HOW THE TWINS OF WAR AND CHANCE, ÁHAIYÚTA AND MÁTSAILÉMA, FARED WITH THE UNBORN-MADE MEN OF THE UNDERWORLD

TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION

Heretofore I have withheld from publication such single examples of Zuñi folk-lore as the following, in order that the completer series might be brought forth in the form of an unbroken collection, with ample introductory as well as supplementary chapters, essential to the proper understanding by ourselves of the many distinctively Zuñi meanings and conceptions involved in the various allusions with which any one of them teems. Yet, to avoid encumbering the present example with any but the briefest of notes, I must ask leave to refer the reader to the more general yet detailed chapters I have already written in the, main, and with which, I have reason to hope, I will ere long be able to present the tales in question. Meanwhile, I would refer likewise to the essay I have recently prepared for the Thirteenth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, on Zuñi Creation Myths in their relation to primitive dance and other dramaturgic ceremonies.

Ever one of my chief story-tellers was Waíhusiwa,--of the priestly kin of Zuñi. He had already told me somewhat more than fifty of the folk tales, long and short, of his people, when one night I asked him for "only one more story of the grandfathers." Wishing to evade me, he replied with more show than sincerity:

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There is a North, and of it I have told you té-la-p'-na-we.[1] There is a West; of it also I have told you té-la-p'-na-we. There are the South and East; of them likewise have I told you té-la-p'-na-we. Even of the Above have I not but lately told you of the youth who made love to his eagle and dwelt apace in the Sky-world? And of the great World-embracing Waters? You have been told of the hunter who married the Serpent-maiden and journeyed to the Mountain of Sunset. Now, therefore, my word-pouch is as empty as the food-pack of a lost hunter, and--"

"Feel in the bottom of it, then," interposed old Pálowahtiwa, who was sitting near, "and tell him of the Underworld."

"Hi-ta! [Listen!] brother younger," said Waíhusiwa, nonplussed but ever ready. "Did you ever hear tell of the people who could not digest, having, forsooth, no proper insides wherewithal to do so? Did you ever hear of them, brother younger?"

"Nay, never; not even from my own grandfathers," said I. "Sons éso to your story; short be it or long."[1]

"Sons éso tse-ná!" ("Cool your 'sons éso!' and wait till I begin.")--F. H. C.

ZUÑI INTRODUCTION

It seems--so the words of the grandfathers say--that in the Underworld were many strange things and beings, even villages of men, long ago.

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But the people of those villages were unborn-made,--more like the ghosts of the dead than ourselves, yet more like ourselves than are the ghosts of the dead, for as the dead are more finished of being than we are, they were less so, as smoke, being hazy, is less fine than mist, which is filmy; or as green corn, though raw, is soft like cooked corn which is done (like the dead), and as both are softer than ripe corn which, though raw, is hardened by age (as we are of meat).

And also, these people were, you see, dead in a way, in that they had not yet begun to live, that is, as we live, in the daylight fashion.

And so, it would seem, partly like ourselves, they had bodies, and partly like the dead they had no bodies, for being unfinished they were unfixed. And whereas the dead are like the wind, and take form from within of their own wills (yän'te-tseman), these people were really like the smoke,[1] taking form from without of the outward touching of things, even as growing and unripe grains and fruits do.

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Well, in consequence, it was passing strange what a state they were in! Bethink ye! Their persons were much the reverse of our own, for wherein we are hard, they were soft--pliable. Wherein we are most completed, they were most unfinished; for not having even the organs of digestion, whereby we fare lustily, food in its solidity was to them destructive, whereas to us it is sustaining. When, therefore, they would eat, they dreaded most the food itself, taking thought not to touch it, and merely absorbing the mist thereof. As fishes fare chiefly on water, and birds on air, so these people ate by gulping down the steam and savor of their cooked things whilst cooking or still hot; then they threw the real food away, forsooth!

THE TALE

NOW, the Twain Little-ones, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma,[1] were ever seeking scenes of

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contention; for what was deathly and dreadful to others was lively and delightful to them; so that cries of distress were ever their calls of invitation, as to a feast or dance is the call of a priest to us.

On a day when the world was quiet, they were sitting by the side of a deep pool. They heard curious sounds coming up through the waters, as though the bubbles were made by moans of the waters affrighted.

"Uh!" cried the elder. "What is that?"

The younger brother turned his ear to the ground and listened.

"There is trouble down there, dire trouble, for the people of the Underworld are shrieking war-cries like daft warriors and wailing like murder-mourners. What can be the matter? Let us descend and see!"

"Just so!" said Áhaiyúta.

Then they covered their heads with their cord-shields[1]--turned upside down--and shut their eyes and stepped into the deep pool.

"Now we are in the dark," said they, "like the dark down there. Well, then, by means of the dark let us go down"--for they had wondrous power, had those Twain; the magic of in-knowing-how thought had they.

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Down, like light through dark places, they went; dry through the waters; straight toward that village in the Underworld.

"Whew! the poor wretches are already dead," cried they, "and rotting"--for their noses were sooner accustomed to the dark than their eyes, which they now opened.

"We might as well have spared ourselves the coming, and stayed above," said Áhaiyúta.

"Nay, not so," said Mátsailéma. "Let us go on and see how they lived, even if they are dead."

"Very well," said the elder; and as they fared toward the village they could see quite plainly now, for they had made it dark (to themselves) by shutting their eyes in the daylight above, so now they made it light (to themselves) by opening their eyes in the darkness below and simply looking,--it was their way, you know.

"Well, well!" said Mátsailéma, as they came nearer and the stench doubled. "Look at the village; it is full of people; the more they smell of carrion the more they seem alive!"

"Yes, by the chut of an arrow!" exclaimed Áhaiyúta. "But look here! It is food we smell--cooked food, all thrown away, as we throw away bones and corn-cobs because they are too hard to eat and profitless withal. What, now, can be the meaning of this?"

"What, indeed! Who can know save by knowing," replied the younger brother. "Come, let us lie low and watch."

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So they went very quietly close to the village, crouched down, and peered in. Some people inside were about to eat. They took fine food steaming hot from the cooking-pots and placed it low down in wide trenchers; then they gathered around and sipped in the steam and savor with every appearance of satisfaction; but they were as chary of touching the food or of letting the food touch them as though it were the vilest of refuse.

"Did you see that?" queried the younger brother. "By the delight of death,[1] but--"

"Hist!" cried the elder. "If they are people of that sort, feeding upon the savor of food, then they will hear the suggestions of sounds better than the sounds themselves, and the very demon fathers would not know how to fare with such people, or to fight them, either!"

"Hah! But already the people had heard! They set up a clamor of War, swarming out to seek the enemy, as well they might, for who would think favorably of a sneaking stranger under the shade of a house-wall watching the food of another? Why, dogs growl even at their own offspring for the like of that!

"Where? Who? What is it?" cried the people, rushing hither and thither like ants in a shower. "Hah! There they are! There! Quick!" cried they, pointing to the Twain, who were cutting away to the nearest hillock. And immediately they fell to singing their war-cry.

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sang they as they ran headlong toward the Two, and then they began shouting:

"Tread them both into the ground! Smite them both! Fan them out! Ho-o! Ha-a! Há-wi-mo-o ó-ma-ta."

But the Twain laughed and quickly drew their arrows and loosed them amongst the crowd. P'it! tsok! sang the arrows through and through the people, but never a one fell.

"Why, how now is this?" cried the elder brother.

"We'll club them, then!" said Mátsailéma, and he whiffed out his war-club and sprang to meet the foremost whom he pummelled well and sorely over the head and shoulders. Yet the man was only confused (he was too soft and unstable to be hurt); but another, rushing in at one side, was hit by one of the shield-feathers and fell to the ground like smoke driven down under a hawk's wing.

"Hold, brother, I have it! Hold cried Áhaiyúta. Then he snatched up a bunch of dry plume-grass and leaped forward. Swish! Two ways he swept the faces and breasts of the pursuers.

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Lo! right and left they fell like bees in a rainstorm, and quickly sued for mercy, screeching and running at the mere sight of the grass-straws.

"You fools!" cried the brothers. "Why, then, did ye set upon us? We came for to help you and were merely looking ahead as becomes strangers in strange places, when, lo! you come running out like a mess of mad flies with your 'Ha-a sús-ki ó-ma-la!' Call us coyote-sneaks, do you? But there! Rest fearless! We hunger; give us to eat."

So they led the Twain into the court within the town and quickly brought steaming food for them.

They sat down and began to blow the food to cool it, whereupon the people cried out in dismay: "Hold! Hold, ye heedless strangers; do not waste precious food like that! For shame!"

"Waste food? Ha! This is the way we eat! said they, and clutching up huge morsels they crammed their mouths full and bolted them almost whole.

The people were so horrified and sickened at sight of this, that some of them sweated furiously,--which was their way of spewing--whilst others, stouter of thought, cried: "Hold! hold! Ye will die; ye will surely sicken and die if the stuff do but touch ye!"

"Ho! ho!" cried the Twain, eating more lustily than ever. "Eat thus and harden yourselves, you poor, soft things, you!"

Just then there was a great commotion. Everyone rushed to the shelter of the walls and houses, shouting to them to leave off and follow quickly.

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"What is it?" asked they, looking up and all around.

"Woe, woe! The gods are angry with us this day, and blowing arrows at us. They will kill you both! Hurry!" A big puff of wind was blowing over, scattering slivers and straws before it; that was all!

"Brother," said the elder, "this will not do. These people must be hardened and be taught to eat. But let us take a little sleep first, then we will look to this."

They propped themselves up against a wall, set their shields in front of them, and fell asleep. Not long after they awakened suddenly. Those strange people were trying to drag them out to bury them, but were afraid to touch them now, for they thought them dead stuff, more dead than alive.

The younger brother punched the elder with his elbow, and both pretended to gasp, then kept very still. The people succeeded at last in rolling them out of the court like spoiling bodies, and were about to mingle them with the refuse when they suddenly let go and set up a great wail, shouting "War! Murder!"

"How now?" cried the Twain, jumping up. Whereupon the people stared and chattered in greater fright than ever at seeing the dead seemingly come to life!

"What's the matter, you fool people?"

"Akaa kaa," cried a flock of jays.

"Hear that!" said the villagers. "Hear that, and ask what's the matter! The jays are coming;

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whoever they light on dies-run you two! Aii! Murder!" And they left off their standing as though chased by demons. On one or two of the hindmost some jays alighted. They fell dead as though struck by lightning!

"Why, see that!" cried the elder brother--"these people die if only birds alight on them!"

"Hold on, there!" said the younger brother. "Look here, you fearsome things!" So they pulled hairs from some scalp-locks they had, and made snares of them, and whenever the jays flew at them they caught them with the nooses until they had caught every one. Then they pinched them dead and took them into the town and roasted them. "This is the way," said they, as they ate the jays by morsels.

And the people crowded around and shouted: "Look! look! why, they eat the very enemy say nothing of refuse!" And although they dreaded the couple, they became very conciliatory and gave them a fit place to bide in.

The very next day there was another alarm. The Two ran out to learn what was the matter. For a long time they could see nothing, but at last they met some people fleeing into the town. Chasing after them was a cooking-pot with earrings of onions.[1] It was boiling furiously and

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belching forth hot wind and steam and spluttering mush in every direction. If ever so little of the mush hit the people they fell over and died.

"He!" cried the Twain;

--As if food-stuff were made to make people afraid!" Whereupon they twitched the ear-rings off the pot and ate them up with all the mush that was in the pot, which they forthwith kicked to pieces vigorously.

Then the people crowded still closer around them, wondering to one another that they could vanquish all enemies by eating them with such impunity, and they begged the Twain to teach them how to do it. So they gathered a great council of the villagers, and when they found that these poor people were only half finished, . . . they cut vents in them (such as were not afraid to let them). . . . and made them eat solid food, by means of which they were hardened and became men of meat then and there, instead of having to get killed after the manner of the fearful, and others of their kind beforetime, in order to ascend to the daylight and take their places in men born of men.

And for this reason, behold! a new-born child may eat only of wind-stuff until his cord of viewless sustenance has been severed, and then only by sucking milk or soft food first and with much distress.

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Behold! And we may now see why, like newborn children are the very aged; childish withal--á-ya-vwi[1];--not only toothless, too, but also sure to die of diarrhœa if they eat ever so little save the soft parts and broths of cooked food. For are not the babes new-come from the Shi-u-na[2] world; and are not the aged about to enter the Shi-po-lo-a[3] world, where cooked food unconsumed is never heeded by the fully dead?

Thus shortens my story.

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