The Big Book of Classic Fantasy

by The Big Book of Classic Fantasy (retail) (epub)

  And while Cat City was full of life, behind this lively façade one was conscious of a skeletal hand, a hand that seemed ever ready to tear the skin and flesh away from the Cat People to leave nothing but a wasteland of bleached bones. And yet, despite all of this, Cat City was one of the liveliest places I have ever seen.

  The arrangement of the city itself was the simplest that I’d yet encountered. There was nothing you could really call a street, for other than an apparently endless line of dwellings, there was just a kind of highway or, perhaps one ought to say, empty-square. If one kept in mind what the layout of a Cat Country army camp was like, one could well imagine the layout of the city: an immense open square with a row of houses down the middle, totally devoid of color and utterly drowned in Cat People. This was what they called “Cat City.” There were crowds of people, but one couldn’t tell exactly what they were doing. No one walked in a straight line, and everyone got in each other’s way. Fortunately the streets were wide, and when it was no longer possible to go forward, people could switch to walking sideways as they crowded past one another.

  It was as though the single row of houses formed a breakwater against which a tide of people pounded. I still don’t know whether they had house numbers or not. But if we assume they did—then a man who wanted to go from number five to number ten would have to zig-zag his way for at least three miles. Once outside his own door, he’d be crowded into a sideways progress and simply float along on the tide until he arrived at his destination. If by chance the direction of the tide should change before he got there, he’d be crowded home again. However, if he hit things just right, he would probably make it to number ten. But, of course, one can’t always be sure of hitting things just right, and occasionally he might be crowded back and forth so much that he would be taken even farther from his destination and might well fail to even make it home that day.

  There was a reason that the city had just one row of buildings. I worked that reason out somewhat as follows. I assumed that in the beginning there must have been several rather narrow streets. Crowding about in the narrow lanes had doubtless resulted in wasting a good deal of time, and had probably cost a number of lives to boot. You see, in the eyes of the Cat People, yielding the right of way was considered to be most disgraceful, and keeping to one side of the street was seen as incompatible with their freedom-loving spirit. Thus, if they had built houses on both sides of the street, they would be forever bottled up between them, and it is likely that the bottleneck wouldn’t break up before one row of the houses had collapsed under the pressure of the crowd. And thus it was, I concluded, that they had built their houses in one long line, making the streets on either side infinitely wide. While they hadn’t completely solved the problem of crowding quite yet, at least no more lives were lost. To be sure, crowding ten miles out and back in the course of a short trip took you out of your way a bit, but it didn’t place you in any mortal danger. Therefore we can cite this new and less dangerous arrangement as another piece of testimony to the humane spirit of the Cat People.

  Furthermore, crowding along in this manner wasn’t all that unpleasant. Besides, when people crowded you off your feet and carried you along in the press, you were, in effect, getting free transportation. In all honesty, I must admit that this explanation is merely my own hypothesis and I dare not vouch for its correctness. To make a solid case for my theory, I’d have to go back and see whether or not I could, in fact, find traces of the old streets that I assume were there previously.

  If it were simply a matter of crowding, it wouldn’t have been all that unusual. But I discovered that the tide didn’t merely roll to the left and right, but even had its risings and fallings! As I was watching the Cat City crowd, a pebble on the road caught someone’s eye and an entire group of Cat People suddenly squatted down to examine it, thus occasioning an eddy on the surface of the tide. It was as though, come hell or high water, they just had to see that pebble. Soon they changed from a squatting position to a sitting one, and all around them more and more people began to squat; making the eddy grow larger and larger. Those in back, of course, could not see the stone, and, as they pushed forward, those who had been seated were crowded to their feet again. The more people crowded, the higher up those who’d been sitting in front were pushed, until they were finally on top of their neighbors’ heads. Suddenly, everyone forgot the pebble, stood up, and threw their heads back to watch those who now rested on their neighbors’ heads, thus filling the eddy up again.

  As though decreed by fate, two old friends happened to meet at the edge of the eddy that had just filled in. They immediately sat down for a chat and those around them also sat down to listen in on the conversation. This, of course, occasioned another eddy. Then the bystanders who were listening in began chipping in with their opinions and before long, a brawl ensued, causing the eddy to expand suddenly. As the fighting continued, the eddy kept getting larger and larger until it reached the edge of another eddy that had formed when two old men decided to play a game of chess on the street. Now the two eddies became one, and as more and more people began to watch the chess game, the brawl died out. But before the bystanders had a chance to start chipping in, the chess-game-eddy was possessed of a fleeting stability.

  This cat-tide was interesting enough itself, but the best was yet to come. A large crack suddenly appeared in the tide that reminded one of the parting of the Red Sea when the Israelites crossed it. Had it not been for a similar miracle, I can’t possibly imagine how Scorpion’s reverie leaf formation could have got through the tide intact, since its destination—Scorpion’s home—was smack dab in the center of Cat City.

  Backtracking a bit, let me explain how it was that this miracle came about. One would have expected that as Scorpion’s formation neared the city, they would have devised some way of skirting the edges of that sea of cats while they jockeyed for a position from which they might work their way to his home. But no! With seven of them bearing Scorpion on their heads, they plunged headlong into the cat-surf! Then music was struck up. At first I thought it was a signal for the pedestrians to clear a right of way. But as soon as they heard the music, rather than shrinking back, the people all began crowding over in the direction of the reverie leaf formation until they were packed as tight as sardines in a can. I thought it would be a miracle if Scorpion’s men ever made it through.

  But Scorpion was much more capable than I had imagined. Bump-ba clump-, dump-dump, bump-ba dump-clump-dump—lively as a roll of drums in a Chinese military opera, the clubs of the soldiers came down on the heads of the Cat People and a crack began to appear in the cat-tide. Thus Scorpion made his own Red Sea miracle. Strange to say, the people’s eagerness to see what was going on was not abated one whit by the clubs, although they did fall back to open up a path as they kept smiling at the formation. The clubs, however, didn’t stop merely because of this friendly reception, but continued with a bump-ba dump-dump-clump. By dint of careful observation, I was able to make out a difference between the city cats and the country cats: the city cats had a bald spot where a part of the skull had been replaced by a steel plate at the center of the head, which also doubled as a drum—clear evidence they had long experience of having their heads drummed by soldiers while watching exciting public spectacles, for experience is never the product of a single, fortuitous occurrence.

  Originally, I’d thought the soldiers were beating heads as they walked along merely to open up a path; but it turned out that this drum playing also served another purpose. You see, the victims of all this drum playing were not exactly angels themselves. None of those who were hindmost were willing to stay at the back, and would push, kick, crowd, and even bite in order to make their way in the world and become foremost. Those who were already foremost, on the other hand, kicked back with their heels, poked back with their elbows, and leaned back hard in order to keep the hindmost in their proper place. Now the soldiers didn’t beat those who were in th
e front rows exclusively; they also reached out with their clubs and played a bump-ba dump-dump-dump on the cat-heads in back. Thus all the heads hurt and this made them forget somewhat the pain they were causing each other. And so the soldiers’ drumming served to reduce the hostility the spectators felt—for each other. One may call this method “treating pain with pain.”

  I was completely wrapped up in watching them. To tell the truth, they exerted a compelling, though melancholy, attraction over me. It seemed that I just had to watch them. I was so taken up with observing them that I didn’t pay attention to what the row of houses in the center of the square was like. I already knew that whatever they were like, they certainly couldn’t be beautiful, for a foul stench continuously emanated from them. Now it may be possible for beauty to exist in the midst of filth, but I for one don’t think so. I can’t conceive, for instance, of a Taj Mahal resplendent beneath a coat of black mud and foul water. The people on the street didn’t do much to improve things either. Whenever I approached them, they immediately cried out and shrank back as far as the throng would allow; but then they would quickly rush back toward me again, a clear indication that the fear and respect that city dwellers felt for foreigners was not quite as intense as that of the country folk. Having dissipated their fear and surprise by crying out, the city dwellers then felt brave enough to come up to me and give me the once-over. If I’d stood still on the road, I would certainly never have been able to move again, for they’d have surrounded me so closely that you wouldn’t have been able to get a drop of water between us.

  Ten thousand fingers kept pointing at me. The Cat People are very straightforward: if they see anything fresh and new, they simply point it right out with their fingers. Still unable to completely rid myself of the vanity of a human being from Earth, I was most uncomfortable. I longed to take wing and fly away to some quiet, peaceful spot where I might sit and rest for a while. My courage was gone and I simply didn’t dare to raise my head. Although I am not a poet, I still possess a certain degree of the poet’s sensitivity, and it seemed that these fingers and eyes were about to watch me away or, point me away like a melting piece of ice. They made me feel like a thing, with no personality left. But there are two sides to everything, and my not daring to raise my head also had its advantages. The road was uneven, covered with potholes and strewn with stinking lumps of mud. If I were to walk with my head up, I would make the lower half of my body as dirty as a pig. In spite of their very long history, it seemed that the Cat People had never once repaired their roads.

  Fortunately, I finally arrived at Scorpion’s house. It was only at this point that I had understood that the houses in Cat City were not much better than that little hole I’d lived in in the reverie forest.

  Christine Quintasket (1884–1936), better known by her pen name Mourning Dove, was a Native American author. Quintasket often noted that she was constantly punished for not being able to speak English in school, but also was influenced by reading mass market romance novels of the time. Her novel Cogewea, The Half Blood: A Depiction of the Great Montana Cattle Range (1927) was the first novel published by a Native American woman. This novel about a woman of mixed race made Mourning Dove extremely popular and remains her most celebrated work. The tales reprinted here are from Coyote Stories, a collection written after Mourning Dove heard oral tales from reservation elders.

  Coyote Stories

  Mourning Dove

  THE SPIRIT CHIEF NAMES THE ANIMAL PEOPLE

  HAH-AHʹ EEL-MEʹ-WHEM, the great Spirit Chief, called the Animal People together. They came from all parts of the world. Then the Spirit Chief told them there was to be a change, that a new kind of people was coming to live on the earth.

  “All of you Chip-chap-tiqulk—Animal People—must have names,” the Spirit Chief said. “Some of you have names now, some of you haven’t. But tomorrow all will have names that shall be kept by you and your descendants forever. In the morning, as the first light of day shows in the sky, come to my lodge and choose your names. The first to come may choose any name that he or she wants. The next person may take any other name. That is the way it will go until all the names are taken. And to each person I will give work to do.”

  That talk made the Animal People very excited. Each wanted a proud name and the power to rule some tribe or some part of the world, and everyone determined to get up early and hurry to the Spirit Chief’s lodge.

  Sin-ka-lipʹ—Coyote—boasted that no one would be ahead of him. He walked among the people and told them that, that he would be the first. Coyote did not like his name; he wanted another. Nobody respected his name, Imitator, but it fitted him. He was called Sin-ka-lipʹ because he liked to imitate people. He thought that he could do anything that other persons did, and he pretended to know everything. He would ask a question, and when the answer was given he would say:

  “I knew that before. I did not have to be told.”

  Such smart talk did not make friends for Coyote. Nor did he make friends by the foolish things he did and the rude tricks he played on people.

  “I shall have my choice of the three biggest names,” he boasted. “Those names are: Kee-lau-naw, the Mountain Person—Grizzly Bear, who will rule the four-footed people; Milka-noups—Eagle, who will rule the birds, and En-tee-tee-ueh, the Good Swimmer—Salmon. Salmon will be the chief of all the fish that the New People use for food.”

  Coyote’s twin brother, Fox, who at the next sun took the name Why-ayʹ-looh—Soft Fur, laughed. “Do not be so sure, Sin-ka-lipʹ,” said Fox. “Maybe you will have to keep the name you have. People despise that name. No one wants it.”

  “I am tired of that name,” Coyote said in an angry voice. “Let someone else carry it. Let some old person take it—someone who cannot win in war. I am going to be a great warrior. My smart brother, I will make you beg of me when I am called Grizzly Bear, Eagle, or Salmon.”

  “Your strong words mean nothing,” scoffed Fox. “Better go to your swoolʹ-hu (tepee) and get some sleep, or you will not wake up in time to choose any name.”

  Coyote stalked off to his tepee. He told himself that he would not sleep any that night; he would stay wide awake. He entered the lodge, and his three sons called as if with one voice:

  “Le-eeʹ-oo!” (“Father!”)

  They were hungry, but Coyote had brought them nothing to eat. Their mother, who after the naming day was known as Pulʹ-laqu-whu—Mole, the Mound Digger—sat on her foot at one side of the doorway. Mole was a good woman, always loyal to her husband in spite of his mean ways, his mischief-making, and his foolishness. She never was jealous, never talked back, never replied to his words of abuse. She looked up and said:

  “Have you no food for the children? They are starving. I can find no roots to dig.”

  “Eh-ha!” Coyote grunted. “I am no common person to be addressed in that manner. I am going to be a great chief tomorrow. Did you know that? I will have a new name. I will be Grizzly Bear. Then I can devour my enemies with ease. And I shall need you no longer. You are growing too old and homely to be the wife of a great warrior and chief.”

  Mole said nothing. She turned to her corner of the lodge and collected a few old bones, which she put into a klekʹ-chin (cooking-basket). With two sticks she lifted hot stones from the fire and dropped them into the basket. Soon the water boiled, and there was weak soup for the hungry children.

  “Gather plenty of wood for the fire,” Coyote ordered. “I am going to sit up all night.”

  Mole obeyed. Then she and the children went to bed.

  Coyote sat watching the fire. Half of the night passed. He got sleepy. His eyes grew heavy. So he picked up two little sticks and braced his eyelids apart. “Now I can stay awake,” he thought, but before long he was fast asleep, although his eyes were wide open.

  The sun was high in the sky when Coyote awoke. But for Mole he would not have wakened then.
Mole called him. She called him after she returned with her name from the Spirit Chief’s lodge. Mole loved her husband. She did not want him to have a big name and be a powerful chief. For then, she feared, he would leave her. That was why she did not arouse him at day-break. Of this she said nothing.

  Only half-awake and thinking it was early morning, Coyote jumped at the sound of Mole’s voice and ran to the lodge of the Spirit Chief. None of the other Chip-chap-tiqulk were there. Coyote laughed. Blinking his sleepy eyes, he walked into the lodge. “I am going to be Kee-lau-naw,” he announced in a strong voice. “That shall be my name.”

  “The name Grizzly Bear was taken at dawn,” the Spirit Chief answered.

  “Then I shall be Milka-noups,” said Coyote, and his voice was not so loud.

  “Eagle flew away at sunup,” the other replied.

  “Well, I shall be called En-tee-tee-ueh,” Coyote said in a voice that was not loud at all.

  “The name Salmon also has been taken,” explained the Spirit Chief. “All the names except your own have been taken. No one wished to steal your name.”

  Poor Coyote’s knees grew weak. He sank down beside the fire that blazed in the great tepee, and the heart of Hah-ahʹ Eel-meʹ-whem was touched.

  “Sin-ka-lipʹ,” said that Person, “you must keep your name. It is a good name for you. You slept long because I wanted you to be the last one here. I have important work for you, much for you to do before the New People come. You are to be chief of all the tribes.