“For in the meshes of the Bridal Veil hides * * Po-ho-no.”
They talked with what zest women may whose simple lives give them no secrets to hold or betray. They laughed as they filled their baskets, stooping to scrape the earth from a tender root, to strip the seed from a stalk, or gather grasses used in basketry; and their voices were as the purling of lazy waters gliding over stones. They were happy, for as yet they knew naught of the joy-sapping fever of discontent.
Of a sudden the laughter ceased, and in its stead arose the mocking wail of Po-ho-no, Spirit of the Evil Wind. The youngest of the women, venturing near the edge of the cliff to pick an overhanging wisp of grass, had stepped upon a rock where moss grew like a thick-woven blanket. She did not know that the soft, wet moss was a snare of the Evil One, and even as the others cried out in warning, Po-ho-no seized her and hurled her down among the rocks.
A pair of helpless arms waving in despair; long, loose hair sweeping across a face, half veiling one last look of terror—and she was gone. If she uttered a cry, the sound was lost in the gleeful chatter of Po-ho-no and his impish host.
The two women left above dared not go near the treacherous ledge, lest they too come within reach of the vengeful Spirit. Afraid even to give a backward glance, they hurried down the steep path to spread the alarm. Scarce was their story told before a band of daring braves rushed to the rescue of the maiden; but though they searched till night among the rocks where the water swirls and leaps to catch the rainbow thrown there by the western sun, they found no trace of her. The maiden’s spirit had joined the forces of Po-ho-no, and could know no rest, nor be released from his hateful thrall, until by her aid another victim was drawn to his doom. Here she must stay, hidden by the mist from watchful eyes, beckoning always, tempting always, luring another soul to pay the forfeit of her own release. Then, and then only, would the spirit of the maiden be free to pass on to the home of the Great Spirit in the West.
Since that day of long ago many of the children of Ah-wah-nee have fallen prey to Po-ho-no, the restless Spirit of the Evil Wind, who wanders ever through the cañon and puffs his breath upon the waterfall to make for himself a hiding-place of mist. Now every Ah-wah-nee-chee knows this haunt of the Evil One. By day they hurry past, and not one would sleep at night within sight or sound of the fall lest the fatal breath of Po-ho-no sweep over him and bear him away to a spirit land of torture and unrest.
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