Chapter IV: How Fire Came to the Mountaineers

Flying Plover was awake bright and early next morning, and went right out in the cold and snow to get wood for his grandmother's fire. The men of the village always kept the old medicine-woman's wood pile well supplied--so the little boy had no chopping to do, but just carried armfuls of dry sticks into the lodge. Though it was nearly breakfast time, the sun was not yet up; but a narrow yellow band edged the horizon in one place, and in the faint twilight several people besides Flying Plover were moving about out of doors. Some were getting wood, and some were carrying water from the hole in the frozen brook. Big Hunter, the chief of the village, was feeding frozen fish to his sledge-dogs; for he and his sons were going to make an early start in search of caribou. The air was very still and cold, and the tall trees which stood all around and among the lodges snapped in the frost. Little Flying Plover was too cold to even shout out to his friends. This was the part of the day which he did not like--the short time before the fire was lighted and breakfast was cooked. So he worked very fast, running backward and forward between the lodge and the wood pile. His task was soon done; and soon the fire burned cheerily in the middle of the lodge, the smoke streamed up to the peak of the roof and out into the frosty air, and the old medicine-woman put the tea-kettle and the frying-pan on the coals.

After breakfast, Squat-by-the-fire gave her little grandson a lesson in moccasin-sewing; and after the lesson she kept him at work at making a pair of moccasins while she steeped medicines. For a little while in the afternoon he worked at carving a caribou from a block of wood; but it was hard work, and he cut his finger; and after a whole hour of scooping and cutting, the thing still looked more like a block than a caribou. He almost cried. In fact, two tears rolled out of his eyes and half-way down his fat cheeks before he remembered that warriors do not weep and hastily wiped them away with the back of his hand. His grandmother did not let him know that she had seen the tears; but she tied a piece of rag around his cut finger and told him to go out and play with the other little boys.

That night, old Squat-by-the-fire told Flying Plover some more about King Walrus, and about a man called Porcupine Killer.

"When King Moose returned to this country," she said, "with his fine horns all ready for knocking King Bear about, and found old King Walrus here instead, he was not at all pleased with the change. One look at the big walrus told him that he had met his master, horns or no horns. But he was full of courage and felt that right was on his side--so with a snort of rage he tried to roll King Walrus from the hill on which he lay, sleeping soundly. But he might as well have tried to roll the hill from under King Walrus. There was a short and terrible fight--and then poor King Moose limped away and lay down in a distant forest to think the matter over. He hid in the forest for many days and asked every animal and bird that came within speaking distance where King Bear had gone to. But not one of them could tell him that. All they knew was that he had been chased out of the country by the old blubber-mountain from the north. The moose was very sorry that no one could tell him where his rival had gone to. He thought that he and King Bear together could drive King Walrus back to his own country. But as there seemed to be no chance of finding the bear, he continued to live quietly in the distant forest. For exercise, he knocked the great pine trees over with his horns. None of the other animals were big enough for him to fight with--and King Walrus was too big.

"The walrus did not stay in this country very long; but while he was here, men suffered even more than they had suffered before. The reason for this was that a great many fierce animals from the north had followed their king into this country. The whole land was full of bears and wolves and giant foxes; and people--mountaineer people--died of hunger in their caves because the men were afraid to go out and hunt. It was not safe for a warrior to so much as show his nose outside of his hiding-place. If things had gone on in that way for another moon, I think the whole tribe of mankind in this country would have starved or been killed--and if that had happened you and I would not be sitting here to-night."

"Where would we be sitting?" asked Flying Plover.

"We would not be sitting anywhere. We would never have been born," replied the old woman.

"Why not?" asked the little boy.

But Squat-by-the-fire knew that if she answered any more of his questions he would keep her busy all night. So she hastened on with her story.

"There was a young man named Porcupine Killer," she continued. "He had once killed a porcupine with only a flint knife for a weapon--and porcupines in those days were larger than bears are now. That is how he got his name. But the porcupine had been eaten years ago, and now he was not able to go out and kill even a mouse. You need not laugh at that, for mice were then as big as beavers are now--and just as good eating, too. He knew that if he went ten yards from the narrow mouth of his cave some great animal would leap upon him. He had a wife and little baby; and all the three had eaten for two days was part of a fish that a hawk had accidentally dropped in front of the cave as it flew over, chased by an eagle. He could not think of anything to do. When night fell he would creep out and feel about for some bones. With so many great animals killing and feeding on all sides there would surely be plenty of fresh bones lying around. He had seen a pack of great wolves chasing a giant caribou along the valley below his cave early that morning. If he could find the bones of that caribou he would be lucky. The marrow in one of those bones would supply them with many meals. But as he had to wait until night to begin his hunt and had nothing to do in the meantime, he lay down on a bed of dry leaves and fell asleep.

"A wonderful dream came to Porcupine Killer while he lay asleep in his dark cave, with his belt drawn tight around his stomach because of the hungry-pain. Some good spirit must have come and whispered that dream into his brain, for in it there was hardly one thing like anything he had ever seen; and yet it was all just as if he looked down at something that was really happening. He saw a place of flat, white sand (at first he thought it was snow, for there is no sand so white in this country) with the sea at one edge of it, green as leaves in Spring and blue as the sky, and strange-looking trees and bushes along the other side. On the sand, mid-way between the trees and the edge of the beautiful sea, stood a man. Porcupine Killer had never before seen such a queer-looking man. His skin, all over his face and body, was as dark as the roof of this lodge where the smoke has painted it. He was naked as a trout. At his feet lay a bunch of dry grass and a heap of little sticks. In his hands he held something that looked like a very short bow with a doubled, twisted cord made of some kind of vine, and a piece of dry, flat wood. He sat down on the sand, crossed his legs, crumbled a little of the dry grass between his hands and placed the powder close beside him, on the sand. Then, holding the flat piece of wood firm between his knees with his left hand, he placed the cord of the bow in a notch across it and began to draw it swiftly back and forth, back and forth, quick as lightning. The spirit of Porcupine Killer (for it did not seem to him that his body was in the dream at all) bent close above the queer-looking black man, eager to find out what he was trying to do. The stranger worked and worked, his hand flying back and forth so fast that it could scarcely be seen. The sweat stood out on his black skin. Soon a faint, blue mist crept up from the notch in the slab of dry wood--or was it from the flying cord of twisted vine? It floated up and melted in the sunlight; then it floated up again; and again it melted to nothing. Porcupine Killer could make no sense out of it; but he liked the look of the dry, blue mist. The worker now clutched the wood tight between his knees, keeping his right hand still speeding with the bow, and with the fingers of his left hand took up a pinch of the grass-powder and sprinkled it where the cord of vine flew along the notch. Now the blue mist arose in a little cloud, and climbed high above the worker's head before it melted. It had a smell--a smell that seemed very good to the spirit of Porcupine Killer. His nose had never met with anything like it before, and yet it awoke a strange craving within him, and seemed to speak of comfort and safety.

"Still the strange man went on with his strange work, driving the bow back and forth with his right hand and sprinkling a little of the powder of dry grass with his left. Suddenly the mist puffed white and thick, and in a moment faded to something so faint that it had no color at all, and yet seemed to waver upward and melt away, even as the mist had floated and melted--and, in the same instant, a living thing, yellow and bright and no bigger than a baby's finger, moved on the flat piece of wood.

"It was like a bright, strange bird. It was like a beautiful flower that bursts suddenly into bloom and life from a husk of bray seed. It was like magic!--like the eye of a god!--like the secret of life! At least so it seemed to Porcupine Killer. Nothing before, except the feelings of love and courage, had ever awakened so much joy in him.

"'What is it? Give it to me,' he cried; but his spirit had no voice, and the man on the sand did not so much as turn his head. He was still busy with the magic thing that had so suddenly come to his hand. Now he ceased the movement of the bow and let it fall on the sand, where it lay unheeded, with a faint mist arising from the cord of twisted vine. He fed the yellow, living thing with leaves of the dry grass, and it grew and leapt under his hand. Suddenly he turned to the little bunch of dry grass at his elbow--and, quick as thought, every fiber of it had blossomed to red and yellow. Now, from the heap of twigs and sticks, he fed that wonderful, leaping thing that had flashed into life but a few moments before, no larger than a baby's finger, and that now covered a space on the sand as wide and long as a snow-shoe track."

"What was it?" asked little Flying Plover, in an awed whisper.

"It was fire--fire like that," replied the old medicine-woman, pointing at the glowing coals and leaping flames within the circle of stones in the center of the floor. For a moment the child looked puzzled, and glanced at his grandmother to see if she were laughing at him. Then he nodded his head.

"Yes, the fire is alive," he said; "but why did the queer, black man rub the bow across the flat piece of wood?"

"There were no matches in those days such as the traders sell now," replied the old woman. "And fire could not be struck out of the flint as it was when I was young, because there was no steel with which to strike the flint. All these things that I am telling you happened a very long time ago, little son of a chief."

Again Flying Plover nodded his head.

"And then what did the queer man on the sand do when his fire was burning so well?" he asked.

"I do not know what he did," replied Squat-by-the-fire, "for just when the sticks were crackling and the flames leaping high as the flames of our own fire, the spirit of Porcupine Killer flew back to his body and poor Porcupine Killer opened his eyes and found himself lying on the bed of leaves in his dark, narrow cave. And the hungry-pain gnawed him again, and he heard his wife crying beside him as she rocked the little baby in her arms. But there was a lightness in his heart that had not been there when he fell asleep, and his dream was as clear as a picture in his mind. He got up quickly from his bed of leaves and dry moss, and crawled to the back of the cave where some of his bows and spears were stored, along with several pieces of seasoned wood for the making of arrows. Without telling the woman a word of his wonderful dream, he broke one of his bows in two pieces. But the string of caribou sinew was not what he wanted. He felt about in the dark, and soon found some strands of tough hemlock root which he had once used for snares. Finding three strands of a length, he plated them together into one thick, tough cord--and with this he strung a piece of the broken bow.

"'What are you doing?' asked his wife.

"'Perhaps you shall soon see. Have patience,' he replied. The poor woman thought that hunger and despair had weakened his mind. But she stopped her weeping and drew near to him, the better to see what he was about. Having fixed a short bow to suit him, he broke across his knee many of the sticks and slabs of seasoned wood, from which he had intended to make such fine arrows. Across the flat side of one of these pieces he scraped a shallow groove with his stone knife. When that was done, he collected ten handfuls of dry moss and grass from his bed. Some of this he powdered between his hands, as he had seen the strange, naked man do in his dream. Then, when all was ready, he sat on the cold floor of the cave and began to draw the cord of the bow swiftly back and forth across the flat piece of wood, just as the black man had done. He worked and worked--and at last his nose caught the smell of the blue mist, though he could not see the mist because of the darkness of the cave. But he saw beautiful, bright sparks darting along the groove in the wood. By that time, his right arm ached as if it had been twisted and beaten with a club; but he kept the bow flying, and began to sprinkle the powdered grass with his left hand. Then (as he had seen in his dream) the small creature of magic life--the bright, yellow thing that ate the powdered grass and sprang upward for more--flashed into being on the slab of wood between his knees. The squaw uttered a low cry of wonder; but Porcupine Killer said not a word. He fed dry moss and grass to the wonderful thing--and it grew, and flashed with a redder color. Then, doing what he had seen the naked, black man do, he slipped it from the wood to the heap of dry stuff at his side. The bright tongues leapt upward, throwing a beautiful light into every corner of the cave. The mist, which seemed to be its breath, streamed along the top of the cave and floated out through a hole in the rocky roof. The man heaped fragments of seasoned wood upon it, one by one. Then he felt the heat on his face and hands, and all through the chilly cave, like summer.

"'Come close,' he said to the woman. 'It is warm as the sun when the willows have their leaves and the yellow butterflies swarm on the sand by the river.'

"'What is it? What is this strange thing that you have made with your hands?' whispered the woman.

"'Nay, I did not make it. It is the gift of some kind god, bestowed on me while I dreamed,' replied Porcupine Killer. 'Come close, and feel the comfort of it Do not fear it, for I am sure it is good. If it is not good, then why does the sight of it awaken joy in my heart?'

"The woman drew near, with her baby in her arms; and now, for the first time in her life, she felt the warmth of fire.

"'It is like the sun in the spring time,' she said. 'It melts the chill of the frost out of my bones, and gladdens my eyes.'

"But Porcupine Killer did not answer, for he was busy feeding the new fire with all the wood he could find in the cave; and, of course, the fire grew and grew, and sent showers of sparks flying along the roof.

"'It grows too fast,' cried the woman. 'You feed it with too much dry wood. It may eat up the stone walls of the cave, if it grows any larger.'

"Just then, a spark dropped on the bed of grass and moss and leaves and, in a moment, a little flame began leaping here and there. But Porcupine Killer, who had a bright mind, saw the danger. He snatched up the burning stuff in his hands and threw it upon the big fire. The little flame touched his fingers. He cried out, with pain and surprise.

"'What is the matter?' asked the woman.

"'The magic thing stung me,' replied Porcupine Killer."

The old medicine woman ceased her talk and lit the tobacco in her pipe with a brand from the fire. Flying Plover waited politely until he saw, by the clouds of tobacco smoke, that the pipe was well alight. Then, as his grandmother seemed to have forgotten to go on with the story, he said, "I wonder if that was truly the way fire first came to our tribe?"

Squat-by-the-fire glanced at him quickly, but never said a word. She knew that the little boy was trying to get her to go on with the story--and that was what she had not the slightest intention of doing. If she went on telling him stories as long as he would listen, neither of them would ever get any sleep, and her brain would become quite dry and brittle from too much inventing.

"I think Porcupine Killer must have been sorry that he did not have anything to cook at his fine, new fire," remarked the little boy.

The old woman was just going to tell him that people did not know anything about cooking in those days--but she didn't. Flying Plover was clever; but so was she. Instead of saying the words that so nearly slipped from her tongue, she gave a raspy little cough. Then, in a faint whisper, she said, "My throat is so sore from talking so much, that I fear all the skin is worn off the inside of it."

That seemed a very strange and interesting thing to Flying Plover.

"Oh, let me see it," he cried. "How long will it take to grow on again?"

His grandmother almost lost her temper at that. Anyway, she soon had him snug in bed; and it was not long before he was sound asleep.