IN INDIAN TENTS
IN INDIAN TENTS
Stories
TOLD BY PENOBSCOT, PASSAMAQUODDY
AND MICMAC INDIANS
TO
ABBY L. ALGER
[Illustration: colophon]
BOSTON
ROBERTS BROTHERS
1897
_Copyright, 1897_,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
This Book
IS
AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
TO
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND,
TO WHOSE INSPIRATION IT OWES
ITS ORIGIN.
PREFACE
In the summer of 1882 and 1883, I was associated with Charles G. Leland
in the collection of the material for his book “The Algonquin Legends of
New England,” published by Houghton and Mifflin in 1884.
I found the work so delightful, that I have gone on with it since,
whenever I found myself in the neighborhood of Indians. The supply of
legends and tales seems to be endless, one supplementing and completing
another, so that there may be a dozen versions of one tale, each
containing something new. I have tried, in this little book, in every
case, to bring these various versions into a single whole; though I
scarcely hope to give my readers the pleasure which I found in hearing
them from the Indian story-tellers. Only the very old men and women
remember these stories now; and though they know that their legends
will soon be buried with them, and forgotten, it is no easy task to
induce them to repeat them. One may make half-a-dozen visits, tell his
own best stories, and exert all his arts of persuasion in vain, then
stroll hopelessly by some day, to be called in to hear some marvellous
bit of folk-lore. These old people have firm faith in the witches,
fairies, and giants of whom they tell; and any trace of amusement or
incredulity would meet with quick indignation and reserve.
Two of these stories have been printed in Appleton’s “Popular Science
Monthly,” and are in the English Magazine “Folk-Lore.”
I am under the deepest obligation to my friend, Mrs. Wallace Brown, of
Calais, Maine, who has generously contributed a number of stories from
her own collection.
The woman whose likeness appears on the cover of this book was a famous
story-teller, one of the few nearly pure-blooded Indians in the
Passamaquoddy tribe. She was over eighty-seven when this picture was
taken.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE CREATION 11
GRANDFATHER THUNDER 15
THE FIGHT OF THE WITCHES 19
ŪLISKE 30
STORY OF WĀLŪT 34
OLD SNOWBALL 44
ĀL-WŪS-KI-NI-GESS, THE SPIRIT OF THE WOODS 51
M’TĒŪLIN, THE GREAT WITCH 53
SUMMER 57
THE BUILDING OF THE BOATS 61
THE MERMAN 66
STORY OF STURGEON 72
GRANDFATHER KIAWĀKQ’ 77
OLD GOVERNOR JOHN 81
K’CHĪ GESS’N, THE NORTHWEST WIND 84
BIG BELLY 95
CHĪBALOCH, THE SPIRIT OF THE AIR 99
STORY OF TEAM, THE MOOSE 101
THE SNAKE AND THE PORCUPINE 106
WHY THE RABBIT’S NOSE IS SPLIT 108
STORY OF THE SQUIRREL 111
WAWBĀBAN, THE NORTHERN LIGHTS 130
THE WOOD WORM’S STORY, SHOWING WHY THE
RAVEN’S FEATHERS ARE BLACK 134
IN INDIAN TENTS
THE CREATION
In the beginning God made Adam out of the earth, but he did not make
Glūs-kābé (the Indian God). Glūs-kābé made himself out of the dirt that
was kicked up in the creation of Adam. He rose and walked about, but he
could not speak until the Lord opened his lips.
God made the earth and the sea, and then he took counsel with Glūs-kābé
concerning them. He asked him if it would be better to have the rivers
run up on one side of the earth and down on the other, but Glūs-kābé
said, “No, they must all run down one way.”
Then the Lord asked him about the ocean, whether it would do to have it
always lie still. Glūs-kābé told him, “No!” It must rise and fall, or
else it would grow thick and stagnant.
“How about fire?” asked the Lord; “can it burn all the time and nobody
put it out?”
Glūs-kābé said: “That would not do, for if anybody got burned and fire
could not be put out, they would die; but if it could be put out, then
the burn would get well.”
So he answered all the Lord’s questions.
After this, Glūs-kābé was out on the ocean one day, and the wind blew so
hard he could not manage his canoe. He had to go back to land, and he
asked his old grandmother (among Indians this title is often only a mark
of respect, and does not always indicate any blood relationship), “Māli
Moninkwess” (the Woodchuck), what he could do. She told him to follow a
certain road up a mountain. There he found an old man sitting on a rock
flapping his wings (arms) violently. This was “Wūchowsen,” the great
Wind-blower. He begged Glūs-kābé to take him up higher, where he would
have space to flap his wings still harder. So Glūs-kābé lifted him up
and carried him a long way. When they were over a great lake, he let
Wūchowsen drop into the water. In falling he broke his wings, and lay
there helpless.
Glūs-kābé went back to sea and found the ocean as smooth as glass. He
enjoyed himself greatly for many days, paddling about; but finally the
water grew stagnant and thick, and a great smell arose. The fish died,
and Glūs-kābé could bear it no longer.
Again he consulted his grandmother, and she told him that he must set
Wūchowsen free. So he once more bore Wūchowsen back to his mountain,
first making him promise not to flap his wings so constantly, but only
now and then, so that the Indians might go out in their canoes. Upon his
consent to do this, Glūs-kābé mended his broken wings; but they were
never quite so strong as at first, and thus we do not now have such
terrible winds as in the olden days.
* * * * *
This story was told to me by an old man whom I had always thought dull
and almost in his dotage; but one day, after I had told him some Indian
legends, his whole face changed, he threw back his head, closed his
eyes, and without the slightest warning or preliminary began to relate,
almost to chant, this myth in a most extraordinary way, which so
startled me that I could not at the time take any notes of it, and was
obliged to have it repeated later. The account of Wūchowsen was added to
show the wisdom of Glūs-kābé’s advice in the earlier part of the tale,
and is found among many tribes.
GRANDFATHER THUNDER
During the summer of 1892, at York Harbor, Maine, I was in daily
communication with a party of Penobscot Indians from Oldtown, among whom
were an old man and woman, from whom I got many curious legends. The day
after a terrible thunderstorm I asked the old woman how they had
weathered it in their tents. She looked searchingly at me and said, “It
was good.” After a moment she added, “You know the thunder is our
grandfather?” I answered that I did not know it, and was startled when
she continued: “Yes, when we hear the first roll of the thunder,
especially the first thunder in the spring, we always go out into the
open air, build a fire, put a little tobacco on it, and give grandfather
a smoke. Ever since I can remember, my father and my grandfather did
this, and I shall always do it as long as I live. I’ll tell you the
story of it and why we do so.
“Long time ago there were two Indian families living in a very lonely
place. This was before there were any white people in the land. They
lived far apart. Each family had a daughter, and these girls were great
friends. One sultry afternoon in the late spring, one of them told her
mother she wanted to go to see her friend. The mother said: ‘No, it is
not right for you to go alone, such a handsome girl as you; you must
wait till your father or your brother are here to go with you.’ But the
girl insisted, and at last her mother yielded and let her go. She had
not gone far when she met a tall, handsome young man, who spoke to her.
He joined her, and his words were so sweet that she noticed nothing and
knew not which way she went until at last she looked up and found
herself in a strange place where she had never been before. In front of
her was a great hole in the face of a rock. The young man told her that
this was his home, and invited her to enter. She refused, but he urged
until she said that if he would go first, she would follow after. He
entered, but when she looked after him she saw that he was changed to a
fearful, ‘Wī-will-mecq’--a loathly worm. She shrieked, and turned to
run away; but at that instant a loud clap of thunder was heard, and she
knew no more until she opened her eyes in a vast room, where sat an old
man watching her. When he saw that she had awaked, he said, ‘I am your
grandfather Thunder, and I have saved you.’ Leading her to the door, he
showed her the Wī-will-mecq, dead as a log, and chopped into small bits
like kindling wood. The old man had three sons, one named ‘M’dessun.’ He
is the baby, and is very fierce and cruel. It is he who slays men and
beasts and destroys property. The other two are kind and gentle; they
cool the hot air, revive the parched fields and the crops, and destroy
only that which is harmful to the earth. When you hear low, distant
mutterings, that is the old man. He told the girl that as often as
spring returned she must think of him, and show that she was grateful by
giving him a little smoke. He then took leave of her and sent her home,
where her family had mourned her as one dead. Since then no Indian has
ever feared thunder.” I said, “But how about the lightning?” “Oh,” said
the old woman, “lightning is grandfather’s wife.”
Later in the summer, at Jackson, in the White Mountains, I met Louis
Mitchell, for many years the Indian member of the Maine Legislature, a
Passamaquoddy, and asked him about this story. He said it was perfectly
true, although the custom was now falling into disuse; only the old
people kept it up. The tobacco is cast upon the fire in a ring, and
draws the electricity, which plays above it in a beautiful blue circle
of flickering flames. He added that it is a well-known fact that no
Indian and no Indian property were ever injured by lightning.
THE FIGHT OF THE WITCHES
Many, many long years ago, there lived in a vast cave in the interior of
a great mountain, an old man who was a “Kiāwākq’ m’teoulin,” or Giant
Witch.
Near the mountain was a big Indian village, whose chief was named
“Hassagwākq’,” or the Striped Squirrel. Every few days some of his best
warriors disappeared mysteriously from the tribe, until Hassagwākq at
last became convinced that they were killed by the Giant Witch. He
therefore called a council of all the most mighty magicians among his
followers, who gathered together in a new strong wigwam made for the
occasion. There were ten of them in all, and their names were as
follows: “Quābīt,” the Beaver; “Moskwe,” the Wood Worm; “Quāgsis,” the
Fox; “K’tchī Atōsis,” the Big Snake; “Āgwem,” the Loon; “Kosq,” the
Heron; “Mūin,” the Bear; “Lox,” the Indian Devil; “K’tchīplāgan,” the
Eagle; and “Wābe-kèloch,” the Wild Goose.
The great chief Hassagwākq’ addressed the sorcerers, and told them that
he hoped they might be able to conquer the Giant Witch, and that they
must do so at once if possible, or else their tribe would be
exterminated. The sorcerers resolved to begin the battle the very next
night, and promised to put forth their utmost power to destroy the
enemy.
But the Giant Witch could foretell all his troubles by his dreams, and
that selfsame night he dreamed of all the plans which the followers of
Striped Squirrel had formed for his ruin.
Now all Indian witches have one or more “poohegans,” or guardian
spirits, and the Giant Witch at once despatched one of his poohegans,
little “Alūmūset,” the Humming-bird, to the chief Hassagwākq’ to say
that it was not fair to send ten men to fight one; but if he would send
one magician at a time, he would be pleased to meet them.
The chief replied that the witches should meet him in battle one by one;
and the next night they gathered together at an appointed place as soon
as the sun slept, and agreed that Beaver should be the first to fight.
The Beaver had “Sogalūn,” or Rain, for his guardian spirit, and he
caused a great flood to fall and fill up the cave of the Giant Witch,
hoping thus to drown him. But Giant Witch had the power to change
himself into a “Seguap Squ Hm,” or Lamprey Eel, and in this shape he
clung to the side of his cave and so escaped. Beaver, thinking that the
foe was drowned, swam into the cave, and was caught in a
“K’pagūtīhīgan,” or beaver trap, which Giant Witch had purposely set for
him. Thus perished Beaver, the first magician.
Next to try his strength was Moskwe, the Wood Worm, whose poohegan is
“Fire.” Wood Worm told Fire that he would bore a hole into the cave that
night, and bade him enter next day and burn up the foe. He set to work,
and with his sharp head, by wriggling and winding himself like a screw,
he soon made a deep hole in the mountain side. But Giant Witch knew very
well what was going on, and he sent Humming-bird with a piece of
“chū-gāga-sīq’,” or punk, to plug up the hole, which he did so well that
Wood Worm could not make his way back to the open air, and when Fire
came to execute his orders, the punk blazed up and destroyed Moskwe, the
Wood Worm. Thus perished the second sorcerer.
Next to fight was K’tchi Atōsis, the Big Snake, who had “Amwess,” the
Bee, for a protector. The Bee summoned all his winged followers, and
they flew into the cave in a body, swarming all over Giant Witch and
stinging him till he roared with pain; but he sent Humming-bird to
gather a quantity of birch bark, which he set on fire, making a dense
smoke which stifled all the bees.
After waiting some time, Big Snake entered the cave to see if the bees
had slain the enemy; but he was speedily caught in a dead fall which the
Witch had prepared for him, and thus perished the third warrior.
The great chief, Hassagwākq’, was sore distressed at losing three of his
mightiest men without accomplishing anything, but still, seven yet
remained.
Next came Quāgsis, the Fox, whose poohegan was “K’sī-nochka,” or
“Disease,” and he commanded to afflict the foe with all manner of evils.
The Witch was soon covered with boils and sores, and every part of his
body was filled with aches and pains. But he despatched his guardian
spirit, the Humming-bird, to “Quiliphirt,” the God of medicine, who gave
him the plant “Kī Kay īn-bīsun,”[1] and as soon as it was administered,
every ill departed.
The next to enter the lists was Āgwem, the Loon, whose poohegan was
“K’taiūk,” or Cold. Soon the mountain was covered with snow and ice, the
cave was filled with cold blasts of wind, frosts split the trees and
cracked asunder the huge rocks. The Giant Witch suffered horribly, but
did not yield. He produced his magic stone and heated it red-hot, still,
so intense was the cold that it had no power to help him.
Alŭmūset’s wings were frozen, and he could not fly on any more errands;
but another of the master’s attendant spirits, “Litŭswāgan,” or Thought,
went like a flash to “Sūwessen,” the South Wind, and begged his aid.
The warm South Wind began to blow about the mountain, and Cold was
driven from the scene.
Next to try his fate was Kosq, the Heron, whose guardian spirit was
“Chenoo,” the giant with the heart of ice, who quickly went to work with
his big stone hatchet, chopped down trees, tore up rocks, and began to
hew a vast hole in the side of the mountain; but the Giant Witch now for
the first time let loose his terrible dog “M’dāssmūss,” who barked so
loudly and attacked Chenoo so savagely that he was driven thence in
alarm.
The next warrior was Mūin, the Bear, whose poohegans were “Petāgŭn,” or
Thunder, and “Pessāquessŭk,” or Lightning. Soon a tremendous
thunderstorm arose which shook the whole mountain, and a thunder-bolt
split the mouth of the cave in twain; the lightning flashed into the
cavern and nearly blinded the Giant Witch, who now for the first time
knew what it was to fear. He yelled aloud with pain, for he was
fearfully burned by the lightning. Thunder and Lightning redoubled their
fury, and filled the place with fire, much alarming the foe, who
hurriedly bade Humming-bird summon “Haplebembo,” the big bull-frog, to
his aid. Bull-frog appeared, and spat out his huge mouth full of water,
which nearly filled the cave, quenching the fire, and driving away
Thunder and Lightning.
Next to fight was Lox, the Indian Devil. Now Lox was always a coward,
and having heard of the misfortunes of his friends, he cut off one of
his big toes, and when Striped Squirrel called him to begin the battle,
he excused himself, saying that he was lame and could not move.
Next in order came K’tchīplāgan, the Eagle, whose poohegan was
“Aplāsŭmbressit,” the Whirlwind. When he entered the enemy’s abode in
all his fury and frenzy of noise, the Giant Witch awoke from sleep, and
instantly “K’plāmūsūke” lost his breath and was unable to speak; he
signed to Humming-bird to go for “Culloo,” the lord of all great birds;
but the Whirlwind was so strong that the Humming-bird could not get out
of the cave, being beaten back again and again. Therefore the Giant
Witch bade Thought summon Culloo. In an instant the great bird was at
his side, and made such a strong wind with his wings at the mouth of the
cave that the power of the Whirlwind was destroyed.
Hassagwākq’ now began to despair, for but one witch remained to him, and
that was Wābe-kèloch, the Wild Goose, who was very quiet, though a
clever fellow, never quarrelling with any one, and not regarded as a
powerful warrior. But the great chief had a dream in which he saw a
monstrous giant standing at the mouth of the enemy’s cave. He was so
tall that he reached from the earth to the sky, and he said that all
that was needful in order to destroy the foe was to let some young woman
entice him out of his lair, when he would at once lose his magic power
and might readily be slain.
The chief repeated this dream to Wābe-kèloch, ordering him to obey these
wise words. Wild Goose’s poohegan was “Mikŭmwess,” the Indian Puck, a
fairy elf, who speedily took the shape of a beautiful girl and went to
the mouth of the cave, where he climbed into a tall hemlock-tree,
singing this song as he mounted:
“Come hither, young man,
Come list to my song,
Come forth this lovely night,
Come forth, for the moon shines bright,
Come, see the leaves so red,
Come, breathe the air so pure.”
Giant Witch heard the voice, and coming to the mouth of the cave, he was
so charmed by the music that he stepped out and saw a most lovely girl
sitting among the branches of a tree. She called to him: “_W’litt
hoddm’n, natchī pen eqūlin w’liketnqu’ hēmus_,”--“Please, kind old man,
help me down from this tree.” As soon as he approached her, Glūs-kābé,
the great king of men, sprang from behind the tree, threw his
“timhēgan,” his stone hatchet, at him and split his head open. Then
addressing him, Glūs-kābé said: “You have been a wicked witch, and have
destroyed many of Chief Hassagwākq’s best warriors. Now speak yet once
again and tell where you have laid the bones of your victims.” Giant
Witch replied that in the hollow of the mountain rested a vast heap of
human bones, all that remained of what were once the mightiest men of
Striped Squirrel’s tribe.
He then being dead, Glūs-kābé commanded all the birds of the air and the
beasts of the forest to assemble and devour the body of Giant Witch.
This being done, Glūs-kābé ordered the beasts to go into the cave and
bring forth the bones of the dead warriors, which they did. He next bade
the birds take each a bone in his beak and pile them together at the
village of Hassagwākq’.
He then directed that chief to build a high wall of great stones around
the heap of bones, to cover them with wood, and make ready “eqūnāk’n,”
or a hot bath.
Then Glūs-kābé set the wood on fire and began to sing his magic song;
soon he bade the people heap more wood upon the fire, and pour water on
the steaming stones. He sang louder and louder, faster and faster, until
his voice shook the whole village; and he ordered the people to stop
their ears lest the strength of his voice should kill them. Then he
redoubled his singing, and the bones began to move with the heat, and to
sizzle and smoke and give forth a strange sound. Then Glūs-kābé sang his
resurrection song in a low tone; at last the bones began to chant with
him; he threw on more water, and the bones came together in their
natural order and became living human beings once more.
The people were amazed with astonishment at Glūs-kābé’s might; and the
great Chief Hassagwākq’ gathered together all the neighboring tribes and
celebrated the marvellous event with the resurrection feast, which
lasted many days, and the tribe of Striped Squirrel was never troubled
by evil witches forever afterward.
ŪLISKE[2]
I was sitting on the beach one afternoon with old Louisa Flansouay
(François) and the other Indians, when she suddenly rose with an air of
great determination, saying to me, “Come into camp and I tell you a
story!” (No story can ever be told in the open air; if the narrator be
not under cover, evil spirits may easily take possession of her.)
I gladly followed old Louisa, who is a noted story-teller, and heard the
following brief but thrilling tale.
Many, many years ago a great chief had an only daughter who was so
handsome that she was always known by the name of “Ūliske,” which is to
say “Beauty.” All the young men of the tribe sought her hand in
marriage, but she would have nothing to say to them. Her father vainly
implored her to make a choice; but she only answered him, “No husband
whom I could take, would ever be any good to me.”
Every year at a certain season, she wandered off by herself and was gone
for many days; where she went no one could discover, nor could she be
restrained when the appointed time came round.
At last, however, she yielded to persuasion and took a husband. For a
time all went well. When the season for her absence was at hand, she
told her husband that she must go. He said he would go with her, and as
she made no objection, they set out on the following morning and
travelled until they came to a lovely, lonely lake. A point of land ran
out into the water, well wooded and provided with a pleasant wigwam.
Here Ūliske beached the canoe; they went ashore and remained for two
days and nights, when the husband disappeared. Ūliske in due time
returned to her tribe and reported his loss. Her father and his
followers sought long and anxiously, but no trace of him was ever found.
Later on, Ūliske took a second husband, a third and a fourth, always
quietly yielding to persuasion, and always saying as at first, that no
husband whom she took could ever be any good to her. One after the
other visited with her the peninsula in the lake and disappeared in the
same sudden and mysterious way.
The fifth husband was known as “Ū-el-ŭm-bek,” “the handsome, the brave,”
and he made up his mind to solve the strange riddle of his predecessors.
When he and Ūliske reached the peninsula, he said that, while she got
supper, he would keep on in the canoe and see what fish or game he could
find. He went but a little way, then drew the canoe up among the bushes
and searched in every direction till he found a well beaten foot-path.
“Now I shall know all,” he said, and hid himself behind a tree. Soon
Ūliske came from the wigwam and went down to the water. Undressing
herself, and letting down her long black hair, she began to beat upon
the water with a stick and to sing an ancient Indian song. As she sang,
the water began to heave and boil, and coil after coil slowly uprose
above the surface a huge Wi-will-mekq’, a loathly worm, its great horns
as red as fire. It swam ashore and clasped Ūliske in its scaly folds,
wrapping her from head to foot, while she caressed it with a look of
delight. Then Ū-el-ŭm-bek knew all. The Wi-willmekq’ had cast a spell
upon Ūliske so that to her it appeared in the likeness of a beautiful
young hero. The worm had destroyed her four husbands, and, had he not
been prudent, would have drowned him as well. Waiting until Ūliske was
alone, he returned to the wigwam before she had had time to wash off the
slimy traces of Wi-will-mekq’s embraces, and charged her with her
infatuation. Giving her no time to answer, he hurriedly chewed a magic
root with which he had provided himself, flung it into the lake, thus
preventing any attack as he crossed the water, got into the canoe and
paddled away, leaving Ūliske to her fate, well knowing that as she had
failed to supply her loathly lover with a fresh victim, she must herself
become the prey of his keen appetite.
Rejoining his tribe, he frankly told his story. Even the chief declared
that he had done well, and of Ūliske nothing more was ever heard.
STORY OF WĀLŪT
In old times there were many witches among the Indians. Indeed, almost
every one was more or less of a magician or sorcerer, and it was only a
question as to whose power was the strongest.
In the days of which I speak, one family had been almost exterminated by
the spells of a famous m’téūlin, and only one old woman named
“M’déw’t’len,” the Loon, and her infant grandson were left alive; and
she, fearing lest they should meet with the same fate, strapped the baby
on her back upon a board bound to her forehead, as was the ancient way,
and set forth into the wilderness. At night she halted, built a wigwam
of boughs and bark, and lay down, lost in sad thoughts of the future;
for there was no brave now to hunt and fish for her, and she must needs
starve and the baby too. As she mourned her desolate state, a voice said
in her ear: “You have a man, a brave man, Wālūt,[3] the mighty warrior;
and all shall be well if you will take the beaver skin from your old
’t’bān-kāgan,’[4] spread it on the floor, and place the baby on it.”
This she did, and then fell peacefully asleep. When she waked, she saw,
standing in the middle of the skin, a tall man. At first, she was
terrified; but the stranger said, “Fear not, ‘Nochgemiss,’[5] it is only
I!” and truly, as she gazed, she recognized the features of the baby
whom she had laid upon the beaver fur, so few hours before. Even before
day dawned, he had brought in a huge bear, skinned and dressed it. All
day he came and went, bringing fish and game, great and small, and the
old woman was glad.
Next morning, the skin which hung at the door of the wigwam was raised,
and a girl looked in and smiled at Wālūt. His grandmother said, “Follow
her not, for she is a witch, and would destroy you.” The next day and
the next and so on, for five days, the same thing was repeated; but on
the sixth day, the girl not only lifted the curtain, but she entered
in, went straight to Wālūt’s sleeping place and began to arrange his
bed. This done, she drew from her bosom “nokoksis,” tiny brass kettles,
and proceeded to cook a meal,--soup, corn and meat,--all in perfect
silence. Grandmother watched her, but said nothing. When the meal was
cooked, the girl set a birch-bark dish before grandmother and Wālūt, and
began to ladle out the soup. Although the kettle was so small that it
seemed no bigger than a child’s toy, both the dishes were filled and
plenty then remained. No word was said; but when night came, the girl
lay down beside Wālūt and thus, by ancient Indian law, became his wife.
Their happy life, however, was of short duration, for the girl’s mother,
“Tomāquè,” the Beaver, was a mighty magician, and was angry because her
daughter had married without her consent. She therefore stole her away
and deprived her of all memory of her husband and the past. Wālūt was
determined to recover his bride, and his grandmother, wishing to help
him, took from the old bark kettle a miniature bow and arrows. These she
stretched and stretched until they became of heroic size. She strung the
bow with a strand of her own hair, and gave it to her grandson, telling
him that no arrow shot from that bow could ever miss its mark. She also
dressed him from head to foot in the garb of an ancient warrior,
formerly the property of his grandfather, as was the bow. She told him
that he had a long, hard road to go, and many trials to overcome; but he
was not afraid. All day he travelled, and, at night fall, came to a
wigwam in which lived an old man. Wālūt asked him where Tomāquè might be
found. The old man answered: “I cannot tell you, my child. You must ask
my brother who lives farther on. He is much older than I, and he may
know. To-night you can rest here, if you can put up with the hardships
of my wigwam.” Wālūt accepted this offer, and the old man began to heap
great stones on the fire. It grew hotter and hotter, and Wālūt thought
his last hour had come; but he said to himself, “I can suffer,” and he
piled more stones on the fire, and built a wall of them about the
wigwam, so that it grew hotter than ever, and the old man said, “Let me
out, let me out, I am too hot!” But Wālūt said, “I am cold, I am cold!”
and so he conquered the first magician.
Next night he came to the home of the second brother, who made the same
answer to his inquiries as the first, and also offered him a night’s
shelter if he could bear the hardships of the wigwam. No sooner had
Wālūt accepted his offer, than he sat down and bade his guest pick the
insects from his head and destroy them, after the old custom, by
cracking them between his teeth. Now these insects were venomous toads
which would blister Wālūt’s lips and poison his blood. Luckily he had a
handful of cranberries in his pocket, and for every toad, he bit a
cranberry.[6] The old man was completely deceived, and when he thought
that his guest had imbibed enough poison to destroy him, he bade him
desist from his task. Thus Wālūt passed successfully through the second
trial. On the third day he journeyed until he came to the abode of the
third brother, oldest of all, seemingly just tottering on the brink of
the grave. Wālūt again asked for Tomāquè, and the old man answered:
“To-morrow, I will tell you. Rest here to-night, if you can bear the
hardships of my home.” As they sat by the fire the old man began to rub
his knee, and instantly flames of fire darted from every side; but Wālūt
was on his guard, and uttered a spell which drew the old man slowly, but
surely, into the fire which he had created, and he perished. “Rub your
knee, old man,” cried Wālūt, “rub your knee until you are tired!”
Next morning as he drew the curtain, boom, boom, a noise like thunder
fell upon his ear. It was the drumming of a giant partridge. Wālūt
fitted an arrow to his bow and shot the bird to the heart, well knowing
that it was his wife’s sister “Kākāgūs,” the Crow, who had come to
capture him. Towards evening he reached a great mountain towering above
a quiet lake. As he looked, he saw upon the summit, his wife,
embroidering a garment with porcupine quills, for this was where she
lived with her mother. Catching sight of him, she plunged at once into
the centre of the mountain, having no memory of her husband. He,
however, hid himself, feeling sure that she would come forth again, and
being determined to seize her before she could again disappear. Soon
indeed he saw her and tried to grasp her, but only caught at her long
hair. Instantly, she drew her knife, cut off her hair, and vanished
into the mountain, where her mother loudly reprimanded her, saying, “I
told you never to go outside; you see now that I was right. Nothing
remains but for you to go in search of your hair.” Next day, therefore,
the girl set forth, and on reaching the wigwam of the second old man,
her grandfather, for all of the old men were of her kin, the veil was
lifted and she knew that it was her husband who had sought her and
stolen her hair. She at once rejoined him; he restored her long locks,
and, by his magic power, they again grew upon her head and for a year
all went well. At the end of that time she became the mother of a boy,
whom she called “Kīūny” the Otter. Soon all the game and fish
disappeared. Wālūt went out every day, searching the woods and waters
for many miles around; but, night after night, he came home
empty-handed, and starvation seemed very near at hand. Then Nochgemiss,
the Grandmother, warned them that Tomāquè was bent on revenge, and bade
Wālūt go forth and slay her. She armed him with a bone spear from the
old pack kettle, and he travelled to the mountain. It was mid-winter and
the lake was covered with clear ice. Deep down beneath the ice a giant
beaver swam to and fro, no other than Tomāquè herself. Vainly Wālūt
plunged his spear into the depths. Again and again she evaded him,
until, in a fury, he cried, “Your life or mine!” and at last succeeded
in striking her; but so powerful was she that she raised him into the
air, using the spear in his hand as a lever, the other end being deep in
her side. The result seemed doubtful; but grandmother, who knew all that
was passing, flew to her boy’s aid and, in the shape of a huge snake,
Atōsis, wound herself about Tomāquè, fold upon fold, and at last
conquered the foe and crushed her to death, Wālūt dealing the final
stroke.
Grandmother hastened home, leaving Wālūt unconscious of the help that
she had given him, and found Kīūny gasping with fever. His mother, well
aware of all that had passed, through the power of second sight, also
knew that the baby’s illness was caused by Tomāquè’s dying curse.
Meantime Wālūt returned, and his grandmother told him that all she could
do, would be to save him; that wife and child must perish, as indeed
they soon did.
Not long after, in the early morning, a girl lifted the skin which hung
at the opening of the wigwam and looked in. As Wālūt glanced up at her,
she fled. He pursued her, but almost instantly lost sight of her. Next
day, came another girl, to whom he also gave chase, also in vain. On the
third morning, he was more successful, because this time the girl was
more willing to be followed. He tracked her to her home, but did not
enter, wishing first to consult his grandmother. She told him that these
were the three daughters of “Mōdāwes,” or Famine. The youngest girl, she
said, would be a good wife to him; and she directed him, when she came
next day, to touch her lightly on the arm.
The girl came; he pursued her and, fleet-footed though she was, he
managed to touch her before she escaped into her mother’s wigwam. Ere
long, to her mother’s rage and fury, but much to the delight of her
sisters, a little boy was born to her, who, in reality, was Wālūt
endowed with this form by his grandmother’s aid,--no baby, but a strong
brave man.
Now, Mōdāwes was a cannibal, and the ridge-pole of her wigwam was strung
with cups made from the skulls of her victims. Wālūt, seeing these, was
at once aware that they were all that was left of those who had fallen
prey to the witch’s horrible appetite. He resolved to slay her; but as
her daughters had been very kind to him, he wished to spare them, and
said to himself: “I wish that a snow-white deer would pass by!”
Instantly, the white deer moved slowly before the door. The three girls
sprang after it. Wālūt rose to his full stature; clad in his
grandfather’s ancient dress, he snatched his timhēgan from his belt and,
with a single blow, laid Mōdāwes dead at his feet. He then set fire to
the wigwam and returned to Grandmother Loon. When the three daughters of
Mōdāwes gave up their hopeless chase of the enchanted deer and came
home, no home was there, only a black heap of ashes. They mourned for
their dear baby, whom they naturally supposed had perished in the
flames; but they never again found the path which led to Wālūt’s lodge.
OLD SNOWBALL
Many years ago an Indian family, consisting of an old father and mother,
their two sons, and their baby grandson were camping in the woods for
the winter hunt. In the same neighborhood lived a horrible old witch and
her three daughters. This witch ate nothing but men’s brains and skulls.
She would pick the bones clean, and dry them, and had a long row of such
trophies all round the upper part of her wigwam, looking like so many
snowballs. From this she took her name, and was known as old Snowball.
The girls were very beautiful, and set out by turns every evening to
ensnare some young man for their mother’s meal. So it happened that soon
after the Indian family had settled in camp, one twilight, as they sat
round the fire, a beautiful girl passed by, so charming the eldest son,
that he set out in pursuit of her and never returned, having fallen a
prey to Snowball. A night or two later, another equally lovely girl
appeared, and the second son, who was a widower, and the father of the
baby boy, started to chase her, with the same result. The same fate
befell even the old man, and the poor old woman was left alone with the
baby. She was terribly afraid that the witch would get him too, and kept
him hidden in a great birch-bark basket, t’bān-kāgan. As he grew older
and began to talk and run about, he was always wishing that he were a
grown man, that he might help his grandmother, hunt for her and fetch in
wood for her. At last, the old woman, who was something of a magician,
told him that if he really was so anxious to be big, he might lie down
that night on the other side of the fire, and she would see what could
be done. Next morning, behold, he was a full grown man. His grandmother
brought out her husband’s pack kettle, and gave him all the tools and
weapons which he needed, stringing his bow with her own hair.
Thenceforth, he brought in plenty of game, and they would have been very
happy if the old woman had not constantly dreaded the appearance of the
witch’s daughter. At last she came, looking more fascinating than ever;
but the young man went on with his work, and never raised his eyes.
Next night, the second daughter passed by; he looked up at her, but that
was all. The third night, the third daughter, youngest and fairest of
all, appeared. He sprang up to follow her; but his grandmother begged
him to stay, or she would kill him as she had slain so many of his
family. He finally consented to wait till another night, and said that
he would not chase her, but merely follow and see where she went. His
grandmother wept bitterly, but did her best to ward off misfortune, by
seeing that he took the bow strung with her hair, and also a certain
small bone from the mink, possessed of great magical power. The young
man soon turned himself into a tiny bird, “chūkālisq’,” and hopped about
almost in reach of the girl’s hand. He seemed so tame that she thought
she might lay her hand on him, and indeed after several attempts she did
contrive to catch him and put him in her bosom. Then she ran home to
tell her mother of the lovely bird that she had found. “That is no
bird,” said her mother; “just let me look at him.” She put her hand in
her breast, but there was nothing there. From that moment she grew
bigger and bigger, and in due time gave birth to a fine boy. Her mother
wanted to kill the child; but she would not consent, and, for safe
keeping, carried the baby always in an Indian bark cradle strapped over
her shoulders. Meantime, the spell of her beauty held possession of the
young man, and he could not rest till he saw her once more. Turning
himself into a deer, he sought Snowball’s lodge, where he gambolled and
played about until the three girls ran out to see the pretty creature,
forgetting the baby who had been left behind. The deer led them into the
forest, and then sped back to the lodge, where he found the witch just
about to kill the child and devour its brains. Taking his spear, he at
once slew her and, hiding himself, killed the two older girls in turn as
they returned home. When the third daughter appeared, he stepped forward
and claimed her as his wife. “Now,” said he, “you must stand aside, for
I am going to burn up the lodge with the bodies of your mother and
sisters.” She was very unwilling, but at last yielded. The old witch was
loath to die, and rose repeatedly from the flames; but the magic spear
was too much for her. The young man, with his wife and baby, went home
to his grandmother, and for a year lived very happily. Then the young
woman became sad and silent and, when questioned, said that great
trouble was at hand, that her aunt, who was a powerful sorceress, was
coming to avenge the murder of her kindred, and she feared the
consequences. The grandmother made all preparations, this time stringing
the bow with the young woman’s hair. Next day the baby began to cry, and
nothing would quiet him, until the old woman thought of giving him her
husband’s bark pack kettle, where some of his ancient treasures were
still kept. Then the baby smiled, and began to turn over the things and
play with them. Suddenly he laughed aloud and cooed for joy and toddled
to his father with a little bone. “Fool that I am,” exclaimed the old
woman, “how could I forget that! This may save us yet.” (It was Luz, the
ancient resurrection bone of the Jews, and had once formed part of the
anatomy of one of the greatest magicians ever known.) The young man
bound it to the head of his spear and set forth, his grandmother having
told him that the time had come, and that he must that day kill the
great Beaver (his wife’s aunt), or the whole family must perish. He soon
came to a great lake where there was a beaver dam as high as a
mountain. He could see the big Beaver moving about under the ice; but
all his efforts to pierce the ice were in vain, it grew thicker and
thicker under his spear, and rose in great waves. He returned at
nightfall discouraged, but started out again next day, his grandmother
tearing apart her scarlet bead-wrought legging, and bidding him fling
that on the ice to see if it would not break the charm. All day he
strove, but even the legging was of no avail. Next day he took the
second legging, and at last succeeded in striking his spear through the
ice and into the enemy, Quābīt. Then began a mighty battle, Beaver
struggling to break the spear or to escape, and the young man fighting
to retain his hold. At home the baby began to scream and cry, and the
women knew their hero was in danger. The grandmother wept as if her boy
were already dead; but his wife said, “Fear not, for I will help him.”
She flung a handful of magic roots out at the door, and instantly a
sheet of water lay there, and she was at her husband’s side. She told
him not to loose the spear, but to watch well, that she would fight his
battle. “If you see me pass under the ice before my aunt, all is well;
but if she comes first, she has conquered, and we must all perish. I
shall be all white like snow, while she is jet black.” The young man
stood rooted to the spot, while the ice cracked and heaved with fearful
noises. At last the white beaver passed before him under the clear ice,
and he knew that victory was his. His wife then told him that there was
still another and a more terrible enemy to be conquered before he and
his could be safe. This triumph too she gained, though at a fearful
cost, for she was never again to see her husband, home, or child. The
young man went back to his grandmother with drooping head, and heard how
the baby had kept his grandmother informed of the progress of the fight
by his changing tears and smiles. And that is all about it.
ĀL-WŪS-KI-NI-GESS, THE SPIRIT OF THE WOODS
Seeing a smoke come from the top of a mountain, the children asked the
elders what it was, or who could live there, and the fathers told them:
“That is the home of ‘Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess,’ a tree-cutter, whose hatchet
is made of stone. He throws it from him; it cuts the tree and returns to
its master’s hand at each blow. One stroke of his hatchet will fell the
largest tree. No one ever saw him save Glūs-kābé, who often goes to the
cave to visit him. He is a harmless creature, and only fights when
ordered to do so by Glūs-kābé. He lives in that mountain, on deer,
moose, or any meat he can kill. Sometimes he goes out to sea with
Glūs-kābé, to catch ‘K’chī būtep,’ the Great Whale.
“‘Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess and ‘Kiāwāhq’ once had a big fight, which lasted for
two days. Kiāwāhq’ put forth all his power to conquer, but failed. He
uprooted huge trees, expecting them to fall and crush his rival in
strength; but Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess would hurl his hatchet and split the
tree asunder. Kiāwāhq’ strove to drag him into the sea, but the wood
spirit is as strong in the water as on land, to say nothing of the fact
that when he is in the water, ‘K’chīquī-nocktsh,’ the Turtle, comes to
his aid. Once Kiāwāhq’ got his foe between two great trees and felt sure
he could slay him as they fell. Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess seized his axe and
struck the trees which fell. The wind caused by their fall was so mighty
that it left Kiāwāhq’ faint and exhausted. He was forced to beg for
quarter, and promised his enemy that if he would spare his life, he
would give him a stone wigwam and be his good friend forever. So the
wood spirit had mercy and accepted his offer. That is how he got that
cave where he still lives.”
This was the answer of the elders to their children’s question.
M’TEŪLIN, THE GREAT WITCH
In a certain place, alone by herself, lived an old woman whom none dared
to approach, for she had bewitched many Indians.
In the spring of the year when the men came back from their long winter
hunting for furs, they would gather together and build what they called
eqū’nāk’n,[7] hot-baths, to drive off their diseases. They would enter
the hut, and heat it red-hot until it would almost roast them. They
would strip off their clothes, and dance and sing songs to drive off
disease.
Once before the performance ended, they were amazed to see a woman among
such a crowd of men; but they feared to speak to her. One young man
laughed when she threw off her clothes. This angered her, and she said:
“You laugh at me now; but I will send a flood to destroy you.” Then she
left the hut.
After a time, the youth who had laughed, said, “Hark!”
All stopped to listen, and they heard the rush of water, and knew the
witch had kept her word,--the flood was upon them. But the young man was
something of a sorcerer too, and had a rattlesnake for poohegan, or
messenger (all witches have at least one poohegan).
He instantly changed all his comrades into beaver and fish.
“Ha! ha!” laughed “Copcomus,” Little One, for such was the youth’s name.
“You cannot finish your work, old witch. I will be avenged on you yet. I
will pray Glūs-kābé to follow and kill you.”
They all swam out of the eqū’nāk’n, and when the water ceased to flow,
Copcomus went along the stream and saw a large number of beaver building
a house like eqū’nāk’n, so he changed them all back to Indians again.
They were very glad, and thanked him heartily.
“Now,” said Copcomus, “we must hold a council at once and decide what to
do with the old witch, for she will try to destroy us yet.”
Some said, “We will burn her wigwam;” one said: “No, she would know of
our coming and turn us into some evil thing!” Another said his idea was
to persuade the great bird, Wūchowsen, Wind, to move his wings harder
and faster, thus causing “Uptossem,” the Whirlwind, to destroy her; but
Copcomus said: “I will see to-night what is best.” (Witches always see
in their sleep how their enemies may be destroyed).
The old woman too saw in her sleep that Copcomus was plotting to kill
her; so she sent her messenger, the Humming-bird, to bid Wūchowsen not
to move his wings faster than usual.
Copcomus cried to his poohegan: “Go, creep into her wigwam and bite the
old witch;” and he tied cedar bark about the snake’s rattle, that it
might make no noise.
The snake went by night, glided in and bit the old woman’s big toe. The
pain waked her, and her toe swelled rapidly. She sent the Humming-bird
to seek Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess, the Wood Spirit.
The bird flew to the cave in the mountain, and when Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess
asked: “How now, little bird?” the bird replied: “The Great Witch bids
you come with your hatchet without delay.” So the Spirit lit his pipe
and set forth. When he reached his journey’s end, he found the witch
moaning with pain. “What is the matter, ‘Mookmee’ [Grandma]?” he asked.
Her only reply was: “Cut off my toe at once.”
He raised his axe, but K’chīquīnocktsh, the Turtle, Glūs-kābé’s uncle,
who had been sent by Glūs-kābé to help Copcomus, jogged his elbow and
the hatchet cut off her leg.
Next day Copcomus said to his men: “We must go and implore Glūs-kābé to
conquer the witch. No one else can do it.” So they besought the mighty
Master to help them. He laughed aloud, and said: “What! all these strong
men with warclubs, spears, and bows, to slay one poor old woman! Why, my
uncle could do the work single-handed.”
“She must die,” said Copcomus; “we will send your uncle, the Turtle, and
let him do the work single-handed.”
So the Turtle set forth once more; but as he is a slow traveller, it
took him two days to reach the witch’s home. “What is the matter,
Grandma?” he asked. “Alas!” she cried, “Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess has killed
me!”
Turtle then drew his hunting-knife and finished her.
SUMMER