University of Virginia Library

SHE WAITS IN THE SPIRIT LAND.
A Romance founded on an Indian Tradition.

Pu-kee-she-no-qua was famous among her tribe for
her eloquent manner of relating stories. She treasured
up all the old traditions, and though she repeated
them truly, they came from her mouth in brighter
pictures than from others, because she tipped all the
edges with her own golden fancy. One might easily
conjecture that there was poetry in the souls of her
ancestry also; for they had given her a name which
signifies, “I light from flying.” At fourteen years
old, she was shut up in a hut by herself, to fast and

dream, according to the custom of the Indians. She
dreamed that the Morning Star came down and nestled
in her bosom, like a bird; therefore she chose it for
the Manitou, or Protecting Spirit of her life, and
named her first-born son Wah-bu-nung-o, an Indian
word for the Morning Star. The boy was handsome,
brave and gentle; and his childhood gave early indications
that he inherited the spiritual and poetic tendencies
of his mother. At the threshold of his young
life, he too was set apart to fast and dream. He
dreamed of a wild rose bush, in full bloom, and heard
a voice saying, “She will wait for thee in the spirit-land.
Do not forsake her.” The Wild Rose was
accordingly adopted as his Manitou.

In a neighbouring wigwam, was a girl named
O-ge-bu-no-qua, which signifies the Wild Rose.
When she, at twelve years old, was sent into retirement
to fast and dream, she dreamed of a Star; but
she could tell nothing about it, only that it was mild,
and looked at her. She was a charming child, and
grew into beautiful maidenhood. Her dark cheek looked
like a rich brown autumn leaf, faintly tinged with
crimson. Her large eyes, shaded with deep black
fringe, had a shy and somewhat mournful tenderness
of expression. Her voice seemed but the echo of her
glance, it was so low and musical in tone, so plaintive
in its cadences. Her well-rounded figure was pliant
and graceful, and her motions were like those of some
pretty, timid animal, that has always stepped to
sylvan sounds.

The handsome boy was but two years older than
the beautiful girl. In childhood, they swung together

in the same boughs, hand in hand they clambered the
rocks, and gathered the flowers and berries of the
woods. Living in such playful familiarity with the
deer and the birds, the young blood flowed fresh and
strong, their forms were vigorous, and their motions
flexile and free. The large dark eyes of Wah-bu-nung-o
were tender and sad, and had a peculiarly
deep, spiritual, inward-looking expression, as if he
were the destined poet and prophet of his tribe. But
the lofty carriage of his head, the Apollo curve of his
parted lips, and his aquiline nose, with open well-defined
nostrils, expressed the pride and daring of a
hunter and a warrior.

It was very natural that the maiden should sometimes
think it a beautiful coincidence that a Star was
her guardian spirit, and this handsome friend of her
childhood was named the Morning Star. And when
he told her of the Wild Rose of his dream, had he not
likewise some prophetic thoughts? Fortunately for
the free and beautiful growth of their love, they lived
out of the pale of civilization. There was no Mrs.
Smith to remark how they looked at each other, and
no Mrs. Brown to question the propriety of their
rambles in the woods. The simple philosophy of the
Indians had never taught that nature was a sin, and
therefore nature was troubled with no sinful consciousness.
When Wah-bu-nung-o hunted squirrels, O-ge-bu-no-qua
thought it no harm to gather basket-stuff in
the same woods. There was a lovely crescent-shaped
island opposite the village, profusely covered with
trees and vines, and carpeted with rich grasses and
mosses, strewn with flowers. Clumps of young

birches shone among the dark shrubbery, like slender
columns of silver, and willows stooped so low to look
in the mirror of the waters, that their graceful tresses
touched the stream. Here, above all other places, did
the maiden love to go to gather twigs for baskets, and
the young man to select wood for his bows and arrows.
Often, when day was declining, and the calm river
reflected the Western sky, glowing with amber light,
and fleckered with little fleecy rose-coloured clouds,
his canoe might be seen gliding across the waters.
Sometimes O-ge-bu-no-qua was waiting for him on
the island, and sometimes he steered the boat for the
grove of willows, while she urged it forward with the
light swift stroke of her paddle.

Civilized man is little to be trusted under such circumstances;
but nature, subjected to no false restraints,
manifests her innate modesty, and even in
her child-like abandonment to impulse, rebukes by her
innocence the unclean self-consciousness of artificial
society. With a quiet grave tenderness, the young
Indian assisted his beautiful companion in her tasks,
or spoke to her from time to time, as they met by
brook or grove, in the pursuit of their different avocations.
Her Manitou, the Morning Star of the sky,
could not have been more truly her protecting spirit.

It was on her sixteenth birth day, that they, for the
first time, lingered on the island after twilight. The
Indians, with an untaught poetry of modesty, never
talk of love under the bright staring gaze of day.
Only amid the silent shadows do they yield to its
gentle influence. O-ge-bu-no-qua was born with the
roses; therefore this birth-night of their acknowledged

love was in that beautiful month, named by the Indians
“the Moon of Flowers.” It was a lovely evening, and
surpassingly fair was the scene around them. The picturesque
little village of wigwams, on the other side of
the river, gave a smiling answer to the sun's farewell.
The abrupt heights beyond were robed in the richest
foliage, through which the departing rays streamed
like a golden shower. In the limitless forest, the
tall trees were of noble proportions, because they had
room enough to grow upward and outward, with a
strong free grace. In the flowery glades of the islands,
flocks of pigeons, and other smaller birds, cooed and
chirped. Soon all subsided into moon-silence, and
the elysian stillness was interrupted only by the faint
ripple of the sparkling river, the lone cry of the whippowill,
or the occasional plash of some restless bullfrog.
The lovers sat side by side on a grassy knoll.
An evening breeze gave them a gentle kiss as it passed,
and brought them a love-token of fragrance from
a rose-bush that grew at their feet. Wah-bu-nung-o
gathered one of the blossoms, by the dim silvery light,
and placing it in the hand of O-ge-bu-no-qua, he said,
in a voice tender and bashful as a young girl's,
“Thou knowest the Great Spirit has given me the
wild rose for a Manitou. I have told thee my dream;
but I have never told thee, thou sweet rose of my life,
how sadly I interpret it.”

She nestled closer in his bosom, and gazing earnestly
on a bright star in the heavens, the Manitou
of her own existence, she murmured almost inaudibly,
“How dost thou?” His brave strong arm encircled
her in a closer embrace, as he answered with

gentle solemnity, “The Rose will go to the spirit-land,
and leave her Star to mourn alone.” The maiden's
eyes filled with tears, as she replied, “But the Rose
will wait for her Star. Thus said the voice of the
dream.”

They sat silently leaning on each other, till Wah-bu-nung-o
took up the pipe, that lay beside him, and
began to play. Birds sing only during their mating
season; their twin-born love and music pass away
together, with the roses; and the Indian plays on his
pipe only while he is courting. It is a rude kind of
flute, with two or three stops, and very limited variety
of tone. The life of a savage would not be fitly expressed
in rich harmonies; and life in any form never
fashions to itself instruments beyond the wants of the
soul. But the sounds of this pipe, with its perpetual
return of sweet simple chords, and its wild flourishes,
like the closing strain of a bob o'link, was in pleasing
accord with the primeval beauty of the scene. When
the pipe paused for awhile, O-ge-bu-no-qua warbled a
wild plaintive little air, which her mother used to sing
to her, when she swung from the boughs in her queer
little birch-bark cradle. Indian music, like the voices
of inanimate nature, the wind, the forest, and the sea,
is almost invariably in the minor mode; and breathed
as it now was to the silent moon, and with the shadow
of the dream interpretation still resting on their souls,
it was oppressive in its mournfulness. The song
hushed; and O-ge-bu-no-qua, clinging closer to her
lover's arm, whispered in tones of superstitious
fear, “Does it not seem to you as if the Great Spirit
was looking at us?” “Yes, and see how he smiles,”

replied Wah-bu-nung-o, in bolder and more cheerful
accents, as he pointed to the sparkling waters: “The
deer and the birds are not sad; let us be like them.”

He spoke of love; of the new wigwam he would
build for his bride, and the game he would bring
down with his arrow. These home-pictures roused
emotions too strong for words. Stolid and imperturbable
as the Indian race seem in the presence of spectators,
in these lonely hours with the beloved one,
they too learn that love is the glowing wine, the exhilarating
“fire-water” of the soul.

* * * * * * *

When they returned, no one questioned them. It
was the most natural thing in the world that they
should love each other; and natural politeness respected
the freedom of their young hearts. No marriage
settlements, no precautions of the law, were necessary.
There was no person to object, whenever he chose to
lead her into his wigwam, and by that simple circumstance
she became his wife. The next day, as O-ge-bu-no-qua
sat under the shadow of an elm, busily
braiding mats, Wah-bu-nung-o passed by, carrying
poles, which he had just cut in the woods. He stopped
and spoke to her, and the glance of her wild melancholy
eye met his with a beautiful expression of
timid fondness. The next moment, she looked down
and blushed very deeply. The poles were for the
new wigwam, and so were the mats she was braiding;
and she had promised her lover that as soon as the
wigwam was finished, she would come and live with
him. He conjectured her thoughts; but he did not
smile, neither did he tell her that her blush was as

beautiful as the brilliant flower of the Wickapee; but
that bashful loving glance filled him with an inward
warmth. Its beaming, yet half-veiled tenderness passed
into his soul, and was never afterward forgotten.

That afternoon, all the young men of the tribe went
a few miles up the river to fish. Sad tidings awaited
their return. Ong-pa-tonga, the Big Elk, chief of a
neighbouring tribe, in revenge for some trifling affront,
had attacked the village in their absence, wounded
some of the old warriors, and carried off several of
the women and children. The blooming Wild Rose
was among the captives. Wah-bu-nung-o was frantic
with rage and despair. A demon seemed to have
taken possession of his brave, but usually gentle soul.
He spoke few words, but his eyes gleamed with a
fierce unnatural fire. He painted himself with the
colours of eternal enmity to the tribe of Big Elk, and
secretly gloated over plans of vengeance. An opportunity
soon offered to waylay the transgressors on their
return from a hunting expedition. Several women
accompanied the party, to carry their game and blankets.
One of these, the wife of Big Elk, was killed by
an arrow, and some of the men were wounded. This
slight taste of vengeance made the flames of hatred
burn more intensely. The image of his enemy expiring
by slow tortures was the only thought that
brought pleasure to the soul of Wah-bu-nung-o.
Twice he had him nearly in his power, but was baffled
by cunning. In one of the skirmishes between the
contending tribes, he took captive a woman and her
two children. Being questioned concerning the fate
of O-ge-bu-no-qua, she said that Big Elk, in revenge

for the loss of his wife, had killed her with his war
club. For a moment, Wah-bu-nung-o stood as if suddenly
changed to stone; then his Indian firmness forsook
him, he tore his hair, and howled in frantic
agony. But in the midst of this whirlwind of grief,
the memory of his dream came like a still small voice,
and whispered, “She waits for thee in the spirit land.
Do not forsake her.” The mad fire of his eye changed
to the mildest and deepest melancholy. He promised
the captive that she and her children should be treated
kindly, and allowed to return to her tribe, if she would
guide him to the maiden's grave.

Leaving her children in his own village, as a security
against treachery, he followed her through the forest,
till they came to a newly-made mound, with a
few stones piled upon it. This she said was O-ge-bu-no-qua's
grave. The young warrior gazed on it
silently, with folded arms. No cry, or groan, escaped
him; though in the depths of his soul was sorrow
more bitter than death. Thus he remained for a long
time. At last, he turned to take a careful inspection
of the scene around him, and marked a tree with the
point of his arrow. Then commanding the woman to
walk before him, he strode homeward in perfect silence.
A monotonous accompaniment of tree-whispering alone
responded to the farewell dirge in his heart. As he
looked on the boundless wilderness, and gazed into its
dark mysterious depths, wild and solemn reveries
came over him; vast shadowy visions of life and death;
but through all the changes of his thought sounded
the ever-recurring strain, “She waits for thee in the
spirit-land.” Then came the dread that Big Elk

would go there before him, and would persecute his
beloved, as he had done during her life in the body.
An impatient shudder went over him, and he longed
for death; but he had been taught to consider suicide
a cowardly act, and he was awe-stricken before the
great mystery of the soul. The dreadful conflict terminated
in one calm fixed resolution. He determined
to relinquish all his cherished plans of vengeance, and
during the remainder of his life to watch over Big
Elk, and guard him from danger, that he might not
go to the spirit-land till he himself was there to protect
his beloved.

The day after his return home, he told his mother
that he must go away to fulfil a vow, and he knew
not when he should return. He earnestly conjured
his brothers to be kind and reverent to their mother;
then bidding them a calm but solemn farewell, he
stepped into his canoe, and rowed over to the Isle of
Willows. Again he stood by the grassy knoll where
the loved one had lain upon his breast. The rose-bush
was there, tall and vigorous, though the human
Rose had passed away, to return no more. He shed
no tears, but reverently went through his forms of worship
to the tutelary spirit of his life. With measured
dance, and strange monotonous howls, he made a vow
of utter renunciation of everything, even of his hopes
of vengeance, if he might be permitted to protect his
beloved in the spirit-land. He brought water from
the brook in a gourd, from which they had often drunk
together; he washed from his face the emblems of
eternal enmity to Big Elk, and with solemn ceremonial
poured it on the roots of the rose. Then he

rowed far up the river, and landed near the grave, on
which he kindled a fire, that the dear departed might
be lighted to the spirit-land, according to the faith of
his fathers. He buried the gourd in the mound, saying,
“This I send to thee, my Rose, that thou mayest
drink from it in the spirit-land.” Three nights he
tended the fire, and then returned for the rose-bush,
which he planted at the head of the grave. He built
a wigwam near by, and dwelt there alone. He feared
neither wild beast nor enemies; for he had fulfilled
his duties to the dead, and now his only wish was
to go and meet her. Big Elk and his companions
soon discovered him, and came upon him with their
war-clubs. He stood unarmed, and quietly told them
he had consecrated himself by a vow to the Great
Spirit, and would fight no more. He gazed steadily
in the face of his enemy, and said, if they wanted his
life, they were welcome to take it. The deep, mournful,
supernatural expression of his eyes inspired them
with awe. They thought him insane; and all such
are regarded by the Indians with superstitious fear
and reverence. “He has seen the door of the spirit-land
opened,” they said; “the moon has spoken secrets
to him; and the Great Spirit is angry when such
are harmed.” So they left him in peace. But he
sighed as they turned away; for he had hoped to die
by their hands. From that time he followed Big Elk
like his shadow; but always to do him service. At
first, his enemy was uneasy, and on his guard; but
after awhile, he became accustomed to his presence,
and even seemed to be attached to him. At one time,
a fever brought the strong man to the verge of the
grave. Wah-bu-nung-o watched over him with trembling
anxiety, and through weary days and sleepless
nights tended him as carefully as a mother tends her
suffering babe. Another time, when Big Elk was
wounded by an enemy, he drew out the arrow, sought
medicinal herbs, and healed him. Once, when he
was about to cross a wide deep ditch, bridged by a
single tree, Wah-bu-nung-o perceived a rattle-snake
on the bridge, and just as the venomous reptile was
about to spring, his arrow nailed him to the tree.

Thus weary months passed away. The mourner,
meek and silent, held communion with his Manitou,
the rose-bush, to which he repeated often, “Bid her
look to the Morning Star, and fear nothing. I will
protect her. Tell her we shall meet again in the
spirit-land, as we met in the Isle of Willows.” Sadly
but mildly his eye rested on the murderer of his
beloved, and he tended upon him with patient gentleness,
that seemed almost like affection. Very beautiful
and holy was this triumph of love over hatred,
seeking no reward but death. But the “twin-brother
of sleep” came not where he was so much desired.
Others who clung to life were taken, but the widowed
heart could not find its rest. At last, the constant
prayer of his faithful love was answered. By some
accident, Big Elk became separated from his hunting
companions, late in the afternoon of a winter's day.
There came on a blinding storm of wind and snow
and sleet. The deep drifts were almost impassable,
and the keen air cut the lungs, like particles of sharpened
steel. Night came down in robes of thick darkness.
Nothing interrupted her solemn silence, but

the crackling of ice from the trees, and the moaning
and screaming of the winds. The very wolves hid
themselves from the fury of the elements. While
light enough remained to choose a shelter, the wanderers
took refuge in a deep cleft screened by projecting
rocks. The morning found them stiff and
hungry, and almost buried in snow. With much difficulty
they made their way out into the forest, completely
bewildered, and guided only by the sun, which
glimmered gloomily through the thick atmosphere.
Two days they wandered without food. Toward
night, Wah-bu-nung-o discovered horns projecting
through the snow; and digging through the drift, he
found a few moose bones, on which the wolves had
left some particles of flesh. He resisted the cravings
of hunger, and gave them all to his famishing enemy.
As twilight closed, they took shelter in a large
hollow tree, near which Wah-bu-nung-o, with the
watchful eye of love and faith, observed a rose-bush,
with a few crimson seed-vessels shining through
the snow. He stripped some trees, and covered
Ong-pa-tonga with the bark; then piling up snow
before the entrance to the tree, to screen him from
the cold, he bade him sleep, while he kept watch.
Ong-pa-tonga asked to be awakened, that he might
watch in his turn; but to this his anxious guardian returned
no answer. The storm had passed away and
left an atmosphere of intense cold. The stars glittered
in the deep blue sky, like points of steel. Weary, faint,
and starving, Wah-bu-nung-o walked slowly back and
forth. When he felt an increasing numbness stealing
over his limbs, a disconsolate smile gleamed on his
countenance, and he offered thanks to the Manitou bush
by his side. It was the first time he had smiled since
his Wild Rose was taken from him. Presently, the
howl of wolves was heard far off. He kept more
carefully near the tree where his enemy slept, and
listened to ascertain in what direction the ravenous
beasts would come. “They shall eat me first, before
they find their way to him,” he said; “She would be
so frightened to see his spirit, before mine came to
protect her.” But the dismal sounds died away in
the distance, and were heard no more. Panting and
staggering, the patient sufferer fell on the ground, at
the foot of the rose-bush, and prayed imploringly,
“Let not the wild beasts devour him, while I lie here
insensible. Oh, send me to the spirit-land, that I may
protect her!” He gasped for breath, and a film came
over his eyes, so that he could no longer see the stars.
How long he remained thus, no one ever knew.

Suddenly all was light around him. The rose-bush
bloomed, and O-ge-bu-no-qua stood before him,
with the same expression of bashful love he had last
seen in her beautiful eyes. “I have been ever near
thee,” she said; “Hast thou not seen me?”

“Where am I, my beloved?” he exclaimed: “Are
we in the Isle of Willows?”

“We are in the spirit-land,” she answered: “Thy
Rose has waited patiently for the coming of her
Morning Star.”