AMERICAN INDIAN MYTHS AND LEGENDS

by Richard Erdoes

  Just then, last of all, came the moon, with a single handful of meal which she had hastily ground. The two sisters were in a fine rage by this time, and mocked her, saying:

  “Hoh! Páh-hlee-oh, Moon, you poor thing, we are very sorry for you! Here we have been grinding our meal for four days and still it will not stick, and we did not tell you till today. How then can you ever hope to win Nah-chu-rú-chu? Puh, you silly little thing!”

  But the moon paid no attention whatsoever to their taunts. Drawing back her little dimpled hand, she threw the meal gently against the pearl omate, and so fine was it ground that every tiniest bit of it clung to the polished shell, and not a particle fell to the ground!

  When Nah-chu-rú-chu saw that, he rose up quickly from his loom and came and took the moon by the hand, saying: “You are she who shall be my wife. You shall never want for anything, since I have very much.” And he gave her many beautiful mantas, and cotton wraps, and fat boots of buckskin that wrap round and round, that she might dress as the wife of a rich chief. But the Yellow Corn Maidens, who had seen it all, went away vowing vengeance on the moon.

  Nah-chu-rú-chu and his sweet moon-wife were very happy together. There was no other such housekeeper in all the pueblo as she, and no other hunter brought home so much buffalo meat from the vast plains to the east, nor so many antelopes, and black-tailed deer, and jack rabbits from the Manzanos, as did Nah-chu-rú-chu. But constantly he was saying to her:

  “Moon-wife, beware of the Yellow Corn Maidens, for they have the evil road and will try to do you harm; but you must always refuse to do whatever they propose.”

  And always the young wife promised.

  One day the Yellow Corn Maidens came to the house and said: “Friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, we are going to the llano, the plain, to gather amole.” (Amole is a soapy root the Pueblos use for washing.) “Will you not let your wife go with us?”

  “Oh, yes, she may go,” said Nah-chu-rú-chu. But taking her aside, he said: “Now be sure that while you are with them, you refuse whatever they may propose.”

  The moon promised, and started away with the Yellow Corn Maidens.

  In those days there was only a thick forest of cottonwoods where now the smiling vineyards, gardens, and orchards of Isleta are spread, and to reach the llano the three women had to go through the forest. In the very center of it they came to a deep pozo—a square well, with steps at one side leading down to the water’s edge.

  “Ay!” said the Yellow Corn Maidens, “How hot and thirsty is our walk! Come, let us get a drink of water.”

  But the moon, remembering her husband’s words, said politely that she did not wish to drink. They urged in vain, but at last, looking down into the pozo, they called:

  Oh, moon-friend, moon-friend! Come and look in this still water, and see how pretty you are!”

  The moon, you must know, has always been just as fond of looking at herself in the water as she is to this very day; and forgetting Nah-chu-rú-chu’s warning, she came to the brink and looked down upon her fair reflection. But at that very moment the two witch sisters pushed her head foremost into the pozo, and drowned her; and then they filled the well with earth, and went away as happy as wicked hearts can be.

  As the sun crept along the adobe floor, closer and closer to his seat, Nah-chu-rú-chu began to look oftener from his loom to the door. When the shadows were very long, he sprang suddenly to his feet, and walked to the house of the Yellow Corn Maidens with long, long strides.

  “Yellow Corn Maidens,” he asked them very sternly, “where is my little wife?”

  “Why, isn’t she at home?” asked the wicked sisters, as if greatly surprised. “She got enough amole long before we did.”

  “Ah,” groaned Nah-chu-rú-chu within himself, “it is as I thought—they have done her ill.”

  But without a word to them he turned on his heel and went away.

  From that hour all went wrong at Isleta; for Nah-chu-rú-chu held the well-being of all his people, even unto life and death. Paying no attention to what was going on about him, he sat motionless upon the topmost crosspiece of the estufa (the kiva, or sacred council chamber ladder—the highest point in all the town) with his head bowed upon his hands. There he sat for days, never speaking, never moving. The children who played along the streets looked up with awe to the motionless figure, and ceased their boisterous play. The old men shook their heads gravely, and muttered: “We are in evil times, for Nah-chu-rú-chu is mourning, and will not be comforted; and there is no more rain, so that our crops are dying in the fields. What shall we do?”

  At last all the councilors met together, and decided that there must be another effort made to find the lost wife. It was true that the great Nah-chu-rú-chu had searched for her in vain, and the people had helped him; but perhaps someone else might be more fortunate. So they took some of the sacred smoking weed wrapped in a corn husk and went to the eagle, who has the sharpest eyes in all the world. Giving him the sacred gift, they said:

  “Eagle-friend, we see Nah-chu-rú-chu in great trouble, for he has lost his moon-wife. Come, search for her, we pray you, to discover if she be alive or dead.”

  So the eagle took the offering, and smoked the smoke prayer; and then he went winging upward into the sky. Higher and higher he rose, in great upward circles, while his keen eyes noted every stick, and stone, and animal on the face of all the world. But with all his eyes, he could see nothing of the lost wife; and at last he came back sadly, and said:

  “People-friends, I went up to where I could see the whole world, but I could not find her.”

  Then the people went with an offering to the coyote, whose nose is sharpest in all the world, and besought him to try and find the moon. The coyote smoked the smoke prayer, and started off with his nose to the ground, trying to find her tracks. He trotted all over the earth; but at last he too came back without finding what he sought.

  Then the troubled people got the badger to search, for he is the best of all the beasts at digging (it was he whom the Trues employed to dig the caves in which the people first dwelt when they came to this world). The badger trotted and pawed, and dug everywhere, but he could not find the moon; and he came home very sad.

  Then they asked the osprey, who can see furthest under water, and he sailed high above the lakes and rivers in the world, till he could count the pebbles and the fish in them, but he too failed to discover the lost moon.

  By this time the crops were dead and sere in the fields, and thirsty animals walked crying along the river. Scarcely could the people themselves dig deep enough to find water to keep them alive. They were at a loss, but at last they thought: We will go now to the P’ah-ku-ee-teh-ay-deh (the water-goose grandfather, which means turkey buzzard), who can find the dead—for surely she is dead, or the others would have found her.

  So they went to him, and besought him. The turkey buzzard wept when he saw Nah-chu-rú-chu still sitting there upon the ladder, and said: “Truly it is sad for our great friend; but for me, I am afraid to go, since they who are more mighty than I have already failed. Yet I will try.” And spreading his broad wings, he went climbing up the spiral ladder of the sky. Higher he wheeled, and higher, till at last not even the eagle could see him. Up and up, till the sun began to singe his head, and not even the eagle had ever been so high. He cried with pain, but still he kept mounting—until he was so close to the sun that all the feathers were burned from his head and neck. But he could see nothing, and at last, frantic with the burning, he came wheeling downward. When he got back to the estufa where all the people were waiting, they saw that his head and neck had been burned bare of feathers—and from that day to this the feathers would never grow out again.

  “And did you see nothing?” they all asked, when they had bathed his burns.

  “Nothing,” he answered, “except that when I was halfway down, I saw in the middle of yon cottonwood forest a little mound covered with all the beautiful flowers in the world.”

  “Oh!” cri
ed Nah-chu-rú-chu, speaking for the first time, “Go, friend, and bring me one flower from the very middle of the mound.”

  Off flew the buzzard, and in a few minutes returned with a little white flower. Nah-chu-rú-chu took it and, descending from the ladder in silence, walked solemnly to his house, while all the wondering people followed.

  When Nah-chu-rú-chu came inside his home once more, he took a new manta and spread it in the middle of the room. Laying the wee white flower tenderly in its center, he put another manta above it. Then, dressing himself in the splendid buckskin suit that the lost wife had made him, and taking in his right hand the sacred guaje, rattle, he seated himself at the head of the mantas and sang:

  “Shú-nah, shú-nah! Ai-ay, ai-ay, ai-ay-ay. Seeking her, seeking her! There-away, there-away.”

  When he had finished the song, all could see that the flower had begun to grow, so that it lifted the upper manta a little. Again he sang, shaking his gourd; and still the flower kept growing. Again and again he sang; and when he had finished for the fourth time, it was plain to all that a human form lay between the two mantas. And when he sang his song the fifth time, the form sat up and moved. Tenderly he lifted away the upper cloth; and there sat his sweet moon-wife, fairer than ever, and alive as before!

  For four days the people danced and sang in the public square. Nah-chu-rú-chu was happy again; and now the rain began to fall. The choked earth drank and was glad and green, and the dead crops came to life.

  When his wife told him what the witch sisters had done, he was very angry; and that day he made a beautiful hoop to play the hoop game. He painted it, and put many strings across it, and decorated it with beaded buckskin.

  “Now,” said he, “the wicked Yellow Corn Maidens will come to congratulate you, and will pretend not to know where you were. You must not speak of that, but invite them to go out and play a game with you.”

  In a day or two the witch sisters did come, with deceitful words; and the moon invited them to go out and play a game. They went up to the edge of the llano, and there she let them get a glimpse of the pretty hoop.

  “Oh, give us that, moon-friend,” they teased. But she refused. At last, however, she said: “Well, we will play the hoop game. I will stand here, and you there; and if, when I roll it to you, you catch it before it falls upon its side, you may have it.”

  So the witch sisters stood a little way down the hill, and she rolled the bright hoop. As it came trundling to them, both grasped it at the same instant; and lo! instead of the Yellow Corn Maidens, there were two great snakes, with tears rolling down ugly faces. The moon came and put upon their heads a little of the pollen of the corn blossom (still used by Pueblo snake charmers) to tame them, and a pinch of sacred meal for their food.

  “Now,” she said, “you have the reward of treacherous friends. Here shall be your home among these rocks and cliffs forever, but you must never be found upon the prairie; and you must never bite a person. Remember you are women, and must be gentle.”

  And then the moon went home to her husband, and they were very happy together. As for the sister snakes, they still dwell where she bade them, and never venture away; though sometimes the people bring them to their houses to catch mice, for these snakes never hurt a person.

  —Published by Charles F. Lummis in St. Nicholas Magazine in 1897.

  In view of Pueblo esteem for snakes, the sisters’ punishment was a mild one. Some Pueblo tribes view snakes as rain bringers, and the heroes of Pueblo myths sometimes marry snake maidens, as in “The Hopi Boy and the Sun.” According to a government report of 1900: “The superstitious regard of these Indians for snakes, inasmuch as they hold a prominent part in religious rites, protects them and renders them abundant among the villages. A snake on being found in the pueblo is merely carried off on sticks and laid outside of man’s immediate range.” Notice that when the wicked corn maidens were turned into snakes, they became gentler and kinder beings.

  [CHEROKEE]

  A man was in love with a woman who disliked him and wanted nothing to do with him. He tried in every way to win her favor, but with no success. At last he grew discouraged and made himself sick thinking about it.

  Mole came along, and finding the man so low in his mind, asked what the trouble was. The man told him the whole story, and when he had finished, Mole said: “I can help you. Not only will she like you, but she’ll come to you of her own free will.”

  That night, burrowing underground to the place where the girl was in bed asleep, Mole took out her heart. He came back by the same way and gave the heart to the discouraged lover, who couldn’t see it even when it was in his hand. “There,” said Mole. “Swallow it, and she will be so drawn to you that she has to come.”

  The man swallowed the heart, and when the girl woke up she somehow thought of him at once. She felt a strange desire to be with him, to go to him that minute. She couldn’t understand it, because she had always disliked him, but the feeling grew so strong that she was compelled to find the man and tell him that she loved him and wanted to be his wife. And so they were married.

  All the magicians who knew them both were surprised and wondered how it had come about. When they found that it was the work of Mole, whom they had always thought too insignificant to notice, they were jealous and threatened to kill him. That’s why Mole hid under the ground and still doesn’t dare to come up.

  —Based on a tale reported by James Mooney in the 1890s.

  A LEGEND OF MULTNOMAH FALLS

  [MULTNOMAH]

  Many years ago the head chief of the Multnomah people had a beautiful young daughter. She was especially dear to her father because he had lost all his sons in fighting, and he was now an old man. He chose her husband with great care—a young chief from his neighbors, the Clatsop people. To the wedding feast came many people from tribes along the lower Columbia and south of it.

  The wedding feast was to last for several days. There were swimming races and canoe races on the river. There would be bow-and-arrow contests, horse racing, dancing, and feasting. The whole crowd was merry, for both the maiden and the young warrior were loved by their people.

  But without warning the happiness changed to sorrow. A sickness came over the village. Children and young people were the first victims; then strong men became ill and died in one day. The wailing of women was heard throughout the Multnomah village and the camps of the guests.

  “The Great Spirit is angry with us,” the people said to each other. The head chief called together his old men and his warriors for counsel and asked gravely, “What can we do to soften the Great Spirit’s wrath?”

  Only silence followed his question. At last one old medicine man arose. “There is nothing we can do. If it is the will of the Great Spirit that we die, then we must meet our death like brave men. The Multnomah have ever been a brave people.”

  The other members of the council nodded in agreement—all except one, the oldest medicine man. He had not attended the wedding feast and games, but he had come in from the mountains when he was called by the chief. He rose and, leaning on his stick, spoke to the council. His voice was low and feeble.

  “I am a very old man, my friends; I have lived a long, long time. Now you will know why. I will tell you a secret my father told me. He was a great medicine man of the Multnomah, many summers and many snows in the past.

  “When he was an old man, he told me that when I became old, the Great Spirit would send a sickness upon our people. All would die, he said, unless a sacrifice was made to the Great Spirit. Some pure and innocent maiden of the tribe, the daughter of a chief, must willingly give her life for her people. Alone, she must go to a high cliff above Big River and throw herself upon the rocks below. If she does this, the sickness will leave us at once.”

  Then the old man said, “I have finished; my father’s secret is told. Now I can die in peace.”

  Not a word was spoken as the medicine man sat down. At last the chief lifted his head. “Let us call in all the m
aidens whose fathers or grandfathers have been headmen.”

  Soon a dozen girls stood before him, among them his own loved daughter. The chief told them what the old medicine man had said. “I think his words are the words of truth,” he added.

  Then he turned to his medicine men and his warriors, “Tell our people to meet death bravely. No maiden shall be asked to sacrifice herself. The meeting has ended.”

  The sickness stayed in the village, and many more people died. The daughter of the head chief sometimes wondered if she should be the one to give her life to the Great Spirit. But she loved the young warrior—she wanted to live.

  A few days later she saw the sickness on the face of her lover. Now she knew what she must do. She cooled his hot face, cared for him tenderly, and left a bowl of water by his bedside. Then she slipped away alone, without a word to anyone.

  All night and all the next day she followed the trail to the great river. At sunset she reached the edge of a cliff overlooking the water. She stood there in silence for a few moments, looking at the jagged rocks far below. Then she turned her face toward the sky and lifted up her arms. She spoke aloud to the Great Spirit.

  “You are angry with my people. Will you make the sickness pass away if I give you my life? Only love and peace and purity are in my heart. If you will accept me as a sacrifice for my people, let some token hang in the sky. Let me know that my death will not be in vain and that the sickness will quickly pass.”

  Just then she saw the moon coming up over the trees across the river. It was the token. She closed her eyes and jumped from the cliff.

  Next morning, all the people who had expected to die that day arose from their beds well and strong. They were full of joy. Once more there was laughter in the village and in the camps of the guests.

  Suddenly someone asked, “What caused the sickness to pass away? Did one of the maidens—?”