Dahcotah - Mary Eastman
"There is one thing, my wife," he said, "which still keeps my spirit on
earth. My soul cannot travel the road to the city of spirits--that long
road made by the bravest of our warriors--while it remembers the body
which it has so long inhabited shall be buried far from its native
village. Your words were wise when you told me I had not strength to
travel so far, and now my body must lie far from my home--far from the
place of my birth--from the village where I have danced the dog feast,
and from the shores of the 'spirit lakes' where my father taught me to
use my bow and arrow."
"Your body shall lie on the scaffold near your native village," his wife
replied. "When I turn from this place, I will take with me my husband;
and my young children shall walk by my side. My heart is as brave now as
it was when I took the life of the medicine man. The love that gave me
courage then, will give me strength now. Fear not for me; my limbs will
not be weary, and when the Great Spirit calls me, I will hear his voice,
and follow you to the land of spirits, where there will be no more
sickness nor trouble."
Many stars shone out that night; they assisted in the solemn and the
sacred watch. The mother looked at the faces of her sleeping sons, and
listened to their heavy breathing; they had but started on the
journey of life.
She turned to her husband: it was but the wreck of a deserted house, the
tenant had departed.
The warrior was already far on his journey; ere this, he had reached the
lodge where the freed spirit adorns itself ere entering upon its
new abode.
Some days after, Harpstenah entered her native village, bearing a
precious burden. Strapped to her back was the body of her husband. By
day, she had borne it all the weary way; at night, she had stopped to
rest and to weep. Nor did her strength fail her, until she reached her
home; then, insensible to sorrow and fatigue, she sunk to the earth.
The women relieved her from the burden, and afterwards helped her to
bury her dead.
Many waters could not quench her love, nor could the floods drown it. It
was strong as death.
Well might she sit in her lodge and weep! The village where she passed
her childhood and youth was deserted. Her husband forgotten by all but
herself. Her two sons were murdered by the Chippeways, while defending
their mother and their young brother.
Well might she weep! and tremble too, for death among the Dahcotahs
comes as often by the fire water purchased from the white people, as
from the murderous tomahawk and scalping-knife of the Chippeways.
Nor were her fears useless; she never again saw her son, until his body
was brought to her, his dark features stiff in death. The death blow was
given, too, by the friend who had shamed him from listening to his
mother's voice.
* * * * *
What wonder that she should not heed the noise of the tempest! The
storms of her life had been fiercer than the warring of the elements.
But while the fountains of heaven were unsealed, those of her heart were
closed forever. Never more should tears relieve her, who had shed so
many. Often had she gone into the prairies to weep, far from the sight
of her companions. Her voice was heard from a distance. The wind would
waft the melancholy sound back to the village.
"It is only Harpstenah," said the women. "She has gone to the prairies
to weep for her husband and her children."
The storm raged during the night, but ceased with the coming of day. The
widowed wife and childless mother was found dead under the scaffold
where lay the body of her son.
The Thunder Bird was avenged for the death of his friend. The strength
of Red Deer had wasted under a lingering disease; his children were
dead; their mother lay beside her youngest son.
The spirit of the waters had not appeared in vain. When the countenance
of Unktahe rests upon a Dahcotah, it is the sure prognostic of coming
evil. The fury of the storm spirits was spent when the soul of
Harpstenah followed her lost ones.
* * * * *
Dimly, as the lengthened shadows of evening fall around them, are seen
the outstretched arms of the suffering Dahcotah women, as they appeal
to us for assistance--and not to proud man!
He, in the halls of legislation, decides when the lands of the red man
are needed--one party makes a bargain which the other is forced
to accept.
But in a woman's heart God has placed sympathies to which the sorrows of
the Dahcotah women appeal. Listen! for they tell you they would fain
know of a balm for the many griefs they endure; they would be taught to
avoid the many sins they commit; and, oh! how gladly would many of them
have their young children accustomed to shudder at the sight of a fellow
creature's blood. Like us, they pour out the best affections of early
youth on a beloved object. Like us, they have clasped their children to
their hearts in devoted love. Like us, too, they have wept as they laid
them in the quiet earth.
But they must fiercely grapple with trials which we have never
conceived. Winter after winter passes, and they perish from disease, and
murder, and famine.
There is a way to relieve them--would you know it? Assist the
missionaries who are giving their lives to them and God. Send them
money, that they may clothe the feeble infant, and feed its
starving mother.
Send them money, that they may supply the wants of those who are sent to
school, and thus encourage others to attend.
As the day of these forgotten ones is passing away, so is ours. They
were born to suffer, we to relieve. Let their deathless souls be taught
the way of life, that they and we, after the harsh discords of earth
shall have ceased, may listen together to the "harmonies of Heaven."
HAOKAH OZAPE;
THE DANCE TO THE GIANT
CHAPTER I.
The dance to the Giant is now rarely celebrated among the Dahcotahs. So
severe is the sacrifice to this deity, that there are few who have
courage to attempt it; and yet Haokah is universally reverenced and
feared among the Sioux.
They believe in the existence of many Giants, but Haokah is one of the
principal. He is styled the anti-natural god. In summer he feels cold,
in winter he suffers from the heat; hot water is cold to him, and
the contrary.
The Dahcotah warrior, however brave he may be, believes that when he
dreams of Haokah, calamity is impending and can only be avoided by some
sort of sacrifice to this god.
The incident on which this story is founded, occurred while I resided
among the Sioux. I allude to the desertion of Wenona by her lover. It
serves to show the blind and ignorant devotion of the Dahcotah to
his religion.
And as man is ever alike in every country, and under every circumstance
of life--as he often from selfish motives tramples upon the heart that
trusts him--so does woman utterly condemn a sister, feeling no sympathy
for her sorrow, but only hatred of her fault.
Jealous for the honor of the long-reverenced feasts of the
Dahcotahs--the "Deer Killer" thought not for a moment of the sorrow and
disgrace he would bring upon Wenona, while Wauska loved the warrior more
than ever, triumphing in his preference of her, above her companion.
And Wenona--
A cloud came o'er the prospect of her life,
And evening did set in
Early, and dark and deadly.
But she loved too truly to be jealous, and departed without the revenge
that most Indian women would have sought, and accomplished too. Her
silence on the subject of her early trial induced her friends to believe
that her mind was affected, a situation caused by long and intense
suffering, and followed by neglect; in such cases the invalid is said to
_have no heart_.
The girl from whom I have attempted to draw the character of Wauska, I
knew well.
Good looking, with teeth like pearls, her laugh was perfect music. Often
have I been roused from my sewing or reading, by hearing the ringing
notes, as they were answered by the children. She generally announced
herself by a laugh, and was welcomed by one in return.
She was pettish withal, and easily offended, and if refused calico for
an okendokenda, or beads, or ribbon to ornament some part of her dress,
she would sullenly rest her chin on her hand, until pacified with a
present, or the promise of one.
It is in Indian life as in ours--youth believes and trusts, and
advancing years bring the consciousness of the trials of life; the
necessity of enduring, and in some cases the power to overcome them. Who
but she who suffers it, can conceive the Sioux woman's greatest
trial--to feel that the love that is her right, is gone! to see another
take the place by the household fire, that was hers; to be last where
she was first.
It may require some apology that Wauska should have vowed destruction
upon herself if the Deer Killer took another wife, and yet should have
lived on and become that most unromantic of all characters--a virago.
She was reconciled in time to what was inevitable, and as there are many
wives among the Sioux, there must be the proportion of scolding ones. So
I plead guilty to the charge of wanting sentiment, choosing rather to be
true to nature. And there is this consideration: if there be among the
Dahcotahs some Catharines, there are many Petruchios.
* * * * *
A group of Indian girls were seated on the grass, Wauska in the centre,
her merry musical laugh echoed back by all but Wenona. The leaves of the
large forest tree under which they were sheltered seemed to vibrate to
the joyous sounds, stirred as they were by a light breeze that blew from
the St. Peter's. Hark! they laugh again, and "old John" wakes up from
his noon-day nap and turns a curious, reproving look to the noisy party,
and Shah-co-pee, the orator of the Sioux, moves towards them, anxious to
find out the cause of their mirth.
"Old John," after a hearty stretch, joins them too, and now the fumes
of the pipe ascend, and mix with the odor of the sweet-scented prairie
grass that the young girls are braiding.
But neither Shah-co-pee the chief, nor old John the medicine man, could
find out the secret; they coaxed and threatened in turns--but all in
vain, for their curiosity was not gratified. They might have noticed,
however, that Wenona's face was pale, and her eyes red with weeping. She
was idle too, while the others plaited busily, and there was a subdued
look of sadness about her countenance, contrasting strangely with the
merry faces of the others.
"Why did you not tell Shah-co-pee what we were laughing at, Wenona?"
said Wanska. "Your secret is known now. The Deer-killer told all at the
Virgin's feast. Why did you not make him promise not to come? If I had
been you, I would have lain sick the day of the feast, I would have
struck my foot, so that I could not walk, or, I would have died before I
entered the ring.
"The Deer-killer promised to marry me," replied Wenona. "He said that
when he returned from his hunt I should be his wife. But I know well why
he has disgraced me; you have tried to make him love you, and now he is
waiting to take you to his lodge. He is not a great warrior, or he would
have kept his word."
"Wenona!" said Wanska, interrupting her, "you have not minded the advice
of your grandmother. She told you never to trust the promises of the
bravest warriors. You should not have believed his words, until he took
you to his wigwam. But do not be afraid that I will marry the
Deer-killer. There was never but one woman among the Dahcotahs who did
not marry, and I am going to be the second."
"You had better hush, Wanska," said the Bright Star. "You know she had
her nose cut off because she refused to be a wife, and somebody may cut
yours off too. It is better to be the mother of warriors than to have
every one laughing at you."
"Enah! then I will be married, rather than have my nose cut off, but I
will not be the Deer-killer's wife. So Wenona may stop crying."
"He says he will never marry me," said Wenona; "and it will do me no
good for you to refuse to be his wife. But you are a liar, like him; for
you know you love him. I am going far away, and the man who has broken
his faith to the maiden who trusted him, will never be a good husband."
"If I were Wenona, and you married the Deer-killer," said the Bright
Star to Wanska, "you should not live long after it. She is a coward or
she would not let you laugh at her as you did. I believe _she has no
heart_ since the Virgin's feast; sometimes she laughs so loud that we
can hear her from our teepee, and then she bends her head and weeps.
When her mother places food before her she says, 'Will he bring the meat
of the young deer for me to dress for him, and will my lodge be ever
full of food, that I may offer it to the hungry and weary stranger who
stops to rest himself?' If I were in her place, Wanska," added the
Bright Star, "I would try and be a medicine woman, and I would throw a
spell upon the Deer-killer, and upon you too, if you married him."
"The Deer-killer is coming," said another of the girls. "He has been
watching us; and now that he sees Wenona has gone away, he is coming to
talk to Wanska. He wears many eagle feathers: Wenona may well weep that
she cannot be his wife, for there is not a warrior in the village who
steps so proudly as he."
But he advanced and passed them indifferently. By and by they separated,
when he followed Wanska to her father's teepee.
Her mother and father had gone to dispose of game in exchange for bread
and flour, and the Deer-killer seated himself uninvited on the floor of
the lodge.
"The teepee of the warrior is lonely when he returns from hunting," said
he to the maiden. "Wanska must come to the lodge of the Deer-killer. She
shall ever have the tender flesh of the deer and buffalo to refresh her,
and no other wife shall be there to make her unhappy."
"Wanska is very happy now," she replied. "Her father is a good hunter.
He has gone to-day to carry ducks and pigeons to the Fort. The promises
of the Deer-killer are like the branch that breaks in my hand. Wenona's
face is pale, and her eyes are red like blood from weeping. The
Deer-killer promised to make her his wife, and now that he has broken
his word to her, he tells Wanska that he will never take another wife,
but she cannot trust him."
"Wanska was well named the Merry Heart," the warrior replied; "she
laughs at Wenona and calls her a fool, and then she wishes me to marry
her. Who would listen to a woman's words? And yet the voice of the Merry
Heart is sweeter than a bird's--her laugh makes my spirit glad. When she
sits in my lodge and sings to the children who will call me father, I
shall be happy. Many women have loved the Deer-killer, but never has he
cared to sit beside one, till he heard the voice of Wanska as she sang
in the scalp-dance, and saw her bear the scalp of her enemy upon her
shoulders."
Wanska's face was pale while she listened to him. She approached him,
and laid her small hand upon his arm--"I have heard your words, and my
heart says they are good. I have loved you ever since we were children.
When I was told that you were always by the side of Wenona, the laugh of
my companions was hateful to me--the light of the sun was darkness to my
eyes. When Wenona returned to her village with her parents, I said in
the presence of the Great Spirit that she should not live after you had
made her your wife. But her looks told me that there was sadness in her
heart, and then I knew you could not love her.
"You promise me you will never bring another wife to your wigwam.
Deer-killer! the wife of the white man is happy, for her husband loves
her alone. The children of the second wife do not mock the woman who is
no longer beloved, nor strike her children before her eyes. When I am
your wife I shall be happy while you love me; there will be no night in
my teepee while I know your heart is faithful and true; but should you
break your word to me, and bring to your lodge another wife, you shall
see me no more, and the voice whose sound is music to your ears you will
never hear again."
Promises come as readily to the lips of an Indian lover as trustfulness
does to the heart of the woman who listens to them; and the Deer-killer
was believed.
Wanska had been often at the Fort, and she had seen the difference
between the life of a white and that of an Indian woman. She had thought
that the Great Spirit was unmindful of the cares of his children.
And who would have thought that care was known to Wanska, with her merry
laugh, and her never-ceasing jokes, whether played upon her young
companions, or on the old medicine man who kept everybody but her in
awe of him.
She seemed to be everywhere too, at the same time. Her canoe dances
lightly over the St. Peter's, and her companions try in vain to keep up
with her. Soon her clear voice is heard as she sings, keeping time with
the strokes of the axe she uses so skilfully. A peal of laughter rouses
the old woman, her mother, who goes to bring the truant home, but she is
gone, and when she returns, in time to see the red sun fade away in the
bright horizon, she tells her mother that she went out with two or three
other girls, to assist the hunters in bringing in the deer they had
killed. And her mother for once does not scold, for she remembers how
she used to love to wander on the prairies, when her heart was as light
and happy as her child's.
When Wanska was told that the Deer-killer loved Wenona, no one heard her
sighs, and for tears, she was too proud to shed any. Wenona's fault had
met with ridicule and contempt; there was neither sympathy nor excuse
found for her. And now that the Deer-killer had slighted Wenona, and had
promised to love her alone, there was nothing wanting to her happiness.
Bright tears of joy fell from her eyes when her lover said there was a
spell over him when he loved Wenona, but now his spirit was free; that
he would ever love her truly, and that when her parents returned he
would bring rich presents and lay them at the door of the lodge.
Wanska was indeed "the Merry Heart," for she loved the Deer-killer more
than life itself, and life was to her a long perspective of brightness.
She would lightly tread the journey of existence by his side, and when
wearied with the joys of this world, they would together travel the road
that leads to the Heaven of the Dahcotahs.
She sat dreaming of the future after the Deer-killer had left her, nor
knew of her parents' return until she heard her mother's sharp voice as
she asked her "if the corn would boil when the fire was out, and where
was the bread that she was told to have ready on their return?"
Bread and corn! when Wanska had forgot all but that she was beloved. She
arose quickly, and her light laugh drowned her mother's scolding. Soon
her good humor was infectious, for her mother told her that she had
needles and thread in plenty, besides more flour and sugar, and that her
father was going out early in the morning to kill more game for the Long
Knives who loved it so well.
CHAPTER II.
A few months ago, the Deer-killer had told Wenona that Wanska was noisy
and tiresome, and that her soft dark eyes were far more beautiful than
Wanska's laughing ones. They were not at home then, for Wenona had
accompanied her parents on a visit to some relations who lived far above
the village of Shah-co-pee.
While there the Deer-killer came in with some warriors who had been on a
war party; there Wenona was assured that her rival, the Merry Heart, was
forgotten.
And well might the Deer-killer and Wenona have loved each other. "Youth
turns to youth as the flower to the sun," and he was brave and noble in
his pride and power; and she, gentle and loving, though an Indian woman;
so quiet too, and all unlike Wanska, who was the noisiest little gossip
in the village.
Often had they wandered together through the "solemn temples of the
earth," nor did she ever fear, with the warrior child for a protector.
She had followed him when he ascended the cliffs where the tracks of the
eagle were seen; and with him she felt safe when the wind was tossing
their canoe on the Mississippi, when the storm spirits had arisen in
their power. They were still children when Wenona would know his step
among many others, but they were no longer children when Wenona left
Shah-co-pee's village, for she loved with a woman's devotion--and more
than loved. She had trembled when she saw the Deer-killer watch Wanska
as she tripped merrily about the village. Sleeping or waking, his image
was ever before her; he was the idol to which her spirit bowed, the sun
of her little world.
The dance to the giant was to be celebrated at the village where they
were visiting; the father of Wenona and "Old John" the medicine man,
were to join in it. The maiden had been nothing loth to undertake the
journey, for the Deer-killer had gone on a war party against the
Chippeways, and she thought that in the course of their journey they
might meet him--and when away from Wanska, he would return to her side.
He could not despise the love she had given him. Hope, that bright star
of youth, hovered over her, and its light was reflected on her heart.
When they arrived at the village of the chief Markeda, or "Burning
Earth," the haughty brow of the chief was subdued with care. He had
dreamed of Haokah the giant, and he knew there was sorrow or danger
threatening him. He had sinned against the giant, and what might be the
consequence of offending him? Was his powerful arm to be laid low, and
the strong pulse to cease its beatings? Did his dream portend the loss
of his young wife? She was almost as dear to him as the fleet hunter
that bore him to the chase.
It might be that the angry god would send their enemies among them, and
his tall sons would gladden his sight no more. Sickness and hunger,
phantom-like, haunted his waking and sleeping hours.
There was one hope; he might yet ward off the danger, for the uplifted
arm of the god had not fallen. He hoped to appease the anger of the
giant by dancing in his honor.
"We have travelled far," said old John the medicine man, to Markeda,
"and are tired. When we have slept we will dance with you, for we are of
the giant's party."
"Great is Haokah, the giant of the Dahcotahs," the chief replied; "it is
a long time since we have danced to him."
"I had been hunting with my warriors, we chased the buffalo, and our
arrows pierced their sides; they turned upon us, bellowing, their heads
beating the ground; their terrible eyes glared upon us even in death;
they rolled in the dust, for their strength was gone. We brought them to
the village for our women to prepare for us when we should need them. I
had eaten and was refreshed; and, tired as my limbs were, I could not
sleep at first, but at last the fire grew dim before my eyes, and
I slept.
"I stood on the prairie alone, in my dream, and the giant appeared
before me. So tall was he that the clouds seemed to float about his
head. I trembled at the sound of his voice, it was as if the angry winds
were loosed upon the earth.
"'The warriors of the Dahcotahs are turned women,' said he; 'that they
no longer dance in honor of the giant, nor sing his songs. Markeda is
not a coward, but let him tremble; he is not a child, but he may shed
tears if the anger of the giant comes upon him.'
"Glad was I when I woke from my dream--and now, lest I am punished for
my sins, I will make a sacrifice to the giant. Should I not fear him who
is so powerful? Can he not take the thunder in his hand and cast it to
the earth?
"The heart of the warrior should be brave when he dances to the giant.
My wigwam is ready, and the friends of the giant are ready also."
"Give me your mocassins," said the young wife of Markeda to old John;
"they are torn, and I will mend them. You have come from afar, and are
welcome. Sleep, and when you awake, you will find them beside you." As
she assisted him to take them off, the medicine man looked admiringly
into her face. "The young wife of Markeda is as beautiful as the white
flowers that spring up on the prairies. Her husband would mourn for her
if the giant should close her eyes. They are bright now, as the stars,
but death would dim them, should not the anger of the giant be
appeased."
The "Bounding Fawn" turned pale at the mention of the angry giant; she
sat down, without replying, to her work; wondering the while, if the
soul of her early love thought of her, now that it wandered in the
Spirit's land. It might be that he would love her again when they should
meet there. The sound of her child's voice, awakening out of sleep,
aroused her, and called to her mind who was its father.
"They tore me away from my lover, and made me come to the teepee of the
chief," was her bitter reflection. "Enah! that I cannot love the father
of my child."
She rose and left the teepee. "Where is the heaven of the Dahcotahs,"
she murmured, as she looked up to the silent stars. "It may be that I
shall see him again. He will love my child too, and I will forget the
many tears I have shed."