Zuni Folk Tales

THE TRIAL OF LOVERS: OR THE MAIDEN OF MATSAKI AND THE RED FEATHER-3

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.

(Told the Second Night)

"Sonahtchi!"

"Sons shonetchi!" ("There is left of my story";) but I will tell you not alone of the Maid of Mátsaki, because the young man killed her, for he knew not his wife from the other. It is of the Red Feather, or the Wife of Mátsaki that I will tell you this sitting.

Even when the sun set, and the hills and houses grew black in the shadows, still the young man sat by the grave-side, his hands rested upon his knees and his face buried in them. And the people no longer tried to steal his sad thoughts from him; but, instead, left him, as one whose mind errs, to wail out with weeping: "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!"

But when the moon set on the western hills, and the great snowdrift streaked across the mid-sky, and the night was half gone, the sad watcher saw a light in the gravesands like the light of the embers that die in the ashes. As he watched, his sad thoughts became bright thoughts, for the light grew and brightened till it burned the dark grave-sands as sunlight the shadows. Lo! the bride lay beneath. She tore off her mantles and raised up in her grave-bed. Then she looked at the eager lover so coldly and sadly that his bright thoughts all darkened, for she mournfully told him: "Alas! Ah, my lover, my husband knew not me from the other; loved me not, therefore killed me; even though I had hoped for love, loved me not, therefore killed me!"

Again the young man buried his face in his hands and shook his head mournfully; and like one whose thoughts erred, again he wailed his lament "Alas, alas! my beautiful bride! I do love thee I loved thee, but I did not know thee and killed thee! Alas! Ah, my beautiful bride, my beautiful bride!"

At last, as the great star rose from the sky-land, the dead maiden spoke softly to the mourning lover, yet her voice was sad and strange: "Young man, mourn thou not, but go back to the home of thy fathers. Knowest thou not that I am another being? When the sky of the day-land grows yellow and the houses come out of the shadows, then will the light whereby thou sawest me, fade away in the morn-light, as the blazes of late councils pale their red in the sunlight." Then her voice grew sadder as she said: "I am only a spirit; for remember, alas! ah, my lover, my husband knew not me from the other--loved me not, therefore killed me; even though I had hoped for love, loved me not, therefore killed me."

But the young man would not go until, in the gray of the morning, he saw nothing where the light had appeared but the dark sand of the grave as it had been. Then he arose and went away in sorrow. Nor would he all day speak to men, but gazed only whither his feet stepped and shook his head sadly like one whose thoughts wandered. And when again the houses and hills grew black with the shadows, he sought anew the fresh grave and sat down by its side, bowed his head and still murmured: "Alas, alas! my beautiful wife, I loved thee, though I knew not thee, and killed thee. Alas! Ah, my beautiful wife!"

Even brighter glowed the light in the grave-sands when the night was divided, and the maiden's spirit arose and sat in her grave-bed, but she only reproached him and bade him go. "For," said she, "I am only a spirit; remember, alas! ah, my lover, my husband knew not me from the other; loved me not, therefore killed me; even though I had hoped for love, loved me not, therefore killed me!"

But he left only in the morning, and again when the dark came, returned to the grave-side.

When the light shone that night, the maiden, more beautiful than ever, came out of the grave-bed and sat by her lover. Once more she urged him to return to his fathers; but when she saw that he would not, she said: "Thou hadst better, for I go a long journey. As light as the wind is, so light will my feet be; as long as the day is, thou canst not my form see. Know thou not that the spirits are seen but in darkness? for, alas! ah, my lover, my husband knew not me from the other; loved me not, therefore killed me; even though I had hoped for love, loved me not, therefore killed me!"

Then the young man ceased bemoaning his beautiful bride. He looked at her sadly, and said: "I do love thee, my beautiful wife! I do love thee, and whither thou goest let me therefore go with thee! I care not how long is the journey, nor how hard is the way. If I can but see thee, even only at night time, then will I be happy and cease to bemoan thee. It was because I loved thee and would have saved thee; but alas, my beautiful wife! I knew not thee, therefore killed thee!"

"Alas! Ah, my lover; and Ah! how I loved thee; but I am a spirit, and thou art unfinished. But if thou thus love me, go back when I leave thee and plume many prayer-sticks. Choose a light, downy feather and dye it with ocher. Wrap up in thy blanket a lunch for four daylights; bring with thee much prayer-meal; come to me at midnight and sit by my grave-side, and when in the eastward the dayland is lighting, tie over my forehead the reddened light feather, and when with the morning I fade from thy vision, follow only the feather until it is evening, and then thou shalt see me and sit down beside me."

So at sunrise the young man went away and gathered feathers of the summer birds, and cut many prayer-sticks, whereon he bound them with cotton, as gifts to the Fathers. Then he found a beautiful downy feather plucked from the eagle, and dyed it red with ocher, and tied to it a string of cotton wherewith to fasten it over the forehead of the spirit maiden. When night came, he took meal made from parched corn and burnt sweetbread, and once more went down to the plaza and sat by the grave-side.

When midnight came and the light glowed forth through the grave-sands, lo! the maiden-spirit came out and stood by his side. She seemed no longer sad, but happy, like one going home after long absence. Nor was the young man sad or singlethoughted like one whose mind errs; so they sat together and talked of their journey till the dayland grew yellow and the black shadows gray, and the houses and hills came out of the darkness.

"Once more would I tell thee to go back," said the maiden's spirit to the young man; "but I know why thou goest with me, and it is well. Only watch me when the day comes, and thou wilt see me no more; but look whither the plume goeth, and follow, for thou knowest that thou must tie it to the hair above my forehead."

Then the young man took the bright red plume out from among the feathers of sacrifice, and gently tied it above the maiden-spirit's forehead.

As the light waved up from behind the great mountain the red glow faded out from the grave-sands and the youth looked in vain for the spirit of the maiden; but before him, at the height of one's hands when standing, waved the light downy feather in the wind of the morning. Then the plume, not the wife, rose before him, like the plumes on the head of a dancer, and moved through the streets that led westward, and down through the fields to the river. And out through the streets that led westward, and down on the trail by the river, and on over the plains always toward the land of evening, the young man followed close the red feather; but at last he began to grow weary, for the plume glided swiftly before him, until at last it left him far behind, and even now and then lost him entirely. Then, as he hastened on, he called in anguish:

"My beautiful bride! My beautiful bride! Oh, where art thou?"

But the plume, not the wife, stopped and waited. And thus the plume and the young man journeyed until, toward evening, they came to the forests of sweet-smelling piñons and cedars. As the night hid the hills in the shadows, alas! the plume disappeared, but the young man pressed onward, for he knew that the plume still journeyed westward. Yet at times he was so weary that he almost lost the strength of his thoughts; for he ran into trees by the trail-side and stumbled over dry roots and branches. So again and again he would call out in anguish: "My beautiful wife! My beautiful bride! Oh, where art thou?"

At last, when the night was divided, to his joy he saw, far away on the hill-top, a light that was red and grew brighter like the light of a camp-fire's red embers when fanned by the wind of the nighttime. And like a star that is rising or setting, the red light sat still on the hill-top. So he ran hastily forward, until, as he neared the red light, lo! there sat the spirit of the beautiful maiden; and as he neared her, she said:

"Comest thou?" and "How hast thou come to the evening?"

As she spoke she smiled, and motioned him to sit down beside her. He was so weary that he slept while he talked to her; but, remember, she was a spirit, therefore she slept not.

Just as the morning star came up from the dayland, the maiden rose to journey on, and the young man, awaking, followed her. But as the hills came out of the shadows, the form of the maiden before him grew fainter and fainter, until it faded entirely, and only the red plume floated before him, like the plume on the head of a dancer. Far ahead and fast floated the plume, until it entered a plain of lava filled with sharp crags; yet still it went on, for the maiden's spirit moved over the barriers as lightly as the down of dead flowers in autumn. But alas! the young man had to seek his way, and the plume again left him far behind, until he was forced to cry out: "Ah, my beautiful bride, do wait for me, for I love thee, and will not turn from thee!" Then the plume stopped on the other side of the crags and waited until the poor young man came nearer, his feet and legs cut and bleeding, and his wind almost out. Then the trail was more even, and led through wide plains; but even thus the young man could scarce keep the red plume in sight. But at night the maiden awaited him in a sheltered place, and they rested together beneath the cedars until daylight. Then again she faded out in the daylight, and the red plume led the way.