As the people eagerly looked, the mists of the morning were seen to be clearing away, and gone within them, even as his voice, was Paíyatuma!
"Thanks this day," together said the fathers and their people, as they looked upon the plants before them, then at the stranger people. "Verily, ye are our elder brothers, and as children and sisters, yea as our very mothers, will we cherish thy maidens and the substance of their flesh!"
"Yea," replied these other Seed people, "eating thereof, ye shall become in very truth our younger brothers! For even as the father hath said, these be the product of our hands joined with thine in labor, and of our hearts joined with thine in sacred thought." Then the ancient of the People of Dew stood in place of Paíyatuma, and spake:
"Thus, of the substance of all flesh is the seed of seeds, Corn! And suited to all peoples and places; yet we, brothers younger are with ye, favored in the light, in that together we are its priests and keepers. Let us therefore love it and cherish it, as we cherish and love our women; and it shall be the giver of milk to the youthful and of flesh to the aged, as our women folk are the givers of life to our youth and the sustainers of life in our age; for of the mother-milk of the Beloved Maidens it is filled, and of their flesh the substance. Eating thereof, thy youth shall grow strong and handsome, thy maidens beautiful and fruitful, even as are themselves, the Beloved Maidens, our mothers and thine!"
"Be it well!" said the fathers. "Brothers younger to ye, let us indeed be, and let us, therefore, clasp the warm hands of brothers elder and brothers younger, making the words of the Father of Dawn true, in truth!"
Then the ancient of the People of the Dew replied:
Thus, happily were our fathers joined to the People of the Dew, and the many houses on the hills were now builded together in the plain where first grew the corn plants abundantly; being prepared year after year by the beautiful custom of the ever young maidens, and attended faithfully by the labors of the people and the vigils of their fathers.
When men had almost forgotten the seeking of the Middle, the earth trembled anew, and the shells sounded warning. Murmuring sore when the Twain Beloved came and called them again, yet carrying whatsoever they could with them (more preciously than all things else save their little ones, the seed of corn!), they and the people they had dwelt with journeyed on, seeking safety. For now, their kin were mingled; thus, their children were one people. Wheresoever they rested, they builded them great houses of stone, all together, as may still be seen. And in the plains ever they built them bowers for the watching of the renewal and growth of the seeds of the corn. Therefore, they never hungered whether journeying anon or sitting still.
Now with much of journeying the people came to grow weary with ever seeking for the Middle all together, along a single way, insomuch that increasingly they murmured whenever they were summoned and must needs be leaving their homes and accustomed ranging-places. And so they fell to devising amongst themselves, until at last it seemed good to them to be sending messengers forth in one direction and another, the sooner to feel out the better way, and find signs of the Middle: as, by dividing, a company of hunters the sooner find trace of their quarry.
Now there was a priest of the people named Kâ´wimosa (of the Kâ´kâ master-maker or source), thus named because he it was who was to establish, all unwittingly, the most potent and good sacred dance (myth-drama or Kâ´kâ) as happened after this wise:
He had four sons (some say more) and a daughter. And his eldest son was named K‘yäk´lu, which signifies, it is said, "Whensoever;" for he was wiser of words and the understanding thereof than all others, having listened to the councils of men with all beings, since ever the inner beginning! So, when it was asked who of the precious ones (children of priest-fathers and priest-mothers) should journey northward, seeking to learn the distance thitherward to the great embracing waters, that the Middle might be the better surmised; nor said the Twain aught, as we say naught, to little children weary of a way that must, weary or nay, be accomplished! When this was asked, Kâ´wimosa, the priest, bethought himself of his wise eldest son and said, "Here is he!" Thus K‘yäk´lu was summoned, and made ready with sacrifice presentations from all the priests to all the surpassing-ones for the great journey; and he departed.
Long the people waited. But at last it was said, "Lost is our K‘yäk´lu! For wise of words was he, but not wise of ways!"
And the fathers, mourning, again called a council. Again, when it was inquired, Kâ´wimosa the priest, bethought him, and cried, "Here!" and again were made ready duly and sent forth messengers, this time southward, the next younger brothers of K‘yäk´lu (Ánahohoátchi); for, said the father, they will guide one another if ye send twain. And of these, also, much is told in other talks of our ancient speech; but then, they too, lingered by the way.
Once more a council was called, and again, when it was inquired, Kâ´wimosa cried, "Here!" and this time the youngest son, who was named Síweluhsiwa, because he was a long-haired youth of great beauty; and the daughter, who was named Síwiluhsitsa, because she was a long-tressed maiden of beautiful person; they also were summoned and made ready duly and sent eastward.
Far they journeyed, and as the day quickened they saw before them a distant high mountain.
Thus spake he, for he loved his sister and her beauty. (Nay, but she was soft and beautiful!)
And so, they hastened. When they reached the mountain, Síweluhsiwa built a bower of cedar branches under the shade of a tree. Then he went forth to seek game. When, having captured some, he returned, his sister was sleeping in the bower; so he stepped softly, that he might not disturb her—for he loved his sister, and gently he sat himself down before her and leaned his chin on his hand to watch her. The wind softly blew to and fro, and she slept on; her white cotton mantle and garments were made light for the journey, and thus the wind played with them as it listed over her prostrate form. As the brother gazed at her, he became crazed with love of her, greater than that of a brother's, greater than that of kin men for kin! * * *
Crazed was he, yea, and bideless of act; and the sister, thus awakened, fled from him in loud affright, and then, in shame and hot anger turning, upbraided him fiercely. Wondrous beings were they, more than it is the lot of mere men in these days to be, for they were the children of Kâ´wimosa the priest, and a priestess-mother in the times of creation and newness. And so, like to the surpassing ones, they were ‘hlímnawiho, or changeable-by-will inclined; yea, and all things were k‘yaíyuna or formative, when the world was new! Lo, now! Therefore, as she upbraided him, her eyes grew great and glaring and her face spotted and drawn. And he, as he heard and saw her, grew dazed, and stood senseless before her, his head bowed, his eyes red and swollen, his brow bent and burning.
"Thou shameless of men!" cried the maiden. "Know that thou shalt return to thy people never; nay, nor will I! Lo! I will make by mine the power a deep water dividing this mountain! Alone on one side shalt thou dwell, alone on the other dwell I! I will draw a line, and make a swift water between the day-land and the night-land, between all our people and us!" She stamped with her sandal as she spake, and deep was the mark thereof; for the mountain was hollow and resounding. Then she ran headlong down to the westward end of the mountain and drew her foot along the sands from the south to the northward, and deep was the gully she made. And the brother, seeing her flee, ran after her calling hoarsely. But now, as he neared her, he stopped and stared; and forthwith grew crazed more than ever; but with anguish and fright this time, at her rage and distortion. As she turned again back, he threw his arms aloft, and beat his head and temples and tore away his hair and garments and clutched his eyes and mouth wildly, until great welts and knobs stood out on his head; his eyes puffed and goggled, his lips blubbered and puckered; tears and sweat with wet blood bedrenched his whole person, and he cast himself headlong and rolled in the dust, until coated with the dun earth of that plain. And when he staggered to his feet, the red soil adhered to him as skin cleaves to flesh, and his ugliness hardened.
The maiden stared in wild terror at what she had wrought! And now she, too, was filled with anguish and shrieked aloud, tossing her arms and rushing hither and thither, and so great was her grief and despair that her hair all whitened. Lo! now she lamented plaintively and pitied her brother, for she thought—woman-like!—"But he loved me!" So, she tenderly yearned for him now, and ran toward him. Again he looked at her, for he was crazed, and when he saw her close at hand, so strange looking and ugly, he laughed aloud, and coarsely, but anon stood still, with his hands clasped in front of him and his head bowed before him, dazed! When he laughed, she too laughed; when he was silent and bowed, she cried and besought him. Thus it was with them ever after in those days. They talked loudly to each other; they laughed or they cried. Now they were like silly children, playing on the ground; anon they were wise as the priests and high beings, and harangued as parents to children and leaders to people.
The marks in the mountain and sands sank farther and farther; for much the earth shuddered as was wont in those days. And thus the mountain was sundered in twain and waters welled up in the midway. The furrow in the sands ran deeper and deeper and swifter and swifter with gathering water. Into the nether mountain the pair fled—not apart—but together, distraught. Ceaselessly echoed their gibberish and cries across the wide water and from one mountain side to the other. Thenceforth, together they dwelt in the caves of the place they had chosen, forgetful of the faces of men and recking naught of their own ugly condition!
In time there were born to these twain, twelve children. Nay, neither man-children nor woman-children they! For look now! The first, was a woman in fulness of contour, but a man in stature and brawn. From the mingling of too much seed in one kind, comes the two-fold one kind, ‘hláhmon, being man and woman combined—even as from a kernel of corn with two hearts, ripens an ear that is neither one kind nor the other, but both! Yet not all ill was this first child, because she was born of love—what though crazed!—ere her parents were changed; thus she partook not of their distortions. Not so with her brothers; in semblance of males, yet like boys, the fruit of sex was not in them! For the fruit of mere lust comes to naught, even as corn, self-sown out of season, ripens not. For their parents, being changed to hideousness, abode together witlessly and consorted idly or in passion not quickened of favor to the eye or the heart. And lo! like to their father were his later children, but varied as his moods; for then, as now, what the mother looked most on while withholding them, thus wise were they formed as clay by the thought of the potter; wherefore we cherish our matrons and reveal not to them the evil dramas neither the slaughtered nor hamstrung game lest their children be weakly or go maimed. Thus they were strapping louts, but dun-colored and marked with the welts of their father. Silly were they, yet wise as the gods and high priests; for as simpletons and the crazed speak from the things seen of the instant, uttering belike wise words and prophecy, so spake they, and became the attendants and fosterers, yet the sages and interpreters, of the ancient of dance-dramas or the Kâ´kâ.
Named are they, not with the names of men, but with names of mis-meaning, for there is Pékwina, Priest-speaker of the Sun. Meditative is he, even in the quick of day, after the fashion of his father when shamed, saying little save rarely, and then as irrelevantly as the veriest child or dotard.
Then there is Pí‘hlan Shíwani (Bow Priest-warrior). So cowardly he that he dodges behind ladders, thinking them trees no doubt, and lags after all the others, whenever frightened, even at a fluttering leaf or a crippled spider, and looks in every direction but the straight one, whenever danger threatens!
There is Éshotsi (the Bat) who can see better in the sunlight than any of them, but would maim himself in a shadow, and will avoid a hole in the ground as a woman would a dark place, even were it no bigger than a beetle burrow.
Also there is Muíyapona (Wearer of the Eyelets of Invisibility). He has horns like the catfish, and is knobbed like a bludgeon-squash. But he never by any chance disappears, even when he hides his head behind a ladder rung or turkey quill, yet thinks himself quite out of sight. And he sports with his countenance as though it were as smooth as a damsel's.
There is Pótsoki (the Pouter), who does little but laugh and look bland, for grin he can not; and his younger brother, Ná‘hläshi (Aged Buck), who is the biggest of them all, and what with having grieved and nearly rubbed his eyes out (when his younger brother was captured and carried off by the K‘yámak‘ya-kwe or Snail Kâ´kâ of the South), looks as ancient as a horned toad; yet he is as frisky as a fawn, and giggles like a girl; yea, and bawls as lustily as a small boy playing games.
The next brother, Ítseposa (the Glum or Aggrieved), mourned also for his nearest brother, who was stolen by the Kâ´kâ, too, until his eyes were dry utterly and his chin chapped to protrusion; but nathless he is lively and cheerful and ever as ready indeed as the most complaisant of beings.
K‘yä´lutsi (the Suckling) and Tsa‘hläshi (Old-youth), the youngest, are the most wilfully important of the nine, always advising others and strutting like a young priest in his first dance, or like unto the youthful warrior made too aged-thinking and self-notioned with early honoring.
And while the father stands dazed, with his head bowed and his hands clasped before him or like to broken bows hanging by his sides, these children romp and play (as he and his sister did when turned childish), and verily are like to idiots, or to dotards and crones turned young again, inconstant as laughter, startled to new thought by every flitting thing around them; but, in the presence of the Kâ´kâ of old, they are grave what though so uncouth. And they are the oracles of all olden sayings of deep meanings; wherefore they are called the Kâ´yemashi (Husbandmen of the Kâ´kâ or sacred drama-dance); and they are spoken of, even by the Fathers of the People, as the Á‘hläshi Tséwashi (Sages of the Ancients). And most precious in the sight of the beings and of men are they! But for their birth and the manner thereof, it is said that all had been different; for from it many things came to be as they are, alike for men and gods and even the souls of the dead!
There came a time when the people for whom Síweluhsiwa and Síwiluhsitsa had gone to seek the way, could tarry no longer awaiting them; for, hearing the earth rumble, the Twain Beloved and their Warrior-leaders of the Knife summoned the tribes forth to journey again. Now in these days the people had grown so vast of number that no longer could they journey together; but in great companies they traveled, like herds of bison severed when too numerous for the grass of a single plain. The Bearers of the Ice-wands and the Ancient Brotherhood of the Knife led the clans of the Bear, the Crane, the Grouse and others of the People of Winter (yea and in small part others too), through the northernmost valleys, carrying ever in their midst the precious múetone. The Fathers of the People, Keepers of the seed, and the Ancient Brotherhood of Priests led the clans of the Macaw and other Summer people (and in part others still) through the middle valleys, carrying ever in their midst the precious k‘yáetone. They, being deliberate and wise, sought rather in the pathway between the northward and the southward for the place of the Middle.
The Seed-fathers of the Seed-kin, the Keepers of Fire, and the Ancient Brotherhood of Paíyatuma (Néwe-kwe) led the All-seed clans, the Sun, Badger and other Summer people (not of the Midmost), through the southern valleys, carrying ever in their midst the precious chúetone.
Leading them all, whether through the northern ways, through the middle ways, or through the southern ways, now here, now there, were the Two Beloved ones, and with them their Warriors of the Knife.
Now although those who went by the northern way were called the Bear and Crane father-people, yet with them went some of all the clans, as the Parrot-macaws of the Middle, and the Yellow-corn ones of the Southern people.
And although the People of the Middle way were called the Macaw father-people, yet with them went Bear and Crane people of the north, nevertheless, (a few) and Seed people of the south, also (a few) those of the White Corn.
And although the people of the southern way were called the All-seed father-people, yet with them went a few of both the northern and the middle ways. And this was well! That even though any one of these bands might hap to be divided through wildness of the way or stress of war, they nathless might retain, each of them, the seed of all the kin-lines. Moreover, this of itself speedily came to be, through the mingling of the clans from one to another in the strands of marriage.
And although thus apart the peoples journeyed, descending from the westward the valleys toward north and toward south, like gathering streams from a wide rain-storm, yet also like rain-streams gathering in some great river or lagoon, so they came together and thus abode in seasons of rest. Strong and impetuous, the Bear kindred on the one hand were the first to move and farthest to journey; on the other hand the Seed kindred led the way; whereas, the heart of them all of the Macaw kindred, deliberately (as was their custom) pursued the middle course of the Sun-father.
In such order, then, they came, in time, within sight of the great divided mountain of the Kâ´yemäshi. Seeing smoke and mist rising therefrom, they all, one after another, hastened thither. The Bear peoples were first to approach, and great was their dismay when, on descending into the plain, they beheld a broad river, flowing, not as other waters were wont to flow in that land, from east to west, but straight across their pathway, from toward the south, northward. And lo! on the farther side were the mysterious mountains they sought, but between them rolled swiftly these wide turbid waters, red with the soil of those plains.
Not for long did the impetuous fathers of the Bear and Crane deliberate. Nay! Straightway they strode into the stream and feeling forth with their feet that it e'en might be forded—for so red were its waters that no footing could be seen through them,—they led the way across; yet great was their fearfulness withal; for, full soon, as they watched the water moving under their very eyes, strange chills did pervade them, as though they were themselves changing in being to creatures moving and having being in the waters; even as still may be felt in the giddiness which besets those who, in the midst of troubled or passing waters, gaze long into them. Nathless, they won their way steadfastly to the farther shore. But the poor women who, following closely with the little children on their backs, were more áyaᵘwe (tender, susceptible), became witlessly crazed with these dread fear-feelings of the waters, wherefore, the little ones to whom they clung but the more closely, being k‘yaíyuna and all unripe, were instantly changed by the terror. They turned cold, then colder; they grew scaly, fuller webbed and sharp clawed of hands and feet, longer of tail too, as if for swimming and guidance in unquiet waters. Lo! They felt of a sudden to the mothers that bore them, as the feel of dead things; and, wriggling, scratched their bare shoulders until, shrieking wildly, these mothers let go all hold on them and were even fain to shake them off—fleeing from them in terror. Thus, multitudes of them fell into the swift waters, wailing shrilly and plaintively, as even still it may be said they are heard to cry at night time in those lone waters. For, no sooner did they fall below the surges than they floated and swam away, still crying—changed verily, now, even in bodily form; for, according to their several totems, some became like to the lizard (mík‘yaiya‘hli), chameleon (sémaiyak‘ya), and newt (téwashi); others like to the frog (ták‘aiyuna), toad (ták‘ya), and turtle (étâwa). But their souls (top‘hâ´ina, 'other-being or in-being'), what with the sense of falling, still falling, sank down through the waters, as water itself, being started, sinks down through the sands into the depths below. There, under the lagoon of the hollow mountain where it was erstwhile cleft in twain by the angry maiden-sister Síwiluhsitsa as before told, dwelt, in their seasons, the soul-beings of ancient men of war and violent death. There were the towns for the 'finished' or dead, Hápanawan or the Abode of Ghosts; there also, the great pueblo (city) of the Kâ´kâ, Kâ´‘hluëlawan, the town of many towns wherein stood forever the great assembly house of ghosts, Áhapaáwa Kíwitsinan‘hlana, the kiva which contains the six great chambers in the midst of which sit, at times of gathering in council, the god-priests of all the Kâ´kâ exercising the newly dead in the Kâ´k’okshi or dance of good, and receiving from them the offerings and messages of mortal men to the immortal ones.
Now, when the little ones sank, still sank, seeing naught, the lights of the spirit dancers began to break upon them, and they became, as be the ancients, ‘hlímna, and were numbered with them. And so, being received into the midst of the undying ancients, lo! these little ones thus made the way of dying and the path of the dead; for whither they led, in that olden time, others, fain to seek them (insomuch that they died), followed; and yet others followed these; and so it has continued to be even unto this day.
But the mothers, still crying, knew not this—knew not that their children had returned unharmed into the world whence even themselves had come and whither they too needs now must go, constrained thither by the yearnings of their own hearts in the time of mourning. Loudly, still, they wailed, on the farther shore of the river.
The Seed clans arrived, and strove to cross the waters, but as it had chanced to the others so befel it all dismally with them, until loud became the commotion and multitudes of those behind, nearing—even many of the Midmost clans—turned and fled afar southward along the bank, seeking a better crossing; fled so far that they were lost to sight speedily and strayed never to return!
Nay, they became the fathers and mothers of our Lost Others—lost ever since that time.
Lo! as the people were crying aloud and tossing their hands aloft and the many—so many!—were fleeing away, came the Beloved Twain, and with voices strong-sounding and sure, bade them cease from their clamor and terror, saying—
Thus spake they, and continued speaking; whereupon the people who were yet left, took heart, even the women, and stayed their thoughts, clinging stoutly to their little ones as they fared through the waters, what though the terror and hurt was sore. Thus passed they all safely over, and—even as had been said—as they won their way up from the waters and sat them down to rest on the farther shore below the mountains, lo! the little ones grew warm and right again. But never were the thoughts of womenkind beguiled wholly from that harrowing journey. Wherefore they be timid of deep places, startled (as is the voice of a vessel by any shrillness of sound) and witless-driven by the sight of reptile-creatures. Lo! and so their anxieties are like to press themselves on the unripe and forming children of their bowels. Wherefore, also, we guard their eyes from all weird-seeming things when they be with child.
Now, when the people were rested and the children righted, they arose and journeyed into the plain to the east of the two mountains and the great water between them. Thence they turned them northward to the sunrise slopes of the uppermost of the mountains. There they encamped, mourning for their lost children and awaiting the coming, perchance, of those who had fled away.
Ataht! And all this time K‘yäk´lu, the all-hearing and wise of speech, all alone had been journeying afar in the north land of cold and white desolateness. Lost was he, for lo! all the world he wandered in now was disguised in the snow that lies spread forth there forever. Cold was he—so cold that his face became wan, and white from the frozen mists of his own breathing withal, white as become all creatures who bide there. So cold at night and dreary of heart was he, so lost by day and blinded by light was he, that he wept, continually wept and cried aloud until the tears coursing down his cheeks stained them with falling lines along the wrinkles thereof (as may be seen on his face to this day when in due season he reappears), and he died of heart and thence became transformed (í‘hlimnakna) lastingly as are the gods. Yea, and his lips became splayed with continual calling, and his voice grew shrill and dry-sounding, like to the voices of far-flying water-fowl. As he cried, wandering all blindly hither and thither, these, water-birds, hearing, flocked around him in numbers and curiously peered at him, turning their heads from side to side and ever approaching nearer, all the while calling one to another.
Behold! when he heard them calling, their meanings were plain to him, wise as he was of all speeches! Yet still he lamented aloud, for none told him the way to his country and people.
Now, when the Duck heard his cry, lo! it was so like to her own that she came closer by than any, answering loudly. And when they were thus come near to each other, much related appeared they, strange as that may seem. Forasmuch as he was of all times the listener and speaker, and therein wisest of all men, so was she of all regions the traveler and searcher, knowing all ways, whether above or below the waters, whether in the north, the west, the south, or the east, and therein was the most knowing of all creatures. Thus the wisdom (yúyananak‘ya) of the one comprehended (aíyuhetok‘ya) the knowledge (ánikwanak‘ya) of the other, and K‘yäk´lu in the midst of his lamentations besought counsel and guidance, crying—
"Hold, my child, my father," said the Duck. "Think no longer sad thoughts. Though thou be blind, yet thou hearest all as I see all. Give me, therefore, tinkling shells from thy girdle and place them on my neck and in my beak. Thus may I guide thee with my seeing if so be thou by thy hearing grasp and hold firmly my trail. For look, now! Thy country and the way thither well I know, for I go that way each year leading the wild goose and the crane, who flee thither as winter follows."
And so the K‘yäk´lu placed his talking shells on the neck of the Duck, and in her beak placed the singing shells, which ever in his speakings and listenings K‘yäk´lu had been wont to wear at his girdle; and albeit painfully and lamely, yet he did follow the sound she made with these shells, perching lightly on his searching outstretched hand, and did all too slowly follow her swift flight from place to place wherein she, anon, going forth would await him and urge him, ducking her head that the shells might call loudly, and dipping her beak that they might summon his ears as the hand summons the eyes. By and by they came to the country of thick rains and mists on the borders of the Snow World, and passed from water to water, until at last, lo! wider waters lay in their way. In vain the Duck called and jingled her shells from over the midst of them, K‘yäk´lu could not follow. All maimed was he; nor could he swim or fly as could the Duck.
Now the Rainbow-worm was near, in that land of mists and waters. And when he heard the sacred sounds of the shells he listened. "Ha! these be my grandchildren, and precious be they, for they call one to the other with shells of the great world-encircling waters," said he; and so, with one measure of his length, he placed himself nigh them, saying—
K‘yäk´lu took of his plume-wands the lightest and choicest; and the Duck gave to him her two strong pinion-feathers that he might pendant them therewith, making them far reaching and far-seeing. And the Rainbow arched himself and stooped nigh to them whilst K‘yäk´lu, breathing on the plumes, approached him and fastened them to his heart side. And while with bent head, all white and glistening wet, K‘yäk´lu said the sacred words, not turning to one side nor to the other, behold! the Rainbow shadow gleamed full brightly on his forehead like a little rainbow, (even as the great sky itself gleams little in a tiny dew-drop) and became painted thereon, and í‘hlimna.
"Thanks this day!" said the Rainbow. "Mount, now, on my shoulders, grandson!"
The Rainbow unbent himself lower that K‘yäk´lu might mount; then he arched himself high amidst the clouds, bearing K‘yäk´lu upward as in the breath a mote is borne, and the Duck spread her wings in flight toward the south. Thitherward, like an arrow, the Rainbow-worm straightened himself forward and followed until his face looked into the Lake of the Ancients, the mists whereof were to him breath and substance.
And there in the plain to the north of Kâ´‘hluëlane, K‘yäk´lu descended even ere the sun was fully entered, and while yet it was light, the Rainbow betook himself swiftly back.
But alas! K‘yäk´lu was weary and lame. He could not journey farther, but sat himself down to rest and ponder the way.
Now, as he sat there, all silent, came across the plains the shouts and harangues of the Kâ´yemäshi as they called loudly to one another, telling, like children, of the people who had but then forded the wide river, and passed on to the eastward "with such great ado," said they.
For the children of the Twain knew not yet the people of their parents, nor did their parents tell them aught, save to bid them hide in the mountains; for they willed not that their shame be made known whilst the hearts of their erstwhile people were so sore with anguish.
And as K‘yäk´lu, the wonderful hearer, lifted his head and signed to the Duck, forthwith knowing from the talk of the Kâ´yemäshi who they were and what had chanced to their parents, his own brother and sister, and all the evils that had befallen his people by the sin and change-makings of these two. Lo! the strength of his heart wasted as he bowed him down again in the plain, alone, blinded of sight, wearied and lamed, and now from very sadness blinded even of thought withal, now that he learned of the woes which the two, his own brother and sister, had wrought upon all of the people. The Duck, long waiting, at last shook her shells and called to him. He heard not, or hearing gave no heed, but sat, like one bereft of all thinking, lamenting the deeds of his brother and sister and the woes of his people.
The Duck thereupon fled away toward the mountain whence issued the garrulous talking, and thence beyond, spying water, to the lake in its hollow. There she swam to and fro, this way and that, up and down, loudly quacking and calling. Lo! the lights of the Kíwitsin of the Kâ´kâ began to gleam in the waters, and as she gazed she beheld, rising from them, snout foremost, like one of her own kind, the Sálamopia of the north, whom the gods of the Kâ´kâ, the noble and surpassing Páutiwa and the ancient K‘yáu‘hliwa, had dispatched to bid the Duck dive down and lay before them whatsoever message she might bear. The Duck followed down, down, into the great assembly halls. There she told of the far journeys she had made, of her finding and leading the K‘yäk´lu, and how now K‘yäk´lu sat blind of eyes, maimed and hearing naught of her calling, in the plain beyond the mountains.
"Yea, him know we well!" replied the gods. "Of our sacred breath breathed his father and his mother when days were new and of us shall be numbered they, when time is full. Lo! therefore because changed violently of his grief and sore hardships whilst yet but k‘yaíyuna, he hath become ‘hlímna, and yet unchanging, since finished so; yea, and unceasing, as one of ourselves, thus shall he remain. True also is this, of his brother and sister who dwell with their uncouth offspring in the mountain hard by. Go upward, now, and with thy tinkling shells entice these children to the lake shore. Loudly will they talk of the marvel as in their wilder moments they ever talk of anything new to hap. And they will give no peace to the old ones until these come down also to see thee! Thou wearest the sacred shells and strands of K‘yäk´lu wherewith he was ever wont to count his talks in other days when days were new to men. When these they see, lo! instant grave will become they and listen to thy words, for they will know the things they watched him wear and coveted when they were still little, all in the days that were new to men. Bid them make forthwith of poles and reeds, a litter, and bear it away, the father of them all with his children (nay not the sister-mother, to sore hurt the love of a brother eldest for a sister youngest, wherefore so pitiably he mourneth even now) to where, in the far plain, K‘yäk´lu sits so mourning. Bid them greet him, and bring him hence. They may not enter, but they may point the way and tell him how, fearlessly, to win into our presence, for as one even of ourselves is he become; yea, and they also, save that they stayed themselves for the ages, midway betwixt the living and the dead, by their own rash acts did they stay themselves so, wherefore it is become their office to point the way of the again living to the newly dead, for aye. Tell the grandchild, thy father withal, K‘yäk´lu, to mourn not any longer, neither tarry, but to get him straightway hither, that he may learn from us of his people of the meanings of past times, and of how it shall be in times to come."
Even so did the Duck, as bidden, even so did the Kâ´yemäshi, one and all, as it had been said they would do as the Duck bade them, and ere the morning came, they with a litter went, singing a quaint and pleasant song, adown the northern plain, bearing their litter. And when they found the K‘yäk´lu, lo! he looked upon them in the starlight and wept; but their father, he who had been the glorious Síweluhsiwa, his youngest brother, stood over him and chanted the soothing yet sad dirge-rite, and he, too, wept and bowed his head; but presently he lifted his face and, as a gleeful child, his children joining, cajoled the silent K‘yäk´lu to sit him down in the great soft litter they did bear for him.
Then lifting it on their shoulders, they bore it lightly, singing loudly as they went, to the shores of the deep black lake, where gleamed from the middle the lights of the dead.
Uprose at this point, the Sálamopia Tém‘hlanahna or of all the six regions, led by the leader of them all and taking K‘yäk´lu on their shoulders, they in turn bore him out over the water to the magic ladder of rushes and canes which reared itself high out of the water; and K‘yäk´lu, scattering sacred prayer-meal before him, stepped down the way, slowly, like a blind man, descending a skyhole. No sooner had he taken four steps than the ladder lowered into the deep; and lo! his light was instant darkened.
But when the Sálamopia of the regions entered the central sitting place of the Kâ´kâ with K‘yäk´lu, Shúlawitsi lifted his brand on high and swinging it, lighted the fires anew, so that K‘yäk´lu saw again with fulness of sight and so that they shone on all the gods and soul-beings therein assembled, revealing them. Yea, and through the windows and doorways of all the six chambers encircling, and at each portal, the Sálamopia of the region it pertained and led unto took his station. And Páutiwa, and his warriors the bluehorned Saía‘hliawe, and the tall Sháalako-kwe, yea, and all the god-priests of the regions six, those who are told of without omission in the speech of K‘yäk´lu and in other speeches of our ancient talk, bade K‘yäk´lu welcome, saying, "Comest thou, son?" "Yea," he replied. "Verily then," said Páutiwa—