She had not gone far when her brother sprang up, hurried to the river, swam in it; went back to the sweat-house, striking his hair as he went with a stick to make it dry quickly. Then he ate, and said to his younger sister,—
“I am going away; I must leave you; you will cry, I think, because I am going.”
He put on rich clothes, then tied a string of nice beads to a staff, and fastened the staff in one corner of the house corners.
“If I die,” said he, “those beads will fall to the ground; do not touch them while they are hanging, and say to our sister not to touch them. When she comes, do not say that I have gone; if she knows herself, you must not show her the way that I have taken.”
Then he turned to each thing in the house and said, “You, my poking-stick, must not tell my sister how I have gone, nor you, my baskets, nor you, my fire, nor you, my basket of water, nor my roots; not one of you must tell her.” And he told everything except the acorn flour; he forgot to tell the acorn flour.
“Now I go,” said he; and pushing up the central post of the house, he went in to the ground, and the post settled back after him. He went under ground until he reached a spring of water. From the spring he turned back and went west, then back; went north, then back; went south, then back to the spring. Next he went in circles around his house to mislead his sister, so that she might not track him. At last he went west two or three miles; then he rose to the top of the ground, and went off on a trail.
When she went to the mountain flat on the second morning, Titildi Marimi stood a while thinking. She knew that her brother was out of bed, that he was very angry. “My brother will go away to-day,” thought she. “I must be home again soon.”
She threw down her stick and basket quickly and hurried home. She saw that her brother was not in the house, that her sister was crying.
“Where is my brother,” asked she; “tell me, my sister.”
The sister would not speak, gave no answer; held down her head and cried bitterly.