Part 27

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?”