Creation Myths of Primitive America Part 46

"He was a good man, I think," said Tsawandi Kamshupa; "why did he die?

There was a good man in this house; he had that bow; he was a great fighter."

Tsawandi Kamshupa tried again to break the bow with his feet and hands, but he could not.

"There was a good man in this house," said the old woman, "the best man of all the Haka people. That was his bow."

"I wished to go hunting to-day, but I will go very early to-morrow. I will go before daylight," said Tsawandi Kamshupa. "I am going to look around. I am going a short distance to hunt. I will come back; have no fear."

The old woman was afraid. She had lost the owner of the bow, the best of her grandsons.

"I will only go down south a little way," said he.

Early next morning he took a deerskin, wrapped it around his body, tied a belt around his waist, and took his arrows. There was dew on the gra.s.s yet. He looked down the mountain-side, saw many people near a big fire, and said,--

"I know who those people are; they are Teptewi" (Tenna women).

There were fifty of them. They had come to that swampy mountain-side early in the morning. They had come before daybreak to dig worms and gather clover. Each had a stick to dig worms with.

The young man stood watching these women, and said to himself: "What shall I do? These Tennas have killed all my people except my old grandmother. They tried to kill her. They will kill her and me if they can. What shall I do? There are a great many women there. I will kill a lone one to begin with, then hide my bow and quiver and go to those farther down."

He went along the slope somewhat, came to one Tenna woman, and killed her. The others did not see him, did not know that he was on the mountain, thought that all the Hakas were dead.

He opened the Tenna's throat, took her heart, put it inside his blanket, and left the body dead on the ground. The other Tenna women were working not far from a fire. These women had taken their teeth out and hung them on a tree near the fire. Whenever they were angry the women put these teeth in their mouths to bite with.

Tsawandi went along the mountain-side carefully. "I will go to that fire," thought he. Then he sprang up and stood near the fire, warmed his hands. The women did not see him yet. One looked up at the fire, but saw no one. "Hei!" cried he, "you women are out very early. Come here and warm yourselves. Cook worms for me; I am hungry, I want worms."

The women gave no answer, said nothing. They were afraid; they could not bite, for their teeth were out. "If I had my teeth, I would kill that man," thought each woman.

Tsawandi kept his eye on the teeth, which were at one end of the fire; he would let no woman come near them. "Come up! come up!" called he.

At last they came up and sat near the fire, but could not get their teeth. "I did not know that women go out in the morning so early,"

said he. "I saw a deer some distance back here and killed it. I was in a great hurry. I took only a small piece of meat."

He took out the heart, cut it into pieces, roasted them by the fire; then he gave some to each woman. The women were hungry, and were glad to get meat.

"Have you no bread?" asked Tsawandi.

"We have no bread," said the women.

"Well, I have acorn bread." He had no bread, but he put his hand in his bosom and thought, "I want bread of red flint meal." This bread came to his bosom, and he gave each woman a piece of it. "My grandmother makes good bread," said he. "I carry it with me always to show people and let them have some to eat. Every one likes my grandmother's bread."

The bread tasted well; all ate. He watched their teeth closely. Very soon a woman fell dead; then all fell quickly and died. He cut their hearts out--fifty hearts--and carried them under his deerskin. He went farther south now; ran quickly. He saw fifty more women working near a fire; went near the fire, sprang up to it, and cried,--

"Hu, hu! women, you are out early; why so early? It is cold; come warm your hands. Give me something to eat; give me worms and clover; give me something to eat, and I will give you something; I will give bread, I will give venison."

These women had come out to dig roots; their teeth were hanging on a tree near the fire. The Tenna women never kept their teeth in their mouths while they were working. "I wish my teeth were in my mouth,"

thought each woman, "I would kill that man."

All these fifty women came up to the fire, ate acorn bread as the others had eaten, and died.

From this fire Tsawandi Kamshupa went to another, and that morning he killed all the Tenna women who were out; not one was left alive, except a few who had remained at home in the sweat-house. He went farther south now; went to their sweat-house. It was still early morning. All the Tenna men were at home. "How shall I kill them?"

thought Tsawandi. "I will go into the house and say that I am sent by my brother to invite them to a feast and a hunt. They'll believe that."

He looked down from the top of the house. There were many Tennas there. All the Tenna men were in the sweat-house. Tsawandi Kamshupa went in boldly; sat near the fire, warming his hands. The Tennas whispered to each other, "That's my blood, sister; that's my blood, brother!" meaning, "he's my share; I'll eat him."

"Oh, you Tenna people, what are you talking of? I am your neighbor. I do not live very far from you, I am no stranger. I have come down here early this morning to invite you to a feast, to a hunt. Tsawandi Kamshu sent me down here to ask you; he would like to see you at his sweat-house."

"This one here looks like Tsawandi Kamshu himself," whispered some.

"Oh, no," whispered others. "Tsawandi Kamshu is dead this good while.

We killed him."

"What are you telling each other?" interrupted Tsawandi Kamshupa. "I am not Tsawandi Kamshu. He does not look like me. He is my brother. He sent me to ask you to hunt. I killed some deer on the way here, but could bring only their hearts. Here are the hearts."

He cut the hearts into pieces, gave them all to the Tennas. They roasted the hearts and ate them. He gave flint bread to them, as he had to the women on the mountain slope. All ate the bread, praised it, asked for more, ate it very eagerly. They began soon to fall on every side. Four Tennas only would not eat the flint bread. They closed the ground door, fastened it outside, went to the top of the sweat-house, and watched. Soon every Tenna in the sweat-house was dead.

Tsawandi Kamshupa looked up and saw the four Tennas there looking down at him. Their four heads were close together, and they looked very angry.

"Why are you four looking down here so? What are you watching for, what are you trying to do up there? The people down here have all gone to sleep, and can't talk with me. I want you men to talk a while. Come down, you, and talk with me; then I'll go home."

The four Tennas said nothing.

"You want to catch me; I know that. I will show you how I can jump."

They said nothing, watched sharply, sitting opposite each other with their long teeth sticking out. When he saw that they would not leave the opening, he said again, "I will show you how I can jump."

He bent to one side a little, shot up like an arrow, darted out between the four. The next thing the Tennas saw was Tsawandi Kamshupa in the field beyond the house.

When he had pa.s.sed through the opening, the Tennas closed their jaws with a snap, and almost bit each other's noses off. Their bite was too late.

Tsawandi Kamshupa now sent three arrows from his old bow. They went through the hearts of three Tennas; they dropped dead where they stood. The fourth ran away, ran with all his strength, was never seen in that place again. He ran northwest, and from that Tenna come all that are in the world in our time.

Tsuwalkai Marimi could go out now and dig roots. She was free to go anywhere. While digging one day she saw the strong stalk of s.h.i.tpayu sticking out of the ground. She dug around it and below the roots, found a little baby. The stem was growing out of the child's navel.

She took the baby, twisted the stalk off, and bound up the child. She had nothing to wrap around the little one; so she took her skirt made of buckskin, the only clothing she wore, and wrapped it around the baby. Holding it close to her breast, she fondled the child and said,--

"Grow, little boy, grow quickly; you will be company yet for your grandmother."

She brought the boy home, washed him, washed him many times, put him in a wildcat skin. When Tsawandi Kamshupa came and saw Tsuwalkai with the baby, he wondered and cried,--

"Oh, grandmother, where did you find the little boy?"

She told how she had found him in the field, dug him out of the ground, and brought him home. That same day Dari Jowa, Tsawandi Kamshupa's great friend, came, and, seeing the little boy, laughed loudly.

"Oh, my aunt," said he, "that is not your baby. Where did you find that little boy?"

She told him the same story that she had told her grandson.

The baby grew quickly, grew large in a little while.

"Oh, my aunt," said Dari Jowa, "give this boy to me. I want to hear him talk. I want him for myself. I will take good care of him. I want to hear him talk, I want to hear him shout. He will be a great shouter. Oh, my aunt, give this little boy to me."