Chapter VIII: Part 8

The day that Tsmuk started for the island, his daughter had a little girl. After fasting, Góshgoise wanted to go to his own home, for he was hungry. He was a great hunter, but he couldn’t hunt in Tsmuk’s country, and he couldn’t eat what the Tsmuk people ate.

“You mustn’t go,” said his mother-in-law; “you must wait for the canoe.”

He went to the top of the high mountain, and looking off, saw on the water something as big as a hill. “That must be an island,” thought he. When he went back to Tsmuk’s house, he said to his mother-in-law: “In the water there is an island as big as a hill.”

“That must be the canoe,” said the mother-in-law, and she went out to see.

As soon as Tsmuk and his son left the island, they fell asleep, and they slept till they were near land. Old Tsmuk woke up first. He wanted to talk; he shook his son, and asked: “What do you think of your brother-in-law?”

“I like him,” said the son.

That moment the canoe stopped; it was sinking, but the old woman spoke to it, called: “Come farther! Come farther!” The canoe stopped sinking. She made a rope of deerskin, threw one end of it to Tsmuk and began to pull the canoe toward land. Under her arm she had her daughter’s baby.

When Tsmuk saw the baby, he was glad; he wanted to get ashore quickly. He went to the end of the canoe and ran forward to jump, but he hit the canoe and pushed it away. The old woman had to talk a long time and make the wind blow in every direction, before she could get it back again. Old Tsmuk was so scared that he couldn’t speak, and he couldn’t hear.

His wife was scared and mad; she screamed to him: “You have made lots of trouble. You will no longer be a person; you will be darkness, to be used when people want to sleep!” And so it was.

Góshgoise and his wife went to his grandmother’s house, and old woman Tsmuk and her sons went with them. The daughter kept the ball of light by her side, and when people saw them coming they were scared, and said: “Those people are coming to kill us.” But as soon as the grandmother saw them, she said: “That man is my grandson!” Then every one was glad.

After that, Góshgoise lived in his own country, with his wives, his grandmother, and all his kin.

KAIUTOIS FOOLS WUS

CHARACTERS

Kaiutois Wolf
Wus Fox

Kaiutois was sick for a long time, and he was alone in his house. One day Wus went to see him and Kaiutois said: “I want you to find me something to eat; I am hungry.”

Wus killed some mice, put them in a basket, and carried them to Kaiutois. Kaiutois ate them at one mouthful and said: “I feel better, but I am weak, for I am hungry. You must call deer and try to kill one. Call loud so they can hear, and say: ‘Come and dance. Big-ribs is going to die.’ When they come, you must kill a white-faced one; they are the fattest.”

Wus called: “All those who live in the mountains, come! The man who has killed so many people is dying. I am going to have a dance. I am glad.”

The deer didn’t hear, so Wus called again: “Big-ribs, the man who drives you around and kills you, is dying. Come and dance!”

That time Big deer heard, and said: “Get ready; Wus wants us to dance with him. Big-ribs is dying.”

When they started, Wus saw them and called to Kaiutois: “They are coming! they are coming!”

Kaiutois lay down and Wus wrapped him up so no one could see him. When deer crowded into the house, Wus took a club and began to dance; every time he came to Kaiutois, he struck him with the club. The deer danced and raised a terrible dust.

At last Big deer said: “That is enough; we have a long way to go before dark.”

Wus said: “If this man doesn’t die to-night, I will call you again to-morrow.”

The white-faced deer went first. They looked so big that Wus was scared; he didn’t touch them. The last to go was a fawn. Wus told him to wait, and when the big ones were out of sight, Wus killed the little one.

Kaiutois ate him and complained that he hadn’t enough. He said: “It is just as if I hadn’t eaten a mouthful. I didn’t tell you to catch that little lean fawn; I told you to kill a big, white-faced deer. To-morrow you must call to the wŭyĕs (mountain sheep). Maybe it will be easier to kill one of them. They live among the rocks.”

The next morning Wus called: “Those who always live among the rocks, come and dance. The man who runs after you and kills you is going to die, and I am glad. When he killed a deer, he drove me off; he never gave me a bite. Come and dance with me!”

Wus watched, and when he saw them coming, he told Kaiutois.

Kaiutois said: “Wrap me up tight. When they are through dancing, kill one that has never had young; they are the best.”

When the wŭyĕs were in the house, Wus took up a club, and they all began to dance. They danced a long time and raised a terrible dust. When they were ready to go, they looked so big that Wus was afraid; he let them all go but the last one, a little fellow. He held him back, and said: “Wait, wait a minute, you will get pushed down if you go in that crowd.”

When the large ones were out of sight, Wus killed the little one and told Kaiutois to get up and eat.

Kaiutois couldn’t stand up; he was too sick; so Wus fed him. Kaiutois said: “This meat is too soft, and there isn’t enough of it. I shall never get well if I don’t have plenty to eat. You must kill something that is fat and old.”

Wus said: “Maybe I could, if you would help me.”

Kaiutois found him a heavier club and told him to call the antelopes. Wus called: “Antelopes, come and dance with me. The man who has eaten so many of your people is almost dead. He will die quickly if we dance.”

When Wus saw them coming, Kaiutois said: “Cover me with something thin; maybe I’ll catch one.”

Wus stood on the top of the house and danced, and sang: “I’m glad Kaiutois is going to die. He always drove me away when he had anything to eat.” When the antelopes were all in the house, Wus told them to stand around and see him dance on Kaiutois. He jumped up and down on Kaiutois, while Kaiutois looked at the antelopes and picked out the one he wanted,—the fattest one. When they were through dancing, and ready to go, Wus caught hold of the fat antelope. It came near carrying him off, but Kaiutois jumped up and killed it.

Kaiutois ate the meat and fat and gave the intestines to Wus. He felt stronger then, and said: “Maybe I will get well if I can get out in the woods. Maybe I can kill big game again.”

Wus helped him out, and after a while Kaiutois told him to call deer. He said: “I’ll go into the house and wrap up in a blanket, and when they are almost through dancing, you must say: ‘This man is dead. Throw him out!’ When they throw me out, I will run at them and kill as many as I can.”

Wus called: “I want everybody who lives on the mountains and among the rocks to come. Kaiutois is almost dead. This is his last day, we must all dance!”

Everybody came, for everybody was glad. When they had danced enough, they threw Kaiutois out and started for home. Kaiutois ran after them and killed a great many. Wus helped him all he could. Kaiutois told him he should have as much as he wanted to eat, but when the deer were piled up in the house, Kaiutois drove Wus away, told him to go and hunt mice for himself.

Kaiutois stayed in the house till he had eaten all the deer meat. Then he turned to a wolf and went off to the mountains. He never had a home again.

BLAIWAS AND THE HEAD

CHARACTERS

Blaiwas Eagle
Dásläts Panther
Ndúkis Hawk
Tcûskai Weasel
Wûlkûtska Marten

Blaiwas, Dásläts, Wûlkûtska, and other strong men, lived in a house on a high mountain. They were head men, and all the people around brought them meat. One day, Blaiwas said: “We had better let old man Ndúkis divide our meat.” They called Tcûskai, a fast runner, and sent him for Ndúkis.

Ndúkis had four brothers and a mother, and he lived in a brush house—just as we did long ago. Ndúkis went to Blaiwas’ house and divided the meat; he ate some, but he didn’t carry any to his mother or his brothers.

The next morning, when the head men were starting off to hunt, Ndúkis went with them. He hunted all day, but caught only one mouse. He ate the mouse and went home.

Blaiwas sent again for Ndúkis to come and divide the meat; when he had divided it the men began to make fun of him for being such a poor hunter. They made him open his mouth and then they threw meat into it. When he had swallowed all the meat he could, they sent him home.

Old woman Wûlkûtska and her two daughters lived at the foot of the mountain. There was no one to kill game for them, and sometimes the mother was almost starved. One day she said to her daughters: “Great hunters live on the top of the mountain; they always have lots of deer meat. You must go there and get husbands.”

One of the girls asked: “How can we go; we don’t know where their house is?”

The mother said: “There is only one big house. You will know Blaiwas when you see him, for he flies without moving his wings.”

When the girls came to the top of the mountain, they sat down to rest and watch for Blaiwas. They hadn’t been there long when they saw Ndúkis coming.

He was out of breath, for it was hard for him to fly high.

The elder sister said: “There is Blaiwas; he flies just as mother said he did.”

The younger sister said: “No, that isn’t Blaiwas.” They watched him till he flew down among the rocks; then the elder sister said: “His house is down there; we must follow him.”

When Ndúkis got home, he was so nearly dead that he fell into the house. His mother jumped on him, and asked: “What is the matter?” (He knew that the girls were watching him and he had tried to fly as Blaiwas did.) The old woman kept asking what had happened, but Ndúkis wouldn’t tell.

When the sisters came in sight of the house, the elder said: “That is Blaiwas’ house.”

The younger said: “Mother told us that Blaiwas’ house was large; that one is small. It isn’t Blaiwas’ house.” The elder sister scolded her and pulled her along.

When Ndúkis saw the girls coming, he told his mother to hurry and fix a good place for them to sit.

“What shall I fix it with?” asked the old woman. They had no mats or blankets.

“Oh, anything,” said Ndúkis. “You must watch, and if the girls sit down near the house, you must bring them in. They are sisters; they saw me flying and they followed me.”

When the girls came to the top of the house, the old woman told Ndúkis. He turned his eyes up, as Blaiwas did, and sent her to bring them in. The girls saw him turn his eyes, and the elder said: “Yes, that is Blaiwas. See what big eyes he has.” She went in and sat down by him.

When Blaiwas and the head men came home, they sent Tcûskai to tell Ndúkis to come and divide the meat. Ndúkis said: “Why do they always send for the chief to divide their meat? I am tired of it.” He didn’t want to leave the girls.

When the meat was divided, the head men told Ndúkis to open his mouth. Then they amused themselves by throwing pieces of meat at him. They fed him the livers and intestines, parts which they didn’t like. When he had eaten all he could, he started for home; on the way he thought: “What shall I feed those girls with?”

When he couldn’t think of anything else, he said: “I will cut some of the meat off from my legs,” and he did so. When he gave the pieces to his mother to cook, she asked: “Why didn’t you bring more? Here isn’t half enough for the girls to eat.”

The younger sister tasted of the meat, and said: “This isn’t deer meat. This tastes badly.” The elder sister scolded her. The younger said: “You think this man is Blaiwas, but I know he isn’t.”

Ndúkis acted as much like Blaiwas as he could.

The next morning Blaiwas and the head men went to hunt for deer. Ndúkis didn’t go; he wanted to stay with the girls. At night the hunters came back with deer hanging in their belts, as men hang squirrels in their belts now.

Blaiwas said: “Old man Ndúkis is getting lazy. Tell him to come and divide this meat.” Ndúkis held back, scolded, and said: “Why do they always send for the chief? I won’t go.” But he wanted to go and have plenty to eat.

After he had been gone a while, the younger sister said: “Let us go and see how that man divides meat.” They followed his trail till they came to a big house. They crept up carefully and looked in. Ndúkis was sitting by the ladder, and men were throwing meat into his mouth. The sisters saw Blaiwas and then they knew that it was his house.

The elder sister was ashamed, and they both started for home.

Ndúkis knew what had happened, and so did Blaiwas; and they followed the girls. Blaiwas caught up with them first, and when Ndúkis came, the two men began to quarrel. Blaiwas’ four brothers came and so did Ndúkis’ brothers, and there was a big fight.

The eldest Blaiwas said to the sisters: “I am going to cut off Ndúkis’ head and carry it above the sky. You mustn’t look up. If you do, the head will fall and kill my brothers.”

The five Blaiwas brothers killed the five Ndúkis brothers: then the eldest brother cut off Ndúkis’ head and flew away with it. He was almost to the sky when the sisters looked up; they couldn’t help it. That minute the head fell to the ground. It flew at the four Blaiwas brothers and killed them all.

The head was the husband of the two sisters. The younger sister was afraid of the head; she wouldn’t stay where it was. The elder sister put it in her basket and carried it on her back; she cried all the time.

After a while, the head asked: “What do you see?”

“I see a deer,” said the woman.

“Climb up as high as you can, then take me out of the basket, and put me down, looking toward the deer.”

The woman got as high as she could and put the head down. “Now look,” said the head. It flew straight at the deer and killed it. The woman put the head back in her basket, then camped.

The head said: “Put me where I can watch you.”

She made a sort of scaffold and put the head on it. Then she cut up the deer and hung the meat on a tree to dry. When the meat was dry and the woman was ready to go home, the head said: “You must put meat in the basket; then put me in, and put meat on top of me.”

The woman thought she would go and see Kumush, for maybe he could do something for her husband. On the road she wouldn’t speak; she was afraid that if she saw a deer the head would kill it, and she would have to dry the meat.

When Kumush saw the woman, he said: “I must have that woman for my daughter,” and he asked her: “Have you anything to eat?”

She put down the basket, and when Kumush looked at the meat, she said: “Don’t take much.”

Kumush thought: “Why does she say that? Maybe she is hiding something,” and he began to pull the meat out of the basket.

The woman went into the house, for she was afraid. The head had great eyes and long hair, and when Kumush came to it he was scared; he threw down the meat and ran into the house.

The head called out: “What are you doing? Take me into the house, I don’t want to stay out here.” (The head could fly when it got mad or wanted to kill something, but not at other times.)

Kumush said to the woman: “This head is your husband; we must bring it in.” He fixed a place for it and carried it in. The next morning, Kumush said: “I am going to make a sweat house for this man. I like him; I will make a body for him.” (He wanted to kill the head.)

Kumush made a sweat house and covered it with five kinds of stones. He heated rocks red hot and put them inside, and carried the head in and put it down by the rocks; then he went out and fastened up the place with stones.

Soon the head called out: “I’ve sweat enough. Take me out!” Nobody came. It screamed louder: “Take me out quick! If you don’t, I will get out and kill you both!” When nobody came, the head flew up and struck the stones on top of the house. It broke four of them, then its strength gave out, and it died.

Kumush said: “I don’t hear any noise; maybe your husband is dead.”

The woman said: “Wait a little; don’t open the place yet. If he is alive, he will kill us.”

When Kumush opened the sweat house, he saw a beautiful young man lying on the ground; but he was dead. Kumush felt sorry. The woman felt sorry, too. Kumush took the body out of the sweat house; then he piled up logs and burned it. When it was burning, he said: “Hereafter, people will do this way: When their friends die, they will burn them as I am burning this man.” And that is the way we did till white men came.

WUS AND HIS TROUBLES

CHARACTERS

Kuyas Red Ants
Pshagéknik Gopher
Slikwis Fire-drill
Tálwas Hot-Water Baskets
Wus Fox

Ten Tálwas brothers lived in two houses, five in one house, and five in the other; near by, in two other houses, lived the ten Slikwis brothers. One day Wus came from the west and went into the house of five of the Slikwis brothers.

“Oh,” said Wus, “what are these nice long sticks here around the fire for? They would make good gambling sticks. I will take them. If I meet people, I can gamble with them and beat them with such nice sticks.”

He took all five of the Slikwis brothers in one hand.

As soon as he had them, they blazed up high. They were mad at him for picking them up.

He threw them down and ran out screaming: “What can those things be? Are they people?” He cried, for his hand was burned.

When he came to the second house, he looked in and said: “Those look like the same kind of sticks, but I will try to pick them up. I could beat everybody if I had such nice gambling sticks.” As soon as he took the sticks up, he screamed, threw them down, and ran out of the house. His hands were burned and his hair was singed. “Oh,” said he, “I never heard that such kind of people lived around here. I don’t like them; they are bad people.”

He went farther and came to the house of the five Tálwas brothers. When he went in, he saw water baskets standing near the fire.

“Oh,” said he, “I am glad to see water; I am dry. Everybody is gone; the water is left to cook with when they come back.” Wus looked for something to eat, and when he couldn’t find anything, he said: “I will wash my hands in one of these baskets, and I will drink out of another.” He put his hands into one of the baskets; the water boiled up and scalded him. He screamed, then all the baskets boiled up and threw water. Wus was terribly scalded. He ran out of the house, then looked back, and said: “What can that be? I am almost dead!”

He went on till he came to the second house. He looked in, and when he saw five other baskets, he said: “They would kill me; I won’t touch them.” He hunted inside and outside of the house for something to eat, but couldn’t find anything. He was so dry that he crept up to one of the baskets and put his little finger into the water; it was cold water. He thought: “Now I will have a good drink. This is just water; that over there is something else. This is such water as I drink when I am traveling.” He began to drink out of the smallest basket.

That was the youngest brother, and he didn’t get mad. He knew how his brothers had scalded Wus and he felt sorry for him. He thought: “Let him drink of me if he wants to; I will be cold for him.” But the other brothers began to jerk and gurgle and bubble up; they were mad at Wus. Wus got scared and ran out.

He stood at the door and looked in. The four brothers boiled up and threw water over the house. Wus was terribly scared; he ran as fast as he could till he came to two other houses. Those were the houses of the ten Kuyas brothers. He went into the first house; there was a big fire burning. He looked around and wondered where the people were who built the fire. He thought: “I will wait till they come; maybe they will give me something to eat, since they are going to cook.”

Wus waited till the middle of the day, then he said: “I am tired of waiting; I’ll hunt around and maybe I can find something to eat.” He couldn’t find anything, then he said: “I will stay till night; they will come when it gets dark,” and he lay down by the fire.

The five brothers were sitting around the fire, but Wus didn’t see them. When he lay down, one brother bit him. He jumped up and screamed: “What bit me?” Another brother bit his leg, a third one bit his hand. Wus screamed: “What can it be that bites so?” And he threw burning coals around the house to kill what had bitten him. The five brothers were mad, and they all bit him.

Wus ran out of the house, came to the second house, looked in and saw a fire burning. Five brothers were sitting around the fire, but Wus couldn’t see them. Those five brothers jumped on him and bit him; the other five came in and helped them. Wus screamed with pain, but they didn’t stop biting. They killed him and had almost eaten him up when Pshagéknik came in.

He saw Wus, and asked: “Old man, why are you sleeping so long?”

That minute Wus jumped up, and said: “Oh, I’m sleepy!” He went out of the house and traveled on toward the north.

CEDAR BIRD’S DAUGHTERS MARRY BULL SNAKE

CHARACTERS

Kéis Rattlesnake
Kékina Lizard
Kéwe Eel
Kûlta Otter
Moi Squirrel
Ndúkis Duck-hawk
Tcoóks Crane
Tusasás Joker (Skunk)
Wámanik Bull Snake
Wískäk Cedar-bird
Witkátkis A Hawk
Ygiak A Bird “that never sleeps.” (English name unknown.)

Ndúkis’ house was on the bank of Klamath Lake and near it was the house of old man Tcoóks. On the south side of the lake lived Wískäk and her two daughters. The daughters liked the Shasta people; they went often to see them and carry them presents. Once, on the way home, the girls stopped to dig roots west of where Ndúkis and Tcoóks lived. Ndúkis saw them. He thought: “Those are nice-looking girls. They dig roots fast. I like those girls.”

Now Witkátkis came to visit Ndúkis and his son; they were kin. Ndúkis’ wife said: “I’m glad you have come, there are nice-looking girls living right south of here. They are good workers; they dig roots summer and winter, you should get one of those girls for a wife.”

“I am afraid they wouldn’t like me,” said Witkátkis.

“Where do they live?” asked Ndúkis’ son.

“You have traveled all around,” said his mother. “You ought to know where they live. When you are on the mountain, look toward the south, and you will see a big house; they live in that house.”

The next time the sisters came from Shasta, they camped on the way, and in the night one said to the other: “I can’t sleep; I feel that somebody is looking at me.”

“I feel that way, too,” said her sister. They got up and started for home.

Ndúkis’ mother said: “If you want to see those girls, you must go to the mountain and watch for them. After a while you will see them digging roots. Don’t go to their house. Wait a little while and watch them, then go down the mountain till you come to a small house. An old man lives in that house. He is kin of old man Tcoóks. Go in and talk to him.”

Ndúkis went to the mountain and soon he heard the girls singing. They always sang when they worked. He watched them and saw how quickly they dug roots; then he went to Tcoóks’ house.

Tcoóks had been fishing. He was cooking fish when Ndúkis got there. “What did you come for?” asked the old man. “You never thought of me before—young men should travel around and see people; that is the way to be strong. Do you want some fish?”

Tcoóks’ wife said: “Ndúkis never eats our kind of food; he eats ducks.”

“Cook him a duck,” said Tcoóks, but he thought in his head: “Why doesn’t he eat fish?”

The old woman cooked a duck and gave it to the young man. He ate all around the neck, but didn’t eat the rest of the duck.

“Why don’t you eat?” asked Tcoóks. “My old woman is kin to you; you should eat lots. In a strange house it would be right not to eat much; here it’s different.”

“He never eats much,” said the old woman. Ndúkis didn’t say anything.

“You are a young man, you should have a wife,” said Tcoóks. “There are nice-looking young women in the next house; they are great workers.”

“They wouldn’t like me,” said Ndúkis.

“Once Kûlta tried to buy those girls,” said Tcoóks. “They wouldn’t go with him. They said they didn’t belong to the water and they wouldn’t marry a man who lived in the water. Maybe they will go with you; you live on land. Every time a rain is over, they bring out nice things,—beautiful shells, and beads.”

“I want you to go and buy them for me,” said Ndúkis. “I am kind of scared.”

Tcoóks went to old woman Wískäk’s, and Ndúkis went home.

Tcoóks said: “Don’t you get tired of your girls sometimes? They are old enough to get a man. They have lived single a long time.”

“Kûlta wanted them but I couldn’t make them go with him,” said Wískäk.

“My nephew wants them,” said Tcoóks. “He told me to ask you for them. He will give you nice things.”

The girls were digging roots; when they started for home, and were near the house, the elder said: “I hear somebody talking. Some man is in our house. Let us sit down outside.”

“No,” said the younger. “It is better to go in.” They went in, sat by the fire, and held their heads down. The elder whispered: “I wonder what Tcoóks is here for?”

Their mother asked: “Will you marry this man’s nephew?”

The elder sister asked the younger: “What will you do?”

“Ndúkis lives on high rocks,” she said. “Maybe we would fall off. I don’t like high rocks.”

Wískäk said: “I knew you would say something bad.” Then she asked the elder sister: “Will you go with him?”

“No. Why do you ask a second time? Ndúkis is not like us. He doesn’t live the way we do. I wish you would let us alone.”

Tcoóks said: “I am afraid of Ndúkis. He can beat everybody by getting up early. That is the kind he is. If you go around digging roots, he will be watching you. He won’t want you, but he will be mad. That is his way.”

The next morning, when the girls started off, they said: “We are going to Mlaiksi.” [14]

“Why do you go there so often?” asked their mother. “You had better not go to-day, you might meet Ndúkis.”

“We will go where we like,” said the elder sister. “We are not afraid; Ndúkis can’t hurt us.”

They started early, but Ndúkis was on the mountain, watching for them. The elder sister walked ahead. Every step she took she stumbled, as if the steps were telling her that she was going to meet somebody. At last she said to her sister: “My steps stumble. That means something.”

“Tcoóks told us Ndúkis was a bad man when he got mad. It is your fault if we meet trouble,” said the younger girl.

They looked around as they climbed the mountain, but Ndúkis was sitting on the highest rocks and they didn’t look high enough to see him. When they were on the other side of the mountain, the younger sister looked back. She saw Ndúkis and screamed. She ran one way, and her sister ran another. They were frightened. They went into thick bushes and stayed there a long time. Ndúkis sat on the rocks and laughed to see how frightened they were. He sat there till midday, then went home.

That day young man Moi was out hunting for deer. He was fine-looking. He wore a beaded buckskin band around his head. All at once he came upon the Wískäk girls hiding in the bushes. “Who are you?” asked he. “You scared me.”

The elder sister said: “I know you; you are the little chief who lives by the river. You are our kin.”

“Come out of the bushes,” said Moi. “Who frightened you?”

“We saw Ndúkis watching us,” the elder sister said.

“He is a nice young man,” said Moi. “He won’t hurt you, but you can go with me if you are afraid of him.”

“No,” said the elder sister, “we are going to Mlaiksi.” And they traveled on.

When Ndúkis passed Tcoóks’ house, the old man asked: “Where have you been?”

“I have just been walking around,” said Ndúkis. “I met the two sisters. They were scared and ran into the bushes. I don’t like them.”

When Tcoóks told Wískäk that Ndúkis was mad at her daughters, she cried; she thought maybe he had killed them.

On the way home from Mlaiksi, the girls saw people digging roots in places where they had always dug.

When they told their mother, she said: “Stay in the house. I will go and see why they are digging around here.”

She took five steps and was there. The people were scared. They had never seen Wískäk, for she always stayed at home and sent her daughters to dig. When she found that they were getting all the roots, she went home, and said: “Come and help me; we must dig fast and get as many roots as we can.”

Those people lived near Shasta River. When they started, they sent word to all their kin that they were going off to dig roots, but they forgot to tell young man Wámanik, who lived on the north side of the digging place, so he started off alone.

The elder Wískäk girl said to her mother: “You go straight ahead: we will go on the north side, where there are nice long roots.” When they got there, the ground was turned up and all the roots were gone.

Wámanik was there. When he found that the roots had been dug, he was mad. He stood up tall and looked bright. The elder sister didn’t see him. The younger one saw him and ran.

Wámanik fell in love with her right away. He thought she was so nice-looking that he would like her for a wife, and in some way he took hold of her heart, so she wouldn’t get frightened. He followed her to the spring where she went to get water to drink.

Her sister was there. The younger asked: “Did you pass anybody?”

“No.”

“Then your eyes are poor, for I saw a nice-looking young man.”

The elder sister took her cap and was going to drink. Just then Wámanik stood up in the form of a snake. She screamed, dropped her cap, and ran off, when she came to where her mother was digging, she was so scared that her eyes were sticking out, and she couldn’t speak.

Her mother asked: “Why don’t you talk?”

After a while she said: “There is a big snake in the spring.”

“Well, well,” said her mother, “what kind of a man do you want? You can’t live single all your life.”

When the elder sister ran away, Wámanik turned to a nice-looking man. He came up to the younger girl and said: “I can be a great many different things. I am a spirit of this earth; I have seen you often, but I didn’t want to show myself to your sister; I wanted to frighten her. I don’t like her as well as I do you. I have heard you talk, and I want you for a wife, for I like you. I can turn to a snake, but I am a man, and I have lots of nice clothes.” Then he turned to a snake again, for he saw the old woman and her daughter coming.

On the way home the younger girl said to her mother: “Make a bed for us and put on our panther-skin blankets.”

Wámanik was under the ground just where the girls were sitting. In the night when they woke up, they felt somebody between them. At daylight Wámanik went down in the ground right where the bed was. Every night after that the girls changed. If a person saw them one day they didn’t know them the next. Wámanik came each night. In the daytime he was under the ground near where they were digging roots.

There was a Tusasás among the people digging roots, and he said: “I am going to marry those nice-looking girls. They are great workers; they will get me lots to eat.”

People knew now that Wámanik was the husband of old Wískäk’s daughters, and that that was why they looked different each morning, so they said to Tusasás: “If you make Wámanik mad, you won’t be a person long. He is a strong man; he can do anything.”

Tusasás said: “I am stronger than Wámanik. I am not afraid of him.”

Wámanik heard him talk about his wives and right away he was mad. He made Tusasás itch till he scratched the skin and flesh off from his body. People laughed at him, and said: “Maybe Wámanik will kill you; he is a great doctor.”

Wámanik said to Kéwe: “Go and tell Tusasás to stop making fun of my wives and stop talking about me. If he doesn’t, he’ll no longer be a person.”

Wámanik was bright like the sun, and both his wives were bright. He was so bright that people couldn’t go into old woman Wískäk’s house. He was a man at night and when he went to hunt for deer, but if he got mad, or didn’t want people to see him, he turned to a snake and went under the ground. He was a great hunter. There was lots of deer meat in the old woman’s house.

Wískäk’s brother had such a large family that his children were always hungry. Wámanik told his mother-in-law to send for him to come and get meat. The old woman sent a man for him, but the man came back alone, and said: “He won’t come.” That made the old woman cry; she said: “My kin hate us.”

The man said: “They are afraid of your son-in-law; that is why they don’t come here. They don’t want to see him.”

“I won’t hurt them,” said Wámanik; “they are my wives’ kin. I have no people; I belong to the Earth. I live under the mountains and under the water. Go and tell them not to be afraid of me; tell them to come. I am a person. Maybe they don’t know that.”

The man went back and talked nice, but they wouldn’t come. Then he said: “If you don’t come, you will make Wámanik mad.”

They all came. Wámanik gave nice things to the youngest boy. “Are you afraid of me now?” asked Wámanik. “I heard what you said. I can hear what people say when they are far away. I like you and I want you to like me.” The children ate lots. They felt glad.

One day old Wískäk said: “My girls are tired of digging roots, I want to dig sometimes.”

“They’ll never get tired,” said Wámanik, “they’ll always work. You are old and you must rest; you’ll die soon.”

Kékina said to Wámanik: “Your wives don’t love you. There is a young man after them all the time. They wanted to marry Ndúkis.”

That made Wámanik feel badly. In the evening, when he went to his mother-in-law’s house, he asked the elder sister: “Is any one in love with you and your sister?”

“No,” said the woman. “Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t like the way you talk. You don’t tell me the truth,” said Wámanik. “The first time I saw you, your eyes stuck out, as if you had seen somebody; you looked scared. I won’t keep you if somebody else wants you.”

Old Wískäk had been after red bark to color roots; when she came home she found her younger daughter crying. The girl told her what Wámanik had said. The old woman was angry, but she didn’t know what to do.

Kékina went to Ndúkis, and said: “Wámanik is saying bad things about you.”

Ndúkis listened and heard what Wámanik said to his wife. The next morning he went early, before anybody was up in the world, and sat on a rock where he could see old Wískäk’s house; he looked awful ugly. Ygiak, a man who never slept, was out hunting for sticks; when he saw Ndúkis, he was so scared that he dropped his sticks and ran home.

At midday Ndúkis came down from the rocks. Somebody ran into Lok’s house, and said: “There is going to be a great fight. Ndúkis is mad at Wámanik and he will kill him.”

Lok said: “Ndúkis has a big spirit. Wámanik is strong, too. They will scare each other, but they won’t fight.”

Old Wískäk was willing Ndúkis should kill her son-in-law, for she didn’t like him. She said to her daughters: “I am going to leave you; I have lived with you long enough. I don’t like your husband. When he wanted you, why didn’t you say that you couldn’t live under the ground, that you would smother? You should have taken Ndúkis; he is your kind.” As she talked, she turned to a bird, and when she was through talking, she flew off to the mountains. She did it herself; she didn’t want to be a person any longer. But each day she came back and talked to her daughters; she wanted to make them willing to turn to birds and go with her to the mountains, for she could not go far away while they were persons.

People heard Wískäk talk as she flew around. The youngest daughter said: “I wouldn’t talk so much. You wanted us to marry. Wámanik is as good as Ndúkis.”

“Ndúkis doesn’t turn to a snake every time he goes out of the house,” said the old woman.

The elder daughter cried all the time, and didn’t eat anything. She didn’t want to go to the mountains; she didn’t want to stay with Wámanik, and she didn’t want to marry Ndúkis. She said to her mother: “You mustn’t come around where people live; you must hide among the brush and trees.”

Wískäk didn’t like that. She said: “I will turn you into a snake, and when you cross the road in front of people they will throw dirt in your face. You will deceive people; you will pretend to be kind, then you will bite them.”

She turned her daughters into snakes, and then flew off toward the east. As she started, she called out to her son-in-law: “You will never be a man again; you will be a snake, with a body like your panther-skin blanket.”

The old woman kept going east till she came to a place where there were low cedar trees; she made her home there. She talks like a person yet, and that place is full of her kin.

LOK AND HER CHILDREN

CHARACTER

Lok Bear

Lok was a widow with two children; she lived with her mother. The old woman took care of the roots. She put them in a hole and slept with her head near it. When her daughter brought roots home and poured them into the hole, the children wanted some of them to eat, but the old woman said: “First I must give roots to the fire, to the mountains, the trees, the house, and the springs.” (This is the custom.)

The daughter said: “My children are hungry; you must give them some of the roots.”

Lok said: “You don’t know about these things. If they get sick, you will blame me.”

The old woman took roots and talked to the mountains; she said: “You must give us wood that won’t burn us.” To the springs she said: “Old grandmother, you always have water under your care; give us plenty of good water.” To the house she said: “You know us, our house that we built.” She talked to each part of the house. (If people didn’t talk to the posts of the house they would fall. The woman who told this myth said she had known of such cases.) To the posts she said: “Hold up this house; be good to us.”

She packed away all the roots they dug, ten large basketfuls, then she and her daughter brought in wood enough to last till spring.

The old woman said: “Grandchildren, I want you to bring me gum from the cedar trees.” When they brought it, she covered her face with it and stopped up her eyes. Then she lay down with her head over the hole and didn’t go out of the house again all winter. Some mornings she woke up and gave a handful of roots to the children. In the night, when the children were asleep, she ate plenty of roots herself.

One morning her daughter asked: “How is it that rats are always gnawing; why don’t you kill them?”

“I wish you wouldn’t listen to everything,” said the old woman.

One morning she said to the little girl: “I wish you wouldn’t cry in the night.”

The mother said: “You don’t give the children enough to eat; they are hungry.”

“You don’t know about the winter,” said the old woman. “It’s going to be long, and our roots won’t last: the snow will be deep yet.”

The children were hungry, but their mother said: “You mustn’t cry, it makes your grandmother worse.”

The boy said: “Let us kill her; she has no eyes.”

“If we tried to kill her, she would kill us; you are small and I couldn’t run fast enough to get away from her.”

“What are you whispering about?” asked the grandmother.

“The children talk low because they are weak; you are starving them to death.”

One morning old Lok asked: “Which way does the snow come?”

The boy looked out, and said: “It comes from the north.”

“That shows it will be good weather to-morrow.” She gave the children a few roots.

The next day the old woman said: “I wish I had some meat to eat.”

“Stop!” said her daughter. “Don’t talk like that.” She was afraid that her mother wanted to kill the children and eat them.

The next morning the grandmother asked: “How does the sky look?”

The little boy said: “There are clouds.”

“Where are the clouds?”

“They are around Omisna.”

“That means rain,” said the old woman. “It won’t be long till spring comes.” She took out plenty of roots and pounded them for the children. (They were fooling her.)

The next day she sent the little girl to look at Mlaiksi.

The girl said: “Smoke is rising from the top of the mountain, as if someone had made a fire up there.”

The old woman was taking out a few roots, but she poured them back, and said: “There is going to be a great storm.”

The storm came. It put out their fire, and for four days old Lok didn’t move. Five days the children were without anything to eat; then she asked the little boy: “How does it look now?”

“It is raining.”

The old woman said: “If it rains, you can go and dig roots.”

The daughter cried and told her the children were starving. She gave them a few roots. The little boy said to his mother: “Why can’t we dig a hole near the roots and steal some of them?”

“I know what you are talking about,” said the old woman. “I know that it is winter yet.”

One morning she asked: “Is it spring?”

Her daughter said: “I don’t know,” and she told the children not to tell their grandmother anything about the weather. It rained and hailed. Every night the mother and children cried. Each morning they stamped on the ground to find out if it were soft. One day the mother went off, and when she came back she brought a few roots. The children were sitting out of doors, and she heard the old woman ask them: “Where is your mother?”

“She has gone for wood,” said the boy.

The mother put away some of the roots and gave the rest to the children.

The old woman asked: “Does it snow yet?”

The little boy said: “There is so much snow that I can’t see the tops of the trees.”

The grandmother put more gum on her eyes, rolled herself up tight, and lay still.

The mother made two pairs of straw moccasins, and the next morning started for roots. It was spring now, and she found plenty for her children to eat. While she was gone, the old woman asked: “Which way is the wind?”

“From the southwest,” said the boy. His mother had told him to fool his grandmother, and let her lie there all summer. The mother could make the wind blow—the wind was her medicine. Every time she found a fly in the house, she killed it with a porcupine quill, so the old woman wouldn’t know it was spring.

There were a good many of the Lok people around the place where the mother dug roots; she left some roots for them to take care of, and said: “In two days I will come back and bring my children.”

When she got home, she made moccasins for the children, and in the morning, when she was ready to start, she said to her mother: “It snows. I am tired of packing wood; I am going to take the children to the woods and keep a fire there; you never stay by the fire.”

The mother worked all day and dug a great many roots; she had a big basketful to put away. She wondered where she could put them so the old woman couldn’t find them. Then she thought of Keŏnise, a hill where Lok didn’t go. It was a long way off, but she carried the roots there and hid them.

When the children didn’t come back, the grandmother scratched around in the ashes, found live coals and melted the gum out of her eyes; then she tracked her daughter.

As soon as the daughter knew that her mother was coming, she went to the house, took the roots out of the hole, and threw them around everywhere.

When the old woman came back, the daughter said: “We won’t be persons any longer. In later times people will kill and eat us.”

The old woman said: “It is better so.”

They wandered off to the mountains, and from that time only a male bear and female bear live together, and they never have more than two children.

GÄK AND THE KAIUTOIS BROTHERS

CHARACTERS

Gäk Crow
Kaiutois Wolf
Kaltsik Spider
Kéwe Eel
Pakol Deer
Skóŭks Woodtick
Tcûskai Weasel
Tciwididik Road Runner
Tskel Mink

The eldest of the five Kaiutois brothers was a great man. The brothers were all good hunters; they had plenty to eat and to wear. Gäk lived near them, and when they went to hunt, he followed to find the game that ran off and died.

One day the brothers asked Gäk to go with them to visit Tskel and Tcûskai. They made deerskin moccasins to wear on the journey and told Gäk to make himself a pair out of antelope skin. They wanted to start before daylight. Gäk woke early and called the brothers.

They said: “We are up already,” but they were not.

Gäk said: “That isn’t true; nobody in the world can beat me in getting up.”

The brothers told Gäk to walk behind them. They traveled all day, then camped. That night Gäk’s medicine, slikwis (the fire-drill), woke him, and said: “Swallow me!” The youngest of the Kaiutois brothers thought: “How can Gäk swallow his fire-drill?” That minute the drill stuck in Gäk’s throat and choked him.

The eldest brother said: “Whoever thought this must unthink it, then Gäk will unchoke. If he dies, people will say we killed him. Who thought about his swallowing his slikwis?”

The youngest brother said: “I thought: ‘He can’t swallow such a long stick,’ but I don’t know how to unthink it, or how to talk the slikwis out of his throat.”

For a minute Kaiutois held his head in his hands—Gäk was almost dead—then he said to Gäk: “Since that is your medicine, it must come out of your throat.” The drill came out right away.

Gäk’s mother knew that he was choking, for the little fire-drill, that he had hung up in the smoke hole at home, fell.

The next day they got to Tskel’s house. Tskel was glad to see them; he told Tcûskai not to play tricks with the Kaiutois brothers or Gäk, for they were his kin.

Tskel and Tcûskai got deer meat for their visitors and Skóŭks, Tskel’s wife, cooked it. Tcûskai watched the men.

Gäk was ashamed of his moccasins; he took down Tcûskai’s quiver and his own, and said: “Let’s go and hunt.”

Tcûskai wouldn’t go; he looked at Gäk’s feet, and began to bother him. Gäk tried to hide his feet, then Tcûskai asked one of the five brothers: “Why don’t that old fellow sit still?”

Gäk got mad and wanted to go home. The eldest Kaiutois told him not to feel badly, but to stay; for those men were his kin.

Tskel said: “I am glad you came. My brother is so full of mischief that I can’t go visiting. I hunt, but many deer get away from me and die in the woods.”

“Gäk can track deer,” said Kaiutois; “he always finds ours.”

Tskel said: “I will go and tell him where I killed a deer yesterday; maybe he can find it.”

Tcûskai wanted to go, but Tskel told him to stay at home, that they would come back as soon as they found the deer.

Gäk tracked the deer and found it among brush and fallen trees. He called to Tskel: “Here it is!”

They skinned the deer. It was as fresh as if just killed. They made a fire and cooked some of the meat, then they started for home.

Tskel asked Kaiutois if he would let Gäk stay with him a while.

Kaiutois said: “Your brother is bad; he would tease him. My brothers never meddle with him; your brother might make him mad and he would kill you.”