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XVII
Full of wrath was Hiawatha
When he came into the
village,
Found the people in confusion,
Heard of
all the misdemeanors,
All the malice and the
mischief,
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis.
Hard his
breath came through his nostrils,
Through his teeth
he buzzed and muttered
Words of anger and resentment,
Hot and humming, like a hornet.
"I will slay this
Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Slay this mischief-maker!" said he.
"Not so long and wide the world is,
Not so rude and
rough the way is,
That my wrath shall not attain him,
That my vengeance shall not reach him!"
Then in swift
pursuit departed
Hiawatha and the hunters
On the
trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Through the forest, where he
passed it,
To the headlands where he rested;
But
they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Only in the trampled
grasses,
In the whortleberry-bushes,
Found the
couch where he had rested,
Found the impress of his
body.
From the lowlands far beneath them,
From the
Muskoday, the meadow,
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning
backward,
Made a gesture of defiance,
Made a
gesture of derision;
And aloud cried Hiawatha,
From the summit of the mountains:
"Not so long and
wide the world is,
Not so rude and rough the way is,
But my wrath shall overtake you,
And my vengeance
shall attain you!"
Over rock and over river,
Through bush, and brake, and forest,
Ran the cunning
Pau-Puk-Keewis;
Like an antelope he bounded,
Till
he came unto a streamlet
In the middle of the forest,
To a streamlet still and tranquil,
That had
overflowed its margin,
To a dam made by the beavers,
To a pond of quiet water,
Where knee-deep the trees
were standing,
Where the water lilies floated,
Where the rushes waved and whispered.
On the dam
stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,
On the dam of trunks and
branches,
Through whose chinks the water spouted,
O'er whose summit flowed the streamlet.
From the
bottom rose the beaver,
Looked with two great eyes of
wonder,
Eyes that seemed to ask a question,
At the
stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis.
On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet,
Flowed the
bright and silvery water,
And he spake unto the
beaver,
With a smile he spake in this wise:
"O my
friend Ahmeek, the beaver,
Cool and pleasant Is the
water;
Let me dive into the water,
Let me rest
there in your lodges;
Change me, too, into a beaver!"
Cautiously replied the beaver,
With reserve he thus
made answer:
"Let me first consult the others,
Let
me ask the other beavers."
Down he sank into the
water,
Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks,
Down
among the leaves and branches,
Brown and matted at
the bottom.
On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,
O'er
his ankles flowed the streamlet,
Spouted through the
chinks below him,
Dashed upon the stones beneath him,
Spread serene and calm before him,
And the sunshine
and the shadows
Fell in flecks and gleams upon him,
Fell in little shining patches,
Through the waving,
rustling branches.
From the bottom rose the beavers,
Silently above the surface
Rose one head and then
another,
Till the pond seemed full of beavers,
Full of black and shining faces.
To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis
Spake entreating, said in this wise:
"Very pleasant
Is your dwelling,
O my friends! and safe from danger;
Can you not, with all your cunning,
All your wisdom
and contrivance,
Change me, too, into a beaver?"
"Yes!" replied Ahmeek, the beaver,
He the King of all
the beavers,
"Let yourself slide down among us,
Down into the tranquil water."
Down into the pond
among them
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis;
Black
became his shirt of deer-skin,
Black his moccasins
and leggings,
In a broad black tail behind him
Spread his fox-tails and his fringes;
He was changed
into a beaver.
"Make me large," said Pau-Puk-Keewis,
"Make me large and make me larger,
Larger than the
other beavers."
"Yes," the beaver chief responded,
"When our lodge below you enter,
In our wigwam we
will make you
Ten times larger than the others."
Thus into the clear, brown water
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis:
Found the bottom covered over
With the trunks of
trees and branches,
Hoards of food against the
winter,
Piles and heaps against the famine;
Found
the lodge with arching doorway,
Leading into spacious
chambers.
Here they made him large and larger,
Made him largest of the beavers,
Ten times larger
than the others.
"You shall be our ruler," said they;
"Chief and King of all the beavers."
But not long had
Pau-Puk-Keewis
Sat in state among the beavers,
When there came a voice, of warning
From the watchman
at his station
In the water-flags and lilies,
Saying, "Here Is Hiawatha!
Hiawatha with his
hunters!"
Then they heard a cry above them,
Heard
a shouting and a tramping,
Heard a crashing and a
rushing,
And the water round and o'er them
Sank
and sucked away in eddies,
And they knew their dam
was broken.
On the lodge's roof the hunters
Leaped, and broke it all asunder;
Streamed the
sunshine through the crevice,
Sprang the beavers
through the doorway,
Hid themselves in deeper water,
In the channel of the streamlet;
But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis
Could not pass beneath the doorway;
He was puffed
with pride and feeding,
He was swollen like a
bladder.
Through the roof looked Hiawatha,
Cried
aloud, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis
Vain are all your craft and
cunning,
Vain your manifold disguises!
Well I know
you, Pau-Puk-Keewis!"
With their clubs they beat and
bruised him,
Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Pounded him as maize is pounded,
Till his skull was
crushed to pieces.
Six tall hunters, lithe and
limber,
Bore him home on poles and branches,
Bore
the body of the beaver;
But the ghost, the Jeebi in
him,
Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Still
lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis.
And it fluttered, strove,
and struggled,
Waving hither, waving thither,
As
the curtains of a wigwam
Struggle with their thongs
of deer-skin,
When the wintry wind is blowing;
Till it drew itself together,
Till it rose up from
the body,
Till it took the form and features
Of
the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis
Vanishing into the forest.
But the wary Hiawatha
Saw the figure ere it vanished,
Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis
Glide into the soft
blue shadow
Of the pine-trees of the forest;
Toward the squares of white beyond it,
Toward an
opening in the forest.
Like a wind it rushed and
panted,
Bending all the boughs before it,
And
behind it, as the rain comes,
Came the steps of
Hiawatha.
To a lake with many islands
Came the
breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Where among the
water-lilies
Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing;
Through the tufts of rushes floating,
Steering
through the reedy Islands.
Now their broad black
beaks they lifted,
Now they plunged beneath the
water,
Now they darkened in the shadow,
Now they
brightened in the sunshine.
"Pishnekuh!" cried Pau-Puk-Keewis,
"Pishnekuh! my brothers!" said he,
"Change me to a
brant with plumage,
With a shining neck and feathers,
Make me large, and make me larger,
Ten times larger
than the others."
Straightway to a brant they changed
him,
With two huge and dusky pinions,
With a bosom
smooth and rounded,
With a bill like two great
paddles,
Made him larger than the others,
Ten
times larger than the largest,
Just as, shouting from
the forest,
On the shore stood Hiawatha.
Up they
rose with cry and clamor,
With a whir and beat of
pinions,
Rose up from the reedy Islands,
From the
water-flags and lilies.
And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis:
"In your flying, look not downward,
Take good heed
and look not downward,
Lest some strange mischance
should happen,
Lest some great mishap befall you!"
Fast and far they fled to northward,
Fast and far
through mist and sunshine,
Fed among the moors and
fen-lands,
Slept among the reeds and rushes.
On
the morrow as they journeyed,
Buoyed and lifted by
the South-wind,
Wafted onward by the South-wind,
Blowing fresh and strong behind them,
Rose a sound of
human voices,
Rose a clamor from beneath them,
From the lodges of a village,
From the people miles
beneath them.
For the people of the village
Saw
the flock of brant with wonder,
Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis
Flapping far up in the ether,
Broader than two
doorway curtains.
Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting,
Knew the voice of Hiawatha,
Knew the outcry of Iagoo,
And, forgetful of the warning,
Drew his neck in, and
looked downward,
And the wind that blew behind him
Caught his mighty fan of feathers,
Sent him wheeling,
whirling downward!
All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis
Struggle to regain his balance!
Whirling round and
round and downward,
He beheld in turn the village
And in turn the flock above him,
Saw the village
coming nearer,
And the flock receding farther,
Heard the voices growing louder,
Heard the shouting
and the laughter;
Saw no more the flocks above him,
Only saw the earth beneath him;
Dead out of the empty
heaven,
Dead among the shouting people,
With a
heavy sound and sullen,
Fell the brant with broken
pinions.
But his soul, his ghost, his shadow,
Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Took again the form
and features
Of the handsome Yenadizze,
And again
went rushing onward,
Followed fast by Hiawatha,
Crying: "Not so wide the world is,
Not so long and
rough the way Is,
But my wrath shall overtake you,
But my vengeance shall attain you!"
And so near he
came, so near him,
That his hand was stretched to
seize him,
His right hand to seize and hold him,
When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis
Whirled and spun
about in circles,
Fanned the air into a whirlwind,
Danced the dust and leaves about him,
And amid the
whirling eddies
Sprang into a hollow oak-tree,
Changed himself into a serpent,
Gliding out through
root and rubbish.
With his right hand Hiawatha
Smote amain the hollow oak-tree,
Rent it into shreds
and splinters,
Left it lying there in fragments.
But in vain; for Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Once again in human
figure,
Full in sight ran on before him,
Sped away
in gust and whirlwind,
On the shores of Gitche Gumee,
Westward by the Big-Sea-Water,
Came unto the rocky
headlands,
To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone,
Looking over lake and landscape.
And the Old Man of
the Mountain,
He the Manito of Mountains,
Opened
wide his rocky doorways,
Opened wide his deep
abysses,
Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter
In his
caverns dark and dreary,
Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis
welcome
To his gloomy lodge of sandstone.
There
without stood Hiawatha,
Found the doorways closed
against him,
With his mittens, Minjekahwun,
Smote
great caverns in the sandstone,
Cried aloud in tones
of thunder,
"Open! I am Hiawatha!"
But the Old Man
of the Mountain
Opened not, and made no answer
From the silent crags of sandstone,
From the gloomy
rock abysses.
Then he raised his hands to heaven,
Called imploring on the tempest,
Called Waywassimo,
the lightning,
And the thunder, Annemeekee;
And
they came with night and darkness,
Sweeping down the
Big-Sea-Water
From the distant Thunder Mountains;
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis
Heard the footsteps
of the thunder,
Saw the red eyes of the lightning,
Was afraid, and crouched and trembled.
Then
Waywassimo, the lightning,
Smote the doorways of the
caverns,
With his war-club smote the doorways,
Smote the jutting crags of sandstone,
And the
thunder, Annemeekee,
Shouted down into the caverns,
Saying, "Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis!"
And the crags
fell, and beneath them
Dead among the rocky ruins
Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Lay the handsome
Yenadizze,
Slain in his own human figure.
Ended
were his wild adventures,
Ended were his tricks and
gambols,
Ended all his craft and cunning,
Ended
all his mischief-making,
All his gambling and his
dancing,
All his wooing of the maidens.
Then the
noble Hiawatha
Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow,
Spake and said: "O Pau-Puk-Keewis,
Never more in
human figure
Shall you search for new adventures'
Never more with jest and laughter
Dance the dust and
leaves in whirlwinds;
But above there in the heavens
You shall soar and sail in circles;
I will change you
to an eagle,
To Keneu, the great war-eagle,
Chief
of all the fowls with feathers,
Chief of Hiawatha's
chickens."
And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis
Lingers
still among the people,
Lingers still among the
singers,
And among the story-tellers;
And in
Winter, when the snow-flakes
Whirl in eddies round
the lodges,
When the wind in gusty tumult
O'er the
smoke-flue pipes and whistles,
"There," they cry,
"comes Pau-Puk-Keewis,
He is dancing through the
village,
He is gathering in his harvest!"
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