“No!” said the traveler. But when he tried to pull his finger away, he could not. The suction from the child’s delicate mouth was too strong.
The greedy child sucked and sucked. Like an enormous suction cup, the child’s mouth sucked the flesh from the traveler’s finger. The traveler pulled and pulled, trying to extract the bone that was left. The child went on sucking. Soon he had sucked all the flesh from the traveler’s arm.
“Let me go!” screamed the traveler.
Before long, the child had sucked away most of the flesh from the traveler’s body. As the traveler lost consciousness, his last sight was a great pile of bones from the victims who had come before him.
Soon the child had finished. Full and content, he fell asleep. A few hours later he woke as he heard people laughing and talking in the distance.
The child began to cry.
The Flying Head
TRADITIONAL SENECA TALE, NEW YORK AND OHIO, TOLD BY EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY SENECA CHIEF CORNPLANTER
In Seneca legend, the sight of a whirlwind may mean a Flying Head is near. Also called Whirlwind and Big Head, the Flying Head is an undead monster that soars through the air, chasing humans to devour. This massive creature has long, matted hair, fiery red eyes—and no body. It may be the head of a person who was beheaded, out to seek revenge. Or it may be a person who was a cannibal then turned into a Flying Head to chase its human prey. Or it may simply be an evil spirit. Names such as Kanontsistóntie's and Kunenhrayenhnenh mean “flying head,” while names such as Dagwanoenyent literally mean “whirlwind.”
There were many evil spirits and terrible monsters that hid in the mountain caves when the sun shone. But when storms swept the Earth or when there was darkness in the forest, these monsters came out to find the people and chase them down.
Among the creatures was a Flying Head, which, when it rested upon the ground, was higher than the tallest man. It was covered with a thick coating of hair that shielded it from the sharpest arrows. Its face was very fearsome and angry, filled with great wrinkles and furrows. Long black wings came out of its sides, and when it flew through the air, it made mournful sounds that sent chills through the frightened men and women. Everyone ran for cover.
The Flying Head was always hungry. On its underside were two long, sharp claws it used to attack its human victims: its favorite weapon.
Before the Flying Head would grab a person, it would lurk around the family’s home staking its claim to its next victim. It especially liked to frighten the women and children, mostly widows and orphans. At night it would come and beat its angry wings upon the walls of their houses and scream fearful cries in an unknown tongue. Inside, the little family would close their eyes and hold one another close. When it flew away, the family would breathe a sigh of relief.
But in a few days it would return to snatch and devour one of them.
One night a widow sat alone in her cabin. She had lost all her family—her husband and her small children had been very ill and they had gone away to the long home where a person passes over from this life to the next. Now she was alone. She spent her days hunting in the forest for chestnuts and acorns to eat. At night she would light a fire and roast her little bit of food. Before she went to sleep she would spend hours looking into the fire, dreaming of the happy family life she had once had.
Tonight it was cold. Outside a snowstorm was brewing, and it scooped up snowflakes into whirlwinds around her little house.
The woman built a small fire near the door that warmed her. Into it she dropped a handful of acorns. Pop! Pop! The acorns cracked open as they roasted. One at a time she drew them out of the fire and ate them for her evening meal.
She gazed into the coals and dreamed of her little boy and girl running in the sunlight, and of her strong husband returning home through the forest with a deer she would use to make food and clothing.
Swoosh! Swoosh! came a sound outside her home. But the woman paid no attention. She did not see the Flying Head grinning at her from the doorway, for her eyes were on the coals and her thoughts upon the scenes of happiness from her past.
Bang! Bang! Something was throwing itself against her home. At last, the woman looked up, startled. In the open doorway hovered a massive head covered with filthy, matted hair. Its red, glowing eyes bored deep into hers. Its mouth twisted up into an evil grin that revealed sharp, yellowed teeth.
Frozen in fear, the woman had nowhere to run. She watched as its long, deformed claws reached toward her.
The Flying Head floated closer and closer to her, grinning, until she could smell its rotten breath. Slowly it unfolded its claws before her eyes. They reached out, but instead of grasping her, they delved into the fire to snatch her food. It would enjoy an acorn snack before she became the main meal.
Plucking up a clawful of glowing pieces from the fire, it crammed them into its mouth.
AARRR!! Its evil smile turned into a howl of terror. It had accidentally eaten the hottest coals.
AARRRR! It woke the entire village as it escaped into the woods, crashing into trees and rocks as it flew away.
The people were never again troubled by its visits.
We know we have entered the supernatural realm when strange things that were once only in our nighttime dreams now appear in our waking hours in broad daylight. The super-natural surrounds us all the time. When you walk into a room and a familiar feeling overwhelms you, as if you have done this very thing before, in another time, you are on the threshold of the supernatural. Some people call this feeling déjà vu, meaning “already seen” in French. When you enter the supernatural world, you walk through an invisible doorway where the familiar rules of time and space no longer apply. You are in a world beyond the explanation of science and beyond the understanding you have always had of nature itself. The Great Spirit and other good forces dwell here, but so do dark forces. Both forces can shift reality and bring either good dreams or nightmares into a physical form. Through good forces, a mountainous stone may come to the aid of someone in trouble, or loved ones who died may speak to us through animals they once cared for. On the other hand, dark forces may send a monstrous, otter-like creature to prey on unsuspecting hikers. In the world of the supernatural, our imaginations seem to run wild. But what we see is just as real as an encounter in our everyday world.
My Brother, Last of the Crow Men
TOLD BY DAN SASUWEH JONES, PONCA
My people say there is a spiritual connection between animals and humans. What they mean is humans and animals are the same beings, just in different bodies. Animals laugh and cry just like we do, only in a different way. This story is about a spiritual connection between a person and a crow. Long ago, the Ponca formed a pact with all crows. These special birds were raised by the tribe’s warriors and accompanied them when hunting or in battle. The bird-human connection was lifelong, and it followed them into death.
Not long ago, my older brother died.
In our way, we keep constant company with the body for four straight days until the burial. If it’s not you who stays with the body, then it’s someone else who loved that person. We sit up all night long; sometimes there might be just you, and other times there could be many people. But the body is never left alone. It’s common that when anyone has a story to tell about an experience they had with the deceased, that person is free to stand up and speak. Many times everyone will laugh out loud at a funny tale. It breaks the grief, and because you use the same facial muscles to laugh as to cry, it’s easy to laugh when you have been crying for so long.
It was the morning of the fourth day, the day of the funeral. We had been with my brother’s body through the night, and it was going to be a long day. The small church was full of people that morning—my brother had many friends and family. It was just about daybreak, and I knew my brother’s last breakfast would be served soon in a separate dining building just next to the church. We feed everyone who comes, three meals a day for four days. For each meal the body is also
served a meal, left on a small stand near the body. It’s our tradition. Being the chairman of our tribe at the time, I would be the last one to speak and tell a story about my brother.
I began by reminding my people that long ago the Ponca had formed a pact with the crow. Ponca warriors would raise crows from small birds. The warriors were called crow men—they and their crows were very respected. When a bird was old enough to fly, a warrior would start taking it hunting with him. When the warrior made a kill, whether a goose or deer, the young bird was offered the choicest piece of meat. The liver was always the favorite. This went on for some time.
At first, the bird was always just a guest of the hunter and would ride along on the warrior’s shoulder. Sometimes it would fly back and forth from its perch on the shoulder to a high treetop to scout for food. After a season of this, each morning before sunrise as the warrior strung his bow, the bird would be ready to go, seeming to understand what the process was all about.
Over time the bird would change from a guest to a true participant in the hunt. The crow seemed aware that a successful hunt would mean a share in all the meals the prey produced.
Now, with the help of the crow, the hunter could see far and wide. The crow would fly off and find the game, then fly back to the hunter and communicate by special sounds and movements, telling the hunter exactly what he had found. Leaving each morning before sunrise, the hunter and the crow became so in tune with each other that the hunter would know what kind of game the crow had found and even how far away it was. This relationship, this pact between the hunter and the crow, made the Ponca warrior one of the most efficient hunters ever known.
Before sunrise the morning of my brother’s funeral, I told the people that I believed my brother was the last Ponca to raise a crow. And I told this story.
My brother Mike raised a crow from a chick. He named him Billy. As Billy got older he went everywhere with my brother, riding on his shoulder. Even when my brother rebuilt an old 1939 Ford truck, then drove it down the dirt roads near our home, the crow would fly along above the truck. My parents would always laugh: They knew my brother was coming home because they could see the crow flying down the road before they saw my brother’s truck. Sometimes the crow was ornery and would steal things from around the house. It loved shiny things, and Mom and my sister would have to put away their earrings and other small jewelry to keep them safe.
One day my brother was driving down the dirt road when he had a flat tire. Back then you carried a rubber tire patch kit, with small round rubber patches and glue. He got out his tire tools and opened the kit, but he found he had just one rubber patch remaining. He set everything out on the hood of the truck and began to change the back tire. At that moment Billy dropped out of the air, landed on the hood of the truck, and walked like a person up to the tools and patch kit all laid out on the hood. My brother instantly knew this was trouble!
Mike started to slowly move toward the crow. Billy was looking at the single black patch and then turning to look at one of the tools—a shiny metal scruffer. My brother knew that Billy was trying to figure out which of those things he could carry! Mike hoped he would take the scruffer—after all, it was shiny. Besides, Mike really didn’t need it to fix the tire. On the other hand, he needed the patch. If Billy took the last one, Mike would be walking several miles home. My brother eased toward the bird as the bird more frantically looked from the patch to the shiny scruffer. Should it take the small item or the shiny one? “No, Billy, no …” Mike repeated gently. Then the crow, understanding that it was in control of the situation, looked Mike straight in the eye. All of a sudden, the crow reached out and snatched the last patch and leaped into the air. “Billy, stop!” my brother shouted as he ran hopelessly behind and under the crow soaring into the distance. Then Mike walked several miles home.
The churchgoers broke into laughter. It felt good to see all the red eyes laughing. Then, as everyone filed out of the church for the short walk to the dining hall for breakfast, several people came running back in, to grab me by the arms and pull me outside. “You have to see this!” they said.
As I emerged, I saw the trees alive with hundreds of crows, all squawking. Whether they were laughing or crying, I did not know. They covered all the trees, the church, and the surrounding buildings. We had never seen any crows around the church on any other of the four days. It was only that morning, just after sunrise, the same time a warrior and his crow would go to hunt, and just after I had told the story of my brother’s crow, Billy. Could these have been the descendants of Billy, come to say goodbye? Not to just one man, my brother, but to the last of the Ponca crow men.
Sleeping Buffalo Rock
BASED ON A TRADITIONAL ASSINIBOINE TALE, MONTANA, TOLD BY DUCK TO JAMES LONG (FIRST BOY), FROM THE NATIONAL REGISTER OF HISTORIC PLACES
From ancient times, different stories of the Sleeping Buffalo Rock, which stands in northern Montana, have been handed down among the tribes of today’s Montana and Canada: Blackfeet, Assiniboine, Gros Ventre, Chippewa, Cree, Crow, and Northern Cheyenne. Each story tells how the buffalo helped people survive on the plains and how the spirit of the rock gave strength and peace to the people in its shadow. In the twentieth century, a road crew used massive tools to push the rock out of the way, down a hill, to finish building their highway. The next morning the rock was sitting in its original place. Upon consulting a medicine man, the crew was told: “That rock is sacred. It doesn’t want to be moved. Let it sit where you found it.”
Some years were good for food. Others were bad. One year, game was especially scarce. No buffalo herds came to the area.
The buffalo meant life to the people. They believed that the buffalo held the power of the plains in their large bodies. Not only did the buffalo give the people food and clothing and shelter, but the buffalo spirit protected them.
A few miles from their camp the sacred Buffalo Rock rose above the plains. This ancient rock, in the shape of a massive buffalo, had been here as long as the tribe could remember. The people had heard the elders’ stories. Some said that the place had once been a watering hole where herds of buffalo wallowed, drinking the water and bathing. Gradually, bits of skin, hair, teeth, and bones from thousands of buffalo built up into an enormous rock, covering the hole. The people took comfort in seeing the shape of its horns, hump, and ribs rising into the sky, filled with the spirit of the many buffalo who had come here and formed it. They also knew that the rock was connected to the land beneath it and took great strength from the Earth.
The people also knew that the rock protected and healed. When a baby had been born lifeless, her father prayed to the Buffalo Rock. After many minutes the baby had opened its eyes and screamed its first breath. At other times, tribes at war would meet in the shadow of the Buffalo Rock, intending to draw strength for their battle. But in the end, the buffalo’s spirit had calmed them, and they left in peace.
But now, during this time of drought and famine, the people felt that the spirit had abandoned them.
“What can we do?” they said.
“Let us go closer to the Buffalo Rock and pray,” they said.
So the people packed up their homes and walked toward the rock. It was a full day’s walk. That night they set up camp.
Only one couple lagged behind them. The woman was about to give birth to her first child, and her young husband had been very sick with a disease. They traveled more slowly than the others, stopping often to rest. Each time it was harder for them to get up and keep walking.
“Let us lie down and go to sleep forever,” said the woman.
“No,” replied her husband. “We cannot give up.”
By the time the young couple neared the rock, they could barely walk. They had eaten little bread during their journey, and they were very tired.
The others had already been there for two days. They watched as the young couple approached. They offered to share the little food they had, but the young couple refused to take anything from t
he hungry people.
They walked past the others, right up to the Buffalo Rock. There they made an offering of their last bits of food. Then they prayed. When they had finished, the young husband and his wife set up their small camp, touching the rock, apart from the warm fires of the other people. While the others slept that night, the couple stayed up and prayed.
The next day the other people said, “We have been here nearly three days and nothing has happened. We have not found any food, and our families are starving. We will have to move on.” They began packing up.
“Don’t leave,” called the young couple. “Let us all pray together. We cannot travel just yet, and if we are all together, we can help each other. If we pray together, the Buffalo Rock will hear us.”
But the people packed up and began to leave.
Then the young man looked at his wife, who he loved with all his heart and who was so close to bearing their child. “You must join them and go on without me. Remember me each time you look at our child.” Soon he watched her small figure as she trailed behind the others.
Alone, he began to pray again. He prayed that his wife and child would be safe and find food, and that they would prosper. He prayed that death would come swiftly to him.
The tribe had barely made its way to the other side of the Buffalo Rock when a clap of thunder shook the earth. Then another. And another. Quickly the people took shelter under one of the rock ledges. Lightning struck the open ground, and rain hurtled down in sheets.
On the other side of the rock, as the rain poured down, the young man felt his life slipping away. Another clap of thunder shook the air.
Then he heard it. The pounding of hooves. As if the Thunder Bird were pushing some great beast toward him. He opened his eyes in time to see three buffalo racing across the plains before him.
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