Zuni Folk Tales

THE TRIAL OF LOVERS: OR THE MAIDEN OF MATSAKI AND THE RED FEATHER-1

THE TRIAL OF LOVERS: OR THE MAIDEN OF MATSAKI AND THE RED FEATHER

(Told the First Night)

In the days of the ancients, when Mátsaki was the home of the children of men, there lived, in that town, which is called "Salt City," because the Goddess of Salt made a white lake there in the days of the New, a beautiful maiden. She was passing beautiful, and the daughter of the priest-chief, who owned more buckskins and blankets than he could hang on his poles, and whose port-holes were covered with turquoises and precious shells from the ocean-so many were the sacrifices he made to the gods. His house was the largest in Mátsaki, and his ladder-poles were tall and decorated with slabs of carved wood-which you know was a great thing, for our grandfathers cut with the tímush or flint knife, and even tilled their corn-fields with wooden hoes sharpened with stone and weighted with granite. That's the reason why all the young men in the towns round about were in love with the beautiful maiden of Salt City.

Now, there was one very fine young man who lived across the western plains, in the Pueblo of the Winds. He was so filled with thoughts of the maiden of Mátsaki that he labored long to gather presents for her, and looked not with favor on any girl of his own pueblo.

One morning he said to his fathers: "I have seen the maiden of Mátsaki; what think ye?"

"Be it well," said the old ones. So toward night the young man made a bundle of mantles and necklaces, which he rolled up in the best and whitest buckskin he had. When the sun was setting he started toward Mátsaki, and just as the old man's children had gathered in to smoke and talk he reached the house of the maiden's father and climbed the ladder. He lifted the corner of the mat door and shouted to the people below--"Shé!"

"Hai!" answered more than a pair of voices from below.

"Pull me down," cried the young man, at the same time showing his bundle through the skyhole.

The maiden's mother rose and helped the young man down the ladder, and as he entered the firelight he laid the bundle down.

"My fathers and mothers, my sisters and friends, how be ye these many days?" said he, very carefully, as though he were speaking to a council.

"Happy! Happy!" they all responded, and they said also: "Sit down; sit down on this stool," which they placed for him in the fire-light.

"My daughter," remarked the old man, who was smoking his cigarette by the opposite side of the hearth-place, "when a stranger enters the house of a stranger, the girl should place before him food and cooked things." So the girl brought from the great vessel in the corner fresh rolls of héwe, or bread of corn-flour, thin as papers, and placed them in a tray before the young man, where the light would fall on them.

"Eat!" said she, and he replied, "It is well." Whereupon he sat up very straight, and placing his left hand across his breast, very slowly took a roll of the wafer bread with his right hand and ate ever so little; for you know it is not well or polite to eat much when you go to see a strange girl, especially if you want to ask her if she will let you live in the same house with her. So the young man ate ever so little, and said, "Thank you."

"Eat more," said the old ones; but when he replied that he was "past the naming of want," they said, "Have eaten," and the girl carried the tray away and swept away the crumbs.

"Well," said the old man, after a short time, it when a stranger enters the house of a stranger, it is not thinking of nothing that he enters."

"Why, that is quite true," said the youth, and then he waited.

"Then what may it be that thou hast come thinking of?" added the old man.

"I have heard," said the young man, "of your daughter, and have seen her, and it was with thoughts of her that I came."

Just then the grown-up sons of the old man, who had come to smoke and chat, rose and said to one another: "Is it not about time we should be going home? The stars must be all out." Thus saying, they bade the old ones to "wait happily until the morning," and shook hands with the young man who had come, and went to the homes of their wives' mothers.

"Listen, my child!" said the old man after they had gone away, turning toward his daughter, who was sitting near the wall and looking down at the beads on her belt fringe. "Listen! You have heard what the young man has said. What think you?"

"Why! I know not; but what should I say but 'Be it well,'" said the girl, "if thus think my old ones?"

"As you may," said the old man; and then he made a cigarette and smoked with the young man. When he had thrown away his cigarette he said to the mother: "Old one, is it not time to stretch out?"

So when the old ones were asleep in the corner, the girl said to the youth, but in a low voice: "Only possibly you love me. True, I have said 'Be it well'; but before I take your bundle and say 'thanks,' I would that you, to prove that you verily love me, should go down into my corn-field, among the lands of the priest-chief, by the side of the river, and hoe all the corn in a single morning. If you will do this, then shall I know you love me; then shall I take of your presents, and happy we will be together."

"Very well," replied the young man; "I am willing."

Then the young girl lighted a bundle of cedar splints and showed him a room which contained a bed of soft robes and blankets, and, placing her father's hoe near the door, bade the young man it wait happily unto the morning."

So when she had gone he looked at the hoe and thought: "Ha! if that be all, she shall see in the morning that I am a man."

At the peep of day over the eastern mesa he roused himself, and, shouldering the wooden hoe, ran down to the corn-fields; and when, as the sun was coming out, the young girl awoke and looked down from her house-top, "Aha!" thought she, "he is doing well, but my children and I shall see how he gets on somewhat later. I doubt if he loves me as much as he thinks he does."

So she went into a closed room. Down in the corner stood a water jar, beautifully painted and as bright as new. It looked like other water jars, but it was not. It was wonderful, wonderful! for it was covered with a stone lid which held down many may-flies and gnats and mosquitoes. The maiden lifted the lid and began to speak to the little animals as though she were praying.

"Now, then, my children, this day fly ye forth all, and in the corn-fields by the river there shall ye see a young man hoeing. So hard is he working that he is stripped as for a race. Go forth and seek him."

"Tsu-nu-nu-nu," said the flies, and "Tsi-ni-ni-ni," sang the gnats and mosquitoes; which meant "Yes," you know.

"And," further said the girl, "when ye find him, bite him, his body all over, and eat ye freely of his blood; spare not his armpits, neither his neck nor his eyelids, and fill his ears with humming."

And again the flies said, "Tsu-nu-nu-nu," and the mosquitoes and gnats, "Tsi-ni-nini." Then, nu-u-u, away they all flew like a cloud of sand on a windy morning.

"Blood!" exclaimed the young man. He wiped the sweat from his face and said, "The gods be angry!" Then he dropped his hoe and rubbed his shins with sand and slapped his sides. "Atu!" he yelled; "what matters--what in the name of the Moon Mother matters with these little beasts that cause thoughts?" Whereupon, crazed and restless as a spider on hot ashes, he rolled in the dust, but to no purpose, for the flies and gnats and mosquitoes sang "hu-n-n" and "tsi-ni-ni" about his ears until he grabbed up his blanket and breakfast, and ran toward the home of his fathers.

"Wa-ha ha! Ho o!" laughed a young man in the Tented Pueblo to the north, when he heard how the lover had fared. "Shoom!" he sneered. "Much of a man he must have been to give up the maid of Mátsaki for may-flies and gnats and mosquitoes!" So on the very next morning, he, too, said to his old ones: "What a fool that little boy must have been. I will visit the maiden of Mátsaki. I'll show the people of Pínawa what a Hámpasawan man can do. Courage!"--and, as the old ones said "Be it well," he went as the other had gone; but, pshaw! he fared no better.

After some time, a young man who lived in the River Town heard about it and laughed as hard as the youth of the Tented Pueblo had. He called the two others fools, and said that "girls were not in the habit of asking much when one's bundle was large." And as he was a young man who had everything, he made a bundle of presents as large as he could carry; but it did him no good. He, too, ran away from the may-flies and gnats and mosquitoes.

Many days passed before any one else would try again to woo the maiden of Mátsaki. They did not know, it is true, that she was a Passing Being; but others had failed all on account of mosquitoes and may-flies and little black gnats, and had been more satisfied with shame than a full hungry man with food. "That is sick satisfaction," they would say to one another, the fear of which made them wait to see what others would do.

Now, in the Ant Hill, which was named Hálonawan,[1] lived a handsome young man, but he was poor, although the son of the priest-chief of Hálonawan. He thought many days, and at last said to his grandmother, who was very old and crafty, 'Hó-ta?"

[1. The ancient pueblo of Zuñi itself was called Hálonawan, or the Ant Hill, the ruins of which, now buried beneath the sands, lie opposite the modern town within the cast of a stone. Long before Hálonawan was abandoned, the nucleus of the present structure was begun around one of the now central plazas. It was then, and still is, in the ancient songs and rituals of the Zuñis, Hálona-ítiwana, or the "Middle Ant Hill of the World," and was often spoken of in connection with the older town as simply the "Ant Hill."]

"What sayest my nána?" said the old woman; for, like grandmothers nowadays, she was very soft and gentle to her grandson.

"I have seen the maiden of Mátsaki and my thoughts kill me with longing, for she is passing beautiful and wisely slow. I do not wonder that she asks hard tasks of her lovers; for it is not of their bundles that she thinks, but of themselves. Now, I strengthen my thoughts with my manliness. My heart is hard against weariness, and I would go and speak to the beautiful maiden."

"Yo á! my poor boy," said the grandmother. She is as wonderful as she is wise and beautiful. She thinks not of men save as brothers and friends; and she it is, I bethink me, who sends the may-flies and gnats and mosquitoes, therefore, to drive them away. They are but disguised beings, and beware, my grandson, you will only cover yourself with shame as a man is covered with water who walks through a rain-storm! I would not go, my poor grandchild. I would not go," she added, shaking her head and biting her lips till her chin touched her nose-tip.

"Yes, but I must go, my grandmother. Why should I live only to breathe hard with longing? Perhaps she will better her thoughts toward me."

"Ah, yes, but all the same, she will test thee. Well, go to the mountains and scrape bitter bark from the finger-root; make a little loaf of the bark and hide it in your belt, and when the maiden sends you down to the corn-field, work hard at the hoeing until sunrise. Then, when your body is covered with sweat-drops, rub every part with the root-bark. The finger-root bark, it is bitter as bad salt mixed in with bad water, and the 'horn-wings' and 'long-beaks' and 'blue-backs' fly far from the salt that is bitter." "Then, my gentle grandmother, I will try your words and thank you,"--for he was as gentle and good as his grandmother was knowing and crafty. Even that day he went to the mountains and gathered a ball of finger-root. Then, toward evening, he took a little bundle and went up the trail by the river-side to Mátsaki. When he climbed the ladder and shouted down the mat door: "Shé! Are ye within?" the people did not answer at once, for the old ones were angry with their daughter that she had sent off so many fine lovers. But when he shouted again they answered: