American Indian Stories

by Zitkala-S̈a

  The legal status of the Indian and his property is the condition which makes it incumbent on the government to assume the obligation of protector. What is of special interest in this inquiry is to note the conditions under which the Indian Office has been required to conduct its business. In no other relation are the agents of the government under conditions more adverse to efficient administration. The influence which make for the infidelity to trusteeship, for subversion of properties and funds, for the violation of physical and moral welfare have been powerful. The opportunities and inducements are much greater than those which have operated with ruinous effect on other branches of public service and on the trustees and officers of our great private corporations. In many instances, the integrity of these have been broken down.

  GOVERNMENT MACHINERY INADEQUATE

  …Behind the sham protection, which operated largely as a blind to publicity, have been at all times great wealth in the form of Indian funds to be subverted; valuable lands, mines, oil fields, and other natural resources to be despoiled or appropriated to the use of the trader; and large profits to be made by those dealing with trustees who were animated by motives of gain. This has been the situation in which the Indian Service has been for more than a century—the Indian during all this time having his rights and properties to greater or less extent neglected; the guardian, the government, in many instances, passive to conditions which have contributed to his undoing.

  OPPORTUNITIES STILL PRESENT

  And still, due to the increasing value of his remaining estate, there is left an inducement to fraud, corruption, and institutional incompetence almost beyond the possibility of comprehension. The properties and funds of the Indians today are estimated at not less than one thousand millions of dollars. There is still a great obligation to be discharged, which must run through many years. The government itself owes many millions of dollars for Indian moneys which it has converted to its own use, and it is of interest to note that it does not know and the officers do not know what is the present condition of the Indian funds in their keeping.

  PRIMARY DEFECTS

  …The story of the mismanagement of Indian Affairs is only a chapter in the history of the mismanagement of corporate trusts. The Indian has been the victim of the same kind of neglect, the same abortive processes, the same malpractices as have the life insurance policyholders, the bank depositor, the industrial and transportation shareholder. The form of organization of the trusteeship has been one which does not provide for independent audit and supervision. The institutional methods and practices have been such that they do not provide either a fact basis for official judgment or publicity of facts which, if made available, would supply evidence of infidelity. In the operation of this machinery, there has not been the means provided for effective official scrutiny and the public conscience could not be reached.

  AMPLE PRECEDENTS TO BE FOLLOWED

  Precedents to be followed are ample. In private corporate trusts that have been mismanaged a basis of appeal has been found only when some favorable circumstance has brought to light conditions so shocking as to cause those people who have possessed political power, as a matter of self-protection, to demand a thorough reorganization and revision of methods. The same motive has lain back of legislation for the Indian. But the motive to political action has been less effective, for the reason that in the past the Indians who have acted in self-protection have either been killed or placed in confinement. All the machinery of government has been set to work to repress rather than to provide adequate means for justly dealing with a large population which had no political rights.

  SELECTED POETRY

  A BALLAD

  (JANUARY 1897)

  Afar on rolling western lands

  There cluster cone-like cabins white.

  There roam the brave, the noble bands,

  A race content with each day’s light.

  Say not, “This nation has no heart

  In which strong passions may vibrate”;

  Say not, “Deep grief can play no part.”

  For mute long suffering is innate.

  Above the village on the plain

  Dark, threatening clouds of brooding woe

  Hang like some hovering monster Pain

  With wicked eye on Peace, its foe.

  Once e’er Aurora had proclaimed

  Approaching charioteer of Day,

  Distress, with frozen heart, controlled

  This village with unbounded sway.

  What means this rushing to and fro?

  Sad, anxious faces? Grieving eyes?

  Now surging tears brave hearts o’erflow

  In sobs that melt the sterner sighs.

  What means the neighing steeds arrayed

  With boughs cut fresh from living green?

  A dark foreboding they betrayed

  In pawings fierce and sniffings keen.

  Apart from this confusion strayed

  Winona to the watering place,

  A spring with mighty rocks part stayed

  Like sacred water in rude vase.

  ’Tis here her nag with glossy coat,

  The brisk young Wala, loves to graze.

  Alert, she hears a low, clear note.

  The call Winona gave always.

  Nor long was Wala innocent

  That ills now bowed Winona low.

  But see, perchance by fates well sent,

  Comes tall and proud Osseolo.

  By grief made bold, Winona shy,

  Half chiding, questioned her heart’s king;

  Yet even reproach was lost well nigh

  In mingling with the murm’ring spring.

  “But stay, Osseolo,” she prayed:

  “Did you not hear the angry cry

  Of howling wolves that last night stayed

  Within the deep ravines near by?

  “Did you not hear the moody owl

  In mournful hoots foreboding ill,

  With warnings of the Fate’s dark scowl

  That all of yesterday did fill?

  “To-day as I my Wala called,

  I roused the sullen, sacred bird,

  Which merely sight of me appalled,

  Nor ceased to shriek, in flight e’en heard.

  “Osseolo, you dare not go,

  Ambitious though perchance for fame.

  Our gods, ’tis clear, are with the foe,

  And wars without our gods bring shame.”

  In deep, sad tones, like muffled bell,

  The curfew of their love on earth

  It seemed, and bitter tears did well

  Within her heart foredoomed to death.

  Winona’s fear was dreaded fact.

  “My chieftain father,” he replied,

  “Did ask me as a leader act,

  And I, a loyal son, complied.

  “ ’Tis thoughts of you shall make me strong.

  Though hard and cruel ’tis to part:

  But hark! I bear the farewell song

  Begun, the signal for our start.”

  Soon Wala bore Osseolo

  Fast o’er receding hill and vale.

  Like breathing arrow from the bow

  She urged the space from village wail.

  For on that day of rounded moon

  There would be heard a festive strain

  Of hostile bands they planned at noon

  To pounce upon and glory gain.

  Here too was Judas of this tribe,

  A silent, plotting traitor base,

  Whom Jealousy and Hate did bribe

  In hands of foe this plan to place.

  Osseolo, though brave and bold,

  W
as not prepared to meet his foe

  Forearmed with his own plottings sold

  Together with the cruel bow.

  Like jungle fight was battle din,

  When elephant and tiger groan.

  In bloody conflict one must win,

  ’Mid thundering roar and dying moan.

  The hoarse uproar of fallen ones

  Was pierced by pain and death-fraught cry

  Of wounded horse. The life blood runs

  In streams too strong to ever dry.

  Winona is of friend bereaved!

  A crouching, wounded form passed on

  To death. But Wala’s heart now sheathed

  His cruel sword. The traitor’s gone.

  Osseolo unconscious lay

  Amid the mass in deeper sleep

  Till cooling breath of waning day

  Aroused his senses Death would keep.

  Although secure in bands of foe,

  Recovered life brought with it hope

  To one whose needed strength did flow

  From thoughts of home with fate to cope.

  But clings like poisoned dart, his lot.

  In three days hence a sacrifice

  To gods of war he would be brought,

  A future favor to entice.

  With gnawing hunger, burning throat,

  And eyes that ached for want of sleep,

  O’er him one day and night did float

  Like lingering flights from Fiery Deep.

  An eagle from his lofty nest,

  With greedy eye fast on his prey,

  Were not more sure his aim to test

  Than that ill-fated, dreaded day.

  As now it poises overhead

  The narrow space of two brief nights,

  The hope of all escape lies dead,

  Too vivid are funereal rites.

  Defeat held every plan for flight,

  Which maddened him with wild despair.

  The torture did surpass his might.

  His cup o’erflowed with pain, its care.

  The second night dispelled the light;

  With it the captive’s reason fled,

  Or seemed to flee from frenzied might.

  Osseolo seemed madness-led.

  That harsh and empty laugh is his,

  That makes your heart so numb and cold,

  Once proud—now reeling judgment’s his

  That blinds your eyes with pain untold.

  And Rumor soon the story spread.

  Men did, with knowing faces, nod

  In movement slow that plainly said,

  “Our captive’s doomed e’en by a god.”

  The third and final day was spent

  In singing loud resounding praise

  Of all the gods appeased who sent

  The sacrifice they soon would raise.

  That night, though heaven darkly frowned,

  And great black clouds did veil her face,

  They, reason in their vict’ry drowned,

  Did boisterous revelry embrace.

  And even faithful guards did dare

  To join the band of braves renowned.

  And thus they threw aside all care

  Of him whom fates, they said, had bound.

  But with the rushing, rising tide

  Of thousand laughing voices rose

  The captive’s trampled, swollen pride,

  And bound’ries of his heart o’erflows.

  Then passed from out the prison gate

  A figure proudly straight and tall.

  Like spirit for its wand’rings late,

  It glided past the prison wall.

  The evening twilight of next day

  Found by the spring Winona lone

  To bathe with tears the sad moon’s ray,

  To add heart-groans to spring’s low moan.

  Was it a voice from spirit land

  That called in accents so well known?

  Or was it only memory’s band

  That led from worded keys the tone?

  No more the moonbeams seemed to pine,

  But fell like tiny, downy flakes,

  Amid the heart’s deep sea of brine,

  And sweetened it e’en as the lakes.

  No more is heard the spring’s low moan.

  It fell like spray of tinkling bells.

  Winona is no more alone,

  And now a joy all grief dispels.

  New life for her begins to flow,

  Her heart grows warm and eyes grow bright.

  A wilted flower revived can grow!

  Osseolo is back this night.

  IRIS OF LIFE

  (NOVEMBER 1898)

  Like tiny drops of crystal rain,

  In every life the moments fall,

  To wear away with silent beat,

  The shell of selfishness o’er all.

  And every act, not one too small,

  That leaps from out the heart’s pure glow,

  Like ray of gold sends forth a light,

  While moments into seasons flow.

  Athwart the dome, Eternity,

  To Iris grown resplendent, fly

  Bright gleams from every noble deed

  Till colors with each other vie.

  ’Tis glimpses of this grand rainbow,

  Where moments with good deeds unite,

  That gladden many weary hearts,

  Inspiring them to seek more Light.

  THE INDIAN’S AWAKENING

  (JANUARY–MARCH 1916)

  I snatch at my eagle plumes and long hair.

  A hand cut my hair; my robes did deplete.

  Left heart all unchanged; the work incomplete.

  These favors unsought, I’ve paid since with care.

  Dear teacher, you wished so much good to me,

  That though I was blind, I strove hard to see.

  Had you then, no courage frankly to tell

  Old race-problems, Christ e’en failed to expel?

  My light has grown dim, and black the abyss

  That yawns at my feet. No bordering shore;

  No bottom e’er found by hopes sunk before.

  Despair I of good from deeds gone amiss.

  My people, may God have pity on you!

  The learning I hoped in you to imbue

  Turns bitterly vain to meet both our needs.

  No Sun for the flowers, vain planting seeds.

  I’ve lost my long hair; my eagle plumes too.

  From you my own people, I’ve gone astray.

  A wanderer now, with no where to stay.

  The Will-o-the-wisp learning, it brought me rue.

  It brings no admittance. Where I have knocked

  Some evil imps, hearts, have bolted and locked.

  Alone with the night and fearful Abyss

  I stand isolated, life gone amiss.

  Intensified hush chills all my proud soul.

  Oh, what am I? Whither bound thus and why?

  Is there not a God on whom to rely?

  A part of His Plan, the atoms enroll?

  In answer, there comes a sweet Voice and clear,

  My loneliness soothes with sounding so near.

  A drink to my thirst, each vibrating note.

  My vexing old burdens fall far remote.

  “Then close your sad eyes. Your spirit regain.

  Behold what fantastic symbols abound,

  What wondrous host of cosmos around.

/>   From silvery sand, the tiniest grain

  To man and the planet, God’s at the heart.

  In shifting mosaic, souls doth impart.

  His spirits who pass through multiformed earth

  Some lesson of life must learn in each birth.”

  Divinely the Voice sang. I felt refreshed.

  And vanished the night, abyss and despair.

  Harmonious kinship made all things fair.

  I yearned with my soul to venture unleased.

  Sweet Freedom. These stood in waiting, a steed

  All prancing, well bridled, saddled for speed.

  A foot in the stirrup! Off with a bound!

  As light as a feather, making no sound.

  Through ether, long leagues we galloped away.

  An angry red river, we shyed in dismay,

  For here were men sacrificed (cruel deed)

  To reptiles and monsters, war, graft, and greed.

  A jungle of discord drops in the rear.

  By silence is quelled suspicious old fear,

  And spite-gnats’ low buzz is muffled at last.

  Exploring the spirit, I must ride fast.

  Away from these worldly ones, let us go,

  Along a worn trail, much traveled and, Lo!

  Familiar the scenes that come rushing by.

  Now billowy sea and now azure sky.

  Amid that enchanted shade, as they spun

  Sun, moon, and the stars, their own orbits run!

  Great Spirit, in realms so infinite reigns;

  And wonderful wide are all His domains.

  Hark! Here is the Spirit-world, He doth hold

  A village of Indians, camped as of old.

  Earth-legends by their fires, some did review,

  While flowers and trees more radiant grew.

  “Oh, You were all dead! In Lethe you were tossed!”

  I cried, “Every where ’twas told you were lost!

  Forsooth, they did scan your footprints on sand.

  Bereaved, I did mourn your fearful sad end.”

  Then spoke One of the Spirit Space, so sedate.

  “My child, We are souls, forever and aye.

  The signs in our orbits point us the way.

  Like planets, we do not tarry nor wait.