Creation Myths of Primitive America Part 45

"Here it is," said the Tenna.

The Haka looked at the pointed pine bark, laughed, and said: "That is no arrow-head; that is nothing but pine bark. If I stab myself behind with your arrow-head, it won't hurt me. I shall not die."

"Let me see you stab yourself," said the Tenna.

"Look at me. I'll stab myself behind with it."

The Haka stabbed himself, and the Tenna's arrow-head broke; it did not hurt him a bit. "You see," said he, "I am not dying."

"Let me see your arrow-head," said the Tenna.

He gave the arrow-point, and the Tenna stabbed himself in the same way that the Haka had. The arrow-head was very sharp and went into him, cut him,--cut his intestines. He fell over and lay on the ground, lay there groaning.

"You see that my arrow-head is good; it will kill any one," said the Haka.

Right away the Tenna was dying; very soon he was dead. When the Tennas saw that their brother was dead, they rushed at the ten Hakas and killed them hand to hand before they could use arrows, before they could save themselves.

The Tennas went home, but the Hakas did not go home that evening.

Next morning early one of the Tennas came to the house of the Hakas, and called out,--

"Come to the fire, cousins; come to the fire. We will meet you there.

Oh, cousins, it is time to go hunting; be up. Your brothers who went yesterday are going again to-day."

"We will go," said the Hakas, who did not know that their brothers were killed.

The Tennas had a fire in the same place as the first day, and were there waiting. After a time the ten Hakas came and stood at the fire in the same way as their brothers had stood a day earlier. They did not quarrel now, but went to the woods soon. The Tennas had everything ready for hunting; other Tennas were hidden in the woods, and ten more Hakas were killed by them that day.

On the third morning a Tenna came to the Hakas and called,--

"Cousins, it is time to be up, time to hunt. Your brothers of yesterday and the day before are all waiting."

"We will go, we will go," said the Hakas.

The fire was ready; the Tennas were there. They came earlier, and acted just as they had acted the second day. Ten more Hakas were killed by them that day.

The Hakas would not go on the fourth day. The Tennas began now to kill Hakas whenever they found them out hunting, or fishing, whenever they saw them in the woods anywhere. When the Haka women went to dig roots, or find worms, or gather acorns, the Tennas killed them wherever they caught them. When the children went out to play or went to get water, they killed them. The Tennas killed on till only one old woman, Tsuwalkai Marimi, and her grandson, Tsawandi Kamshu, were left of all the Hakas.

One evening Tsawandi Kamshu hung his bow (an old bow bound around closely with deer sinew) over his bed on the south side of the sweat-house. With this bow he hung an otter-skin quiver full of arrows.

"My grandmother," said he in the night, "I may not come back to-morrow. If anything happens, the bow and the quiver and all that are with them will fall on the bed. You will know then that some one has killed me. But a child will rise from the spittle which I have left near the head of the bed; a little boy will come up from the ground."

Tsuwalkai Marimi listened, said nothing, made no answer. Tsawandi Kamshu went out the next morning at daybreak, stayed out all that day.

At dusk the bow fell with the quiver.

The old woman began to cry. She cried bitterly. "All our people are dead," said she. "All our people are gone, and I am alone."

She went around crying; went along the four sides of the house; went to where the bows, arrows, and otter-skin quivers were hanging; cried all that night, cried all the next day.

The Tennas watched for the old woman, watched closely. They wanted to kill her, but they could not break, into the house, and she would not go out to them. They wanted to kill her and put an end to the last of the Hakas.

While Tsuwalkai was crying the second night, the Tennas were near the house listening and watching.

"The old woman is laughing," said they. "She is having some feast; that is why she is laughing. She must be glad, that old woman."

Tsuwalkai heard these words of her enemies. "Oh, Tennas, do not talk that way," said she. "Something may happen yet that will hurt you.

Some one may come who will make your hearts sore. You may drop tears yet, you may be sorry."

The old woman cried the third night and third day. The fourth night she dropped no tears, but she could not sleep. In the middle of the fourth night she heard crying on the ground near Tsawandi Kamshu's sleeping-place. A little baby was crying, rolling, struggling, wailing. The old woman listened, she heard "U na, u na." She was frightened at first.

"I must be dreaming of a baby, I must be dreaming," said she. "Oh, my people are making me dream. I hear a noise like the crying of a baby in my sweat-house. Oh, it is no baby; I am only dreaming."

The baby cried on, kept crying. The old woman went to the spot where the crying was, looked, found a baby covered with dirt, mud, and ashes. She had not carried the ashes out since her grandson had gone; she could not carry them. The Tennas were watching outside for her, watching to kill the old woman. The baby rolled around in the dirt and the ashes.

"I don't think any one brought that baby into this house," said the old woman to herself. "Tsawandi Kamshu said that a baby would come from the ground, would rise from his spittle. Maybe this is his spirit that has come back and is a baby again. I will call this baby Tsawandi Kamshupa."

She took up the baby, a little boy, washed him, washed him all night, the little child was so dirty. She washed him in cold water, and he grew while she washed. She washed him till morning, but gave him no food.

The Tennas heard now the noise of two people inside. Tsuwalkai Marimi felt glad, she had the company of this little boy. All day and two nights she washed the child. He ate nothing.

"I want you to live and grow large, little boy," said the old woman.

"I want you to grow quickly; you will be a great help to me."

The little boy did not know what was said yet. She washed the child, talked three days and three nights to him. The little boy could creep around the house now, could creep through every part of it. She washed him in the night, in the day; washed him often. He grew very fast. In ten days he was a man full grown. He could talk now as well as any one, and one day he asked the old woman,--

"What house is this? What people live here?"

She told him the whole story of her people; told how all had been killed by the Tennas in the woods, in the fields, on the water.

"I am sorry to hear what you tell," said he.

He asked now for a bow. She gave him a fresh one. He broke it.

"I want one to kill birds outside with it."

"You must not go out," said the old woman; "bad people are near us."

"I only want to kill birds. Whose arms are these?" asked he, pointing to knives, bows, and arrows on the walls.

"Oh, it makes me sorry to tell you, it makes me sorry to talk of them.

These are the arms of many men. The Tennas killed all of them."

She went to the west side of the house and gave him bows. He broke one after another. He broke every bow on the walls except one. When he came to his own bow, his old bow, he laughed. He took it himself without asking. He tried and could not break it; tried again, laughed, and was glad.

"Tsuwalkai, whose bow is this?" asked he.

"That was the bow of a good man."