Now Singing Moose was speaking again, and Nils was brought quickly out of his wandering thoughts. He is speaking to me, he realized.
“… so, White Wolf, will you honor us by telling of your people? Their Creation story?”
With something like panic, Nils pulled himself back from his daydreams. He started to protest that he could not, but then realized that only a short while ago he had actually been comparing Moose’s story of Creation with his own. Yes, he could tell them of Adam and Eve, and the Garden.
It was just then that he happened to think of his grandfather. He was never certain why, but he remembered that the old man had loved to tell the tales of the Norse gods. Grandfather had honored and respected the God of Christianity, because his family did, but he had loved the old legends, too. Nils had always suspected that his grandfather was never completely convinced that one story was right and one wrong.
“Men call God by different names,” he had once told the boy, “and He speaks to them in different ways.”
It was like the many paths up the sides of the mountain, maybe. All lead to the top. No sooner had this idea struck him than he knew what he must do. He would tell the story that he felt would be most reasonable to the minds of the People. And, of course, the most interesting.
“In the beginning…” he began, and paused for a moment. “My brothers and sisters, I may need our friend Odin to help me with this story. My lips have not learned your language. But I will try. Now, in the beginning, there was only darkness. No earth or water or air. In the darkness was a being, the Allfather.”
He paused, unsure of himself and his translation. Odin spoke a few words to clarify. It occurred to Nils that up to this point there were many similarities in the various stories.
“Whatever the Allfather willed, it happened,” he went on. “So, there came to be, in the middle of the darkness, a deep gully … a canyon. … To the north of it, a spring of water and fog. The water froze to ice, and great pieces fell off into the canyon all the time. It made a roaring sound, but the canyon was too deep to see the bottom. To the south of it was a bright world of light and fire. It was a warm place, guarded by a giant whose weapon was made of fire. Sparks fell from him onto the ice with hissing sounds and the ice melted, but only part of it. The steam froze again and began to snow, to fill the deep canyon. In the middle of all this there came to life a great creature called Ymir, from the frozen clay. He was an ice-giant.”
The listeners were spellbound by the enormity of the Norse story. Nils was glad he had chosen this one over that of the Garden of Eden, whose warm and idyllic setting would be hard for the People to understand. Sometimes, in the chill of winter, the Garden was hard for the Norse to understand.
“This ice-giant,” he went on, “looked around for something to eat, but there was nothing. Then he noticed a great animal, just created like himself. From her came four streams of milk, and he saw that this was good. He called her Audhumla, the nourisher.”
There was a short pause at this point while Odin and Nils conversed in the Norse tongue. The concept of a cow did not translate well. Finally Odin spoke to the assembled People.
“My friends, it is this among the people of White Wolf and Fire Man: When I was living there, I saw these animals. The people there keep them as we keep dogs, and they squeeze milk from their udders.”
There were gasps of amazement.
“No, no, it is true,” Odin assured them. “I have seen it. This animal is much like the hump-backed buffalo that we see sometimes from farther west. Now, let us listen to more of White Wolf’s story.”
The crowd quieted expectantly, and Nils continued.
“This cow, the nourisher, was also looking around for something to eat,” he went on. “She began to lick at a block of ice, melting it a little, and soon there was seen a head like that of a man, but it was a god-being. He stepped free of the ice. Meanwhile the ice-giant had fallen sleep, and there began to form other frost-giants from his body. From the sweat under his arms, a boy and a girl. From between his toes, a six-headed giant, who was the start of a race of evil giants.”
There were more gasps.
“Now,” Nils went on, “there was the god from the ice block, who soon had a son, Borr, and he was good. The ice-giants were evil. This started a war between the gods and the giants. Three sons of Borr finally killed the great Ymir and rolled his body into the canyon. This ended the war, and they began to make the earth out of the giant’s parts. His blood and sweat formed the ocean, his flesh the land. His bones are the mountains and hills, his hair and beard the trees and grass. They painted the inside of the giant’s skull blue, and it is the dome of the sky. The clouds are Ymir’s brains. Four very strong little men were put at the four corners to hold the dome in place. Their names were North, South, East, and West.”
He paused, and a murmur ran through the crowd.
“What about people?” someone asked.
“Yes, White Wolf,” said Odin, to whom much of this was new. “What about people?”
“That was not yet,” Nils explained. “First, there was—”
“Enough!” stated Singing Moose. “My head is tired from such a story.”
He rose and left the lodge. Others began to drift out, too. Now Nils was concerned. The listeners had certainly responded well, but had he somehow offended the honored storyteller of the People? Should he have not tried to tell the Norse story of Creation?
41
Singing Moose needed some time to think. He had not been offended, actually. It was more as if he had been overwhelmed by the enormously powerful stories of the outsider, White Wolf.
It was a good thing, to have an honored guest such as this light-haired holy man. An honor for the People. It was also good that White Wolf and yes, the other, too, the one called Fire Man, were fine providers. They had proved themselves in the hunt, in both skill and bravery. These two had vast powers. White Wolf was regarded with awe because of Odin’s eyewitness tales, and the People had seen him change the color of a stone. Fire Man’s powers were different, but equally impressive.
The People had been afraid at first, of men with such gifts. Even with the reassurance of Odin that they could be trusted, it was an uneasy time. It was soon apparent, though, that Odin was right. These holy men were, after all, men. They were kind to children, and both had now taken wives among the People. From what Moose had heard, they treated the women with respect. That, too, was good. It was known that some tribes did not.
So, it had become an interesting, stimulating thing to have these outsiders among the People. They had learned the language quickly, though they were still not skilled in its use.
One thing, however, that had never even crossed the mind of Singing Moose, was that he would be challenged as a storyteller. Moose had inherited this vocation from his father, and he in turn from his father, for many generations back into the Old Times. It was the responsibility, the duty of the storyteller, to teach and pass on the story of the People. Their Creation story was a good one. He had always enjoyed telling it to visitors, and listening to theirs. In addition to the underground lake account and that of the grapevine ladder, there were many other stories of the People. Some of these were for amusement, some for instruction, some for both. Children loved the stories of foolish Rabbit, back in the time when the animals talked and could converse with man. How Bobcat lost his tail…How Coyote stole fire…Good stories.
It was good to hear the stories of others, too. That was always a pleasure. He had inquired of the stories of White Wolf’s people out of curiosity. The outsiders now seemed to have enough use of language to share their stories. Now Moose was wondering if he should have done so. Even with the language difficulty, White Wolf had told them a story so powerful…Ah! Gods and giants and ice caves and dwarfs…For the first time, Singing Moose was afraid. Always in the past when other storytellers were present, it had been an easy, friendly give-and-take. Ah, your story is a good one. Now here is ours. … And o
thers had good stories, too. Some were closely alike, others had interesting variations. In one Creation tale he had heard, people came from the sky, sliding down its dome to reach earth. None, however, had threatened him as a storyteller of the People. Until now. He had been unable to absorb any more, and had caused the story-fire session to end. He needed to think. There was always an interest in new stories from outside, but never an absorbing acceptance like this. And if the outsiders were to stay, what would happen? Would they prefer the stories of White Wolf? In a generation or two, would the origins of the People be forgotten? It was a heavy responsibility for the old storyteller to bear. He wished that the light-haired outsider would just go away. Let everything be as it was, as it had always been. Maybe it would be best for the People if some tragedy were to fall on the two outsiders. Maybe he could … He thrust that thought aside.
One thing he could do, however. He would share his concerns. Moose was one of the three most influential men in the village. The others were Big Tree and Clay. Tree was the headman of the village. He was young, strong, a good headman. Not much of a thinker, Moose sometimes believed, but that was not his real strength. He was a leader, and could inspire people to do better than they really should be able.
Moose sought out Big Tree to seek his counsel. The day was sunny though cold, and they stood outside to breathe the fresh, crisp air and to indulge in the luxury of private conversation. Somewhat to the consternation of Moose, Tree seemed to recognize no problem at all. He had apparently overcome any jealousies over the marriages of Calling Dove and Red Fawn. The headman was as entranced by the stories of White Wolf as anyone else.
“Is that not a good one, about cutting up the giant to make the world?” he chuckled. He pointed to the sky. “Look, there are a few of his brains in the sky now.”
Singing Moose glanced up at the few puffs of convoluted clouds against the blue of winter sky. Yes, they did resemble brains. That was the problem. … He saw no use in talking further to Big Tree. Maybe Clay would understand the danger here.
Clay was older, a contemporary of Singing Moose, and he was a holy man. They had long been friends.
“Let us walk and smoke,” Moose suggested. They could stroll for some time along the tramped-down paths around and between the lodges. It would provide privacy, too. They walked and smoked, not talking for a little while.
“I am made to think,” Clay said finally, “that your heart is heavy. What is it, my friend?”
Moose smoked a little longer, and then spoke. “You were at the story fire?”
“Yes. It was good.” His tone was noncommittal.
“Yes … too good, maybe.”
“How can this be?” Clay asked.
“Maybe the People will follow the stories of White Wolf instead of their own.”
“Well, they are good stories,” admitted Clay. “The buffalo licking the ice away…” he chuckled at the thought.
This did not help the heavy feeling in the heart of Singing Moose.
“You think their stories are better!” he accused angrily.
Clay took a few more steps and then paused, puffing his pipe. A woman carrying wood came toward them, and they nodded a greeting, stepping aside to allow her to pass. Then the holy man answered, slowly and thoughtfully.
“Not better, my friend, or worse. They are different. Strange creatures, strange ways. But do not all storytellers tell the same story?”
“What do you mean?” Moose was unconvinced, and a bit ruffled.
“Well, look at it. White Wolf’s story has ice-giants and gods who are of the fire … the sun, no? They battle, good and bad. Is it different than ours? We have Cold Maker, in his lodge in the north. He comes out and tries to drive Sun to the south. Then Sun wins, and drives Cold Maker back to his lodge. It happens each year.”
Moose was not quite convinced. “But White Wolf has not told of Sun.”
“True. I am made to think that he will, though. Do you not think so?”
“Maybe. There is more to his story.”
“Yes. But do not all people tell the same story as it seems to them?”
Moose nodded, grudgingly, and then Clay resumed his conversation.
“Now, friend Moose, consider my problem for a little while.”
“Your problem?”
“Of course. You think you are the only one? Look, here comes a man who is strange in appearance, who changes stones to different colors with his hands, who can even turn himself into an animal and back again. You think this is not a danger to my importance among the People? Is his gift stronger than mine? Is he more powerful?”
Clay paused, but Singing Moose, staring at the snow, said nothing.
“I had thought,” Clay went on, “that I might kill him, or have someone do it. Maybe both of them, the Fire Man too. That would remove the threat, no?”
Moose stared at him in astonishment, and Clay continued.
“I thought then about it, and that they are younger and stronger than I. Maybe they would kill me, and my family would mourn. And I thought too that maybe the powers, the spirit gifts of White Wolf are stronger than mine, anyway. Maybe I could not kill him at all. And if I used my gifts to do him harm, that is bad. To use my gifts for evil might kill me.”
Moose was still speechless. He had had no idea that his friend had suffered much the same problem as he himself.
“So,” Clay went on, “I came to think that it would be unwise to test his power. He has his gifts, I have mine. They are different. Maybe one is stronger, maybe not, but they are different. White Wolf can change the color of stones. I can listen to Kookooskoos in the night, and talk to him. Maybe both are good, but different. The same with Fire Man. We make fire with sticks, Fire Man with his striker, but it is all fire.”
“What are you saying, Clay?” Singing Moose asked, still confused.
“Only that they are different. They have shown no wish to harm us. They have helped us in the hunt. I am made to think they are not a danger to us. White Wolf’s power is no threat to me, as long as mine is not, to him. It is the same with the stories.”
“But…how?”
“Wolf’s people tell the story one way, you tell it another. Same story, same purpose. I am made to think so.”
Singing Moose walked along in silence. Maybe so. He was surprised that his friend had already seen the threat, and had reasoned out this answer. The holy man’s danger had been greater than his own, maybe, because of the possible clash of power in the strength of their respective gifts. He happened to glance at his friend and was surprised to see a gleam of mischief in the holy man’s eye.
“Besides,” said Clay, “Kookooskoos tells me I am right.”
Moose was not certain that Clay was serious, but said nothing.
“Tell me,” Clay went on, “when will we have another story fire? I want to hear about Sun, and Moon. And you know, Wolf has no people yet! And is it not interesting, the Allfather looking over both good and bad?”
Moose nodded, still perplexed that his friend had already been through all of this soul-searching.
“We will speak of all this again,” said Clay confidentially, “but let us listen carefully to their story. Maybe we will still need to kill them.”
But this time, Moose was sure that there was a gleam of laughter in the eyes of the holy man.
“White Wolf, tell us more of the stories of your people,” a woman asked.
It was several days since the last story fire, and even more of the villagers had gathered. Some of those who had not been present when White Wolf told his story, the Creation story of his people, were quite eager to hear. The rest wanted to hear more. For generations, the People had heard their own stories recounted by the storytellers, with only slight variations. They had exchanged stories with neighboring clans. Once in a long time a traveling trader from a faraway tribe would stop for a day or two, with stories that were new. That was always an exciting time.
White Wolf had initially been regarded wi
th a certain amount of fear because of his powers. Gradually the fear had been replaced by respect, as the People realized that he was not particularly dangerous. A turning point in his relationship with the People, however, occurred when he spoke at the story fire. Even with his halting use of the tongue of the People, even with the frequent necessity for him to consult with Odin about words, the stories were powerful. White Wolf had told of the very beginnings, as seen by his people. It was gigantic and exciting. And it was apparent that there was more, much more.
“His story has not even told of Sun yet,” someone had noted.
“Nor humans!” another offered.
“Yes. Maybe we can ask him.”
Singing Moose did not seem to mind that an outsider had such compelling stories. The People had wondered about that at first. Old Moose had abruptly called a halt to the stories, and there were some who thought that he might be angry. Apparently he was not, however. When the woman requested more stories from the outsider, many people looked toward Moose to see his reaction. If they expected resistance they were disappointed. There was only a bland expression on the face of the old storyteller.
“Yes,” he said, “let us hear more. How did your people discover Sun?”
Nils hesitated for a moment. He had not foreseen the interest that might be generated by his recounting of the Norse legendry. He wondered whether he could remember enough to keep the story afloat.
“Ah…yes!” he said thoughtfully, “I had told how the gods decided to make a world from the parts of the dead giant, Ymir?”
There were nods of agreement, and he continued.
“It was good, but it was still dark, so they gathered sparks from the south-giant’s flaming weapon, and flung them into the sky. The two biggest were the sun and the moon. But they just floated around, with no direction. Someone must guide the lights across the sky. Two young giant-people were chosen, Mani for the moon, and his sister, Sol, for the sun. Each day they—”
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