He dug four holes on the east side of his enclosure and dropped into each hole a grain of white corn. With his grease-wood stick he dug four holes on the south side and planted the blue corn. He planted yellow in the west and in the north he put variegated corn. All the time while he planted, he sang a farm song.
“Now my corn is planted, Grandfather, and when it grows high, I will come in the night to pick off leaves for Uncle to use in his medicine. Uncle told me I must pick it while the lightning flashes on it.”
“Uncle knows. You do what he says.”
After the corn was planted, holes were dug for the squash, the muskmelon, beans and watermelons.
“Now,” said the boy, “the little seeds will learn to grow. When my melons are ripe I shall give some to you to pay for the seed.”
“That is the right thing to do, child. All your people should plant gardens and then there would be food for all.”
“We did have gardens once, Grandfather, and we had many peach trees in Canyon de Chelly. When we were exiled, Kit Carson killed all the peach trees in the canyons. Why did he do that, Grandfather?”
The Big Man looked very sad and answered:
“I do not know why he did it, but there are more peach trees growing there now.”
“Yes, that is where we go to trade our mutton for dried peaches. We go there and to the Hopis on their mesas. We like dried peaches cooked in the winter time.”
“They are good food. The White Strangers brought them to this country with the sheep and the horses. Now, my boy, when your garden grows, keep it well weeded.”
Keeping the garden weeded was quite a lot of work, for every kind of seed wanted to sprout in the soft, sandy loam.
One morning while Younger Brother hoed the soil around his beans and melons, he noticed his brother’s wife herding her sheep on the hill above his garden. He walked up to talk with her.
She was sitting on the ground under the piñon tree. The sheep grazed lazily among the rocks. The blue sky shone through the lacery of pine needles, looking for all the world like the turquoise necklace that brightened the dark green blouse of the young woman.
From the top of a piñon tree, the metallic notes of a sure-throated robin filled the air with joyful sounds.
Younger Brother lay on the ground with his hands clasped behind his head. His gaze wandered to the treetop where the robin sat, flinging staccato notes of joy to the whole world.
“That is good singing,” said the boy. “I wonder why a robin sings like all robins, why the bluebird sings like all bluebirds, and why the yellow warblers sing like all their people.”
Their gaze on the treetop where the robin flung notes of joy to the world.
“I wonder,” said his sister-in-law, “why they sing at all. Yellow Beak the eagle does not sing.”
The boy looked at his brother’s wife. Her face was lifted toward the treetop, for she, too, watched the robin. The curve of her slender neck, encircled by turquoise mosaic, was accentuated by the mass of dark, shining hair coiled low at the back of her head.
“Do you ever sing ?” the boy asked.
“Sometimes when I weave and my baby sleeps, I sing a little, but I cannot sing as the robin sings, nor as the Yays did in the Night Chant, when they sang about the soft child rain which brings the corn.”
Younger Brother noticed the far-away look of longing in her eyes. He said:
“They did sing well in the Night Chant.”
“They sang as our people have always sung. It was good.”
“They can sing in no other way,” said Younger Brother. “The robin can sing no other way. We must sing as our people have sung. I think that Yellow Beak may sing in the way of his people but you and I cannot hear him.”
The boy sat up and waved his arm toward some lambs that were coming too near. He continued:
“When the Child of the Sun made the eagle out of one of the young harpies, he swung the ugly, feathered monster into the sky, and it flew away calling, ‘suk, suk, suk, suk.’ It turned into a splendid eagle with strong wings, but it had no sweet song like the little birds, but I think it sings a song in its heart, which no one can hear.”
“Do you think that, Little Singer ?”
“I know it. When Yellow Beak sent the feather to me, he flew into the sky keeping time to some song. His wings beat the air and the feather that fell at my feet moved down to earth to the same song.”
“Why do the little birds have songs that we can hear ?”
“Because they always have had them since the Bat Woman carried feathers in her basket.”
“I do not know about the Bat Woman and the feathers. Did she make the little birds ?”
“That is a long story for winter time,” said the boy. “I can only tell you that the Bat Woman carried feathers of the old harpies in her burden basket, and when she walked through a field thick with wild sunflowers, little birds flew out of her basket, singing, and perched on the sunflowers. That is all I can tell you now for the snakes and the thunder might hear.”
The wife of Elder Brother looked at the boy with a question burning in her dark eyes.
“Tell me,” she asked, “Is the silent song that people sing in their hearts the same as the songs the Yays sing in the Night Chant ?”
The boy answered, “I think it is the same song that everything sings. It is the song of the Turquoise Woman and the Bearer of the Day. It is the song of the Sky Father and the Earth Mother. It is the song that the rain sings to the corn, which answers it as it lies waiting in the ground.”
His brother’s wife leaned forward and put her little brown hand on Younger Brother’s. She said, softly:
“It is the same song but only you know that.”
As she spoke, Younger Brother was conscious of the old gliding sensation of his early dreams and he felt as he did when he lay on top of the Western Mountain, thinking of the Turquoise Woman. With conviction he said:
“It is the same song that the whole world is singing. I heard it when I made my offering to the wide water. I have heard the Star Children sing it at night while the Earth Mother slept.”
“Little Singer,” said the woman, “I have heard the stars sing in the daytime and I have listened to them many times while the Sun Bearer sang his daylight song.”
Younger Brother gazed into the dark brown eyes with their far-away look and he said:
“You should be a medicine woman for you know hidden things and secrets deep in the heart of things.”
“I know this much, Little Singer. There are secrets we can not name, songs we cannot hear, and words we must not speak.”
“That is true,” said the boy. “Uncle has told me that Heaven and Earth have four sons who made the first sand painting, but he says only medicine men may utter their names. Even I have not heard those sacred names.”
The wife of Elder Brother smiled as she said:
“I could guess those names if I tried. I know what Mother Earth would name her sons, but I too must keep the secrets of the mothers.”
She rose and picked up her can of pebbles to fling at the sheep grazing among the rocks. “Yego,” she called as she drove her flock over the crest of the hill.
Younger Brother watched her red skirt swishing about her little feet as she disappeared behind the trees. He returned to his weeding, wondering if his brother’s wife really did know the names of the four sons of Heaven and Earth.
After an hour of weeding in the hot sunshine, Younger Brother went back to his mother’s hogan. She had her loom set under a summer shelter of cedar boughs. It was very restful there in the shade. His mother said to him:
“Are the watermelons growing ?”
“The plants are doing well. I have sheltered them from the wind with rocks.”
“It will be good to have our melons. I am glad you are a farmer.”
The boy looked pleased as he said:
“The young man who floated down the river in the hollow log was a farmer. He made the first gard
en and the Yays taught him how to cook the corn and squash. They told him he must not cook the watermelon because if he did, the Navahos would always cook them.”
Mother looked up from her weaving and laughed. She said:
“Why, everyone knows that watermelons should not be cooked. I never even thought of such a thing.”
“Did you ever think of eating raw squash ?” asked the boy.
“Of course not. That would be foolish. I should not like its taste.”
“When you cook the squash, you always boil it in a pot with beans, don’t you ?”
“Of course I do. Why do you ask such foolish questions ?”
“I was just thinking,” said the boy, “how wise you are and how much you know. Uncle has told me that the Yays taught our people all the things you know.”
“If Uncle says so, it is true of the ancient ones, but the Yays did not teach me how to cook beans and squash. I always knew how. My mother always knew how. But my mother taught me how to weave. That was difficult at first. The yarn would be tight in places and loose in places, and my mother would make me pull out the work I had done.”
Younger Brother looked at the even, tight weaving on the loom and said:
“Your mother taught you how to weave the yarn in and out, in and out, until it was even and smooth, but who taught you how to make the patterns, which no one else makes ?”
“My patterns ?” asked Mother. “How can I say who taught me those ? They grow by themselves. When they are done, I say, ‘Here is a cloud on a summer sky. Here is a star in a winter night.’”
Younger Brother drew close to his mother and said:
“Tell me the secret of where patterns come from. I want to know if they are like the song in my heart.”
“My child,” said the mother, “if I could answer that I would be wiser than Uncle. I am not wise in my head. I can only cook and spin and weave for my children. That is woman’s work. Your father can work with silver. Your uncle can sing the songs that heal. You are a farmer. Do not ask me what makes your seeds grow. Neither ask me what makes my patterns grow. It is enough that they do.”
The mother looked out toward the mesa where purple shadows were creeping slowly upward. She saw Little Sister coming home with the sheep.
“The child will be hungry,” she said. “I must make the bread and coffee.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE DEEP BELOW
AY AFTER DAY the Sun Bearer slanted his rays down to earth, while the corn and the beans reached upward.
Sometimes the lightning serpents struck their fire into the garden to warm the soil deep down. The soft rain moistened the ground and freshened the leaves. The garden of Younger Brother promised a full yielding.
The melons and squashes were set and the tassels showed on the corn.
“My garden grows fast,” said the boy to his brother, who rode over one morning to visit. Elder Brother carried his rifle with him. He wanted to hunt.
“Get on your pony and come with me,” he said to Younger Brother. “We will ride to the canyon for rabbits.”
The little farmer was glad of a chance to go. He said:
“Wait till I saddle my horse. Shall I take the bow and arrow ?”
“Take it if you want to. I like to shoot with a gun.”
When the pony was ready, the two brothers rode gayly away in the fresh sage-scented air, gossiping as they rode.
“You know that Cut Finger who burned the store ?” said Elder Brother.
“Yes, I know that Cut Finger, that spittle of coyotes, that child of hunger. What of him ?”
“He is in the calaboose of the Pelicanos.”
“Let him stay there. He is no good to Navahos.”
“They say he sickens and is no good to Pelicanos either,” said Elder Brother.
“Who told you about him ?”
“That policeman who caught him. I saw him at the trading post of the Big Man.”
“What does the Big Man say about it ?” asked Younger Brother.
“I only heard him say that if people had work to do, they wouldn’t steal nor kill. He believes in everyone keeping busy.”
“So do I,” said Younger Brother. “With my weeding and hoeing and singing with Uncle, I have no time for killing.”
Elder Brother laughed so loud his pony pricked up its ears and ran a little faster. The pinto followed the lead. Just as Younger Brother found himself rounding a curve in the trail, a jack rabbit jumped out from behind a bush. In an instant the boy released the arrow in his bow and shot the animal.
Elder Brother jumped down to pick up the game. He said:
“That was quick work. It does not take much time for you to kill.”
“When I hunt, I hunt,” said the boy proudly. He was just as much surprised as his brother was, but he pretended to be very calm. He tied the rabbit to his saddle and they both rode on again.
Before noon the two were back home. Elder Brother had a prairie dog to take to his wife. Mother took care of the rabbit and said:
“The farmer is now a hunter. That is good. He will make a fine husband when he marries.”
Uncle was at Mother’s hogan and he said:
“Yes, if more Navahos were like him, none would go hungry.”
Mother answered:
“My Elder Son is also a good hunter.”
“That is true also. He and I have hunted together when we went to the forest for deer. He helped me to catch the one for the unwounded buckskin. When our men had surrounded the deer so that we could catch him, your Elder Son held him while I put the bag of pollen over his nose.”
Younger Brother, listening, said:
“Some day I also will do that. When I climbed the Waterless Mountain with Uncle, we saw the land of our people spreading to east, to south, to west, to north. We saw in the distance the dark mountains where the deer hide. We saw the canyons where the Cactus People live among mirages. We saw the sky like a turquoise bowl above us. All these wonders we saw as we stood on top of the Waterless Mountain.”
Uncle said:
“Yes, you and I together saw how far spreads the land of our people but I alone saw the Soft-footed Chief as he walked in beauty past the child of my sister.”
Younger Brother answered:
“I saw his tracks near where I slept. I saw them when the light came in the eastern sky.”
Mother, who had been listening, looked worried as she said:
“You never told me that the Soft-footed Chief walked past my Younger Son.”
“There are some happenings we do not speak of,” said Uncle. “It is better to be quiet until one understands. In the deep heart of things are many mysteries. Who knows what is hidden beneath the earth ?”
Mother said:
“There are enough things on top of the earth for me to think about. There are my sheep, there are the hills they feed upon, and there is my wool and my loom and my children and there is the water the Big Man brought down in the pipe.”
“Yes,” said Younger Brother, “there is the water which keeps our sheep alive. It flows on top of the earth where the sun shines upon it. You can see it, you can drink it, and you do not question its source.”
“Why should I so long as it is there ? It is like my patterns in weaving. I do not know where they come from.”
Uncle said:
“My sister, you have spoken truth. None of us knows what is at the heart of things.”
“I know,” said Younger Brother, “that Waterless Mountain hides a pool in its heart. I know that the water that gives life to our sheep comes from that pool.”
I alone saw the Soft-footed Chief as he walked in beauty past the child of my sister.
The boy’s face was so full of conviction that his mother could not doubt. She said to Uncle:
“Where does the child get his wisdom ?”
Uncle looked very serious as he answered:
“Always the Pack Rat has guided him. I knew that the Pack Rat was wise about the east and
north, the west and south, but I now think he knows about the above and the deep below. He must have taught our child.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
CARRYING ON
HEEP shearing time had come and gone. The wool from the sheep’s backs found itself packed into big gunny sacks. The Navahos had driven wagon loads of the hundred pound sacks to the trading post. There they had been weighed and paid for. Father and Mother had gone together to the post and brought back flour and sugar and coffee.
The difficult winter had passed and again the sheep had redeemed the pawn of their owners. Nearly all the Navahos were resplendent in their turquoise.
Corn was ripe enough to roast and some of the melons were ready to eat. Younger Brother felt the pride of a successful farmer. He rode to the trading post to deliver two watermelons to the Big Man. He went into the little room back of the store and handed to his friend a sack containing the melons.
“Here they are, Grandfather,” he said with pride. “I have caused to grow many brothers and sisters of these melons. I wish to sell some of them.”
“That should be easy, my boy. There is to be a girl dance near here next week. Bring in a load.”
“If there is to be a dance, I think I shall go. I am a farmer now and old enough to join the men. Now I will return to my garden.”
All the family prepared for the festival. They rode through the warm, clear air of evening and arrived at the dance ground about nine o’clock.
They added their wagon and horses to the circle surrounding two bands of Navahos singing to the accompaniment of the medicine man’s pottery drum.
Younger Brother joined a group of young men and listened to the songs. He saw logs added to the campfire and watched the young wand-bearer come into the firelight and wave her wand.
He remembered how he had helped to dress a wand when he was a little boy. He thought how much he had learned since then of the ways of his people. He was feeling really grown-up, since he had become a farmer and produced food for the family. He felt like a man — like the rest of the men around him.
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