Zuni Folktales · How the Summer Birds Came (2/3)

“No,” said he; “I am going to kill some prairie-dogs right here in sight. I will take my war-club.”

So he took his war-club, and thrust it into his belt in front, ran down the hill on which the village stood, and straightway went off to the place his mother had told him of. When he reached the top of the rocks he looked down, and there, sure enough, lay the Giant with the forehead knot.

The Giant looked up and said: “Ah, my son, glad to see you this morning; glad to see you coming so early. Someone just passed here a little while ago; you can see his tracks there.”

“Well,” said the boy, “make room for me.”

“Oh, just step right over,” said the old man; “step right over me.”

“I can’t step over your great legs,” said the boy; “draw them up.”

“All right,” said the old Demon. So he drew his knees up. “There, now, there is plenty of room; pass right along, my son.”

Just as the boy got near the place, he thrust out his leg suddenly that way, to kick him off the cliff; but the boy was too nimble for him, and jumped aside.

“Oh, dear me,” cried the Monster; “I had a stitch in my leg; I had to stretch it out.”

“Ah,” said the boy, “you tried to kick me off, did you?”

“Oh, no,” said the old villain; “I had a terrible stitch in my knee,”⁠—and he began to knead his knee in the most vehement manner. “Just pass right along; I trust it won’t happen again.”

The boy again attempted to pass, and the same thing happened as before.

“Oh, my knee! my knee!” exclaimed the Monster.

“Yes, your knee, your knee!” said the boy, as he whipped out his war-club and whacked the Giant on the head before he had time to recover himself. “Thus unto me you would have done, thus unto you!” said the boy.

No sooner had the Giant fallen than the little Topknots gathered round him and began to eat; and they ate and ate and ate⁠—there were many of them, and they were voracious⁠—until they came to the topknot on the old fellow’s head, and then one of them cried; “Oh, dear, alas and alas! this is our own father!”

And while they were still crying, the boy cut out the Giant’s heart and slung it over his shoulder; then he climbed down the cliff to where the young Topknots were, and slew them all except two⁠—a pair of them. Then he took these two, who were still young, like little children, and grasping one by the throat, wrung its neck and threw it into the air, when it suddenly became a winged creature, and spread out its wings and soared away, crying: “Peep, peep, peep,” just as the falcons of today do. Then he took the other one by the neck, and swung it round and round, and flung it into the air, and it flew away with a heavy motion, and cried: “Boohoo, boohoo, boohoo!” and became an owl.

“Ah,” said the boy, “born for evil, changed for good! Ye shall be the means whereby our children in the future shall sacrifice to the gods themselves.”

Then he trudged along home with the Giant’s heart, and when he got there, he hung it on the crosspiece of the ladder by the side of the other hearts. It was almost night then.

“There, now!” said his mother, as he entered the house; “I have been troubled almost to death by your not coming home sooner. You went off to the place I told you of; I know you did!”

“Ha!” said he, “of course I did. I went up there, and the poor fellows are all dead.”

“Why will you not listen to me?” said she.

“Oh, it is all right, mother,” said the boy. “It is all right.” She went on scolding him in the usual fashion, but he paid no attention to her.

As soon as she had sat down to her evening tasks, he asked: “Now, is there any other of these terrible creatures?”

“Well, I shall tell you of nothing more now,” said she.

“Why, is there anything more?” asked the boy.

“No, there is not,” replied she.

“Ah, mother, I think there must be.”

“No; there is nothing more, I tell you.”

“Ah, mother, I think there must be.”

And he kept bothering and teasing until she told him again (she knew she would have to): “Yes, away down in the valley, some distance from here, near the little Cold-making Hill, there lives a fearful creature, a fourfold Elk or Bison, more enormous than any other living thing. Awiteli Wakashi he is called, and no one can go near him. He rushes stamping and bellowing about the country, and people never pass through that section from fear.”

“Ah,” said the boy; “don’t tell me any more; he must be a fearful creature, indeed.”

“Yes; but you will be sure to go there,” said she.

“Oh, no, no, mother; no, indeed!”

But the next morning he went earlier than ever, carrying with him his bows and arrows. He was so filled with dread, however, or pretended to be, that as he went along the trail he began to cry and sniffle, and walk very slowly, until he came near the hole of an old Gopher, his grandfather. The old fellow was working away, digging another cellar, throwing the dirt out, when he heard this crying. Said he: “That is my grandson; I wonder what he is up to now.” So he ran and stuck his nose out of the hole he was digging, and said: “Oh, my grandchild, where are you going?”

The boy stopped and began to look around.

“Right here! right here!” cried the grandfather, calling his attention to the hole. “Come, my boy.”

The boy put his foot in, and the hole enlarged, and he went down into it.

“Now, dry your eyes, my grandchild, and tell me what is the matter.”

“Well,” said the boy, “I was going to find the fourfold Bison. I wanted to take a look at him, but I am frightened!”

“Why, what is the matter? Why do you not go?” said the Gopher.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I thought I would try to kill him,” he answered.

“Well, I will do what I can to help; you had better not try to do it alone. Sit here comfortably; dry your eyes, and I will see what I can do.”

The old Gopher began to dig, dig, dig under the ground for a long way, making a fine tunnel, and packed it hard on the top and sides so that it would not fall in. He finally came to hear the “thud, thud, thud” of the heart of this creature, where it was lying, and dug the hole up to that spot. When he got there he saw the long layers of hair on its body, where no arrow could penetrate, and he cut the hair off, so that the skin showed white. Then he silently stole back to where the boy was and said: “Now, my boy, take your bow and arrows and go along through this hole until you get to where the tunnel turns upward, and then, if you look well, you will see a light patch. That is the skin next the heart of the fourfold Bison. He is sleeping there. You will hear the ‘thud, thud, thud’ of his heart. Shoot him exactly in the middle of that place, and then, mind you, turn around and run for your life, and the moment you get to my hole, tumble in, headforemost or any way.”

So the boy did as he was told⁠—crawled through the tunnel until he came to where it went upward, saw the light patch, and let fly an arrow with all his might, then rushed and scrambled back as hard as he could. With a roar that shook the earth the fourfold Bison fell over, then struggled to his feet, snorted, bellowed, and stuck his great horn into the tunnel, and like a flash of fire ripped it from end to end, just as the boy came tumbling into the deeper hole of his grandfather.

“Ah!” exclaimed the Gopher.

“He almost got me,” said the boy.

“Sit still a moment and rest, my grandson,” said the Gopher. “He didn’t catch you. I will go and see whether he is dead.”

So the Gopher stuck his nose out of the hole and saw there a great heap of flesh lying. He went out, nosed around, and smelt, jumped back, and went forward again until he came to the end of the creature, and then he took one of his nails and scratched out an eye, and there was no sign of life. So he ran back to the boy, and said: “Yes, he breathes no more; you need not fear him longer.”

“Oh, thank you, my grandfather!” said the boy. And he climbed out, and laid himself to work to skin the beast. He took off its great thick skin, and cut off a suitable piece of it, for the whole pelt was so large and heavy that he could not carry it; then he took out the animal’s great heart, and finally one of the large intestines and filled it with blood, then started for home. He went slowly, because his load was so heavy, and when he arrived he hung the heart on the ladder by the side of the others, and dragged the pelt to the sky-hole, and nearly scared the wits out of his mother by dropping it into the room.

“Oh, my child, now, here you are! Where have you been?” cried she. “I warned you of the place where the fourfold Bison was; I wonder that you ever came home.”

“Ah, the poor creature!” said the boy; “he is dead. Just look at this. He isn’t handsome any more; he isn’t strong and large any more.”

“Oh, you wretched, wretched boy! You will be the death of me, as well as of yourself, some time,” said the mother.

“No, mother,” said the boy; “that is all nonsense.”

That evening the boy said to his mother: “Now, mother, is there anything else of this kind left? If there is, I want to know it. Now, don’t disappoint me by refusing to tell.”

“Oh, my dear son,” said she, “I wish you wouldn’t ask me; but indeed there is. There are terrible birds, great Eagles, fearful Eagles, living over on Shuntekia. In the very middle of an enormous cliff is a hollow place in the rocks where is built their nest, and there are their young ones. Day after day, far and near, they catch up children and young men and women, and carry them away, never more to be seen. These birds are more terrible than all the rest, because how can one get near to slay them? My son, I do hope and trust that you will not go this time⁠—but, you foolish little boy, I see that you will go.”

“Well, mother, let us go to sleep, and never mind anything about it,” said the boy.

But after his mother had gone to sleep, he took the piece of rawhide he had skinned from the fourfold Bison, and, cutting it out, made himself a suit⁠—a green rawhide suit, skintight almost, so that it was perfectly smooth. Then he scraped the hair off, greased it all over, and put it away inside a blanket so that it would not dry. In the morning, quite early, he took his weapons, and taking also his rawhide suit, and the section of the fourfold Bison’s intestine which he had filled with blood, he ran into the inlet, and across it, and climbed the mesa near the Shuntekia cliff. When he came within a short distance of the nest of the Eagles, he stopped and slipped on his rawhide suit, and tied the intestine of blood round his neck, like a sausage.

Then he began to cry and shake his head, and he cried louder than there was any need of his doing in reality; for presently the old father of the Eagles, who was away up in the sky, just a mere speck, heard and saw him and came swishing down in a great circle, winding round and round the boy, and the boy looked up and began to cry louder still, as if frightened out of his wits, and finally rolled himself up like a porcupine, and threw himself down into the trail, crying and howling with apparent fear. The Eagle swooped down on him, and tried to grasp him in his talons, and, kopo kopooo, his claws simply slipped off the rawhide coat. Then the Eagle made a fiercer grab at him and grew angry, but his claws would continually slip off, until he tore a rent in the intestine about the boy’s neck, and the blood began to stream over the boy’s coat, making it more slippery than ever. When the Eagle smelt the blood, he thought he had got him, and it made him fiercer than ever; and finally, during his struggling, he got one talon through a stitch in the coat, and he spread out his wings, and flew up, and circled round and round over the point where the young Eagles nest was, when he let go and shook the boy free, and the boy rolled over and over and came down into the nest; but he struck on a great heap of brush, which broke his fall. He lay there quite still, and the old Eagle swooped down and poised himself on a great crag of rock near by, which was his usual perching place.

“There, my children, my little ones,” said he, “I have brought you food. Feast yourselves! Feast yourselves! For that reason I brought it.”

So the little Eagles, who were very awkward, long-legged and short-winged, limped up to the boy and reached out their claws and opened their beaks, ready to strike him in the face. He lay there quite still until they got very near, and then said to them: “Shhsht!” And they tumbled back, being awkward little fellows, and stretched up their necks and looked at him, as Eagles will.

Then the old Eagle said: “Why don’t you eat him? Feast yourselves, my children, feast yourselves!”

So they advanced again, more cautiously this time, and a little more determinedly too; and they reached out their beaks to tear him, and he said: “Shhsht!” and, under his breath, “Don’t eat me!” And they jumped back again.

“What in the world is the matter with you little fools?” said the old Eagle. “Eat him! I can’t stay here any longer; I have to go away and hunt to feed you; but you don’t seem to appreciate my efforts much.” And he lifted his wings, rose into the air, and sailed off to the northward.

Then the two young Eagles began to walk around the boy, and to examine him at all points. Finally they approached his feet and hands.

“Be careful, be careful, don’t eat me! Tell me about what time your mother comes home,” said he, sitting up. “What time does she usually come?”

“Well,” said the little Eagles, “she comes home when the clouds begin to gather and throw their shadow over our nest.” (Really, it was the shadow of the mother Eagle herself that was thrown over the nest.)

“Very well,” said the boy; “what time does your father come home?”

“When the fine rain begins to fall,” said they, meaning the dew.

“Oh,” said the boy. So he sat there, and by-and-by, sure enough, away off in the sky, carrying something dangling from her feet, came the old mother Eagle. She soared round and round until she was over the nest, when she dropped her burden, and over and over it fell and tumbled into the nest, a poor, dead, beautiful maiden. The young boy looked at her, and his heart grew very hot, and when the old Eagle came and perched, in a moment he let fly an arrow, and struck her down and dashed her brains out.

“Ha, ha!” exclaimed the boy. “What you have done to many, thus unto you.”

Then he took his station again, and by-and-by the old father Eagle came, bearing a youth, fair to look upon, and dropped him into the nest. The young boy shut his teeth, and he said: “Thus unto many you have done, and thus unto me you would have done; so unto you.” And he drew an arrow and shot him. Then he turned to the two young Eagles and killed them, and plucked out all the beautiful colored feathers about their necks, until he had a large bundle of fine plumes with which he thought to wing his arrows or to waft his prayers.

Then he looked down the cliff and saw there was no way to climb down, and there was no way to climb up. Then he began to cry, and sat on the edge of the cliff, and cried so loud that the old Bat Woman, who was gathering cactus-berries below, or thought she was, overheard the boy.

Said she: “Now, just listen to that. I warrant it is my fool of a grandson, who is always trying to get himself into a scrape. I am sure it must be so. Phoo! phoo!”

She spilled out all the berries she had found from the basket she had on her back, and then labored up to where she could look over the edge of the shelf.

“Yes, there you are,” said she; “you simpleton! you wretched boy! What are you doing here?”

“Oh, my grandmother,” said he, “I have got into a place and I cannot get out.”

“Yes,” said she; “if you were anything else but such a fool of a grandson and such a hard-hearted wretch of a boy, I would help you get down; but you never do as your mother and grandmother or grandfathers tell you.”

“Ah, my grandmother, I will do just as you tell me this time,” said the boy.