Part 2

This information seemed rather to please than to discourage Manabozho, for by this time he had grown to such a size and strength that he had been compelled to leave the narrow shelter of his grandmother’s lodge and live out of doors. He was so tall that, if he had been so disposed, he could have snapped off the heads of the birds roosting on the topmost branches of the highest trees, as he stood up, without being at the trouble to climb. And if he had at any time taken a fancy to one of the same trees for a walking stick, he would have had no more to do than to pluck it up with his thumb and finger and strip down the leaves and twigs with the palm of his hand.

Bidding good-by to his old grandmother, who pulled a very long face over his departure, Manabozho set out at a great pace, for he was able to stride from one side of a prairie to the other at a single step.

He found his father on a high mountain far in the west. His father espied his approach at a great distance, and bounded down the mountainside several miles to give him welcome. Apparently delighted with each other, they reached in two or three of their giant paces the lodge of the West which stood high up near the clouds.

They spent some days in talking with each other—for these two great persons did nothing on a small scale, and a whole day to deliver a single sentence, such was the immensity of their discourse, was quite an ordinary affair.

One evening Manabozho asked his father what he was most afraid of on earth.

He replied—“Nothing.”

“But is there nothing you dread here—nothing that would hurt you if you took too much of it? Come, tell me.”

Manabozho was very urgent, so at last his father said: “Yes, there is a black stone to be found a couple of hundred miles from here, over that way,” pointing as he spoke. “It is the only thing on earth I am afraid of, for if it should happen to hit me on any part of my body it would hurt me very much.” The West made this important circumstance known to Manabozho in the strictest confidence.

“Now you will not tell anyone, Manabozho, that the black stone is bad medicine for your father, will you?” he added. “You are a good son, and I know you will keep it to yourself. Now tell me, my darling boy, is there not something that you don’t like?”

Manabozho answered promptly—“Nothing.”

His father, who was of a steady and persevering nature, put the same question to him seventeen times, and each time Manabozho made the same answer—“Nothing.”

But the West insisted—“There must be something you are afraid of.”

“Well, I will tell you,” said Manabozho, “what it is.”

He made an effort to speak, but it seemed to be too much for him.

“Out with it,” said the West, fetching Manabozho such a blow on the back as shook the mountain with its echo.

“Je-ee, je-ee—it is,” said Manabozho, apparently in great pain. “Yes, yes! I cannot name it, I tremble so.”

The West told him to banish his fears, and to speak up; no one would hurt him.

Manabozho began again, and he would have gone over the same make-believe of pain, had not his father, whose strength he knew was more than a match for his own, threatened to pitch him into a river about five miles off. At last he cried out:

“Father, since you will know, it is the root of the bulrush.” He who could with perfect ease spin a sentence a whole day long, seemed to be exhausted by the effort of pronouncing that one word, “bulrush.”

Some time after Manabozho observed: “I will get some of the black rock, merely to see how it looks.”

“Well,” said the father, “I will also get a little of the bulrush root, to learn how it tastes.”

They were both double-dealing with each other, and in their hearts getting ready for some desperate work. They had no sooner separated for the evening than Manabozho was striding off the couple of hundred miles necessary to bring him to the place where the black rock was to be procured, while down the other side of the mountain hurried Ningabinn, the West.

At the break of day they each appeared at the great level on the mountain-top, Manabozho with twenty loads, at least, of the black stone, on one side, and on the other the West, with a whole meadow of bulrush in his arms.

Manabozho was the first to strike—hurling a great piece of the black rock, which struck the West directly between the eyes, and he returned the favor with a blow of bulrush that rung over the shoulders of Manabozho, far and wide, like the long lash of the lightning among the clouds.

First one and then the other, Manabozho poured in a tempest of black rock, while the West discharged a shower of bulrush. Blow upon blow, thwack upon thwack—they fought hand to hand until black rock and bulrush were all gone. Then they betook themselves to hurling crags at each other, cudgeling with huge oak trees, and defying each other from one mountain top to another; while at times they shot enormous boulders of granite across at each other’s heads, as though they had been mere jackstones. The battle, which had commenced on the mountains, had extended far west. The West was forced to give ground. Manabozho pressing on, drove him across rivers and mountains, ridges and lakes, till at last he got him to the very brink of the world.

“Hold!” cried the West. “My son, you know my power, and although I allow I am now fairly out of breath, it is impossible to kill me. Stop where you are, and I will also portion you out with as much power as your brothers. The four quarters of the globe are already occupied, but you can go and do a great deal of good to the people of the earth, which is beset with serpents, beasts and monsters, who make great havoc of human life. Go and do good, and if you put forth half the strength you have to-day, you will acquire a name that will last forever. When you have finished your work I will have a place provided for you. You will then go and sit with your brother, Kabinocca, in the north.”

Manabozho gave his father his hand upon this agreement. And parting from. him, he returned to his own grounds, where he lay for some time sore of his wounds.

WHY THE DIVER DUCK HAS SO FEW TAIL FEATHERS

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Having overcome the powerful Pearl Feather, killed his serpents and escaped all is wiles and charms, the heart of Manabozho welled within him. An unconquerable desire for further adventures seized upon him. He had won in a great fight on land, so he determined his next success should come to him from the water.

He tried his luck as a fisherman and with such success that he captured an enormous fish, a fish so rich in fat that with the oil Manabozho was able to form a small lake. Wishing to be generous, and at the same time having a cunning plan of his own, he invited all the birds and beasts of his acquaintance to come and feast upon the oil, telling them that the order in which they partook of the banquet would decide how fat each was to be for all time to come.

As fast as they arrived he told them to plunge in and help themselves.

The first to make his appearance was the bear, who took a long and steady draft; then came the deer, the opossum, and such others of the family as are noted for their comfortable covering. The moose and the buffalo were late in arriving on the scene, and the partridge, always lean in flesh, looked on till the supply was nearly gone. There was not a drop left by the time the hare and the marten appeared on the shore of the lake, and they are, in consequence, the slenderest of all creatures.

When this ceremony was over Manabozho suggested to his friends, the assembled birds and animals, that the occasion was proper for a little merrymaking; and taking up his drum he cried out:

“New songs from the South! Come, brothers, dance!”

They all fell in and commenced their rounds. Whenever Manabozho, as he stood in the circle, saw a fat fowl which he fancied pass him, he adroitly wrung its neck and slipped it under his belt, at the same time beating his drum and singing at the top of his lungs to drown the noise of the fluttering, crying out in a tone of admiration:

“That’s the way, my brothers; that’s the way.” At last a small duck of the diver family, thinking there was something wrong, opened one eye and saw what Manabozho was doing. Giving a spring, and crying: “Ha-ha-a! Manabozho is killing us!” he made a dash for the water.

Manabozho was so angry that the creature should have played the spy that he gave chase, and just as the Diver Duck was getting into the water he gave him a kick, which is the reason that the diver’s tail feathers are few, his back flattened, and his legs straightened out, so that when he is seen walking on land he makes a sorry looking figure.

The other birds, having no ambition to be thrust in Manabozho’s belt, flew off, and the animals scampered into the woods.

MANAIBOZHO IS CHANGED INTO A WOLF

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

One evening, as Manabozho was walking along the shore of a great lake, weary and hungry, he met a great magician in the form of an Old Wolf, with six young ones, coming toward him.

The Wolf no Sooner caught sight of him than he told his whelps, who were close beside him, to keep out of the way of Manabozho, “For I know,” he said, “that it is that mischievous fellow whom we see yonder.”

The young wolves were in the act of running off when Manabozho cried out, “My grandchildren, where are you going? Stop and I will go with you. I wish to have a little chat with your excellent father.”

Saying which, he advanced and greeted the Old Wolf, expressing himself as delighted at seeing him looking so well. “Whither do you journey?” he asked.

“We are looking for a good hunting-ground to pass the winter,” the Old Wolf answered. “What brings you here?”

“I was looking for you,” said Manabozho. “For I have a passion for the chase, brother. I always admired your family; are you willing to change me into a wolf?”

The Wolf gave him a favorable answer, and he was forthwith changed into a wolf.

“Well, that will do,” said Manabozho. “But,” he said, looking at his tail, “could you oblige me by making my tail a little longer and more bushy, just a little more bushy?”

“Certainly,” said the Old Wolf; and he straightway gave Manabozho such a length and spread of tail that it was continually getting between his legs, and it was so heavy that it was as much as he could do to carry it. But, having asked for it, he was ashamed to say a word, and they all started off in company, dashing up the ravine.

After getting into the woods for some distance they ran across the tracks of moose. The young ones scampered off in pursuit, the Old Wolf and Manabozho following at their leisure.

“Well,” said the Old Wolf, by way of starting the conversation, “who do you think is the fastest of the boys? Can you tell by the jumps they take?”

“Why,” he replied, “that one that takes such long jumps, he is surely the fastest.”

“Ha! ha! you are mistaken,” said the Old Wolf. “He makes a good start, but he will be the first to tire out; this one who appears to be behind will be the one to kill the game.”

By this time they had come to the spot where the boys had started in chase. One had dropped what seemed to be a small medicine-sack, which he carried for the use of the hunting party.

“Take that, Manabozho,” said the Old Wolf.

“Why, what will I do with a dirty dog skin?”

The Old Wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe.

“Oh, I will carry it now,” cried Manabozho.

“Oh, no,” said the Wolf, who had used his magical powers, “it is a robe of pearls. Come along!” And away he sped at a great rate of speed.

“Not so fast,” called Manabozho after him; and then he added to himself as he panted after, “Oh, this tail!”

Coming to a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the young wolves had made a fresh start after their prey. “Why,” said the Old Wolf, “this moose is thin. I know by the tracks. I can always tell whether they are fat or not.” A little farther on, one of the young wolves, in dashing at the moose, had broken a tooth on a tree.

“Manabozho,” said the Old Wolf, “one of your grandchildren has shot at the game. Take his arrow; there it is.”

“No,” replied Manabozho, “what will I do with a dirty dog’s tooth?”

The Old Wolf took it up, and behold it was a beautiful silver arrow.

When they at last overtook them, they found that the youngsters had killed a very fat moose. Manabozho was very hungry, but the Old Wolf just then again exerted his magical powers, and Manabozho saw nothing but the bones picked quite clean. He thought to himself, “Just as I expected; dirty, greedy fellows. If it had not been for this log at my back I should have been in time to have got a mouthful”; and he cursed the bushy tail which he carried to the bottom of his heart.

The Old Wolf finally called out to one of the young ones, “Give some meat to your grandfather.”

One of them obeyed, and coming near to Manabozho he presented him the end of his own bushy tail, which was now nicely seasoned with burs gathered in the course of the hunt. Manabozho jumped up and called out: “You dog, do you think I am going to eat you?” And he walked off in anger.

“Come back brother,” cried the Wolf. “You are losing your eyes. You do the child injustice. Look there!” and behold a heap of fresh meat was lying on the spot, all prepared.

Manabozho turned back, and at the sight of so much good food put on a smiling face. “Wonderful!” he said, “how fine the meat is!”

“Yes,” replied the Old Wolf, “it is always so with us; we know our work and always get the best. It is not a long tail that makes the hunter.”

Manabozho bit his lip.

WHY THE WOODPECKER HAS RED HEAD FEATHERS

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

When his wounds had all been cured by his grandmother’s skill in medicine, Manabozho, as big and sturdy as ever, was ripe for new adventures. He set his thoughts immediately upon a war excursion against the Pearl Feather, a wicked old manito, living on the other side of the great lake, who had killed his grandfather.

He began his preparations by making huge bows and arrows without number, but he had no arrow heads. At last his grandmother, Noko, told him that an old man who lived at some distance could furnish him with some, and he sent her to get them. Though she returned with her wrapper full, he told her that he had not enough and sent her again for more.

In the meanwhile he thought to himself, “I must find out the way of making these heads.”

Instead of directly asking how it was done, he preferred—just like Manabozho—to deceive his grandmother, in order to learn what he wanted by a trick. “Noko,” said he, “while I take my drum and rattle, and sing my war songs, do you go and try to get me some larger heads, for these you have brought me are all of the same size. Go and see whether the old man is not willing to make some a little larger.”

He followed her at a distance as she went, having left his drum at the lodge, with a great bird tied at the top, whose fluttering wings should keep up the drumbeat, the same as if he were standing there beating the drum himself. He saw the old workman busy, and learned how he prepared the heads; he also beheld the old man’s daughter, who was very beautiful. Manabozho discovered for the first time that he had a heart of his own, and the sigh he heaved passed through the arrow maker’s lodge like a young gale of wind.

“My how it blows!” said the old man.

“It must be from the south, though,” said the daughter, “it is so fragrant.”

Manabozho slipped away, and in two strides he was at home, shouting forth his songs as though he had never left the lodge. He had just time to untie the bird which had been beating the drum when his grandmother came in and gave him the big arrowheads.

In the evening the grandmother said, “My son, you ought to fast before you go to war, as your brothers do, to find out whether you will be successful or not.”

He said he had no objection. Having privately stored away in a shady place in the forest two or three dozen juicy bears, a moose, and twenty strings of the tenderest birds, he would retire from the lodge so far as to be entirely out of view of his grandmother and fall to and enjoy himself heartily. At nightfall, having dispatched a dozen birds and half a bear or so, he would return, tottering and forlorn, as if quite famished, so as to make his grandmother feel sorry for him.

When he had finished his term of fasting, in the course of which he slyly dispatched twenty fat bears, six dozen birds, and two fine moose, Manabozho sung his war song and embarked in his canoe, fully prepared for war.

Besides his weapons he took along a large supply of oil.

He traveled rapidly night and day, for he had only to will or speak, and the canoe went. At length he arrived in sight of the fiery serpents, and stopped to study them. He noticed that they were of enormous length and of a bright color, that they were some distance apart, and that the flames which poured forth from the mouths reached across the pass, so he said good morning and began talking with them in a very friendly way. They were not to be deceived, however.

“We know you, Manabozho,” they said, “you cannot pass.”

Turning his canoe as if about to go back, he suddenly cried out with a loud and terrified voice: “WHAT IS THAT BEHIND YOU?”

The serpents thrown off their guard, instantly turned their heads, and in a moment Manabozho glided silently past them.

“Well,” said he, softly, after he had got by, “how about it?”

He then took up his bow and arrows, and with deliberate aim shot every one of them easily, for the serpents were fixed to one spot and could not even turn around.

Having thus escaped the sentinel serpents, Manabozho pushed on in his canoe until he came to a part of the lake called Pitch-Water, as whatever touched it was sure to stick fast.

But Manabozho was prepared with his oil and, rubbing his canoe freely with it, from end to end, he slipped through with ease—and he was the first person who had ever succeeded in passing through the Pitch-Water.

“Nothing like a little oil,” said Manabozho to himself.

Having by this time come in view of land, he could see the lodge of the Shining Manito, high upon a distant hill. At the dawn of day he put his clubs and arrows in order and began his attack, yelling and shouting and beating his drum, and calling out so as to make it appear that he had many followers:

“Surround him! surround him! run up! run up!”

He stalked bravely forward, shouting aloud, “It was you that killed my grandfather,” and shot off a whole forest of arrows.

The Pearl Feather appeared on the height, blazing like the sun, and paid back Manabozho with a tempest of bolts which rattled like hail.

All day long the fight was kept up, and Manabozho had fired all of his arrows but three without effect, for the Shining Manito was clothed in pure wampum. It was only by immense leaps to right and left that Manabozho could save his head from the sturdy blows which fell about him on every side, like pine.trees, from the hands of the Manito. He was badly bruised, and at his very wits’ end, when a large Woodpecker flew past and lit on a tree. It was a bird he had known on the prairie, near his grandmother’s lodge.

“Manabozho,” called out the Woodpecker, “your enemy has a weak point; shoot at the lock of hair on the crown of his head.”

The first arrow he shot only drew a few drops of blood. The Manito made one or two unsteady steps, but recovered himself. He began to parley, but Manabozho, now that he had discovered a way to reach him, was in no humor to trifle, and he let slip another arrow which brought the Shining Manito to his knees. Having the crown of his head within good range Manabozho shot his third arrow, and the Manito fell forward upon the ground, dead.

Manabozho called the Woodpecker to come and receive a reward for the timely hint he had given him, and he rubbed the blood of the Shining Manito on the Woodpecker’s head, the feathers of which are red to this day.

Full of his victory, Manabozho returned home, beating his war drum furiously and shouting aloud his song of triumph. His grandmother was on the shore to welcome him with the war dance, which she performed with wonderful skill for one so far advanced in years.

MANABOZHO IS ROBBED BY THE WOLVES

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Shortly after this the Old Wolf suggested to Manabozho that he should go out and try his luck in hunting by himself. When he chose to put his mind to it he was quite expert, and this time he succeeded in killing a fine fat moose which he thought he would take aside slyly and devour alone.

He was very hungry and he sat down to eat, but as he never could go to work in a straightforward way, he immediately fell into great doubts as to the proper point at which to begin.

“Well,” said he, “I do not know where to commence. At the head? No, people will laugh, and say, ‘He ate him backward.’”

He went to the side. “No,” said he, “they will say I ate him sideways.”

He then went to the hind quarter. “No, that will not do, either; they will say I ate him forward. I will begin here, say what they will.”