by Trevanian
When I was very young, my mother put me to bed with these stories, told in the harsh, old-fashioned French patois of her aunts, a sound that I associated with the stern-voiced chants of the Onondagan storytellers who used similar cautionary tales when they sought to persuade recalcitrant rebels to bend their will to that of the Confederacy. I remember only three of those stories: one that explains why maples lose their beautiful leaves in autumn and is a warning against pride, another that tells how North Star volunteered to remain in the cold northern sky to direct lost people and is about the virtues of service, and the story I'm going to tell you now, my childhood favorite because it involved many animals acting badly. Its message is obvious, but it was one the Indians failed to heed.
In the beginning, and for more than half of the Allotted Time there was no dry land, only sky and water and a thin mist where they met. Then She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name asked, "Who will make Earth for me?" Now Crayfish was bored, so she said, "I will make Earth for you." And Crayfish went down to the bottom of the water and rolled balls of mud with her tail and piled them up, one upon the other, one upon the other, until the mud rose higher than the water.
Then She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name said, "Yes, but this Earth is all flat and dull to the eye. Who will make it lively and diverse for me?" And Buzzard, who was bored, said, "I will make it lively and diverse for you." She flew over the vast expanse of soft mud, and when she flapped her mighty wings down, valleys were pressed into the land, and when she drew her mighty wings up, mountains were lifted from the land, and when she soared and glided, the great plains and plateaux were left flat.
Then She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name said, "Yes, but this Earth is all soft and wet. Who will make it dry for me?" And Wind, who was bored, said, "I will make it dry for you." And she breathed over the hills and valleys and plains for a very long time until they were dry and hard. The fish of the sea wondered what possible use this dry hard place could have, for fish have no understanding of dry places, just as they have no experience of rain.
Then She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name spoke out the names of all the plants and all the animals, and each appeared as its name was spoken. Some went to live in the valleys, some in the mountains, some on the plains. And when Crayfish and Buzzard and Wind saw all this, they were very proud of themselves, believing that these plants and animals had been wrought from their own imaginations, for the power of She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name is not perceived as a waterfall is perceived; rather, it is perceived from within, as a dream is perceived. In their pride, Crayfish and Buzzard and Wind strutted and swaggered and sang of their wisdom and skill. And this is why old men dance the comic dance of Crayfish, Wind, and Buzzard to this day, strutting and swaggering and chanting those bragging songs that make children laugh at their foolishness.
Yet for all their strutting and bragging, in their hearts Crayfish and Buzzard and Wind were vexed because their fine work could not be seen and admired, for the world was wrapped in eternal darkness, as it shall be again at the end of the Allotted Time.
Now, Coyote, the most guileful of the animals, took up the cause of Crayfish and Buzzard and Wind, saying it was a shame that no one could see to admire their fine creation, but in fact Coyote's reason for despising the darkness was that she was a daylight hunter. Hearing Coyote's complaint, She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name whispered into the darkness, saying, "Who will make light for me?" And Star whispered back, "I shall make light for you." And she turned and shone upon the land with all her might, but her glow was feeble, so Coyote still complained that it was not light enough, although Rabbit and Prairie Dog thought things were just fine as they were, for they are daylight prey. Coyote pouted and sulked and wheedled and whined until she got her way, so Star made children upon herself until they were many and many in the sky, and they all shone down with all their might, glittering and twinkling with the effort, but still Coyote grumbled that it was not light enough. So Moon said, "I will help you, Star," and she turned and shone upon the world. But Moon is fickle and inconstant by nature: sometimes only half of her shines, and sometimes only a quarter, and sometimes no part at all, so Coyote pouted and sulked until She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name went to the cave of Sun and begged her to go up into the sky. But Sun loved her splendid pink-and-gold cave and was loathe to leave it, so She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name bargained with Sun, saying that she would not have to shine all the time; she could return to her cave when she was tired of shining, and the darkness she left behind her would be called Night. But still Sun was reluctant to leave her cave, so She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name bargained further, promising Sun that after the Allotted Time was spent, she could return to her cave and leave the land in darkness forever. Finally Sun agreed to go into the sky for half of each day, leaving at dawn and returning at sunset. The growing pink-and-gold you see at dawn is Sun slowly rolling the stone away from the mouth of her glittering cave, and the pink-and-gold of evening fades as Sun slowly pulls the stone back in behind her. But although she had allowed herself to be persuaded to shine on the land, Sun was sad to leave her splendid cave and bitter that Coyote's pouting and sulking had forced her to do it, so she wept sad tears and bitter tears on the morning of that first day, and where her sad tears fell upon the ground they became women and her bitter tears became men, and thus humans became the eternal enemies of Coyote, and sought forever to thwart and destroy her; but, alas, Coyote is too clever. Now the women and men of the tears made children together, and some of these children went to live on the mountains, and some in the valleys, and some on the prairies, but the bravest and the truest of them came to live in the woodlands, and these called themselves the People, but the pale-eyed ones who came to buy furs and steal land called them the Iroquois.
As you have seen, in the Early Time all things—stars, wind, buzzards, animals—spoke the language of She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name, a language that was called the Tongue. Well, so did all the women and men born of Sun's tears. But in punishment for misdeeds too vile to be told, most humans were made to forget the Tongue and were obliged to speak instead many nasty babbles. But the Iroquois people had not indulged in these misdeeds, so they were allowed to continue to speak the ancient and beautiful language of animals and stars and wind and of She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name. In time all the animals, one by one, lost their ability to speak the Tongue, some out of foolishness, some out of naughtiness, and some just from bad luck. There was a story about how each animal lost the Tongue, and these were useful stories meant to teach us the dangers of Carelessness and Greed and Rage and Disobedience and such things, but, alas, these stories have fallen from the tribal memory and now we must learn the harm of Carelessness and Greed and Rage and Disobedience the hard way, by suffering their effects.
Thus did the People come to be the only creatures who could understand She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name and speak to stars and winds and storms and ghosts. And among the People, the tribe that used the Tongue to greatest effect was your own Onondagas, the children of Hiawatha, for we wove the Tongue into tales meant to amuse on top and to teach underneath. Like this one, for instance:
One day, She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name was gazing back across time, reflecting upon the glories of the People, when out of the corner of her eye she saw something in the other direction, towards the future, that made her gasp in dismay. She saw that all living things would soon be threatened by pale-eyed enemies from across the sea. Dispatching Turtle to watch for the invaders' arrival on the shore of the eastward sea, she commanded all the animals to meet for seven days in a great lodge, there to discuss ways of dealing with this menace.
But how, you ask, could all the animals meet together if Turtle was absent? Well, at that distant time, Turtle was not counted among the animals because of her shell's resemblance to a rock.
To avoid the chaos of all the earth's animals meeting in one lodge, She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name ordained that each clan send o
ne representative of its essential nature. Dog would represent all vulgar things, for instance, and Crow all complaining things; and there was greedy Bobcat, and slippery Otter, and sly Coyote, and ill-tempered Bear, and nervous Ground Hog, and haughty Frog, and bewildered Mole, and placid Tree, and many, many others. But why, you ask, was Tree invited to a meeting of the animals? Well, at that distant time, Tree was accepted as one of the animals for a very good reason which, alas, has fallen from the memory of man. Without offense, let me say that we shall move more quickly if you keep your questions to yourself.
At first, no humans were invited to sit in the Great Meeting, for She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name felt that the animals represented the various elements of human nature adequately, be it vulgarity or greed or guile or ill-temper or pride or stubbornness or any other thing. But a senior storyteller of the Onondaga, a man who was called Old because of his age, was commanded to preside over this gathering because he possessed three necessary skills: first, being of the People, he still spoke the Tongue, so he could interpret She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name's will; second, the Onondaga were experienced at smoothing out quarrels and settling disputes; and third, Old understood the many voices of the animals, for he used them in telling stories to the children of his tribe. The first thing Old did was to ask She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name to allow the animals to understand one another, just for the time of the Great Meeting; and so She visited each animal's ear as a soft-voice-that-tickles, and lo, they could understand one another.
Now you should know that the seven days of the Great Meeting lasted for many, many years, for in those distant times a day was as long as it needed to be, and thus many generations of the People were born, grew up, found mates, became old and feeble, and returned to enrich the earth while the Great Meeting was still going on. Late in the first day of the meeting—a day devoted to greetings and to exchanged hopes for the triple blessing of luck in mating, brave death in battle, and immortality in the songs of one's descendants— Turtle, who had been sent to keep watch on the distant shore of the Great Water, opened her sleepy eyelids and was startled to see a huge war canoe bearing down on the shore, its vast oar-cloths filled with wind. Now, Turtle's heart was not a bold one, for stones do not strengthen their spirits through battle, yet she resisted her impulse to flee until she had watched warriors wade ashore from the vast war canoe and thrust their spears into the sand, claiming the land as their own. Peeking out from beneath a bush, Turtle saw that these men had the pale eyes of bloodless ghosts. At the sight of them Turtle swallowed hard and was sore afraid, yet still she stood her ground while the pale-eyed ones celebrated by pointing their long firesticks into the air and making them roar and belch out smoke and flame. Then one of them pointed his firestick at a deer who was standing at the edge of the forest, frozen by curiosity. The firestick shouted its smoke and flame at the deer, and the deer fell, an invisible arrow through its heart. At this, Turtle turned and rushed back towards the meeting lodge, eager to tell She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name of the frightening wonders she had seen; but rushing for a turtle is not what rushing is for other creatures, so twice ten times ten summers would pass before Turtle came panting and gasping to the lodge of the Great Meeting...
...where, alas, nothing had yet been decided because the assembled animals were squabbling over matters of precedent and ancient privilege, and many used this occasion to air old disputes, rake up old wrongs, and exchange new insults, all the animals shouting at the top of their voices... voices very different from those they use today, as you will see. Old pleaded for calm, but he failed to quell the deafening babble.
"I have the right to sit closest to the fire," yapped haughty Frog, "for I am distantly related to Crayfish who made the land."
"I refuse to accept the pipe of reconciliation after vulgar Dog has soiled it with his spittle!" growled fastidious Snake.
"What compensation will I get if I surrender my rightful place to Beaver?" purred litigious Turkey.
"When do we eat?" gobbled vulgar Dog.
"I refuse to share anything with anybody!" croaked greedy Bobcat.
"Who said she would not share with anybody?" asked bewildered Mole, who was almost blind. "Who? Who?" And her neighbour whispered that greedy Bobcat had said that.
All the animals cried out either for preference, or against old wrongs, or for advantage, or in simple ill-temper, each louder than the others, until the din and confusion was more than Old could stand.
"Please be quiet," he begged. "I must have silence if I am to hear within me the soft voice of She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name and pass her message on to you!"
But the angry clamor increased until evening, and thus passed the first day of many, many years, and still Turtle was desperately rushing towards the meeting place at her slow pace.
When Old arrived at the meeting lodge on the morning of the second day, he found the animals already entangled in argument with Crow hissing at full voice, and Tree barking away, and greedy Bobcat croaking her head off, and Dog gobbling loudly into the ear of Frog, who yapped her annoyance to squeaking Bear and purring Turkey. Try though he did, Old was unable to bring order out of the chaos. And in like manner did the third day pass. And the fourth. And the fifth. And thus was the time for deliberation and preparation squandered in squabbles and petty pride.
On the night of the fifth day, Old began a fast to make himself calm in his deepest parts, so that he might hear the silent voice of She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name. He continued his fast through the night to weaken his body so that wisdom could slip past the barriers of knowledge and enter him, but he heard no voice. All the next day he chanted until his words lost all their common meanings and were free to take on universal meanings, but still no voice came. So he commanded the young men of his clan to prepare the sweat lodge with two fires, and he sat alone in the heat and smoke of the sweat lodge, fasting and chanting and sipping a wooden cup of the juice of the mushroom-that-pours-light-into-your-mind until he suddenly felt the presence of She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name growing within him. He asked her how he could hush the blustering delegates so that they might receive her warnings and her advice. And her silent voice whispered into his bones, telling him how to silence them with a woven basket, and he smiled at her crafty ruse.
And while all this was going on, Turtle continued to dash towards the meeting lodge, as she had for scores of years. But now her neck was stretched far out from her shell in an effort for speed, because Pale-eyes had followed her towards the setting sun and was gaining on her every day.
The animals were in full babble that morning of the seventh and last day of the Great Meeting when Old entered carrying a woven basket which he placed near the entrance. He then walked slowly to the center of the circle and sat on the ground, while all around him swirled snarls and banter and taunting and boasting. But the talk staggered and faltered, first here, then there, as one by one the delegates noticed the elsewhere stare in Old's eyes and his deathly pallor caused by long hours of fasting and by sipping the juice of the dangerous mushroom. They could all see that his spirit was with She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name.
Speaking through Old's hollow, eerie voice, She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name told the gathering of the menace of Pale-eyes, who would chop down the forest (Tree winced), and foul the swamps (Beaver blanched), and slay the game (many gasped), but who would do his greatest harm to the People, against whose arrows he would turn his firestick, and the People would fall in vast numbers. But his firestick was not Pale-eyes' most dreadful weapon. He would also cough upon the People and they would suffer fever and pain and whole families would die, whole clans, whole villages, and few would be left to chant of their ancestors' glorious deeds. But illness was not Pale-eyes' most dreadful weapon. He would also give the People dreamwater, which would daze them and make them believe they could hear the silence and see the invisible, and this was most alluring for from the moment they were wept upon the soil the People hav
e yearned to hear the silence and see the invisible. They have sought it through taking strong tobacco water into themselves, through drinking the juice of magic plants, through fasting until the body is too weak to imprison the imagination, through dancing until the spirit is spun off from the body—anything to bring themselves to that dream place where silence speaks and the invisible reveals itself. Pale-eyes' dreamwater would steal the dignity of the People and make them fools and braggarts. But even his dreamwater was not the most dreadful of Pale-eyes' weapons. He would also give the People his Book, which would teach them to be meek, to accept insults, and to wait for justice after death. And the bringers of the Book would ridicule the teachings of She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name and mock the ancient truths and ways. Our fierce courage would be sapped, our inner voices would be silenced, and we would become pliant, obedient, and foolish.
"But why does Pale-eyes hate the People so?" Coyote cawed in mock sympathy, secretly pleased that his eternal enemies would be made to suffer.
"Who asked why Pale-eyes hates the People?" wondered bewildered Mole, "Who? Who?" And four or five of her annoyed neighbours spoke harshly, saying, "Coyote asked it. Now be quiet!"
Speaking through Old, She-Who-Creates-by-Speaking-Its-Name answered Coyote's question. "Pale-eyes hates the People because he has in his belly a terrible hunger to own their land."
"Own land?" gobbled vulgar Dog. "But how can one own land?"
"Absurd!" scoffed Tree in an outraged bark. "Whoever heard of owning land!"
"One cannot own land," growled Snake. "You might as well say that one can own the air, or the waters, or the clouds! Such things cannot be owned. They can be enjoyed, or used, or sung about, but they cannot be owned."
Bobcat croaked in agreement, but deep in her greedy heart she could understand the sinful pleasure Pale-eyes must feel at having something for himself alone and not having to share it with anybody.