The Runaway Papoose/Chapter 12

Very early the next morning the little dawn wind had come and gone, and Chi-weé had not noticed, for Chi-weé was fast asleep in her bed of skins. Her father had arisen long ago and had gone with the other men to the kiva, and her mother was grinding corn very softly so as not to awaken Chi-weé, in a corner of the room—back and forth on the metate with her grinding stone—and even the little baby brother was gurgling in great content as he lay and played with his toes in the bed of her mother.

And then—over the edge of the world shot a great ray of golden light—straight across the desert it flew—to the stone house up on top of the mesa—through the door that was open to the east, and right ​onto the closed eyelids of Chi-weé and danced up and down there.

“Wake up!” it cried. “Look, how it is day!—and have you forgotten, Chi-weé, what is to happen this day!” Chi-weé sat up in bed quickly and blinked at the yellow light, and then she jumped to her feet, and her mother smiled at her across the little room.

“Ah, Little Sleepy-bird is awake at last—and to think you would sleep late on this day!”

“Oh,” cried Chi-weé, and pulled the skins from her bed and began to shake them—she was very wide awake now—“it was because of a dream that I slept this time. It was a very wonderful dream, my mother—and I thought it was a true thing. It might be a true thing, this very day.” And her eyes grew big and danced at the thought. “In the dream the Butterfly Katchina was given to me to wear in the dance.”

“Ah!” said her mother. “All the little girls in this town are dreaming that dream to-day, and for someone it will be a true thing.”

It was very true—there was a sort of excitement that you could feel in the air all over the town—and a sound of shaking blankets and sweeping and a clatter of jars, that was not heard every day of the year.

​All this was happening in the pueblo built of gray stone high on the top of the rocky mesa, where you could look out over the desert, misty blue and purple in the very early morning, but shining with color when the sun drove away the mists. You could see that it was a very old town, and it had always been just the same as it was now as far back as the oldest grandfather could remember. The houses were square and were built one on top of the other with long ladders for stairways reaching from one story to the other; and with crooked little streets that came very near to losing themselves, running in and out among the houses. Almost every roof was covered with ears of corn drying in the sunlight—purple and red and yellow and blue—and there were yellow pumpkins, too, and squashes and long strands of meat and red chili peppers that fairly snapped with color against the gray stone walls. And on some of the rooftops women were making pottery jars, and on others grinding corn and weaving baskets—and in the streets babies, brown and roly-poly, were playing with the dogs and turkeys and rolling over and over in the dust.

On one side of the rocky mesa was the trail that went winding down to the spring, away down in the ​edge of the desert—and every drop of water that came up to the pueblo had to come up that trail, carried in jars—and everything at all that was brought to the top of the mesa had to be carried up that trail, and on hot days it would seem very steep to little feet; but Chi-weé did not mind, even though she was a very plump little girl, for Chi-weé was Indian, and she loved the sun and the outdoors and every stone of the little trail and every spot in the great glowing desert; and to go down the trail for water was an adventure that could be very exciting at times. Many things came to the spring. Once Chi-weé had found a little rabbit there that was almost dead from thirst and hunger; and another time there had been an old man—a very queer old man, and that had been a real adventure; and often Loki was waiting at the spring for her to come out in the desert and play.

But this was not a day to play in the desert—this was a very different kind of a day. Even the sounds and the smells were different. Besides the sweeping and rug-shaking sounds that were being made by the little girls, there was a queer, booming noise that seemed to make the very air to shake, like thunder that is far away. That was the drum down in the ​kiva, and once in a while the sound of rattles and the deep chanting of men came clearly to the ear, and everywhere was the smell of good things cooking. Chi-weé liked that very much—always she liked good things to eat, and that was why she was round like a little pumpkin herself.

And besides all this—besides the sounds and the smells of the day, there was the most important part of all—the part that was to come when the sun was straight overhead—the part that made the eyes of Chi-weé to shine and brought a little skip of happiness to her feet: it was the dance of the Little Katchinas—a dance different from any other one of the year—and Chi-weé was to take part in it!

The dance of the Little Katchinas was only for children, but it was a very important dance. It was really a prayer to the very small springs away down in the earth, to send water for the first plantings of the season. The Katchinas were painted wooden masks that were worn over the head and face in the dance. Some were made to look like corn, and some bees, and others were like rainclouds and the different grains and melons and fruits, but the most important one of all for this particular dance was the Butterfly Katchina.

​The one who wore this Katchina was the luckiest little girl in all the pueblo—for one day she was like a queen. She was given the chief place at the great feast of good things that followed the dance and everyone brought to her gifts. But the most exciting part of all was that no one knew who would wear the Butterfly Katchina—not even old Lampayo himself, who gave it—not until the very last minute did even he know. For the wearing of the Butterfly Katchina was to be a reward, a prize, and no one but Lampayo knew for what it was to be given. And not until the last minute could it be known who would win it, and every year it was awarded for a different thing. One year it had been given to the little girl who ground the finest meal and made piki bread of it—thin blue cakes that were very good to eat. And another time it had gone to one who made jars almost as well as her mother made them. And then, at one time, Lampayo had given it to a girl who wove a basket with an eagle on it—and this time—Chi-weé gave a jiggy little dance step as she thought of it—this time who could tell who would get it!

That was why there had been a sound of shaking and grinding this day—every little girl in all the pueblo was doing everything she could think of to

​win that Butterfly Katchina, and for days past it had been the same.

Chi-weé thought, with an extra beating of her heart, of all the things that she had done. There was the room of her home, kept so clean and shining that no spot of dust could find even a tiny place to rest; and great baskets of corn ground to the finest, softest meal; and other baskets heaped high with fruits that she had watched drying for long hours on the housetop; and a green-and-red belt with tassels that she had woven on a loom—but then, every other little girl in the pueblo had done very much the same, and Chi-weé could not feel that what she had done was better than the things they had done, and a tiny worry thought crept into her heart.

There was little Do-may who had made a basket so fine that the Trader, in the cañon store, had said a very nice thing about it, and Tee-sha, who could make seed cakes that were very good—Chi-weé smacked her lips at the thought of those seed cakes—but, then, one could never tell. Old Lampayo might not like seed cakes, and the Trader had paid little Do-may for the basket that she had made—and, besides, how could one have worry thoughts when the sun was shining like it was this day, and there ​were so many smells of good things in the air and little exciting sounds everywhere, and everyone dressed in his best clothes, and the drum boom-booming down in the kiva! Even if she did not win the Butterfly Katchina, there were so many wonderful things that were going to happen to-day, anyway—and Chi-weé gave the last little pat to her folded bed things and caught up the jar to take to the spring for water—for always there was water to bring from that spring, first thing in the morning, and in the middle of the day, and at night.

“Do not forget,” called her mother after her as she skipped out of the door, “do not forget to be back while there is time to prepare for that dance.”

“I think, maybe, I will not forget that thing,” laughed Chi-weé, and she ran to the top of the trail.

There were so many on the trail to-day, just as there had been yesterday, and everyone was happy as she was happy. Old Mah-pee-ti was there again, but he passed Chi-weé without seeing her; and she saw many Navajos from the desert, and Indians from other pueblos, and even white people, and little children who stared with big eyes at Chi-weé as she passed them with her jar.

How shining was the desert, and fresh and sagey ​the smells that came from it. Chi-weé almost shouted aloud all the happy feeling that was in her heart as she came near to the spring place—and then———She stopped very still suddenly—and listened!

It was a cry sound that she had heard—a sound that did not go with the shining desert and the dancing sunlight—a very sad sound that brought a strange feeling to the heart of Chi-weé.

“OU—OUW!” said the sound, and Chi-weé looked about her quickly to see where that noise that did not belong to the day came from.

Now, suddenly, there did not seem to be anybody at all on the trail, and it was very clear that the sound came from close to the spring. Chi-weé walked slowly down to the spring, and her heart beat very fast. It did not beat from fear, but who could tell what she would find by the spring? At first it looked like just a little bundle of cloth stuff with a black, bushy thing at one end, but Chi-weé knew very quickly that it was a little girl and the black, bushy thing was her head.

“Why do you make sounds like that?” asked Chi-weé, and the black head came up quickly at the sound of her voice and showed a brown little face badly smeared with mud and tears.

​“Ou-ouw!” said the voice again. “My mother will beat me—with a stick she will beat me—and—and—I cannot go to that dance.”

“Why will she beat you?” asked Chi-weé, and her eyes grew very big and black with pity thoughts and wonder.

“It is broken,” sobbed the little voice. “Look how it is broken,” and then Chi-weé saw that on the ground by the spring were the brown pieces of a jar broken to little bits.

“It is not a thing to cry about,” said Chi-wee. “Many times I break jars—your mother will not beat you for that. Look, there are always more jars—I will give you this one that I have.”

“No—no,” said the little voice, and the sobs grew even louder now. “There are not more jars like that one. All these days—all this time I have worked to make that jar. And when I have told my mother about it she has been very proud and she has told———”

“Did your mother see that jar?” asked Chi-weé suddenly.

“No—she did not see it,” and the sobbing sound stopped as little Do-may, for that is who it was, opened one eye to look with surprise at Chi-weé. ​“No—not one time has she seen it, for I have made it down here where no one could see. It was a surprise thing that I made,” and a fresh sob came at the thought.

“Then do not cry one more time,” said Chi-weé, and there was such a happy sound in her voice that Do-may opened both eyes very wide and pushed back the tangled hair from her face to see what it could mean.

“My mother has taught me how to make jars,” said Chi-weé. “Very beautiful jars—she has taught me—and in my cave place I have a jar that is nice, like the one that you have broken.” (In her heart she knew that the jar she had made was very much nicer than this one, but not ever would she say a thing like that.) “Wait, you shall see.” And she ran skipping away, and Do-may looked after her and forgot to cry any more.

And then—how the time flew past! Like a magic thing—until the sun seemed to be straight over the peublo, and Chi-weé, all dressed in the very finest things that were hers, grew so excited she could not stand still.

“Look—how it is time!” she cried. “See how all ​the shadows have gone away. We will have to go very fast to the dance place, my mother.”

And her mother looked at her with a great pride in her eyes, for, from her shining black hair, brushed very smooth, and the silver beads about her neck, and the soft woven blanket she wore over one arm and under the other and caught about her waist with a bright sash of red, to the twinkling little pink feet that were bare as they had to be in the dance, Chi-weé looked very nice. And the little baby brother stuck his fist in his mouth and looked at her, too, with eyes that were big with wonder.

But someone who stopped at the doorway just then did not look at Chi-weé at all and was so very greatly excited that she did not wait to get her breath but began to talk in gasps as if she had been running up the trail.

“How I am happy!” she cried, and her voice was like a bubble that bursts. “How I am happy, this day, for it is my little Do-may who will wear that Butterfly Katchina.”

“Oh,” said Chi-weé, and in the place of her heart it felt very cold like the air when black clcuds go over the sun. But the mother of Chi-weé stood up ​straight and looked at the woman, and there was a strange look in her eyes.

“That is a thing you cannot know,” she said quietly. “Not anyone knows who will wear the Butterfly Katchina—until the time of the dance.”

“But I know,” answered the woman. “Lampayo has told me—almost in the very words he has told me—when I have shown him how my Do-may can make pottery jars, better than any jars in all the pueblo she can make them. Look how I have here a jar that she has made!” and she held out for them to see the very jar Chi-weé had given to little Do-may down by the spring place, and Chi-weé had made a promise not to tell that she had made the jar so that the mother of Do-may would not beat her. And now the red places came into her face and went away again, and her eyes had a strange feeling in them—a feeling that tears were trying to come out but could not come.

“That is very like to the pottery jars that my Chi-weé can make,” said her mother. “I think Lampayo will not give the Butterfly Katchina for that.”

A smile came into the face of the woman, but it was not a smile that is pleasant to see.

​“I think never your Chi-weé has made a jar like this jar,” she said. “And what Lampayo has said—he will do”; and with a little switch of her dress she turned in the doorway and was gone, and Chi-weé closed her eyes tight to see if this was a thing she had dreamed, but when she opened them again her mother was smiling at her.

“Tsh!” she said. “That woman is speaking only with her teeth. Lampayo does not tell to others the one who will wear the Butterfly Katchina.” But she did not know what strange thoughts were in the mind of Chi-weé. If the prize were given for that jar what would she do? What could she do? She had said to Do-may that she would not tell, but she had not thought that Do-may would show the jar to Lampayo—not once had she thought that—and how could anyone do a thing like that!

“We must go now,” said her mother then. “See how it is time—and the others will wait at the dance place. Do not have fear,” she said suddenly, for the look in the eyes of Chi-weé was a very strange look. “Do not have any fear at all, for old Lampayo is good, and always the Great Spirit guides the things that he does, and he will give the Butterfly Katchina to the one who is right!” And then the cold place ​went away from the heart of Chi-weé, and she danced out of the doorway with all of the excitement come back.

And all the town was running now toward the dance place, and the drum sounded very loud, for it was no longer down in the kiva but was up in the place by the big rock, and the rattles began to shake in a regular time that made the feet so that they could not stay still.

Chi-weé came to the place where other children were standing, and they were dressed just as she was dressed, and a clown, painted all over with white paint and with fox skins hanging at his waist and sheep-hoof rattles at his feet, pranced around them and switched at them with long reeds, and the children shrieked and made a show of having great fear, and Chi-weé danced up and down on her toes and cried out as loudly as did the others—and now had come the time that was the most exciting of all the day!

All of the tops of the houses were covered black with people, and they were in the streets and on the ladders that led from one house to another. Not ever had Chi-weé seen so many people. But in one big open place there was no one at all, and it was there ​they were to dance. On one side of this open place Ton-tay sat down with his big drum, and the clown ran into this place and out again and shot into the crowd of people tiny arrows from a bow that was no longer than his finger. Do-may was with the other children who were to dance, but her eyes were red, and she would not look into the eyes of Chi-weé.

And in all that crowd of people Chi-weé could not see Loki anywhere, though she looked in the crowded streets and on the housetops and on the ladders. He had made a promise to be there, and it was not quite so nice that she could not see him. But it must be that he was in some place that she could not see—it did not come into her mind at all that he was not really there—that would have made the day very different. But, for this one time the little voice did not say that anything was wrong, and it was a very wonderful day—and almost she forgot even about the jar of Do-may.

And then an old man put branches of evergreen into their hands, and Chi-weé felt that her heart almost stopped beating, for Lampayo was there, and the kindly smile in his eyes somehow brought a lump place into her throat. He would not want to give the Butterfly Katchina for a thing that was not true. ​But she could not tell—not ever could she tell when she had said that she would not.

Lampayo put up his hand, and all the noise of the people stopped. Even the beating of the drum and the sound of the rattles stopped, and it was queer when there was no noise.

Lampayo did not speak for a little, and there was a low sound that was of people moving to where they could see Lampayo more plainly and the dancers who stood near him, waiting with evergreens in their hands. Then he began to speak:

“Listen,” he said. “It is the time of the dance of Little Katchinas. And it cannot be a dance of Katchinas if there are no Katchinas! So now we will go and get them.” And he made a pause that seemed like a great while to Chi-weé, who waited in such excitement that her mouth was open like a little cup, and her eyes were round as moons. And the others waited, too, In a great impatience.

“Already we have made prayers in the kiva,” he went on then, “and very clearly it has come to me who shall wear that Butterfly Katchina.”

“Oh,” said Chi-weé, under her breath, but for a moment she thought she had said it aloud, and put her hand to her mouth.

​“Always,” said Lampayo, “the Butterfly Katchina has been worn by one who is worthy—and this time, also, this will be true. One time it has gone to a little one who made baskets—very fine were the baskets that she made. And one time it has gone to one who made very good bread—it is well—always it is good to do well those things that are taught by the mothers and by the fathers—but there are things that are not taught that are also good.” And again Lampayo did not speak for a little, and Chi-weé held her breath for the words that he would say.

“This day,” said Lampayo, “when it is early, I have come very slowly up the trail from the spring place”; and then—almost she could not believe that her ears told her true—but then Chi-weé heard Lampayo tell all that she had done when she had found little Do-may with the broken jar, and as in a dream thing she heard the words that he said at the end.

“The fathers and mothers can teach many things, but only the Great Spirit can put kindness in the heart, and it is for that this one time that the Butterfly Katchina is to be worn.” And then, quickly, Chi-weé felt a little hand pushed into her own, and she looked into the eyes of Do-may, and they were shining now and not red at all.

​“Oh, how I am glad,” said Do-may. “How I am glad for you—now you will wear that Butterfly Katchina, and also my mother will not beat me.”

And afterward, when Chi-weé remembered that day, always this was the part that she remembered best—this, and one other thing.

After the dance, when she had worn the Butterfly Katchina, she took it very carefully back to the house of Lampayo, and in the house a woman she had never seen before came up to her and put her arms around her.

“I cannot help it,” said the woman, and there was a sob sound in her voice. “I cannot help it—for you are so like my very own little girl who is lost.”

“Oh,” said Chi-weé with wondering eyes, “that is bad. What is she called—your little girl, and where is the place that she is lost?”

“Nah-tee is her name,” said the woman, “and all over the desert we have looked and cannot find her. I think my heart will break in two pieces.”

“I think you will find her,” cried Chi-weé; “and I will help you. I have found other little ones, and it is a thing that I like very much to do. I found a little baby of the white people one time, and I found my very own little baby brother—you shall see how I ​will find the little girl you have lost.” And when she saw the look in the woman’s face she was glad that she had said that.

“And I will find her,” she said to her mother afterward. “You shall see—I have a very good feeling that I will find her—and this very minute I will go, and Loki will help me.” And she pulled off the fine clothes she had worn in the dance, and altogether she forgot the presents and all the good things that were being brought for her because she had worn the Butterfly Katchina.

“Afterward I will see them,” she said to her mother, “but there is a look in the face of that woman that makes a hurt place to come in me. I will go now, and Loki will help me.” So she pushed a way through all the people on the trail, and she ran with a fast-beating heart down the way she had gone so many times before, and people nodded when they saw her go.

“It is Chi-weé,” they said. “That is the one who wore the Butterfly Katchina—always she goes somewhere.”

And Chi-weé did not wait to hear what they said.