Zuni Folktales · The Trial of Lovers (2/3) (2/2)

All hasty to feast themselves on the “waters of life,” as our old grandfathers would say for blood, again they rushed out and hummed along over the cornfields in such numbers that they looked more like a wind-driven sandstorm than ever, and “tsi‑ni‑ni‑i, tso-no-o,” they hummed and buzzed about the ears of the young man when they came to him, so noisily that the poor fellow, who kept at work all the while, thought they were already biting him. But it was only fancy, for the first mayfly that did bite him danced in the air with disgust and exclaimed to his companions, “Sho‑o‑o‑m‑m!” and “Us-á!” which meant that he had eaten something nasty, that tasted as badly as vile odors smell. So not another mayfly in the throng would bite, although they all kept singing their song about his ears. And to this day mayflies are careful whom they bite, and dance a long time in the air before they do it.

Then a gnat tried it and gasped, “Weh!” which meant that his stomach had turned over, and he had such a sick headache that he reeled round and round in the air, and for that reason gnats always bite very quickly, for fear their stomachs will turn over, and they will reel and reel round and round in the air before doing it.

Finally, long-beak himself tried it, and, as long-beak hangs on, you know, longer than most other little beasts, he kept hold until his two hindlegs were warped out of shape; but at last he had to let go, too, and flew straight away, crying, “Yá kotchi!” which meant that something bitter had burned his snout. Now, for these reasons mosquitoes always have bent-up hindlegs, which they keep lifting up and down while biting, as though they were standing on something hot, and they are apt to sing and smell around very cautiously before spearing us, and they fly straight away, you will notice, as soon as they are done.

Now, when the rest of the gnats and mosquitoes heard the words of their elder brothers, they did as the mayflies had done⁠—did not venture, no, not one of them, to bite the young lover. They all flew away and settled down on the yellow-tops, where they had a council, and decided to go and find some prairie-dogs to bite. Therefore you will almost always find mayflies, gnats, and mosquitoes around prairie-dog holes in summer time when the corn is growing.

So the young man breathed easily as he hoed hard to finish his task ere the noonday, and when the maiden looked down and saw that he still labored there, she said to herself: “Ah, indeed he must love me, for still he is there! Well, it may be, for only a little longer and they will leave him in peace.” Hastily she placed venison in the cooking-pot and prepared fresh héwe and sweetened bread, “for maybe,” she still thought, “and then I will have it ready for him.”

Now, alas! you do not know that this good and beautiful maiden had a sister, alas!⁠—a sister as beautiful as herself, but bad and double-hearted; and you know when people have double hearts they are wizards or witches, and have double tongues and paired thoughts⁠—such a sister elder had the maiden of Mátsaki, alas!

When the sun had climbed almost to the middle of the sky, the maiden, still doubtful, looked down once more. He was there, and was working among the last hills of corn.

“Ah, truly indeed he loves me,” she thought, and she hastened to put on her necklaces and bracelets of shells, her earrings as long as your fingers⁠—of turquoises⁠—and her fine cotton mantles with borders of stitched butterflies of summerland, and flowers of the autumn. Then she took a new bowl from the stick-rack in the corner, and a large many-colored tray that she had woven herself, and she filled the one with meat broth, and the other with the héwe and sweetbread, and placing the bowl of meat broth on her head, she took the tray of héwe in her hand, and started down toward the cornfield by the riverside to meet her lover and to thank him.

Witches are always jealous of the happiness and good fortune of others. So was the sister of the beautiful maiden jealous when she saw the smile on her háni’s face as she tripped toward the river.

“Ho há!” said the two-hearted sister. “Tém-ithlokwa thlokwá! Wananí!” which are words of defiance and hatred, used so long ago by demons and wizards that no one knows nowadays what they mean except the last one, which plainly says, “Just wait a bit!” and she hastened to dress herself, through her wicked knowledge, exactly as the beautiful maiden was dressed. She even carried just such a bowl and tray; and as she was beautiful, like her younger sister, nobody could have known the one from the other, or the other from the one. Then she passed herself through a hoop of magic yucca, which made her seem not to be where she was, for no one could see her unless she willed it.

Now, just as the sun was resting in the middle of the sky, the young man finished the field and ran down to the river to wash. Before he was done, he saw the maiden coming down the trail with the bowl on her head and the tray in her hand; so he made haste, and ran back to dress himself and to sit down to wait for her. As she approached, he said: “Thou comest, and may it be happily,”⁠—when lo! there appeared two maidens exactly alike; so he quickly said, “Ye come.”

“E,” said the maidens, so nearly together that it sounded like one voice; but when they both placed the same food before him, the poor young man looked from one to the other, and asked:

“Alas! of which am I to eat?”

Then it was that the maiden suddenly saw her sister, and became hot with anger, for she knew her wicked plans. “Ah, thou foolish sister, why didst thou come?” she said. But the other only replied:

“Ah, thou foolish sister, why didst thou come?”

“Go back, for he is mine-to-be,” said the maiden, beginning to cry.

“Go back, for he is mine-to-be,” said the bad one, pretending to cry.

And thus they quarrelled until they had given one another smarting words four times, when they fell to fighting⁠—as women always fight, by pulling each other’s hair, and scratching, and grappling until they rolled over each other in the sand.

The poor young man started forward to part them, but he knew not one from the other, so thinking that the bad one must know how to fight better than his beautiful maiden wife, he suddenly caught up his stone-weighted hoe, and furiously struck the one that was uppermost on the head, again and again, until she let go her hold, and fell back, murmuring and moaning: “Alas! that thus it should be after all, after all!” Then she forgot, and her eyes ceased to see.

While yet the young man looked, lo! there was only the dying maiden before him; but in the air above circled an ugly black Crow, that laughed “kawkaw, kawkaw, kawkaw!” and flew away to its cave in Thunder Mountain.

Then the young man knew. He cried aloud and beat his breast; then he ran to the river and brought water and bathed the blood away from the maiden’s temples; but alas! she only smiled and talked with her lips, then grew still and cold.

Alone, as the sun travelled toward the land of evening, wept the young man over the body of his beautiful wife. He knew naught but his sad thoughts. He took her in his arms, and placed his face close to hers, and again and again he called to her: “Alas, alas! my beautiful wife; I loved thee, I love thee. Alas, alas! Ah, my beautiful wife, my beautiful wife!”

When the people returned from their fields in the evening, they missed the beautiful maiden of Mátsaki; and they saw the young man, bending low and alone over something down in the lands of the priest-chief by the river, and when they told the old father, he shook his head and said:

“It is not well with my beautiful child; but as They (the gods) say, thus must all things be.” Then he smiled⁠—for the heart of a priest-chief never cries⁠—and told them to go and bring her to the plaza of Mátsaki and bury her before the House of the Sun; for he knew what had happened.

So the people did as their father had told them. They went down at sunset and took the beautiful maiden away, and wrapped her in mantles, and buried her near the House of the Sun.

But the poor young man knew naught but his sad thoughts. He followed them; and when he had made her grave, he sat down by her earth bed and would not leave her. No, not even when the sun set, but moaned and called to her: “Alas, alas! my beautiful wife; I loved thee, I love thee; even though I knew not thee and killed thee. Alas! Ah, my beautiful wife!”

“Shonetchi!” (“There is left of my story.”) And what there is left, I will tell you some other night.