They spent some days in talking with each other—for these two great persons did nothing on a small scale, and a whole day to deliver a single sentence, such was the immensity of their discourse, was quite an ordinary affair.
One evening Manabozho asked his father what he was most afraid of on earth.
He replied—“Nothing.”
“But is there nothing you dread here—nothing that would hurt you if you took too much of it? Come, tell me.”
Manabozho was very urgent, so at last his father said: “Yes, there is a black stone to be found a couple of hundred miles from here, over that way,” pointing as he spoke. “It is the only thing on earth I am afraid of, for if it should happen to hit me on any part of my body it would hurt me very much.” The West made this important circumstance known to Manabozho in the strictest confidence.
“Now you will not tell anyone, Manabozho, that the black stone is bad medicine for your father, will you?” he added. “You are a good son, and I know you will keep it to yourself. Now tell me, my darling boy, is there not something that you don’t like?”
Manabozho answered promptly—“Nothing.”
His father, who was of a steady and persevering nature, put the same question to him seventeen times, and each time Manabozho made the same answer—“Nothing.”
But the West insisted—“There must be something you are afraid of.”
“Well, I will tell you,” said Manabozho, “what it is.”