “That is the one-legged man’s
house.”
Yahyáhaäs was watching; when he saw the boys pass he came out, and
going around them, came up driving a deer that looked tired and ready
to fall. As the spirit met the boys, the deer ran off.
“You have made me lose my deer!” screamed the spirit. “Now give me your
pipe to smoke.”
“We have no pipe.”
“Travelers always have a pipe.”
“I have traveled long,” said the boy. “When I had traveled two summers,
my tobacco was gone.”
They left Yahyáhaäs and went on. That night they crossed two mountains,
and the next day the elder brother said: “We are near the end of our
journey.” Just then Yahyáhaäs came to them; on his back were two deer.
The elder brother saw him first. “That is the spirit of the one-legged
man,” said he to the little boy. “Don’t be deceived.”
The brothers turned to black coals, and a strong wind, like a
whirlwind, carried them along. Sometimes they rolled and sometimes they
went through the air. When they were over two high mountains, they took
their own forms. Again Yahyáhaäs came to them. This time his face and
body were painted white. “We have no time to talk with you,” said the
elder brother, and they hurried on.
When they reached the top of the third mountain, the spirit of the
one-legged man was there. That time his face and body were painted red,
and long bright hair floated behind him. He called out: “Who are you
that can never be caught?”
The moment he spoke, the brothers again turned to black coals, and a
whirlwind carried them away. The whirlwind stopped on the bank of a
dried up stream, and the boys took their own forms, and traveled on.
Many times Yahyáhaäs’ spirit met them, always in a different dress, and
painted differently, but the brothers knew him.
At last the boys reached the eastern ocean, where nothing stood between
the water and the sky. There were lots of rocks there. The brothers sat
down and the elder took out his pipe to smoke.
That minute Yahyáhaäs was there, and said: “Let me smoke.” That time
the boy gave him his pipe. (He was going to destroy the spirit.)
Yahyáhaäs tried to break the pipe, but couldn’t; then the boy said:
“Give me your pipe.” With the first whiff he broke it to pieces.
“You must wrestle with me,” said Yahyáhaäs. He built a fire and
fastened his leg to the rocks.
“You must stand by the fire with your back toward us,” said the elder
boy to his little brother. “When you hear us wrestling shut your eyes
and run as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Run straight east. Run on
the water; and don’t stop till I call to you. We have left the house
where our father and mother were killed. We are leaving the world, but
each year we shall see our father’s country.”
When the boy had killed Yahyáhaäs, he threw him into the water, and
said: “You will never be a person again. You will only be something to
entice and fool people. You will think that you can kill people, but
you will have no strength. You will wander around on the mountains and
appear (in dreams) to doctors, and they will be your servants.”
As the boy ran off, the spirit called: “When I appear, you will appear,
but you will have no power. You and your brother will no longer be
persons; you will be stars, and between summer and winter your people
will fight over you.”
The younger boy was at the edge of the sky when the old man’s spirit
said: “You will be a star.” Right away he was one. As soon as the elder
boy reached the edge of the sky, he became a star, too.
Note.—Those two stars appear early in the morning toward the end of
winter. They are the heralds of spring.