 | Dahcotah, or, Life and legends of the Sioux around Fort Snelling |  |
HAOKAH OZAPE;
THE
DANCE TO THE GIANT.
1. CHAPTER I.
The dance to the Giant is now rarely celebrated among
the Dahcotahs. So severe is the sacrifice to this deity,
that there are few who have courage to attempt it; and yet
Haokah is universally reverenced and feared among the
Sioux.
They believe in the existence of many Giants, but
Haokah is one of the principal. He is styled the antinatural
god. In summer he feels cold, in winter he
suffers from the heat; hot water is cold to him, and the
contrary.
The Dahcotah warrior, however brave he may be,
believes that when he dreams of Haokah, calamity is impending
and can only be avoided by some sort of sacrifice
to this god.
The incident on which this story is founded, occurred
while I resided among the Sioux. I allude to the desertion
of Wenona by her lover. It serves to show the blind and
ignorant devotion of the Dahcotah to his religion.
And as man is ever alike in every country, and under
tramples upon the heart that trusts him—so does woman
utterly condemn a sister, feeling no sympathy for her
sorrow, but only hatred of her fault.
Jealous for the honor of the long-reverenced feasts of the
Dahcotahs—the “Deer Killer” thought not for a moment
of the sorrow and disgrace he would bring upon Wenona,
while Wauska loved the warrior more than ever, triumphing
in his preference of her, above her companion. And
Wenona—
And evening did set in
Early, and dark and deadly.
But she loved too truly to be jealous, and departed without
the revenge that most Indian women would have
sought, and accomplished too. Her silence on the subject
of her early trial induced her friends to believe that her
mind was affected, a situation caused by long and intense
suffering, and followed by neglect; in such cases the invalid
is said to have no heart.
The girl from whom I have attempted to draw the
character of Wauska, I knew well.
Good looking, with teeth like pearls, her laugh was perfect
music. Often have I been roused from my sewing
or reading, by hearing the ringing notes, as they were
answered by the children. She generally announced herself
by a laugh, and was welcomed by one in return.
She was pettish withal, and easily offended, and if refused
calico for an okendokenda, or beads, or ribbon to
ornament some part of her dress, she would sullenly rest
promise of one.
It is in Indian life as in ours—youth believes and trusts,
and advancing years bring the consciousness of the trials
of life; the necessity of enduring, and in some cases the
power to overcome them. Who but she who suffers it,
can conceive the Sioux woman's greatest trial—to feel that
the love that is her right, is gone! to see another take
the place by the household fire, that was hers; to be last
where she was first.
It may require some apology that Wauska should have
vowed destruction upon herself if the Deer Killer took
another wife, and yet should have lived on and become
that most unromantic of all characters—a virago. She
was reconciled in time to what was inevitable, and as
there are many wives among the Sioux, there must be the
proportion of scolding ones. So I plead guilty to the
charge of wanting sentiment, choosing rather to be true to
nature. And there is this consideration: if there be among
the Dahcotahs some Catharines, there are many Petruchios.
A group of Indian girls were seated on the grass,
Wauska in the centre, her merry musical laugh echoed back
by all but Wenona. The leaves of the large forest tree
under which they were sheltered seemed to vibrate to the
joyous sounds, stirred as they were by a light breeze that
blew from the St. Peter's. Hark! they laugh again, and
“old John” wakes up from his noon-day nap and turns a
curious, reproving look to the noisy party, and Shah-co-pee,
the orator of the Sioux, moves towards them, anxious to
find out the cause of their mirth.
“Old John,” after a hearty stretch, joins them too, and
now the fumes of the pipe ascend, and mix with the odor
of the sweet-scented prairie grass that the young girls are
braiding.
But neither Shah-co-pee the chief, nor old John the
medicine man, could find out the secret; they coaxed and
threatened in turns—but all in vain, for their curiosity was
not gratified. They might have noticed, however, that
Wenona's face was pale, and her eyes red with weeping.
She was idle too, while the others plaited busily, and there
was a subdued look of sadness about her countenance,
contrasting strangely with the merry faces of the others.
“Why did you not tell Shah-co-pee what we were laughing
at, Wenona?” said Wanska. “Your secret is known
now. The Deer-killer told all at the Virgin's feast. Why
did you not make him promise not to come? If I had
been you, I would have lain sick the day of the feast, I
would have struck my foot, so that I could not walk, or,
I would have died before I entered the ring.
“The Deer-killer promised to marry me,” replied Wenona.
“He said that when he returned from his hunt I
should be his wife. But I know well why he has disgraced
me; you have tried to make him love you, and now he is
waiting to take you to his lodge. He is not a great warrior,
or he would have kept his word.”
“Wenona!” said Wanska, interrupting her, “you have
not minded the advice of your grandmother. She told you
never to trust the promises of the bravest warriors. You
should not have believed his words, until he took you to his
wigwam. But do not be afraid that I will marry the Deer-killer.
There was never but one woman among the Dahcotahs
second.”
“You had better hush, Wanska,” said the Bright Star.
“You know she had her nose cut off because she refused
to be a wife, and somebody may cut yours off too. It is
better to be the mother of warriors than to have every one
laughing at you.”
“Enah! then I will be married, rather than have my
nose cut off, but I will not be the Deer-killer's wife. So
Wenona may stop crying.”
“He says he will never marry me,” said Wenona; “and
it will do me no good for you to refuse to be his wife. But
you are a liar, like him; for you know you love him. I
am going far away, and the man who has broken his faith
to the maiden who trusted him, will never be a good husband.”
“If I were Wenona, and you married the Deer-killer,”
said the Bright Star to Wanska, “you should not live
long after it. She is a coward or she would not let you
laugh at her as you did. I believe she has no heart since
the Virgin's feast; sometimes she laughs so loud that we
can hear her from our teepee, and then she bends her head
and weeps. When her mother places food before her she
says, `Will he bring the meat of the young deer for me to
dress for him, and will my lodge be ever full of food, that
I may offer it to the hungry and weary stranger who stops
to rest himself?' If I were in her place, Wanska,” added
the Bright Star, “I would try and be a medicine woman,
and I would throw a spell upon the Deer-killer, and upon
you too, if you married him.”
“The Deer-killer is coming,” said another of the girls.
has gone away, he is coming to talk to Wanska. He
wears many eagle feathers: Wenona may well weep that
she cannot be his wife, for there is not a warrior in the village
who steps so proudly as he.”
But he advanced and passed them indifferently. By
and by they separated, when he followed Wanska to her
father's teepee.
Her mother and father had gone to dispose of game in
exchange for bread and flour, and the Deer-killer seated
himself uninvited on the floor of the lodge.
“The teepee of the warrior is lonely when he returns
from hunting,” said he to the maiden. “Wanska must
come to the lodge of the Deer-killer. She shall ever have
the tender flesh of the deer and buffalo to refresh her, and
no other wife shall be there to make her unhappy.”
“Wanska is very happy now,” she replied. “Her father
is a good hunter. He has gone to-day to carry ducks and
pigeons to the Fort. The promises of the Deer-killer are
like the branch that breaks in my hand. Wenona's face
is pale, and her eyes are red like blood from weeping. The
Deer-killer promised to make her his wife, and now that
he has broken his word to her, he tells Wanska that he
will never take another wife, but she cannot trust him.”
“Wanska was well named the Merry Heart,” the warrior
replied; “she laughs at Wenona and calls her a fool,
and then she wishes me to marry her. Who would listen
to a woman's words? And yet the voice of the Merry
Heart is sweeter than a bird's—her laugh makes my spirit
glad. When she sits in my lodge and sings to the children
who will call me father, I shall be happy. Many women
beside one, till he heard the voice of Wanska as she sang
in the scalp-dance, and saw her bear the scalp of her enemy
upon her shoulders.”
Wanska's face was pale while she listened to him. She
approached him, and laid her small hand upon his arm—
“I have heard your words, and my heart says they are
good. I have loved you ever since we were children.
When I was told that you were always by the side of
Wenona, the laugh of my companions was hateful to me—
the light of the sun was darkness to my eyes. When
Wenona returned to her village with her parents, I said in
the presence of the Great Spirit that she should not live
after you had made her your wife. But her looks told me
that there was sadness in her heart, and then I knew you
could not love her.
“You promise me you will never bring another wife to
your wigwam. Deer-killer! the wife of the white man is
happy, for her husband loves her alone. The children of
the second wife do not mock the woman who is no longer
beloved, nor strike her children before her eyes. When I
am your wife I shall be happy while you love me; there
will be no night in my teepee while I know your heart is
faithful and true; but should you break your word to me,
and bring to your lodge another wife, you shall see me no
more, and the voice whose sound is music to your ears
you will never hear again.”
Promises come as readily to the lips of an Indian lover
as trustfulness does to the heart of the woman who listens
to them; and the Deer-killer was believed.
Wanska had been often at the Fort, and she had seen
Indian woman. She had thought that the Great Spirit
was unmindful of the cares of his children.
And who would have thought that care was known to
Wanska, with her merry laugh, and her never-ceasing
jokes, whether played upon her young companions, or on
the old medicine man who kept everybody but her in awe
of him.
She seemed to be everywhere too, at the same time.
Her canoe dances lightly over the St. Peter's, and her
companions try in vain to keep up with her. Soon her
clear voice is heard as she sings, keeping time with the
strokes of the axe she uses so skilfully. A peal of laughter
rouses the old woman, her mother, who goes to bring the
truant home, but she is gone, and when she returns, in
time to see the red sun fade away in the bright horizon,
she tells her mother that she went out with two or three
other girls, to assist the hunters in bringing in the deer
they had killed. And her mother for once does not scold,
for she remembers how she used to love to wander on the
prairies, when her heart was as light and happy as her
child's.
When Wanska was told that the Deer-killer loved Wenona,
no one heard her sighs, and for tears, she was too proud
to shed any. Wenona's fault had met with ridicule and
contempt; there was neither sympathy nor excuse found for
her. And now that the Deer-killer had slighted Wenona,
and had promised to love her alone, there was nothing
wanting to her happiness.
Bright tears of joy fell from her eyes when her lover
said there was a spell over him when he loved Wenona,
truly, and that when her parents returned he would bring
rich presents and lay them at the door of the lodge.
Wanska was indeed “the Merry Heart,” for she loved
the Deer-killer more than life itself, and life was to her
a long perspective of brightness. She would lightly
tread the journey of existence by his side, and when
wearied with the joys of this world, they would together
travel the road that leads to the Heaven of the Dahcotahs.
She sat dreaming of the future after the Deer-killer
had left her, nor knew of her parents' return until she
heard her mother's sharp voice as she asked her “if the
corn would boil when the fire was out, and where was the
bread that she was told to have ready on their return?”
Bread and corn! when Wanska had forgot all but that
she was beloved. She arose quickly, and her light laugh
drowned her mother's scolding. Soon her good humor
was infectious, for her mother told her that she had needles
and thread in plenty, besides more flour and sugar, and
that her father was going out early in the morning to kill
more game for the Long Knives who loved it so well.
2. CHAPTER II.
A few months ago, the Deer-killer had told Wenona
that Wanska was noisy and tiresome, and that her soft
dark eyes were far more beautiful than Wanska's laughing
accompanied her parents on a visit to some relations who
lived far above the village of Shah-co-pee.
While there the Deer-killer came in with some warriors
who had been on a war party; there Wenona was
assured that her rival, the Merry Heart, was forgotten.
And well might the Deer-killer and Wenona have loved
each other. “Youth turns to youth as the flower to the
sun,” and he was brave and noble in his pride and power;
and she, gentle and loving, though an Indian woman; so
quiet too, and all unlike Wanska, who was the noisiest
little gossip in the village.
Often had they wandered together through the “solemn
temples of the earth,” nor did she ever fear, with the warrior
child for a protector. She had followed him when he
ascended the cliffs where the tracks of the eagle were seen;
and with him she felt safe when the wind was tossing
their canoe on the Mississippi, when the storm spirits had
arisen in their power. They were still children when
Wenona would know his step among many others, but
they were no longer children when Wenona left Shah-co-pee's
village, for she loved with a woman's devotion—
and more than loved. She had trembled when she saw
the Deer-killer watch Wanska as she tripped merrily
about the village. Sleeping or waking, his image was ever
before her; he was the idol to which her spirit bowed, the
sun of her little world.
The dance to the giant was to be celebrated at the
village where they were visiting; the father of Wenona
and “Old John” the medicine man, were to join in it.
The maiden had been nothing loth to undertake the journey,
the Chippeways, and she thought that in the course of
their journey they might meet him—and when away from
Wanska, he would return to her side. He could not
despise the love she had given him. Hope, that bright
star of youth, hovered over her, and its light was reflected
on her heart.
When they arrived at the village of the chief Markeda,
or “Burning Earth,” the haughty brow of the chief was
subdued with care. He had dreamed of Haokah the
giant, and he knew there was sorrow or danger threatening
him. He had sinned against the giant, and what
might be the consequence of offending him? Was his
powerful arm to be laid low, and the strong pulse to cease
its beatings? Did his dream portend the loss of his young
wife? She was almost as dear to him as the fleet hunter
that bore him to the chase.
It might be that the angry god would send their enemies
among them, and his tall sons would gladden his sight no
more. Sickness and hunger, phantom-like, haunted his
waking and sleeping hours.
There was one hope; he might yet ward off the danger,
for the uplifted arm of the god had not fallen. He hoped
to appease the anger of the giant by dancing in his honor.
“We have travelled far,” said old John the medicine
man, to Markeda, “and are tired. When we have slept
we will dance with you, for we are of the giant's party.”
“Great is Haokah, the giant of the Dahcotahs,” the
chief replied; “it is a long time since we have danced to
him.”
“I had been hunting with my warriors, we chased the
upon us, bellowing, their heads beating the ground; their
terrible eyes glared upon us even in death; they rolled in
the dust, for their strength was gone. We brought them
to the village for our women to prepare for us when we
should need them. I had eaten and was refreshed; and,
tired as my limbs were, I could not sleep at first, but at
last the fire grew dim before my eyes, and I slept.
“I stood on the prairie alone, in my dream, and the
giant appeared before me. So tall was he that the clouds
seemed to float about his head. I trembled at the sound
of his voice, it was as if the angry winds were loosed upon
the earth.
“`The warriors of the Dahcotahs are turned women,'
said he; `that they no longer dance in honor of the giant,
nor sing his songs. Markeda is not a coward, but let him
tremble; he is not a child, but he may shed tears if the
anger of the giant comes upon him.'
“Glad was I when I woke from my dream—and now,
lest I am punished for my sins, I will make a sacrifice to
the giant. Should I not fear him who is so powerful?
Can he not take the thunder in his hand and cast it to the
earth?
“The heart of the warrior should be brave when he
dances to the giant. My wigwam is ready, and the friends
of the giant are ready also.”
“Give me your mocassins,” said the young wife of
Markeda to old John; “they are torn, and I will mend
them. You have come from afar, and are welcome.
Sleep, and when you awake, you will find them beside
you.” As she assisted him to take them off, the medicine
of Markeda is as beautiful as the white flowers that spring
up on the prairies. Her husband would mourn for her if
the giant should close her eyes. They are bright now, as
the stars, but death would dim them, should not the anger
of the giant be appeased.”
The “Bounding Fawn” turned pale at the mention of
the angry giant; she sat down, without replying, to her
work; wondering the while, if the soul of her early love
thought of her, now that it wandered in the Spirit's land.
It might be that he would love her again when they should
meet there. The sound of her child's voice, awakening
out of sleep, aroused her, and called to her mind who was
its father.
“They tore me away from my lover, and made me come
to the teepee of the chief,” was her bitter reflection.
“Enah! that I cannot love the father of my child.”
She rose and left the teepee. “Where is the heaven of
the Dahcotahs,” she murmured, as she looked up to the
silent stars. “It may be that I shall see him again. He
will love my child too, and I will forget the many tears I
have shed.”
3. CHAPTER III.
The dance to the Giant is always performed inside the
wigwam. Early in the morning the dancers were assembled
in the chief's lodge. Their dress was such as is
appointed for the occasion. Their hats were made of the
They were large, and made forked like the lightning.
Their leggins were made of skins. Their ear-rings were
of the bark of trees, and were about one foot long.
The chief rose ere the dawn of day, and stood before the
fire. As the flames flickered, and the shadows of the
dancers played fantastically about the wigwam, they looked
more like Lucifer and a party of attendant spirits, than
like human beings worshipping their God.
Markeda stood by the fire without noticing his guests,
who awaited his motions in silence. At last, moving
slowly, he placed a kettle of water on the fire, and then
threw into it a large piece of buffalo meat.
Lighting his pipe, he seated himself, and then the
dancers advanced to the fire and lit theirs; and soon they
were enveloped in a cloud of smoke.
When the water began to boil, the Indians arose, and,
dancing round the fire, imitated the voice of the Giant.
“Hah-hah! hah hah!” they sung, and each endeavored
to drown the voice of the other. Now they crouch as
they dance, looking diminutive and contemptible, as those
who are degrading themselves in their most sacred duties.
Then they rise up, and show their full height. Stalwart
warriors as they are, their keen eyes flash as they glance
from the fire to each others' faces, distorted with the effort
of uttering such discordant sounds. Now their broad
chests heave with the exertion, and their breath comes
quickly.
They seat themselves, to rest and smoke. Again the
hellish sounds are heard, and the wife of the chief trembles
for fear of the Giant, and her child clings closer to her
fire, the flames are darkened for a moment, and then burst
up brighter than before.
Markeda addresses the dancers—“Warriors! the Giant
is powerful—the water which boils before us will be cold
when touched by a friend of the Giant. Haokah will not
that his friends should suffer when offering him a sacrifice.”
The warriors then advanced together, and each one puts
his hand into the kettle and takes the meat from the boiling
water; and although suffering from the scalds produced,
yet their calmness in enduring the pain, would induce the
belief that the water really felt to them cool and pleasant.
The meat is then taken out, and put into a wooden dish,
and the water left boiling on the fire. The dancers eat
the meat while hot, and again they arrange themselves to
dance. And now, the mighty power of the Giant is
shown, for Markeda advances to the kettle, and taking
some water out of it he throws it upon his bare back,
singing all the while, “The water is cold.”
“Old John” advances and does the same, followed by
the next in turn, until the water is exhausted from the
kettle, and then the warriors exclaim, “How great is the
power of Haokah! we have thrown boiling water upon
ourselves and we have not been scalded.”
The dance is over—the sacrifice is made. Markeda
seeks his young wife and fears not. He had fancied that
her cheeks were pale of late, but now they are flushed brilliantly,
his heart is at rest.
The warriors disperse, all but the medicine man, and
the magic touch of the epicure.
Yes! an epicure thou wert old John! for I mind me
well when thou camest at dinner time, and how thou
saidst thou couldst eat the food of the Indian when thou
wert hungry, but the food of the white man was better
far. And thou! a Dahcotah warrior, a famous hunter,
and a medicine man. Shame! that thou shouldst have
loved venison dressed with wine more than when the
tender meat was cooked according to the taste of the
women of thy nation. I have forgotten thy Indian name,
renegade as thou wert! but thou answerest as well to
“old John!”
Thou art now forgotten clay, though strong and vigorous
when in wisdom the Sioux were punished for a
fault they did not commit. Their money was not paid
them—their provisions were withheld. Many were laid
low, and thou hast found before now that God is the Great
Spirit, and the Giant Haokah is not.
And it may be that thou wouldst fain have those thou
hast left on earth know of His power, who is above all
spirits, and of His goodness who would have all come unto
Him.
4. CHAPTER IV.
Wenona had not hoped in vain, for her lover was with
her, and Wanska seemed to be forgotten. The warrior's
flute would draw her out from her uncle's lodge while the
she would hasten to meet him, and listen to his assurances
of affection, wondering the while that she had ever feared
he loved another.
She had been some months at the village of Markeda,
and she went to meet her lover with a heavy heart. Her
mother had noticed that her looks were sad and heavy,
and Wenona knew that it would not be long ere she should
be a happy wife, or a mark for the bitter scorn of her companions.
The Deer-killer had promised, day after day, that he
would make her his wife, but he ever found a ready excuse;
and now he was going on a long hunt, and she and
her parents were to return to their village. His quiver
was full of arrows, and his leggins were tightly girded upon
him. Wenona's full heart was nigh bursting as she heard
that the party were to leave to-morrow. Should he desert
her, her parents would kill her for disgracing them; and
her rival, Wanska, how would she triumph over her fall?
“You say that you love me,” said she to the Deer-killer,
“and yet you treat me cruelly. Why should you leave
me without saying that I am your wife? Who would
watch for your coming as I would? and you will disgrace
me when I have loved you so truly. Stay—tell them you
have made me your wife, and then will I wait for you at
the door of my teepee.”
The warrior could not stay from the chase, but he
promised her that he would soon return to their village,
and then she should be his wife.
Wenona wept when he left her; shadows had fallen
upon her heart, and yet she hoped on. Turning her weary
the village were preparing to celebrate the Virgin's Feast.
There was no time to deliberate—should she absent herself,
she would be suspected, and yet a little while ere the
Deer-killer would return, and her anxious heart would be
at rest.
The feast was prepared, and the crier called for all virgins
to enter the sacred ring.
Wenona went forward with a beating heart; she was not
a wife, and soon must be a mother. Wanska, the Merry
Heart, was there, and many others who wondered at the
pale looks of Wenona—she who had been on a journey,
and who ought to have returned with color bright as the
dying sun, whose light illumined earth, sky and water.
As they entered the ring a party of warriors approached
the circle. Wenona does not look towards them, and yet
the throbbings of her heart were not to be endured. Her
trembling limbs refused to sustain her, as the Deer-killer,
stalking towards the ring, calls aloud—“Take her from
the sacred feast; should she eat with the maidens?—she,
under whose bosom lies a warrior's child? She is unworthy.”
And as the unhappy girl, with features of stone and
glaring eyes, gazed upon him bewildered, he rudely led her
from the ring.
Wenona bowed her head and went—even as night came
on when the sun went down. Nor did the heart of the
Deer-killer reproach him, for how dare she offend the Great
Spirit! Were not the customs of his race holy and
sacred?
Little to Wenona were her father's reproaches, or her
remembered.
Again was the Deer-killer by the side of Wanska, and
she paid the penalty. Her husband brought other wives
to his wigwam, though Wanska was ever the favorite one.
With her own hand would she put the others out of the
wigwam, laughing when they threatened to tell their lord
when he returned, for Wanska managed to tell her own
story first, and, termagant as she was, she always had her
own way.
Wenona has ceased to weep, and far away in the country
of the Sissetons she toils and watches as all Indian
women toil and watch. Her young son follows her as she
seeks the suffering Dahcotah, and charms the disease to
leave his feeble frame.
She tells to the child and the aged woman her dreams;
she warns the warrior what he shall meet with when he
goes to battle; and ever, as the young girls assemble to pass
away the idle hours, she stops and whispers to them.
In vain do they ask of her husband: she only points
to her son and says, “My hair, which is now like snow,
was once black and braided like his, and my eyes as bright.
They have wept until tears come no more. Listen not to
the warrior who says he loves.” And she passes from
their sight as the morning mists.
| Dahcotah, or, Life and legends of the Sioux around Fort Snelling | |