Flying with the Eagle, Racing the Great Bear

by Joseph Bruchac

  “They were killed by the howling of the giants as they fought,” Mikumwesu said. “If we had heard their terrible howls, we also would have died.”

  Once more they started north, following the little dog. After traveling for four days, Mikumwesu stopped them again.

  “We are near the great water,” Mikumwesu said. “Tomorrow you must send your small dog ahead to clear the path.”

  When the morning came, White Weasel said to his dog, “Bad Dog, danger is ahead of us. Go and clear our path so we can travel safely.”

  Wagging his tail, Bad Dog set out. He had not gone far when he came to two hemlock trees on either side of the trail. Beneath each tree, a huge snake was hidden. Bad Dog breathed in one, two, three, four times. With each breath, he became bigger. When he was taller than the trees, he grabbed one snake then the other and shook them till they were dead. Then he breathed out one, two, three, four times and was small again.

  Wagging his tail, Bad Dog set forth once more. Soon he came to two large stones, one on each side of the trail. Behind each stone, a great bear was hiding. Again Bad Dog breathed in four times and grew larger with each breath. With a growl, he leaped on the bears and killed each one with a single bite. Then, just as before, he breathed out four times and was small again.

  When White Weasel’s dog returned to him, the sun was four hands high.

  “Bad Dog has done well,” said Mikumwesu. “Now the trail is clear. Tomorrow you will reach the village of the people who killed your parents. All of the people in that village are bad. They have killed all the other people here in the North. They killed your parents and pretended to be your father and mother, but your dog would not let them enter your wigwam. So they left you there to die.”

  White Weasel and his dog went along the trail. They passed between two tall hemlock trees, and White Weasel saw many crows and jays eating something dead. They passed between two great stones, and White Weasel saw many ravens and foxes eating something dead. At last they came to a hill. Below them were the great water and a village on the shore. White Weasel followed his dog to the first wigwam in the village, where the dog stopped and growled.

  “Wife,” said a harsh voice from within, “hear me. Bad Dog has come.”

  White Weasel went to the door of the lodge. “Kwe,” he called. “Hello.”

  “Kwe,” the harsh voice called back from within. “Come inside.”

  White Weasel and his dog entered the lodge. A man and woman in beautiful clothing sat by the fire. They were very attractive, but the boy did not trust what he saw in their eyes.

  “You have found our dog,” said the woman. “Give him to us.”

  “Bad Dog is mine,” said White Weasel. “He has protected me since I was a small, sick baby.”

  The two people looked long and hard at White Weasel. “You are our son,” said the man. “Bad Dog carried you off into the forest a long time ago. We are glad to see you. Come and meet the people of our village.”

  The man who pretended to be White Weasel’s father led them out of the lodge. There, by the door, stood Mikumwesu.

  “Who is this ugly little man?” said the woman who pretended to be White Weasel’s mother.

  “You should not insult me,” said Mikumwesu. “Soon your village will be covered with sumac trees.” The sumacs were the first trees to grow in a deserted village, and Mikumwesu’s words were a warning to these people that they would be destroyed.

  Many other people began to come out of their lodges. They made fun of White Weasel and Mikumwesu, but the boy and the little man ignored their words.

  “My dear son,” said the man, “we are glad you have returned. Now we want to play with you. Do you like to wrestle?”

  “Yes,” said White Weasel, “I am a good wrestler.”

  “Great friend,” said Mikumwesu, reaching into his pouch and drawing the boy aside, “put on these white moccasins. Then you will always land on your feet.”

  White Weasel put on the moccasins and followed the one who pretended to be his father until they arrived at a big wigwam on a stone ledge near the water. A huge man came out of that wigwam.

  “You will wrestle with me,” said the big man.

  “Grab hold and try to throw me,” said White Weasel.

  The big man grabbed the boy, lifted him high, and threw him down to break his bones on the rocks. But White Weasel landed lightly on his feet.

  “This is fun,” said the boy. “Throw me again.”

  The big man became very angry and threw White Weasel a second time, trying to break his head. Just as before, the boy landed on his feet. Four times the big man tried to kill White Weasel and four times he failed. Then White Weasel held up his hands.

  “Now it is my turn,” he said. He lifted the big man up and threw him down so hard that the big man could not move.

  “This game is good,” said White Weasel. “Who will wrestle me next?” But no one came forward.

  The two who pretended to be his parents stood to one side, talking.

  “My son,” said the man, “it is late. Tomorrow we will play a better game. We will go out to the little island at dawn and play ball with you.”

  “Come and spend the night in our lodge,” said the woman.

  “No,” said the boy, “I am used to sleeping in the forest.”

  As White Weasel and Mikumwesu walked toward the forest, the man who pretended to be White Weasel’s father called to the dog. “Bad Dog,” he said, “come to me.” But White Weasel’s dog only growled and followed his master into the forest, where White Weasel and Mikumwesu built a fire and made camp.

  That night there were many strange sounds in the forest around them. Four times the noises came very close. Each time, Bad Dog ran growling into the darkness and returned with blood on his teeth.

  At dawn White Weasel and Mikumwesu went back to the village. The people of the village were waiting. Many of them were limping and had wounds on their arms and legs.

  “My son,” said the man who pretended to be White Weasel’s father, “ride with me in our canoe.”

  Mikumwesu took White Weasel aside. “They will drown you if you ride with them. I will make a better canoe.” The little man went down to the shore to a big white stone. He turned it over and shaped it into a canoe, then pushed it out onto the water. When he got inside, there was a paddle in his hands. White Weasel and Bad Dog climbed in with him, and the people of the village followed in their canoes of birch bark. Soon they reached the little island.

  “Our ball field is on the other side of this island,” said the one who pretended to be White Weasel’s father. “Leave your dog here. No dogs can come to our ball field.”

  Again Mikumwesu spoke softly to White Weasel. “Great friend, these bad people will kill you when you reach the other side. Follow them till you reach the middle of the island, then turn around and run back here as quick as you can.”

  White Weasel set out, always staying a little behind the people of the village as they laughed and joked.

  “This boy will never see another ball game better than ours,” they said.

  White Weasel kept stopping to tie one moccasin string and then the other. When the bad people were far ahead, he turned and ran as quick as he could back to the canoe and jumped in. He and Mikumwesu began to paddle.

  “Look back,” said the little man.

  White Weasel looked back. The bad people were running down to their canoes. They no longer were disguised as human beings. Now he could see they were monsters.

  Mikumwesu stood in the canoe and faced north.

  “Grandfather,” he called, “blow this island away.”

  Then a great wind came out of the north. It blew and it blew. When it stopped blowing, the island and the bad people were gone and were never seen again.

  When th
ey reached the mainland, Mikumwesu spoke to White Weasel.

  “Great friend,” he said, “I must go back to my wife. Return to your grandparents. Good things will happen now that the bad people have been swept away.”

  White Weasel and his dog walked south for many days. When they reached home, things were not as before. There were many lodges and many people who welcomed him and took him to the lodge of his grandparents.

  “Grandson,” said Fisher, “you have become a tall man.”

  “Grandson,” said Wolverine, “now that the bad ones are gone and their village grown over with sumacs, your relatives have returned.”

  So White Weasel was reunited with his people. He became their chief and all went well for many years, and it was still going well when I left them.

  Racing the Great Bear

  Iroquois

  Ne onendji. Hear my story, what happened long ago. For many generations, the five nations of the Haudenosaunee, the People of the Longhouse, had been at war with one another. No one could say how the wars began, but each time a man of one nation was killed, his relatives sought revenge in the blood feud, and so the fighting continued. Then the Creator took pity on his people and sent a messenger of peace. The Peacemaker traveled from nation to nation, convincing the people of the Five Nations—the Mohawk, the Oneida, the Onondaga, the Cayuga, and the Seneca—that it was wrong for brothers to kill one another. It was not easy, but finally the nations agreed and the Great Peace began. Most welcomed that peace, though there were some beings with bad hearts who wished to see the return of war.

  One day, not long after the Great Peace had been established, some young men in a Seneca village decided they would pay a visit to the Onondaga people.

  “It is safe now to walk the trail between our nations,” the young men said. “We will return after the sun has risen and set seven times.”

  Then they set out. They walked toward the east until they were lost from sight in the hills. But many more than seven days passed, and those young men never returned. Now another group of young men left, wanting to find out where their friends had gone. They, too, did not return.

  The people grew worried. Parties were sent out to look for the vanished young men, but no sign was found. And the searchers who went too far into the hills did not return, either.

  The old chief of the village thought long and hard. He asked the clan mothers, those wise women whose job it was to choose the chiefs and give them good advice, what should be done.

  “We must find someone brave enough to face whatever danger is out there,” the clan mothers said.

  So the old chief called the whole village to a council meeting. He held up a white strand of wampum beads made from quahog clamshells as he spoke.

  “Hear me,” he said. “I am of two minds about what has happened to our people. It may be that the Onondaga have broken the peace and captured them. It may be there is something with an evil mind that wishes to destroy this new peace and so has killed our people. Now someone must go and find out. Who is brave enough? Who will come and take this wampum from my hand?”

  Many men were gathered in that council. Some were known to speak of themselves as brave warriors. Still, though they muttered to one another, no man stepped forward to take the strand of wampum. The old chief began to walk about the circle, holding the wampum in front of each man in turn. But each man only lowered his eyes to the ground. No man lifted his hand to take the wampum.

  Just outside the circle stood a boy who had not yet become a man. His parents were dead, and he lived with his grandmother in her old lodge at the edge of the village. His clothing was always torn and his face dirty because his grandmother was too old to care for him as a mother would. The other young men made fun of him, and as a joke they called him Swift Runner—even though no one had ever seen him run and it was thought that he was weak and lazy. All he ever seemed to do was play with his little dog or sit by the fire and listen when the old people were talking.

  “Our chief has forgotten our greatest warrior,” one of the young men said to another, tilting his head toward Swift Runner.

  “Nyoh,” the other young man said, laughing. “Yes. Why does he not offer the wampum to Swift Runner?”

  The chief looked around the circle of men, and the laughing stopped. He walked out of the circle to the place where the small boy in torn clothes stood. He held out the wampum and Swift Runner took it without hesitating.

  “I accept this,” Swift Runner said. “It is right that I be the one to face the danger. In the eyes of the people I am worthless, so if I do not return, it will not matter. I will leave when the sun rises tomorrow.”

  When Swift Runner arrived home at his grandmother’s lodge, the old woman was waiting for him.

  “Grandson,” she said, “I know what you have done. The people of this village no longer remember, but your father was a great warrior. Our family is a family that has power.”

  Then she reached up into the rafters and took down a heavy bow. It was blackened with smoke and seemed so thick that no man could bend it.

  “If you can string this bow, Grandson,” the old woman said, “you are ready to face whatever waits for you on the trail.”

  Swift Runner took the bow. It was as thick as a man’s wrist, but he bent it with ease and strung it.

  “Wah-hah!” said his grandmother. “You are the one I knew you would grow up to be. Now you must sleep. At dawn we will make you ready for your journey.”

  It was not easy for Swift Runner to sleep, but when he woke the next morning, he felt strong and clear-headed. His grandmother was sitting by the fire with a cap in her hand.

  “This was your grandfather’s cap,” she said. “I have sewed four hummingbird feathers on it. It will make your feet more swift.”

  Swift Runner took the cap and placed it on his head.

  His grandmother held up four pairs of moccasins. “Carry these tied to your waist. When one pair wears out, throw them aside and put on the next pair.”

  Swift Runner took the moccasins and tied them to his belt.

  Next his grandmother picked up a small pouch. “In this pouch is cornmeal mixed with maple sugar,” she said. “It is the only food you will need as you travel. It will give you strength when you eat it each evening.”

  Swift Runner took the pouch and hung it from his belt by the moccasins.

  “The last thing I must give you,” said the old woman, “is this advice. Pay close attention to your little dog. You have treated him well and so he is your great friend. He is small, but his eyes and nose are keen. Keep him always in front of you. He will warn you of danger before it can strike you.”

  Then Swift Runner set out on his journey. His little dog stayed ahead of him, sniffing the air and sniffing the ground. By the time the sun was in the middle of the sky, they were far from the village. The trail passed through deep woods, and it seemed to the boy as if something was following them among the trees. But he could see nothing in the thick brush.

  The trail curved toward the left, and the boy felt even more the presence of something watching. Suddenly his little dog ran into the brush at the side of the trail, barking loudly. There were the sounds of tree limbs breaking and heavy feet running. Then out of the forest came a Nyagwahe, a monster bear. Its great teeth were as long as a man’s arm. It was twice as tall as a moose. Close at its heels was Swift Runner’s little dog.

  “I see you,” Swift Runner shouted. “I am after you. You cannot escape me.”

  Swift Runner had learned those words by listening to the stories the old people told. They were the very words a monster bear speaks when it attacks, words that terrify anyone who hears them. On hearing those words, the great bear turned and fled from the boy.

  “You cannot escape me,” Swift Runner shouted again. Then he ran after the bear.

  The
Nyagwahe turned toward the east, with Swift Runner and his dog close behind. It left the trail and plowed through the thick forest, breaking down great trees and leaving a path of destruction like that of a whirlwind. It ran up the tallest hills and down through the swamps, but the boy and the dog stayed at its heels. They ran past a great cave in the rocks. All around the cave were the bones of people the bear had caught and eaten.

  “My relatives,” Swift Runner called as he passed the cave, “I will not forget you. I am after the one who killed you. He will not escape me.”

  Throughout the day, the boy and his dog chased the great bear, growing closer bit by bit. At last, as the sun began to set, Swift Runner stopped at the head of a small valley and called his small dog to him.

  “We will rest here for the night,” the boy said. He took off his first pair of moccasins, whose soles were worn away to nothing. He threw them aside and put on a new pair. Swift Runner made a fire and sat beside it with his dog. Then he took out the pouch of cornmeal and maple sugar, sharing his food with his dog.

  “Nothing will harm us,” Swift Runner said. “Nothing can come close to our fire.” He lay down and slept.

  In the middle of the night, he was awakened by the growling of his dog. He sat up with his back to the fire and looked into the darkness. There, just outside the circle of light made by the flames, stood a dark figure that looked like a tall man. Its eyes glowed green.

  “I am Nyagwahe,” said the figure. “This is my human shape. Why do you pursue me?”

  “You cannot escape me,” Swift Runner said. “I chase you because you killed my people. I will not stop until I catch you and kill you.”

  The figure faded back into the darkness.

  “You cannot escape me,” Swift Runner said again. Then he patted his small dog and went to sleep.

  As soon as the first light of the new day appeared, Swift Runner rose. He and his small dog took the trail. It was easy to follow the monster’s path, for trees were uprooted and the earth torn by its great paws. They ran all through the morning. When the sun was in the middle of the sky, they reached the head of another valley. At the other end they saw the great bear running toward the east. Swift Runner pulled off his second pair of moccasins, whose soles were worn away to nothing. He put on his third pair and began to run again.