Okaraxta - Tales From The Great Plains

By Clive Gilson

There are many sources and traditions within Native American storytelling and mythologies. These tales are a selection of those told by the tribes and peoples of the Great Plains, but by no means does this book cover all aspects even within just this sub-group. It's been one of the absolute delights of the summer discovering just how deep an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clive Gilson
• Release date: Dec 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781913500672

Book preview

I have edited Clive Gilson’s books for over a decade now – he’s prolific and can turn his hand to many genres. poetry, short fiction, contemporary novels, folklore and science fiction – and the common theme is that none of them ever fails to take my breath away. There’s something in each story that is either memorably poignant, hauntingly unnerving or sidesplittingly funny. 

Lorna Howarth, The Write Factor

Tales From The World's Firesides is a grand project. I've collected ‘000’s of traditional texts as part of other projects, and while many of the original texts are available through channels like Project Gutenberg, some of the narratives can be hard to read by modern readers, & so the Fireside project was born. Put simply, I collect, collate & adapt traditional tales from around the world & publish them as a modern archive. This book starts Part 2 – North America, following on from the 19 titles in Part 1 covering a host of nations & regions across Europe. I'm not laying any claim to insight or specialist knowledge, but these collections are born out of my love of story-telling & I hope that you'll share my affection for traditional tales, myths & legends.

Cover image by DarkWorkX from Pixabay

Okaraxta

-oOo-

Tales From The Great Plains

Traditional tales, fables and sagas from the First Nations of North America

Compiled & Edited by Clive Gilson

Tales from the World’s Firesides

Book 1 in Part 2 of the series: North America

Okaraxta - Tales From The Great Plains,

edited by Clive Gilson, Solitude, Bath, UK

www.clivegilson.com.com

First published as an eBook in 2019

2nd edition © 2019 Clive Gilson

3rd edition © 2023 Clive Gilson

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by United Kingdom copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Printed by IngramSpark

ISBN: 978-1-913500-67-2

Planet

SOLITUDE

Contents

Preface

The Forgotten Ear Of Corn

Mock-Pe-En-Dag-A-Win

Iktomi And The Bad Songs

A Ghost Story

Kwasind

The Dun Horse

Iktomi’s Blanket

A Bog Myth

The Jeebi

Manabozho In The Fish's Stomach.

Iktomi And The Muskrat

Coyote And Gray Fox

Puck Wudj Ininees

A Story Of Faith

Iktomi And The Coyote

Pezhiu And Wabose

Iktomi And The Snowstorm

The Little Mice

Iktomi And The Fawn

Peboan And Seegwun

The Bear Man

Iktomi And The Thunders

Nezhik-E-Wa-Wa-Sun

The Badger And The Bear

The Pet Donkey

Legend Of The Corn

Iktomi And The Turtle

Opeechee

The Star Family

The Ghost Wife

Dance In A Buffalo Skull

Origin Of The Buffalo

Ojeeg Annung

The Faithful Lovers

The Wakanda, Or Water God

The Toad And The Boy

Sheem

Ti-Ke-Wa-Kush

The Spirit Land

Tau-Wau-Chee-Hezkaw

Iya, The Camp-Eater

Legend Of Standing Rock

Old-Woman-Who-Never-Dies

Iëna, The Wanderer

Story Of The Peace Pipe

Manstin, The Rabbit

The Fallen Star

Pah-Hah-Undootah

Pa-Hu-Ka´-Tawa

The Buffalo Being

The Warlike Seven

The White Stone Canoe

The Bound Children

The Ghost And The Traveler

The Sun-Catcher

The Snake Brother

The Ghost's Resentment

Wa-Wa-Be-Zo-Win

Iktomi And The Arrowheads

The Warrior Who Wrestled With A Ghost

Mukakee Mindemoea

O´Re-Ka-Rahr

The Hermit, Or The Gift Of Corn

The Six Hawks

The Man And The Oak

Addik Kum Maig

Waziya, The Weather Spirit

The Boy Who Saw A-Ti´-Us

Aggodagauda And His Daughter

Why The Wolves Help In War

The Wasna Man And The Iktomi

The Enchanted Moccasins

The Man Who Shot A Ghost

How The Deer Lost His Gall

Leelinau

White Plume

Inyanhoksila

Bokwewa

Kiwuk-U Lah’-Kahta

Historical Notes

About The Editor

ORIGINAL FICTION BY CLIVE GILSON

Songs of Bliss

Out of the Walled Garden

The Mechanic’s Curse

The Insomniac Booth

A Solitude of Stars

AS EDITOR – FIRESIDE TALES – Part 1, Europe

Tales From the Land of Dragons

Tales From the Land of The Brave

Tales From the Land of Saints And Scholars

Tales From the Land of Hope And Glory

Tales From Lands of Snow and Ice

Tales From the Viking Isles

Tales From the Forest Lands

Tales From the Old Norse

More Tales About Saints and Scholars

More Tales About Hope and Glory

More Tales About Snow and Ice

Tales From the Land of Rabbits

Tales Told by Bulls and Wolves

Tales of Fire and Bronze

Tales From the Land of the Strigoi

Tales Told by the Wind Mother

Tales from Gallia

Tales from Germania

EDITOR – FIRESIDE TALES – Part 2, North America

Okaraxta - Tales from The Great Plains

Tibik-Kìzis – Tales from The Great Lakes & Canada

Jóhonaaʼéí –Tales from America’s Southwest

Qugaaĝix̂ - First Nation Tales from Alaska & The Arctic

Karahkwa - First Nation Tales from America’s Eastern States

Pot-Likker - Folklore, Fairy Tales, and Settler Stories from America

EDITOR – FIRESIDE TALES – Part 3, Africa

Arokin Tales – Folklore & Fairy Tales from West Africa

Hadithi Tales – Folklore & Fairy Tales from East Africa

Inkathaso Tales – Folklore & Fairy Tales from Southern Africa

Tarubadur Tales – Folklore & Fairy Tales from North Africa

Elephant And Frog – Folklore from Central Africa

Preface

I’ve been collecting and telling stories for a couple of decades now, having had several of my own works published in recent years. My particular focus is on short story writing in the realms of magical realities and science fiction fantasies.

I’ve always drawn heavily on traditional folk and fairy tales, and in so doing have amassed a collection of many thousands of these tales from around the world. It has been one of my long-standing ambitions to gather these stories together and to create a library of tales that tell the stories of places and peoples from the four corners of our world.

One of the main motivations for me in undertaking the project is to collect and tell stories that otherwise might be lost or, at best forgotten. Given that a lot of my sources are from early collectors, particularly covering works produced in the late eighteenth century, throughout the nineteenth century, and in the early years of the twentieth century, I do make every effort to adapt stories for a modern reader. Early collectors had a different world view to many of us today, and often expressed views about race and gender, for example, that we find difficult to reconcile in the early years of the twenty-first century. I try, although with varying degrees of success, to update these stories with sensitivity while trying to stay as true to the original spirit of each story as I can.

I also want to assure readers that I try hard not to comment on or appropriate originating cultures. It is almost certainly true that the early collectors of these tales, with their then prevalent world views, have made assumptions about the originating cultures that have given us these tales. I hope that you’ll accept my mission to preserve these tales, however and wherever I find them, as just that. I have, therefore, made sure that every story has a full attribution, covering both the original collector / writer and the collection title that this version has been adapted from, as well as having notes about publishers and other relevant and, I hope, interesting source data. Wherever possible I have added a cultural or indigenous attribution as well, although for some of the tiles, the country-based theme is obvious.

This volume, Okaraxta covers stories originating broadly from North America’s Great Plains native communities. There are many sources and traditions within Native American storytelling and mythologies. These tales are a selection of those told by the tribes and peoples of the Great Plains, but by no means does this book cover all aspects even within just this sub-group. It's been one of the absolute delights of the summer discovering just how deep and rich are the veins of folk and tribal lore across the Americas.

There is a deep sense of nature, of the seasons, weather, plants, animals, earth, water, fire, sky and the heavenly bodies, together with common elements such as all-embracing, universal and omniscient Great Spirit. Another characteristic of many of the myths is the close relationship between human beings and creatures of the natural world, often featuring shape-shifting between forms.

Although most Native American myths are profound and serious, some use light-hearted humour, often in the form of the hapless trickster, Iktomi, to entertain, as they subtly convey important spiritual and moral messages.

Stories from the Great Plains often feature buffalo, the animals so important in the lives of these peoples. Another common theme is the making of a journey, often to a supernatural place across the landscape or to the sky world.

The Great Plains are generally described as the expansive area of North America between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains, embodying many cultures whose various rites and ceremonies emerged from a common background.

Many tribes, but not all, were semi-nomadic and depended more on buffalo hunting than on agriculture for their living. Folktales have been a part of the social and cultural life of Native American regardless of whether they were sedentary agriculturists or nomadic hunters. As they gathered around a fire at night, Native Americans could be transported to another world through the talent of a good storyteller. The effect was derived not only from the novelty of the tale itself but also from the imaginative skill of the narrator, who often added gestures and songs and occasionally adapted a particular tale to suit a certain culture.

As I said at the beginning of this short preface, it's been a delight to get to know these tales just a little, and I still have a long way to walk amongst the stories of so many more tribes and peoples across North America.

Clive

Bath, 2023

The Forgotten Ear Of Corn

This adaptation is taken from a story told by Marie L. McLaughlin. Myths and Legends of the Sioux was originally published by the Bismark Tribune Company, North Dakota, in 1906.

AN ARIKARA WOMAN WAS ONCE GATHERING corn from the field to store away for winter use. She passed from stalk to stalk, tearing off the ears and dropping them into her folded robe. When every ear was gathered she started for home, when she heard a faint voice, like a child’s, weeping and calling, Oh, do not leave me! Do not go away without me.

The woman was astonished. What child can that be? she asked herself. What babe can be lost in the cornfield?

She set down her robe in which she had tied up her corn, and went back to search, but she found nothing. As she started away she heard the voice again, Oh, do not leave me. Do not go away without me.

She searched for a long time until, at last, in one corner of the field, hidden under the leaves of the stalks, she found one little ear of corn, which had been crying out to her, and this is why all women have since garnered their corn crop very carefully, so that the succulent food product should not even to the last small nubbin be neglected or wasted, and thus displease the Great Mystery.

Mock-Pe-En-Dag-A-Win

This adaptation is taken from a story collected by Mrs. Mary Eastman in Dahcotah, Or, Life And Legends Of The Sioux Around Fort Snelling, originally published by John Wiley, New York, 1849.

Long ago, said Mock-Pe-En-Dag-A-Win (Checkered Cloud), "the Dahcotah owned lands that the white man now claims. The trees, the rivers, were all our own. But the Great Spirit has been angry with his children. He has taken their forests and their hunting grounds, and given them to others.

"When I was young, I feared not wind nor storm. Days have I wandered with the hunters of my tribe, that they might bring home many buffalo for food, and to make our wigwams. Then, I cared not for cold and fatigue, for I was young and happy. But now I am old. My children have gone before me to the 'House of Spirits', and the tender boughs have yielded to the first rough wind of autumn, while the parent tree has stood and borne the winter's storm.

"My sons have fallen by the tomahawk of their enemies. My daughter sleeps under the foaming waters of the Falls. Twenty winters were added to my life on that day. We had encamped at some distance above the Falls, and our hunters had killed many deer. Before we left our village to go on the hunt, we sacrificed to the Spirit of the woods, and we prayed to the Great Spirit. We lifted up our hands and said, 'Father, Great Spirit, help us to kill deer.' The arrows of our hunters never missed, and as we made ready for our return we were happy, for we knew we should not want for food. My daughter's heart was light, for Haparm was with her, and she never was sad but when he was away.

"Just before we arrived at the Falls, she became sick. Her hands were burning hot, and she refused to eat. As the canoe passed over the Mississippi, she would fill her cup with its waters, to drink and throw over her brow. The medicine men were always at her side, but they said some evil spirit hated her, and prevented their spells from doing her good.

"When we reached the Falls, she was worse. The women left their canoes, and prepared to carry them and the rest of the baggage round the Falls.

"But what should we do with We-no-nah? The flush of fever was on her cheek, and she did not know me when I spoke to her, but she kept her eyes fixed upon her lover.

"'We will leave her in the canoe,' said her father, 'and with a line we can carry her gently over the Rapids.' I was afraid, but with her brothers holding the line she must be safe. So I left my child in her canoe, and paddled with the others to the shore.

"As we left her, she turned her eyes towards us, as if anxious to know what we were about to do. The men held the line steadily, and the canoe floated so gently that I began to feel less anxious, but as we approached the rapids, my heart beat quickly at the sound of the waters. Carefully did her brothers hold the line, and I never moved my eyes from the canoe in which she lay. Now the roaring of the waters grew louder, and as they hastened to the rocks over which they would fall they bore with them my child. I saw her raise herself in the canoe, I saw her long hair as it fell on her bosom…I saw no more!

"My sons bore me in their arms to the rest of the party. The hunters had delayed their return that they might seek for the body of my child. Her lover called to her, his voice could be heard above the sound of the waters. 'Return to me, We-no-nah, I will never love maiden but you. Did you not promise to light the fires in my wigwam?' He would have thrown himself after her, had not the young men prevented him. The body rests not in the cold waters. We found it and buried it, and her spirit calls to me in the silence of the night! Her lover said he would not remain long on the earth. He turned from the Dahcotah maidens as they smiled upon him. He died as a warrior should die!

"The Chippeways had watched for us, for they longed to carry the scalp of a Dahcotah home. They did so, but we were avenged.

"Our young men burst in upon them when they were sleeping. They struck them with their tomahawks, they tore their scalps reeking with blood from their heads.

"We heard our warriors at the village as they returned from their war party, and we knew by their joyful cries that they had avenged their friends. One by one they entered the village, bearing twenty scalps of the enemy.

"Only three of the Dahcotahs had fallen. But who were the three? My sons, and he who was as dear as a son to me, the lover of my child. I fled from their cries of triumph. I longed to plunge the knife into my own heart.

I have lived on. But sorrow and cold and hunger have bowed my spirit, and my limbs are not as strong and active as they were in my youth. Neither can I work with porcupine as I used to, for age and tears have dimmed my sight. I bring you venison and fish, will you not give me clothes to protect me from the winter's cold?

Ah, Checkered Cloud, he was a prophet who named you. Though the cloud has varied, now passing away, now returning blacker than before, though the cheering light of the sun has for a moment dispelled the gloom, it was but for a moment, for it was sure to break in terrors over your head. Your name is your history, your life has been a checkered cloud. But the storm of the day has yielded to the influence of the setting sun. The thunder has ceased to roll, the wind has died away, and the golden streaks that bound the horizon promise a brighter morning. So with Checkered Cloud, the storm and strife of the earth have ceased, the battle of life is fought, and she has conquered. For she hopes to meet the beloved of earth in the heaven of the Dahcotahs.

Iktomi And The Bad Songs

This adaptation is taken from a story collected by Katharine Berry Judson in Myths and Legends of the Great Plains, originally published by A. & C. McClurg & Company, Chicago, 1913. This is a Dakota tale.

IKTOMI WAS GOING ALONG. HIS WAY lay along by the side of a lake. Out on the lake there were a great many ducks, geese, and swans swimming. When Iktomi saw them he went backward out of sight, and picking some grass, bound it up in a bundle. He placed this on his back and so went again along by the side of the lake.

Iktomi, what are you carrying? asked the ducks and the geese and the swans.

These are bad songs I am carrying, said Iktomi.

The ducks said, Iktomi, sing for us.

Iktomi replied, But the songs are very bad.

But the ducks insisted upon it. Then Iktomi said, Make a grass lodge. So they went to work and made a large grass lodge.

Now, let all the ducks, geese, and swans gather inside the lodge and I will sing for you, said Iktomi.

So all the ducks and the geese and the swans gathered inside and filled the grass lodge. Then Iktomi took his place at the door of the lodge and said, If I sing for you, no one must look, for that is the meaning of the song. Then he began to sing:

Dance with your eyes shut,

If you open your eyes

Your eyes shall be red!

Your eyes shall be red!

When he said and sang this, the geese, ducks, and swans danced with their eyes shut. Then Iktomi rose up and sang:

I even, even I

Follow in my own,

I even, even I,

Follow in my own.

So they all gabbled as they danced, and Iktomi, dancing among them, commenced twisting off the necks of the fattest of the geese and ducks and swans. But when he tried to twist off the neck of a large swan and could not, he only made him squawk.

Then a small duck, called Skiska, partly opened his eyes. He saw Iktomi try to break the swan's neck, and he gave a cry:

Look ye, look ye!

Iktomi will destroy us all.

Look ye, look ye!

At once they all opened their eyes and attempted to go out. But Iktomi threw himself in the doorway and tried to stop them. They rushed upon him with their feet and wings, and smote him and knocked him over, walking on his stomach, and leaving him as though dead. Then Iktomi came to life, and got up, and looked around.

They say that this is why the Wood Duck, which looked first, had his eyes made red.

Then Iktomi gathered up the ducks and geese and swans he had killed and carried them on his back. He came to a river and traveled along by the side of it till he came to a long, straight place where he stopped to boil his kettle. He put all the ducks and geese and swans whose necks he had twisted into the kettle, and set it on the fire to boil, and then he lay down to sleep.

As he lay there, curled up on the bank of the river, he said to his familiar spirit, Mionze, if anyone comes you wake me up. So he slept.

Now a wolf-pack came padding along on the river, and coming close to Iktomi's boiling place, saw him lying fast asleep. Then they went there. While Iktomi slept, the wolves took out all the boiling meat and ate it up, putting the bones back into the kettle. Then Iktomi woke up. He sat up and saw no one.

Perhaps my boiling is cooked for me, he said.

He took the kettle off the fire. He poked a stick into it and found only bones. Then he said, Indeed, the meat has all fallen off. So he took a spoon and dipped it out, but nothing was there but bones bearing the marks of wolves’ teeth.

This is the story of Iktomi and the Bad Songs.

A Ghost Story

This adaptation is taken from a story collected by Katharine Berry Judson in Myths and Legends of the Great Plains, originally published by A. & C. McClurg & Company, Chicago, 1913. This is a Ponca tale.

A GREAT MANY PERSONS WENT ON the warpath. They were Ponca. As they approached the foe, they camped for the night. They kindled a fire. It was during the night. After kindling a bright fire, they sat down and they made the fire burn very brightly. Rejoicing greatly, they sat eating. Very suddenly a person sang.

Keep quiet. Push the ashes over that fire. Seize your bow in silence! said their leader.

All took their bows. And they departed to surround him. They made the circle smaller and smaller, and commenced at once to come together. And still the singer stood singing and did not stir at all. At length the Ponca men went very near to the tree. And when they drew very near to it, the singer ceased his song. When they had reached the tree, bones lay there in a pile. Human bones were piled there at the foot of the tree. When persons die, the Dakotas usually suspend the bodies in trees.

Kwasind

This adaptation is taken from a story collected by Henry R. Schoolcraft in Myths and The Myth Of Hiawatha, And Other Oral Legends, Mythologic And Allegoric, Of The North American Indians, originally published by J. B. Lippincott & Co, Philadelphia, 1856. This is a Sioux tale.

Pauwating was a village where the young men amused themselves very much in ancient times, in sports and ball-playing.

One day, as they were engaged in their sports, one of the strongest and most active, at the moment he was about to succeed in a trial of lifting, slipped and fell upon his back. Ha, ha, ha! cried the onlookers, you will never rival Kwasind. The young man was deeply mortified, and when the sport was over, these words came to his mind. He could not recollect any man of this name. He thought he would ask the old man, the story-teller of the village, the next time he came to the lodge. The opportunity soon occurred.

My grandfather, he said, who was Kwasind? I am very anxious to know what he could do.

Kwasind, the old man replied, was a listless idle boy. He would not play when the other boys played, and his parents could never get him to do any kind of work. He was always making excuses. His parents took notice, however, that he fasted for days together, but they could not learn what spirit he prayed to, or had chosen as his guardian spirit to attend him through life. He was so inattentive to his parents' requests, that he, at last, became a subject of reproach.

And so the story was told…

Ah, said his mother to him one day, is there any young man of your age, in all the village, who does so little for his parents? You neither hunt nor fish. You take no interest in anything, whether labour or amusement, which engages the attention of your equals in years. I have often set my nets in the coldest days of winter, without any assistance from you. And I have taken them up again, while you remained inactive at the lodge fire. Are you not ashamed of such idleness? Go, I bid you, and wring out that net, which I have just taken from the water.

Kwasind saw that there his mother was determined to make him obey. He did not, therefore, make any excuses, but went out and took up the net. He carefully folded it, doubled and redoubled it, forming it into a roll, and then with an easy twist of his hands wrung it off, with as much ease as if every twine had been a thin brittle fibre. Here they at once saw the secret of his reluctance. He possessed supernatural strength.

After this, the young men were playing one day on the plain, where there was lying one of those large, heavy, black pieces of rock, which Manabozho is said to have cast at his father. Kwasind took it up with much ease, and threw it into the river. After this, he accompanied his father on a hunting excursion into a remote forest. They came to a place where the wind had thrown a great many trees into a narrow pass.

We must go the other way, said the old man, it is impossible to get our burdens through this place.

He sat down to rest, took out his smoking apparatus, and gave a short time to reflection. When he had finished, Kwasind had lifted away the largest pine trees, and pulled them out of the path.

Sailing one day in his canoe, Kwasind saw a large, furred animal, which he immediately recognized to be the king of beavers. He plunged into the water in pursuit of it. His companions were in the greatest astonishment and alarm, supposing he would perish. He often dove down and remained a long time under water, pursuing the animal from island to island, and at last returned with the kingly prize. After this, his fame spread far and wide, and no hunter would presume to compete with him.

He helped Manabozho to clear away the obstructions in the streams, and to remove the great wind-falls of trees from the valleys, the better to fit them for the residence of man.

He performed so many feats of strength and skill, that he excited the envy of the Puck-wudj In-in-ee-sug, or fairies, who conspired against his life.

For, said they, if this man is suffered to go on, in his career of strength and exploits, we shall presently have no work to perform. Our agency in the affairs of men must cease. He will undermine our power, and drive us, at last, into the water, where we must all perish, or be devoured by the wicked Neebanawbaig.

The strength of Kwasind was all concentrated in the crown of his head. This was, at the same time, the only vulnerable part of his body, and there was but one species of weapon which could be successfully employed in making any impression upon it. The fairies carefully hunted through the woods to find this weapon. It was the burr or seed vessel of the white pine. They gathered a quantity of this article, and waylaid Kwasind at a point on the river, where the red rocks jut into the water, forming rude castles, a point which he was accustomed to pass in his canoe. They waited a long time, making merry upon these rocks, for it was a highly romantic spot.

At last the wished-for object appeared, Kwasind came floating calmly down the stream, on the afternoon of a summer's day, languid with the heat of the weather, and almost asleep. When his canoe came directly beneath the cliff, the tallest and stoutest fairy began the attack. Others followed his example. It was a long time before they could hit the vulnerable part, but success at length crowned their efforts, and Kwasind sunk, never to rise more.

Ever since this victory, the Puck Wudj Ininee have made that point of rock a favorite resort. The hunters often hear them laugh, and see their little plumes shake as they pass this scene on