CHAPTER VIII

THE YOUTH RECOVERS HIS STRENGTH AND VISITS RUN-ALL-DAY

When the young man awoke after a sleep of sixteen hours’ duration, he begged for food. Whispering Grass held a small vessel of broth to his lips. He drained it at a gulp, and demanded meat and fish.

“I am hungry,” he said, “for I have spilled blood and the strength of an hundred men. Do you expect me to recover my lost energy by means of a mouthful of hot water?”

Much against her convictions as a physician, the old woman cut a meagre slice of dried caribou meat, broiled it and gave it to the invalid. He devoured it ravenously, making no more than two mouthfuls of it.

“You will heat your blood. You will have a fever,” she exclaimed.

“My friend,” he replied, “this is no time for half-measures. Even my good hunger-belt would be useless now. Though you behold but a small man lying here, sorely cut and bruised, yet the strength of a giant must be recuperated.”

“Of a giant?” she queried, wondering if the fever had already found him.

He nodded. “Of the giant who mastered Bright Robe,” he said.

“Of the great, invisible one?” she asked, in an awe-stricken whisper.

“Even so. Was it not a great battle?”

“And you--? Why must you eat, young man, to feed his body?”

“We have but the one mouth, old woman,” he replied, smiling gently.

“Who are you, chief?” she cried.

“They call me Wise-as-a-she-wolf,” he said.

Whispering Grass was amazed and disconcerted. For a long time she could do nothing but gaze at the slight, mild-featured youth reclining on her couch. Could this be the furious, invisible fighter who had hunted the mighty Bright Robe from one form to another before her eyes; who had done battle with him, struck fear into his heart, and overthrown him?

At last she found the use of her tongue again. “You saved me from his wrath, chief; but who is to protect me when you go again about your great affairs?” she asked.

“The heart of Bright Robe is known over all the world,” she continued, “and his black soul is never deaf to the cry of vengeance. When the winds forget to blow we may expect that terrible one to forget those who have angered him.”

“We shall be warmed by five summers before Bright Robe regains his power to harm,” replied the youth. “For five summers and five aching winters, he must make his home in the trees, in the shape of a little brown owl.”

“Why did you not kill him, chief?” asked Whispering Grass. “He is your enemy, and the enemy of the whole world.”

“I did what was in my power,” replied Wise-as-a-she-wolf. “Only the gods can take his life. He and I have drunk of the same river, that flows around and around at the very top of the world. But I took his magic robe from him, and broke his giant’s body, and spilled his magic for five winters. He could have done no more to me had he defeated me in the battle.”

“And when the five winters are sped?” queried the old woman.

“I shall be waiting for him,” replied the youth.

The wounds of the good magician healed with a wonderful rapidity, that was not entirely due to the skill of Whispering Grass. And his appetite for food, for a few days, was a thing to strike consternation to the heart of a housekeeper. He ate dried fish and dried meat like a pack of wolves, for a giant as tall as a pine and as broad as a hill lurked within his slender frame. He promised that he would refill the larder as soon as he was on his feet.

On the third day after the battle, he was able to sit up and repair his moccasins, which had been torn on rocks and timber in the heroic combat. They had not been made for such rough usage, for they were the moccasins of the wind. While he worked, patching and stitching with skill and patience, Whispering Grass told him of the visit of the chief who had come for medicine for his child, and of how Bright Robe had seen him flying from the hillside and had mistaken him for Wise-as-a-she-wolf. She described the chief; and the magician knew that Run-all-day had made use of the red feathers.

On the morning of the fifth day after the fight with Bright Robe, the youth arranged his garments of dressed leather, which had been cleaned and mended, and assured the old woman that his injuries were entirely cured and that he must go about his business again.

“It was a speedy cure,” replied Whispering Grass. “I can find the wish, in my selfish old heart, that your magic and my poor washes had not healed the wounds so quickly, for now I shall spend my lonely days in fear of that little brown owl.”

At that the youth laughed. “Only the mice and the sparrows need fear him, for many moons,” said he.

“But the heart within his little breast is still the heart of Bright Robe,” argued the old woman, dismally wagging her head.

“I tell you that he is harmless, save to the smallest creatures of the wood,” replied the magician, with a note of sternness in his voice. He stepped to the door of the lodge.

“I shall return in a few minutes with meat and fish and pemmican,” he said.

Then, for a second, she heard the swishing rush of his flight. She hobbled to the doorway and looked out; but the sky was empty. So she turned back and busied herself with setting the lodge in order, muttering and shaking her gray head over the wonders that had crowded, of late, into her secluded life. She was spreading the skins on the couches when a shadow fell across the floor. Turning, she beheld Wise-as-a-she-wolf. His smooth face was flushed and he breathed as one after a sharp run. “Your store-house is full,” he said. “I went to my own village and got food for you; enough of the best to last you three moons. And here is a little whistle, made of willow. Blow upon it if you happen to be in need of my help, and I shall hear, and make speed to you, no matter in what part of the world I may be. But remember, should you blow upon this whistle without real need, the note of it will not reach my ears.”

The old woman accepted the gift gratefully and immediately set about fastening it around her neck by a leathern thong. And when she raised her eyes from the task the good magician was gone.

Wise-as-a-she-wolf, invisible by the potency of his own magic and with the silver robe of his rival under his arm, sped eastward in search of Run-all-day’s village. The afternoon was well spent before he found it, for it was a new village.

Alighting nearby, under a clump of crowded pines, he hid the white robe and walked, in his usual form, through the woods to the clustered lodges. Half a dozen women, and a few old men, were seated outside the wigwams, some weaving rough baskets and others laboriously shaping canoe paddles by means of flint wedges and knives. They looked at the strange young man with undisguised wonder. He greeted them good-naturedly and walked straight to the big lodge, feeling sure that, in so small a village, Run-all-day would be chief. Singing Bird caught sight of him before he reached the open doorway and whispered to Red Willow that the young man who had spent a night with them, during the previous summer, was approaching. Then Red Willow and old Blowing Fog knew that it was the great magician. Run-all-day and the other able-bodied men and boys of the village were away, hunting the beaver and musquash along the breaking streams.

Wise-as-a-she-wolf, great in magic, fearless in battle, peeped into the lodge. On seeing only women and children there, he stepped shyly to one side and looked vaguely around, as if uncertain what to do next. The chatter of women could not be answered by magic and his valour was no shield against the big eyes of Singing Bird. But before he could plan a dignified escape Red Willow looked out and invited him to enter. He stepped cautiously within; whereupon she sent all the children save the baby to play outside, thus making room for him to sit on one of the skin-covered couches. He inquired the whereabouts of Run-all-day, and then asked if the baby was quite recovered from its recent illness.

“He is cured, chief, thanks to your gift of red feathers,” replied Red Willow.

The magician expressed his pleasure at this and smiled bashfully at the baby. Then followed a silence that lasted for several minutes. It was broken by old Blowing Fog who had been blinking curiously at the visitor ever since his arrival.

“Great magicians were bigger men, in my young days,” said she.

Red Willow and Singing Bird were horrified at that remark; but the young man laughed good-naturedly.

“There was Highest Star, who slew the great moose that swam across the Narrow Sea,” continued the old woman, complacently. “He killed the fearful beast with one blow of his closed hand. Many a time did he visit my father’s lodge. He was ten feet high and broad as a bear is long.”

“And where is he now?” asked the youth.

Blowing Fog could not tell him, for certain, but she had her suspicions. One was that the gods had grown jealous of his greatness and had buried him under a mountain. Another was that he himself had become a divinity and now sat in some gorgeous lodge beyond the sunset, superior to the affairs of the island in which he had been born.

“Nay, do not mourn him,” said the youth, “for he still lives on the earth and is even now in this island.”

“Then I would I might see him again,” cried Blowing Fog, “for he was as beautiful and good as he was big.”

“Highest Star was one of the names men called me by,” said the magician, modestly.

“But he was double the size of you, chief,” expostulated Blowing Fog. “With one blow of his hand he killed the great moose that swam across the Narrow Sea to overthrow our lodges.”

She eyed him skeptically.

Wise-as-a-she-wolf nodded his head. “Yes, yes, I remember,” he said. “The great moose was thrice the size of his kind and his antlers spread more than the width of this fine lodge. He was king of all the moose of the western lands. But I was more than ten feet high when I slew him. Large as I was then, I doubled my stature before I encountered that gigantic beast. As he drew himself out of the water, I smote him on the forehead, for the safety of my people.”

“Then why do you go about in so humble a shape to-day?” asked Blowing Fog, cunningly.

“You do not believe me,” he said, eyeing her steadily.

The old woman was silent for a moment.

“Even Bright Robe stood in fear of Highest Star,” she said, “but Wise-as-a-she-wolf went softly about the world, studying magic. He was not a great warrior.”

“Highest Star was one of the names men called me by,” replied the youth, quietly. He looked at Red Willow.

“Do you doubt what I tell?” he asked her.

“I do not doubt you, chief,” she replied.

At that moment the voice of Run-all-day was heard without, speaking to Singing Bird. As he entered, the women turned their eyes from the magician to the door.

“Where is the great and good Wise-as-a-she-wolf?” asked the hunter, peering about him. Sure enough, there was not a sign of the young man in the lodge.

“He is here,” whispered Red Willow. “He was seated there, but a moment ago.”

Blowing Fog gazed wildly around, but said nothing. She trembled with fear, and wished that she had not voiced her doubts nor spoken slightingly of the gentle ways of Wise-as-a-she-wolf.

“I do not see him,” said the hunter. “Surely he slipped outside when you were not watching.”

He gazed all around, and up and down. “Was he angry?” he asked. “Was he displeased with me for having used the red feathers?”

“You used them in a good cause, my friend,” said a gruff but kindly voice from up near the peak of the high lodge. The three stared upward, awe-stricken. The old woman clung desperately to Red Willow. At last Run-all-day found his voice.

“Are you displeased with me, chief?” he asked.

“Nay, friend,” replied the voice of the unseen, from the dusky peak of the lodge, “’tis Blowing Fog who has displeased me with her talk.”

“But she is old, chief,” said the hunter, apologetically. “Her wits are dull, but her tongue wags. I am sure that, whatever she said, she meant nothing disrespectful by it.”

At that, Blowing Fog loosed her hold of Red Willow’s hand, and, forgetting her fear, glared in rage and amazement at her tactless son-in-law. So she wagged her tongue, did she? And she was old? And her wits were dull,--the impudent rascal. She drew a deep breath, preparatory to loosing her wrath upon the hunter, when the voice from the roof spoke again.

“I, too, am old,” said the voice. “I was old before this woman was born; and yet I do not doubt a person’s word until I have proved him a liar.”

The hunter looked sternly at the old woman. “You doubted this great chief’s word,” he cried. “And yet you know that it was by his magic gift that I was able to fly to Whispering Grass, and home again, swift as a hawk, and so save the life of the little warrior.”

Blowing Fog was now too angry and mortified to fear anything.

“Silence, blockhead!” she cried. “What do you know of magic and magicians? ’Tis but a little while since you were afraid to touch the red feathers. And Bright Robe turned your heart to water, with a glance.”

She looked upward. “Chief,” she said, “have you but made yourself invisible and thrown your voice into the peak of the roof, or do you really stand with your feet on the ground and your head in the smoke-hole?”

Poor Red Willow was horrified at her mother’s temerity and uncalled-for rudeness. With a sobbing cry, she tried to place her hand over the old woman’s mouth. But she did not succeed, and received a shrewd blow on the cheek for her pains.

“Old woman, you shall see, with your own eyes, whether or not Wise-as-a-she-wolf speaks the truth,” cried the angry voice from above.

“Forgive her, chief. Do not hurt her,” cried Red Willow and the hunter. Then they fell back, against the bark walls of the lodge, speechless; for there bulked a great figure, its feet in the middle of the floor, its knees bent, and its head against the very top of the roof.

“These quarters cramp me,” said the giant, and he immediately straightened his knees and his back and expanded his chest. The great lodge was ripped and torn, and with the top of it on his head, the incensed magician strode away into the woods.

Then there was panic and tumult in the village. Women screamed and men shouted and old Blowing Fog fell down in a fit. Red Willow clutched her littlest baby tightly in her arms and her other children scampered to her protection and clung to her garments.

“Silence!” cried Run-all-day to the villagers. “I do not blame the great magician for getting angry and showing his power. And see, he has hurt no one. Throw some cold water on the old woman. She insulted my friend and master in my own lodge--and yet we must not let her die in the grip of fear.” He was very angry with his mother-in-law.

Liberal sousings of icy water soon caused the old woman to open her eyes, spring to her feet and attack the people who had carried the water and poured it upon her with such gusto. She dealt old Green Bow a slap on the side of the head that shook the few teeth in his jaws, and was about to assault another ancient warrior when Wise-as-a-she-wolf, once more in the shape of a mild young man, again appeared. At sight of him she slipped quietly behind the fattest person present. The magician went straight to Red Willow.

“I am sorry that I lost my temper,” he said, sincerely. “I acted like a braggart; and I have ruined your fine lodge. But I will set to work immediately to rebuild it.”

The poles and bark of which the big wigwam had been constructed were uninjured. Wise-as-a-she-wolf and Run-all-day set to work like beavers and their example was soon followed by all the villagers save Green Bow. He, poor old man, went home and nursed his jaw. By the fall of dusk the big lodge was as good as new again, and the entire family and their guest sat comfortably within. Blowing Fog busied herself with cooking the evening meal, and had not a word to say. But the sight of Wise-as-a-she-wolf’s stature and strength had impressed her tough old heart more than a dozen less spectacular demonstrations of his magical powers would have done.

The good magician, his conscience still pricking him for his recent violence, made himself very agreeable. He cut several of the bright stones from his shirt of leather and gave one to each of the children, including the girl, Singing Bird, and the littlest baby. “They are jewels of courage,” he said, “and impart their virtue to the wearer. They were dug from great mountains, by a fierce red-skinned people who live far to the south and west, in a great land beyond the seas.”

He told them some of the adventures that had befallen him since their last meeting. He gave a modest account of his battle with Bright Robe, near the lodge of Whispering Grass. The heart of Run-all-day was glad within him when he heard that the cruel magician had been overthrown and shorn of his powers for five long summers. Even Blowing Fog forgot her disgrace for a moment and cackled. “Ho! ho! Think of that little brown owl with the heart of that great magician under his ribs. He will be a mighty slayer of wood mice. Ho! ho!”

Everybody laughed at that,--even the little children who did not know what it meant.

Early next morning the magician drew Run-all-day aside and charged him to be careful of the red feathers.

“Make use of them only in worthy adventures, for the saving of your own life or the lives of others,” he said. “And do not let them become a matter of common report, for even though Bright Robe is harmless for a long time, there are many others who know their virtue and would risk much to possess them. Remember that you have them in charge for the littlest warrior, of whom I expect great things.”

Then he went into the woods and took the white robe from its hiding-place, and flew northward and westward.