Chapter VIII: Part 8

"Oh, you are not angry," said Norwanchakus. "Play with him a little longer. You want to know everything, to see everything, to have everything. You ought to find out what he means; he has some reason for doing as he does."

Next morning Keriha went to Hubit. "Will you tell me what you are going to do? Unless you tell me I will kill you. When I throw you up, I will kill you unless you fly."

He threw up the salmon. Hubit moved his wings and flew along a little above the ground, then settled down.

"Oh, he is going now, he is going! I'm so glad," cried Keriha; and he threw the salmon a second time.

Hubit opened his wings and flew around Keriha, flew around the tree.

"Go, go!" cried Keriha, clapping his hands.

Hubit shot away toward the north, near the ground, and Keriha ran with all speed, but Hubit went far ahead; then he flew a little toward the west, turned, and darted off directly northward.

Keriha did not lose sight of him, but rose in the air and flew north, going parallel with Hubit and going faster. He was at the sky first. A moment later Hubit came.

"I am here before you!" cried out Keriha. "You cannot go out here!"

Hubit flew around a while and shot back to Bohem Tehil. Keriha was just behind him.

"Hubit, you are so slow," called out Keriha. "I want to go fast, I like to see you go fast."

Hubit flew around the tree a little, then darted to the south. Keriha went a little to one side, was at the south before him, clapping his hands.

"No escape on this side, Hubit; I am here before you."

Hubit turned to Bohem Tehil. From the tree he rushed east to where the sky comes down. Keriha was there before him. He rushed to the west, to where the sky comes down. Keriha was there before his face, barring the way. Hubit had been at all four points,--no escape at any of them; still he wouldn't drop the salmon. He turned a fifth time to Bohem Tehil with Keriha behind him. He flew around the tree a few times, then rose straight in the air, carrying the salmon. He rose quickly, went very high. Keriha stood looking at Hubit, watched him growing smaller and smaller. Keriha shaded his eyes.

Hubit was nearly out of sight. Keriha could barely see him with the salmon and the tuft, a little spot in the sky. He looked very hard, strained his eyes till blood was running down both his cheeks; still he kept looking.

Hubit thought he was out of sight now, and soon Keriha saw him turn to the west and come down. When he was above Bohem Buli, he dropped straight to it on the north side and went in.

"I'm glad, I'm glad. Oh, I'm so glad!" cried out Keriha, clapping his hands. "I know now where Hubit's house is. Get ready quickly, my brother, we will go and see Hubit. Oh, you are so slow, my brother, I can't wait for you. Come when you can; I'll go on alone."

Keriha hurried to Bohem Buli. Norwanchakus followed, and saw Keriha doing strange things; didn't know what he was doing; wondered at him. He was dodging from side to side, lying down and springing up again. Norwanchakus went toward him.

"What are you doing?" cried he. "What is the matter!"

"Don't come so near," called Keriha. "Stop, stop!"

When Hubit dropped down to his house in Bohem Buli, he began that minute to make it bigger. He was hurling out immense rocks, and Keriha was dodging them. They came quickly one after another (there are many of those rocks now all around Bohem Buli, at Puitiel Ton, at Waikidi Pom, and on the west beyond Tayam Norel). After the rocks Hubit hurled out great showers of earth; then he stopped.

"How shall I get at that Hubit?" asked Keriha of his brother.

"Go south to a level valley where sakkus grows. Get the tops of that plant."

Keriha brought plenty of sakkus tops quickly.

"Go now to Halat Pom, in the east, and bring the longest vines possible."

Keriha brought ten very long vines and made a rope of them, and tied it around a great bundle of sakkus tops, to which he set fire, and then lowered the bundle. He stopped the door with grass and sticks. Soon there was a great rumbling, struggling, and roaring in Hubit's house. After a while it stopped and all was still.

"Now, my brother," said Keriha, "Hubit is dead, and I am going to have his honeycombs."

He took a large sharp stone, drew a great circle around the entrance to Hubit's house, and said: "You, Hubit's honeycomb, be as large as this circle is. Now, my brother," said he, "you can go to Bohem Tehil. I will come soon."

Norwanchakus went home. Keriha began to dig, found many combs, dug till night, stayed all night in Hubit's house--stayed there digging honey and eating, for twenty-five days.

Norwanchakus waited at home for his brother, waited that evening till midnight, waited till morning, saw no sign of Keriha. He waited the next day; then two, three, five days; then twenty days more.

"Well," said Norwanchakus, "I can do nothing. Perhaps he is dead, perhaps he is working yet."

On the twenty-sixth night after Hubit's death, some one came into the house. Norwanchakus looked up. It was Keriha.

After that the two brothers went to Puri Buli. At the foot of the mountain they saw some one half sitting, half lying, and looking at them. When they came nearer, it went into an opening.

"My brother," said Keriha, "I want that."

"Nothing can pass you," said the elder brother. "You want everything. You would better let this go."

Keriha paid no heed to Norwanchakus: he split the earth with his little finger and killed the stranger, a Supchit. He skinned the body and said, "I think that this skin will be warm; I will sleep on it."

"My brother," said Norwanchakus, "you are the only person who has ever killed a Supchit--you may be sorry."

Next morning a terrible snow came. It snowed five days and nights; everything was buried under snow. Keriha and Norwanchakus lay twenty-one days under the snow without food. On the twenty-first night, the Supchit woman whom Keriha had killed came and stole him away.

Next morning Norwanchakus looked outside. Keriha was gone; the snow was gone. He looked for tracks, looked all day, found no tracks. He searched five days, ten, twenty days--searched all the mountains, went down the rivers, up the rivers, north, south, east, west. He searched one year, found neither track nor trail; searched ten years, then ten years more; inquired of every one in all the world--no one knew of Keriha.

At last he went back to the house where Keriha had been lost to see if there was track or trail there. Behind Keriha's sleeping-place he saw a large stone. He raised it, found an opening and a passage sloping northward, saw tracks made when the Supchit woman took Keriha away. He went into the passage, followed the trail till he came to the top of Bohem Puyuk. He came out on the top, went in again and followed a trail going south; followed it, winding west and east, till he came out at Waikidi Pom. There he saw tracks on the ground, lost them, found them again, found them going under the ground, travelled under the ground, came out, lost and found tracks till he lost them for good.

He inquired in the west for five years without finding trail or tidings of Keriha. At last he said,--

"I have asked every one in this world, except my two cousins Lasaswa at Lasan Holok."

He turned east, then, and went to Lasan Holok, near Pas Puisono, where he found a big house with a door on the south side. One old man was sitting on the east, and another on the west side of the door. The house was full of people. The two old men were rubbing their thighs and rolling something. All the people inside were doing the same, all were making ropes.

Five years before these old men had heard that Norwanchakus had lost his brother. All people had been telling one another that Norwanchakus was looking for Keriha. As soon as the old men heard of this, they began to make ropes.

Norwanchakus stood in the door, and raised one foot to walk in.

"Don't step this way; step east," said the old man on the west.

"Don't step this way; step west," said the old man on the east.

"I'll go straight ahead," thought Norwanchakus.

"Don't come this way! Don't come this way!" cried all those in front.

One small boy was sitting behind all the others. As shreds of fibre dropped from the hands of those in front, he picked them up and twisted them into a rope.

"I suppose you have been travelling a long time, my grandson," said the old man on the west side of the door.

"I have travelled a very long time, and have come at last to talk with you. I have asked all who live on this earth about my brother, and no one can tell me where Keriha is."

"We heard about your brother five years ago," said the old men, "and we told our sons to make ropes because you had lost Keriha."

"How much rope have you made?"

"We can tell to-morrow."

Next morning they cleared a broad space in front of the house. While they were doing this, Norwanchakus said to the rope-makers,--

"I wish you would send for Tsiwihl, an old man near by here."

They brought him quickly. After Tsiwihl came, Norwanchakus said,--

"I want some of you young men to try to go up and ask Sas if he knows where my brother is. I think Sas must know."

"I will try first," said the old man at the western side of the door; "I think that I have the longest rope."

"I will give you something for Sas," said Norwanchakus. "Here is an arrow-straightener, a headband of silver gray-fox skin, and a fire-drill. If you go to the top of the sky, you will see a road from east to west. Sit at the south side of it under a tobacco tree which is there. Soon Sas will come from the east, going west. He will stop at the tree. Give him the three things."

The old man brought out a great coil of rope to unwind and go up with it.

"Who is to stand and watch?" asked the other old man.

"Tsiwihl," said Norwanchakus.

Tsiwihl put oak leaves near the coil, lay on them, and looked up. Old Lasaswa took one end of his rope, pulled it, and started. The rope was unwinding, and he was going up. Tsiwihl kept his eyes on Lasaswa. After a while he said, "Lasaswa is half-way up." A little later he said, "He is more than half-way up!"

"But the rope is gone," said Norwanchakus.

"Lasaswa is coming down," said Tsiwihl.

The old man came to the ground. "My rope is too short. Some one else must try now," said he.

"I will try," said the other old man. This one had more rope. Five men had to help him roll it out of the house, there was so much. He took the presents for Sas and began to go up.

Tsiwihl watched closely. The rope was unwinding and Lasaswa was going up. "He is half-way up!" said Tsiwihl; "he is near where the first man was." Tsiwihl moved his head a little, but never lost sight of Lasaswa. "He is as high as the other was; he is higher; he is going still higher!"

"But the rope has given out," said Norwanchakus.

"He is coming down!" cried Tsiwihl.

All were looking at the sky except the small boy, who was inside making rope as before.

"We are old," said the second Lasaswa; "our ropes are too short. You young men must try to-morrow."

Each old man had nine sons. Each person was one day making the trial--all were twenty days trying--no one had a rope long enough. "What shall we do now?" asked the old men on the twenty-first day.

"There is a boy in the house making rope yet; let him try," said Norwanchakus.

"Oh, he is only playing. He hasn't much rope; he just makes ropes of the shreds that others throw away," said one of the old men.

"Go in and ask him," said the second old man.

Norwanchakus went in and said, "You are a small boy, but will you try your rope for me?" and he took hold of the boy's hand. He kept his rope in a little basket. When Norwanchakus took his hand, he seized the basket with the other hand and carried it out.

"Why do they bring out that little boy?" cried the young men. "He hasn't any rope. We had long ropes, and all were too short; his rope is only to play with."

"My cousin," said Norwanchakus, "you are small, but I think you know something. Here are three presents. When you reach the sky, give them to Sas." Then he told him what to do.

When Norwanchakus had finished, the boy bowed his head and said "Yes" to him. "You men have long ropes, but they were too short. My rope may not reach the sky, but I will try;" and he started.

Tsiwihl's breast and stomach were as blue now as the sky, and blood was trickling from his eyes, he had looked so long and so hard. After the boy was some distance up, those below could not see him, and they said to Tsiwihl, "Tell us, tell us often what he is doing."

After a while Tsiwihl said: "He is almost as high as the others were. He is as high; he is as high as the highest was."

They looked at his rope. There seemed to be more than when he started. It seemed to grow all the time.

"He is higher than any--he is going and going."

"Do not lose sight of him," said Norwanchakus.

Tsiwihl's eyes were full of blood.

"How much rope is there?" asked Norwanchakus.

"Oh, there is plenty of rope," cried the others.

"He is going and going," said Tsiwihl.

"How far up is he? Can you see him?"

"He is high, very high, almost as high as I can see--he is nearly at the sky."

"He will go to it, he will go to it!" cried some.

"He is at the sky," said Tsiwihl. "He is there, he is there! He has his hand on it--he is on the top of it--he is there!"

There was plenty of rope on the ground yet.

"Well," said one of the old men, "he is on the sky. He never talked much, that little boy, or seemed to know much, but he has gone to a place where we could not go."

The sun was almost half-way up in the sky. Tsiwihl lay watching, watching, looking hard. Sas had passed the middle of the sky when Tsiwihl said: "I see the boy. He is coming down, he is coming nearer and nearer."

Soon all could see him. At last he was standing on the ground.

"Now, my cousin," said Norwanchakus, "tell me. Let me know what you saw and what you heard. What do you think of that country up there?"

"I went to the top," said the boy. "The country up there is good. I saw a road from east to west. I went east a little, and at the south of the road saw a tobacco tree. I sat under the tree and looked east. Far off I saw an old man coming with a pack on his back. I sat watching him. At last he came to where I was and passed without looking at me, went forward a little, stopped, put down his pack on the south side of the road, and then came toward me. I was sitting with my face to the north. He sat down at my left side, looked at me, looked at the headband, the fire-drill, and the straightener, and laughed. 'What are you doing here?' asked he. 'From what place are you? How did you come up to this land, where no one ever travels but me, where I have never seen any one? You are small. How could you come here?' 'I am here,' answered I, 'because Norwanchakus sent me. He sent me because he has lost his brother, Keriha. He has looked for him all over the world, has asked every one, and no one knows about Keriha. He sent me here to ask you about Keriha. He said that you must know, for you look over the whole world, see all people, see everything.' I put the three things down before him and said, 'Norwanchakus told me to give you these things for your trouble in telling about Keriha.' Sas smiled again, took up the headband, the fire-drill and straightener, held them in his hand, and said: 'These are good--I know all that is passing in the world. I know where Keriha is. I have seen him every day since he went from his brother--I know where he is now. The Supchit woman took him one night, took him under the ground, came out on the top of Bohem Puyuk, went down again, came out, travelled by crooked roads westward, crossed the bridge made of one hair, went under the sky to the other side, to the middle house in a large village. She put Keriha in a little room in that house; he has been there ever since, he is there now. He is very weak and will die to-morrow unless some one saves him. Tell Norwanchakus to start to-night and be there in the morning if he wants to save Keriha.'"

"Then Sas put his hand in his bosom and took out a kolchi bisi [sky cap], gave it to me, and said, 'Take this to Norwanchakus, and tell him to give it to Tsiwihl for his trouble.' Sas gave me also a piece of the sky. 'This is for Tsiwihl, too,' said he; 'let him wear it on his breast for a blue facing.'"

Norwanchakus gave these to Tsiwihl, and then made him a blanket of oak leaves. He wears all these things to this day.

"My cousin, are you sure that Sas said this?" asked Norwanchakus.

"I am sure. Sas told me all this."

"Wait now, my cousin." Norwanchakus went northeast, stretched his hand out; an armful of kúruti (silkweed which grows at the end of the world) came on it. "Now, my cousin," said he, "I will pay you well for your trouble. All your life you can make as much rope as you like of this kúruti, and you can go up on it anywhere,--north, south, east, or west."

Norwanchakus started at midnight, and went westward quickly. He knew the way well. He crossed ridges and valleys, passed places where he had found tracks of Keriha and lost them, went to the bridge of one hair, sprang from the bank to the middle of the bridge. The bridge swayed and swayed. Underneath was a wide, rushing river, but Norwanchakus did not fall. With one spring more he touched the other bank, ran swiftly till he reached the big village beyond the sky. He saw the chief house, ran in through its door at the east, went to the little room, and found Keriha with his head on the palm of the Supchit woman's hand. He caught his brother and rushed out, shot past all the people, and stopped only when he was far outside the village.

"Now, my brother," said he, "you told me always that you knew something great, that you wanted to do something great, that you wanted to be something great. What have you been doing here thirty years? I have looked for you everywhere. You never let me know where you were."

"Oh, my brother," said Keriha, "I am so drowsy, I was sleeping, I didn't know where I was."

Norwanchakus crossed the river at a bound, without touching the bridge of one hair. He went on then, never stopped till he reached Keri Buli.

Next morning at daybreak Keriha heard a voice from above. The voice said,--

"Leave that place, Norwanchakus and Keriha. The world will change soon. You two must come here. Leave that place down there quickly."

"Now, my brother," said Keriha, "you are so slow, I don't know where you wish to go, or what you want to do."

"My brother," said Norwanchakus, "I will do the best I can, and do you do the best you can. We have finished our work here. People to come will know the names that you gave to rivers, mountains, rocks, and hills. Hereafter they will call these places by the names we gave them."

While in this world Keriha wore a duck-skin, and when they were ready to go he threw off this skin on the other side of Bohema Mem, and from it have come all the ducks on the rivers of this country.

Norwanchakus had always carried his ash stick from the fish-net. When he was going, he thrust it into the ground at Tsarau Heril. "I will leave this here," said he, "and people to come will make pipes of it." There is plenty of ash to this day in Tsarau Heril.

At the other side of the sky the brothers parted. Norwanchakus went up on high, and stayed there. Keriha went far away to the east, and is living there now.

KELE AND SEDIT

PERSONAGES

After each name is given that of the creature or thing into which the personage was changed subsequently.

=Hinwu=, big owl; =Kele=, mountain wolf; =Kleréu Lulimet=, wild lily; =Pili Lúlimet=, reed grass blossom; =Pokok=, ground owl; =Pom Piweki=, crooked land; =Satok Pokaila=, ----; =Sas=, the sun; =Tsurat=, red-headed woodpecker; =Tunhlucha=, frog.

* * * * *

In Puidal Winnem lived Kele. Olelbis built a great sweat-house there, and told him to stay in it. Kele was old and lived all alone in that place; lived there a long time, thinking, making up his mind what to do,--he was lonely and thirsty. "Why did Olelbis put me here?" thought he.

Once he rose about daybreak, hurried out, went westward, went to a creek. A great clump of mountain maples stood near the bank. Kele saw a straight stick among all the others. He cut the stick, drew it out, and took off a short piece. On the way home he split the stick, smoothed it, and fixed it as he walked. He put the two sticks overhead in the sweat-house, went out a second time, found a white oak sapling, firm and strong, cut a piece two feet long from it, put it at the hearth. The next day he lay with his back to the fire, lay there all night without sleeping. Just before daybreak he heard steps, and was struck on the back. A minute later he was struck again in the same place. The old man rose then and made a good fire of manzanita wood.

It was daylight, and Kele said: "My children, come to the fire, warm yourselves, sweat, and then swim in the creek."

Two girls came to the fire, warmed themselves standing, and soon they were sweating from heat.

"My daughters," said Kele, "there is a creek near here. Go and swim in it."

These girls were from the stick that Kele had split in two parts and put in the house wall. The girls bathed in the creek, came back, and were good-looking. When they came in, Kele brought venison for his two daughters to eat.

"My daughters," said the old man, "I will tell you something. You must go to work, do good things. There are roots in the woods all around us, roots fit for food. You need to walk. Go out and get roots." They went out to dig wild lily roots. After that they went every morning.

Soon they began to say: "We should like to have other food; we should like to have game to eat. We saw mountain quail to-day; we saw deer." At last they talked this way every night. Kele listened, thinking what to do. These girls had a nice bed made of skins, and they talked every night to each other; but one night they went to bed early and fell asleep right away. Kele had wished them to sleep; that is why they fell asleep quickly. He hurried down to some mountain-ash trees, went to the middle of them, and cut off five sticks. He whittled these, made them smooth, cut each in two. He had ten smooth sticks then. Next he cut five other sticks. These he left rough; cut them also in two; had ten of them. Kele placed the twenty sticks overhead in the house on the north side, and lay with his back to the fire. The fire was a good one, a hot manzanita fire. His club of green oak was there at the fireplace.

Kele lay without sleeping and waited. He was awake and was thinking. The two girls were sound asleep all the time. Just before daybreak he heard a sound as if some barefooted person had sprung from above to the floor. Next moment some one took the club and struck him. Another came down in the same way and struck him. Ten times he was struck with the club.

The ten smooth sticks had turned into people. Each man gave him a blow, went to the wall of the house, and sat there. Kele did not rise yet. He heard some one barefoot jump down and seize the club. This one hit Kele once. A second one sprang down and hit him twice, a third three times, a fourth four times, and so on to the tenth, who struck him ten times. There were twenty in all; ten from the smooth and ten from the rough sticks.

The first ten sticks he had whittled smooth, and they made ten good sons, but from the ten untrimmed sticks came ten rough, uproarious sons. Kele hadn't smoothed them, and they struck him many times. When the tenth rough son struck him the last blow, Kele stood up and made a big fire; he could barely move, he had been so beaten with the club. He lay down then and said,--

"Now, my boys, come here; warm yourselves, dance and sweat, then go to the creek to swim, and come here again." He sang then, and made his sons dance. The boys danced, and hurried to the creek to swim, shouting as they went. They came back to the sweat-house good-looking persons.

The two girls rose now. They knew already what their father had done.

"Go, my daughters, and cook for your brothers," said Kele.

The two sisters made the food ready and placed it before their brothers.

"Now, my sons, eat what we have," said Kele. "You will go out after that, you will hunt, and bring game."

The first ten, the smooth men, had good sense; the second ten were inferior; the ninth and tenth of the second ten were very bad. The first ten took each only one mouthful; of the second ten, the first took one mouthful, the second two, the third three, and so on to the tenth, who took ten mouthfuls. After that they sat back and made ready to go out.

"What are we to do?" asked the first ten. "We have nothing to hunt with."

Kele brought out bows and quivers with arrows, and gave them to each; gave five ropes to them also, ropes of grass fibre. "You are armed now," said Kele; and he showed them where to set snares for deer.

They went far down to the foot of the mountain and set snares. The ten smooth brothers stood on the mountain top; the second ten, who were rough, drove the deer. "You must shout so that we can hear you all the time," said the smooth brothers. Toward evening the smooth brothers saw deer in the snares. The smooth ten took the bodies, the best of the game; the rough ten the legs, ears, horns, all the poor parts. The smooth ten took the best meat to the house; the rough ten made a great uproar--they had little sense. The two sisters cooked roots and venison for all.

Next morning Kele made a big fire of manzanita wood. "Be up, my boys," called he. "Go and swim." That day the twenty stayed at home, and the sisters went for roots.

They lived this way a long time, the brothers hunting, the sisters digging roots and cooking, till at last the sisters wished to see other persons besides their brothers. One day when they went for roots they sat down on the mountain slope. "What are we to do?" said one sister; "we wish to see people, we see no one now but our brothers and father."

That evening, when all had lain down, the elder sister went to Kele and sat near him. "My father," said she, "I wish to know my name."

"Your name is Klereu Lulimet," said Kele; "your sister's name is Pili Lulimet."

She told her sister what their names were. Both liked the names, and were glad to have them. Every day the men sweated and swam, killed deer and snared them. The sisters dug lily roots and cooked them.

One time instead of digging roots they went high on the mountain side and sat there, sat looking westward. They could see very far, and things seemed right there before them, though away off near the edge of the great western water.

This was the first time that the sisters had a chance to see far. Till that day they had only a mountain slope or a forest opening in front of them; now they had the whole country to look at. Just after midday they saw a man going northward, going slowly.

"What a nice man that is! Look at him," said one sister to the other.

He stopped all at once, seemed to sit down and disappear through the earth. That day they saw him no more.

"Oh, we should like to see that man," said the sisters, "and talk to him." They watched, talked, and forgot to dig roots. At last, a short time before sunset, they said, "Let us go for roots!" They ran down the mountain, dug a basketful quickly, and hurried home.

"Oh, father, will you teach us how to sing?" said the younger sister to Kele that evening. "We tried all day to sing. I tried to teach my sister, she tried to teach me. We could do nothing."

"You can sing this way," said Kele, and he began,--

"O wi, no á, O wi, no í,
O wi, no á, O wi, no í."

"That is good," said she, going away. She said nothing to her sister and lay down.

Soon after the twenty brothers came. Ten of them made a great noise. The house just trembled and shook from the uproar. The second ten had smeared themselves with deer blood, hung deer entrails around their necks. They looked wild and ferocious. When inside, they were quiet; in going out and coming in they always rushed and shouted.

Next morning Kele kept the twenty brothers in the sweat-house. "Rest a day," said he.

The sisters went to the mountain top and looked westward. Soon they saw some one go toward the north, as on the first day.

"Did our father tell you how to sing?" asked the elder sister.

"He did, but I have forgotten."

She tried to remember the song, and soon after it came to her,--

"O wi, no á, O wi, no í,
O wi, no á, O wi, no í."

"This is the way our father sang," said she. "You try it, sister."

The elder began; soon both sang together.

"Oh, we have a nice song now," said they.

Their song went straight to where the man was, a long distance. This man was Sedit. He was getting red earth for acorn bread. Water soaked through red earth was used to moisten acorn meal. Sedit was covered with shells. He was very splendid to look at. As he dug the earth, it seemed to him that he heard something. He stopped, listened, listened with all his ears. The sisters stopped singing, and he dug again; again he heard the singing and stopped. When he stopped, the sisters ceased to sing; when he dug, they began again. Thus it continued the whole afternoon. They kept Sedit all day there doing little, almost nothing.

Sometime before sunset the sisters dug their roots and went home. Sedit went home too. He lived at the house of Satok Pokaila.

"What were you doing? I waited all day, forenoon and afternoon, for you. It is too late to make bread now," said Satok.

This old woman lived alone till Sedit in his wanderings came to her and worked, brought wood, and dug red earth for her.

"I got a headache," said he, "and had to lie down all day nearly."

"I am sorry," said the old woman; and she gave him food, but he did not want any. Next day Sedit went for red earth. He did not eat much that morning. He had not slept all the night. He was thinking of that song on the mountain.

That day the sisters went to the mountain top, looked westward. Soon Sedit came to the same place and worked, put two or three handfuls in his basket, heard singing, heard it plainly, stopped, strained his eyes to see who was singing, saw no one. Again he dug, again they sang; again he stopped work, again they ceased singing; again he worked, again they sang. Sedit thinks now how to follow the singers, tries to whistle their music--cannot catch it--looks around, sees no one. "Well, I must sing," says he. He sings, and this time he catches the music.

The sisters sang now in response to him. They moved on, as he thought, and he followed. But they were not moving, they stayed in one place. They simply made their singing seem farther each time.

Sedit followed till they stopped at last, would not sing any longer. He could not tell what to do. "It is better for me to go back to my basket," said he at last. He went back, put his basket on the bank east of the pit, and said: "Now, my basket, I will leave you a while, I am going away. I place you east of the pit. Rootstick, I place you east of the basket. If Satok Pokaila asks where I am, you will move east, basket, and you will fall east, rootstick. She will know which way I went."

He went eastward, went a short distance, forgot the song, stopped, thought what to do. The song then came back to him. The sisters began to sing again. Sedit followed their song.

Satok Pokaila waited for red earth, waited till midday, then thought, "I'll go and see if Sedit has a headache." She found the basket partly filled with red earth, and the stick standing east of it. She looked in the pit where Sedit had dug, and thought, "He must be here somewhere." She searched, but could not find him.

"Where is Sedit?" asked she of the basket. "Where did he go?--Where is Sedit?" asked she of the rootstick.

The basket moved eastward till it reached the stick, the stick fell toward the east. Old Satok knew now what had happened. She took the basket and digging-stick home with her, put them up safely.

Sedit followed the sisters, sang himself, and listened to their song. The song went southward, went away from the mountain. He followed till he reached Tayam Norel. Sedit sat down. People asked where he came from, where he was going. He would not tell, would not talk, did not care for people's words. He thought of nothing, heard nothing but the song of Kele's daughters.

He sat only a little while, and went away singing and listening to the song of the sisters. Now it went eastward. He followed it to a mountain, where he saw an old man setting a trap. This was old Pokok.

"Uncle, where are you going in such a great hurry?" asked Pokok.

"I am going east," replied Sedit. "You will not see me pass this way again."

He hurried down the mountain, crossed a creek, and went straight up another mountain; was just at the top, when he saw a very big man coming toward him on the right hand as Sedit was going east. Sedit stopped, looked, was afraid somewhat. The two stared at each other. The stranger was very tall and very thick. Sedit was frightened. The big man never stopped, went straight ahead westward. Sedit looked at him a long time, didn't move, watched him going down the mountain. After he had gone Sedit stood a long time, and then sat down.

"Why did he not speak to me?" thought Sedit. "He is the first person I have met who wouldn't speak to me. Who is he? I should like to know."

Sedit sat and thought all that day about the big man. He heard the song always, at times very near him, but he thought so much about the big man that he didn't follow it. He wondered if the big man would come again, and said to himself, "I will wait and see."

About night Sedit thought, "If he comes and will not speak to me, I'll kill him." All night he waited. He rose very early, had not slept any. About sunrise he saw a man coming from afar, from the east, moving westward. Sedit watched, had his bow and arrows ready. It was he who would not speak the day before. Sedit shot him in the breast, shot again. The big man paid no heed, passed right along. Sedit shot twenty arrows. The stranger looked all the time at Sedit, said nothing. Sedit shot twenty arrows more--spent all his arrows.

After he had shot away the forty arrows, and the man had passed right close to him, Sedit sat down and thought, "Who is this that I cannot kill him?" He thought a long time, and then knew that he must be Sas Kiemila.

It was old Sas. Sas had been fooling Sedit, just as Kele's daughters had fooled him.

Sedit heard the song again, and followed it. He went to the Bohema Mem at Sawal Pom, went up Norken Mem till he came to Hin Pom where he heard a great noise. Many people were dancing there.

"Oh, there is Sedit coming," said they. "Where is he going so fast?"

"Uncle, where are you going in such a great hurry?" asked one of the men. "What news have you? Tell us what you have seen on your journey."

"I am travelling this country to look at it. I saw no one, can give you no tidings of any one. I shall not pass this way again."

The man who spoke and the dancers were Hinwa people. Sedit rushed on, came to a flat, saw a spring, and many persons drinking water.

"My grandsons, what are you doing, why do you drink so much water? Water is bad for young people" (these people were birds of all sorts). Sedit called the place Chilchil balus (bird drinking). He went on without stopping or talking,--had no time for either. He listened, heard the singing near a hill, ran there; heard talking of many people, the Tsurats arguing about acorns.

Sedit passed these people, crossed the Norken Mem, ran along the trail, came to an old man lying across it at the foot of a mountain. Sedit, going fast, thought to jump over the old man, but he moved, and Sedit stopped. "Grandson, what are you doing?" asked Sedit. This was Pom Piweki. "I cannot tell what to do," said Pom. "I am old, I cannot travel; so I lay down here."

"I will go on," said Sedit, "and come back this way, I think." He heard the song nearer now; followed it, followed till sunset, when it ceased. He stayed all night in that place.

Next morning, some time after sunrise, the song began again. Sedit answered, and followed it. Then it ceased; he stopped again; then the song began a second time; he followed; the song ceased. The song circled around the mountain, going a little higher gradually; sometimes it was near, sometimes it seemed far away, but he never came up to it.

After wandering ten days, perhaps, he reached the top of the mountain by going round and round the side of it. The singing was in the mountain now all the time. He was on the highest part of Kele's sweat-house. Kele, his twenty sons, and two daughters were inside, and the girls and old man knew that some one was walking on the roof of their sweat-house. Kele's sons went out each morning, and so did his daughters. Although they were many, Sedit never saw one of them,--they fooled him. At last, when Sedit was on the mountain, Kele shouted,--

"If any one is on my house, let him go down to the western door of it."

Sedit heard, and went back the way by which he came. He went to Pom Piweki and asked: "Do you know where the door to this sweat-house is?"

Pom Piweki made no answer. He stood up and pulled open a door; it seemed as though he had been lying across the entrance. When he opened the door, Sedit saw far into the house.

"Sedit, if you are here to go in, this is the way for you," said Pom Piweki. "You will see an old man lying on the east side, go to him and talk; this is his sweat-house."

Sedit went in and sat down near Kele, said nothing. Kele rose up and gave Sedit food, talked to him, told him what kind of person he, Kele, was, and about his children, and said: "Sedit, if you have come here to stay, you must do what I tell you; you must be careful. I have rough sons; if they know that you are here, they will make trouble. I will hide you. They will make a noise, but you will not suffer if you keep quiet; if you move, they will find you, and abuse you, surely."

Kele put Sedit in a basket in the ground, hid him there, leaving a small hole to look through. "You may look out, but do not move," said Kele.

As soon as Sedit was hidden the girls came in with roots, and sat down at their sleeping-place. Sedit was near them. He thrust out his hand and pinched the younger sister. She said nothing.

"Sister, have you seen any one?" asked she, after a time; "some one pinched me."

"'Sh!" said the elder, "be quiet and say nothing; don't let our father hear."

The elder went to cook, and Kele's twenty sons came hammering and tramping.

The first ten, the smooth ones, came, as always, quietly; the second ten came with a rush and an uproar. Sedit peeped out at them.

The younger sister pushed him back. "Be still," said she.

Sedit tried to rise; she kept him down.

The first man of the second ten cried, "Pshu! I smell Sedit."

The second said, "Pshu! I smell Sedit; throw him out!"

"Be quiet, boys; don't talk so," said Kele. "Sedit is your uncle."

"Phew! I smell Sedit," cried all the second ten.

Kele could hardly keep his sons from taking Sedit. After they had eaten they grew more excited. "Where is Sedit?" cried they. "Let us find Sedit!"

At last they found Sedit, dragged him out, played ball with him, threw him around the whole night from one side of the great house to the other. Kele could do nothing, could not stop them. He went and lay down. About sunrise Sedit screamed. He was almost dead. Kele's ten rough sons were covered with deer blood and shouted all night. The smooth ten sat still, could do nothing against the rough ten.

About sunrise Sedit could hardly breathe. He had a root under his left arm, and as he was hurled across the house it fell into the fire and made a great smoke. The odor was very pleasant. Kele's sons liked it. They threw Sedit back to where they found him, left him, and began to breathe in the smoke.

"My sons," said Kele, "I told you last night not to hurt or harm Sedit; let him alone. That root which he dropped will be good for you, and hereafter you will like it. Future people when going to hunt will take this root, tsarauhosi, hold it out, and say, 'Kele, give us deer.' They will give you the root, and you will give them deer. When they go hunting and have bad luck, they will make a fire, burn this root, hold it out while it smokes, and say, 'Kele, will you put deer where we can see and kill them?'" (Wintu hunters carry this root and burn it if they have bad luck in finding deer. Kele likes the odor and sends them deer). Kele rubbed Sedit with deer marrow, put him on the west side of the sweat-house, and said, "This is your place; you will stay here."

The boys went to hunt, the girls to dig roots as before.

"How did you get those sons, brother?" asked Sedit once.

"You have no need to know; I will not tell you," replied Kele.

"How did you build this house? Two old men should not live in one house. If I had a house, your sons could visit me when they wished, see their uncle's house, and stay all night, perhaps."

"I don't think you could have sons, Sedit, or keep a house. I don't believe you have strength for it; these things are hard to do," said Kele.

But Sedit talked on about sons and a sweat-house. Kele asked Sedit to sing for his sons while they danced and sweated. He sang twice and sang fairly. "I could sing well if I had a house and sons of my own," remarked Sedit.

"I will build a sweat-house for him," thought Kele, at last. "He may go through as I have. I don't think he will, but I can let him try."

The next night Kele made all sleep soundly. He went north a short distance and wished for a sweat-house. A mountain stood in front of him next moment. Kele went home before daylight and lay down. That day Sedit talked on as before.

"Come," said Kele; and he took him to the new mountain. "You can live here if you like. This is your house." Kele left him then.

Sedit made a fire, found a pipe and tobacco, smoked, stayed many days and nights by himself there. "I should like to know how Kele got his sons," thought he one night. "I must ask him."

"I come to tell you," said Sedit one morning, "that I am lonesome. I want to know how you got your sons and daughters."

Kele made no answer for a long time. At last he told him how he got his daughters.

Sedit went home, did exactly as Kele had done, then lay down without sleeping. Toward morning he heard some one jump to the floor; next he got a blow on the back, then a second. The two persons went away and sat down. Sedit rose, made a big fire, and began singing for a sweat-dance. Two girls stood near the fire, sweated, then went to the creek, swam, and went home. They had very long hair and were nice looking. Sedit gave them wooden combs and mink-skins for their hair, gave them food and nice baskets painted red, told each to dig roots and cook them.

Sedit lived a while with his daughters, till he thought once, "I want to have sons." He went to Kele, and Kele told how he had got sons, told carefully.

Sedit cut the sticks, did everything as Kele said, and lay by the fire, but he could not keep from looking up; the moment he looked all the sticks fell to the ground. Sedit put them in place again, lay by the fire, looked up. The sticks fell a second time; he put them up again, lay down, looked a third time. The sticks fell a third time. He was putting the sticks up till daylight, when he had to stop. Sedit went to Kele that day. "My sticks were falling all night," said he.

Kele knew what had happened already. "Why not do as I told you? I told you not to look up."

"I will not look any more," said Sedit.

Next night he put up sticks again and waited, took the blows till the last one of the second ten was giving him ten blows, then he sprang up and screamed. All the twenty sons dropped down and were sticks again. It was just daylight. Sedit gathered the sticks into a basket, and looked to see if the girls were awake. They were sticks as well as the others.

Sedit felt very sorry, could not tell what to do. He put the two sticks with the other twenty, took one at a time, held it up, and said, "This was my son, this was my daughter." He was sorry and wondered if he could make others. He went to Kele and said,--

"My brother, I could not stand it."

"What did I tell you?"

"Can I not make more?"

"Perhaps you cannot endure it." Kele did not want him to try.

"I am sorry for my girls," said Sedit, "I want them back; I was fond of them."

"You may try for sons, but those girls will not come back."

Sedit tried a third time. The beating was so hard that he almost screamed; but he held out this time, and had twenty sons. Sedit's house was full of sons, but he had no daughters; the sticks would not turn to girls again, though he did with them as he had the first time.

Sedit sent his sons to hunt. "Go wherever you like," said he. "On the west side is a ridge; go on that ridge, keep in one line, and when you turn some one may see you and think, 'What a crowd of nice boys!'"

Kele's boys were hunting that day, and saw Sedit's sons in a long line. "Look at that row of men on the ridge," said they. "Those are our cousins," said one of the smooth ten; "those are Sedit's sons."

Sedit's sons went to a flat, danced and played all the day, took yellow clay, made paste of it, painted themselves yellow--that is why coyotes are yellow to this day; the paint would not wash off. All went home in a line. Sedit had supper for them.

"Why do you come without deer?" asked Sedit.

"We danced on the flat and painted."

Sedit said nothing. All ate; then Sedit thought, "I wish you boys to sleep." All fell asleep. Sedit went to Kele, woke him up, and said,--

"My sons went to hunt, but came home without deer. What shall I do with them?"

"Let them hunt birds. Let them hunt gophers and grasshoppers in the meadows. Gophers are as good as deer."

"All right," said Sedit; and he went home and slept.

They brought grasshoppers and gophers from the hunt next day, and Sedit was satisfied.

"Let them live on that kind of food," thought he.

They told of their hunting that day. "We wanted water," said one of them, "and met an old woman. 'We are dry and cannot find water,' said we to her. 'I will give you water,' said the old woman; 'come with me.' We followed her a while. I was afraid and said to my brothers, 'Do not drink the water she gives.' One of my brothers shouted at the old woman and frightened her. She fell back and turned into a swamp with a spring in the middle of it. We didn't go near the spring, but were nearly lost in the swamp."

"That is a wicked old woman," said Sedit. "That is Tunhlucha Pokaila. She drowns people often. I met her once and she came near drowning me. Don't you go near her again. Hunt gophers and grasshoppers elsewhere."

"Now, my sons," said Sedit, some days later, "go and scatter around through this country. Whenever you want to see me come here to my sweat-house."

Sedit's sons scattered north, south, east, and west. They were at every ridge and point, in every valley and meadow, at every spring and river.