Flying Plover: His stories, told him by Squat-by-the-fire

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

That night, old Squat-by-the-fire told Flying Plover some more about King Walrus, and about a man called Porcupine Killer.

"When King Moose returned to this country," she said, "with his fine horns all ready for knocking King Bear about, and found old King Walrus here instead, he was not at all pleased with the change. One look at the big walrus told him that he had met his master, horns or no horns. But he was full of courage and felt that right was on his side—so with a snort of rage he tried to roll King Walrus from the hill on which he lay, sleeping soundly. But he might as well have tried to roll the hill from under King Walrus. There was a short and terrible fight—and then poor King Moose limped away and lay down in a distant forest to think the matter over. He hid in the forest for many days and asked every animal and bird that came within speaking distance where King Bear had gone to. But not one of them could tell him that. All they knew was that he had been chased out of the country by the old blubber-mountain from the north. The moose was very sorry that no one could tell him where his rival had gone to. He thought that he and King Bear together could drive King Walrus back to his own country. But as there seemed to be no chance of finding the bear, he continued to live quietly in the distant forest. For exercise, he knocked the great pine trees over with his horns. None of the other animals were big enough for him to fight with—and King Walrus was too big.

"The walrus did not stay in this country very long; but while he was here, men suffered even more than they had suffered before. The reason for this was that a great many fierce animals from the north had followed their king into this country. The whole land was full of bears and wolves and giant foxes; and people—mountaineer people—died of hunger in their caves because the men were afraid to go out and hunt. It was not safe for a warrior to so much as show his nose outside of his hiding-place. If things had gone on in that way for another moon, I think the whole tribe of mankind in this country would have starved or been killed—and if that had happened you and I would not be sitting here to-night."

"Where would we be sitting?" asked Flying Plover.

"We would not be sitting anywhere. We would never have been born," replied the old woman.

"Why not?" asked the little boy.

But Squat-by-the-fire knew that if she answered any more of his questions he would keep her busy all night. So she hastened on with her story.

"There was a young man named Porcupine Killer," she continued. "He had once killed a porcupine with only a flint knife for a weapon—and porcupines in those days were larger than bears are now. That is how he got his name. But the porcupine had been eaten years ago, and now he was not able to go out and kill even a mouse. You need not laugh at that, for mice were then as big as beavers are now—and just as good eating, too. He knew that if he went ten yards from the narrow mouth of his cave some great animal would leap upon him. He had a wife and little baby; and all the three had eaten for two days was part of a fish that a hawk had accidentally dropped in front of the cave as it flew over, chased by an eagle. He could not think of anything to do. When night fell he would creep out and feel about for some bones. With so many great animals killing and feeding on all sides there would surely be plenty of fresh bones lying around. He had seen a pack of great wolves chasing a giant caribou along the valley below his cave early that morning. If he could find the bones of that caribou he would be lucky. The marrow in one of those bones would supply them with many meals. But as he had to wait until night to begin his hunt and had nothing to do in the meantime, he lay down on a bed of dry leaves and fell asleep.

"A wonderful dream came to Porcupine Killer while he lay asleep in his dark cave, with his belt drawn tight around his stomach because of the hungry-pain. Some good spirit must have come and whispered that dream into his brain, for in it there was hardly one thing like anything he had ever seen; and yet it was all just as if he looked down at something that was really happening. He saw a place of flat, white sand (at first he thought it was snow, for there is no sand so white in this country) with the sea at one edge of it, green as leaves in Spring and blue as the sky, and strange-looking trees and bushes along the other side. On the sand, mid-way between the trees and the edge of the beautiful sea, stood a man. Porcupine Killer had never before seen such a queer-looking man. His skin, all over his face and body, was as dark as the roof of this lodge where the smoke has painted it. He was naked as a trout. At his feet lay a bunch of dry grass and a heap of little sticks. In his hands he held something that looked like a very short bow with a doubled, twisted cord made of some kind of vine, and a piece of dry, flat wood. He sat down on the sand, crossed his legs, crumbled a little of the dry grass between his hands and placed the powder close beside him, on the sand. Then, holding the flat piece of wood firm between his knees with his left hand, he placed the cord of the bow in a notch across it and began to draw it swiftly back and forth, back and forth, quick as lightning. The spirit of Porcupine Killer (for it did not seem to him that his body was in the dream at all) bent close above the queer-looking black man, eager to find out what he was trying to do. The stranger worked and worked, his hand flying back and forth so fast that it could scarcely be seen. The sweat stood out on his black skin. Soon a faint, blue mist crept up from the notch in the slab of dry wood—or was it from the flying cord of twisted vine? It floated up and melted in the sunlight; then it floated up again; and again it melted to nothing. Porcupine Killer could make no sense out of it; but he liked the look of the dry, blue mist. The worker now clutched the wood tight between his knees, keeping his right hand still speeding with the bow, and with the fingers of his left hand took up a pinch of the grass-powder and sprinkled it where the cord of vine flew along the notch. Now the blue mist arose in a little cloud, and climbed high above the worker's head before it melted. It had a smell—a smell that seemed very good to the spirit of Porcupine Killer. His nose had never met with anything like it before, and yet it awoke a strange craving within him, and seemed to speak of comfort and safety.

"Still the strange man went on with his strange work, driving the bow back and forth with his right hand and sprinkling a little of the powder of dry grass with his left. Suddenly the mist puffed white and thick, and in a moment faded to something so faint that it had no color at all, and yet seemed to waver upward and melt away, even as the mist had floated and melted—and, in the same instant, a living thing, yellow and bright and no bigger than a baby's finger, moved on the flat piece of wood.