Sources:
Iroquois Folk Lore, by William M. Beauchamp (Port Washington, N.Y.: Kennikat Press, 1965; reissue of 1922 edition).
Legends of the Longhoude, by Jesse J. Cornplanter (Port Washington, N.Y.: Kennikat Press, 1938).
Seneca Myths and Folk Tales, by Arthur C. Parker (Buffalo, N.Y.: Buffalo Historical Society, 1923).
THE
SPREADERS
It was the Moon of Moose Hunting in the year the Awanootsak, the white men, called 1750. Floating single file down the wide Kwanitewk, Pitolo and Azon had paddled their heavily laden canoes for most of the day. The two Abenaki men were headed for the English settlements to trade their furs.
"We should pull over and make camp," Azone said, looking toward the setting sun.
"Not here, let's just go a little bit farther," Pitolo answered, scanning the thickly wooded forest surrounding them.
"Pretty soon it will be dark. We have all day tomorrow to finish this journey," Azone insisted. He pulled alongside Pitolo's canoe.
"When I was a young boy, my grandfather took me on this stretch of river. He told me never to camp along these shores. Just another mile, and then we can camp," Pitolo responded, continuing to paddle at a steady pace.
"Sounds like more of your grandfather's superstitions. What is it now, Man Bears?"
"No, Spreaders," Pitolo said in a very serious tone.
"What are Spreaders?" asked Azone.
"Little People. Very mean Little People."
"Why would you be scared of little people?"
"My grandfather never really told me that much about them. They are as small as little children, with arms and legs as skinny as sticks. But they are very strong and bad-tempered. Even the big bears are afraid of them. If any animal tries to bite them, they shove sticks into its mouth so that its mouth is wedged open. They like to spread things open with sticks. Grandfather warned me never to camp in their territory. And if I remember correctly, this is it," Pitolo answered, continuing to paddle.
"Nonsense, that is nothing but a childhood story. I refuse to paddle anymore, I'm pulling over here. If you want to camp farther down, go ahead," Azone said in a disgusted voice.
Pulling up on shore, Azone jumped out of his canoe and began unloading his gear. After pausing for a moment, Pitolo shook his head and then resumed his paddling, heading farther downriver. He said nothing. He knew that once Azone made up his mind, no one could convince him to do otherwise.
"I'll meet you downstream in the morning!" Azone shouted toward Pitolo's back. Then he began to set up his camp.
Pitolo paddled faster. It would be dark soon, leaving him little time to set up his own camp. Childish or not, true or untrue, Pitolo had always honored what his elders told him. No matter what, he wasn't going to risk camping along that shoreline.
Two hours later darkness had set in. A mile downriver, Pitolo had set up his camp. Sitting around his small fire drinking a cup of pine needle tea, he thought about Azone. Although he too wondered if the story was true, he couldn't help but worry about his friend. After finishing his tea, Pitolo walked over to the water's edge. Having camped on a peninsula, looking upstream, he could just barely make out the light from Azone's fire. Satisfied his friend was well, Pitolo walked back toward his own fire and lay down for the night.
Meanwhile, at Azone's camp, Azone was already sleeping soundly. Convinced Pitolo's fears were completely unfounded, Azone had wrapped himself in his blanket shortly after making his fire. Such a deep sleep it was, having paddled all day, that at first he wasn't awakened by the soft sounds of many small feet quietly moving closer and closer. Closer and closer.
After packing his canoe the next morning, Pitolo waited by the shore for Azone. He expected to see him paddling along any minute. The sun continued to climb higher in the sky. By the time it was four hands high, Pitolo began to worry. He paddled back up the river toward Azone s camp. Once close enough, he shouted for his friend.
"Azone! Azone, where are you?" There was no response. Truly worried now, Pitolo pulled up on the shore and stepped out of his canoe.
"Azone!" Still there was no response. He walked around looking carefully. There was no sign of Azone or his canoe. Instead, he found a neatly put out fire and little trace that anyone had ever camped there.
Pitolo smiled. "Ah, that Azone. He has left without me. He got up before dawn and slipped by me while I was still asleep! He is trying to beat me to the settlements!" Pitolo jumped back into his canoe and began to paddle down the river, without looking over the small rise just beyond Azone's camp.
There, hidden from sight only fifty feet away, still filled with furs, lay Azone's canoe. Next to it was another canoe, and another next to that. Many canoes lay there—Abenaki, Mahican, Mohawk, English, and French canoes. All were in varying stages of decay, some having completely returned to the earth. A little farther back in the woods, near the dry skeletons and scattered bones of many men, lay Azone.
Wakened in the middle of the night, he had tried to run. But something had hit his head. Regaining consciousness early that morning, he had found himself there. Twigs were placed between all his toes and fingers, spreading them out as far as they could go. Sticks spread his arms and legs out so wide he couldn't move. Twigs propped his eyes and mouth wide open.
Hearing Pitolo calling for him, he had tried to respond. But his mouth was so dry that all that came out were low moans. They were too low for Pitolo to have heard, just as he was too far away to have been seen. As his friend disappeared down the long river, all Azone could do was wait. His fate would be the same as all those before him who dared to bother the Spreaders by camping on their shores.
Pitolo reached the settlement downriver and waited for his friend. But Azone never arrived. Although Pitolo looked for his friend and asked others in the settlement about him, his search was in vain. At last Pitolo sadly decided that Azone had become another of those who bothered the Spreaders and would never be seen again.
THE SPREADERS (ABENAKI)
The Abenaki say there are many different kinds of Little People. Some take care of the forest creatures, making sure that people do not do things that would be destructive—such as gathering too many plants or hunting too many animals. Other Little People watch over the gardens or listen in to make sure that humans are not telling stories at the wrong season. The Spreaders are Little People who live along certain rivers—for example, one very dangerous stretch of the St. Maurice in Quebec. When you invade their territory by sleeping overnight next to their places by the river, you may wake up with sticks stuck between your fingers and toes, your arms and legs, and your eyes and mouth propped open. If you are unlucky, no one will find you, and you will not survive. The Little People must always be treated with great respect.
Sources:
Unpublished oral tradition: told by Abenaki elders Maurice Dennis, Stephen Laurent, and Cecile Wawanolett.
The Original Vermonters, by William Haviland and Margery Powers (University Presses of New England, 1981).
AGLEBEMU
You can't have it. It's mine," Louis said as he wrestled the ball out of his little brother Allen's hand.
Allen looked at Louis with sad eyes.
"We're supposed to share," he said.
Louis shook his head. "Not this," he said. "This is mine." He tilted his head toward the river that flowed around their island. "You almost let it roll into the water. You would have lost it."
"But I didn't," Allen said. "I didn't." He looked like he was about to cry.
For a moment, Louis almost gave in. Then he thought of how long he had waited to have a ball like this. He held it up, seeing how beautiful its white cowhide surface was and admiring the neat hand-sewn stitches. It was the first real baseball to be brought to the island. It had been given to Father by a tall white man whose carriage was pulled by a beautiful roan mare. He had bought one of Father's carved canes and then given him that ball. Father had brought it back to the island.
"Someday," Father had said, "maybe you will be really good at baseball."
Then he had placed it in Louis's hand. Louis held tighter to the ball as he remembered his father's words.
"No," Louis said. "This ball is mine. Father gave it to me."
"Aglebemu," said a voice from behind him.
Startled, Louis turned around and saw Uncle John Bear. He knew more of the old stories than anyone else on Indian Island. The children all loved to listen to those stories that he would only tell when the snow covered the ground and people gathered around the fire.
Uncle John reached out one of his long, gnarled fingers and gently tapped Louis on the chest. "Aglebemu," he said again.
"No," Louis whispered, holding tighter to the ball.
"Unh-hunh," said Uncle John. His deep-set eyes looked straight at Louis. "Aglebemu."
Louis turned and ran as fast as he could, leaving his little brother and the old man behind. He ran around the bend and along the shore of the island until he came to a small boat that was pulled partway up onto the beach. It was his Aunt Molly's boat. He climbed in and ducked down. No one would find him here.
"I am not Aglebemu," he whispered. "I am not."
He closed his eyes and leaned back. It wasn't right for Uncle John to call him that. But that name and the story connected to it kept going through his mind. He could hear Uncle John's voice as he told the story five months ago, when the January ice was thick on the river and the howling voice of North Wind rattled the windows.
Long ago, Uncle John had said, there was a great monster known as Aglebemu. He was as tall as a big pine tree. He had a fat, green body and a big head with huge eyes and a mouth large enough to swallow a bull moose. His fingers were as long and yellow as the roots of a birch tree. He lived in the waters of our river. He wanted all the water for himself.
So Aglebemu made a great dam upstream. The river dried up. The fish and other water creatures died. Even the little spirits that live in the river and help the people began to die. But Aglebemu did not care. He wanted the water for himself. He got into that water, and he swallowed some of it and floated around in the rest of it. When the people downstream begged for water, he said he could not give them any. It all belonged to Aglebemu, and he kept chanting his name.
Aglebemu, Aglebemu, Aglebemu.
People tried to fight him, but Aglebemu was so huge that he just opened his big mouth and swallowed them up.
Gluskabe the changer, the one the Creator made to help the human beings, finally had to come. First he fought with Aglebemu. Then he poked a hole in Aglebemu's stomach with his spear, and all the water rushed out. He broke Aglebemu's dam. Then he squeezed Aglebemu and made him very small. He changed him into a bullfrog. In the summer nights you can still hear him saying his name. Aglebemu, Aglebemu, Aglebemu.
Uncle John Bear had paused then and looked around at the circle of children listening to him.
"I think maybe," Uncle John said, "Aglebemu has gotten bigger again after all these years. You see how some people now don't want to share anything. They want to own everything."
As Louis remembered that story, he curled up on his side. It was warm inside the boat, and it rocked gently in the water. Louis had not noticed it, but when he climbed in he had pushed the boat into the water, and now it was floating slowly out into the river. Louis closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it was dark. He sat up and looked around. Where was the shore? There were no lights to be seen anywhere. The boat had drifted downstream, and he did not know where he was. He felt inside the boat for the oars. Then he remembered that he had not seen them. Aunt Molly must have taken them with her. A boat with oars in it was a boat that anyone could borrow. Taking out the oars meant that someone planned to use that boat again soon.
Louis put his hand in the water. It was warm and still. That meant he had drifted into a backwater out of the main flow of the Penobscot River. It would be harder for anyone to find him until it was light again. But did anyone know where he was? His heart began to beat so hard that he could hear it pounding. He tried to calm himself down. "There's no reason to be afraid," he whispered.
He sat back, thinking he would try to sleep again.
AGLE-BE-MUUUUUU !
The sound was so loud that it made him jump up. He almost fell out of the boat.
AGLE-BE-MUUUUUU !
He had heard bullfrogs before, but never one this loud. Maybe it was true what Uncle John said. Maybe Aglebemu had become a giant again. Maybe Aglebemu was going to come and get him because he had been so selfish. It was true. He knew it now. He had acted just like Aglebemu.
Something splashed in the water nearby. He looked over the side of the boat. He could see a big head in the water. It was slowly coming toward him. Perhaps it was only a beaver. But then the moonlight glinted from its big eyes.
AGLE-BE-MUUUUUU! AGLE-BE-MUUUUUU! AGLE-BE-MUUUUUU!
Louis shrank back into the boat and closed his eyes. Had it seen him? Something brushed against the boat, and the boat began to rock. Louis looked up. He thought he could see a big green hand with fingers as long as tree roots reaching up over the end of the boat.
The air shook from the sound of the huge bullfrog's voice.
AGLE-BE-MUUUUUU ! AGLE-BE-MUUUUUU ! AGLE-BE-MUUUUUU !
"I'm sorry," Louis shouted at the top of his lungs. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Suddenly, the bullfrog's sound stopped. The hand, if it had ever been there, was gone. Louis sat up. He could hear a distant voice drifting over the water. The voice was calling his name.
"Louissss." He knew that voice. It was his father.
"Louisss," a smaller voice called. Allen.
"I am here," Louis shouted back. A small point of light appeared, coming from around a point of land that he had not been able to see before in the dark. It was a torch in the front of another boat. Allen held that torch as their father rowed.
"Did you see that?" Allen said, his voice excited. "There was something really big next to your boat, Louis."
"I'm glad you found me," Louis said.
Soon he had climbed in with them, and they had tied Aunt Molly's boat onto the back of theirs. Louis sat down next to Allen in front of their father as he began to row back up the river.
Behind them, the bullfrog's voice again began to fill the night.
"Aglebemu is pretty loud tonight," Father said. "Sounds like he still wants it all himself." He looked down at the baseball that Louis still held in his hand.
Allen reached out a hand and patted Louis on his leg.
"I saw you get into Aunt Molly's boat," Allen said. "But I didn't want to bother you. When I came back later and saw the boat was gone, I told Father." Allen paused and looked at Louis. "Did I do good?"
Louis looked down at the baseball that he still held in one hand. He held it out to his brother. "I know you won't lose it," he said.
AGLEBEMU (PENOBSCOT)
Aglebemu is one of the many monsters that were defeated and transformed by Gluskabe, the changer hero of Wabanaki culture. When the water of the world is held back by the great frog, who builds a huge dam, Gluskabe must go and break that dam to release the waters to the thirsty people. Aglebemu's name is also the sound that a frog makes. On summer nights you can still hear his big selfish voice saying, "I will give them none"
Sources
"Penobscot Tales and Religious Beliefs," by Frank G. Speck, Journal of American Folklore, January-March 1935.
BIG
TREE
PEOPLE
It's your turn to look out for Dad," Lloyd Little Deer said, poking his head out from under the covers of the bed.
"No, it's your turn," Aaron Little Deer said. Lately Aaron always said that it wasn't his turn. He was four years old and had recently decided he was too old for his brothers and sisters to tell him what to do.
"Shhh!" Mary said from the bed across from theirs.
She and Sarah and Tammy slept there. Their double bed was the one t
hat all five of them played on when they were supposed to be sleeping. Phil and Aaron and Lloyd's bed was not any smaller, but it was too creaky.
Lloyd swung his bare feet out and placed them on the cool floorboards of the little attic room where they slept. The big window just over their bed was filled with the light of the full moon. The branches of the nearby trees swayed in the wind.
It was November — Frost Moon, as the old people called it. There were no leaves on the trees, and the tips of the branches scraped at the windows. A little shiver went down Lloyd's back. Those twigs almost looked like bony fingers. It made Lloyd think of some of the scary stories that Dad told about monsters. In the dark outside it was easy to imagine a hungry Flying Head howling through the air or a big Stone Giant hiding behind one of the houses. Lloyd shivered again and looked away from the window.
"Listen," Lloyd said, "we all agreed we would take turns. Last night was Phil's turn."
Phil nodded. It was his belief that few words were good, and no words at all even better. He was the best listener of all the Little Deer children. He was also the best of all at looking out for Dad. By having one of them be the lookout, they were always able to trick Dad whenever he came up to see if they were playing after it was time to be quiet. They would have plenty of time to get back into their beds, pull up the covers, and pretend to sleep. So far, Dad had never been able to catch them.
When Phil was the lookout, they always had the most warning. He could hear Dad coming even before Dad's feet were on the long staircase to the attic. Phil's brothers and sisters tried to make that his permanent job. Phil just shook his head and said no. Each night one of them had to take a turn at lookout. Tonight was Aaron's turn.
When the Chenoo Howls Page 5