Chapter XII: Part 12

“_This day have we, through the power of sawanikia, seen[24] for our father an enemy of our children men. A beast that caused unto fatherless children, unto menless women, unto womenless men (who thus became through his evil will), tears and sad thoughts, has this day been looked upon by the Sun and laid low. May the favors of the gods thus meet us ever._”

[24] To “see” an enemy signifies, in Zuñi mythology, to take his
life.

Thus said the two brothers, as they stood over the gasping, still struggling but dying demon; and as they closed their little prayer, the maidens, who now first saw whom they had to thank for their deliverance, were overwhelmed with gladness, yet shame. They exclaimed, in response to the prayer: “_May they, indeed, thus meet you and ourselves!_” Then they breathed upon their hands.

The two brothers now turned toward the girls. “Look ye upon the last enemy of men,” said they, “whom this day we have had the power of _sawanikia_ given us to destroy; whom this day the father of all, our father the Sun, has looked upon, whose light of life this day our weapons have cut off; whose path of life this day our father has divided. Not ourselves, but our father has done this deed, through us. Haste to your home in Héshokta and tell your father these things; and tell him, pray, that he must assemble his priests and teach them these our words, for we divide our paths of life henceforth from one another and from the paths of men, no more to mingle save in spirit with the children of men. But we shall depart for our everlasting home in the mountains--the one to the Mountain of Thunder, the other to the Mount of the Beloved--to guard from sunrise to sunset the land of the Corn-priests of Earth, that the foolish among men break not into the Middle Country of Earth and lay it waste. Yet we shall require of our children the plumes wherewith we dress our thoughts, and the forms of our being wherewith men may renew us each year at mid-sun. Henceforth two stars at morning and evening will be seen, the one going before, the other following, the Sun-father--the one Áhaiyúta, his herald; the other Mátsailéma, his guardian; warriors both, and fathers of men. May the trail of life be finished ere divided! Go ye happily hence.”

The maidens breathed from the hands of the Twain, and with bowed heads and a prayer of thanks started down the pathway toward the Town of the Cliffs. When they came to their home, the old father asked whence they came. They told the story of their adventure and repeated the words of the Beloved.

The old man bowed his head, and said: “It was Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma!” Then he made a prayer of thanks, and cast abroad on the winds white meal of the seeds of earth and shells from the Great Waters of the World, the pollen of beautiful flowers, and the paints of war.

“It is well!” he said. “Four days hence I will assemble my warriors, and we will cut the plume-sticks, paint and feather them, and place them on high mountains, that through their knowledge and power of medicine our Beloved Two Warriors may take them unto themselves.”

Now, when the maidens disappeared among the rocks below, the brothers looked each at the other and laughed. Then they shouted, and Áhaiyúta kicked Átahsaia’s ugly carcass till it gurgled, at which the two boys shouted again most hilariously and laughed. “That’s what we proposed to do with you, old beast!” they cried out.

“But, brother younger,” said Áhaiyúta, “what shall be done with him now?”

“Let’s skin him,” said Mátsailéma.

So they set to work and skinned the body from foot to head, as one skins a fawn when one wishes to make a seed-bag. Then they put sticks into the legs and arms, and tied strings to them, and stuffed the body with dry grass and moss; and where they set the thing up against the cliff it looked verily like the living Átahsaia.

“Uhh! what an ugly beast he was!” said Mátsailéma. Then he shouted: “_Wahaha, hihiho!_” and almost doubled up with laughter. “Won’t we have fun with old grandmother, though. Hurry up; let’s take care of the rest of him!”

They cut off the head, and Áhaiyúta said to it: “_Thou hast been a liar, and told a falsehood for every life thou hast taken in the world; therefore shall thou become a lying star, and each night thy guilt shall be seen of all men throughout the wide world._” He twirled the bloody head around once or twice, and cast it with all might into the air. _Wa muu!_ it sped through the spaces into the middle of the sky like a spirt of blood, and now it is a great red star. It rises in summer-time and tells of the coming morning when it is only midnight; hence it is called _Mokwanosana_ (Great Lying Star).

Then Mátsailéma seized the great knife and ripped open the abdomen with one stroke. Grasping the intestines, he tore them out and exclaimed: “_Ye have devoured and digested the flesh of men over the whole wide world; therefore ye shall be stretched from one end of the earth to the other, and the children of those ye have wasted will look upon ye every night and will say to one another: ‘Ah, the entrails of him who caused sad thoughts to our grandfathers shine well tonight!’ and they will laugh and sneer at ye._” Whereupon he slung the whole mass aloft, and _tsolo!_ it stretched from one end of the world to the other, and became the Great Snow-drift of the Skies (Milky Way). Lifting the rest of the carcass, they threw it down into the chasm whither the old demon had thrown so many of his victims, and the rattlesnakes came out and ate of the flesh day after day till their fangs grew yellow with putrid meat, and even now their children’s fangs are yellow and poisonous.

* * * * *

“Now, then, for some fun!” shouted Mátsailéma. “Do you catch the old bag up and prance around with it a little; and I will run off to see how it looks.”

Áhaiyúta caught up the effigy, and, hiding himself behind, pulled at the strings till it looked, of all things thinkable, like the living Átahsaia himself starting out for a hunt, for they threw the lion skins over it and tied the bow in its hand.

“Excellent! Excellent!” exclaimed the boys, and they clapped their hands and _wa-ha-ha-ed_ and _ho-ho-ho-ed_ till they were sore. Then, dragging the skin along, they ran as fast as they could, down to the plain below Twin Mountain.

The Sun was climbing down the western ladder, and their old grandmother had been looking all over the mountains and valleys below to see if the two boys were coming. She had just climbed the ladder and was gazing and fretting and saying: “Oh! those two boys! terrible pests and as hard-hearted and as long-winded in having their own way as a turtle is in having his! Now, something has happened to them; I knew it would,” when suddenly a frightened scream came up from below.

“_Ho-o-o-ta! Ho-o-o-ta!_ Come quick! Help! Help!” the voice cried, as if in anguish.

“Uhh!” exclaimed the old woman, and she went so fast in her excitement that she tumbled through the trap-door, and then jumped up, scolding and groaning.

She grabbed a poker of piñon, and rushed out of the house. Sure enough, there was poor Mátsailéma running hard and calling again and again for her to hurry down. The old woman hobbled along over the rough path as fast as she could, and until her wind was blowing shorter and shorter, when, suddenly turning around the crags, she caught sight of Áhaiyúta struggling to get away from Átahsaia.

“_O ai o!_ I knew it! I knew it!” cried the old woman; and she ran faster than ever until she came near enough to see that her poor grandson was almost tired out, and that Mátsailéma had lost even his war-club. “Stiffen your feet,--my boys,--wait--a bit,” puffed the old woman, and, flying into a passion, she rushed at the effigy and began to pound it with her poker, till the dust fairly smoked out of the dry grass, and the skin doubled up as if it were in pain.

Mátsailéma rolled and kicked in the grass, and Áhaiyúta soon had to let the stuffed demon fall down for sheer laughing. But the old woman never ceased. She belabored the demon and cursed his cannibal heart and told him that was what he got for chasing her grandsons, and that, and this, and that, whack! whack! without stopping, until she thought the monster surely must be dead. Then she was about to rest when suddenly the boys pulled the strings, and the demon sprang up before her, seemingly as well as ever. Again the old woman fell to, but her strokes kept getting feebler and feebler, her breath shorter and shorter, until her wind went out and she fell to the ground.

How the boys did laugh and roll on the ground when the old grandmother moaned: “Alas! alas! This day--my day--light is--cut off--and my wind of life--fast going.”

The old woman covered her head with her tattered mantle; but when she found that Átahsaia did not move, she raised her eyes and looked through a rent. There were her two grandsons rolling and kicking on the grass and holding their mouths with both hands, their eyes swollen and faces red with laughter. Then she suddenly looked for the demon. There lay the skin, all torn and battered out of shape.

“So ho! you pesky wretches; that’s the way you treat me, is it? Well! never again will I help you, never!” she snapped, “nor shall you ever live with me more!” Whereupon the old woman jumped up and hobbled away.

But little did the brothers care. They laughed till she was far away, and then said one to the other: “It is done!”

* * * * *

Since that time, the grandmother has gone, no one knows where. But Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma are the bright stars of the morning and evening, just in front of and behind the Sun-father himself. Yet their spirits hover over their shrines on Thunder Mountain and the Mount of the Beloved, they say, or linger over the Middle of the World, forever to guide the games and to guard the warriors of the Land of Zuñi. Thus it was in the days of the ancients.

Thus shortens my story.

THE HERMIT MÍTSINA

When all was new, and the gods dwelt in the ancient places, long, long before the time of our ancients, many were the gods--some destined for good and some for evil or for the doing of things beneath understanding. And those of evil intent, so painfully bad were they to become that not in the company and council of the precious beloved of the _Kâkâ_ (the Order of the Sacred Drama) could they be retained.

Thus it happened, in the times of our ancients, long, long ago, that there dwelt all alone in the Cañon of the Pines, southeast of Zuñi, Mítsina the Hermit. Of evil understanding he; therefore it had been said to him (by the gods): “Alone shalt thou dwell, being unwise and evil in thy ways, until thou hast, through much happening, even become worthy to dwell amongst us.” Thus it was that Mítsina lived alone in his house in the Cañon of the Pines.

Sometimes when a young man, dressed in very fine apparel (wearing his collars of shell, and turquoise earrings, and other precious things which were plentiful in the days of our ancients), would be out hunting, and chanced to go through the Cañon of the Pines and near to the house of Mítsina, he would hear the sounds of gaming from within; for, being alone, the hermit whiled away his time in playing at the game of sacred arrows (or cane-cards).

Forever from the ceiling of his house there hung suspended his basket-drum, made of a large wicker bowl, over the mouth of which was stretched tightly a soft buckskin, even like the basket-drums which we use in the playing of cane-cards today, and which you know are suspended with the skin-side downward from the ceilings of the gaming rooms in the topmost houses of our town. Though the one he had was no better than those we have today, save that it was larger and handsomer perhaps, yet he delighted to call it his cloud canopy, bethinking himself of the drum-basket of his former associates, the gods, which is even the rounded sky itself, with the clouds stretched across it. Forever upon the floor of his house there lay spread a great buffalo robe, the skin upward dressed soft and smooth, as white as corn-flour, and painted with the many-colored symbols and counting marks of the game, even as our own. But he delighted to call it his sacred terraced plain,[25] bethinking himself of the robe-spread of the gods, which is even the outspread earth itself, bordered by terraced horizons, and diversified by mountains, valleys, and bright places, which are the symbols and game marks whereby the gods themselves count up the score of their game.

[25] The words “terrace,” “sacred terrace,” “terraced plain”
(_awithluiane_, _awithluian-pewine_), and the like, wherever
they occur, refer to the figurative expression for the earth in
the Zuñi rituals addressed to the gods, where they are used as
more nearly conforming to the usage of the gods. The symbol of
the earth on the sacred altars is a terraced or zigzag figure or
decoration, and the same figure appears in their carvings and
other ornamental work. The disgraced god Mítsina applied the
term to the robe spread out as the bed for his game. It may be
stated in further explanation that the country in which the
Zuñis have wandered and lived for unnumbered generations, and
where they still dwell, is made up largely of mesas, or flat-top
mountains or elevations, rising one above another and showing as
terraces on the horizon. Beheld at great distances, or in the
evening, these mountain terraces are mere silhouettes and serve
to exaggerate the zigzag spaces of light between them. As the
conventional sacred emblem for the earth is a terrace, outspread
or upreaching, as the case may be, so the conventional sacred
emblem for the sky is an inverted terrace.

To the gods the whole earth is represented as having seemed so
small that they invariably spoke of it as the terraced plain,
and in their playing of this game they are supposed to have used
it as the bed for the game, as the Zuñi people used the
outspread buffalo robe for the purpose.

Hearing these sounds of the game in passing, the young man would naturally draw near and listen. Though all alone, every time he made a good throw Mítsina would exclaim “_Her-r-r-r!_” and as the canes struck the skin of the drum-basket above, _tcha-le-le, tcha-le-le_, it would sound; and _ke-le-le_ they would rattle as they fell on the robe below. “Ha! ha!” old Mítsina would exclaim, as if triumphantly to some opponent in the game,--“_Kohakwa iyathtokyai!_” as much as to say: “Good for you, old fellow! The white-corn symbol fell uppermost!”

“Oh!” the young man would exclaim as he listened. “Oh!”--and, wishing to learn more about the matter, he would stealthily climb up the ladder and peer down through the sky-hole. Old Mítsina would catch sight of him, be sure of that, and greet him most cordially, calling to him: “Come in, come in, my fine young fellow, come in; let’s have a game!”

Now, he had practised so long that he had acquired more skill than anyone else throughout the world--at least among mortals; so that when any of the young men chanced to play with him, he invariably lost, poor fellow! Hanging on the pole along the north side of Mítsina’s house were the necklaces, embroidered mantles, and turquoises, and all sorts of treasures which he had won in this way; and as many on the western side, on the southern side as many, and on the eastern side also.

When the young man came in, Mítsina would continue: “My good friend, sit right down over there. Have you your canes today?” If the young man said “Yes,” he would say: “Ha! very well.” Or, if he said “No,” “Never mind,” Mítsina would say; “here are some,” producing a very fine set of polished canes. The young man, being thus pressed, would stake perhaps his necklace or his earrings, and the game would begin. Losing them, he would stake his clothing, his bows and arrows--in fact, everything he had about him. You know how it is with gamesters when they have lost a great deal and wish to get it back again? Well, so it was then. When the young man had lost everything, he would bow his head on his hand, and sit thinking. Then old Mítsina, with a jolly, devil-may-care manner, would say: “Bet your left thigh. I’ll put all you have lost and more, too, on that.” The young man would say to himself, with a sigh of relief: “What an old fool you are!” and reply: “All right! I will take your bet.” Alas! the one thigh he bet is lost; then the other goes the same way; then one of his sides and arms; losing which, he bet the other, and so on, until he had bet away his whole body, including his head. Then in utter despair he would exclaim: “Do with me as thou wilt. I am thy slave.” And old Mítsina with the same devil-may-care manner would catch him up, take him out to the back of his house and wring his neck that he might not go back and report his losses to his people.

Again, some other well-equipped young man would be passing that way, and hearing the sound made by the solitary player, and being attracted thereby, would be drawn in the same way into the game, would lose everything, and old Mítsina would wring his neck and keep his treasures.

Thus it was in the days of the ancients. Great were the losses of the young men, and many of them perished.

Well, one day little Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma--the War-gods of peace times--who dwelt, as you know, where their shrine now stands on Face Mountain, with their old grandmother,--went out hunting rabbits and prairie-dogs. It chanced that in following the rabbits along the cliffs of a side cañon they came into the Cañon of the Pines, near where the house of Mítsina stood. Presently they heard the sounds of his game. “Hu, hu!” the old fellow would exclaim as he cast his canes into the air. _Ke-le-le-le_ they would rattle as they fell on the skin.

“Uh!” exclaimed Áhaiyúta, the elder. “Brother younger, listen.”

The younger listened. “By my eyes!” exclaimed he, “it is someone playing at cane-cards. Let’s go and have a peep at him.” So they climbed the ladder and peered in through the sky-hole.

Presently, old Mítsina espied them, and called out: “Ha! my little fellows; glad to see you today! How are you? Come in, come in! I am dying for a game; I was playing here all by myself.”

The two little War-gods clambered down the ladder, and old Mítsina placed blankets for them, invited them most cordially to sit down, and asked if they would like to play a game. Nothing loth they, seeing all the fine things hanging round his room; so out from their girdles they drew their cane-cards, for those, as you know, they always carried with them.

Perhaps I have not told you that even the basket-drum old Mítsina played with was fringed with the handsome long turquoise earrings which he had won, and even under the robe on which he played there were piled one over another, in a great flat heap, the finest of the necklaces gathered from those whom he had defeated in playing and then slain.

“What would you like to put up?” asked the old fellow, pointing around his room--particularly to the basket-drum fringed with turquoises--and lifting the robe and showing just enough of the necklaces underneath it to whet the appetites of the little War-gods.

“We’ve nothing fine enough to bet for these things,” said they ruefully.

“O ho!” cried Mítsina. “No matter, no matter at all, my boys. Bet your bows and arrows and clothing; if you like, bet everything you have on, and I’ll put up that poleful there on the north side of my room.”

“Good! good! tell him all right,” whispered the younger brother to the elder.

So the elder agreed, chuckling to himself, for it was rarely that a man was found who could beat the little War-gods in a game. And they began their playing. How the turquoises rattled as they threw their canes! How the canes jingled and thumped as they fell on the robe!

The game was merry and long, and well played on both sides; but the poor little War-gods lost. Their countenances fell; but old Mítsina, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, exclaimed: “Oh pshaw! never mind, never mind!”

“Yes,” said the two War-gods, “but how in the world are we ever going back to our grandmother in this plight?”--glancing down over their bare bodies, for they had bet even the clothing off their backs. “What else can we bet? How can we win back what we have lost?”

“Bet your left thighs,” said the old hermit.

They thought a moment, and concluded they would do so. So the game was staked again and begun and the canes rattled merrily; but they lost again. Then old Mítsina suggested that they bet their other thighs. They did so and again lost. Then he suggested they should bet their left sides, hoping forthwith to get hold of their hearts, but the young War-gods were crafty. The elder one exclaimed: “All right!” but the younger one said: “Goodness! as for you, you can bet your left side if you want to, but I’ll bet my right, for my heart is on my left side, and who ever heard of a man betting away his heart!”

“Just as you like,” said Mítsina, “but if you’ll bet your bodies up to your necks I will stake all you have lost and all I have besides,” said he, looking around on his fine possessions.

“Done!” cried the War-gods. And again they played and again lost. Then they had nothing left but their heads and ears and eyes to bet. Finally they concluded to bet these also, for said they to one another: “What good will our heads do us, even though they be the crown-pieces of our being, without the rest?”

They played again, but the poor fellows lost their heads also. “Alas! alas! do as thou wilt with us,” exclaimed the little War-gods, with rueful countenances.

Old Mítsina, locking them up in a small recess of his house, went out and gathered before his front door a great quantity of dry wood. Then he tied the little fellows hand and foot, and laid them near by,--not near enough to burn them up, but near enough so that they would scorch,--and lighted the fire, to have the pleasure of roasting them. When they began to brown and sizzle a little they writhed and howled with pain, but they were tough and quite bad, as you know, and this did not kill them.

Who can hide a thing from the eyes of the gods? The elder brothers of these two foolish little War-gods, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma, those who dwelt on Thunder Mountain, became aware of what was going on. “Come, brother younger,” said the elder, strapping on his quiver and taking his bow in hand, “come, let us off to old Mítsina’s house and teach him a lesson!” So, in a twinkling they were climbing down the mountain, speeding across the wide valley, and threading their way through the Cañon of the Pines.

Mítsina had grown tired of watching the poor little War-gods and had gone in to have another little game, and there he was pitching his cane-cards and talking to himself, as usual. The two gods hauled their unfortunate brothers away from the fire, and, climbing the ladder, peered in. Mítsina espied them, and as usual invited them in to a game. With as jolly an air as his own they accepted his challenge and sat down. Mítsina offered to bet all his fine things hanging on the north side of the house. “What will you put up, my little fellows?” asked he.

“If you will include those ugly little devils that we saw sizzling before the fire when we came in, we will bet you everything we have with us,” said they.

“Good! good! haul them in!” shouted Mítsina.

The War-gods scrambled out of the house, and, by no means gently, dragged their wretched little brothers in by the heels and dumped them down on the floor to show their indifference, sat down, and began to play. They bet their weapons, holding up the knife of war which they carried, the point of lightning itself fatal in power,--splitter of mountains and overcomer of demons and men alike.

Old Mítsina, when told of the power of the weapons, became doubtful as to his company, but presently fell to and played with a will. He lost. Then he put up all the rest of his goods hanging on the other side of the room. Again he lost, and again, even the turquoises hanging from the basket-drum, the necklaces under his robe, and the things he played with, and getting wild with excitement, sure that his luck would return, followed out the plan he had so often suggested to others, and bet away his thighs, then his sides and arms, then his head and ears, excepting his eyes, and last of all his very eyes themselves. Each time the young War-gods won. The old gambler let his hands fall by his sides, and dropped his head on his breast, sick with humiliation and chagrin.

“Now, my brother,” said the elder to the younger, “what shall we do with this beast?”

“I don’t know,” said the other. “We can’t kill him; yet, if we leave him to go his own way, he will gamble and gamble without ceasing, and make no end of trouble. Suppose we make a good man of him.”

“How?” asked the other.

“Pluck out his eyes.”

“Capital!” exclaimed the first. So, while one of them held the old fellow down, the other gouged out his eyes, and with pain and horror he utterly forgot in unconsciousness (swooned away).

The two elder War-gods set their younger brothers on their feet, and all four of them joined in clearing out the treasures and magnificent possessions which Mítsina through all these years had won from his victims; and these they took away with them that by their sacred knowledge they might change them into blessings for the faithful of their children among men, and thus return, as it were, what had been lost. Then away they went, leaving old Mítsina still as witless as a dead man, to his fate.

By-and-by the old man came to his senses, and raising himself up, tried to look around, but, forsooth, he could not see.

“What in the world has happened? What a fearful pain I have in my temples!” said he. “What is the matter? Is it night?”

Then gradually his situation came to him. He uttered a groan of pain and sorrow, and, putting out his hand, felt the wall and raised himself by it. Then he crept along, feeling his way to the window, not yet quite certain whether he had been dreaming all this and it was still night, or whether he had really lost everything and been bereft of his eyes by those midgets. When he put his hand into the window, however, he felt the warm sunlight streaming in, and knew that it was still day, and that it was all true.

In feeling there he chanced to touch a little package of pitch which had been laid in the window. He felt it all over with both hands, but could not quite tell what it was. Then he put it against his cheek, but was still uncertain; then he rubbed it, and smelt of it. “Pitch! pitch! as I live!” said he. “I have often lighted this when it was dark, and been able to see. Now, maybe, if I light it this time, I shall be able to see again.” He felt his way all round the room to the fireplace, and after burning his fingers two or three times in feeling for coals, he found a sliver and held it in the coals and ashes until he heard it begin to sputter and crackle. Then he lighted the pitch with it. Eyeless though he was, the fumes from this medicine of the woodlands restored to him a kind of vision. “Good!” cried the old fellow, “I see again!” But when he looked around, he saw nothing as it had been formerly; and his thoughts reverted to the great City of the Gods (_Kothluellakwin_); and, as it were, he could see the way thither. So he turned toward his door, and with a sigh gave up his old place of abode, relinquished all thought of his possessions, gave up his former bad inclinations, and turned westward toward the City of the Gods and Souls.

As he went along holding his light before him and following it, he sang a mournful song. The Birds, hearing this song, flocked around him, and as he went on singing, exclaimed to one another: “Ha! ha! the old wretch; he has lost his eyes! Served him right! Let’s put out his light for him.”

Now, before that time, strange as it may seem, the Eagles and even the Crows were as white as the foam on warring waters. The Eagles were so strong that they thrust the other birds away, and began to pounce down at Mítsina’s light, trying to blow it out with their wings. _Thluh! thluh!_ they would flap into the light; but still it would not go out; and they only singed their feathers and blackened their wings and tails with smoke. In looking at one another they saw what a sad plight they were in. “Good gracious, brothers!” exclaimed some of them to the others, “we have made a fine mess of our white plumage!” And they gave it up.

Then the Crows rushed in and flapped against the light, but they could not put it out; and although they grew blacker and blacker, they would not give it up. So they became as black as crows are now; and ever since then eagles have been speckled with brown and black, and crows have been black, even to the tips of their beaks. And whenever in the Sacred Drama Dance of our people old Mítsina appears, he sings the doleful song and carries the light of pitch pine. He goes naked, with the exception of a wretched old cloth at his loins; and he wears a mask with deep holes for eyes, blood streaming from them.

Thus shortens my story.

HOW THE TWINS OF WAR AND CHANCE, ÁHAIYÚTA AND MÁTSAILÉMA, FARED WITH THE UNBORN-MADE MEN OF THE UNDERWORLD[26]

[26] Reprinted from the _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, vol.
v., No. 16, pp. 49-56.

TRANSLATOR’S INTRODUCTION

Heretofore I have withheld from publication such single examples of Zuñi folk-lore as the following, in order that the completer series might be brought forth in the form of an unbroken collection, with ample introductory as well as supplementary chapters, essential to the proper understanding by ourselves of the many distinctively Zuñi meanings and conceptions involved in the various allusions with which any one of them teems. Yet, to avoid encumbering the present example with any but the briefest of notes, I must ask leave to refer the reader to the more general yet detailed chapters I have already written in the main, and with which, I have reason to hope, I will ere long be able to present the tales in question. Meanwhile, I would refer likewise to the essay I have recently prepared for the Thirteenth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, on _Zuñi Creation Myths_ in their relation to primitive dance and other dramaturgic ceremonies.

Ever one of my chief story-tellers was Waíhusiwa,--of the priestly kin of Zuñi. He had already told me somewhat more than fifty of the folk tales, long and short, of his people, when one night I asked him for “only one more story of the grandfathers.” Wishing to evade me, he replied with more show than sincerity:

“There is a North, and of it I have told you _té-la-p’-na-we_.[27] There is a West; of it also I have told you _té-la-p’-na-we_. There are the South and East; of them likewise have I told you _té-la-p’-na-we_. Even of the Above have I not but lately told you of the youth who made love to his eagle and dwelt apace in the Sky-world? And of the great World-embracing Waters? You have been told of the hunter who married the Serpent-maiden and journeyed to the Mountain of Sunset. Now, therefore, my word-pouch is as empty as the food-pack of a lost hunter, and--”

[27] From _té-na-la-a_, “time or times of,” and _pé-na-we_,
words or speeches (tales): “tales of time.”

“Feel in the bottom of it, then,” interposed old Pálowahtiwa, who was sitting near, “and tell him of the Underworld.”

“_Hi-ta!_ [Listen!] brother younger,” said Waíhusiwa, nonplussed but ever ready. “Did you ever hear tell of the people who could not digest, having, forsooth, no proper insides wherewithal to do so? Did you ever hear of them, brother younger?”

“Nay, never; not even from my own grandfathers,” said I. “_Sons éso_ to your story; short be it or long.”[28]

[28] The invariable formula for beginning a folk tale is, by the
raconteur: “_Són ah-tchi!_” (“Let us take up”)--_té-la-p’-ne_,
or “a folk tale,” being understood. To this the auditors or
listeners respond: “_É-so!_” (“Yea, verily.”) Again, by the
raconteur: “_Sons i-nó-o-to-na! Tem_,” etc. (“Let us (tell of)
the times of creation! When,” etc.) Again, by the listeners:
“_Sons éso! Te-ä-tú!_” (“Yea, let us, verily! Be it so.”)

“_Sons éso tse-ná!_” (“Cool your ‘_sons éso!_’ and wait till _I_ begin.”)--F. H. C.

ZUÑI INTRODUCTION

It seems--so the words of the grandfathers say--that in the Underworld were many strange things and beings, even villages of men, long ago. But the people of those villages were unborn-made,--more like the ghosts of the dead than ourselves, yet more like ourselves than are the ghosts of the dead, for as the dead are more finished of being than we are, they were less so, as smoke, being hazy, is less fine than mist, which is filmy; or as green corn, though raw, is soft like cooked corn which is done (like the dead), and as both are softer than ripe corn which, though raw, is hardened by age (as we are of meat).

And also, these people were, you see, dead in a way, in that they had not yet begun to live, that is, as we live, in the daylight fashion.

And so, it would seem, partly like ourselves, they had bodies, and partly like the dead they had no bodies, for being unfinished they were unfixed. And whereas the dead are like the wind, and take form from within of their own wills (_yän′te-tseman_), these people were really like the smoke,[29] taking form from without of the outward touching of things, even as growing and unripe grains and fruits do.

[29] The Zuñi classification of states of growth or being is as
elaborate as that of relative space in their mythology--both
extremely detailed and systematic, yet, when understood, purely
primitive and simple. The universe is supposed to have been
generated from haze (_shí-wai-a_) produced by light (of the
All-container, Sun-father) out of darkness. The observed analogy
of this in nature is the appearance of haze (both heat and
steam) preceding growth in springtime; the appearance of the
world, of growing and living things, through mist seemingly
rising out of the darkness each morning. In harmony with this
conception of the universe is the correlative one that every
being (as to soul, at least) passes through many successive
states of becoming, always beginning as a _shí-u-na hâ-i_ (haze
being), and passing through the raw or soft (_k’ya-pi-na_), the
formative (_k’yaí-yu-na_), variable (_thlím-ni-na_), fixed or
done (_ak-na_), and finished or dead (_ä-shï-k’ya_) states;
whilst the condition of the surpassing beings (gods) may be any
of these at will (_i-thlim-na_, or _thlim-nah-na_, etc.). There
are many analogies of this observed by the Zuñi, likening, as he
does, the generation of being to that of fire with the
fire-drill and stick. The most obvious of these is the
appearance, in volumes, of “smoke-steam” or haze just previously
to ignition, and its immediate disappearance with ignition.
Further, the succession of beings in the becoming of a complete
being may be regarded as an orderly personification of growth
phenomena as observed in plants and seeds; for example, in corn,
which is characterized by no fewer than thirteen mystic names,
according to its stages of growth. This whole subject is much
more fully and conclusively set forth in the writings to which I
have already referred.

Well, in consequence, it was passing strange what a state they were in! Bethink ye! Their persons were much the reverse of our own, for wherein we are hard, they were soft--pliable. Wherein we are most completed, they were most unfinished; for not having even the organs of digestion, whereby we fare lustily, food in its solidity was to them destructive, whereas to us it is sustaining. When, therefore, they would eat, they dreaded most the food itself, taking thought not to touch it, and merely absorbing the mist thereof. As fishes fare chiefly on water, and birds on air, so these people ate by gulping down the steam and savor of their cooked things whilst cooking or still hot; then they threw the real food away, forsooth!

THE TALE

Now, the Twain Little-ones, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma,[30] were ever seeking scenes of contention; for what was deathly and dreadful to others was lively and delightful to them; so that cries of distress were ever their calls of invitation, as to a feast or dance is the call of a priest to us.

[30] For the mythic origin of these two chief gods under the
Sun, as his right- and left-hand being, their relation to
chance, war, games, etc., I again refer the reader to the _Zuñi
Creation Myths_.

On a day when the world was quiet, they were sitting by the side of a deep pool. They heard curious sounds coming up through the waters, as though the bubbles were made by moans of the waters affrighted.

“Uh!” cried the elder. “What is that?”

The younger brother turned his ear to the ground and listened.

“There is trouble down there, dire trouble, for the people of the Underworld are shrieking war-cries like daft warriors and wailing like murder-mourners. What can be the matter? Let us descend and see!”

“Just so!” said Áhaiyúta.

Then they covered their heads with their cord-shields[31]--turned upside down--and shut their eyes and stepped into the deep pool.

[31] _Pi-a-la-we_ (cord or cotton shields), evidently an ancient
style of shield still surviving in the form of sacrificial
net-shields of the Priesthood of the Bow. But the shields of
these two gods were supposed to have been spun from the clouds
which, supporting the sky-ocean, that in turn supported the
sky-world (as this world is believed to be supported by
under-waters and clouds), were hence possessed of the power of
floating--upward when turned up, downward when reversed.

“Now we are in the dark,” said they, “like the dark down there. Well, then, by means of the dark let us go down”--for they had wondrous power, had those Twain; the magic of in-knowing-how thought had they.

Down, like light through dark places, they went; dry through the waters; straight toward that village in the Underworld.

“Whew! the poor wretches are already dead,” cried they, “and rotting”--for their noses were sooner accustomed to the dark than their eyes, which they now opened.

“We might as well have spared ourselves the coming, and stayed above,” said Áhaiyúta.

“Nay, not so,” said Mátsailéma. “Let us go on and see how they lived, even if they are dead.”

“Very well,” said the elder; and as they fared toward the village they could see quite plainly now, for they had made it dark (to themselves) by shutting their eyes in the daylight above, so now they made it light (to themselves) by opening their eyes in the darkness below and simply looking,--it was their way, you know.

“Well, well!” said Mátsailéma, as they came nearer and the stench doubled. “Look at the village; it is full of people; the more they smell of carrion the more they seem alive!”

“Yes, by the chut of an arrow!” exclaimed Áhaiyúta. “But look here! It is food we smell--cooked food, all thrown away, as we throw away bones and corn-cobs because they are too hard to eat and profitless withal. What, now, can be the meaning of this?”

“What, indeed! Who can know save by knowing,” replied the younger brother. “Come, let us lie low and watch.”

So they went very quietly close to the village, crouched down, and peered in. Some people inside were about to eat. They took fine food steaming hot from the cooking-pots and placed it low down in wide trenchers; then they gathered around and sipped in the steam and savor with every appearance of satisfaction; but they were as chary of touching the food or of letting the food touch them as though it were the vilest of refuse.

“Did you see that?” queried the younger brother. “By the delight of death,[32] but--”

[32] _Hé-lu-ha-pa_; from _hé-lu_, or _é-lu_, “hurrah,” or “how
delightful!”--and _há-pa_, a corpse-demon, death.

“Hist!” cried the elder. “If they are people of that sort, feeding upon the savor of food, then they will hear the suggestions of sounds better than the sounds themselves, and the very demon fathers would not know how to fare with such people, or to fight them, either!”

Hah! But already the people had heard! They set up a clamor of war, swarming out to seek the enemy, as well they might, for who would think favorably of a sneaking stranger under the shade of a house-wall watching the food of another? Why, dogs growl even at their own offspring for the like of that!

“Where? Who? What is it?” cried the people, rushing hither and thither like ants in a shower. “Hah! There they are! There! Quick!” cried they, pointing to the Twain, who were cutting away to the nearest hillock. And immediately they fell to singing their war-cry.

“_Ha-a! Sús-ki!
Ó-ma-ta
Há-wi-mo-o!
Ó-ma-ta,
Ó-ma-ta Há-wi-mo!_”[33]

sang they as they ran headlong toward the Two, and then they began shouting:

“Tread them both into the ground! Smite them both! Fan them out! _Ho-o! Ha-a! Há-wi-mo-o ó-ma-ta!_”

[33] This, like so many of the folk-tale songs, can only be
translated etymologically or by extended paraphrasing. Such
songs are always jargonistic, either archaic, imitative, or
adapted from other languages of tribes who possibly supplied
incidents to the myths themselves; but they are, like the
latter, strictly harmonized with the native forms of expression
and phases of belief.

But the Twain laughed and quickly drew their arrows and loosed them amongst the crowd. _P’it! tsok!_ sang the arrows through and through the people, but never a one fell.

“Why, how now is this?” cried the elder brother.

“We’ll club them, then!” said Mátsailéma, and he whiffed out his war-club and sprang to meet the foremost whom he pummelled well and sorely over the head and shoulders. Yet the man was only confused (he was too soft and unstable to be hurt); but another, rushing in at one side, was hit by one of the shield-feathers and fell to the ground like smoke driven down under a hawk’s wing.

“Hold, brother, I have it! Hold!” cried Áhaiyúta. Then he snatched up a bunch of dry plume-grass and leaped forward. _Swish!_ Two ways he swept the faces and breasts of the pursuers. Lo! right and left they fell like bees in a rain-storm, and quickly sued for mercy, screeching and running at the mere sight of the grass-straws.

“You fools!” cried the brothers. “Why, then, did ye set upon us? We came for to help you and were merely looking ahead as becomes strangers in strange places, when, lo! you come running out like a mess of mad flies with your ‘_Ha-a sús-ki ó-ma-ta!_’ Call us coyote-sneaks, do you? But there! Rest fearless! We hunger; give us to eat.”

So they led the Twain into the court within the town and quickly brought steaming food for them.

They sat down and began to blow the food to cool it, whereupon the people cried out in dismay: “Hold! Hold, ye heedless strangers; do not waste precious food like that! For shame!”

“Waste food? Ha! This is the way _we_ eat!” said they, and clutching up huge morsels they crammed their mouths full and bolted them almost whole.

The people were so horrified and sickened at sight of this, that some of them sweated furiously,--which was their way of spewing--whilst others, stouter of thought, cried: “Hold! hold! Ye will die; ye will surely sicken and die if the stuff do but touch ye!”

“Ho! ho!” cried the Twain, eating more lustily than ever. “Eat thus and harden yourselves, you poor, soft things, you!”

Just then there was a great commotion. Everyone rushed to the shelter of the walls and houses, shouting to them to leave off and follow quickly.

“What is it?” asked they, looking up and all around.

“Woe, woe! The gods are angry with us this day, and blowing arrows at us. They will kill you both! Hurry!” A big puff of wind was blowing over, scattering slivers and straws before it; that was all!

“Brother,” said the elder, “this will not do. These people must be hardened and be taught to eat. But let us take a little sleep first, then we will look to this.”

They propped themselves up against a wall, set their shields in front of them, and fell asleep. Not long after they awakened suddenly. Those strange people were trying to drag them out to bury them, but were afraid to touch them now, for they thought them dead stuff, more dead than alive.

The younger brother punched the elder with his elbow, and both pretended to gasp, then kept very still. The people succeeded at last in rolling them out of the court like spoiling bodies, and were about to mingle them with the refuse when they suddenly let go and set up a great wail, shouting “War! Murder!”

“How now?” cried the Twain, jumping up. Whereupon the people stared and chattered in greater fright than ever at seeing the dead seemingly come to life!

“What’s the matter, you fool people?”

“_Akaa kaa_,” cried a flock of jays.

“Hear that!” said the villagers. “Hear that, and ask what’s the matter! The jays are coming; whoever they light on dies--run you two! _Aii!_ Murder!” And they left off their standing as though chased by demons. On one or two of the hindmost some jays alighted. They fell dead as though struck by lightning!

“Why, see that!” cried the elder brother--“these people die if only birds alight on them!”

“Hold on, there!” said the younger brother. “Look here, you fearsome things!” So they pulled hairs from some scalp-locks they had, and made snares of them, and whenever the jays flew at them they caught them with the nooses until they had caught every one. Then they pinched them dead and took them into the town and roasted them. “This is the way,” said they, as they ate the jays by morsels.

And the people crowded around and shouted: “Look! look! why, they eat the very enemy--say nothing of refuse!” And although they dreaded the couple, they became very conciliatory and gave them a fit place to bide in.

The very next day there was another alarm. The Two ran out to learn what was the matter. For a long time they could see nothing, but at last they met some people fleeing into the town. Chasing after them was a cooking-pot with earrings of onions.[34] It was boiling furiously and belching forth hot wind and steam and spluttering mush in every direction. If ever so little of the mush hit the people they fell over and died.

[34] The onion here referred to is the dried, southwestern
leek-clove, which is so strong and indigestible that, when eaten
raw and in quantity, gives rise to great distress, or actually
proves fatal to any but mature and vigorous persons. This, of
course, explains why it was chosen for its value as a symbol of
the vigor (or “daylight perfection” and invincibility) of the
Twin gods.

“_He!_” cried the Twain;

“_Té-k’ya-thla-k’ya
Í-ta-wa-k’ya
Äsh′-she-shu-kwa!_

--As if food-stuff were made to make people afraid!” Whereupon they twitched the earrings off the pot and ate them up with all the mush that was in the pot, which they forthwith kicked to pieces vigorously.

Then the people crowded still closer around them, wondering to one another that they could vanquish all enemies by eating them with such impunity, and they begged the Twain to teach them how to do it. So they gathered a great council of the villagers, and when they found that these poor people were only half finished, ... they cut vents in them (such as were not afraid to let them), ... and made them eat solid food, by means of which they were hardened and became men of meat then and there, instead of having to get killed after the manner of the fearful, and others of their kind beforetime, in order to ascend to the daylight and take their places in men born of men.

And for this reason, behold! a new-born child may eat only of wind-stuff until his cord of viewless sustenance has been severed, and then only by sucking milk or soft food first and with much distress.

Behold! And we may now see why, like new-born children are the very aged; childish withal--_á-ya-vwi_[35];--not only toothless, too, but also sure to die of diarrhœa if they eat ever so little save the soft parts and broths of cooked food. For are not the babes new-come from the _Shi-u-na_[36] world; and are not the aged about to enter the _Shi-po-lo-a_[37] world, where cooked food unconsumed is never heeded by the fully dead?

[35] Dangerously susceptible, tender, delicate.

[36] Hazy, steam-growing.

[37] Mist-enshrouded.

Thus shortens my story.

THE COCK AND THE MOUSE

NOTE.--While on their pilgrimage to the “Ocean of Sunrise” in the summer of 1886, three Zuñis--Pálowahtiwa, Waíhusiwa, and Héluta--with Mr. Cushing, were entertaining their assembled friends at Manchester-by-the-Sea with folk tales, those related by the Indians being interpreted by Mr. Cushing as they were uttered. When Mr. Cushing’s turn came for a story he responded by relating the Italian tale of “The Cock and the Mouse” which appears in Thomas Frederick Crane’s _Italian Popular Tales_. About a year later, at Zuñi, but under somewhat similar circumstances, Waíhusiwa’s time came to entertain the gathering, and great was Mr. Cushing’s surprise when he presented a Zuñi version of the Italian tale. Mr. Cushing translated the story as literally as possible, and it is here reproduced, together with Mr. Crane’s translation from the Italian, in order that the reader may not only see what transformation the original underwent in such a brief period, and how well it has been adapted to Zuñi environment and mode of thought, but also to give a glimpse of the Indian method of folk-tale making.--_Editor._

ITALIAN VERSION