Blaiwas Eagle
Ndukis Hawk
Tusasás Joker (Skunk)
Not far from Knekuks lived a woman and her little grandson, the last
one left of her kin. The boy often wanted to go to the village, but his
grandmother said: “You are too small; you might get lost, or those
people might kill you. They killed your father and mother.”
One day the boy started off without saying anything to his grandmother.
When she found that he had gone, she cried and felt badly. Tusasás
lived in the village; he saw the boy and said: “I will take that little
fellow for a servant; he can bring water for me.”
“Keep still,” said Blaiwas; “you talk too much.”
The man who killed the boy’s father was there; he said: “That boy has
come to see me. Maybe he wants to kill me.” He was making fun of him.
The boy went into each house to find out what people would say to him.
Some were sorry for him; others drove him away. When he went home, his
grandmother said: “Those people are waiting for you to grow up a
little; then they will kill you.”
After the first time, he went away every evening. One evening he saw,
on the trail, an old dry spear of tula grass. He stepped on it and
broke it; the spear screamed out, just as a person does when hurt. The
boy stepped off from it quickly, and said: “Well, well, I never heard
anything of this kind scream before.” He picked up the pieces of grass.
That minute he fell down. The grass made him fall; it was the spirit of
a skoks.
The boy lost his mind and was almost dead. He thought the spirit said:
“You have broken my back; now I want you to fix me and use me for a
cane. If you meet enemies, use me against them.”
When the boy got back his mind, his mouth was bloody. It is always that
way when a child is going to be a doctor. (Medicines sometimes travel
evenings to meet young boys.) He got up and went home.
When his grandmother saw him, she was scared; she said: “I don’t like
to see you this way. Doctors are killed as well as men who fight; you
won’t live long if you are this kind.”
That night the boy dreamed that the tula cane told him how to make a
regular medicine cane. He made the cane, and the next time he went to
the village he took it with him. It was stronger than the tula grass
cane.
Tusasás said: “Little boy, I am glad you brought me a cane; I will sing
for it.”
Blaiwas said: “You shouldn’t make fun of that boy; let him alone.”
“If we let him alone, he will kill us all,” said Tusasás.
The man who killed the boy’s father tied feathers in the boy’s hair to
make fun of him, and said: “I want to eat you, but if I don’t eat you,
you will have to carry water for me.”
Tusasás said: “He is mine; I will make him work when he is a little
larger.”
Everywhere the boy went they made fun of him because he was so small.
One night he said: “Grandmother, I want you to fix my head.” She shaved
off all of his hair but one tuft on the top of his head; that she
braided, and it stuck up straight. She painted his head and his face
red.
“Haven’t I any name?” asked the boy.
“No,” said his grandmother. “You have never given yourself a name.”
“Call me Sápkokis” (the name of the twist of hair on top of his head).
“And call me by my name every time I come in or go out; it will make me
stronger each time I hear it.”
The next night he stuck his medicine cane over the place where he
slept, took down his tula cane, and said to his grandmother: “I am
going to the place where they make fun of me. If my medicine cane
falls, it will be a sign that I am in trouble.”
When he got to the place, the man who killed his father asked: “Why do
you come so often? I wish you would keep away from me. I don’t like
you; you look just like your father. Give me your cane!”
Sápkokis wouldn’t give up his cane. He ran off to old woman Ndukis’
house. She said: “Why do you come to this village so often? That man
over there will kill you.” When he didn’t start for home, she screamed
to him to hurry, that the man was following him. She tore a hole in her
house and told the boy to crawl out and run home as quickly as he
could.
Sápkokis crawled out, but he went around on one side and struck the man
with his tula cane. The man fell in two pieces.
The people said to the dead man: “That comes of your talking so big!”
They shot at Sápkokis, but couldn’t hit him; he darted around and hit
men with his tula cane. Each man he hit died right away. One man said:
“I never killed any of your people; I have always been kind to you.” He
let that man live.
Sápkokis went home whooping and singing; he was glad. The women of the
village told all the people living what the boy had done.
Sápkokis said to his grandmother: “I am going to a place where there is
high grass; I am not going to stay here and fight people.”
He went to the mountain and stood in the high grass on one side of the
trail. A great many men started out to kill Sápkokis. When he saw them
coming, he met them, and asked: “Where are you going?” No one answered.
He said: “Here is the best place to fight.” They tried to kill him, but
his cane never failed; it killed every man.
In the evening Sápkokis went home whooping and singing. When his
grandmother saw him coming, she said: “He has killed everybody; that is
why he whoops and runs so fast. It was bad enough to make him an
orphan, not to make him think of his people. That is the way: if they
know, they can never forget. Those people should have let him alone.”
Sápkokis traveled around and everybody knew that he was a great
fighter. One day he told his grandmother he was going to see Kûlta. She
said: “If you go, don’t harm him; he is your kin.”
Kûlta said: “My grandson, I am glad to see you. I hear women mourning.
You must be on the watch; somebody may come here and kill you. You must
cover your father and mother and relatives enough so you won’t think
any more about them.” (He meant that he must kill all of his enemies.)
Sápkokis asked: “Do you feel lonesome for people?”
“No,” said Kûlta, “my sons never did any harm, but men killed them. I
am glad to have you kill those men.”
When Sápkokis went home, Kûlta carried the old grandmother fish. He was
glad that his grandson was such a strong man.
Sápkokis said: “You mustn’t make any tracks around here. If you do
people will think that you taught me all these things.”
After this, Sápkokis and his grandmother lived in peace. There were
only women and children left around their place.