Then she heard many small voices calling, “Over here, come over here. I’m the one to pick.” These were peyote plants guiding her to their hiding places among the thorn bushes and chaparral. So the old woman and the girl picked the herbs and filled the hide bag with them.
At nightfall once more they saw the spirit man, silhouetted against the setting sun. He pointed out the way to their camp so that they could return quickly. Though they had taken no food or water for four days and nights, the sacred medicine had kept them strong-hearted and strong-minded.
When they arrived home, their relatives were happy to have them back, but everybody was still sick and many were dying. The old woman told the people: “I have brought you a new sacred medicine which will help you.”
She showed the men how to use this pejuta, this holy herb. The spirit had taught her the ceremony, and the medicine had given her the knowledge through the mind power which dwells within it. Under her direction the men put up a tipi and made a fire. At that time there was no leader, no roadman, to guide them, and the people had to learn how to perform the ceremony step by step, from the ground up.
Everybody, men and women, old and young, ate four buttons of the new medicine. A boy baby was breast nursing, and the peyote power got into him through his mother’s milk. He was sucking his hand, and he began to shake it like a gourd rattle. A man sitting next to the tipi entrance got into the power and caught a song just by looking at the baby’s arm.
A medicine man took a rattle of rawhide and began to shake it. The small stones inside the rattle were the voice of Grandfather Peyote, and everybody understood what it was saying. Another man grabbed a drum and beat it, keeping time with the song and the voice inside the rattle. The drumming was good, but it did not yet have the right sound, because in that first ceremony there was no water in the drum.
One woman felt the spirit telling her to look for a cottonwood tree. After the sun rose, all the people followed her as Grandfather Peyote guided her toward the west. They saw a rabbit jumping out of a hole inside a dried-up tree and knew that that this was the sacred cottonwood.
They cut down the tree and hollowed out the trunk like a drum where the rabbit hole had been. At the woman’s bidding they filled it with fresh spring water—the water of life.
On the way back to camp, a man felt the power telling him to pick up five smooth, round pebbles and to cover the drum with a piece of tanned moose hide. He used the pebbles to make knobs around the rim of the drum so that he could tie the hide to it with a rawhide thong. And when he beat the drum it sounded good, as if a spirit had gotten hold of it.
When night came, the people made a fire inside the tipi and took the medicine again. Guided by peyote power, the old woman looked into the flames and saw a heart, like the heart-shaped leaf of the cottonwood tree. Thus she knew that the Great Spirit, who is also in Grandfather Peyote, wanted to give his heart to the red men of this continent. She told the man tending the fire to form the glowing embers into the shape of a heart, and the people all saw it beat in rhythm with the drum. A little later, one helper who was under the spirit power saw that the hide rope formed a star at the bottom of the drum. He shaped the glowing coals of the fire into a star and then into a moon, because the power of the star and the spirit of the moon had come into the tipi.
One man sitting opposite the door had a vision in which he was told to ask for water. The old woman brought fresh, cool water in a skin bag, and they all drank and in this way came under the power. Feeling the spirit of the water, the man who was in charge of the fire shaped the embers into the outline of a water bird, and from then on the water bird became the chief symbol of the holy medicine.
Around the fire this man made a half-moon out of earth, and all along the top of it he drew a groove with his finger. Thus he formed a road, the road of life. He said that anybody with the gift of wacankiyapi, which means having love and heart for the people, should sit right there. And from that day on, the man who is running a meeting was called the “roadman.”
In this way the people made the first peyote altar, and after they had drunk the water, they thanked the peyote. Looking at the fire in the shape of the sacred water bird, they prayed to the four directions, and someone sprinkled green cedar on the fire. The fragrant, sweet-smelling smoke was the breath of Grandfather Peyote, the spirit of all green and growing things.
Now the people had everything they needed: the sacred herb, the drum, the gourd, the fire, the water, the cedar. From that moment on, they learned to know themselves. Their sick were cured, and they thanked the old woman and her grandchild for having brought this blessing to them. They were the Comanche nation, and from them the worship of the sacred herb spread to all the tribes throughout the land.
—Told by Leonard Crow Dog at Winner, Rosebud Indian Reservation, South Dakota, 1970.
THE VISION QUEST
[BRULE SIOUX]
The vision quest is a tradition among the Plains people. A man or woman seeking the way on the road of life, or trying to find the answer to a personal problem, may go on a vision quest for knowledge and enlightenment. This may mean staying on top of a hill or inside a vision pit, alone, without food or water, for as long as four days and nights. It is hard, but if the spirit voices reveal or confer a vision that shapes a person’s life, then the quest is worth all the suffering.
The following tale, however, treats the vision quest with less than complete solemnity, with Sioux medicine man Lame Deer’s characteristic quirks.
A young man wanted to go on a hanbleceya, or vision seeking, to try for a dream that would give him the power to be a great medicine man. Having a high opinion of himself, he felt sure that he had been created to become great among his people and that the only thing lacking was a vision.
The young man was daring and brave, eager to go up to the mountaintop. He had been brought up by good, honest people who were wise in the ancient ways and who prayed for him. All through the winter they were busy getting him ready, feeding him wasna, corn, and plenty of good meat to make him strong. At every meal they set aside something for the spirits so that they would help him to get a great vision. His relatives thought he had the power even before he went up, but that was putting the cart before the horse, or rather the travois before the horse, as this is an Indian legend.
When at last he started on his quest, it was a beautiful morning in late spring. The grass was up, the leaves were out, nature was at its best. Two medicine men accompanied him. They put up a sweat lodge to purify him in the hot, white breath of the sacred steam. They santified him with the incense of sweet grass, rubbing his body with sage, fanning it with an eagle’s wing. They went to the hilltop with him to prepare the vision pit and make an offering of tobacco bundles. Then they told the young man to cry, to humble himself, to ask for holiness, to cry for power, for a sign from the Great Spirit, for a gift which would make him into a medicine man. After they had done all they could, they left him there.
He spent the first night in the hole the medicine men had dug for him, trembling and crying out loudly. Fear kept him awake, yet he was cocky, ready to wrestle with the spirits for the vision, the power he wanted. But no dreams came to ease his mind. Toward morning before the sun came up, he heard a voice in the swirling white mists of dawn. Speaking from no particular direction, as if it came from different places, it said: “See here, young man, there are other spots you could have picked; there are other hills around here. Why don’t you go there to cry for a dream? You disturbed us all night, all us creatures, animals and birds; you even kept the trees awake. We couldn’t sleep. Why should you cry here? You’re a brash young man, not yet ready or worthy to receive a vision.”
But the young man clenched his teeth, determined to stick it out, resolved to force that vision to come. He spent another day in the pit, begging for enlightenment which would not come, and then another night of fear and cold and hunger.
The young man cried out in terror. He was paralyzed with fear, un
able to move. The boulder dwarfed everything in view; it towered over the vision pit. But just as it was an arm’s length away and about to crush him, it stopped. Then, as the young man stared openmouthed, his hair standing up, his eyes starting out of his head, the boulder ROLLED UP THE MOUNTAIN, all the way to the top. He could hardly believe what he saw. He was still cowering motionless when he heard the roar and ramble again and saw that immense boulder coming down at him once more. This time he managed to jump out of his vision pit at the last moment. The boulder crushed it, obliterated it, grinding the young man’s peace pipe and gourd rattle into dust.
Again the boulder rolled up the mountain, and again it came down. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” hollered the young man. Regaining his power of motion, he scrambled down the hill as fast as he could. This time the boulder actually leapfrogged over him, bouncing down the slope, crushing and pulverizing everything in its way. He ran unseeingly, stumbling, falling, getting up again. He did not even notice the boulder rolling up once more and coming down for the fourth time. On this last and most fearful descent, it flew through the air in a giant leap, landing right in front of him and embedding itself so deeply in the earth that only its top was visible. The ground shook itself like a wet dog coming out of a stream and flung the young man this way and that.
Gaunt, bruised, and shaken, he stumbled back to his village. To the medicine men he said: “I have received no vision and gained no knowledge.” He returned to the pit, and when dawn arrived once more, he heard the voice again: “Stop disturbing us; go away!” The same thing happened on the third morning. By this time he was faint with hunger, thirst, and anxiety. Even the air seemed to oppress him, to fight him. He was panting. His stomach felt shriveled up, shrunk tight against his backbone. But he was determined to endure one more night, the fourth and last. Surely the vision would come. But again he cried for it out of the dark and loneliness until he was hoarse, and still he had no dream.
Just before daybreak he heard the same voice again, very angry: “Why are you still here?” He knew then that he had suffered in vain; now he would have to go back to his people and confess that he had gained no knowledge and no power. The only thing he could tell them was that he got bawled out every morning. Sad and cross, he replied “I can’t help myself; this is my last day, and I’m crying my eyes out. I know you told me to go home, but who are you to give me orders? I don’t know you. I’m going to stay until my uncles come to fetch me, whether you like it or not.”
All at once there was a rumble from a larger mountain that stood behind the hill. It became a mighty roar, and the whole hill trembled. The wind started to blow. The young man looked up and saw a boulder poised on the mountain’s summit. He saw lightning hit it, saw it sway. Slowly the boulder moved. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, it came tumbling down the mountainside, churning up the earth, snapping huge trees as if they were little twigs. And the boulder WAS COMING RIGHT DOWN ON HIM! I have made the spirits angry. It was all for nothing.”
“Well, you did find out one thing,” said the older of the two, who was his uncle. “You went after your vision like a hunter after buffalo, or a warrior after scalps. You were fighting the spirits. You thought they owed you a vision. Suffering alone brings no vision nor does courage, nor does sheer will power. A vision comes as a gift born of humility, of wisdom, and of patience. If from your vision quest you have learned nothing but this, then you have already learned much. Think about it.”
—Told by Lame Deer at Winner, Rosebud Indian Reservation, South Dakota, 1967, and recorded by Richard Erdoes.
The world did not always exist as we know it today, and the myths which describe its creation are associated with (and as varied as) those about the rise of culture. The primordial environment is for almost all tribes a watery one, from which different beings bring up mud to make the earth. In Southwestern tales, four or five worlds of different colors or elements are stacked one on top of the other, and people climb up a reed or stalk through a hole in the ceiling of one dying world into the next, newborn one. People in the Northwest tell of descending through a hole in the sky (associated with the smoke hole of a tipi) to emerge into the present world. Countless characters enter into the action—true gods and spirits; monsters and dragons; elks, bears, eagles, and other birds. Even the trickster Coyote tries his hand at creation.
The creation myth of the Iroquois, reflected in those of many other cultures, combines several of these elements. The daughter of the Sky Chief is pushed down through a hole in the sky into a world that is covered with water, but she is saved from drowning by water fowls, who convince the great turtle below to harbor her. Toad dives for mud and makes the earth on the back of the great turtle. It is this daughter who, impregnated by the west wind, gives birth to the gentle, creative Tsentsa and his cruel brother, Taweskare, who kills his mother in childbirth as he kicks his way through her side.
The twins who combine both good and evil recur across the continent. Among the Yuma, it is Kokomaht, the all-father, who is good, while his blind brother, the subterranean Bakothal, personifies evil. The twins can also be two girls, or brother and sister. Manabozho, White Rabbit, is the creation hero of the Great Lakes region; he is also one of a set of twins who are both animal and human, his brother being Wolf.
In the California region, the culture hero may find himself floating in a boat in the chaos of primeval water. He sends animals to dive down to the bottom for a dab of mud and creates the present world from that. He also creates another character, frequently Coyote, who in turn makes man from wood or clay and gives him life. Animals are created next, and the world is ordered. The theft of light or fire is a prominent theme, as is the establishment of the earth’s topography.
In the North Pacific and the plateau east of the Rockies to the Cascades, various heroes act through a similar cycle of events. From southern Vancouver Island north, Raven is the hero; in the Gulf of Georgia area it is Mink; and in Washington and Oregon it is Blue Jay. The cycle opens with the birth of a child after a spiritual conception; he is then adopted by a chief. The myths follow his adventures as he steals fire, light, water, and animals for his people, and gives animals and objects the forms they have today.
In the Southwest, creation myths are closely related to a complex ceremonialism that distinguishes these tribes from those of the rest of North America. We have already seen tales that describe the origin of ceremonies such as the corn dance. In creation stories of the Southwest, life emerges from lower worlds, with people fashioned from the creator’s skin. There are twin heroes here as well, and struggles with primeval monsters.
Common themes and images of creation are widespread across North America, for myths migrate as freely as people. The theme of primeval water covering a not-yet-created earth is perhaps the most prevalent, found in every area except that of the Eskimo, while only the Southwest lacks the episode of a diving creature fashioning the earth from mud. The California regions and the Southwest share tales of the original world parents, Earth and Sky, and the creation of men from rubbings of skin. Among tribes of the Trans-Mississippi West, the determination of the seasons is a prominent theme, and there are many stories across the continent which describe how the four winds came to be. While stories of a creator and of the formation of the universe (which follow in Part Three) tend to be more fragmentary, there is clear and universal concern for the beginning of mankind and the foundation of the world in which humans live.
[YUMA]
This is how it all began. There was only water—there was no sky, there was no land, only nothingness. Then out of the waters rose a mist, and it became the sky. Still there were no sun, no moon, no stars—just darkness. But deep down in the waters lived Kokomaht, the Creator. He was bodiless, nameless, breathless, motionless, and he was two beings—twins.
Then the waters stirred and rushed and thundered, and out of the spray and foam rose the first twin, the good twin. With closed eyes he cleaved the waves and came to the surface. He
stood upon the waters, opened his eyes, and saw. There he named himself Kokomaht—All-Father.
And from beneath the waters a second voice called out to Kokomaht: “Brother, how did you rise? With eyes open or with eyes closed?”
Bakotahl was the evil twin, and Kokomaht wanted to make it more difficult for him to do harm. So Kokomaht lied to him, saying: “I opened my eyes while I was under water.” The second twin opened his eyes as he rose, and when he reached the surface he was blind. Kokomaht said: “I name you Bakotahl—the Blind One.”
Then Kokomaht said: “Now I shall make the four directions.” He pointed with his finger and took four steps, walking on the water. Then he stood still for a while and said, “Ho, this is north.” Then he went back to his starting place, and in the same manner made the west, the south, and the east—always taking four steps in each direction and always returning to the center.
“Now,” Kokomaht said, “I shall make the earth.”
Blind Bakotahl answered: “I don’t think you have the power to do this.”
“Certainly I have,” said Kokomaht.
“Let me try to make the earth first,” asked Bakotahl.
“Certainly not,” said Kokomaht.
Kokomaht stirred the waters into a foaming whirlpool with his hand. They frothed and swelled and bubbled, and when they subsided there was land. And Kokomaht sat down upon it.
Bakotahl was angry because he would have liked to create the earth, but he said nothing and settled down by Kokomaht’s side. The Blind Evil One said to himself: “I shall make something with a head, with arms and legs. I can make it out of the earth.” Bakotahl formed something resembling a human being, but it was imperfect. Instead of hands and feet there were lumps; it had neither fingers nor toes. Bakotahl hid it from Kokomaht.
AMERICAN INDIAN MYTHS AND LEGENDS Page 10
