The red feathers

When Strong Hunter, after a lengthy stay within the lodge, appeared again among his fellows, he looked both elated and impressed and would answer none of their questions. But he told them that the little brown owl was Bright Robe, without a doubt; also, that no chief would be appointed for the village until the end of two moons’ time, and that the magician himself would act as their chief until then. There was some grumbling at that, among the warriors, but no open objection. The owl had told Strong Hunter the same story that he had told Red Eye, and had made him the same promises of reward. Also, he had not forgotten to charge him to keep those promises secret.

He had made a great deal of fun of poor Red Eye to the hunter. And he had told him to have a huge fire built that night, and to tell the villagers the story of his fight with Wise-as-a-she-wolf and of his victory.

When night fell, a heap of wood as high as a lodge was lit in a dozen places, and the whole village clustered around it. The men wore battle-feathers in their hair and carried their spears and war-clubs, for Strong Hunter had promised them that it was to be a great occasion. As Strong Hunter began the story of the great battle between the magicians, the owl’s version of it, Red Eye took his seat quietly among the warriors, and looked at the orator with a covert and supercilious smile. He had but just come from the owl’s lodge; and the owl had explained to him, in the most friendly manner, that the seeming consideration with which he had treated Strong Hunter was but a sly step toward that warrior’s undoing. He had looked so wise, and sly, and friendly, that Red Eye had felt quite satisfied.

“We will play with the vain fellows, for the space of two moons,” the owl had concluded.

Strong Hunter stood upright and waved his arms above his head, shaking a spear in one hand and a club in the other.

“This is the story of the battle between two magicians,” he cried, “between Bright Robe, the master of magic, and Wise-as-a-she-wolf, the child of vanity.”

He pranced forward a few steps, and back again, and twirled about on his toes. The black battle-feathers flashed in his long braid of tow-coloured hair. These islanders were not red men, like the inhabitants of the great lands to the south and west.

“Before Bright Robe could strike a blow,” he continued, “the other turned and fled, speeding like a flying brant, for the moccasins of the wind were on his feet. But Bright Robe sprang after him through the air, reached him and hurled him to earth. Unable to escape, Wise-as-a-she-wolf fought with all his strength and cunning; and Bright Robe returned him two blows for every one received.”

Here Strong Hunter swung his club, smiting an imaginary foe, and thrust with his spear so violently that his audience shrank away from him. He skipped and pranced, struck desperate attitudes, and shouted like a madman.

“Blood flies,” he continued. “Trees bend, and crash to the ground. The hills shake and great rocks roll into the valleys. The strength of Wise-as-a-she-wolf dwindles and his courage runs out with his blood. He strikes wide. He strikes feebly. But Bright Robe feels no weariness. His blows redouble their speed and weight. He beats his enemy to the ground. He bends, takes the limp body in his hands, and hurls it over the mountain-top.”

Ceasing the narrative suddenly, Strong Hunter once more put his body and limbs in motion. He staggered, and reeled, in the person of Wise-as-a-she-wolf. He sprang high in air, and delivered heroic strokes, in the person of Bright Robe. At last he stooped to the earth, set his hands on an imaginary body and hurled it far over the heads of the enraptured villagers. Then, drawing himself to his full height, he folded his arms on his breast and stood silent and motionless.

The applause was quick and loud. Even Seven Knives and Red Eye joined in it. Old men, who had long since forgotten their days of prowess, flung their arms about as if in desperate conflict. Young men sprang from their seats and danced around the fire, brandishing their weapons. The graver warriors shouted, and beat their clubs on the ground. All were affected by the orator’s efforts as if they had drunk deeply of the strong wine of crushed and fermented berries.

Elated by his success, Strong Hunter went straight to the owl’s lodge. The bird received him with gracious words, for the roars of applause had reached his ears.

“You have done well,” he said. “I see that you are already powerful among the people, that my good-will toward you is already giving you new power. This will be the greatest village in the land, when you are its chief. Go now, Strong Hunter, and send my servant Red Eye to me.”

Strong Hunter bowed, and left the lodge. He found Red Eye still seated by the fire, smiling a twisted, evil smile. Without ceremony, he ordered him to go to the magician. Red Eye glanced up at him, with a glow under his lids.

“Go to your master,” said Strong Hunter again, and still more roughly. Red Eye went, without a word; but there was rage in his heart. He wondered what had passed in the lodge, to so soon change the warrior’s manner with him. He vowed that Strong Hunter should be the first to feel his wrath, when the village was in his power. He felt a dim distrust of the magician.

The little brown owl read what was in Red Eye’s mind.

“Strong Hunter is a conceited fellow,” he said. “His vanity amuses me.”

“It does not amuse me, great chief,” replied Red Eye.

“You are of too serious a nature, my friend,” said the owl. “But I think the bursting of that rascal’s vanity will amuse even you.”

“Oh, mightily,” cried the other. “I would give ten hides to see him brought low this very night. I would gladly give a beaver skin for every cry of pain he would utter if I could but stick my knife into his big body.”

“Have patience,” said the owl. “It is my pleasure to sit inactive for a little while, and study the natures of these people, their hopes and vanities and foolish affairs. When I am tired of it, then ’twill be time enough for you to break the pride, yea, even the neck, of Strong Hunter.”

Red Eye went away from the lodge and meditated. Though he was a coward, he had none of that fear which is a foretaste of remorse. Let him but get an enemy in his power, with no chance to strike back, and he would show no mercy. Pity was a sensation unknown to him; and if he sometimes appeared to speak honestly, it was entirely due to his dulness of wit. Now he retired to an empty lodge and gave his poor mind to this matter of Strong Hunter’s arrogance of manner. Why had Strong Hunter been chosen to tell the story of the battle to the villagers? Why had Strong Hunter walked so proudly from the owl’s lodge? He thought and thought and thought, until his head felt as if it would fly into a dozen fragments, so great was the effort of concentration. He saw a glimmer of the truth; but no, all was darkness again.

Sometime during the next day, the owl managed to have a secret talk with Seven Knives; and to him he told the same tales, and made the same promises, as to Strong Hunter and Red Eye. Also, he charged him to secrecy.

Three days passed without incident; but on the morning of the fourth day Red Eye lay with an ear at the edge of the lodge while Strong Hunter and the owl talked within. He crawled away, before Strong Hunter left the lodge. An hour later, he sprang upon the big warrior, from behind, struck a blow and shouted the treachery of the owl. The blow glanced from the great muscles of Strong Hunter’s neck, but sent him reeling, for all that. Then Red Eye turned to flee, still shouting of the owl’s treachery. The wounded man staggered after him and hurled his stone axe, blindly but with terrific force. It struck Red Eye on the back of the skull.

In a second, the whole village was in an uproar. Red Eye lay dead on the ground; but his last words were alive in men’s ears. Seven Knives stood face to face with Strong Hunter and asked if there was truth in what Red Eye had shouted.

“’Tis true that the owl has promised that I am to be chief of this village,” replied Strong Hunter.

“He promised the same to me,” said Seven Knives.

“And there is another chief,” said Yellow Fox, pointing at the body of Red Eye.

“I think if that little owl were really Bright Robe, he would have shown himself in his true form before this,” said Old Hot Tongue. “Bright Robe would have killed me, for what I said about the beaver meat,” she added.

“He is Bright Robe, and none other. He knows things that only Bright Robe or Wise-as-a-she-wolf could know,” said Strong Hunter.

“Then why does he sit in the lodge all day, and eat raw flesh?” asked an old man. “Bright Robe never lets a day pass without some violence or theft.”

“He is Bright Robe, for all that,” said Seven Knives. “And I think he is still as wicked as he ever was.”

“I once beheld the eyes of the devil that lives deep in the salt water,” said Strong Hunter, “and though they were green and big, they were not more wicked than the eyes of that little owl.”

“I do not fear any bird that flies,” said a young man, and before they could lay hands upon him, he was running swiftly toward the lodge in which sat the owl.

“I have a good bow here, and a sharp arrow,” he cried, as he ran.

At that the owl shot from the lodge and flew swiftly away across the river.

“There goes your mighty magician, your maker of chiefs,” said the young man.

The villagers stared in wonder after the departing bird, and continued to stand and stare long after it had vanished.

A few hours after the owl’s hurried departure, a party of men who belonged farther up the river arrived at the village. They were on their way to the southern coast of the island, to kill the seals that came down on the ice through the Narrow Sea. When they had heard the story of the owl, one of them told of how he had been sick early in the spring, and had gone to the lodge of Old Whispering Grass, the doctor, far inland near the great lake. And he told them of the fight between the magicians, as the old woman had told it to him; of Bright Robe’s defeat and of the spell upon him which would keep him in the shape of a little owl until five summers were gone.

The people of the village were amazed and disgusted at the memory of the fear in which they had stood of the harmless bird. “But Bright Robe never forgets an injury,” said one of the old men, “and I hope that I may have died peacefully before those five seasons are passed.”