Chapter XIII: Part 13

Once upon a time there were a cock and a mouse. One day the mouse said to the cock: “Friend Cock, shall we go and eat some nuts on yonder tree?” “As you like.” So they both went under the tree and the mouse climbed up at once and began to eat. The poor cock began to fly, and flew and flew, but could not come where the mouse was. When it saw that there was no hope of getting there, it said: “Friend Mouse, do you know what I want you to do? Throw me a nut.” The mouse went and threw one and hit the cock on the head. The poor cock, with its head all broken and covered with blood, went away to an old woman. “Old aunt, give me some rags to cure my head.” “If you will give me two hairs I will give you the rags.” The cock went away to a dog. “Dog, give me two hairs; the hairs I will give the old woman; the old woman will give me rags to cure my head.” “If you will give me a little bread,” said the dog, “I will give you the hairs.” The cock went away to a baker. “Baker, give me bread; I will give bread to the dog; the dog will give hairs; the hairs I will carry to the old woman; the old woman will give me rags to cure my head.” The baker answered: “I will not give you bread unless you give me some wood.” The cock went away to the forest. “Forest, give me some wood; the wood I will carry to the baker; the baker will give me some bread; the bread I will give to the dog; the dog will give me hairs; the hairs I will carry to the old woman; the old woman will give me rags to cure my head.” The forest answered: “If you will bring me a little water, I will give you some wood.” The cock went away to a fountain. “Fountain, give me water; water I will carry to the forest; forest will give wood; wood I will carry to the baker; baker will give bread; bread I will give dog; dog will give hairs; hairs I will give old woman; old woman will give rags to cure my head.” The fountain gave him water; the water he carried to the forest; the forest gave him wood; the wood he carried to the baker; the baker gave him bread; the bread he gave to the dog; the dog gave him the hairs; the hairs he carried to the old woman; the old woman gave him the rags; and the cock cured his head.

ZUÑI VERSION

Thus it was in the Town of the Floods Abounding,[38] long ago. There lived there an old woman, so they say, of the _Italia-kwe_,[39] who, in the land of their nativity, are the parental brothers of the Mexicans, it is said. Now, after the manner of that people, this old woman had a _Tâkâkâ_ Cock which she kept alone so that he would not fight the others. He was very large, like a turkey, with a fine sleek head and a bristle-brush on his breast like a turkey-cock’s too, for the _Tâkâkâ_-kind were at first the younger brothers of the Turkeys, so it would seem.

[38] Venice.

[39] “Italy-people.”

Well, the old woman kept her Cock in a little corral of tall close-set stakes, sharp at the top and wattled together with rawhide thongs, like an eagle-cage against a wall, only it had a little wicket also fastened with thongs. Now, try as he would, the old _Tâkâkâ_ Cock could not fly out, for he had no chance to run and make a start as turkeys do in the wilds, yet he was ever trying and trying, because he was meat-hungry--always anxious for worms;--for, although the people of that village had abundant food, this old woman was poor and lived mainly on grain-foods, wherefore, perforce, she fed the old _Tâkâkâ_ Cock with the refuse of her own eatings. In the morning the old woman would come and throw this refuse food into the corral cage.

Under the wall near by there lived a Mouse. He had no old grandmother to feed him, and he was particularly fond of grain food. When, having eaten his fill, the old Cock would settle down, stiff of neck and not looking this side nor that, but sitting in the sun _kâ-tâ-kâ-tok-ing_ to himself, the little Mouse would dodge out, steal a bit of tortilla or a crumb, and whisk into his hole again. Being sleepy, the _Tâkâkâ_ Cock never saw him, and so, day after day the Mouse fared sumptuously and grew over-bold. But one day, when corn was ripe and the Cock had been well fed and was settling down to his sitting nap, the Mouse came out and stole a particularly large piece of bread, so that in trying to push it into his hole he made some noise and, moreover, had to stop and tunnel his doorway larger.

The Cock turned his head and looked just as the Mouse was working his way slowly in, and espied the long, naked tail lying there on the ground and wriggling as the Mouse moved to and fro at his digging.

“Hah! By the Grandmother of Substance, it is a worm!” cackled the Cock, and he made one peck at the Mouse’s tail and bit it so hard that he cut it entirely off and swallowed it at one gulp.

The Mouse, squeaking “Murder!” scurried down into his sleeping-place, and fell to licking his tail until his chops were all pink and his mouth was drawn down like a crying woman’s; for he loved his long tail as a young dancer loves the glory of his long hair, and he cried continually: “_Weh tsu tsu, weh tsu tse, yam hok ti-i-i!_” and thought: “Oh, that shameless great beast! By the Demon of Slave-creatures, I’ll have my payment of him! For he is worse than an owl or a night-hawk. They eat us all up, but he has taken away the very mark of my mousehood and left me to mourn it. I’ll take vengeance on him, will I!”

So, from that time the Mouse thought how he might compass it, and this plan seemed best: He would creep out some day, all maimed of tail as he was, and implore pity, and thus, perchance, make friends for a while with the _Tâkâkâ_ Cock. So he took seed-down, and made a plaster of it with nut-resin, and applied it to the stump of his tail. Then, on a morning, holding his tail up as a dog does his foot when maimed by a cactus, he crawled to the edge of his hole and cried in a weak voice to the _Tâkâkâ_:

“_Ani, yoa yoa! Itâ-ak’ya Mosa,
Motcho wak’ya,
Oshe wak’ya,
Ethl hâ asha ni ha. Ha na, yoa, ha na!_”

Look you, pity, pity! Master of Food Substance,
Of my maiming,
Of my hunger,
I am all but dying. Ah me, pity, ah me!

Whereupon he held up his tail, which was a safe thing to do, you see, for it no longer looked like a worm or any other eatable.

Now, the _Tâkâkâ_ was flattered to be called a master of plenty, so he said, quite haughtily (for he had eaten and could not bend his neck, and felt proud, withal), “Come in, you poor little thing, and eat all you want. As if I cared for what the like of you could eat!” So the Mouse went in and ate very little, as became a polite stranger, and thanking the Cock, bade him good-day and went back to his hole.

By-and-by he came again, and this time he brought part of a nutshell containing fine white meat. When he had shouted warning of his coming and entered the corral cage, he said: “Comrade father, let us eat together. Of this food I have plenty, gathered from yonder high nut-tree which I climb every autumn when the corn is ripe and cut the nuts therefrom. But of all food yours I most relish, since I cannot store such in my cellar. Now, it may be you will equally relish mine; so let us eat, then, together.”

“It is well, comrade child,” replied the Cock; so they began to eat.

But the Cock had no sooner tasted the nut than he fairly chuckled for joy, and having speedily made an end of the kernel, fell to lamenting his hard lot. “Alas, ah me!” he said. “My grandmother brings me, on rare days, something like to this, but picked all too clean. There is nought eatable so nice. Comrade little one, do you have plenty of this kind, did you say?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the Mouse; “but, you see, the season is near to an end now, and when I want more nuts I must go and gather them from the tree. Look, now! Why do you not go there also? That is the tree, close by.”

“Ah me, I cannot escape, woe to me! Look at my wings,” said the Cock, “they are worn to bristles--and as to the beard on my breast, my chief ornament, alas! it is all crumpled and uneven, so much have I tried to fly out and so hard have I pushed against the bars. As for the door, my grandmother claps that shut and fastens it tightly with thongs, be you sure, as soon as ever she finishes the feeding of me!”

“Ha! ha!” exclaimed the Mouse. “If that’s all, there’s nothing easier than to open that. Look at my teeth; I even crack the hard nuts with these scrapers of mine! Wait!” He ran nimbly up the wicket and soon gnawed through the holding-string. “There! comrade father; push open the door, you are bigger than I, and we will go nutting.”

“Thanks this day,” cried the Cock, and shoving the wicket open, he ran forth cackling and crowing for gladness.

Then the Mouse led the way to the tree. Up the trunk he ran, and climbed and climbed until he came to the topmost boughs. “Ha! the nuts are fine and ripe up here,” he shouted.

But the _Tâkâkâ_ fluttered and flew all in vain; his wings were so worn he could not win even to the lowermost branches. “Oh! have pity on me, comrade child! Cut off some of the nuts and throw them down to me, do! My wings are so worn I cannot fly any better than the grandmother’s old dog, who is my neighbor over there.”

“Be patient, be patient, father!” exclaimed the Mouse. “I am cracking a big one for you as fast as I can. There, catch it!” and he threw a fat nut close to the Cock, who gleefully devoured the kernel and, without so much as thanks, called for more.

“Wait, father,” said the Mouse. “There! Stand right under me, so. Now, catch it; this is a big one!” Saying which the Mouse crawled out until he was straight over the Cock. “Now, then,” said he, “watch in front!” and he let fall the nut. It hit the Cock on the head so hard that it bruised the skin off and stunned the old _Tâkâkâ_ so that he fell over and died for a short time, utterly forgetting.

“_Té mi thlo kô thlo kwa!_” shouted the Mouse, as he hurried down the tree. “A little waiting, and lo! What my foe would do to me, I to him do, indeed!” Whereupon he ran across, before ever the Cock had opened an eye, and gnawed his bristles off so short that they never could grow again. “There, now!” said the Mouse. “Lo! thus healed is my heart, and my enemy is even as he made me, bereft of distinction!” Then he ran back to his cellar, satisfied.

Finally the Cock opened his eyes. “Ah me, my head!” he exclaimed. Then, moaning, he staggered to his feet, and in doing so he espied the nut. It was smooth and round, like a brown egg. When the Cock saw it he fell to lamenting more loudly than ever: “Oh, my head! _Tâ-kâ-kâ-kâ-â-â!_” But the top of his head kept bleeding and swelling until it was all covered over with welts of gore, and it grew so heavy, withal, that the _Tâkâkâ_ thought he would surely die. So off to his grandmother he went, lamenting all the way.

Hearing him, the grandmother opened the door, and cried: “What now?”

“Oh, my grandmother, ah me! I am murdered!” he answered. “A great, round, hard seed was dropped on my head by a little creature with a short, one-feathered tail, who came and told me that it was good to eat and--oh! my head is all bleeding and swollen! By the light of your favor, bind my wound for me lest, alas, I die!”

“Served you right! Why did you leave your place, knowing better?” cried the old woman. “I will not bind your head unless you give me your very bristles of manhood, that you may remember your lesson!”

“Oh! take them, grandmother!” cried the Cock; but when he looked down, alas! the beard of his breast, the glory of his kind, was all gone. “Ah me! ah me! What shall I do?” he again cried. But the old woman told him that unless he brought her at least four bristles she would not cure him, and forthwith she shut the door.

So the poor Cock slowly staggered back toward his corral, hoping to find some of the hairs that had been gnawed off. As he passed the little lodge of his neighbor, the Dog, he caught sight of old _Wahtsita’s_ fine muzzle-beard. “Ha!” thought he. Then he told the Dog his tale, and begged of him four hairs--“only four!”

“You great, pampered noise-maker, give me some bread, then, fine bread, and I will give you the hairs.” Whereupon the Cock thought, and went to the house of a Trader of Foodstuffs; and he told him also the tale.

“Well, then, bring me some wood with which I may heat the oven to bake the bread,” said the Trader of Foodstuffs.

The Cock went to some Woods near by. “Oh, ye Beloved of the Trees, drop me dry branches!” And with this he told the Trees his tale; but the Trees shook their leaves and said: “No rain has fallen, and all our branches will soon be dry. Beseech the Waters that they give us drink, then we will gladly give you wood.”

Then the Cock went to a Spring near by,--and when he saw in it how his head was swollen and he found that it was growing harder, he again began to lament.

“What matters?” murmured the Beloved of the Waters.

Then he told them the tale also.

“Listen!” said the Beings of Water. “Long have men neglected their duties, and the Beloved of the Clouds need payment of due no less than ourselves, the Trees, the Food-maker, the Dog, and the Old Woman. Behold! no plumes are set about our border! Now, therefore, pay to them of thy feathers--four floating plumes from under thy wings--and set them close over us, that, seen in our depths from the sky, they will lure the Beloved of the Clouds with their rain-laden breaths. Thus will our stream-way be replenished and the Trees watered, and their Winds in the Trees will drop thee dead branches wherewith thou mayest make payment and all will be well.”

Forthwith the _Tâkâkâ_ plucked four of his best plumes and set them, one on the northern, one on the western, one on the southern, and one on the eastern border of the Pool. Then the Winds of the Four Quarters began to breathe upon the four plumes, and with those Breaths of the Beloved came Clouds, and from the Clouds fell Rain, and the Trees threw down dry branches, and the Wind placed among them Red-top Grass, which is light and therefore lightens the load it is among. And when the Cock returned and gathered a little bundle of fagots, lo! the Red-top made it so light that he easily carried it to the Food-maker, who gave him bread, for which the Dog gave him four bristles, and these he took to the old Grandmother.

“Ha!” exclaimed she. “Now, child, I will cure thee, but thou hast been so long that thy head will always be welted and covered with proud-flesh, even though healed. Still, it must ever be so. Doing right keeps right; doing wrong makes wrong, which, to make right, one must even pay as the sick pay those who cure them. Go now, and bide whither I bid thee.”

When, after a time, the Cock became well, lo! there were great, flabby, blood-red welts on his head and blue marks on his temples where they were bruised so sore. Now, listen:

It is for this reason that ever since that time the medicine masters of that people never give cure without pay; never, for there is no virtue in medicine of no value. Ever since then cocks have had no bristles on their breasts--only little humps where they ought to be;--and they always have blood-red crests of meat on their heads. And even when a hen lays an egg and a _tâkâkâ_ cock sees it, he begins to _tâ-kâ-kâ-â_ as the ancient of them all did when he saw the brown nut. And sometimes they even pick at and eat these seeds of their own children, especially when they are cracked.

As for mice, we know how they went into the meal-bags in olden times and came out something else, and, getting smoked, became _tsothliko-ahâi_, with long, bare tails. But that was before the Cock cut the tail of the _tsothliko_ Mouse off. Ever since he cried in agony: “_Weh tsu yii weh tsu!_” like a child with a burnt finger, his children have been called _Wehtsutsukwe_, and wander wild in the fields; hence field-mice to this day have short tails, brown-stained and hairy; and their chops are all pink, and when you look them in the face they seem always to be crying.

Thus shortens my story.

THE GIANT CLOUD-SWALLOWER

A TALE OF CAÑON DE CHELLY

TRANSLATOR’S INTRODUCTION

Deep down in cañons of the Southwest, especially where they are joined by other cañons, the traveller may see standing forth from or hugging the angles of the cliffs, great towering needles of stone--weird, rugged, fantastic, oftentimes single, as often--like gigantic wind-stripped trees with lesser trees standing beside them--double or treble. Seen suddenly at a turn in the cañon these giant stones startle the gazer with their monstrous and human proportions, like giants, indeed, at bay against the sheer rock walls, protecting their young, who appear anon to crouch at the knees of their fathers or cling to their sides.

Few white men behold these statuesque stones in the moonlight, or in the gray light and white mists of the morning. At midday they seem dead or asleep while standing; but when the moon is shining above them and the wanderer below looks up to them, lo! the moon stands still and these mighty crags start forth, advancing noiselessly. His back is frozen, and even in the yielding sand his feet are held fast by terror--a delicious, ghostly terror, withal! Still he gazes fascinated, and as the shadow of the moonlight falls toward him over the topmost crest, lo, again! its crown is illumined and circled as if by a halo of snow-light, and back and forth from this luminous fillet over that high stony brow, black hair seems to tumble and gather.

Again, beheld in the dawn-light, when the mists are rising slowly and are waving to and fro around the giddy columns, hiding the cliffs behind them, these vast pinnacles seem to nod and to waver or to sway themselves backward and forward, all as silently as before. Soon, when the sun is risen and the mists from below fade away, the wind blows more mist from the mesa; you see clouds of it pour from the cliff edge, just behind and above these great towers, and shimmer against the bright sky; but as soon as these clouds pass the crag-nests they are lost in the sunlight around them--lost so fast, as yet others come on, that the stone giants seem to drink them.

Of such rocks, according to their variety and local surroundings, the Zuñis relate many tales which are so ingenious and befitting that if we believed, as the Zuñis do, that in the time of creation when all things were young and soft and were therefore easily fashioned by whatever chanced to befall them--into this thing or that thing, into this plant or that plant, this animal or that, and so on endlessly through a dramatic story longer than Shakespeare or the Bible--we would fain believe also as he does in the quaint incidents of these stories of the time when all things were new and the world was becoming as we see it now.

One of these tales, a variant of others pertaining to particular standing rocks in the west, south, or east, is told of that wonder to all beholders, “El Capitan,” of the Cañon de Chelly in the north. No one who has seen this stupendous rock column can fail to be interested in the following legend, or will fail to realize how, as this introduction endeavors to make plainer, the Zuñi poet and philosopher of olden times built up a story which he verily believed quite sufficient to account for the great shaft of sandstone and its many details and surroundings.--F. H. C.

Häki Suto, or Foretop Knot, he whose hair was done up over his forehead like a quail’s crest, lived among the great cliffs of the north long ago, when the world was new. He was a giant, so tall that men called him _Lo Ikwithltchunona_, or the Cloud-swallower. A devourer of men was he,--men were his meat--yea, and a drinker of their very substance was he, for the cloud-breaths of the beloved gods, and souls of the dead, whence descend rains, even these were his drink. Wherefore the People of the Cliffs sought to slay him, and hero after hero perished thuswise. Wherefore, too, snow ceased in the north and the west; rain ceased in the south and the east; the mists of the mountains above were drunk up; the waters of the valleys below were dried up; corn withered in the fields; men hungered and died in the cliffs.

Then came the Twin Gods of War, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma, who in play staked the lives of foes and fierce creatures. “Lo! it is not well with our children, men,” said they. “Let us destroy this Häki Suto, the swallower of clouds,” said they.

They were walking along the trail which leads southward to the Smooth-rocks-descending.

“O, grandchildren, where be ye wending?” said a little, little quavering voice. They looked,--the younger, then the elder. There on the tip of a grass-stalk, waving her banner of down-stuff, stood their grandmother, Spinner of Meshes.

“The Spider! Our Grandmother Spider!” cried one of the gods to the other. “Ho! grandmother, was that you calling?” shouted they to her.

“Yea, children; where wend ye this noon-day?”

“A-warring we are going,” said they. “Look now!

“No beads for to broider your awning
Have fallen this many a morning.”

“Aha, wait ye! Whom ye seek, verily I know him well,” said the Spider-woman.

“Like a tree fallen down from the mountain
He lies by the side of the cliff-trail
And feigns to sleep there, yet is wary.
I will sew up his eyes with my down-cords.
Then come ye and smite him, grandchildren.”

She ran ahead. There lay Häki Suto, his legs over the trail where men journeyed. Great, like the trunks and branches of pine trees cast down by a wind-storm, were his legs arching over the pathway, and when some one chanced to come by, the giant would call out: “Good morning!” and bid him “pass right along under.” “I am old and rheumatic,” he would continue, oh, so politely! “Do not mind my rudeness, therefore; run right along under; never fear, run right along under!” But when the hunter tried to pass, _kúutsu!_ Häki Suto would snatch him up and cast him over the cliff to be eaten by the young Forehead-cresters.

The Spider stepped never so lightly, and climbed up behind his great ear, and then busily wove at her web, to and fro, up and down, and in and out of his eyelashes she busily plied at her web.

“Pesk the birds and buzz creatures!” growled the giant, twitching this way and that his eyebrows, which tickled; but he would not stir,--for he heard the War-gods coming, and thought them fat hunters and needs must feign sleepy.

And these? Ha! ha! They begin to sing, as was their fearless wont sometimes. Häki Suto never looked, but yawned and drawled as they came near, and nearer. “Never mind, my children, pass right along under, pass right along under; I am lame and tired this morning,” said he.

Áhaiyúta ran to the left. Mátsailéma ran to the right. Häki Suto sprang up to catch them, but his eyes were so blinded with cobwebs that he missed them and feigned to fall, crying: “Ouch! my poor back! my poor back! Pass right along under, my children, it was only a crick in my back. Ouch! Oh, my poor back!” But they whacked him over the head and stomach till he stiffened and died. Then shouting “_So ho!_” they shoved him over the cliff.

The Navahos say that the grandmother tied him there by the hair--by his top-knot--where you see the white streaks on the pillar, so _they_ say; but it’s the birds that streak the pillar, and _this_ is the way. When Häki Suto fell, his feet drave far into the sands, and the Storm-gods rushed in to the aid of their children, the War-gods, and drifted his blood-bedrenched carcass all over with sand, whence he dried and hardened to stone. When the young ones saw him falling, they forthwith flocked up to devour him, making loud clamor. But the Twain, seeing this, made after them too and twisted the necks of all save only the tallest (who was caught in the sands with his father) and flung them aloft to the winds, whereby one became instantly the Owl, who twists her head wholly around whensoever she pleases, and stares as though frightened and strangled; and another the Falcon became, who perches and nests to this day on the crest of his sand-covered father, the Giant Cloud-drinker. And the Falcons cry ever and ever “’Tis father; O father!” (“_Tí-tätchu ya-tätchu._”)

But, fearing that never again would the waters refreshen their cañons, our ancients who dwelt in the cliffs fled away to the southward and eastward--all save those who had perished aforetime; they are dead in their homes in the cliff-towns, dried, like their corn-stalks that died when the rain stopped long, long ago, when all things were new.

Thus shortens my story.

THE MAIDEN THE SUN MADE LOVE TO, AND HER BOYS

OR, THE ORIGIN OF ANGER

Let it be about a person who lived in the Home of the Eagles (K’iákime), under the Mountain of Thunder, that I tell you today. So let it be. It was in the ancient, long-forgotten times. It was in the very ancient times beyond one’s guessing. There lived then, in this town, the daughter of a great priest-chief, but she had never, never, never since she was a little child, come forth from the doorway of the house in which she dwelt. No one there in that town had ever seen her; even her own townspeople had never seen her.

Now, day after day at noon-time, when the Sun stood in the mid-heavens, he would look down from the sky through a little window in the roof of her house. And he it was who instant was her lover, and who, descending upon the luminously yellow trail his own rays created, would talk to her. And he was her only companion, for she knew not her own townspeople, neither had she seen them since she was a child. None save only her parents ever saw her.

“Wonder what the cacique’s child looks like,” the people would say to one another. “She never comes out; no one has seen her since she was a little child.” And so at last they schemed to get a look at her. One said: “I have it! Let us have a dance for her. Then it may be she will deign to come forth.”

The young man who spoke was chief of the dances, and why should he not suggest such a thing? So, his friends and followers agreeing, they began to make plumes of macaw feathers--beautiful plumes they were--for the Plume dance. They set a day, and on that day, in the morning, they danced, with music and song, in the plaza before the house of the great priest-chief where the girl lived. They looked along the top of the house in vain; the girl was not there; only her old parents sat on the roof.

“Oh! I’m so thirsty!” cried the chief of the dance, for he it was who wanted to see the girl.

“Run right in and get a drink,” said the girl’s old ones. So the young man climbed the ladder and went into the first room. There was no water there; then he went into the second room, but there was no water there; then into the third room, but still he found no water. He looked all around, but saw nothing of the priest-chief’s daughter. All the same, she was back in the fourth room, sitting there just as if no dance were going on in the plaza, weaving away at her beautiful trays of colored splints.

Well, the young man went back; they finished their dance, but no one saw anything of the priest-chief’s daughter; and when the dancers all returned to their ceremonial chamber they said to one another: “Alas! although we danced for her, she came not out to see us!”

Now, in reality, the Sun, who was her lover, and came down each day on a ray of his own light to visit her, loved her so much he would not that she should come forth from her house and be seen of men. Therefore he set an Eagle upon the house-top in a great cage to watch her. He was a very wise old Eagle. He could understand every word that the people said. And he it was that she fed and watered from day to day. Now, the dancers in the ceremonial chamber asked: “What shall we do?”

“Why, let us dance again,” said the chief of the dances, “and if we do not succeed, yet again.” They did as he said, but with no better success than before; so at last the two Warrior Priests of the Bow grew angry, and although they were the girl’s father’s own warriors, they ordered the Warrior festival, or _Óinahe_ dance. “Surely,” said they, “she will come forth, and if not, let her perish, for how can she refuse the delight of the great _Óinahe_, where each young man dances and masks himself according to his fancy?”

So, one night the two warriors went out and called to the people to make ready and be happy, for in four days they should dance the _Óinahe_. When they had done calling, they descended, and the people said to one another: “Surely she will come out when we dance the _Óinahe_, for she will be delighted with it, and we shall yet see her. She was very beautiful when she was a little girl.” Then both of the warriors climbed to the top of Thunder Mountain, where Áhaiyúta and his brother, Mátsailéma, the Gods of War, and their grandmother lived in the middle of the summit. As they approached the presence of the two gods, they exclaimed: “_She-e!_”

“_Hai!_” the gods replied.

“Our fathers, how is it that ye are, these many days?” they asked, and the Twain replied: “We are happy. Come in; sit down”; and they placed a couple of stools for the warriors. “What is it that ye would of us?” they continued; “for it would be strange if ye came up to our house for nothing.”

“True it is,” replied the warriors. “It is in our hearts as your two chosen children--as the war-priests of our nation--that our people should be made happy as the days of the year go by; and we therefore think over all the beautiful dances, and now and then command that the most fitting of them shall appear. Now, our children, the people of the Home of the Eagles, are anxious to see our child, the daughter of the priest-chief, who has not come forth from her house, and whom we have never seen since she was a little girl. We have thought to order your dance of the _Óinahe_, and we would that without fail our daughter should be made to come forth or else die; therefore, our fathers, we have come to consult ye and to ask your advice.”

“Aha!” cried the Twain. “Then ye are anxious that this should be, are ye?”

“Yes,” they replied.

“Well, it shall come to pass as ye wish it, and the girl must die if she come not forth at the bidding of the _Óinahe_!”

“Aha!” ejaculated they both. “Thanks!”

“Yea, it shall be as ye wish. Make our days for us--name the times for preparation, and we shall be with ye to lead the _Óinahe_. The first time our dance will come forth, and the second time our dance will come forth, and the third time our dance will come forth, but the fourth time our dance comes forth, it will happen as ye wish it. It will certainly be finished as ye wish it.”

“Well! Thanks; we go!” (good-by).

“Go ye,” said the gods to their children; and they went.

The Eagle was very unhappy with all this. He knew it all, for he understood everything that was said. Next morning he hung his head at the window with great sadness; so the girl, after she had eaten her morning meal, took some dainty bits to the window and said: “Why are you so unhappy? See, I have brought you some food. Eat!”

“I will not eat; I cannot eat,” replied the Eagle.

“Why not?” asked she. “I will not harm you; I am happy; I love you just as much as ever.”

“Alas, alas! my mother,” said the Eagle. “It is not with thoughts of myself that I am unhappy, but your father’s two war-priests are anxious that their children shall be made happy, and their children, the people of our town under the mountain, are longing to see you. They have said to one another that you never come forth; they have never seen you. Therefore they have ordered the _Óinahe_, that you may be tempted out. They went up to the home of Áhaiyúta and his younger brother, where they live with their grandmother, on the top of Thunder Mountain, and the two gods have said to them: ‘It shall come to pass as ye wish it.’ Therefore they will dance, and on the fourth day of their dancing it shall come to pass as they wish it. Indeed, it shall happen, my poor mother, that you shall be no more. Alas! I can do nothing; you can do nothing; why should I tarry longer with you? You must loosen my bonds and let me free.”

“As you like,” said the girl. “I suppose it must be as you say.” Then she loosened the Eagle’s bonds, and, straight as the pathway of an arrow, away he flew upward into the sky--even toward the zenith where the Sun rested at noon-time, and whither he soon arrived himself.

“Thou comest,” said the Sun.

“I do, my father. How art thou these many days?” said the Eagle to the Sun.

“Happy. Here, sit down.” There was a blanket already placed for him, and thereupon he sat; but he never looked to the right nor to the left, nor yet about the Sun-father’s splendid home. He said not a word. He only drooped his head, so sad was he.

“What is it, my child?” asked the Sun. “I suppose thou hast some errand, else why shouldst thou come? Surely it is not for nothing that thou wouldst come so far to see me.”

“Quite true,” answered the Eagle. “Alas! my child; alas, my mother! Day after day down in the home under the mountain the people dance that they may tempt her forth; yet she has never appeared. So her father’s war-priests are angry and have at last been to see the Twain in their home on Thunder Mountain, and the Twain have commanded that soon it shall come to pass as the people wish or that our beautiful maiden shall perish. Even tomorrow it shall be; so have the Twain said; and when the fourth dance comes out it shall come to pass, and our beautiful maiden shall be no more; thus have the Twain said. I cannot enrich my mother, the daughter of the priest-chief, thy beautiful child, with words of advice, with aid of mine own will; hence come I unto thee. What shall I do?”

“What shalt thou do?” repeated the Sun. “I know it is all as thou hast said. Know I not all these things? The Twain, whose powers are surpassed only by mine own, have they not commanded that it shall be? What shalt thou do but descend at once? Tell her to bathe herself and put on her finest garments tomorrow morning. Then, when the time comes, mount her upon thy shoulders and bear her up to me. Only possibly thou wilt have the great good fortune to reach my house with her. Possibly in thy journey hither it shall come to be, alas! as the Twain have said; for have not they said it should be, and are they not above all things else powerful?”

“Well, we’ll try to come.”

“But I will watch thee when thou art about to reach the mid-heavens.”

“Well, I go,” said the Eagle, rising.

“Very well,” responded the Sun; “happily mayest thou journey.” And the Eagle began to descend.

Meanwhile the daughter of the priest-chief opened the sky-hole and placed a sacred medicine-bowl half full of water on the floor where the sunlight would shine into it, and where it would reflect the sky, and there she sat looking intently down into the water. By-and-by the Eagle came in sight, and she saw his shadow in the water.

Just then the Sun drew his shield from his face. Oh! how hot it was down there on the earth. The sky was ablaze with light, and no one dared to look at it; and the sands grew so hot that they burned the moccasins of those who walked upon them. Everybody ran into the houses, and the Eagle spread his wings and gently descended, for he too was hot. And when he came near to the house, the girl let him in and welcomed him.

“Thou comest, father,” said she.

He only drooped his head and flapped his wings, unable even to speak, so hot was he.

She saw that he was near to fainting. Therefore she fanned him--made cool wind for him with the basket tray and her mantle--and sprinkled cold water upon his head.

“Thou hast been to the home of our father?” she asked, when he had recovered.

“Yes,” replied the Eagle.

“What has he advised that we should do?” asked she.

“This,” said the Eagle; “tomorrow morning at the dawn of day thou wilt arise and bathe thyself. Then at sunrise thou shalt put on thy finest garments. The dance will come forth; and then it will come forth the second time, and the third time, and again it will come the fourth time. Then I will mount thee upon my shoulders and bear thee away toward the Sun, who will be waiting for us. It may be that we shall have the good fortune to reach his home; and it may be that we shall get only a little way when everything shall come to pass unhappily and thou wilt be no more.” That is what he said to her.

It grew night. The girl collected all the basket-trays that she had made for her father’s sacred plumes; these by the fire-light she spread out, and then began to divide them into different heaps.

Now, her parents, who were sitting in the next room, heard her until it was late at night, and they said to each other: “Wonder what it is that keeps our daughter up?” So the old priest-chief arose and entered her room.

“My child, art thou not at rest yet?” asked he.

“No,” replied she. “I am dividing the trays I have made for thee. These,” said she, pointing to a heap of yellow ones, “shall pertain to the north-land; these, the blue, to the west-land; the red to the land of the south, the white to the east, the variegated to the upper regions, and the black to the regions below. For tomorrow, beloved father, thou shalt see me no more.”

“It is well,” said the father, for he was a great priest and knew the will of the gods, and to this he always said: “It is well. What, therefore, should I say?” So the old man left her.

Then as morning approached she bathed herself. And the Eagle, looking down, said: “My child, my mother, lie down and rest thyself, for we are about to undertake a long journey. Never fear; I will wake thee at the right time.” So she lay down and slept. The Eagle perched himself above her and watched for the dawn.

By-and-by the great star arose. Then he knew that the Sun would soon follow it, and he said: “Mother, arise! dress thyself, for the time is near at hand.”

Outside on the house-tops called the two war-priests to their children:

“Hasten, hasten! Prepare for the dance!
Hasten, hasten! Eat for the dance!
Hasten, hasten, our children all!”

Then the girl went into another room and brought forth her finest dresses, and these, garment after garment, she put on--not one dress, but many. Upon her shoulders she placed four mantles of snow-white embroidered cotton. Then she said to the Eagle: “Wait a moment; I have yet to think of our children in the Home of the Eagles.” Therefore she brought forth her basket-bowls of fine meal with which she had been accustomed to powder her face. There was meal of the yellow corn, the blue corn-meal, the red corn-meal, the white corn-meal, the speckled corn-meal, and the black corn-meal. “See,” said she, as she regarded the various vessels of meal; “my children, by means of these shall ye beautify flesh; by means of these be precious against evil; by means of these shall ye finish preciously your roads of life. I am to be no more. Far off and to an unknown region go I. Possibly I may reach it, and live; probably not reach it, and die. These do I leave as your inheritance. My children, good-by.”[40]

[40] The maiden here addresses mankind generally.

Then the Eagle descended. The drum began to sound outside; the dance was coming--for the first time, mind you, not the fourth. Then said the Eagle, as he lowered himself: “Place thyself upon my back; grasp me by the shoulders.” And the girl did as she was bidden. She reclined herself lengthwise on the back of the Eagle, and grasped with her left hand his shoulders. “Now, place one foot on one of my thighs and the other on the other.” She placed one foot on one of his thighs and the other on the other; and the Eagle spread his tail and raised it that she might not fall off. “All ready?” asked he, as the drum of the coming dance sounded outside.

“Yes,” said the girl; and they arose.

“Open the wicket!” and _shoa!_ the Eagle spread his wings and away off up into the sky he sprang with the maiden. Round and round, round and round, they circled in the sky, but those below saw nothing as they danced in the shadows of the great houses. The dancers retired. Then they came forth again. Again they retired and came forth. Then the girl said: “Father, slower. Let me sing a farewell song to my people, my children of Earth, that they may know I am going.”

The Eagle spread his wings and sailed gently through the air as the maiden sang. Then the people in the plaza below heard the song, and said: “Alas, alas! ye Twain!” said they to the two gods who led the dance. “Our mother, our child, away off through the skies goes she! Ye are fools that ye have let her escape and deceive us!”

Some listened to the song and learned it. Others did not. For the third time the dancers came forth. “Once more have we to dance,” said the two gods. “Where are they now?”

“In the mid-heavens,” said the people.

“Take it easily, my child,” said the Eagle. “Once more are they to come forth. Possibly we will yet have the great good fortune to reach the home of our father.” And they sped along through the air, nearer and nearer to the home of the Sun-father, while the dancers below danced harder and harder--many so joyful that they listened not to the complainings of the people around, but danced only more vigorously.

Then the dancers retired and came out for the fourth and last time. In the van danced the two gods, their faces blackened with the paint of war, their hands bearing bows and arrows with which to destroy the daughter of the priest-chief.

Yes, they were almost there. Now, the Eagle’s heart was high with hope. When the two gods below reached the center of the plaza they turned to the people and asked: “Where are they? Where have they gone?”

“There they are in the skies--almost there,” replied the people.

“Humph!” responded the gods. “Suppose they _are_ almost there; they shall never reach the home of our father!”

“Now, then, hurry, brother younger!” exclaimed the elder; “with which hand wilt thou draw the arrow?”

“With thy hand, my right,” said the younger.

“Very well; with thy hand, my left,” said the elder.[41]

[41] The twin children of the Sun were, in the days of creation,
the benignant guardians of men; but when the world became filled
with envy and war, they were changed by the eight gods of the
storms into warriors more powerful than all monsters, gods, or
men. The elder one was right-handed, the younger, left-handed;
hence the form of expression here used.

So they drew their medicine-pointed arrows to the heads. _Tsi-ni-i-i!_ sang the arrows as they shot through the air. Soon they reached the home of the Sun, crossed one another over his face, and shot downward more swiftly than ever toward the coming Eagle and the maiden. “Alas! my mother, my child,” said the Sun as the arrows flew past him and from him, “thou art no more.” And the arrows shot downward on their course.

_Tsook!_ sang the arrow of the elder god as it pierced the back of the girl and entered her heart. _Tso-ko!_ sang the arrow of the younger as it struck in the middle of her back.

“Alas! my mother, my mother,” cried the Eagle, “it is over, alas, alas!” said he, as she released her hold, and, fainting, he left her to fall through the air. Over and over, this way and that, fell the beautiful maiden; and as the people strained their eyes, nearer and nearer to the town neath the mountain she fell. Soon, over and over, this way and that, she came falling even with the top of the mountain.

Then the people rushed past one another out of the plaza toward the place where they thought she would strike. And just over there below the Home of the Eagles, where the Waters of the Coyote gush forth from the cliff-base, fell the beautiful maiden.

Then there were born twin children--two wee infants who rolled off into the rubbish and were concealed under sticks and stones.

Down rushed the people, and an Acoma spectator seized her body. “Mine!” cried he, triumphantly, as he raised the body above him.

“Thine!” cried the people, for they had lost the beautiful maiden.

“Ours!” cried the Acomas, one to another, who had come to witness the dances. “Great good fortune this day has smiled on us.” And they bore her body away to their pueblo in the east.

Now, under the other end of Thunder Mountain was the home of the Badgers, and an old Badger who lived there was out hunting. After the people had again gathered in the city, he passed near the Waters of the Coyote and heard the voices of the infants crying among the rubbish.

“Ah!” said he, “I hear the cry of children. My little boys, my little girls,” cried he, “whichever ye may be”; and he hastily searched and found them where they were rolling about and crying among the refuse. “Twins!” cried he. “Boys! Somebody has left them here. Soon he will come back to reclaim them. Let me walk away for a few moments.”

So he walked all around, but found no traces of the parents, only the tracks of many men who had gathered near.

“Mine!” said he, as he trotted back; and with soft grass he rubbed them till they were free from the mud and refuse. “Thanks, thanks! Splendid! Children have I, and boys at that, and when I am older grown they will take from me the cares of the chase. Goodness! Thanks! Nothing but boys shall be my children!” So he rubbed them dry and clean with more soft grass, and they stopped crying. Then he took some dry grass and made a bundle and put them in it, and started off for his home in the Red Hills.

The old Badger-woman was up on top of their house looking around, running back and forth and jumping in and out of her doorway. “Hai!” said she; “thou comest?”

“Yes, hurry!” said the old Badger. “Come down and meet me.”

“What have you?” asked the Badger-woman, as she ran down to meet him.

“What have I,” said the old Badger, “but a couple of wee little children! Here, take them and carry them up to the house.”

So the old woman took the bundle of grass and opened it and began to fondle the children. “O my poor little children; poor little babes!” said she.

“Ah! stop playing with them and hurry along!” commanded the old Badger.

So the old woman hurried up to their doorway as fast as possible and ran in. The old Badger followed, and she said to him: “Where in the world did you get these little children?”

“Why,” replied he, “I had the greatest luck in the world. I was out hunting, you know, and found these two little fellows down in Coyote Cañon, just this side of those men’s houses. They’re boys, both of them. When they grow up, old wife, perhaps they can hunt for us, and then I shall rest myself from the labors of the hunt, with plenty of meat for you and me every day of the year. What are you standing there for?” said he. “Why don’t you go and get them something to eat and make them a bed?”

“Oh, yes!” responded the old woman. “My poor little children!” So she made a little nest at the bottom of the hole and laid them on it. Then she ran and fetched some green-corn ears and, picking the kernels off, made some gruel of them, and fed the little fellows. So the boy babies ate till they kicked their heels with satisfaction, and that night the old Badger-mother took one in her arms and slept with it, and the old Badger-father slept with the other.

Now, every day they grew as much as the children of men do in a year, so that in eight days they were as large and knew as much as children usually do in eight years. There was no little animal that they could not kill unfailingly, for they were the children of the Sun, you know. But, alas! they grew weary of killing birds around their doorway, and their old father kept telling them every morning never to go out of sight of their house; and the old woman kept watching them always for fear that they would run off and get lost, or somebody would find and claim them. Yes, they grew impatient of this. They wanted to kill prairie-dogs and cottontails, but they could not get near enough to them. So one night when the old Badger came home they said to him: “Father, come now; do make us some bows and arrows so that we can hunt rabbits, and you and mother can have all that you want to eat.”