Tokulki was born in the Muskogee town of Tulsa, in the central part
of what is now Alabama. Like all other Indian babies of that region
he first saw the light in a brush shelter some distance back from his
mother’s home; for were he to be born in the latter it was thought
misfortune might fall upon all its occupants. His name belonged to
the Wind clan of Tulsa, and means two persons running. When the first
bearer of the name was born, his father was absent on a war expedition
during which he frightened two of his enemies who were on scout duty,
so thoroughly that they ran off in haste, leaving their weapons in his
hands. It was in commemoration of this event that the new-born babe
received his name.
Tokulki’s mother was waited upon during her period of seclusion by her
own mother and another old woman of the clan, reputed most skillful in
midwifery. Although it was late in the autumn this old woman took the
infant immediately to the bank of the river and plunged him into it,
after which he was strapped securely into a cradle, made of canes, by
means of bark cords about the shoulders and thighs. Here Tokulki spent
the next few months of his life, sometimes carried on his mother’s
back, sometimes propped up against the wall of the house while his
mother was engaged in her household duties. But whenever he was so
placed, the cradle was allowed to rest upon a panther skin, for his
father and his uncles had all been famous warriors and it was expected
that he would follow in their footsteps. Therefore he must have that
about him which would communicate a warlike essence and make him fierce
and bold.
Tokulki passed through the period when his principal experience of life
was that there was something in it that gave him food and warmth, which
was “mother,” and when there was something light in which dark objects
moved, or something dark in which light objects moved. There was one
particular light object that he gazed upon continually, and which
resolved itself into the house door, and another, red and hot, which
he saw when he awoke at night and which resolved itself into the house
fire.
The home into which he gradually came to consciousness was the winter
house of his family. The framework was of hickory poles, set in a
circle of perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter, with their slender ends
gathered together at the top and supported by a central element of
four wooden columns. Interwoven with this were thin, flexible pieces
of wood plastered thickly with mud mixed with dry grass, and the whole
covered inside and out with mats. The floor was excavated a couple of
feet below the general level of the ground, and a shallow trench dug
about it a little farther back, so that water would be carried off
without entering. The doorway which had so early attracted Tokulki’s
attention was to the east where the first rays of the sun could steal
into it, but it was seldom that it found any one but very young babies
to awaken, for the duties of the day were assumed early and ended soon,
except in times of merry-making or the great ceremonials. There was no
vent for the escape of smoke which sometimes accumulated to an extent
which would render the inside unendurable to a white man; but this was
partly provided against by the judicious selection of wood,—old sticks
of oak and hickory which would fall apart with little smoke, and leave
a glowing bed of coals to radiate heat during much of the night. Around
the walls of the house was a continuous seat made of matting, raised a
foot and a half to two feet from the floor and covered with bearskins
upon which most of the household slept.
The household consisted of Tokulki’s father and mother, a brother
and sister, his mother’s mother, a married sister of his mother, her
husband and two children, a younger brother of his mother, and an
old man of the Wind clan, not closely connected with the family but
making this his temporary home. More important in Tokulki’s life than
most of these, was an old man, living a short distance away, but a
frequent visitor in the cabin, a man whom we should call “maternal
uncle” in English; yet he was “uncle” not only to Tokulki and Tokulki’s
brother and sister and the children of his mother’s sister, but to a
large number of other boys and girls—boys and girls whom we should
not consider related in the least. Tokulki, however, as he grew
older, learned to call them “elder brothers,” “younger brothers,” and
“sisters,” and he learned that most of these were called “Wind people,”
like himself, but that some were called “Skunk people,” and some “Fish
people.”
While still on his mother’s back, Tokulki was taken down to the river
every morning, and his mother dashed water over him and over herself
even when the weather was bitterly cold. One of his earliest memories
was of this cold douche after his warm night’s rest. All of the
inhabitants of the village except a few of the sick and decrepit, took
this morning bath, the men and boys plunging in, the women and children
contenting themselves in cold weather with a little splashing.
And it was the “uncle” of each band who saw to it that none evaded
this regulation. He was always present, encouraging the smaller boys,
scolding the timorous, and sometimes correcting the unruly by means
of a stout stick. As he did so he poured good advice into their ears,
and Tokulki soon learned that his “uncle” was the man to whom he must
appeal in time of trouble, whose approbation he must win, and whose
displeasure he must be careful to shun. Often, on winter evenings the
uncle would gather his “nephews” and “nieces” together and instruct
them, and he would tell them in particular of the deeds of their
ancestors, sometimes assisting his memory by means of little strings of
beads, or by referring to notches cut in sticks.
But when the old people were talking with one another, Tokulki’s mother
would by no means allow him to go near them, and sometimes, when his
curiosity had gotten the better of him, she would box his ears soundly.
In after life Tokulki learned that this was not because such behavior
was considered disrespectful of the old people or annoying to them,
but because old people have uncanny powers and may bewitch a child who
hangs about them too closely. There was not much temptation to do this
except in winter, for during the rest of the year the elders would be
working or talking apart by themselves, or the old men would be in the
square.
This “square” loomed larger in Tokulki’s life the older he grew. It
was only a short distance from his home. He was not allowed to play
there, but he could walk all around the edge, marked by a ridge of
earth which had been piled up by successive scrapings of its surface
in preparation for the ceremonials. Near its western end were four
long, narrow buildings plastered with mud and outlining a hollow square
with entrances at the corners. They were open in front, and each was
divided into three equal sections by transverse walls, which did not,
however, reach to the roof. The middle section of the western cabin
was slightly different, in that the back part was separated by another
wall parallel to the walls of the building, and, closely shut up in
the room thus formed, Tokulki knew that the ceremonial pots, rattles,
drums, the dried medicines, and all of the most sacred possessions
of the tribes were kept. In front the town chief or miko and his
principal councilors had their seats. On the northwestern edge of the
grounds loomed the tshokofa, the indoors council house, constructed
precisely like a winter house except that it was very much larger.
To the eastward extended a wide, open space kept bare of grass by
intermittent hoeing and the pressure of many feet. In the middle of it
rose a ball post, and at the farther corners stood two shorter posts
where captives taken in war were burned. Almost every morning Tokulki
could watch the leading men of his town assemble in this square, and
between the buildings catch glimpses of the medicine-bearers carrying
asi (an infusion of ilex vomitoria) in conch shells to regale the
councilors. All that they had in their stomachs they forthwith ejected,
that they and their minds might both be clear for the matters about to
be discussed.
Frequently Tokulki accompanied his mother when she went in quest of
firewood, or he would sit on the edge of the garden patch while his
mother, his grandmother, and the other women of the household were at
work, and sometimes he was given the temporarily congenial task of
driving off crows. This garden was planted principally with pumpkins
and beans, but most of the corn was in the great town garden farther
off from the village, and thither all of the people marched in the
spring, headed by their miko, with hoes made of hickory limbs over
their shoulders, to prepare the ground for planting. Each household had
its own patch separated from the rest by a narrow strip of grass, but
the work was in common: first so-and-so’s strip, next some-one-else’s
until all was completed. After that it was largely the duty of the
women and children to keep weeds down and drive away birds, and
there were little watch-houses on the edges of the fields for the
accommodation of the guardians. The days when all worked were as much
holidays as days of labor. The participants began early but worked
only until shortly after noon. Then they partook of their principal
meal in common, and after that there was usually a ball game followed
by a dance around a big fire in the square, the light of which was
reinforced by cane torches.
The ball game was usually played about a single post, though not the
one in the square-ground, and it was indulged in by both men and women,
who played against each other, the women throwing the ball with their
hands, the men with their ball sticks. Single tallies were made by
striking the pole above a certain mark, but five points were counted if
the carved bird which surmounted it was touched. Sometimes, however,
the men played their own game, a game similar to lacrosse except that
two small ball sticks took the place of the one large one. Each side
strove to bring the ball home to its own goal, marked by two straight
poles set up a couple of feet apart, and twenty points constituted a
game, ten sticks being stuck into the ground by the scorer of each side
and then drawn out again. In dividing up, the Wind, Bear, Bird, Beaver,
and some other clans, called collectively “Whites,” played against the
Raccoon, Fox, Potato, Alligator, Deer, and certain others who were
known as “People-of-a-different-speech.” But these games were only
practice games, or make believe games. The regular games were always
between certain towns, and they were very serious matters conducted
with the deliberation and ritualism of a war expedition. Each game was
preceded by careful negotiations: the players fasted and were scratched
with gar teeth, they enlisted the aid of the supernatural by employing
a medicine man, they marched to the appointed place as if to meet an
enemy, wagered quantities of property on the result, and conducted it
so energetically that serious injuries were sometimes inflicted.
In winter Tokulki’s mother and the other women busied themselves making
baskets and mats, twisting bison hair into garters for the leggings,
and weaving cloaks—worn only by women—out of the inner bark of the
mulberry. In the summer they made pottery and dressed skins, and the
preparation of food kept them busy, of course, at all seasons. They
must prepare their own flour by pounding the corn in a wooden mortar,
at which they sometimes worked two and two. Sometimes they would relax
their labors long enough to play a sort of dice game in which sections
of cane took the place of our bits of bone. The men spent most of
their winters seemingly to less advantage, much of it in smoking and
recounting to one another tales of their hunting or war excursions,
humorous sketches frequently revolving about the Rabbit, and sometimes
myths of a more serious and sacred character. However, they devoted
many hours in the aggregate to the repair of their hunting and fishing
outfits, and to the manufacture of axes, arrow points, and other
articles of utility, material for which had been laid aside during the
preceding fall.
When Tokulki was able to run about freely by himself, his uncle made
him a blowgun out of a long, hollow cane which he provided also with
cane arrows with their butt ends wrapped in thistledown. He sent him
out to try his skill upon the birds and smaller game animals, and more
than once Tokulki came home proudly with birds, squirrels, and even
an occasional rabbit. A little later they made him a bow and arrows,
with which he attacked rabbits, and wild turkeys, and upon one happy
occasion, he succeeded in creeping near enough to a young deer to
dispatch it. He came home in triumph to his mother, telling her where
the animal was to be found, and listened to the praises of his entire
household, particularly those of his uncle, with flushing cheeks.
Upon this Tokulki’s father and uncle began to instruct him in the arts
of woodcraft. They took the head of a deer and placed splints inside
of it so as to restore it as nearly as might be to its original shape,
and showed him how to use it in stalking the living animal. They taught
him how to make traps for the smaller animals, and where game was to
be found. They also taught him that a piece of flesh must be cut out
of every deer that was killed, and thrown away so that the deer might
not be offended and leave the country. They taught him that he must not
cast bones of game animals far off, when they fed them to their dogs,
lest the animals afterward become shy. He was told that a sprig of old
man’s tobacco must be put under every fire made by the hunting party
so that malevolent spirits would not follow them. Still later he was
to learn about certain medicines and formulæ to insure success in the
chase.
As soon as spring came, hunting of a somewhat desultory character
began, but the families did not move far from town until after the
annual ceremonies were over and the corn had been harvested, unless
driven to it by famine, or drawn to certain points on the rivers by
runs of fish. During this time Tokulki accompanied a hunting party to
the bear preserve, a section of forest not far from Tulsa where bears
were numerous and which was the common property of all the citizens.
When the party approached a tree in which a bear had been located,
Tokulki stood at one side to watch the method of procedure. He saw
that one man climbed into a tree not far from that containing the
animal they sought, and was given blazing slivers of pitch pine which
he threw successively into the tree den. When its occupant was driven
out, he was quickly dispatched by the hunters disposed below. The meat
was distributed throughout the town for immediate consumption, but the
fat was tried out and poured into bags made of whole deerskins which
were then packed away for the winter season. Meanwhile, the women were
hunting through the forests for roots, particularly groundnuts and the
roots of a smilax which they called kunti. They also collected the
seeds of a pond lily; a little later a profusion of berries enables
them to vary their diet.
In April the miko called his leading men together and shortly
afterwards was held the first ceremony of the season accompanied by
fasting and the drinking of the red willow and button-snake root. At
the time of the corresponding full moons in May and June, similar
ceremonies took place, but these were merely in preparation for the
great Fast (poskita), the culmination of the Southeastern religious
season. And so it was that about the middle of July a messenger
appeared at Tokulki’s home, and delivered to the house chief a little
bundle of sticks tied with deer sinew. Before handing it over, he drew
one stick from the bundle and threw it away. Every morning thereafter
the house chief did the same until but one stick remained and on
that day the ceremony began. Similar bundles were carried to every
household of Tulsa Indians far or near, all of whom synchronized their
movements in such a way as to converge on the square-ground at the time
appointed. Failure to come in then was both impiety and treason, and
it was severely punished by the warrior class known as tastanagalgi,
who would handle the absentee severely, and destroy or confiscate his
property.
The poskita was the type of all the ceremonials of the tribes of
the Southeast. The active participants were those men who had been
on war expeditions and had received new names in consequence, names
usually ending hadjo, fiksiko, imala, tastanagi, or yahola, and
containing often the names of the clan animals, the towns of the
Creek confederacy, or even foreign tribes. Generally speaking, the
miko and the members of his clan sat in the west cabin, the “second
men,” or henehalgi, who were devoted to peace, in the south cabin,
the higher classes of warriors on the north, and the common warriors
on the east. Each cabin or “bed” contained from two to four “honored
men,” retired warriors who constituted the inner council in charge of
the ceremony. This poskita was distinctly a peace ceremony when old
enmities were forgotten, all but the most heinous crimes pardoned, and
new resolutions made for the ensuing year.
At least one day was devoted to feasting, but after that a rigid
fast was observed by all the active participants. Then those who had
performed brave actions received new names and new war honors, while
novitiates were shut up in the tshokofa and a strict fast was imposed
upon them preparatory to their admission into the class of warriors
and induction into adult life. During this ceremony, too, all of the
fires, which were supposed to have become corrupt from contamination
with worldly things during the year, were extinguished, and a new fire
was lighted by the “Medicine Maker,” the high priest of the town, in
the most impressive manner by means of the common fire drill. This new
fire was first used to replace the fires in the square-ground and the
tshokofa, and afterwards it was taken to one side of the square where
the women stood ready to receive it and carry it to their several
homes. The rituals extended over eight days, and on the last, just at
sunset, the men marched in single file to the river, led by one of the
Fish clan bearing a feather wand, and all plunged into its waters. They
returned in the same order, the miko made a short farewell address, and
the ceremony was over.
From this time until the harvest had been gathered in, Tokulki’s
people, and most of the others, did not stray far from town. In October
was a sacred ceremony called the “Polecat dance,” and afterward the
people began to scatter rapidly for their fall hunting. Some proceeded
to their camps overland, the women serving as beasts of burden; but the
greater number, including Tokulki’s family, had their hunting lodges
near the rivers and reached them by means of canoes made of single
trees, fire-felled and fire-excavated. Some parties went as many as
seventy-five or a hundred miles from home, especially when they desired
to hunt the woodland bison. This season was devoted especially to the
preparation of quantities of dried venison against the coming of winter.
When game was plentiful, a series of merry-makings were indulged in.
This usually began with the presentation of a ball, made of buckskin,
to one of the men by his sister-in-law, who at the same time intimated
that she desired venison, bear meat, or occasionally squirrels. Upon
receiving this challenge, the man communicated the intelligence to
all of the other men in camp and they set out on a grand deer, bear,
or squirrel hunt as the case might be. Meantime the women busied
themselves pounding corn, or perhaps kunti roots, into flour and
preparing various sorts of dishes. When the men returned they also
took the meat in hand and a great feast followed, with a ball game of
the single pole type, and a dance to close the day. They would light
a great fire and two men would station themselves near it, one with a
drum made by stretching a deerskin over an earthen pot or cypress knee,
the other with a gourd rattle, while the dancers went around the fire,
usually sinistrally, in single file or two-and-two, under the charge of
one or two leaders. The dances were usually named after animals, real
or imaginary, and the steps and other motions were supposed to be in
imitation of them. The men did most of the singing.
After a few days there would be another presentation of a ball and the
same feasting, ball playing, and dancing would follow, and this was
frequently kept up until the weather was very cold.
Sometimes sickness came upon a member of Tokulki’s camp, and then
Tokulki’s mother’s younger brother, who was doctor of the band, and at
the same time Medicine Maker of the town, would be called in. Before
prescribing, such a doctor often consulted the kila, or “knower,” who
seems to have combined the functions of prophet and diagnostician, but
Tokulki’s uncle never did this because he united the two functions in
himself. Having determined the nature of the disease, he would go in
quest of various herbs, or sometimes send members of the household
after them. These he put into a great pot, poured water over them, and
placed the pot over the fire. After the contents were sufficiently
heated, he gave it potency by breathing into it through a hollow cane,
while repeating a magical formula. This was done four times, the doctor
meantime facing east. Sometimes, however, he prescribed sweat bathing
in a lodge made of blankets thrown over poles, and containing heated
rocks on which water was poured, and sometimes he declared the trouble
was caused by witchcraft which he proceeded to cure by sucking the
witching object out of the affected part by means of a bison horn.
If, in spite of all his efforts, death supervened, all of the people in
that house and in the neighboring settlements began shouting and making
loud noises so that the soul of the deceased would not stay about the
dwelling but start upon its journey to the country of spirits. They
removed the body to the house in town, wrapped in dressed deerskins
and, after wailing over it, buried it in an oblong trench about four
feet deep, excavated beneath the floor, lined with cypress bark, and
covered with sticks upon which a thick layer of mud was plastered. The
face of the deceased was painted red, he was seated facing the east,
his most important implements, such as his bow and arrows, his war
club, his paints, his pipe and tobacco pouch, were buried with him,
and for four days the women of his family bewailed his death with loud
howlings. The faces of all the mourners were painted black. The hair of
a widow was unbound for four years, she discarded all ornaments, and
was compelled to absent herself from all merry-makings. At the fourth
poskita she was formally released by her husband’s sister and either
provided with a new husband from the same clan,—or clan connection,—or
set free to marry whomever she chose. For a widower the period of
mourning was only four months.
The medical practices of his uncle possessed a fascination for Tokulki
who was present whenever he was tolerated. He had seen similar
performances in the square-ground at the time of the annual ceremonies,
and his mind, which had a mystical bent, eagerly fed upon them.
At intervals during all this time Tokulki had seen bands of warriors,
including sometimes his father and uncles, march out against their
enemies, and in particular there was an enemy to the westward, not
large in numbers but led by a chief of rare size, strength, and
sagacity, whose activities were constantly more threatening, and who
was aided and abetted by a much more numerous people beyond him called
Long Hairs. At last, raids from this quarter became so numerous and
so many injuries were suffered that a great council was held in Tulsa
and it was determined to draw their settlements closer together and
erect a strong stockade about them. Tokulki, although still too young
for the heavier work, was called upon to render such assistance as he
could in the completion of the structure. While the older men marked
out the course of the wall and planted in the ground good-sized tree
trunks a few feet apart, Tokulki and the other young men brought
together numbers of long, flexible branches or young trees which they
wove from one post to another, covering the whole with a plastering of
mud. About a hundred feet apart little watchtowers were raised above
the top of the wall, projecting forward slightly in order to defend the
intervening spaces against attempts of an enemy to scale or burn them.
On the river side there was but one row of palisades, but elsewhere
it was doubled. Toward the river, too, was the only opening, made by
allowing the walls slightly to overlap. To approach this an enemy must
creep along a narrow path between wall and water, exposed to certain
death should he be discovered.
About two years after this fort was completed, Tokulki went upon
his first war expedition. The “uncle” of his group was to be one of
the party, and took this occasion to initiate his nephew into the
cardinal tribal institution, man-killing, the one great avenue for the
attainment of personal glory and social standing. The leader of the
party was to be none other than the tastanagi lako, the head warrior
of the town, and therefore when he sent out to drum up volunteers
there was a great outpouring of the ambitious youth of the nation.
For four days they remained shut up in the tshokofa, fasting, taking
war medicine, dancing, and singing war songs to lash themselves up to
the proper degree of martial fury. Each was provided with a war club,
a bow, and a quiver of arrows, a shield of cane or bison-hide, and a
sack containing fire sticks, paints, and a slender ration of parched
corn meal. The ceremonies completed, they set out quietly in single
file very early in the morning. With them they carried a sacred box
made of splints which was usually borne on the back of the chief’s
assistant, and at every camp was placed upon a log, or hung upon a tree
or post. Among other things it contained some of the painted bones of
an enormous panther which the ancestors of this people had slain on
their way from the far western country, and a part of one of the horns
of an aquatic horned serpent. On occasion it was believed that this box
gave forth oracular utterances, informing the party in what direction
to proceed, or warning them of an attack.
On this occasion the spirit guardian appears to have been favorable,
for they surprised four outlying camps of their enemies, took a dozen
scalps, and carried off fifteen women and children as captives besides
two grown men whom they subjected to the death penalty by fire. During
this action Tokulki had the good fortune to save the life of the war
chief’s servant by engaging an enemy, about to strike him from behind.
Therefore, after the triumphant return, he received the much coveted
feather headdress, his first war name, and a seat in the eastern cabin
of the square.
He had stepped upon the first rung of the social ladder and could
attend all but the most secret and important meetings to decide the
actions of the nation. It was not long before he received another name
and left the cabin of the tasikaias for that of the imalas at the
east end of the north cabin. Later deeds entitled him to the rank of
tastanagi, the highest war grade, but being by birth a member of the
white Wind clan he was assigned instead to a seat of honor in the peace
cabin on the other side.
In spite of his prowess, however, Tokulki took less pleasure in warfare
than most of his companions. He had, as we have noted, a mystical
type of mind. The great ceremonies had a powerful influence over him,
and the practices of his uncle, the Medicine Maker, proved a constant
fascination. Blessed with a retentive memory, he rapidly picked up a
fund of tribal lore which presently attracted the attention of the
old men,—the custodians of the sacred legends and the keepers of the
rituals. They talked earnestly about him with the Medicine Maker, as of
one to whom his people might look for spiritual leadership in future
days, and at his uncle’s suggestion he and three other of the most
promising youths of the Wind connection agreed to undertake the young
men’s poskita, “the first degree in medicine” if we may so term it.
Calling these youths into his house the Medicine Maker talked to them
earnestly and then made an appointment to meet them at a remote spot
in the forest, on the bank of a small stream away from the frequented
trails. At the time and place agreed upon, he presented himself
before them and directed them to make a sweat lodge by the bank of the
rivulet. Then he began his instructions, going over as much of his
more elementary knowledge as he thought they could grasp at one time,
and, when he returned to his house, telling them to memorize all he
had said carefully, until the fourth day, after when he would visit
them once more. He repeated his visits and instructions at similar
intervals for the better part of a month when he was satisfied with
their progress and told them to go back to their homes. “Now,” he said,
“you understand how to heal wounds made by arrows and are entitled to
wear buzzard feathers in your hair.”
This degree was taken by Tokulki shortly after his first war
expedition, but for some time other events interposed to prevent the
continuation of his initiation. In the first place his family had
decided that it was time for him to take a wife and assume a position
in the tribe as the responsible head of a household of his own. He fell
in with this arrangement as part of the natural order of things, and
consequently his mother, accompanied by two or three of her clanswomen,
visited the “uncle” of the Raccoon clan to which the chosen girl
belonged. The recipient of the visit was not unaware of the offer about
to be made and had called to his house some of the other leading men
of his clan, the mother of the girl, and, as a matter of courtesy, her
father. A few days thereafter the Raccoon people returned the visit
and formally announced that the suit was accepted. The wedding might
have been consummated then and there, by conducting the groom to his
betrothed’s house and holding a feast and dance, but Tokulki and his
parents were ambitious to have him reach a high position in the tribe
as soon as possible, and accordingly they delayed the ceremony until
he could erect a house, garner a crop of corn, and lay by a supply of
venison.
Word was sent to all of the male members of the Wind clan residing in
that town to go into the forest and bring together a supply of poles,
bark, bark rope, and other articles sufficient for the proposed house.
The planting season was beginning, and when the town field was laid
out, an extra plot was sowed for the new household. When this was ready
to harvest, a corncrib raised on posts was put up near the site of the
projected dwelling, and filled from Tokulki’s new plot. The harvest
being over, and the days cool enough for comfortable work out-of-doors,
the men of the Wind clan came together again and appointed a day upon
which the new house was to be raised. This work was carried out much
like an old New England husking bee. It was placed under the direction
of the one considered most skilled in such matters who assigned the
various processes to all the rest. They worked with such a good will
that it was practically complete by the middle of the afternoon.
Afterward a common meal was served followed by a game of ball and the
usual dance after dark. Sofkee, prepared like our “hulled corn,” stood
ready in pots at the service of any of those present.
A little later Tokulki went hunting and brought back dried venison to
add to his winter’s stores. It was only then that he and his bride were
brought to their new home, where a final feast was partaken of by all
together, speeches exchanged by the leading men of the Wind and Raccoon
clans, and the new couple left in possession.
During this period Tokulki was too busily occupied to think of his
earlier ambitions, but after his first child was born and the routine
of his new life had become well established, they began to recur to
him. He communicated his thoughts to the three young men with whom he
had been associated before, and he found that they too were prepared
to continue in their course. They approached the Medicine Maker again,
and again submitted to the fasts, the sweat baths, and the repeated
instructions, more rigorous now than before. This time they learned
among other things the treatment proper for snake bite, and how, as
they believed, to detect objects clearly on the darkest nights.
Tokulki was still unsatisfied. Every fresh revelation awakened new
ambitions. His companions, however, were content with what they had
acquired and with the prestige they had attained, and were wearied with
the long and exhausting fasts. Therefore when Tokulki presented himself
as a candidate for the third degree he went entirely alone. In fact, so
rigorous was the ordeal to which he was at this time subjected, that
he debated within himself whether he should not stop there. As it was,
he had penetrated farther into the mysteries than all except ten or a
dozen men in the fifty allied Muskogee towns.
He allowed two years to slip away before making up his mind to
undertake the fourth and crowning ordeal. Finally, however, he set
himself to the task, and he came triumphantly through, though the
periods of fasting were doubled, and the memorizing more severe than
any which he had before experienced. He returned to his house a mere
shadow of a man, with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and almost fleshless
bones, but with a position and influence in the Nation shared by none
except the Medicine Makers of a few of the leading towns.
With the Medicine Maker of Tulsa, his instructor and uncle, Tokulki now
came to be on the most friendly terms. It was natural that a man of
such advanced mentality as Tokulki and such steadfastness of purpose
should excite interest in his superior. It became evident that when
the Medicine Maker died or gave up his spiritual headship his position
would fall to Tokulki. Many were the talks which the two men had
together, talks in which the older man unfolded whatever knowledge his
long life of physical activity and spiritual contemplation had given
him. Some was not new to Tokulki, some had been suggested to him by the
other learned men, but much was novel and strange.
The world envisaged by the Tulsa sage was about like this: The middle
earth which mankind knows, is flat and square and lies afloat upon
“the wide white waters.” There is a world above it and a world below
it, and these are inhabited by beings like ourselves. Below are
those left behind when the races now on earth found their way to its
surface; above, those who had lived on earth but, having undergone
the experience called death, had traveled westward, crossed a narrow
point in the ocean stream, upon a foot log, and either remained with
the malevolent spirits in that quarter or ascended to the fortunate
region directly overhead, presided over by Hisakita-imisi, “the breath
holder.” The white streak in the sky which we call “the milky way”
was said to be the very road which they traversed. Unavenged souls of
those who had been killed in wars, however, were unwilling to begin
their journey until scalps from the offending tribe were brought in,
and meanwhile they remained about the eaves of the houses, moaning.
Some said that bad spirits were reincarnated into beasts, but about
this men differed. However, they were agreed that human beings might
acquire such malevolent power as to become witches and assume the forms
of animals while still living on earth. Their evil dispositions were
attributed to lizards who had taken up their abode inside of the witch,
but might be expelled by the proper medical rites.
The stars were thought to be attached to the under surface of the
solid vault above, along which the sun and moon traveled each day. An
eclipse of the sun was usually attributed to a great toad who might be
frightened off by hostile demonstrations on the part of human beings.
To an eclipse of the moon people paid little attention. The moon was
inhabited by a man and a dog. The rainbow was a big, celestial snake
which had power over rain.
The world and all that it contained were the products of mind and bore
everywhere the marks of mind. Matter was not something which had given
birth to mind, but something which had formerly been mind, something
from which mind had withdrawn, was quiescent, and out of which it might
again be roused. This mind was visibly manifested in the so-called
“living things,” as plants, and, still more, animals. Nevertheless,
latent within inorganic substance no less than in plants and animals,
was mind in its highest form, i. e., human mind. This might come to the
surface at any time but it did so particularly to the fasting warrior,
the “knower,” and the doctor. Indeed, the importance of these two last
lay in their ability to penetrate to the human life within the mineral,
plant, and animal life of nature, and bring back from that experience
knowledge of value in ordering the lives of their fellow beings.
Not that mind was attributed to one individuality, but that it was
recognized as everywhere of the same nature.
Its manifestations were not in all cases equally powerful. Its
manifestation in the panther, bear, and bison was more powerful than
its manifestation in the raccoon, the rabbit, and the squirrel. Some
“inorganic” powers,—as, for instance, the wind, the rivers, and the
sea,—were, however, even more powerful. Peculiarly powerful were the
thunder and the lightning, which were produced by two sets of animals.
The dangerous kind, the kind that “struck,” was made by huge birds
from whose eyes flashed fire, and this they flashed down at the other
fire-producing creatures, enormous, horned serpents, who in turn shot
the blue, harmless lightning upward. Bones of these earth serpents
were sometimes found after a rainstorm. Besides there were long
serpents who lived in the waters and who, rearing their huge lengths
straight upward at intervals, would allow themselves to fall over with
a gigantic splash. There were the sharp-breasted snakes, suggested
to native imagination by the tracks of lightning, snakes supposed
to run straight along the surface of the ground, cutting through
roots and bushes as they went. There were bodiless snakes which rose
whirling into the air on still mornings. There were creatures like
bison which went by fours, each resting for a minute in the tracks of
its predecessor. There were very little people who sometimes deprived
travelers of their senses, and very big people who ate them.
Besides the embodied power in nature there was power not altogether
differentiated from it, which was unembodied, or indistinctly conceived
as embodied. This power could be invoked by the use of charms and the
repetition of certain formulæ. “By a word” wonderful things could be
accomplished; “by a word” the entire world could be compressed into
such a small space that the medicine man who was master of the word
could encircle it in four steps. It was power of this kind which was
imparted to medicines, yet the source of this power was after all
the anthropomorphic powers, which, at the very beginning of things,
declared what the diseases were to be and also appointed the remedies
to be employed in curing them. But when the doctor had prepared these
remedies and placed them in a pot in front of him, they were not
efficacious until he had repeated the prescribed formulæ, or prayers,
four times, while breathing into the medicine through a hollow cane.
In this way the spirit that made the medicine powerful passed into it
through the breath of life in the doctor.
From this conception it came about that the supreme being of the
Creeks, a kind of sky god, was known as Hisakita-imisi, “the breath
holder.” While he did not necessarily interfere actively in the
relations between the lesser powers and mankind, his primacy was
recognized, and they were spoken of as his servants; he was their miko.
What took place for the individual in time of sickness happened for the
entire tribe annually at the time of the poskita. It had been given
to men by Hisakita-imisi for their health and for the annual renewal
of the life of the tribe, as well as the individual lives of those
composing it. The square-ground fire was but a detached fragment of
the sun, the sky fire, and both of these meant life, for both were
necessary to the lives of men. The renewal of the fire was the renewal
of life, an act by means of which, the connection between human lives
and the life of the universe was restored, and the corruption, which
had accumulated about the fire obtained the previous year, gotten rid
of. Similarly the participants were cleansed internally by means of
the poskita medicines, one of which was to make good the defects of
the system and heal its diseases, the other to insure the enjoyment
of positive benefits. Hence it was that a little of each was carried
home by every household and hung up by the door, some of it being used
occasionally in medicines until the next annual ceremony.
As to the origin of things, the Muskogee had obscure traditions. They
believed that the solid land had come from the expansion of a bit of
earth brought from the edges of the world or from the bottom of the
ocean. They also told of a flood, but their story of human origins
did not concern any tribes except their own and a few believed to be
related closely to theirs. They thought that after their ascent from
the world beneath at the point in the far west called “the navel of the
world,” they had traveled toward the southeast for a long time, led
by their Medicine Maker, who, in turn, was guided by a staff, stuck
upright in the ground every night and found inclining in the direction
to be taken every morning. In the meantime, four “light beings” from
the corners of the world had brought the knowledge of the poskita to
them and had lighted their first poskita fire. During this period,
ties of friendship sprang up between the several Muskogee tribes, and
some that were not Muskogee. Two of the leading tribes, the Kasihta
and Coweta, formed an agreement by which they were to play ball with
each other at intervals, but were never to fight and as other towns
or tribes became allied with these, they also became allied in the
ball games until there came to be two classes of towns with about
twenty-five on a side. Those headed by Kasihta were dedicated to peace
and those headed by Coweta to war....
One day—it was toward the end of summer—Tokulki and the Medicine Maker
strayed some distance eastward of the town and sat down upon the side
of a hill, where the older man reviewed the more important particulars
of his teaching more impressively than ever before. After a time he
paused, and then he said: “I have told you all that I know; this is
what the Medicine Maker who was before me, and all of the knowers and
the doctors have told me. It must be so. I believe it. Yet perhaps
it is not all the truth. I think we are not to understand some of the
things that they tell just as they sound; they have another meaning.
Sometimes we can see what this other meaning is; sometimes we can not.
Perhaps, too, like the poskita fire, it has become fouled by much
contact with common things, by much repeating. Perhaps Hisakita-imisi
did not tell our grandfathers all that he had in mind to tell. But
much of it is good, and it is for the good of our people. So use what
seems to you good! And the rest you need not use. And if Hisakita-imisi
seems to tell you something that is better, if you think it is better
for your people, use it! It is what he must have intended from the
beginning. I tell you this because I feel that your times will not be
like my times. The plant dies. In the spring the plant comes up again.
It is the same plant, and yet it is not the same plant. It is like, but
it is unlike.
“Have you not heard of the people who come across the wide, white
water in canoes with wings? Even now I hear that a great number of
them are marching through our country and that they are coming in this
direction. Maybe the old things are to pass away.” He stopped, and just
then out of the east came a low noise, a noise strange to that country
until then, but one which a white man of the time would have recognized
as the discharge of a harquebus. It was a harquebus in the army of De
Soto.