Chapter VI: Kulóskap and the Witch Called “the Pitcher”

[_Passamaquoddy_]

_Uskijinwi otenesis._[40]

There was an Indian village
Wherein dwelt many people,
Who were all of the Pogumʾk
Or of the Black Cat totem;
And wisest and bravest among them
Was Kulóskap the chief;
And when he went forth a-hunting
With the _tumʾhîgʾn_ (tomahawk),
The knife and bow and arrow,
He slew the moose and the bear;
So he gave meat to the poor,
So he fed all the tribe,
Yet, though he was chief of the Black Cats,
He was by his mother a Bear.

Pûjinskwes the witch and devil
Was also one of the Black Cats;
She was woman or man as she listed,
But in those days she lived as a man;
And, because she hated the chieftain,
She thought how she might kill him,
And take his place in the tribe.
One day when all the people
Were packing to travel away
To another place for summer,
Pûjinskwes asked the chief
To go with him (or _her_,
As you may choose to take it),
Adown to the water side
To seek for the eggs of the gull.
Then both in a canoe
Went far away, and still farther,
Till they came to a lonely island.
And while Kulóskap was seeking
For eggs along the seaside
She stole away in silence,
Away in the _agwedʾn_
That is, in the birch-canoe.
And as she paddled away
She sang in the Indian tongue:
“_Nikedha pogumʾk mʾneʿnuk
Petesinel sagʾmawiw!_”[41]
“I have left the Black Cat on an island,
I shall be the chieftain now.”

So she returned to the village;
Next day they all departed,
There was not one of them left,
Save the one who was worth them all.
Then at night they camped, and expected
The chief who w’ould come to them,
And then the evil Pitcher
Ruled them as Sagamore.

Now for thirty days Kulóskap
Who had well-nigh lost his power
Of magic, as all magicians
Are often all exhausted,
Remembered that his friend
The Fox was mteolin,
With all the strength of sorcery.
And still the mighty Master
Could sing the wonderful song
Which is heard to any distance,
Away over forests and mountains,
Over the rolling rivers.
So he sang and the Fox soon heard it,
And he travelled by night and day
Until he came to the ocean,
And swam to the lonely isle.

“Now swim with me to the mainland,”
Said the Fox unto the Master.
“Brother, I cannot do it
For all my power is gone.”
“Hold to my tail” said the Fox,
“Be of good faith, my brother,
We soon shall gain the shore.”

“But remember,” said the Fox,
“While we are in the water
Thou must keep thine eyes fast shut.
All depends upon that,
On that alone and thy faith.”

So all went well for a time,
But anon the chief grew weary,
And opening one eye a little
It seemed to him that truly
They were not ten feet from the shore,
And being of little faith
He thought--for he spoke not aloud:
“We shall never get to land:”
But the Fox who read his thought,
Replied, “Do not believe it,
I _will_ that we reach the shore.”

But the journey lasted long,
For what seemed unto the Master
To be ten feet, was really
Ten miles--and the wind was high,
And the waves were wild and beat them,
For the witch had raised a storm;
And it was late in the evening
Before they reached the land.

“And now my elder brother,”
Said the Fox, “you may go your way.”
He went and came to the camp
Where he had left his people.

There all was silent and sad,
The ashes were cold on the hearths,
In the deserted homes,
In the lonely, silent wigwams;
So he followed the tracks of the Indians,
And in a day came near them.
The first whom he overtook
Was his mother bearing his brother;
Nʾmokswes, that is the Sable,
Or as others say the Marten.
She bore him on her back,
The child’s back lay against her,
So that, while she looked forward,
He could only look behind.
As Kulóskap peered from a thicket,
Smiling to see the boy,
The Sable cried: “Oh, my brother
Is coming to us at last!”
And she turned her head, yet saw nothing,
For the Master hid his head
Quickly behind a tree.
But the infant cried again:
“Indeed and truly, mother,
I saw my brother there!”
And this time glancing quickly
She caught a sight of the Master,
And they all laughed for joy.

Then the mother threw Nʾmokswes
Like a stick down into the leaves,
But the Master bade him rise
And run to the camp with speed.
“And when you are there,” he said,
“Build up a mighty fire,
A fire of hemlock bark,
And take the Pitcher’s babe,
Whom she so dearly loves,
And has given to you to tend,
And throw it into the fire;
Then run to me for your life,
For verily thou wilt be
In direst need to do it.”

And as he had commanded
It was done. When the fire was hot
Nʾmokswes threw the imp,
The child of an evil mother,
Into the roaring flames,
And it was burned to death.
Then the sorceress who was maddened,
As you may well believe,
With rage, pursued the Sable,
Even as a starving wolf
Chases a rabbit in winter:
Nʾmokswes in great fear
Cried, “Oh my elder brother!”
And the sorceress yelled: “Call out!
Call loudly as you can!
For to save your life you must run
As far as the distant island
Where I left him long ago.”
But at the word the Master
Stepped forward, and as he faced her
Said: “He need not run so far.”

Then, seeing him, fear came o’er her,
But laughing aloud to hide it,
She said: “I only chased him
In sport, for I truly love him.”
But the Master answered grimly,
“I know thee and thy love,
And also all thy tricks,
Thou who art truly a devil.”
Then feeling that his power
Of magic was returning,
He used his mighty will,
And the will awoke to might,
And before his breath the sorceress
Was driven backward lightly,
Like a leaf before the wind
Till her back was against a tree;
Then he said to her, “Remain
Ever attached to the bark,”
And so indeed she remained,
Though not as the Master meant.

Then the Master and his brother
Together went to the camp;
Great was the joy when he came.

The Pitcher had a hatchet,
And so with much ado
She cut herself (or himself),
In time away from the tree.
The Black Cats heard her chopping,
Pounding and chopping all night;
And wondered what it might be.
She came to them in the morning,
But a fragment from the tree
Ever adhered to her back:
So they laughed at her in scorn,
And sang together these words:

“He who made the chief
Stay on a distant island,
Is now stuck by the chief
Fast with his back to a tree.”

It is said she turned to a toad
Which bears to this day on its back
A hump, or the piece of wood
Which was carried away from the tree.
Though another legend has it
That, as during all her life
She had tormented men
With her insatiate longing,
She was changed to a mosquito
Which preys on them in the night,
The blood-thirsty stinging Tʾsiso
Ever a-stinging and singing:
“Give me thy life and blood.”
It is said it was at Fresh-Water,
After she left Bar Harbor,
That she changed into the insect
Which ever will bear her name.

Pûjinskwes had many children
Whose fathers were giants and monsters,
Sorcerers and demons,
But, as they all were hideous,
She stole from the Indian women
Their fairest babes, and pretended
That they were all her own.
Among these was a comely youth,
And as he grew older he wondered
That most of his brothers and sisters
Were dark and like the devils
While he, and a few, were fair.
So one day he asked Pûjinskwes
Why it was? She answered laughing:
“The dark were born in the darkness,
But thou, my son, by day.”

FOOTNOTES:

[40] There was an Indian village.

[41] This couplet indicates the metre into which most of the original can be resolved.