Pleased with what he’d done, the Chief of the Sky Spirits decided to bring his family down and live on the earth himself. The mountains of snow and ice became their lodge. He made a big fire in the center of the mountain and a hole in the top so that the smoke and sparks could fly out. When he put a big log on the fire, sparks would fly up and the earth would tremble.
Late one spring while the Sky Spirit and his family were sitting round the fire, the Wind Spirit sent a great storm that shook the top of the mountain. It blew and blew and roared and roared. Smoke blown back into the lodge hurt their eyes, and finally the Sky Spirit said to his youngest daughter, “Climb up to the smoke hole and ask the Wind Spirit to blow more gently. Tell him I’m afraid he will blow the mountain over.”
As his daughter started up, her father said, “But be careful not to stick your head out at the top. If you do, the wind may catch you by the hair and blow you away.”
The girl hurried to the top of the mountain and stayed well inside the smoke hole as she spoke to the Wind Spirit As she was about to climb back down, she remembered that her father had once said you could see the ocean from the top of their lodge. His daughter wondered what the ocean looked like, and her curiosity got the better of her. She poked her head out of the hole and turned toward the west, but before she could see anything, the Wind Spirit caught her long hair, pulled her out of the mountain, and blew her down over the snow and ice. She landed among the scrubby fir trees at the edge of the timber and snow line, her long red hair trailing over the snow.
There a grizzly bear found the little girl when he was out hunting food for his family. He carried her home with him, and his wife brought her up with their family of cubs. The little red-haired girl and the cubs ate together, played together, and grew up together.
When she became a young woman, she and the eldest son of the grizzly bears were married. In the years that followed they had many children, who were not as hairy as the grizzlies, yet did not look exactly like their spirit mother, either.
All the grizzly bears throughout the forests were so proud of these new creatures that they made a lodge for the red-haired mother and her children. They placed the lodge near Mount Shasta—it is called Little Mount Shasta today.
After many years had passed, the mother grizzly bear knew that she would soon die. Fearing that she should ask the Chief of the Sky Spirits to forgive her for keeping his daughter, she gathered all the grizzlies at the lodge they had built. Then she sent her oldest grandson in a cloud to the top of Mount Shasta, to tell the Spirit Chief where he could find his long-lost daughter.
When the father got this news he was so glad that he came down the mountainside in giant strides, melting the snow and tearing up the land under his feet. Even today his tracks can be seen in the rocky path on the south side of Mount Shasta.
As he neared the lodge, he called out, “Is this where my little daughter lives?”
He expected his child to look exactly as she had when he saw her last. When he found a grown woman instead, and learned that the strange creatures she was taking care of were his grandchildren, he became very angry. A new race had been created that was not of his making! He frowned on the old grandmother so sternly that she promptly fell dead. Then he cursed all the grizzlies:
“Get down on your hands and knees. You have wronged me, and from this moment all of you will walk on four feet and never talk again.”
He drove his grandchildren out of the lodge, put his daughter over his shoulder, and climbed back up the mountain. Never again did he come to the forest. Some say that he put out the fire in the center of his lodge and took his daughter back up to the sky to live.
Those strange creatures, his grandchildren, scattered and wandered over the earth. They were the first Indians, the ancestors of all the Indian tribes.
That’s why the Indians living around Mount Shasta would never kill a grizzly bear. Whenever a grizzly killed an Indian, his body was burned on the spot. And for many years all who passed that way cast a stone there until a great pile of stones marked the place of his death.
—Reported by Ella Clark in 1953.
[CROW]
Here the trickster takes on the mysterious powers of a Creator, leaving aside his clowning ways for a moment.
How water came to be, nobody knows. Where Old Man Coyote came from, nobody knows. But he was, he lived. Old Man Coyote spoke: “It is bad that I am alone. I should have someone to talk to. It is bad that there is only water and nothing else.” Old Man Coyote walked around. Then he saw some who were living—two ducks with red eyes.
“Younger brothers,” he said, “is there anything in this world but water and still more water? What do you think?”
“Why,” said the ducks, “we think there might be something deep down below the water. In our hearts we believe this.”
“Well, younger brothers, go and dive. Find out if there is something. Go!”
One of the ducks dove down. He stayed under water for a long, long time.
“How sad!” Old Man Coyote said. “Our younger brother must have drowned.”
“No way has he drowned,” said the other duck. “We can live under water for a long time. Just wait.”
At last the first duck came to the surface. “What our hearts told us was right,” he said. “There is something down there, because my head bumped into it.”
“Well, my younger brother, whatever it may be, bring it up.”
The duck dived again. A long time he stayed down there. When he came up, he had something in his beak. “Why, what can this be?” Old Man Coyote took it. “Why, this is a root,” he said. “Where there are roots, there must be earth. My younger brother, dive again. If you find something soft, bring it up.”
The duck went down a third time. This time he came up with a small lump of soft earth in his bill. Old Man Coyote examined it. “Ah, my younger brother, this is what I wanted. This I will make big. This I will spread around. This little handful of mud shall be our home.”
Old Man Coyote blew on the little lump, which began to grow and spread all over. “What a surprise, elder brother!” said the ducks. “This is wonderful! We are pleased.”
Old Man Coyote took the little root. In the soft mud he planted it. Then things started to grow. Grasses, plants, trees, all manner of food Old Man Coyote made in this way. “Isn’t this pretty?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“Elder brother,” answered the ducks, “this is indeed very pretty. But it’s too flat. Why don’t you hollow some places out, and here and there make some hills and mountains. Wouldn’t that be a fine thing?”
“Yes, my younger brothers. I’ll do as you say. While I’m about it, I will also make some rivers, ponds, and springs so that wherever we go, we can have cool, fresh water to drink.”
“Ah, that’s fine, elder brother,” said the ducks after Old Man Coyote had made all these things. “How very clever you are.”
“Well, is something still missing, younger brothers? What do your hearts believe?”
“Everything is so beautiful, elder brother. What could be missing?”
“Companions are missing,” Old Man Coyote said. “We are alone. It’s boring.”
He took up a handful of mud, and out of it made people. How he did this, no one can imagine. The people walked about. Watching them, Old Man Coyote was pleased, but the ducks were not so happy. “Elder brother,” they said, “you have made companions for yourself, but none for us.”
“Why, that’s true. I forgot it.” Right away he made all kinds of ducks. “There, my younger brothers, now you can be happy.”
After a while Old Man Coyote remarked: “Something’s wrong here.”
“But everything is good. We’re no longer bored. What could be wrong?”
“Why, don’t you see, I’ve made all these people men, and all the ducks I made are male. How can they be happy? How can they increase?”
Forthwith he made women. Forthwith he made female ducks. Then there was joy
. Then there was contentment. Then there was increase. That’s the way it happened.
Old Man Coyote walked about on the earth he had made. Suddenly he encountered Cirape, the coyote. “Why, younger brother, what a wonderful surprise! Where did you come from?”
“Well, my elder brother, I don’t know. I exist. That’s all. Here I am. Cirape, I call myself. What’s your name?”
“Old Man Coyote, they call me.” He waved his hand: “All that you see around you, I made.”
“You did well. But there should be some animals besides ducks.”
“Yes, you’re right, come to think of it. Now, I’ll pronounce some animal names. As soon as I say one, that animal will be made.” Old Man Coyote named buffalo, deer, elk, antelopes, and bear. And all these came into being.
After some time the bear said to Old Man Coyote: “Why did you make me? There’s nothing to do. We’re all bored.”
“I have made females for you. This should keep everybody busy.”
“Well, elder brother, one can’t do that all the time.”
“Yes, you’re right; it’s true. Well, I’ll think of something. I’ll make a special bird.”
From one of the bear’s claws he made wings. From a caterpillar’s hair he made feet. From a bit of buffalo sinew he made a beak. From leaves he made a tail. He put all these things together and formed a prairie chicken. Old Man Coyote instructed it: “There are many pretty birds. You I haven’t made pretty, but I gave you a special power. Every dawn as the sun rises, you shall dance. You will hop and strut with your head down. You will raise your tail and shake it. Spreading your wings, you shall dance—thus!”
At once the prairie chicken danced. All the animals watched, and soon they began to dance too. Now there was something to keep them amused. But the bear still wasn’t satisfied, “I gave you a claw to make part of this prairie chicken,” he told Old Man Coyote. “Why didn’t you give me my own dance? I don’t want to dance like a chicken.”
“Well, all right, cousin. I’ll give you a dance of your own. Thus and thus, this way and that, you shall dance.”
“Old Man Coyote,” the bear kept complaining, “how can I dance? Something is missing.”
“How can something be missing? I’ve made everything.”
“There should be some kind of sound to dance to.”
“Why, you’re right. There should be.” Forthwith Old Man Coyote made a little grouse and gave him a song. Then he made a drum—how, no man can imagine. The little grouse sang and drummed, and everybody danced.
“Why should this no-account prairie chicken dance?” asked the bear. “Why should all those little, no-account animals dance? I alone should have this dance power.”
“Why, they’re happy. The chokecherries are ripe, the sun is shining. All of them feel like dancing. Why should you be the only one?”
“I am big and important. So I alone should dance.”
“Why, listen to him, how he talks! Be polite to me who made you.”
“Ho! You didn’t make me. I made myself.”
“How impolite!” said Old Man Coyote. “He is threatening the little animals with his big claws.” He told the bear: “You’re not fit to live among us. You will stay in a den by yourself and eat decayed, rotten things. In winter you will sleep, because the less we see of you, the better.” So it was.
One day Old Man Coyote and Cirape were walking and talking. “Something you forgot,” Cirape said to Old Man Coyote.
“How could I have forgotten something?”
“Why, those people you made. They live poorly. They should have tools, tipis to live in, a fire to cook by and warm themselves.”
“You’re right. Why didn’t I think of that?” Forthwith he made a fire with lightning and the people rejoiced.
“Now everything is finished. What do you think?”
“Oh, elder brother, the people should have bows and arrows and spears for better hunting. Often they starve.”
“That’s so. I’ll give out weapons.”
“Elder brother, give weapons, but only to the people, not to the animals.”
“Why shouldn’t the animals have bows and arrows too?”
“Don’t you see? The animals are swift; they already have big claws, teeth, and powerful horns. The people are slow. Their teeth and nails are not very strong. If animals had weapons, how could the people survive?”
“Why, my younger brother, you think of everything.” Forthwith he gave the people bows and spears. “Younger brother, are you satisfied now?”
“No, not at all. There’s only one language, and you can’t fight somebody who speaks your language. There should be enmity; there should be war.”
“What are wars good for?”
“Oh, my respected elder brother, sometimes you’re just not thinking. War is a good thing. Say you’re a young warrior. You paint yourself with vermilion. You wear a fine war shirt. You start. You sing war songs. You have war honors. You look at the good-looking young girls. You look at the young women whose husbands have no war honors. They look back at you. You go on the warpath. You steal the enemy’s horses. You steal his women and maidens. You count coup, do brave deeds. You are rich. You have gifts to give away. They sing songs honoring you. You have many loves. And by and by you become a chief.”
“Ah, Cirape, my younger brother, you’ve hit upon something.” Old Man Coyote divided the people into tribes, giving them different languages. Then there was war, then there was horse stealing, then there was counting coup, then there was singing of honoring songs.
After a long time, Old Man Coyote was walking with Cirape again. “You are very clever, my younger brother, but there are some things you don’t know. Let me tell you: When we marry a young woman, when we take her to wife secretly, how satisfying it is! What pleasure it gives us!”
“Yes, my elder brother, just so. That’s how it is with me.”
“Ah, but after some years, after you have lived with one woman for a while, you lose interest. You are yearning for someone new. So you steal someone else’s wife. In this back-and-forth wife stealing that goes on in our tribe, has some fellow ever made off with your wife? A proud young warrior, maybe?”
“Why yes, my elder brother. It was such a man who took a plump, pleasing young wife away from me. It would have been better if an enemy from another tribe had done it. It would have been easier to bear if she were far away where I couldn’t see them together.”
“Well, younger brother, if she would come back, would you take her?”
“What, take her back? Never! I have honor, I respect myself. How could I do such a thing?”
“Ah, Cirape, how foolish you are. You know nothing. Three times my wife has been abducted, and three times I have taken her back. Now when I say ‘come,’ she comes. When I say ‘go,’ she goes. Whenever I tell her to do something, she remembers that she has been stolen. I never have to remind her. She is eager to please. She fulfills my every desire. Under the blanket she’s a hot one—she has learned things. This is the best wife, the best kind of loving.”
“That’s how you feel. But people mock you. They look at you sideways and laugh behind your back. They say: ‘He has taken what another one threw away.’ ”
“Ah, younger brother of mine, what do I care if they laugh behind my back when, under our buffalo robe, I am laughing for my own reasons? Let me tell you, there’s nothing more satisfying than having a wife who has been stolen once or twice. Tell me: Do they steal ugly old wives, or young and pretty ones?”
So because of Old Man Coyote’s sensible advice, there was mutual wife stealing among the Crows in the old days. And that’s why Crow men ever since have taken back wives they had already divorced. In one way or another, everything that exists or that is happening goes back to Old Man Coyote.
—Based on a number of anthropological accounts, including Robert Lowie’s The Crow Indians.
HOW THE SIOUX CAME TO BE
[BRULE SIOUX]
This story wa
s told to me by a Santee grandmother. A long time ago, a really long time when the world was still freshly made, Unktehi the water monster fought the people and caused a great flood. Perhaps the Great Spirit, Wakan Tanka, was angry with us for some reason. Maybe he let Unktehi win out because he wanted to make a better kind of human being.
Well, the waters got higher and higher. Finally everything was flooded except the hill next to the place where the sacred red pipestone quarry lies today. The people climbed up there to save themselves, but it was no use. The water swept over that hill. Waves tumbled the rocks and pinnacles, smashing them down on the people. Everyone was killed, and all the blood jelled, making one big pool. The blood turned to pipestone and created the pipestone quarry, the grave of those ancient ones. That’s why the pipe, made of that red rock, is so sacred to us. Its red bowl is the flesh and blood of our ancestors, its stem is the backbone of those people long dead, the smoke rising from it is their breath. I tell you, that pipe, that chanunpa, comes alive when used in a ceremony; you can feel power flowing from it.
Unktehi, the big water monster, was also turned to stone. Maybe Tunkashila, the Grandfather Spirit, punished her for making the flood. Her bones are in the Badlands now. Her back forms a long, high ridge, and you can see her vertebrae sticking out in a great row of red and yellow rocks. I have seen them. It scared me when I was on that ridge, for I felt Unktehi. She was moving beneath me, wanting to topple me.
Well, when all the people were killed so many generations ago, one girl survived, a beautiful girl. It happened this way: When the water swept over the hill where they tried to seek refuge, a big spotted eagle, Wanblee Galeshka, swept down and let her grab hold of his feet. With her hanging on, he flew to the top of a tall tree which stood on the highest stone pinnacle in the Black Hills. That was the eagle’s home. It became the only spot not covered with water. If the people had gotten up there, they would have survived, but it was a needle-like rock as smooth and steep as the skyscrapers you got now in the big cities. My grandfather told me that maybe the rock was not in the Black Hills; maybe it was Devils Tower, as white men call it—that place in Wyoming. Both places are sacred.
AMERICAN INDIAN MYTHS AND LEGENDS Page 12
