Even there the only weaponThat could wound him, that could slay him,Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree,Was the blue cone of the fir-tree.This was Kwasind's fatal secret,Known to no man among mortals;But the cunning Little People,The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret,Knew the only way to kill him.
So they gathered cones together,Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree,Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree,In the woods by Taquamenaw,Brought them to the river's margin,Heaped them in great piles together,Where the red rocks from the marginJutting overhang the river.There they lay in wait for Kwasind,The malicious Little People.
`T was an afternoon in Summer;Very hot and still the air was,Very smooth the gliding river,Motionless the sleeping shadows:Insects glistened in the sunshine,Insects skated on the water,Filled the drowsy air with buzzing,With a far resounding war-cry.
Down the river came the Strong Man,In his birch canoe came Kwasind,Floating slowly down the currentOf the sluggish Taquamenaw,Very languid with the weather,Very sleepy with the silence.
From the overhanging branches,From the tassels of the birch-trees,Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended;By his airy hosts surrounded,His invisible attendants,Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin;Like a burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she,Like a dragon-fly, he hoveredO'er the drowsy head of Kwasind.
To his ear there came a murmurAs of waves upon a sea-shore,As of far-off tumbling waters,As of winds among the pine-trees;And he felt upon his foreheadBlows of little airy war-clubs,Wielded by the slumbrous legionsOf the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,As of some one breathing on him.
At the first blow of their war-clubs,Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind;At the second blow they smote him,Motionless his paddle rested;At the third, before his visionReeled the landscape Into darkness,Very sound asleep was Kwasind.
So he floated down the river,Like a blind man seated upright,Floated down the Taquamenaw,Underneath the trembling birch-trees,Underneath the wooded headlands,Underneath the war encampmentOf the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies.
There they stood, all armed and waiting,Hurled the pine-cones down upon him,Struck him on his brawny shoulders,On his crown defenceless struck him."Death to Kwasind!" was the suddenWar-cry of the Little People.
And he sideways swayed and tumbled,Sideways fell into the river,Plunged beneath the sluggish waterHeadlong, as an otter plunges;And the birch canoe, abandoned,Drifted empty down the river,Bottom upward swerved and drifted:Nothing more was seen of Kwasind.
But the memory of the Strong ManLingered long among the people,And whenever through the forestRaged and roared the wintry tempest,And the branches, tossed and troubled,Creaked and groaned and split asunder,"Kwasind!" cried they; "that is Kwasind!He is gathering in his fire-wood!"
XIX
The Ghosts
Never stoops the soaring vultureOn his quarry in the desert,On the sick or wounded bison,But another vulture, watchingFrom his high aerial look-out,Sees the downward plunge, and follows;And a third pursues the second,Coming from the invisible ether,First a speck, and then a vulture,Till the air is dark with pinions.
So disasters come not singly;But as if they watched and waited,Scanning one another's motions,When the first descends, the othersFollow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded,First a shadow, then a sorrow,Till the air is dark with anguish.
Now, o'er all the dreary North-land,Mighty Peboan, the Winter,Breathing on the lakes and rivers,Into stone had changed their waters.From his hair he shook the snow-flakes,Till the plains were strewn with whiteness,One uninterrupted level,As if, stooping, the CreatorWith his hand had smoothed them over.
Through the forest, wide and wailing,Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes;In the village worked the women,Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin;And the young men played togetherOn the ice the noisy ball-play,On the plain the dance of snow-shoes.
One dark evening, after sundown,In her wigwam Laughing WaterSat with old Nokomis, waitingFor the steps of HiawathaHomeward from the hunt returning.
On their faces gleamed the firelight,Painting them with streaks of crimson,In the eyes of old NokomisGlimmered like the watery moonlight,In the eyes of Laughing WaterGlistened like the sun in water;And behind them crouched their shadowsIn the corners of the wigwam,And the smoke In wreaths above themClimbed and crowded through the smoke-flue.
Then the curtain of the doorwayFrom without was slowly lifted;Brighter glowed the fire a moment,And a moment swerved the smoke-wreath,As two women entered softly,Passed the doorway uninvited,Without word of salutation,Without sign of recognition,Sat down in the farthest corner,Crouching low among the shadows.
From their aspect and their garments,Strangers seemed they in the village;Very pale and haggard were they,As they sat there sad and silent,Trembling, cowering with the shadows.
Was it the wind above the smoke-flue,Muttering down into the wigwam?Was it the owl, the Koko-koho,Hooting from the dismal forest?Sure a voice said in the silence:"These are corpses clad in garments,These are ghosts that come to haunt you,From the kingdom of Ponemah,From the land of the Hereafter!"
Homeward now came HiawathaFrom his hunting in the forest,With the snow upon his tresses,And the red deer on his shoulders.At the feet of Laughing WaterDown he threw his lifeless burden;Nobler, handsomer she thought him,Than when first he came to woo her,First threw down the deer before her,As a token of his wishes,As a promise of the future.
Then he turned and saw the strangers,Cowering, crouching with the shadows;Said within himself, "Who are they?What strange guests has Minnehaha?"But he questioned not the strangers,Only spake to bid them welcomeTo his lodge, his food, his fireside.
When the evening meal was ready,And the deer had been divided,Both the pallid guests, the strangers,Springing from among the shadows,Seized upon the choicest portions,Seized the white fat of the roebuck,Set apart for Laughing Water,For the wife of Hiawatha;Without asking, without thanking,Eagerly devoured the morsels,Flitted back among the shadowsIn the corner of the wigwam.
Not a word spake Hiawatha,Not a motion made Nokomis,Not a gesture Laughing Water;Not a change came o'er their features;Only Minnehaha softlyWhispered, saying, "They are famished;Let them do what best delights them;Let them eat, for they are famished."