Part 8

The Witsduks scattered everywhere, and they will live forever. Wus did this. If Tcutûk had hidden them under the rocks, there would have been no more Witsduks in the world. At the place where Wus was killed nobody can live to this day; every one dies from cold or starvation, for old woman Witsduk lives there yet.

DJÁKALIPS

CHARACTER

Djákalips Red Clouds

Djákalips lived on the west side of Klamath Lake. He had eyes as red as blood and he always looked down; he wouldn’t look up at any time. When he ate, he closed his eyes, and when fishing he shaded them with his arm.

Two sisters went to live with Djákalips and be his wives. He said to them: “When you clean fish, you must not break the gall; if you do trouble will come.”

One day one of the sisters said to the other: “Did you ever see Djákalips’ face?”

“No, I don’t lie as near him as you do; you must know how he looks.”

“I don’t, for I never see his eyes; he always covers them with his arm, or turns his face away from me.”

“I want to see his eyes,” said the younger sister; “I don’t want a man who won’t look at me.”

“Maybe if we saw his eyes we would die,” said the elder sister.

“Why do we stay here?” asked the younger sister. “Every woman has to look at her husband and every man at his wife. I feel as if something would happen to us, but I am going to see Djákalips’ eyes.”

They tried in every way to make Djákalips look up. Sometimes they told him that people were coming; sometimes they called out: “There is a deer!” But no matter what they said, he didn’t look up.

One morning Djákalips went fishing. At midday he had a basketful of nice fish. The elder wife cooked some of the fish in the coals and gave them to her husband to eat; she spoke to him, but he didn’t answer. He kept his arm over his eyes. The two sisters sat down in front of their straw house to dress fish and watch Djákalips. They were mad at him. They didn’t like him any longer. The younger sister thought: “I will make him look up!” She broke the gall of a fish and screamed: “Oh! I’ve broken a gall!”

Djákalips looked up. His eyes were balls of fire, and his face was as red as blood.

The sisters were terribly frightened; they wanted to get away. The elder sister said: “We have no wood, you must come and help me get some.” They ran off to the river and began to twist reeds to make a rope long enough to reach from the ground to the sky. They worked fast. When the rope was finished, they made it into a ball and threw the ball up till it caught in the sky; then they climbed on the rope that hung from the ball. As they climbed, they said: “We will leave the rope, and if Djákalips follows us, we will come down again.” They left a little animal sitting on the ground near the end of the rope, and told him not to tell where they had gone.

Djákalips wondered why his wives didn’t come. At last he tracked them to the place where they had made the ball; he saw the little animal, and asked: “Where are my wives?” It wouldn’t tell. Djákalips pulled its hair, took out a handful; still it wouldn’t tell. He looked everywhere for tracks; then he came back to the same place and asked again: “Where are my wives?” He got no answer. He pulled out another handful of the little animal’s hair, then he went to hunt for tracks again. The tracks always led him back to the animal.

When he had pulled all of the animal’s hair out, it said: “They have gone to the sky.”

“How did they go?” asked Djákalips.

“On a rope made of reeds. Here is the end of it. Look up and you will see where they are.”

Djákalips climbed the rope. The sisters went far west, but he tracked them. They ran north and south, then they ran back to the rope and came down. As they touched the ground, the elder sister called to Djákalips: “You will never come back to this earth; you will always stay there in the sky. You will stay where the sun goes down, and in later times, when you look up and people see your red eyes, they will say: ‘Djákalips is going to make water freeze.’”

Djákalips followed his wives north and south, but couldn’t find them; then he went back to where the sun sets and stayed there. He turned into the red clouds which we see in the fall of the year. When Djákalips is seen in the west, water freezes.

MOASÄM BEPS, THE DAUGHTER OF SOUTH WIND

CHARACTERS

Moasäm Beps South Wind’s Daughter Tsákiak A Bird (English name unknown)

At Euks a great many people were starving to death; they were so weak they couldn’t stand. It was winter; snow was falling all the time. The people were out of doors. They didn’t live in houses. Tsákiak was the only person who had a house. He took people in, warmed them, and gave them a little to eat; he hadn’t much.

One day, when it was cold and there was deep snow everywhere, Tsákiak went on top of his house and stood looking around. He felt badly, felt sorry for the people, they were so cold and hungry. Just then he saw Moasäm Beps coming from the south; she was bringing minnows, holding them out in her hand as she came along; when she passed Tsákiak’s house, she gave him the minnows. He cooked them over his fire and gave them to the hungry people. He felt glad in his heart.

The next day, Moasäm Beps came again and brought many minnows; she had both hands full. When she passed Tsákiak, she gave them to him. He was hungry himself, but he gave all of the minnows to the starving people.

The next day Moasäm Beps’ hands were empty, but she asked Tsákiak where the nut pine trees were. He said: “They are on both sides of the fire in my house.”

Moasäm Beps went in and sat on a pine tree. As soon as she was there, the snow melted and went away. She said to Tsákiak: “Spread five blankets under each tree; then go out and don’t look in.”

Soon on each one of the ten blankets there was a big pile of pine nuts. Then Moasäm Beps called the people in; those who were too weak to eat she fed.

Right away all the people were strong; they were happy, too. They gave Moasäm Beps wildcat skins and beads of every kind, and then they went their own way, for it was warm and they had plenty to eat. Tsákiak and Moasäm Beps went to Moasänik, her father’s home, for Moasäm Beps was Tsákiak’s wife now.

The day they got to Moasänik, Moasäm Beps gave her husband a pair of moccasins, and said: “You must wear these moccasins all the time you are here; if you take them off, you will die.”

The next day she told him to go and hunt for deer. He went to the top of a high mountain, where there was snow. Tsákiak tracked a herd of deer and killed five.

Tsákiak went hunting every day for five days,—he started before it was light in the morning and came home in the evening. Each time he went Moasäm Beps told him not to take off his moccasins. The sixth morning, when he was ready to start, Moasäm Beps said: “Even if your feet are wet and cold, you mustn’t take off your moccasins; if you do you won’t come home; you will die on the mountain.”

Tsákiak tracked deer for a long time. The ground was wet and muddy. At last he went to the other side of the mountain, where the ground was dry; it looked nice. Tsákiak said: “This is a good place to walk, the ground is dry. I will take off these wet moccasins and walk around a little.”

He took off one moccasin. Snow began to fall and the wind to blow hard and cold. Tsákiak took off the other moccasin. “I don’t care for you any longer,” said he. “You are cold and wet.” He picked up both moccasins and threw them as far as he could. Right away the wind blew furiously. It turned awfully cold, so cold that Tsákiak couldn’t walk; his legs were stiff. Snow came down fast, like big basketfuls tipped over. Tsákiak couldn’t get air, couldn’t breathe; he died.

WEST WIND’S WIVES

CHARACTERS

Mówas Sléwis South Wind Tániäs Sléwis North Wind Tkálmas Sléwis West Wind

Tkálmas Sléwis and his younger brother lived together. Tkálmas had two wives, Mówas Sléwis and Tániäs Sléwis; Mówas had a little baby.

Mówas was mild and kind and pleasant. The weather was nice when she was at home, but Tániäs was always cross and stormy.

Mówas went to visit her father at Moasänik, and only Tániäs was left at Tkálmas’ house. Right away it grew cold in the house and there was snow and ice everywhere. Tkálmas’ brother sat all the time looking toward the south, and kept saying: “I wish my sister-in-law would come. We shall die if she doesn’t come soon; we shall freeze to death.”

At last he saw Mówas coming. When she was still a long way off the snow on the top of the house began to melt, and water dripped down through the smoke hole, but as fast as it fell it dried up.

Tkálmas’ brother said: “Oh my best sister-in-law, even if water freezes as hard as a rock, you can melt it. No matter how much ice there is, your soft breath thaws it. You are the kindest and the most useful woman in this world.”

Tkálmas heard what his brother said, but he didn’t care; he was glad that Mówas had come. The house was dry now and the sun was shining. Mówas gave them nice things to eat, things she had brought from Moasänik.

Tániäs was angry at her brother-in-law, and jealous of Mówas, so as soon as Mówas came home Tániäs took all of Tkálmas’ beautiful beads, white, and yellow, and every color, took the nice things she had brought when she came to marry him, and went back to her home in the north. But once each year she goes to her husband, and stays with him till Mówas comes home from Moasänik; then she gets angry and jealous and goes back to her home in the north.

THE STAR BROTHERS

CHARACTERS

Gäk Crow Gapni Louse Kaltsik Spider Kûlta Otter Skóla Meadow Lark Tekewas Tohós A Duck Tûtats Wámanik Bull Snake Yaukùl “One of the Stone People” Yahyáhaäs or Yá-hi-yas or Yáhyahiyáas, always represented as a one-legged man

On the south side of Lake Klamath lived five brothers. The eldest was married to Skóla. Four of the brothers were without wives. Tekewas, their sister, was married to Kûlta, and lived not far away. The brothers were bad men. The name of the youngest brother was Tûtats. When he was a child his sister was fond of him; then her mother made her forget him, but after a long time she remembered him again, and thought: “I wonder where Tûtats is. I used to nurse him; he was nice when he was a baby. I will go and find him.”

Tekewas got to her brothers’ house at midday. When she had been there a while they asked: “Why don’t you go home?”

“I am not going,” said the sister. “I have come to stay all night.”

They tried to drive her away, but she wouldn’t go. The next day, when Tekewas’ brothers told her to go home, she went to her mother, who was outside pounding seeds, and asked: “What have you done with Tûtats? Is he dead?”

“What do you care if he is?” said her mother. “You had better go home. The next time you come I will tell you about Tûtats.”

Tekewas went home then, for she was glad. As soon as she was out of sight the old woman took Tûtats from under the ground, where she kept him in a big bark basket, and his brothers carried him to the river and let him swim.

The eldest brother said to his mother: “I am the only person who knows what my sister thinks. She thinks bad; she will come again. You must make Tûtats dry and put him back.”

While swimming, Tûtats lost a hair out of his head. It was a beautiful, bright hair. The mother didn’t notice it; she wiped him quickly, rubbed him with deer fat, put him in the basket, and carried him back under the ground.

The next morning, when Skóla was starting off to dig roots, she saw something red on the ridge of the mountains. Her husband said: “That is Tekewas lying there; she means to kill us.” The brothers were so frightened that they wouldn’t go out of the house, but sat inside; they wouldn’t even look out. But Skóla watched.

When Tekewas came to the house, the eldest brother asked: “Why do you come so often? You were here yesterday.”

Tekewas stayed all day; while she was swimming in the river she found the long bright hair. She took it to her mother and asked: “Who is so beautiful as to have this kind of hair?”

“No matter,” said her mother. “Why do you come to trouble your brothers? You are Kûlta’s wife; you should stay with him.”

The next day Tekewas brought five pairs of nice moccasins, and told her mother to give them to her brothers, and tell one of them he must go home with her and get some of Kûlta’s beads. The eldest brother said: “I will go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” said Tekewas.

“Your second brother is ready to go,” said her mother.

“I don’t want him; he has enough of my beads.” One after another, the brothers got ready, but Tekewas refused each one. “No,” said she, “you have had enough of Kûlta’s beads. I want Tûtats to go with me.”

“Who is he?” asked her mother.

“You know that you can’t fool me. I have a young brother; I want him to go with me. It is getting late; where is he?” Every time Tekewas turned her body she talked to the sun, told it to go quick, so it would be dark soon.

Her brothers didn’t want her to stay all night, so they took the basket from under the ground, and got Tûtats ready to go. They let down his hair and combed it. It was blue and beautiful, and reached to his feet. He cried all the time they were combing it, for he didn’t want to go with his sister. When she started, he walked behind her, crying.

Tekewas talked to the sun, told it to go down, scolded it to make it hurry. The sun was scared and it went as though it were sliding down a slippery place. When they came to a clump of cedar trees, it was already dark. Tekewas stopped and said: “We will camp here.”

“It is too near,” said Tûtats; he was crying.

“It is too dark to follow the trail,” said Tekewas. She built a fire and gave Tûtats roots from her basket. After eating, he lay down on one side of the fire and she on the other; then she thought: “Let him go to sleep quick.” When he was asleep, she went over to lie by him.

He woke and got up; he was still crying. “Let her sleep till I get half-way to the sky,” said he to himself. He found a log, put it by his sister’s side, and told it to keep her asleep. Then he hurried home.

“What is the trouble?” asked his brothers. “Why did you come back?”

“I don’t like my sister. I left her asleep. When she wakes up she will come to kill us. We must get away from here.”

The brothers hired old man Kaltsik to help them. Kaltsik made a basket and put the five brothers into it; then he made a web, took the basket up into the air, let it down into the web, and started.

“Don’t look down till I tie you to the sky,” said the old man. “If you do, you will fall out and get killed.”

When Tekewas woke up, she ran back to the house and asked: “Where are my brothers?”

“I don’t know,” said the old woman.

“Yes, you do. Here is a trail going up to the sky!” Tekewas was so mad that she ran around the house so fast and so many times that she set it on fire.

Old man Kaltsik was half-way to the sky when he saw the blaze, and said: “Your house is burning!” The eldest brother forgot and looked down, over the edge of the basket. That minute the web broke, and the five brothers fell out, one after another.

The mother and daughter were fighting; each had a wooden paddle. When Tekewas saw her brothers falling, she said to her mother: “You mustn’t say: ‘Fall this side’; you must say: ‘fall in the middle.’”

“Fall this side! Fall this side!” cried the mother.

Tekewas knocked the paddle out of her hand into the fire. Four of the brothers fell into the fire. When sparks flew out, Tekewas pushed them back with her paddle. As often as her mother got her paddle out of the fire, Tekewas knocked it in again. The youngest brother fell last.

“This side! This side!” cried his mother.

Tekewas jumped on her and fought with her. Tûtats swayed back and forth, back and forth, and fell outside the fire, but his sister pushed him into it, and he was burned up.

His mother ran to the south side of the fire, his sister to the north side. The old woman knocked Tûtats’ heart out of the fire, for she was on the right side. She said to the heart: “We shall see who will live, you or your sister. You will be a great mountain with a white top, and will live always. In later times people will come to you to get wisdom, to be great talkers, and brave warriors, and you will talk to them and help them.”

The heart flew north and became Mount Shasta; then the mother stirred the fire till four hearts flew out and off toward the north. Each heart became a mountain. The heart of the eldest brother went as far as the ocean. But the youngest brother is the largest of the five, and he is the only one who always has snow on his head.

Tekewas, when she thought she had killed her brothers, went home to Kûlta; then the old woman remembered Skóla, and hunted for her. At last she found her; she was dead, but by her side were two babies. The grandmother pressed them together with her hands, and they became one. She was glad and called the child Wéahjukéwas. She made a hole in the ground and hid him.

That night the old woman took the baby out and rubbed him with ashes. In the morning he noticed things. Each night she rubbed him with ashes; each morning he was larger and stronger. She talked to the earth, to the mountains, and to the springs, and asked them to make her grandson strong and make him grow fast.

One morning the grandmother saw Tekewas lying on the ridge of a hill; she was red and beautiful. The old woman was frightened; she thought Tekewas had seen the little boy.

Tekewas came to the grass house and asked for seeds and roots. The grandmother had forgotten the boy’s deerskin blanket; she had left it in the house when she put him under the ground as she always did in the daytime. Tekewas saw the blanket, and said: “You have a baby! Whose is it?”

The old woman said: “My daughter, you shouldn’t talk so to me. I am old; I had children, but now I am alone; you have killed all my sons. Go away! You know where the seeds and roots are; take them and go off.”

Tekewas got the seeds and started, but she came back and said: “I know whose baby it is. It is Skóla’s, and you must give it to me.”

“Skóla is dead,” said the old woman; “she had no children.” She drove Tekewas away and followed her to see that she didn’t stop on the mountain to watch the house. She was sorry that Tekewas had seen the blanket. When she came back, she rubbed the boy and talked to the earth, to the mountains, to the trees, to everything for a long time; then she put him away under the ground.

Each night and morning the old woman rubbed the little boy with deer’s fat, and soon he was large enough to run around and play. Then she said to him: “My grandson, you mustn’t show yourself; you must always play in the tall grass; never go away from it!”

Tekewas came every day; sometimes she wanted to stay, but her mother drove her off. When the boy was large enough to trap birds, his grandmother said: “Stay near the house; don’t go far, for if you do, you will get killed.” One evening she asked: “What have you been doing all day?”

“Playing with birds,” said the boy. “They can talk to me now.”

“The best way to play is with a bow and arrows. You can shoot an arrow toward the sky, then watch and see where it falls.”

One day the boy noticed that his shadow was two, and he was one. The next morning, when he went out to play, he shot an arrow up to the sky; then he held his head down and listened. The arrow came back, hit him on the top of the head and split off one half of him; there was another boy just like him. He wished the second boy to be small, to be a baby. He called the baby by his own name. He went to a clump of brush, scratched a place in the middle of it, put his blanket down there, put the baby on it, and said: “Don’t cry; if you do, our aunt will come and eat us up.”

For a long time he sat and talked with his little brother, then he went home. It was night and his grandmother was frightened; she thought that Tekewas had killed the boy.

“Why did you stay so long?” asked she.

“I lost my blanket. I put it down in the brush and then couldn’t find it.”

The next morning his grandmother gave him a wildcat skin blanket, and he went out to play; but he didn’t play, he sat by his little brother and cried, he was so sorry for him. When it was dark, he covered the child with brush and went home. “What is the matter?” asked his grandmother. “Why have you been crying?”

“I shot at a bird and then couldn’t find my arrow.”

“I can make you as many arrows as you want; don’t cry,” said his grandmother.

The next morning, when he was starting out, the boy said: “I must take a few seeds with me; I get hungry.”

She gave him seeds, tied them up in a squirrel skin and said: “Be careful this time, don’t lose your blanket or arrows.”

When he came home in the evening, he said: “Grandmother, you must pound seeds for me to carry to-morrow. I don’t like whole seeds, and I can’t eat the roots in my arms, I bite myself.”

The next day he took pounded seeds to his little brother, fed him, petted him, and talked to him till night, then he wrapped his wildcat skin blanket twice around the child, took his old blanket, and went home.

“Where is your new blanket?” asked his grandmother.

“I found my old one. I like it better. I left the new one in the brush.”

When four days old, the little boy could walk. The fifth day the elder boy cried all the time; he was wondering who had killed his father and mother. His grandmother had never told him; she only frightened him to make him careful. His little brother could play with him now.

That night his grandmother asked: “What ails you? Why do you cry?”

“Because I have nobody to play with.”

“You are a lonely child, but you mustn’t think of that,” said his grandmother, and she began to cry.

“To-morrow will you fill my sack full of pounded seeds?” asked the boy.

“You can’t eat all I give you; you must waste it,” said his grandmother, “but you shall have all you want.”

The little boy could eat a great deal; he ate the pounded seed his brother brought and that afternoon he cried for more. The elder boy made five straw rings to shoot at and roll around to amuse the little fellow. The next day, when the child began to cry for more seeds his brother went home, and said: “Grandmother, you must give me more pounded seeds. I shot my arrow up, and when it was coming down to hit me on the head, I ran away and it hit my sack and spilt all the seeds.”

“You must be more careful,” said his grandmother.

“You told me you would give me all I wanted to eat.”

“Yes, but you must not waste things.”

She filled a willow pan, and told him to go away before any one saw him.

When night came, the boy gave his brother his bow and arrows, covered him with grass, and went home, crying.

“What is the matter?” asked his grandmother.

“I have lost my bow and arrow. I dropped them to follow a bird and kill it with a stone; when I came back I couldn’t find them.”

“Don’t cry,” said his grandmother. “I will make you another bow and more arrows. You shall have everything you want.”

“I threw away my moccasins to-day; I want a new pair,” said the boy.

The next morning he had a nice pair of new moccasins. The two boys played all day, rolling straw rings and shooting at them with arrows.

That night the old woman looked at her grandson and said: “You have only one head; where is the other?”

“I didn’t have two heads,” said the boy, and he began to cry.

“You had two heads.”

“I had only one.”

“You have always had two; now you have one. Where is the other?” At last he told her about his brother. “After it is dark,” said she, “go and bring your brother to the house.”