Part 9

He brought the little boy on his back. The old woman cried when she saw him; she rubbed him with ashes, and talked to the earth and mountains, asking them not to hurt him. In the morning she put both of the children in the hole where the first child had been and threw a straw mat over the hole.

That day Tekewas came for roots. She saw the mat and asked: “Why did you throw away that nice mat?”

“Go off!” cried her mother. “Don’t torment me. You have killed your brothers. My spirit is old; you can kill me if you want to, but don’t torment me. Go away and let me alone!” She drove her off.

The next morning Tekewas went early to look for tracks. She found the place where the boys had rolled straw rings and saw that some of the tracks were very small. She followed the larger tracks till she came to her mother’s house. “You didn’t tell me the truth!” cried she. “There are children here! Every afternoon I hear little boys laughing.”

The old woman scolded her, drove her off, watched her till she was out of sight; then she took the boys out of the hole and told them to go and play, but not to run around; if they did a bad woman would catch them.

That day the boys followed a white-necked duck. They tried to shoot it but couldn’t. At night the elder boy said: “Grandmother, you must give me an arrow with a strong head; then I can kill ducks.”

She gave him one and all the next day he followed the duck; at last he hit it. The bird screamed like a man and hid in the bushes. Ever since that time ducks like that one scream in the same way. When the boy found the bird, it said: “Don’t kill me. I always bring good news. Take this arrow out and I will talk to you.”

The boy pulled out the arrow, then the bird said: “Little boys, don’t think that you have a father and a mother. Your aunt killed them. She loved her youngest brother, but he didn’t love her, so she killed him and all of her brothers. Now she is trying to kill you. I hear her sing in her heart: ‘I will kill my nephews, I will kill my nephews!’ When you are large enough to shoot ducks from a canoe, you can kill her if you try. She swims in the lake in the form of a duck; when she is in the form of a woman she has long red hair. She will call you as though she loved you, but you must remember my words. Don’t tell your grandmother that you know about your aunt; she wouldn’t let you kill her. She could have saved your father if she had killed her daughter.”

“Grandmother,” asked the boy that night, “is there any place around here where there are green-headed ducks?”

“Yes, but you can’t kill them; you are too small.”

The boy went to the lake, sat in the reeds, and watched till he saw two green-headed ducks and killed them. The next day he killed five green-headed ducks. The old woman was frightened. She didn’t dare to let a feather drop or fly away for fear Tekewas would see it. She burned each feather and roasted the ducks in hot ashes.

“When I kill a duck, I shiver, and am cold,” said the boy.

“Why is that?” asked the grandmother.

“Because I want a canoe.”

“To-morrow, when you go to the lake, you will find a canoe.”

He was glad. “I will take my brother,” said he.

“No,” said the grandmother, “he is too small; he might fall into the water and you couldn’t get him out.”

The boy started off alone, then he thought: “My arrows are not strong enough to kill big birds.” He ran back and his grandmother gave him five strong arrows and a straw mat to wrap them in. That day he killed many ducks, and his grandmother was glad.

The next morning he said: “When I am in the reeds at the edge of the water, I always feel that somebody is looking at me to scare me.”

“Don’t be afraid,” said his grandmother; “maybe the earth is trying to get hold of you.” She thought of Tekewas, but she didn’t want to tell the boys about her.

“No,” said he. “I feel that somebody is looking at me. I want my brother to go with me.”

“He can go, but be careful; don’t let him fall into the water.”

All day the little boy slept in the canoe; when the sun went down, his brother cooked him a duck to eat, and then the two went home.

That lake was their aunt’s swimming-place. One day when the boy had killed a good many ducks, and had gone to the shore to cook one for his brother, he saw something swimming in the water; only a head could be seen,—a great, ugly head, with long red hair floating around it. As soon as the boys saw the head, they made themselves small. The little boy screamed. The woman called to them and tried to go to them, but she could only come up out of the water as far as her waist. “I shall see you another day,” screamed she. “I will wait till you are larger.”

When the boys got home, the grandmother asked: “Why did you scream so loud?”

“My brother swallowed a duck bone,” said the elder boy. “You must cook seeds for him to eat.”

Every day the brothers went for ducks. Many times the aunt floated up to their canoe, put her breast against the side of it, and almost tipped it over. Each time the little boy screamed. The elder boy drove her away. He was angry, but he was waiting for his brother to get older and stronger. Sometimes the woman didn’t come; she was with Kûlta, who lived in the lake near the place where the boys hunted for ducks.

The grandmother gave the older boy a knife to sharpen his arrows. “I want a stronger one.” said he. She gave him another, a very strong, sharp knife. That day Tekewas put her breast to the canoe and almost tipped it over. The little boy screamed, he was so scared.

When they went home, the grandmother asked: “Why did your brother scream so loud?”

“He cut his finger.”

“That is because I gave you a sharp knife. You shouldn’t let him have it.”

The next day they killed a good many ducks. When the aunt came toward them the boy said to his little brother: “Don’t scream.” But when the head looked up over the edge of the canoe the child couldn’t help screaming.

“Why does he always scream?” asked the grandmother. “You must be careful when you are down by the water.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the earth sometimes has a pain, and wants people.”

“Don’t be afraid, grandmother, we belong to the earth; it won’t hurt us.”

One day when the grandmother asked why the little boy screamed, his brother said: “He got choked with a bone. I got it out, but he was almost dead, and I cried.”

“You must leave him at home.”

“No, the water looks ugly. I’m afraid when I’m alone.”

The next time Tekewas came to the canoe and tried to tip it over, the boy cut her head off with his sharp knife. He threw the head down in the end of the canoe, then dragged the body into a deep hole among the rocks in the water. The water around that place is Tekewas’ blood, and to this day it is as black as ink. As they pushed the body down into the hole, the elder boy said to it: “You will never be great again. You will be small and weak, and people will say you are too nasty to eat.” The spirit came out of the body and flew around the lake, an ugly bird.

The brothers shot ducks and piled them up on the head in the end of the canoe. When they got home, the elder boy said: “Grandmother, give us plenty of seeds and roots to eat.” While they were eating, the old woman began to bring in the ducks. Each time she went for a load, the elder brother talked to the fire, to the water, to the wood, to the bows and arrows, talked to the pounder, to the basket, and to the digging sticks, talked to everything in the house and everything outside, told them not to tell where he and his brother went,—but he forgot to tell awl. When he thought he had told everything, he took his brother and went down in the ground near the fire. He put a coal over the hole and started toward the east.

Each time the old woman brought in a basketful of ducks, she asked: “Are you here, boys?” and the spirit in the wood and the fire answered: “We are here.”

She found blood in the canoe, and wondered where it came from. When she got hold of the head, she screamed and ran to the house. She pulled her clothes off and was going to kill her grandsons. “Where are you?” cried she.

“We are in the corner.”

She went there, but didn’t find them. Then she called again: “Where are you?”

“We are on the top of the house.”

She looked for them there, then called: “Where are you?”

“We are in the grass of the house.” The house was made of twigs and grass.

Then they said they were among the wood. She pulled the logs apart and threw them out, but she didn’t find the boys. “We are in the canoe.” She went there, and when she failed to find them, she screamed: “Where are you?”

“We are where your roots are.”

She scattered the roots.

“We are sitting in the fire.”

She threw out the wood and coals. She hunted all night but couldn’t find them.

At last awl said: “What are you going to do, old woman? The boys are not to blame. Your daughter was a bad woman; she killed her brothers, and then she wanted to kill her nephews. Your grandsons are a long way off; you can’t catch them. Look at that little coal. Under it is the hole where they went down in the ground.”

The old woman saw the coal, picked it up, found the hole, and started to follow her grandsons.

The boys traveled toward where the sun comes up. They wanted to be servants of Sun, to be of use to him. The first house they came to was on the south side of Tula Lake; Tohós, Wámanik’s wife, lived there; she was their aunt.

Tohós had a great red lump on her forehead. The little boy laughed at her, and said: “That looks like a boil. It don’t look well. I don’t like to see it. People who come hereafter may look as you do.” He took his fire-drill and pressed the swelling downwards. From that time fowls and beasts do not carry their young in their foreheads.

“Oh, my nephew,” said his aunt, “what have you done? Your uncle is a bad man; he will be mad and maybe he will kill you.”

Wámanik was off hunting; when his bowstring broke he knew what had happened at home. He let himself out full length, then made a circle around the world and began to press in trees, rocks, mountains, everything. When he began to press his own house, the elder nephew went on the top of it, lay down, drew his bowstring, snapped it, and sent an arrow into Wámanik’s head and killed him. Then he cut his body into small pieces. Each piece turned to a rock, and the rocks made a great mountain. The spirit of Wámanik came out and was a snake. The nephew said: “You will be of no use; only dirty people will eat you.”

When the boys started toward the east, Tohós’ spirit followed them a while, then said: “My nephews, tell me where you are going and when you are coming back.”

“We are not coming back,” said the boys. “It is a lonesome world. We have no father or mother; our aunt has killed them. We don’t want to live here any longer. We shall never come back; we are going to where the sun comes up.” And they went on.

“I am dry,” said the little boy; “I want to drink.”

“I don’t know this country,” answered the elder boy. “I don’t know where the springs are.” As they traveled they came to a place where water flowed out of two holes in a rock. They drank there and the elder brother named the place Gádûm (Stone Springs). While they were drinking a little snake ran into the spring. The younger boy laughed and said to the snake: “In later time, if strangers come here to drink, you and your people will show yourselves and scare them.”

They started on, but hadn’t gone far when the little boy wanted water to drink. The elder boy shot his arrow off toward the east, but he saw no water. He shot a second arrow and a third; then he shot through a mountain and into a lake, and water came through the mountain and made a spring that he called Ktsiskăsalkis. (People have to crawl in under the rocks to drink from it.)

They crossed a high mountain and came to a lake. “I am hungry,” said the little boy.

“Sit down, and I will go into the water and get tuls [9] for you,” said his brother.

While they were eating the grass, they saw a catfish. When the elder brother shot at it, a great many fish came up out of the water. He caught some and cooked them. The place where the boys sat while eating is called Eŭdélis, and to this day a great many catfish are caught in the river near there.

As the boys traveled on, they came to a muddy stream. The elder brother scratched the mud away, multiplied the fish that were there, and said: “You will be of use for my people.” There were a good many eels in the water and along the bank, and the little boy was afraid of them. He took his fire-drill, picked them up, one by one, threw them off into the lake, and said: “You are not living people. I don’t want you to be around here. In later times people will roast and eat you, and say you are good.”

Near their camping-place that night there were a great many round, smooth stones. The younger brother didn’t know that those stones were people, so he played with them, broke some of them, and struck one against another. When it grew dark, the stones began to fight; they flew at one another, pounded one another, and made a terrible clatter. The boy was frightened; he struck at them with his fire-drill, and said: “Hereafter you will be stones, not people! You will stay in the water, but in the evening and early in the morning you will make just such a noise as you have made to-night.” To this day the noise made by those stones can be heard evening and morning. The place is called Dănwagáiyas.

As the brothers traveled east, they came to a place where there were large rocks. “I’m hungry,” said the little boy. His brother scolded him for being always hungry, but said: “We will sit down by the rocks; perhaps we’ll see a squirrel.”

After a while a squirrel, on its way to the flat, passed them; they killed and roasted it, ate half of it, and took half with them. They came to a place on the top of smooth, level rocks, where at night there was a lake, and in the daytime only a little muddy water. There they caught one large fish. The little boy wanted to catch more, but his brother said: “No, this world was made before we came. Those fish were made for some purpose; we must leave them here.”

They went on till they came to a hill. There were no trees on the hill, but it was covered with grass, and from the top of the hill they could see a long distance.

“Let us stay here,” said the little boy. “Let us have this hill for our home.”

“No,” said his brother, “this is a lonely world; I don’t want to stay. We will go where we can be of use; we will go to where the sun comes up.”

Then they talked about which one they would rather serve, Sun or Moon. The elder brother said: “I would rather serve Sun.” The younger said: “I would like to serve Moon, for then people can’t see me.”

“People will always look at us,” said his brother. “They will watch for us, and be glad when they see us.”

Soon the boys came to a wide plain at the foot of a mountain. They dug roots, cleaned, and ate them, then climbed the mountain. “This mountain,” said the elder boy, “is brother to Salwáhe. Hereafter people will come to this place for rock to make knives of.”

“Let us stay here,” said the little boy.

“No,” said his brother. “I know what it is best to do; I am older than you are. This world isn’t for us to live in always.”

That night they camped at a place which the elder brother named Wélosina. The next morning they climbed a hill, and looking down into the valley on the other side, saw a great dirt house.

“When shall we get to that house?” asked the little boy.

“It isn’t safe to go there in the daytime,” said his brother. “Old Yaukùl, the man who lives there, kills people by twisting their wrists; he has a knife stuck in the ground near the fire, and after he kills a man he cuts him up and burns the pieces. No one ever comes away from his house. We will go there in the night.”

“Don’t go to that bad place,” said the little boy.

“If I go, maybe I can kill that man; I don’t think he has the power to live always.”

The elder brother gathered the strongest wood he could find and made bones of it. He put the bones into his brother’s wrists and into his own, and outside of those he put bones made of brittle wood. When night came, they went to the valley and climbed to the top of the house. Then they turned themselves into dead coals and dropped through the smoke hole.

Yaukùl had two servants, Gäk and Gapni. The old man and Gäk were asleep, but Gapni was awake and he called out: “Something fell in! Something fell in!” They didn’t hear him; they were sound asleep: he had to call to them a good many times. Even if dust fell, Gapni heard it and called out: “Something fell in.” At last they woke up. “What can you see with your little eyes?” asked Gäk.

“I can see everything in the world, and I can count everything.” Gäk hated Gapni.

Yaukùl got a torch and looked around the fire. Gäk wouldn’t look, for he didn’t believe that anything fell in. Gapni kept repeating: “Dwûhélibina!” (Something fell in).

“I can look through the world,” said Gäk; “I know that nothing fell in.”

“I know for myself that something came in,” said Yaukùl. He lighted the fire and hunted. At last the old man was tired; he put his hands on his knife, leaned on it, and rested. Then the elder brother changed into a man and stood in front of him.

“Oh, I am glad you have come!” said Yaukùl. (He thought he would have something to eat.) “Gäk,” said he, “I knew that Gapni didn’t lie; he never lies, he always tells the truth. He can see farther and hear better than you can; he shall be chief.”

Gäk was ashamed and mad.

The younger brother then stood up. “I am glad that you have come,” said Yaukùl. “Gapni was right; he said there were two. What do you want?”

“We came to visit you.”

“Then I will play with you.”

“I am too small to play with such a big man as you are,” said the little boy. Yaukùl took hold of his wrists. When the brittle bones cracked, he was glad. “I can kill him easy,” thought he.

“You can’t play with him first,” said the elder brother, “you must play with me; I am older than he is.”

When Yaukùl took hold of the elder boy’s wrists, the bones cracked, and he was glad.

“Now it is my turn,” said the boy. He caught hold of Yaukùl’s wrists, broke them, and killed him. Then he tore out the old man’s arms, and said: “You will no longer be a person and have arms; you will be a bird with legs, and you will stand by the water to watch which way the wind blows, so as to find dead fish to eat. You, Gäk, will no longer be a man; you will fly in the air and go around among the rocks to watch for what hunters throw away, and what you find you will eat.” Then he said to Gapni: “You will no longer be the wisest man in the world; you will live in people’s heads. Some will crack you, like this”—he took him in his fingers and cracked him—“others will put you in the fire, and others will catch you in their heads and will bite you to pay you for biting them. You will waken people at night, and they will catch and kill you.” He burned up the dirt house, and said: “Hereafter, Yaukùl, you will have no home, you will live everywhere in the world.”

Tohós, their aunt, had told them that after passing Yaukùl’s house, they would be out of their own country and must go along at the foot of mountains, for on the mountains a one-legged man was always walking around. But they were traveling east and couldn’t go around the mountains. On the first one they came to, they met the one-legged man, Yahyáhaäs. He had a great, bushy head, his face and body were painted red, his blanket was made of untanned elk-skin, and rattled as he walked. On his back he carried a straw quiver. He had only one leg, but he traveled very fast. He came up to the boys, and sitting down said: “I didn’t think that I should meet anybody.”

“I didn’t expect to see you,” said the elder boy, “but a little while ago I felt that somebody was looking at me.”

“Why don’t you light your pipe?” asked Yahyáhaäs. (This was always his question.)

“I have no pipe,” said the younger boy.

“Everybody who travels should have a pipe,” said the man. He lighted his own and handed it to the elder brother. The first whiff the boy drew the pipe broke.

“Why did you bite my pipe and break it?” asked Yahyáhaäs.

“I didn’t break it; I drew a whiff, and the pipe fell apart.”

“You are the first man to break my pipe. Let me take your pipe.” When he had it, he said: “I will keep this to pay for mine.”

“No,” said the boy, “that pipe rests me when I am tired; you can’t have it.”

“I shall keep it to pay for mine,” said Yahyáhaäs. He drew a whiff, handed the pipe back, and said: “Put in more tobacco.” When he had the pipe again, he struck it against a rock, but it didn’t break; then he took a rock and pounded it.

“Don’t break my pipe,” said the boy. “I didn’t mean to break yours.”

Yahyáhaäs threw the pipe against a great rock, and the pipe rolled to its owner. He picked it up, put it in his pouch, and put the pouch into his quiver.

The one-legged man built a fire. “Now we will wrestle,” said he.

“Why did you build the fire?” asked the boy.

“The one that gets beaten will be thrown into the fire and burned up.”

While Yahyáhaäs was fastening his leg to a rock, the elder boy said to his little brother: “Take our quivers and bows and stand on the north side of the fire with your back toward us. When we begin to wrestle, run as fast as you can and don’t look back, no matter who calls to you. Run till you are on the other side of that high mountain over there and then wait for me. I shall kill this man and burn up his body, but his spirit will follow us as far as we go.”

The two began to wrestle. A good many times Yahyáhaäs swung the boy around and almost killed him, but the boy clung to him, and at last bent him back with a twist and broke his leg off. He threw the leg and the body into the fire, poked the fire up around them, and ran off as fast as he could toward the mountain, where he had told his brother to wait for him.

“Come back and wrestle with me,” called Yahyáhaäs’ spirit. “You haven’t thrown me. Come back!” Then he called to the younger brother: “Come back, little boy; I have thrown your big brother into the fire.” The boy didn’t turn. His brother soon overtook him, and they went on together.

“Yahyáhaäs’ spirit will follow as far as we go,” said the elder brother.

They traveled a good many days; one day Yahyáhaäs’ spirit went ahead, then turned and came toward them. The spirit looked exactly as Yahyáhaäs had looked. Yahyáhaäs had a deer on his back. The boys couldn’t turn, for they were always going east.

The spirit stopped on the trail, took the deer off his back and built a fire. When the boys came to the place, they sat down. Yahyáhaäs didn’t offer them meat, but he said: “Let us smoke,” and he gave his pipe to the elder brother. With the first whiff, the pipe broke. “Let me smoke your pipe,” said Yahyáhaäs. When he couldn’t break the pipe by drawing on it, he tried in every other way. At last the boy said: “You sha’n’t break my pipe; it is the only one I have.” He snatched it away from Yahyáhaäs, put it in his pouch, and started to go.

“Stop and wrestle with me,” said the spirit. “Did you meet a man who lives straight west on this road? He is a bad man; he kills every man that passes his house.”

The boy didn’t listen; he hurried on. The spirit pretended to turn back, but only went aside till they were out of sight, then followed them.

They traveled a good many days. The little boy was used to walking now; he didn’t get tired or hungry, so they traveled day and night. One day, when they were near a river, they saw the spirit of Yahyáhaäs again.

He stopped them, and asked: “Have you a pipe?”

“No,” said the boy.

“Every man has one when he travels,” said the spirit.

“I have no time to smoke. I am looking for a place to cross this river. Do you know of one?” asked the boy.