“And the oaks unfurl their soft green banners in welcome of the coming summer.”
Po-ho-no, Spirit of the Evil Wind
THE white man calls it Bridal Veil. To the Indian it is Po-ho-no, Spirit of the Evil Wind.
The white man, in passing, pauses to watch the filmy cloud that hangs there like a thousand yards of tulle flung from the crest of the rocky precipice, wafted outward by the breeze that blows ever and always across the Bridal Veil Meadows. By the light of mid-afternoon the veil seems caught half-way with a clasp of bridal gems, seven-hued, evanescent; now glowing with color, now fading to clear white sun rays before the eye.
The Indian, if chance brings him near this waterfall, hurries on with face averted, a vague dread in his heart; for in the meshes of the Bridal Veil hides an eerie spirit, a mischievous, evil one—Po-ho-no. In the ripple of the water as it falls among the rocks, the Indian hears Po-ho-no’s voice. In the tossing spray he sees the limp forms and waving arms of hapless victims lured by the voice to their destruction.
The Indian’s mistrust of Po-ho-no dates back to a day of long ago, a bright blue day of early spring such as the children of Ah-wah-nee love, when the valley has thrown off its white winter blanket, and dogwood blooms, and the oaks unfurl their soft green banners in welcome of the coming summer. It was the time when deer begin to trail, leaving the lowlands of the river for the higher ranges; and while the men hunted in the forest, the women went forth to gather roots and berries for the feast.
The Sun had come back from the south; and as he stood high in the heavens looking into the valley over the shoulder of Lo-yah, the Sentinel, three women were tempted to stray from the others and wander along a trail that led high above the valley to the spot whence the misty spray of the waterfall flutters downward.