In Indian Tents

Next morning, the skin which hung at the door of the wigwam was raised, and a girl looked in and smiled at Wālūt. His grandmother said, “Follow her not, for she is a witch, and would destroy you.” The next day and the next and so on, for five days, the same thing was repeated; but on the sixth day, the girl not only lifted the curtain, but she entered in, went straight to Wālūt’s sleeping place and began to arrange his bed. This done, she drew from her bosom “nokoksis,” tiny brass kettles, and proceeded to cook a meal, – soup, corn and meat, – all in perfect silence. Grandmother watched her, but said nothing. When the meal was cooked, the girl set a birch-bark dish before grandmother and Wālūt, and began to ladle out the soup. Although the kettle was so small that it seemed no bigger than a child’s toy, both the dishes were filled and plenty then remained. No word was said; but when night came, the girl lay down beside Wālūt and thus, by ancient Indian law, became his wife. Their happy life, however, was of short duration, for the girl’s mother, “Tomāquè,” the Beaver, was a mighty magician, and was angry because her daughter had married without her consent. She therefore stole her away and deprived her of all memory of her husband and the past. Wālūt was determined to recover his bride, and his grandmother, wishing to help him, took from the old bark kettle a miniature bow and arrows. These she stretched and stretched until they became of heroic size. She strung the bow with a strand of her own hair, and gave it to her grandson, telling him that no arrow shot from that bow could ever miss its mark. She also dressed him from head to foot in the garb of an ancient warrior, formerly the property of his grandfather, as was the bow. She told him that he had a long, hard road to go, and many trials to overcome; but he was not afraid. All day he travelled, and, at night fall, came to a wigwam in which lived an old man. Wālūt asked him where Tomāquè might be found. The old man answered: “I cannot tell you, my child. You must ask my brother who lives farther on. He is much older than I, and he may know. To-night you can rest here, if you can put up with the hardships of my wigwam.” Wālūt accepted this offer, and the old man began to heap great stones on the fire. It grew hotter and hotter, and Wālūt thought his last hour had come; but he said to himself, “I can suffer,” and he piled more stones on the fire, and built a wall of them about the wigwam, so that it grew hotter than ever, and the old man said, “Let me out, let me out, I am too hot!” But Wālūt said, “I am cold, I am cold!” and so he conquered the first magician.

Next night he came to the home of the second brother, who made the same answer to his inquiries as the first, and also offered him a night’s shelter if he could bear the hardships of the wigwam. No sooner had Wālūt accepted his offer, than he sat down and bade his guest pick the insects from his head and destroy them, after the old custom, by cracking them between his teeth. Now these insects were venomous toads which would blister Wālūt’s lips and poison his blood. Luckily he had a handful of cranberries in his pocket, and for every toad, he bit a cranberry.6 The old man was completely deceived, and when he thought that his guest had imbibed enough poison to destroy him, he bade him desist from his task. Thus Wālūt passed successfully through the second trial. On the third day he journeyed until he came to the abode of the third brother, oldest of all, seemingly just tottering on the brink of the grave. Wālūt again asked for Tomāquè, and the old man answered: “To-morrow, I will tell you. Rest here to-night, if you can bear the hardships of my home.” As they sat by the fire the old man began to rub his knee, and instantly flames of fire darted from every side; but Wālūt was on his guard, and uttered a spell which drew the old man slowly, but surely, into the fire which he had created, and he perished. “Rub your knee, old man,” cried Wālūt, “rub your knee until you are tired!”

Next morning as he drew the curtain, boom, boom, a noise like thunder fell upon his ear. It was the drumming of a giant partridge. Wālūt fitted an arrow to his bow and shot the bird to the heart, well knowing that it was his wife’s sister “Kākāgūs,” the Crow, who had come to capture him. Towards evening he reached a great mountain towering above a quiet lake. As he looked, he saw upon the summit, his wife, embroidering a garment with porcupine quills, for this was where she lived with her mother. Catching sight of him, she plunged at once into the centre of the mountain, having no memory of her husband. He, however, hid himself, feeling sure that she would come forth again, and being determined to seize her before she could again disappear. Soon indeed he saw her and tried to grasp her, but only caught at her long hair. Instantly, she drew her knife, cut off her hair, and vanished into the mountain, where her mother loudly reprimanded her, saying, “I told you never to go outside; you see now that I was right. Nothing remains but for you to go in search of your hair.” Next day, therefore, the girl set forth, and on reaching the wigwam of the second old man, her grandfather, for all of the old men were of her kin, the veil was lifted and she knew that it was her husband who had sought her and stolen her hair. She at once rejoined him; he restored her long locks, and, by his magic power, they again grew upon her head and for a year all went well. At the end of that time she became the mother of a boy, whom she called “Kīūny” the Otter. Soon all the game and fish disappeared. Wālūt went out every day, searching the woods and waters for many miles around; but, night after night, he came home empty-handed, and starvation seemed very near at hand. Then Nochgemiss, the Grandmother, warned them that Tomāquè was bent on revenge, and bade Wālūt go forth and slay her. She armed him with a bone spear from the old pack kettle, and he travelled to the mountain. It was mid-winter and the lake was covered with clear ice. Deep down beneath the ice a giant beaver swam to and fro, no other than Tomāquè herself. Vainly Wālūt plunged his spear into the depths. Again and again she evaded him, until, in a fury, he cried, “Your life or mine!” and at last succeeded in striking her; but so powerful was she that she raised him into the air, using the spear in his hand as a lever, the other end being deep in her side. The result seemed doubtful; but grandmother, who knew all that was passing, flew to her boy’s aid and, in the shape of a huge snake, Atōsis, wound herself about Tomāquè, fold upon fold, and at last conquered the foe and crushed her to death, Wālūt dealing the final stroke.

Grandmother hastened home, leaving Wālūt unconscious of the help that she had given him, and found Kīūny gasping with fever. His mother, well aware of all that had passed, through the power of second sight, also knew that the baby’s illness was caused by Tomāquè’s dying curse. Meantime Wālūt returned, and his grandmother told him that all she could do, would be to save him; that wife and child must perish, as indeed they soon did.

Not long after, in the early morning, a girl lifted the skin which hung at the opening of the wigwam and looked in. As Wālūt glanced up at her, she fled. He pursued her, but almost instantly lost sight of her. Next day, came another girl, to whom he also gave chase, also in vain. On the third morning, he was more successful, because this time the girl was more willing to be followed. He tracked her to her home, but did not enter, wishing first to consult his grandmother. She told him that these were the three daughters of “Mōdāwes,” or Famine. The youngest girl, she said, would be a good wife to him; and she directed him, when she came next day, to touch her lightly on the arm.

The girl came; he pursued her and, fleet-footed though she was, he managed to touch her before she escaped into her mother’s wigwam. Ere long, to her mother’s rage and fury, but much to the delight of her sisters, a little boy was born to her, who, in reality, was Wālūt endowed with this form by his grandmother’s aid, – no baby, but a strong brave man.

Now, Mōdāwes was a cannibal, and the ridge-pole of her wigwam was strung with cups made from the skulls of her victims. Wālūt, seeing these, was at once aware that they were all that was left of those who had fallen prey to the witch’s horrible appetite. He resolved to slay her; but as her daughters had been very kind to him, he wished to spare them, and said to himself: “I wish that a snow-white deer would pass by!” Instantly, the white deer moved slowly before the door. The three girls sprang after it. Wālūt rose to his full stature; clad in his grandfather’s ancient dress, he snatched his timhēgan from his belt and, with a single blow, laid Mōdāwes dead at his feet. He then set fire to the wigwam and returned to Grandmother Loon. When the three daughters of Mōdāwes gave up their hopeless chase of the enchanted deer and came home, no home was there, only a black heap of ashes. They mourned for their dear baby, whom they naturally supposed had perished in the flames; but they never again found the path which led to Wālūt’s lodge.

OLD SNOWBALL

Many years ago an Indian family, consisting of an old father and mother, their two sons, and their baby grandson were camping in the woods for the winter hunt. In the same neighborhood lived a horrible old witch and her three daughters. This witch ate nothing but men’s brains and skulls. She would pick the bones clean, and dry them, and had a long row of such trophies all round the upper part of her wigwam, looking like so many snowballs. From this she took her name, and was known as old Snowball. The girls were very beautiful, and set out by turns every evening to ensnare some young man for their mother’s meal. So it happened that soon after the Indian family had settled in camp, one twilight, as they sat round the fire, a beautiful girl passed by, so charming the eldest son, that he set out in pursuit of her and never returned, having fallen a prey to Snowball. A night or two later, another equally lovely girl appeared, and the second son, who was a widower, and the father of the baby boy, started to chase her, with the same result. The same fate befell even the old man, and the poor old woman was left alone with the baby. She was terribly afraid that the witch would get him too, and kept him hidden in a great birch-bark basket, t’bān-kāgan. As he grew older and began to talk and run about, he was always wishing that he were a grown man, that he might help his grandmother, hunt for her and fetch in wood for her. At last, the old woman, who was something of a magician, told him that if he really was so anxious to be big, he might lie down that night on the other side of the fire, and she would see what could be done. Next morning, behold, he was a full grown man. His grandmother brought out her husband’s pack kettle, and gave him all the tools and weapons which he needed, stringing his bow with her own hair. Thenceforth, he brought in plenty of game, and they would have been very happy if the old woman had not constantly dreaded the appearance of the witch’s daughter. At last she came, looking more fascinating than ever; but the young man went on with his work, and never raised his eyes. Next night, the second daughter passed by; he looked up at her, but that was all. The third night, the third daughter, youngest and fairest of all, appeared. He sprang up to follow her; but his grandmother begged him to stay, or she would kill him as she had slain so many of his family. He finally consented to wait till another night, and said that he would not chase her, but merely follow and see where she went. His grandmother wept bitterly, but did her best to ward off misfortune, by seeing that he took the bow strung with her hair, and also a certain small bone from the mink, possessed of great magical power. The young man soon turned himself into a tiny bird, “chūkālisq’,” and hopped about almost in reach of the girl’s hand. He seemed so tame that she thought she might lay her hand on him, and indeed after several attempts she did contrive to catch him and put him in her bosom. Then she ran home to tell her mother of the lovely bird that she had found. “That is no bird,” said her mother; “just let me look at him.” She put her hand in her breast, but there was nothing there. From that moment she grew bigger and bigger, and in due time gave birth to a fine boy. Her mother wanted to kill the child; but she would not consent, and, for safe keeping, carried the baby always in an Indian bark cradle strapped over her shoulders. Meantime, the spell of her beauty held possession of the young man, and he could not rest till he saw her once more. Turning himself into a deer, he sought Snowball’s lodge, where he gambolled and played about until the three girls ran out to see the pretty creature, forgetting the baby who had been left behind. The deer led them into the forest, and then sped back to the lodge, where he found the witch just about to kill the child and devour its brains. Taking his spear, he at once slew her and, hiding himself, killed the two older girls in turn as they returned home. When the third daughter appeared, he stepped forward and claimed her as his wife. “Now,” said he, “you must stand aside, for I am going to burn up the lodge with the bodies of your mother and sisters.” She was very unwilling, but at last yielded. The old witch was loath to die, and rose repeatedly from the flames; but the magic spear was too much for her. The young man, with his wife and baby, went home to his grandmother, and for a year lived very happily. Then the young woman became sad and silent and, when questioned, said that great trouble was at hand, that her aunt, who was a powerful sorceress, was coming to avenge the murder of her kindred, and she feared the consequences. The grandmother made all preparations, this time stringing the bow with the young woman’s hair. Next day the baby began to cry, and nothing would quiet him, until the old woman thought of giving him her husband’s bark pack kettle, where some of his ancient treasures were still kept. Then the baby smiled, and began to turn over the things and play with them. Suddenly he laughed aloud and cooed for joy and toddled to his father with a little bone. “Fool that I am,” exclaimed the old woman, “how could I forget that! This may save us yet.” (It was Luz, the ancient resurrection bone of the Jews, and had once formed part of the anatomy of one of the greatest magicians ever known.) The young man bound it to the head of his spear and set forth, his grandmother having told him that the time had come, and that he must that day kill the great Beaver (his wife’s aunt), or the whole family must perish. He soon came to a great lake where there was a beaver dam as high as a mountain. He could see the big Beaver moving about under the ice; but all his efforts to pierce the ice were in vain, it grew thicker and thicker under his spear, and rose in great waves. He returned at nightfall discouraged, but started out again next day, his grandmother tearing apart her scarlet bead-wrought legging, and bidding him fling that on the ice to see if it would not break the charm. All day he strove, but even the legging was of no avail. Next day he took the second legging, and at last succeeded in striking his spear through the ice and into the enemy, Quābīt. Then began a mighty battle, Beaver struggling to break the spear or to escape, and the young man fighting to retain his hold. At home the baby began to scream and cry, and the women knew their hero was in danger. The grandmother wept as if her boy were already dead; but his wife said, “Fear not, for I will help him.” She flung a handful of magic roots out at the door, and instantly a sheet of water lay there, and she was at her husband’s side. She told him not to loose the spear, but to watch well, that she would fight his battle. “If you see me pass under the ice before my aunt, all is well; but if she comes first, she has conquered, and we must all perish. I shall be all white like snow, while she is jet black.” The young man stood rooted to the spot, while the ice cracked and heaved with fearful noises. At last the white beaver passed before him under the clear ice, and he knew that victory was his. His wife then told him that there was still another and a more terrible enemy to be conquered before he and his could be safe. This triumph too she gained, though at a fearful cost, for she was never again to see her husband, home, or child. The young man went back to his grandmother with drooping head, and heard how the baby had kept his grandmother informed of the progress of the fight by his changing tears and smiles. And that is all about it.

ĀL-WŪS-KI-NI-GESS, THE SPIRIT OF THE WOODS

Seeing a smoke come from the top of a mountain, the children asked the elders what it was, or who could live there, and the fathers told them: “That is the home of ‘Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess,’ a tree-cutter, whose hatchet is made of stone. He throws it from him; it cuts the tree and returns to its master’s hand at each blow. One stroke of his hatchet will fell the largest tree. No one ever saw him save Glūs-kābé, who often goes to the cave to visit him. He is a harmless creature, and only fights when ordered to do so by Glūs-kābé. He lives in that mountain, on deer, moose, or any meat he can kill. Sometimes he goes out to sea with Glūs-kābé, to catch ‘K’chī būtep,’ the Great Whale.

“ ‘Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess and ‘Kiāwāhq’ once had a big fight, which lasted for two days. Kiāwāhq’ put forth all his power to conquer, but failed. He uprooted huge trees, expecting them to fall and crush his rival in strength; but Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess would hurl his hatchet and split the tree asunder. Kiāwāhq’ strove to drag him into the sea, but the wood spirit is as strong in the water as on land, to say nothing of the fact that when he is in the water, ‘K’chīquī-nocktsh,’ the Turtle, comes to his aid. Once Kiāwāhq’ got his foe between two great trees and felt sure he could slay him as they fell. Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess seized his axe and struck the trees which fell. The wind caused by their fall was so mighty that it left Kiāwāhq’ faint and exhausted. He was forced to beg for quarter, and promised his enemy that if he would spare his life, he would give him a stone wigwam and be his good friend forever. So the wood spirit had mercy and accepted his offer. That is how he got that cave where he still lives.”

This was the answer of the elders to their children’s question.

M’TEŪLIN, THE GREAT WITCH

In a certain place, alone by herself, lived an old woman whom none dared to approach, for she had bewitched many Indians.

In the spring of the year when the men came back from their long winter hunting for furs, they would gather together and build what they called eqū’nāk’n,7 hot-baths, to drive off their diseases. They would enter the hut, and heat it red-hot until it would almost roast them. They would strip off their clothes, and dance and sing songs to drive off disease.

Once before the performance ended, they were amazed to see a woman among such a crowd of men; but they feared to speak to her. One young man laughed when she threw off her clothes. This angered her, and she said: “You laugh at me now; but I will send a flood to destroy you.” Then she left the hut.

After a time, the youth who had laughed, said, “Hark!”

All stopped to listen, and they heard the rush of water, and knew the witch had kept her word, – the flood was upon them. But the young man was something of a sorcerer too, and had a rattlesnake for poohegan, or messenger (all witches have at least one poohegan).

He instantly changed all his comrades into beaver and fish.

“Ha! ha!” laughed “Copcomus,” Little One, for such was the youth’s name. “You cannot finish your work, old witch. I will be avenged on you yet. I will pray Glūs-kābé to follow and kill you.”

They all swam out of the eqū’nāk’n, and when the water ceased to flow, Copcomus went along the stream and saw a large number of beaver building a house like eqū’nāk’n, so he changed them all back to Indians again. They were very glad, and thanked him heartily.

“Now,” said Copcomus, “we must hold a council at once and decide what to do with the old witch, for she will try to destroy us yet.”

Some said, “We will burn her wigwam;” one said: “No, she would know of our coming and turn us into some evil thing!” Another said his idea was to persuade the great bird, Wūchowsen, Wind, to move his wings harder and faster, thus causing “Uptossem,” the Whirlwind, to destroy her; but Copcomus said: “I will see to-night what is best.” (Witches always see in their sleep how their enemies may be destroyed).

The old woman too saw in her sleep that Copcomus was plotting to kill her; so she sent her messenger, the Humming-bird, to bid Wūchowsen not to move his wings faster than usual.

Copcomus cried to his poohegan: “Go, creep into her wigwam and bite the old witch;” and he tied cedar bark about the snake’s rattle, that it might make no noise.

The snake went by night, glided in and bit the old woman’s big toe. The pain waked her, and her toe swelled rapidly. She sent the Humming-bird to seek Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess, the Wood Spirit.

The bird flew to the cave in the mountain, and when Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess asked: “How now, little bird?” the bird replied: “The Great Witch bids you come with your hatchet without delay.” So the Spirit lit his pipe and set forth. When he reached his journey’s end, he found the witch moaning with pain. “What is the matter, ‘Mookmee’ [Grandma]?” he asked.

Her only reply was: “Cut off my toe at once.”

He raised his axe, but K’chīquīnocktsh, the Turtle, Glūs-kābé’s uncle, who had been sent by Glūs-kābé to help Copcomus, jogged his elbow and the hatchet cut off her leg.

Next day Copcomus said to his men: “We must go and implore Glūs-kābé to conquer the witch. No one else can do it.” So they besought the mighty Master to help them. He laughed aloud, and said: “What! all these strong men with warclubs, spears, and bows, to slay one poor old woman! Why, my uncle could do the work single-handed.”

“She must die,” said Copcomus; “we will send your uncle, the Turtle, and let him do the work single-handed.”

So the Turtle set forth once more; but as he is a slow traveller, it took him two days to reach the witch’s home. “What is the matter, Grandma?” he asked. “Alas!” she cried, “Āl-wūs-ki-ni-gess has killed me!”

Turtle then drew his hunting-knife and finished her.

SUMMER

There lived near “Kīsus,” the Sun, a beautiful woman named “Niffon,” Summer. She dressed in green leaves, and her wigwam was decked with leaves and flowers of many different sorts. Her grandmother, Sogalŭn, Rain, lived far away, but when she visited her granddaughter, she always warned her never to go near “Let-ogus-nūk,” the North, where her worst enemy, “Bovin,” Winter, lived, saying: “If you do go, you will lose all your beauty, your dress will fade, your hair will turn gray, and your strength will leave you.”

But Niffon paid no heed to her grandmother’s warning. One fine morning as she sat in her wigwam gazing northward, and saw no signs of Bovin, – the sun was shining and she could see for a long distance, – a beautiful region lay stretched before her, broad rivers, and lakes, and high mountains, – something within her bade her go forth to see that strange country; so she started on her long journey. She knew that her grandmother could not see her, and though she seemed to hear her say: “Do not go near your enemy; he will surely slay you,” she did not heed it, but journeyed on and on. The mountains and lakes seemed far away; but she did not lose heart. Looking back, she could see nothing of her own lovely home. The bright sun overhead was the only thing not new and strange to her. She felt a vague sadness and distress; and when once more a voice murmured: “Do not go, my daughter,” she resolved to turn back, but it was too late. Some unseen power now forced her towards the north. Still the mountains and lakes were as far away as ever; her dress was beginning to fade; her long hair had turned gray; her strength was failing fast; the sun, too, had lost his power; and, as she neared her journey’s end, she saw that the mountains were but heaps of snow, the beautiful lakes but fields of ice.

Meantime her grandmother, seeing no smoke rise from Niffon’s wigwam, grew alarmed and concluded to visit her. When she got there, she found the wigwam empty, the green boughs on the floor withered and dry, and the leaves faded. “Oh, my poor grandchild is in the clutches of Bovin,” she cried, and summoned her bravest warriors, “Sūwessen,” the South Wind, “Hy-chī,” the East Wind, and “Snoteseg-du,” the West Wind, and bade them hasten northward and fight like devils to save Niffon.