All the animals were silent. The dogs sat together talking secretly among themselves and thinking about what they had said. The wisest dog, their spokesman, was still standing. He was counting up to forty on his fingers, when the porcupine suddenly struck him on the thumb. “Who can live if there are forty days to each month?” the porcupine said. “The year would be far too long. There should be only thirty days in a month.”
The rest of the animals agreed with the porcupine. And as a result of this council, each month has thirty days and there are twelve months in a year. By now the animals were disgusted with the dogs and banded together to drive them away. For this reason dogs hate all the creatures of the woods, and most of all the porcupine, who struck the wise dog’s thumb with its spiny tail and humiliated him in the council. And because of the porcupine’s blow, a dog’s thumb now stands opposite to his other fingers.
Before that long-ago council ended, the animals also named the following months:
Between October and November, Falling-Leaf Month
Between November and December, Taboo Month
Between December and January, The Intervening Month
Between January and February, Spring Salmon Month
Between February and March, Month When Olachen Is Eaten
Between March and April, When Olachen Is Cooked
Between May and June, Egg Month
Between June and July, Salmon Month
Between July and August, Humpback-Salmon Month
Between September and October, Spinning Top Month
In addition, the animals divided the year into four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter.
New things were also happening in the sky. When Walks-All-Over-the-Sky was asleep, the sparks that flew out of his mouth became the stars. And sometimes when he was glad, he painted his face with his sister’s red ochre, and then people knew what kind of weather was coming. If his red paint colored the sky in the evening, there would be good weather the next day, but a red sky in the morning meant that storms were coming. And that’s still true, people say.
After the sky had been furnished with the sun, moon, and stars, the chief’s daughter, Support-of-Sun, was cast down because she had played such a small part in the creation. Sadly she wandered westward into the water, and her clothes became wet. When she returned, she stood near her father’s great fire to warm herself. She wrung the water out of her garments and let it drip onto the flames, making a great cloud of steam that floated out of the house. It settled over the land and moderated the hot weather with damp fog. Her father blessed her, for the whole tribe enjoyed it. And to this day, all fog comes from the west.
The chief was glad when he saw that all three of his children were wise. Now it was the duty of the moon, Walking-About-Early, to rise and set every thirty days so that people may know the year. The sun, Walks-All-Over-the-Sky, was charged with creating all good things, such as fruit, and making everything plentiful. And the chiefs daughter, Support-of-Sun, served by refreshing the hot earth with cool fog.
—Based on a version recorded by Franz Boas in 1916.
Some Northwest tribes did indeed have slaves, as this story suggests; the status could be inherited from one generation to the next, and they were looked upon as their owners’ possessions, to be killed if the owner wished. Since the Tsimshians lived in the Northwest, the fog that came from the West refers, naturally, to the weather rolling in from the Pacific Ocean.
THREE-LEGGED RABBIT
FIGHTS THE SUN
The origin of this tale is not precise. Ella Clark only notes that it comes from a Western Rocky Mountain tribe.
Once there was a rabbit with only three legs, but he made a wooden leg for himself so that he could move fast.
At the time the sun was very hot, and Rabbit said to himself, “I’ll go and see what the problem is.” As he hopped along toward Sun, he found it getting hotter every day.
“The only thing on earth that doesn’t burn,” said Rabbit, “is cactus.” So he made a house of cactus to stay in during the day, and he traveled only at night.
When he came to the east, he rose early in the morning and ran toward the place where Sun should appear. He saw the ground boiling and knew that Sun was ready to come up. Rabbit stopped, sat down, and took out his bow and arrows.
When Sun was about halfway out of the earth, Rabbit shot. His first arrow hit the heart and killed Sun. Rabbit stood over the corpse and cried: “The white part of your eye will be clouds.” And it was.
“The black part of your eye will be the sky.”
And it was.
“Your kidney will be a star, your liver the moon, and your heart the dark.”
And they were.
Then Rabbit said to Sun, “You will never be too hot again, for now you are only a big star.”
Sun has never been too hot since, and after that day, rabbits have had brown spots behind their ears and on their legs. Their rabbits’ fur was scorched during their journey, long, long ago, to see why Sun was so hot.
—Told by Ella Clark in 1966.
COYOTE STEALS THE
SUN AND MOON
[ZUNI]
Coyote is a bad hunter who never kills anything. Once he watched Eagle hunting rabbits, catching one after another—more rabbits than he could eat. Coyote thought, “I’ll team up with Eagle so I can have enough meat.” Coyote is always up to something.
“Friend,” Coyote said to Eagle, “we should hunt together. Two can catch more than one.”
“Why not?” Eagle said, and so they began to hunt in partnership. Eagle caught many rabbits, but all Coyote caught was some little bugs.
At this time the world was still dark; the sun and moon had not yet been put in the sky. “Friend,” Coyote said to Eagle, “no wonder I can’t catch anything; I can’t see. Do you know where we can get some light?”
“You’re right, friend, there should be some light,” Eagle said. “I think there’s a little toward the west. Let’s try and find it.”
And so they went looking for the sun and moon. They came to a big river, which Eagle flew over. Coyote swam, and swallowed so much water that he almost drowned. He crawled out with his fur full of mud, and Eagle asked, “Why don’t you fly like me?”
“You have wings, I just have hair,” Coyote said. “I can’t fly without feathers.”
At last they came to a pueblo, where the Kachinas happened to be dancing. The people invited Eagle and Coyote to sit down and have something to eat while they watched the sacred dances. Seeing the power of the Kachinas, Eagle said, “I believe these are the people who have light.”
Coyote, who had been looking all around, pointed out two boxes, one large and one small, that the people opened whenever they wanted light. To produce a lot of light, they opened the lid of the big box, which contained the sun. For less light they opened the small box, which held the moon.
Coyote nudged Eagle. “Friend, did you see that? They have all the light we need in the big box. Let’s steal it.”
“You always want to steal and rob. I say we should just borrow it.”
“They won’t lend it to us.”
“You may be right,” said Eagle. “Let’s wait till they finish dancing and then steal it.”
After a while the Kachinas went home to sleep, and Eagle scooped up the large box and flew off. Coyote ran along trying to keep up, panting, his tongue hanging out. Soon he yelled up to Eagle, “Ho, friend, let me carry the box a little way.”
“No, no,” said Eagle, “you never do anything right.”
He flew on, and Coyote ran after him. After a while Coyote shouted again: “Friend, you’re my chief, and it’s not right for you to carry the box; people will call me lazy. Let me have it.”
“No, no, you always mess everything up.” And Eagle flew on and Coyote ran along.
So it went for a stretch, and then Coyote started again. “Ho, friend, it isn’t right for you to do this. What will people think of you and me?”
/> “I don’t care what people think. I’m going to carry this box.”
Again Eagle flew on and again Coyote ran after him. Finally Coyote begged for the fourth time: “Let me carry it. You’re the chief, and I’m just Coyote. Let me carry it.”
Eagle couldn’t stand any more pestering. Also, Coyote had asked him four times, and if someone asks four times, you better give him what he wants. Eagle said, “Since you won’t let up on me, go ahead and carry the box for a while. But promise not to open it.”
“Oh, sure, oh yes, I promise.” They went on as before, but now Coyote had the box. Soon Eagle was far ahead, and Coyote lagged behind a hill where Eagle couldn’t see him. “I wonder what the light looks like, inside there,” he said to himself. “Why shouldn’t I take a peek? Probably there’s something extra in the box, something good that Eagle wants to keep to himself.”
And Coyote opened the lid. Now, not only was the sun inside, but the moon also. Eagle had put them both together, thinking that it would be easier to carry one box than two.
As soon as Coyote opened the lid, the moon escaped, flying high into the sky. At once all the plants shriveled up and turned brown. Just as quickly, all the leaves fell off the trees, and it was winter. Trying to catch the moon and put it back in the box, Coyote ran in pursuit as it skipped away from him. Meanwhile the sun flew out and rose into the sky. It drifted far away, and the peaches, squashes, and melons shriveled up with cold.
Eagle turned and flew back to see what had delayed Coyote. “You fool! Look what you’ve done!” he said. “You let the sun and moon escape, and now it’s cold.” Indeed, it began to snow, and Coyote shivered. “Now you teeth are chattering,” Eagle said, “and it’s your fault that cold has come into the world.”
It’s true. If it weren’t for Coyote’s curiosity and mischief making, we wouldn’t have winter; we could enjoy summer all the time.
—Based on a story reported by Ruth Benedict in 1935.
Day and night (as representated by the sun and moon) are metaphorically associated with summer and winter; hence the release of the moon brings death and desolation to the world. Coyote of course completely disrupts the seasonal cycle by interfering with the heavenly progression. The Kachinas mentioned were at the time of this story demi-gods, supernatural intermediaries, mostly benign, who regularly visited the pueblos and established elaborate rituals that included festive dances for the people.
[SLAVEY]
In the beginning before there were people, there was a long winter. The sun remained hidden by low, black clouds. It never stopped snowing. The sky was black and the earth was white with snow and ice. After this had been going on for three years, all the animals got together for a big council about what they should do. They were freezing and starving to death. All the four-legged animals, the winged ones, and the scaly creatures of the sea attended.
The animals agreed that it was the lack of heat, the absence of warmth, which made the winter go on and on. They saw that no bears had come to the council and realized that, in fact, no bears had been seen for three years. One wise animal said: “Maybe the bears have something to do with our suffering. Maybe they’re keeping the warmth to themselves. Let’s go and find out.” So they formed a search party consisting of the wolf, the fox, the wolverine, the bobcat, the mouse, the pike, and the dogfish.
At this time the bears were living in an upper world high above the earth. The search party was lucky enough to find a hole in the sky through which the animals could enter. Wandering about in the upper world, they came to a lake. On its shore stood a hut with a fire burning in front of it, and inside they found two bear cubs huddling together.
“Where is your mother?” the animals asked.
“She went out hunting,” answered the little bears.
The visitors looked around and saw a number of bags hanging from poles. The bobcat pointed to the first one and asked: “What’s in this bag?”
“Our mother keeps rain in that one,” answered the cubs.
“And in this one?” inquired the mouse. “It’s full of winds.”
“Ah, and that one over there?” said the fox.
“Oh, she keeps fog in that one.”
“And this one here,” said the wolverine. “What does she keep in this bag?”
“Oh, we can’t tell,” said the cubs. “It’s a secret. Mother told us not to let anybody know what’s in that bag.”
“Oh, come on, we’re friends,” said the wolf. “You can tell us.”
“No, no! Mother would beat us if we tell.”
“But she doesn’t have to find out,” said the bobcat. “We won’t tell on you.”
“Well, in that case,” said the cubs, “this is the bag where she keeps the heat.”
“Thank you, kind little bears,” said the mouse. “You’ve told us all we wanted to know.”
The party of animals went outside and held a council. They resolved to hide so that the old bear would not see them when she came home. But first the mouse jumped into the bear’s canoe and gnawed almost entirely through the handle of the paddle. At last they saw the mother on the far side of the lake. The bobcat quickly ran around the lake and, changing himself into a plump caribou calf, appeared in front of the mother.
“Quick, quick, children!” the bear mother shouted. “Help me catch this caribou for our dinner!” The cubs came scrambling out and scurried to their mother as fast as they could run. The bobcat lured them deep into the forest. Meanwhile the other animals went into the hut, jerked the bag down from its pole, and made off with it, pulling and tugging.
The caribou-bobcat ran back to the lake and jumped into the water, where it swam toward the hut on the opposite shore. The bear mother leapt into her canoe and paddled furiously after it, but halfway across the lake her paddle snapped in two at the spot where the mouse had gnawed it. The bear pitched into the water and upset the canoe. In the meantime the bobcat reached the shore and assumed his usual shape. “Hurry!” he told the others. “That bear will be after us.”
The animals took turns pulling the heavy bag full of heat toward the opening that led to their world below. When one of them got tired, he passed the burden to another. By then the old bear was hot after them, and all the bigger animals were exhausted. But the pike and the dogfish were still fresh, and at the very last moment, with the bear’s teeth snapping at their heels, they managed to pull the bag through the hole in the sky. The whole party slipped safely through the opening.
As soon as they were down in their own world, they tore the bag open. At once the heat rushed out, spreading in every direction, melting the snow and ice, dispersing the black clouds, and making the sun shine again. However, the melting water caused a great flood which covered the world and threatened to drown all living creatures. At this time the earth had a giant tree which reached high into the sky, almost to the world above. To save themselves the animals climbed up to its highest branches and cried, “Somebody help us!”
Out of nowhere appeared a giant fish who drank up all the flood water, in the process himself becoming a great mountain. After that the sun dried up the land, the trees covered themselves with leaves, the flowers bloomed, and it was summer again, to the joy of all creatures.
—Based on a tale reported by Robert Bell at the turn of the century.
THE HOPI BOY AND THE SUN
[HOPI]
Where cultures overlap—as in areas of the Southwest, with its mixture of Hispanic, Pueblo, and nomadic traditions—legends are often modified and reshaped in the retelling. This story, related in 1920 by a Zuni elder who may have been part Hispanic, gives a curious twist to Hopi tales of the sun. Besides the traditional Hopi elements such as the trail of sacred cornmeal and the sun’s fox skin, it embodies the fear and antagonism felt by the Pueblo farmers toward the marauding nomadic tribes. At the same time, it is full of things unknown to the Pueblos before the coming of the Spaniards, such as peaches, silver bracelets, and the ocean itself.
A poor Hopi
boy lived with his mother’s mother. The people treated him with contempt and threw ashes and sweepings into his grandmother’s house, and the two were very unhappy. One day he asked his grandmother who his father was.
“My poor boy, I don’t know,” she replied.
“I must find him,” the boy said. “We can’t stay in this place; the people treat me too badly.”
“Grandchild, you must go and see the sun. He knows who your father is.”
On the following morning the boy made a prayer stick and went out. Many young men were sitting on the roof of the kiva, the underground ceremonial chamber. They sneered when they saw him going by, though one of them remarked, “Better not make fun of him! I believe the poor little boy has supernatural power.”
The boy took some sacred meal made of pounded turquoise, coral, shell, and cornmeal, and threw it upward. It formed a trail leading into the sky, and he climbed until the trail gave out. He threw more of the sacred meal upward, and a new trail formed. After he had done this twelve times, he came to the sun. But the sun was too hot to approach, so the boy put new prayer sticks into the hair at the back of his head, and the shadow of their plumes protected him from the heat.
“Who is my father?” he asked the sun.
“All children conceived in the daytime belong to me,” the sun replied. “But as for you, who knows? You are young and have much to learn.”
The boy gave the sun a prayer stick and, falling down from the sky, landed back in his village.
One the following day he left home and went westward, hoping to begin learning. When he came to the place where Holbrook, Arizona, now stands, he saw a cottonwood tree and chopped it down. He cut a length of the trunk to his own height, hollowed it out, and made a cover for each end. Then he put in some sweet cornmeal and prayer sticks and decided he was ready to go traveling. Climbing into the box, he closed the door and rolled himself into the river.
AMERICAN INDIAN MYTHS AND LEGENDS Page 18