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XV
In
those days the Evil Spirits,
All the Manitos of
mischief,
Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom,
And his love
for Chibiabos,
Jealous of their faithful friendship,
And their noble words and actions,
Made at length a
league against them,
To molest them and destroy them.
Hiawatha, wise and wary,
Often said to Chibiabos,
"O my brother! do not leave me,
Lest the Evil Spirits
harm you!"
Chibiabos, young and heedless,
Laughing
shook his coal-black tresses,
Answered ever sweet and
childlike,
"Do not fear for me, O brother!
Harm
and evil come not near me!"
Once when Peboan, the
Winter,
Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water,
When
the snow-flakes, whirling downward,
Hissed among the
withered oak-leaves,
Changed the pine-trees into
wigwams,
Covered all the earth with silence,
Armed
with arrows, shod with snow-shoes,
Heeding not his
brother's warning,
Fearing not the Evil Spirits,
Forth to hunt the deer with antlers
All alone went
Chibiabos.
Right across the Big-Sea-Water
Sprang
with speed the deer before him.
With the wind and
snow he followed,
O'er the treacherous ice he
followed,
Wild with all the fierce commotion
And
the rapture of the hunting.
But beneath, the Evil
Spirits
Lay in ambush, waiting for him,
Broke the
treacherous ice beneath him,
Dragged him downward to
the bottom,
Buried in the sand his body.
Unktahee,
the god of water,
He the god of the Dacotahs,
Drowned him in the deep abysses
Of the lake of Gitche
Gumee.
From the headlands Hiawatha
Sent forth such
a wail of anguish,
Such a fearful lamentation,
That the bison paused to listen,
And the wolves
howled from the prairies,
And the thunder in the
distance
Starting answered "Baim-wawa!"
Then his
face with black he painted,
With his robe his head he
covered,
In his wigwam sat lamenting,
Seven long
weeks he sat lamenting,
Uttering still this moan of
sorrow:
"He is dead, the sweet musician!
He the
sweetest of all singers!
He has gone from us forever,
He has moved a little nearer
To the Master of all
music,
To the Master of all singing!
O my brother,
Chibiabos!"
And the melancholy fir-trees
Waved
their dark green fans above him,
Waved their purple
cones above him,
Sighing with him to console him,
Mingling with his lamentation
Their complaining,
their lamenting.
Came the Spring, and all the forest
Looked in vain for Chibiabos;
Sighed the rivulet,
Sebowisha,
Sighed the rushes in the meadow.
From
the tree-tops sang the bluebird,
Sang the bluebird,
the Owaissa,
"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!
He is dead,
the sweet musician!"
From the wigwam sang the robin,
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!
He is dead, the sweetest singer!"
And at night
through all the forest
Went the whippoorwill
complaining,
Wailing went the Wawonaissa,
"Chibiabos!
Chibiabos!
He is dead, the sweet musician!
He the
sweetest of all singers!"
Then the Medicine-men, the
Medas,
The magicians, the Wabenos,
And the
Jossakeeds, the Prophets,
Came to visit Hiawatha;
Built a Sacred Lodge beside him,
To appease him, to
console him,
Walked in silent, grave procession,
Bearing each a pouch of healing,
Skin of beaver,
lynx, or otter,
Filled with magic roots and simples,
Filled with very potent medicines.
When he heard
their steps approaching-,
Hiawatha ceased lamenting,
Called no more on Chibiabos;
Naught he questioned,
naught he answered,
But his mournful head uncovered,
From his face the mourning colors
Washed he slowly
and in silence,
Slowly and in silence followed
Onward to the Sacred Wigwam.
There a magic drink they
gave him,
Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint,
And
Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow,
Roots of power, and herbs of
healing;
Beat their drums, and shook their rattles;
Chanted singly and in chorus,
Mystic songs like
these, they chanted.
"I myself, myself! behold me!
`T Is the great Gray Eagle talking;
Come, ye white
crows, come and hear him!
The loud-speaking thunder
helps me;
All the unseen spirits help me;
I can
hear their voices calling,
All around the sky I hear
them!
I can blow you strong, my brother,
I can
heal you, Hiawatha!"
"Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,
"Wayha-way!" the mystic chorus.
Friends of mine are
all the serpents!
Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk!
Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him;
I can shoot
your heart and kill it!
I can blow you strong, my
brother,
I can heal you, Hiawatha !"
"Hi-au-ha!"
replied the chorus,
"Wayhaway!" the mystic chorus.
"I myself, myself! the prophet!
When I speak the
wigwam trembles,
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror,
Hands unseen begin to shake it!
When I walk, the sky
I tread on
Bends and makes a noise beneath me!
I
can blow you strong, my brother!
Rise and speak, O
Hiawatha!"
"Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,
"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus.
Then they shook
their medicine-pouches
O'er the head of Hiawatha,
Danced their medicine-dance around him;
And
upstarting wild and haggard,
Like a man from dreams
awakened,
He was healed of all his madness.
As the
clouds are swept from heaven,
Straightway from his
brain departed
All his moody melancholy;
As the
ice is swept from rivers,
Straightway from his heart
departed
All his sorrow and affliction.
Then they
summoned Chibiabos
From his grave beneath the waters,
From the sands of Gitche Gumee
Summoned Hiawatha's
brother.
And so mighty was the magic
Of that cry
and invocation,
That he heard it as he lay there
Underneath the Big-Sea-Water;
From the sand he rose
and listened,
Heard the music and the singing,
Came, obedient to the summons,
To the doorway of the
wigwam,
But to enter they forbade him.
Through a
chink a coal they gave him,
Through the door a
burning fire-brand;
Ruler in the Land of Spirits,
Ruler o'er the dead, they made him,
Telling him a
fire to kindle
For all those that died thereafter,
Camp-fires for their night encampments
On their
solitary journey
To the kingdom of Ponemah,
To the
land of the Hereafter.
From the village of his
childhood,
From the homes of those who knew him,
Passing silent through the forest,
Like a
smoke-wreath wafted sideways,
Slowly vanished
Chibiabos!
Where he passed, the branches moved not,
Where he trod, the grasses bent not,
And the fallen
leaves of last year
Made no sound beneath his
footstep.
Four whole days he journeyed onward
Down
the pathway of the dead men;
On the dead-man's
strawberry feasted,
Crossed the melancholy river,
On the swinging log he crossed it,
Came unto the Lake
of Silver,
In the Stone Canoe was carried
To the
Islands of the Blessed,
To the land of ghosts and
shadows.
On that journey, moving slowly,
Many
weary spirits saw he,
Panting under heavy burdens,
Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows,
Robes of fur,
and pots and kettles,
And with food that friends had
given
For that solitary journey.
"Ay! why do the
living," said they,
"Lay such heavy burdens on us!
Better were it to go naked,
Better were it to go
fasting,
Than to bear such heavy burdens
On our
long and weary journey!"
Forth then issued Hiawatha,
Wandered eastward, wandered westward,
Teaching men
the use of simples
And the antidotes for poisons,
And the cure of all diseases.
Thus was first made
known to mortals
All the mystery of Medamin,
All
the sacred art of healing.
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