Living Ghosts and Mischievous Monsters

by Dan SaSuWeh Jones

  Two hunters went out hunting. While they were far away from camp, a big snowstorm blew up, and they got lost.

  After hours of wandering in the cold blizzard, they came to a deserted maple sugar camp. At the center of it was a vacant log hut.

  “Let us stop here for the night,” they agreed.

  But the first hunter said, “I don’t feel like going inside that place. It seems to be haunted by something. I don’t feel right going in there.”

  “Well,” replied the second hunter, “we’ll have to stop somewhere overnight rather than walk in that storm or freeze to death. This might as well be the place. We can dry out our clothes, and we’ll start again first thing in the morning.”

  So they went inside the creaky old cabin. Cobwebs covered broken furniture, and old bones lay across the floor. The place was dark and cold, but soon they’d built a fire and warmed up. They always carried dried deer meat and moose meat with them for their lunch, so they ate what they had left. By the firelight they saw bunk beds in the corner, and they decided to lie down to sleep.

  “What is this?!” The first hunter jumped back as he looked down at his bed.

  A dead man was lying in the bottom bunk, on top of a bed of fir boughs.

  “I’m not going to sleep here, next to a dead man!” he said.

  “Why not?” the second hunter replied. “What harm can a dead man do us? He’ll never hurt us. I’m going to stay here rather than walk outside in this storm.”

  The second hunter soon fell asleep and was snoring.

  But the first hunter couldn’t sleep. He almost fell asleep once, but he was cold and he got up to put some more wood on the fire. When the crackling of the new wood died down a little, he could hear another noise—a kind of gurgling noise. He looked across the room, then he looked to his sides. Then he looked behind him.

  There he saw the dead man sucking the blood out of the neck of the other hunter. The dead man had come to life.

  “Skudakumooch’!” the hunter realized in horror.

  Now this hunter picked up a bone lying near him on the floor and threw it with all his might behind his left shoulder to ward off the weird creature.

  Crack! He heard the bone hit the monster as his fingers fumbled to put on his snowshoes. Then he left the cabin grounds as fast as he could.

  As he fled through the woods toward his home, he had to cross a lake covered with ice. He slipped and slid; sometimes his snowshoe crashed through a soft spot in the ice. Every once in a while, he’d look behind him.

  Soon he saw a big ball of fire coming after him. He was partly across the lake, but this ball of fire was flying so fast that it was almost catching up with him. He sighed with relief when he reached the other side. But the ball was coming closer. And now he could see his village in the distance.

  “Help!” he screamed as he ran, trying to draw the other Indians’ attention. When they heard him, they also saw this ball of fire chasing him. So they all took their bows and arrows and shot at the ball of fire. That’s the only way they could make it turn back.

  Then the hunter fell into their arms. He was unconscious. They carried him home, and after they cared for him and he had come to, he told them the story about the dead man at the maple sugar camp.

  The next morning they all went to that place.

  Just as the hunter had described, inside the cabin they found the dead man lying on the bunk—right where the hunter had first seen him. On the other bed they found the other hunter, with his jugular vein broken open and the blood drained out of him. Carefully they took him home and buried him in the Indian burying ground.

  But the other one?

  The dead man they burned. They tied him to a pile of wood and lit it on fire. That’s the only way they could kill him so he wouldn’t bother any more people. As Skudakumooch’ went up in flames, they could hear the bones cracking.

  And way off into the air, the fading sound of a screeching voice.

  Hand Games: Tiny Man versus the Witch Twins

  TOLD BY DAN SASUWEH JONES, PONCA, WITH THE BLACKFEET TRIBE, MONTANA, VISITING THE STONEY TRIBE, ALBERTA, CANADA

  There is a centuries-long history of hand games among and between tribes across America, Canada, and Mexico. These ancient games include skill, luck, and something deeper that’s hard to describe. Two teams face each other, making dance-like motions with their arms and hands as drums beat faster and faster. Each team has a set of bones and a set of colorful sticks. One captain guesses who on the opposite team is hiding a bone in each hand. For each wrong guess, the other side wins a stick. The team that wins all the sticks twice wins the game. Hand games can bring out the good and bad in people. Sometimes a trickster, a devil-like character, might help an evil player. The loser could end up with a deformed face or body … or even dead.

  The Stoney people of West Central Alberta, Canada, in the Rocky Mountain foothills, were hosting a hand games tournament for tribes across North America. I had traveled with the Blackfeet from Montana to play.

  Hand games were important to our tribe, and to me. A hand game is more than a game. It can reveal a tribe’s strengths and weaknesses or it can be a ritual for healing. When my aunt became ill as a child, the game was played over her, and she recovered. This tournament would be played for money.

  Our Blackfeet captain, Tiny Man, was already famous. From the time he was a young man, he had won some of the largest competitions in North America. Now he was a full-fledged medicine man, and his reputation had increased. He had mathematical skills, he was observant, and he knew all the tips and tricks of the game.

  When Tiny Man was going strong, he could play three days straight and take only a few breaks. This was not a game to him: It was his life—and he was serious about it.

  At the Stoney tournament there was another team who would have to be taken very seriously. This team had two captains—a rare thing. They represented the Cree Nation, from southern Canada to the Arctic Circle. The captains were twins—a brother and sister. They looked exactly alike. Both were medicine people, and they worked together to heal tribal members. They also played the hand game together, taking turns to make the calls. They often won. You never heard them speak to each other, but they appeared to read each other’s minds. They both knew at once where an opposite team was hiding the bones, as if they were seeing through your hands. They both looked at their opposing players with cold black eyes.

  Tiny Man knew that when we faced them, our two teams would have an amazing game of skill and magic.

  Teams usually play over a three-day period. Gradually, the losing teams are eliminated. On the first day we won all our games. By the third day, our team was still winning most games.

  The whole time, I was keeping my eye on the Cree twins’ team. They were having a successful tournament, too. For all of us, lack of sleep was beginning to take a toll, and I hoped they would make mistakes.

  Early on the third day, we made it to the final match. First, we watched the Cree twins’ team play an intense game against the Crow team. Our Blackfeet team would play the winner to determine the tournament champion. It was an exciting time!

  The twin brother was like a sorcerer waving the most important stick—called the kick stick—like a wand. Each time the brother screamed out his calls, everyone in the area froze. Little by little, he and his sister were finding the opposite team’s hidden bones. The twins were winning.

  My eyes were tired, but I couldn’t stop watching them. Suddenly, the sister turned and looked right through me. Her black eyes were piercing and probing. I had to shake my head to break her cold stare, like a spell. A chill raced through me.

  Throughout, I had watched the best player on the Crow team fighting against the twins. The twins hadn’t found her bones yet, but they were getting close. Then the twin brother let out a bloodcurdling cry that shocked every player.

  Immediately he started playing a song I’d never heard before. Slowly pounding his drum—thum … thum … thum. It sounde
d like prisoners dragging their feet in a death march. Then fifty more drummers joined him.

  “That’s not fair!” exclaimed Tiny Man. “That’s a warrior honor song for the dead—not for a hand game.” The slow, deathly beat continued, putting us all in a trance so we could not play well against them.

  Suddenly there was a commotion. Someone was being carried out. As the stretcher came closer, I saw it was the girl who had been doing so well against the twins. She lay unconscious. Their screams and deadly music had affected her badly.

  Tiny Man just shook his head. Looking back, we saw the twins winning point after point against the remaining Crow team. The music turned louder, then became a roar, faster and faster. In a few turns the twins had won.

  Now we would play them. Our leader, Tiny Man, took his place across from the twin brother to determine who would go first. They guessed back and forth for the hidden bone. Then the twin brother guessed wrong! Our team went crazy with excitement. We would start the game, which was an advantage. Together, the twins turned their evil gaze on Tiny Man.

  He ignored them. I looked at all the happy faces of our team members. And then, in a sinking moment, I happened to glance over at the sister. Her mouth, like a half-moon, was twisted into a frown. She was glaring right through me with a look so demonic that I was almost paralyzed. Tiny Man saw it and quickly lifted his drum in front of my face to shield me from her spell.

  “You’re OK.” He smiled and nodded at me. From then on, I made it my business to avoid that twin’s evil eyes.

  Tiny Man started his music. It was upbeat and strong. Our team guessed where all the twins’ hidden bones were, and we won all the sticks. The twins’ team never had a chance. At last there was only the kick stick left for us to win. If we won it, we would win the entire tournament.

  The twins, their cold black eyes ringed in blood red, sat expressionless. As the losing team, they would begin the final game. The brother took the kick stick and held it high for all to see. But instead of pointing it toward the other team as the rules say, he slowly brought it down and handed it to his sister, sitting cross-legged on the ground.

  She placed the kick stick in front of her. As if in a trance, she stretched her arms into the air and arched her head backward with her eyes tightly closed. She dug her hands into the ground, filled them with dirt, raised them up, and slowly released the dirt over her face and body.

  Then those cold black eyes opened. She was staring directly at me.

  I froze. In the blink of an eye she screamed “INSIDE.” She guessed right! My heart stopped as my hands seemed to fly open by a force not my own, and I threw the bones to her side.

  Her brother smiled at me with an awful grimace, proud of his sister’s twisted talents. The game was not yet over, but we had lost our lead.

  It was their turn to hide the bones. Thum … thum … thum, their drummers started the death march again—like a weapon in warfare. I knew Tiny Man could gain control and get those bones back to our side. Tiny Man took up the kick stick.

  But wait. Something was going terribly wrong. The twins made guess after guess. And they were right! Our hidden bones just kept landing on their side. At last, the kick stick was theirs. We had lost the game and all our money.

  We got up to leave.

  Then I saw it. It was quick, but there was no mistaking it. A slithering tail, like the tip of a serpent’s body, flicked out from under the twin brother’s coat. A trickster’s tail.

  I looked up at Tiny Man in disbelief. He just nodded.

  La Lechuza, the Owl-Witch

  TOLD BY LUIS WICHO AGUILAR, WESTERN CARRIZO TRIBE, SOUTH TEXAS

  Before telling this story, I had to get my mother’s permission—we must get permission to tell a tale of such dark powers of nature. That is our way: We still go by our old traditions. My grandmother shared this story with us over thirty years ago—about a local legend that’s been around for many generations. To people of the Rio Grande, La Lechuza has long been known as an old woman who turns herself into a huge owl. Some say it’s to seek revenge for her child being taken from her. Others say she simply wants to snatch children and waits in the dark until a child wanders away from home. Whether you believe this story or not is up to you. Sometimes we have to open our perception to ancient beliefs because there’s a reason they are told through every generation.

  My grandmother came from a long line of curanderas, or medi-cine women, of the Peyote people of South Texas. She grew up on the Upper Rio Grande Valley in an area filled with myths and folklore. Many years ago when she was very young, she was out in the monte (woods) collecting herbs and harvesting peyote with her aunt Teresa.

  It was a warm South Texas summer evening, but, my grandmother said, something about it seemed different, as if something was watching them or walking near them.

  As they gathered the herbs, she and her aunt Teresa strayed off the path, wandering too far into the woods. Soon the shadows lengthened, and before long it grew dark. When they turned around to head toward home, they noticed it had gotten way too quiet. The crickets had stopped chirping, and the nighthawk birds suddenly spooked, flying off into different directions.

  Aunt Teresa got very nervous and grabbed my grandmother’s small hand, telling her to follow her closely down the path. As she walked, Aunt Teresa pulled dry Texas sage out of a bag and started to crush it in her hands. She said a prayer and then threw the crushed sage in all directions. “What is wrong?” my grandmother asked at last.

  Aunt Teresa answered sternly: “La Lechuza—Owl-witch—is nearby. Her eyes are upon us.” Suddenly the silence was shattered by a horrible screeching sound from behind a group of large mesquite trees.

  “Do not look at any large glowing eyes!” Aunt Teresa ordered my grandmother. “Just focus on the path back to the ranch house.” The frightening noise was coming closer, and they started to walk faster. Aunt Teresa kept saying silent prayers as they walked fast on the path.

  My grandmother felt a strange, cold wind hit her from behind. Young and frightened, but also curious, she turned her head back to see what was behind her. There, on the path, towered a huge, shadowy figure. She faintly glimpsed its hideous-looking face and large, glowing eyes. Then she felt a penetrating chill and heard a strange whispering voice in her head—in a language she couldn’t understand. Aunt Teresa scolded my grandmother, who turned her head back toward the path home.

  “Do not look at the Owl-witch!” Aunt Teresa commanded. Then they heard one final screeching sound fading into the distance.

  When they reached the ranch house, my grandmother started to feel sick. Her mother—my great-grandmother Severa—asked what had happened. Aunt Teresa told her that they were chased by La Lechuza. Great-Grandmother Severa was startled and scared. She knew La Lechuza had put some kind of curse on my grandmother.

  Quickly, the two women put my sick grandmother on the bed. My grandmother was getting very cold chills and a very high fever. She kept hearing that strange whispering in her head, over and over. Aunt Teresa gave her a bad-tasting tea made from different herbs and peyote. It made my grandmother fall asleep within fifteen minutes after drinking it. In her sleep she was having strange nightmares.

  As my grandmother slept, the two women prayed over her while rubbing a fresh chicken egg lightly all over her body. They continued the old folk cure as my grandmother’s fever gradually lowered.

  When my grandmother woke up the next morning, she felt relaxed and calm. Great-Grandmother Severa came into the room and settled down beside her. Then she told my grandmother the entire story about La Lechuza, the Owl-witch. That she is more than a myth. That she was once a woman whose son had been wrongly killed by villagers for a crime he did not commit. She sold her soul to a devil-like being called a’pal kamlákio—evil earth god—so she could turn into a monster owl. Now she takes revenge by swooping down to steal other children.

  Now my grandmother was marked by La Lechuza. La Lechuza had put a curse on her. She was cured of the
fever and chills, but the moment would never be forgotten. La Lechuza’s voice would still haunt my grandmother’s mind, reminding her of the event and that she was always close by. My grandmother would have to beware of the future—and be cautious in little-known surroundings.

  My grandmother told us this story when I was about twelve years old—not to scare us, but to warn us to be on guard when alone in the deep South Texas woods. There are forces out in this world, she would say, that the modern age seems to ignore. After that, I would often watch my grandmother when she thought she was alone, looking out into the night, into a distance only she could see. The look in her eyes frightened me. The belief in La Lechuza is real for our people.

  I myself have never seen La Lechuza, but when I am out in the woods of the South Texas river valley, I have felt a strange and sinister presence around me—a dark existence in the wind.

  The Deserted Children

  TRADITIONAL GROS VENTRE TALE, MONTANA

  This Gros Ventre legend is well known among Plains Indians, including the Cheyenne and Arapaho, and has several different versions. This one, in which the children meet a deadly witch, tells about the lifestyle on the Great Plains of Montana, where Gros Ventre hunted buffalo and used the skins to make clothing and tall, cone-shaped tents called tepees. As the people moved between hunting grounds, they carried their tepees and other belongings on sleds called travois (truh-VOY). The story tells about loyalty and family ties, which are central to all tribes. In every Indian culture, children are loved and honored, so the beginning of this tale may surprise you.

  There was a camp. One day all the children went off to play. While they were gone, one man said, “Let us abandon the children. Lift the ends of your tent poles and travois when you go, so that there will be no trail.” The people then went off.