“Feel in the bottom of it, then,” interposed old Pálowahtiwa, who was sitting near, “and tell him of the Underworld.”
“Hi-ta! [Listen!] brother younger,” said Waíhusiwa, nonplussed but ever ready. “Did you ever hear tell of the people who could not digest, having, forsooth, no proper insides wherewithal to do so? Did you ever hear of them, brother younger?”
“Nay, never; not even from my own grandfathers,” said I. “Sons éso to your story; short be it or long.”28
“Sons éso tse-ná!” (“Cool your ‘sons éso!’ and wait till I begin.”) —F. H. C.
Zuni Introduction
It seems—so the words of the grandfathers say—that in the Underworld were many strange things and beings, even villages of men, long ago. But the people of those villages were unborn-made—more like the ghosts of the dead than ourselves, yet more like ourselves than are the ghosts of the dead, for as the dead are more finished of being than we are, they were less so, as smoke, being hazy, is less fine than mist, which is filmy; or as green corn, though raw, is soft like cooked corn which is done (like the dead), and as both are softer than ripe corn which, though raw, is hardened by age (as we are of meat).
And also, these people were, you see, dead in a way, in that they had not yet begun to live, that is, as we live, in the daylight fashion.
And so, it would seem, partly like ourselves, they had bodies, and partly like the dead they had no bodies, for being unfinished they were unfixed. And whereas the dead are like the wind, and take form from within of their own wills (yän′te-tseman), these people were really like the smoke,29 taking form from without of the outward touching of things, even as growing and unripe grains and fruits do.
Well, in consequence, it was passing strange what a state they were in! Bethink ye! Their persons were much the reverse of our own, for wherein we are hard, they were soft—pliable. Wherein we are most completed, they were most unfinished; for not having even the organs of digestion, whereby we fare lustily, food in its solidity was to them destructive, whereas to us it is sustaining. When, therefore, they would eat, they dreaded most the food itself, taking thought not to touch it, and merely absorbing the mist thereof. As fishes fare chiefly on water, and birds on air, so these people ate by gulping down the steam and savor of their cooked things whilst cooking or still hot; then they threw the real food away, forsooth!
The Tale
Now, the Twain Little-ones, Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma,30 were ever seeking scenes of contention; for what was deathly and dreadful to others was lively and delightful to them; so that cries of distress were ever their calls of invitation, as to a feast or dance is the call of a priest to us.
On a day when the world was quiet, they were sitting by the side of a deep pool. They heard curious sounds coming up through the waters, as though the bubbles were made by moans of the waters affrighted.
“Uh!” cried the elder. “What is that?”
The younger brother turned his ear to the ground and listened.
“There is trouble down there, dire trouble, for the people of the Underworld are shrieking war-cries like daft warriors and wailing like murder-mourners. What can be the matter? Let us descend and see!”
“Just so!” said Áhaiyúta.
Then they covered their heads with their cord-shields31—turned upside down—and shut their eyes and stepped into the deep pool.
“Now we are in the dark,” said they, “like the dark down there. Well, then, by means of the dark let us go down”—for they had wondrous power, had those Twain; the magic of in-knowing-how thought had they.
Down, like light through dark places, they went; dry through the waters; straight toward that village in the Underworld.
“Whew! the poor wretches are already dead,” cried they, “and rotting”—for their noses were sooner accustomed to the dark than their eyes, which they now opened.
“We might as well have spared ourselves the coming, and stayed above,” said Áhaiyúta.
“Nay, not so,” said Mátsailéma. “Let us go on and see how they lived, even if they are dead.”
“Very well,” said the elder; and as they fared toward the village they could see quite plainly now, for they had made it dark (to themselves) by shutting their eyes in the daylight above, so now they made it light (to themselves) by opening their eyes in the darkness below and simply looking—it was their way, you know.
“Well, well!” said Mátsailéma, as they came nearer and the stench doubled. “Look at the village; it is full of people; the more they smell of carrion the more they seem alive!”
“Yes, by the chut of an arrow!” exclaimed Áhaiyúta. “But look here! It is food we smell—cooked food, all thrown away, as we throw away bones and corncobs because they are too hard to eat and profitless withal. What, now, can be the meaning of this?”
“What, indeed! Who can know save by knowing,” replied the younger brother. “Come, let us lie low and watch.”
So they went very quietly close to the village, crouched down, and peered in. Some people inside were about to eat. They took fine food steaming hot from the cooking-pots and placed it low down in wide trenchers; then they gathered around and sipped in the steam and savor with every appearance of satisfaction; but they were as chary of touching the food or of letting the food touch them as though it were the vilest of refuse.
“Did you see that?” queried the younger brother. “By the delight of death,
