AMERICAN INDIAN MYTHS AND LEGENDS

by Richard Erdoes

  —Retold from various nineteenth-century sources.

  THE OWL HUSBAND

  [PASSAMAQUODDY]

  In many tribes the owl has a sinister meaning. In the Northwest the owl calls out the names of men and women who will die soon. Among the Sioux, Hin-Han the owl guards the entrance to the Milky Way over which the souls of the dead must pass to reach the spirit land. Those who fail the owl’s inspection because they do not have the proper tattoo on their wrists or elsewhere are thrown into the bottomless abyss. Among some nations, on the other hand, the owl is a wise and friendly spirit, an advisor and warning giver. A Passamaquoddy tale depicts the owl as having love medicine and a magic love flute—powers that the Plains people attribute to the elk.

  A man and his wife lived at the edge of their village near a stream. They had a beautiful daughter whom many young men wished to marry, but she was proud, and no suitor pleased her. Her father, caught between his daughter’s haughtiness and the rejected suitors’ anger, hoped to appease both by promising to give his daughter to the man who could make the embers of his hearth fire blaze up by spitting on it. Naturally, since spitting tends to put a fire out rather than kindle it, none of the young men succeeded.

  There lived in the village an old woman whom many suspected of possessing evil powers, and their suspicions were well grounded. In reality she was an owl in disguise, and her nephew, the great horned owl, ruled the whole tribe of these bad and scheming birds. Because he wanted the haughty girl for his wife, he assumed the shape of a good-looking young hunter and went to his aunt for help. “Here,” she said, and gave him a magic potion to drink. “This will enable you to fulfill that old man’s condition.”

  The handsome young hunter went at once to the lodge where the girl lived. He found her father entertaining the tribal elders, among them the chief of the village.

  “Old man,” said the owl in disguise, “is it true that you will give me your daughter if I can make your fire blaze up by spitting on these hot ashes?”

  “Certainly, young man,” said her father, “if you can do that, I will indeed let you have her.” The suitor spit on the glowing embers, which immediately blazed into a mighty flame reaching to the ceiling of the lodge, shooting up through the smoke hole, thrusting far into the sky. Since the girl could not refuse after her father made his promise in front of the elders and the chief, the hunter seized her by the hand and took her with him to his lodge.

  There her owl husband spread out soft bear robes for her and did all a young bridegroom should do for a beloved wife. When the girl woke after her first night as a married woman, she gazed at her sleeping husband and discovered something awful. His ears stuck up from his long, thick black hair, and his yellowish eyes, which he kept half open even in sleep, had pupils that contracted at intervals into narrow slits. The girl sat for a long time petrified with fear, because now she knew that the handsome young hunter was the terrible great horned owl himself.

  The spell was broken when the husband’s aunt entered and nudged the girl. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why are you sitting there staring at him like this?” Then the girl let out a piercing scream and fled.

  The whole village tried to console the young woman for the shocking trick that had been played upon her. The great horned owl left the neighborhood, because now everybody knew who he really was. However, he still hoped to regain his beautiful wife by tricking her a second time.

  The owl chief waited a while for the villagers to forget their fear and suspicion. Then he changed himself once more into a young man, also good-looking, but very different in appearance from his former disguise. He killed a moose and an elk, dragged the meat to the village, and announced to the people: “I have come as a friend from another camp nearby. I belong to your people and speak the same language, and I want to live among you. I am a great hunter and a generous man. I am putting up a lodge, and I have much meat, so I invite everybody to a feast.”

  At first the haughty young woman and her parents were suspicious and did not want to accept the invitation. But all the people said: “Why, he’s just a good-natured stranger. It would be impolite not to go.” So they went.

  While the villagers were feasting, the newcomer said: “Let’s tell stories. Has anybody had something strange, remarkable, or funny happen to him?” When it was the proud girl’s turn, she looked straight at the host and said: “My story must be told in a whisper, so in order to hear it, you must all put your hair back and uncover your ears.” The guests smiled and did as she said, but the host did not. “My hearing is keen,” he told her. “I can understand a whisper from a great distance. I don’t need to uncover my ears.”

  But everyone laughed and called: “Uncover them! uncover them!”

  “I’m your host,” he replied. “You’re being rude and impolite. Stop making all that noise!”

  But they cried even louder: “Uncover them! Uncover them!”

  At this the host grew very angry and shouted: “All right! Here, look!” Throwing back his hair, he uncovered ears that were standing up like horns. With cries of terror, the guests rushed out of the lodge.

  The great horned owl’s aunt was as angry as he. “This young wife of yours is far too clever,” she told him. “We must make something to outwit her.” Having the power of a great sorceress, she created a magic flute that would lure any girl into the arms of the man who played it. “With this, nephew,” she said, “she won’t be able to stop herself from coming to you.”

  The great horned owl, again disguised as a man, tried to carry out his aunt’s scheme. But the haughty young woman and her parents were now so wary that they had put their lodge right in the center of the village and never strayed far. The weeks went by as he waited for his opportunity, and still the horned owl could not manage to come near his wife.

  At last one day this proud girl said to herself: “It’s been so long that the great horned owl has surely forgotten about me. He has given up, while my fear of him is still imprisoning me. It’s time for me to go out and walk in the woods, the way I used to do.”

  In a bad mood, the great horned owl was sitting high in a crotch of a huge tree. “I’m wasting my time,” he thought. “My wife is so afraid of me that she stays in the middle of the village. It’s hopeless; I must stop thinking about her.” Brooding, he saw someone coming through the woods. With his sharp owl’s eyes he recognized her, though he could hardly believe it. His heart began to beat very fast.

  The proud girl came right to the foot of the big tree. Unaware of her husband’s presence, she sat down and said to herself, “How good to be out in the forest again without feeling afraid. How I enjoy this!” Then she heard some sweet sounds that soon formed into a wonderful song—magical, alluring, bewitching. She abandoned herself to the sound of the flute. “I could never resist the player who makes this wonderful music,” she thought.

  Then the Great Horned Owl swooped softly down upon her, seizing her gently in his huge talons, carrying her off to the village of the owls. There they lived as man and wife, and the haughty girl eventually became used to being married to the great horned owl. Women have to get used to their husbands, no matter who they are.

  —Based on a legend reported in 1883 by Charles G. Leland.

  THE DOGS HOLD AN ELECTION

  [BRULE SIOUX]

  We don’t think much of the white man’s elections. Whoever wins, we Indians always lose. Well, we have a little story about elections. Once a long time ago, the dogs were trying to elect a president. So one of them got up in the big dog convention and said: “I nominate the bulldog for president. He’s strong. He can fight.”

  “But he can’t run,” said another dog. “What good is a fighter who can’t run? He won’t catch anybody.”

  Then another dog got up and said: “I nominate the greyhound, because he sure can run.”

  But the other dogs cried: “Naw, he can run all right, but he can’t fight. When he catches up with somebody, what happens then? He gets the
hell beaten out of him, that’s what! So all he’s good for is running away.”

  Then an ugly little mutt jumped up and said: “I nominate that dog for president who smells good underneath his tail.”

  And immediately an equally ugly mutt jumped up and yelled: “I second the motion.”

  At once all the dogs started sniffing underneath each other’s tails. A big chorus went up:

  “Phew, he doesn’t smell good under his tail.”

  “No, neither does this one.”

  “He’s no presidential timber!”

  “No, he’s no good, either.”

  “This one sure isn’t the people’s choice.”

  “Wow, this ain’t my candidate!”

  When you go out for a walk, just watch the dogs. They’re still sniffing underneath each others tails. They’re looking for a good leader, and they still haven’t found him.

  —Told by Lame Deer at Winner, Rosebud Indian Reservation, South Dakota, 1969.

  Recorded by Richard Erdoes.

  THE SNAKE BROTHERS

  [BRULE SIOUX]

  For a long time people have been saying that somewhere near Soldier’s Creek a giant rattlesnake has its den. It is supposed to be a full twelve feet long, and very old. Nobody has seen it for years, but some people have smelled it and heard its giant rattles. It smells something powerful, they say.

  We Sioux think of rattlesnakes as our cousins. They always give warning before they strike, as if they wanted to say: “Uncle, don’t step on me; then we’ll get along.”

  A long time ago, so long that it is not on our oldest winter count, there were four brothers, all of them young and good hunters, who went out scouting for buffalo. They had not hunted long before they saw a lone buffalo and killed him with their arrows.

  All at once they heard a voice, the voice of the buffalo making human talk: “Take the meat to nourish yourselves, but put the skin, head, hooves, and tail together, every part in its place. Do this for sure.”

  The youngest brother said: “Let’s do as the voice told us.”

  But the other three didn’t want to bother. “That was a foolish voice,” they said, “maybe no voice at all—maybe we only imagined it. We’ll take the skin home, and it will make a fine winter robe.” The youngest brother had to argue long and hard—finally had to take the skin and offer to fight them for it—before they let him do what the voice had directed.

  While the other three feasted on buffalo hump and lay down to get some rest, the youngest brother went to the top of a hill and spread out the skin, skull, hooves, and tail—just as the voice had told them. He said a prayer to the buffalo, who gave his flesh so that the people might live.

  As he prayed, all the parts of the buffalo joined together before his eyes and came alive again, forming themselves into a whole animal once more. It was a fine, strong buffalo, who bellowed loudly and then walked slowly away to disappeare into the hills. The youngest brother watched the buffalo as long as his eyes could follow it. Only then did he join the others round the fire.

  He ate some of what his brothers had left. But they had taken the best meat—the tongue and back fat—and made fun of him for having missed it. They said: “Now we’re going up the hill to get the skin back, whether you like it or not.” But the skin and the other parts were gone, and they would not believe the youngest brother when he told them what had happened. “You’re trying to fool us,” they said. “You buried it all somewhere.”

  After that, the four brother stretched out to sleep. In the middle of the night the oldest woke up, saying: “What’s that noise I hear every time I move?” It was a rattling sound that came from his feet. He looked down, and in the dim light of the dying fire, saw that his feet had grown rattles. He called to the others: “Help! Something has happened to my feet!”

  But only the youngest brother came to look; the others tried but could not. “Something’s the matter with my legs too,” cried the second-oldest, whose feet had stuck together so that he could not force them apart. “And look at mine!” cried the third brother. His legs were not only joined together but rounded, like a snake’s tail. “I think we are being punished,” said the oldest brother, “for not having obeyed that voice.”

  While they were talking, the change moved up to their hips. “Now I know we are being punished,” said the second brother. “We are being turned into snakes.” “My body is already covered with scales!” cried the third brother. By then the change had moved up to their necks.

  “Don’t worry, misunkala, younger brother,” said the other three. “Though we are snakes, we remain your brothers. We will always look after our village and our people. You see that hill over there? It has a big hole—the entrance to the home of the snakes. We will go in there, but whenever you need help, stand outside and call us. Come to see us in a little while: alone at first, the second time with all the people. Now we must leave you.” They could not say more, because their heads were changing into snakes’ heads that could only hiss.

  “Elder brothers,” said the youngest, weeping, “It was your fate to become snakes. I believe this was destined to happen to you, that the Great Spirit planned it so. I will come back as you have told me to, first alone, then with the rest of the people. Goodbye.”

  He saw that his snake brothers had trouble crawling like snakes; they still had to learn how. Though they were as big and heavy as people, he dragged them one by one to the hole in the hillside. When they were at the entrance to their snake home, they began to wiggle. The youngest brother watched them crawl in and disappear, one after the other. He heard them rattle, and then the sound of their rattles grew fainter and fainter and at last stopped. He dried his tears and gathered up the buffalo meat to take to the people. After all, that was what he had come to do.

  When he reached the lodges of his people, he told them: “You see me come back alone. My three older brothers are gone, but do not mourn for them. They are still alive, though they have been turned into snakes, as the Great Spirit willed. They now live inside the hill which is the snakes’ home, and there you will meet them someday.”

  Four-times-four days later, the youngest brother prepared to go with a war party against the Pahani on a horse-stealing raid. He painted his face black for war. Then he took his best pony and rode out to the hill where he had left his brothers. Standing before the hole at the foot of the hill, he called: “Elder brothers, I have come alone, as you have told me, and I need your help.”

  At once the big head of a giant rattlesnake thrust out of the hole. Its tongue flickered in and out as if in greeting. The young man knew that this was his eldest brother. Then two more big snakes’ heads appeared, and he could sense that these were his second and third brothers. They crawled up to him, putting their heads on his arms and shoulders, hissing at him and looking at him with their yellow eyes.

  “Brothers, I need your help,” he said. “I am going to count coup upon the Pahani.”

  Many more snakes came out of the hole and set up a mighty rattling which made the earth tremble. One of the big snakes, the oldest brother, went back into the hole and reappeared pushing a medicine bundle before him.

  “Eldest brother,” said the youngest, “I know that you are bringing me snake medicine. It will give me speed and enable me to wiggle out of bad situations. It will make me feared by the enemy. It will cause me to strike swiftly with a deadly weapon. Thank you, my brothers.”

  It was as he had said. In war he struck quickly, with the speed of a rattlesnake. His enemies were afraid of him. He counted many coups on them and returned unharmed with a crowd of Pahani horses. The people were happy, and he told them: “Now we must give thanks to my elder brothers.”

  So all the people went with him to the hill which was the snakes’ home. There he called for his elder brothers to show themselves, and they appeared with much hissing and rattling. The people made offerings to them of tobacco and good red meat, and the snake brothers were contented. From then on, they protected the
people with powerful snake medicine every time they had to go to war.

  And from then on, the people were successful in everything they undertook. If the rattlesnake brothers have not died in the meantime, they are still helping us today. That’s why we never kill rattlesnakes.

  —Told by Lame Deer at Winner, Rosebud Indian Reservation, South Dakota, 1969.

  Recorded by Richard Erdoes.

  [PAPAGO]

  One day the Creator was resting, sitting, watching some children at play in a village. The children laughed and sang, yet as he watched them, the Creator’s heart was sad. He was thinking: “These children will grow old. Their skin will become wrinkled. Their hair will turn gray. Their teeth will fall out. The young hunter’s arm will fail. These lovely young girls will grow ugly and fat. The playful puppies will become blind, mangy dogs. And those wonderful flowers—yellow and blue, red and purple—will fade. The leaves from the trees will fall and dry up. Already they are turning yellow.” Thus the Creator grew sadder and sadder. It was in the fall, and the thought of the coming winter, with its cold and lack of game and green things, made his heart heavy.

  Yet it was still warm, and the sun was shining. The Creator watched the play of sunlight and shadow on the ground, the yellow leaves being carried here and there by the wind. He saw the blueness of the sky, the whiteness of some cornmeal ground by the women. Suddenly he smiled. “All those colors, they ought to be preserved. I’ll make something to gladden my heart, something for these children to look at and enjoy.”

  The Creator took out his bag and started gathering things: a spot of sunlight, a handful of blue from the sky, the whiteness of the cornmeal, the shadow of playing children, the blackness of a beautiful girls hair, the yellow of the falling leaves, the green of the pine needles, the red, purple, and orange of the flowers around him. All these he put into his bag. As an afterthought, he put the songs of the birds in, too.