American Indian Trickster Tales (Myths and Legends) (8 page)

Coyote happened to be in the neighborhood. He heard Locust’s flute; he heard Locust’s boasting. “Who can that be, making this tiny fluttering piping?” thought Coyote. He was curious. He followed the sound. He came to the piñon tree. He saw Locust sitting on the branch with his flute. Locust was singing a little song in his tiny, shrill voice:

“My friend,” said Coyote, “this is a very pretty song. Will you teach it to me?”

“Why not?” said Locust, and taught Coyote the song. They practiced. They sang the song together, Locust with his high, quavering voice, Coyote with his deep, hoarse, grating voice.

“Didn’t we do beautifully?” Coyote asked. “Is not our singing together something wonderful?”

Secretly, Locust thought: “We do not harmonize very well. Coyote really has a very unpleasant, croaky voice. It makes one shudder. He will never make a good singer.” Aloud he said: “It went passably well. Our voices surely are very different.”

“Of course,” said Coyote, “yours is high, and mine is low. It harmonizes delightfully.”

“Hmmm,” said Locust.

“Friend, I have to go now,” said Coyote. “Thank you for having taught me this pretty song.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Locust.

Coyote went on, memorizing the song as he walked. He stumbled over a dead branch lying in his path. He fell hard. He scraped his knees. He was upset. The accident had made him forget the song. “Well, little old Locust is probably still sitting where I left him. He will refresh my memory.” Coyote went back to Locust. Already from a distance he heard him piping away.

“Friend,” he told Locust, “a bad fall has hurt me. This made me forget your song. Please teach it to me once more.”

“Well, all right, but pay attention this time.” Locust sang the song again. “Have you got it?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Coyote, “now it is firmly implanted in my mind.” Coyote went homeward again, trying to memorize the song. He went about twice as far as before. He did not watch where he was going. He fell into a stream. He almost drowned. This made him forget the song. So a second time he went back to see Locust. “This is really time-consuming,” he thought. To Locust he said: “I fell into a stream and almost drowned. This made me forget your song. So now I have to bother you again. I can’t help it.”

“He is really not very bright,” thought Locust. “He can’t concentrate. He can’t remember things.” Aloud he said: “I will sing the song once more for you, but try real hard to memorize it. This is really tiresome.” Then Locust sang the song once more in his reedy, piping voice.

“Now I’ve got it,” vowed Coyote. “Now I will never forget this pretty song. Thanks for taking the trouble.”

“It’s all right,” said Locust, “glad to be of help.” Coyote left once more. “He won’t memorize it this time, either,” Locust said to himself, “it is hopeless.”

Coyote now went three times as far as before. He walked along a cliff. A loose rock fell from above and knocked him senseless. When Coyote came to, he had, of course, forgotten the song. “Let me think,” he said to himself. “What was this song about? Was it about Corn Maiden? Was it about Dragonfly? Was it about the Winged Serpent? I can’t remember. This rock really rattled my head. I have to go back to Locust and let him teach me his song once more. He is a friendly little fellow. He won’t mind.” So back Coyote went, retracing his steps.

Back on his piñon branch Locust thought: “That stupid Coyote will be back here any moment. He will want me to sing that song for him again. I am fed up with this. I shall play a trick on this mindless fellow.” It was just about time for Locust to shed his shell, which had become too small for him. He split his hard shell in the middle and crawled out. He saw a shiny pebble. He put it inside his old shell and propped it up on the piñon branch. The shell looked like a real live Locust. “This will fool him,” thought Locust. He flew up into a nearbly juniper tree. He settled down to watch while making himself a new, larger shell.

Sure enough, Coyote came back. He went right up to the shiny shell sitting on its branch. He thought it was Locust.

“Friend,” said Coyote, “I have to inconvenience you once more. I was hit in the head with a stone. That made me forget the song. I’m sure you understand.”

The shell was silent. “Come on, old fellow,” Coyote urged, “sing that song for me.”

The shell was silent.

“I am getting angry now,” said Coyote, “sing that ugly song for me or else.”

The shell remained silent. In the juniper tree Locust was watching.

“I see that I have to play rough, you puny thing with your squeaky voice. Either sing that song at once or I’ll crush you between my teeth and eat you!”

There was no answer. Coyote snapped at the shell, clamping down hard on it. His teeth met stone. His teeth broke. They fell out of Coyote’s mouth. He howled with pain. He did not understand what had happened. He could not figure it out. Up in his juniper tree Locust said to himself: “Never try teaching a good song to a half-wit.” So it was.

{
Paiute
}

Every man should have his own song, and no one else should be allowed to sing it, unless the owner permits it. At the high points in a man’s life, when he kills his first deer, when he first makes love to a woman, out of this kind of happening he makes up his own song. He sings his song on great occasions. He might leave it to his son.

There was a man called No-Song. They called him that because this poor man owned no song. At a corn dance or a rain dance he would sit apart from the others. Often he tried to hide or lose himself in a crowd, because people would point him out to each other, saying: “Over there is that pitiful man who has no song.” And because of his sad condition, he was too shy to court the young maidens.

So one day this man No-Song had harvested a big load of corn. He also had a big pot bubbling full of delicious venison stew. Coyote smelled it from afar. Coyote came running. “Oh, my,” he thought, “I must get this corn, I must get this wonderful stew!” He was slavering. He said: “Hey, No-Song, what will you swap for your corn and for that sweet-smelling stew?”

“You are Coyote, the Song-Maker. You can have all this for a song.”

“What kind of song?” asked Coyote.

“A song that will make the heart of young women flutter,” said No-Song. “I wish for a song to make glad the people so that they will admire me. Also I don’t want a Coyote song, because Coyotes are the kind of fellows who want to take their gifts back.”

“I would never do something so bad,” said Coyote, whose mouth kept on watering.

“Give me your word that this will not be what they call a ‘Coyote giving.’ ”

“I promise, I promise, as long as the song is wisely used for its purpose—to court a maiden and, on a special occasion, to gladden the hearts of the people.”

“How can you think that I would not use the song in the right way?” said No-Song, somewhat insulted. Then Coyote gave him a song and he gave to Coyote all the corn and the big pot of venison stew. Both were very happy with the bargain they had made.

Soon there was held a great feast and dance, a fine occasion for No-Song to sing. All the people were astonished and delighted at this song. “How come,” they asked, “suddenly No-Song can sing so sweetly?” All the people clapped their hands and expressed their delight. At once a beautiful maiden suggested to No-Song that they should go behind some bushes, to a hidden place, and there do something that the teller of this story will not elaborate upon. And No-Song went from feast to feast, and from dance to dance, singing his song, and all who heard it were enchanted. And No-Song changed his name to “Singing Wonderfully.”

Now, this singing of his song had gone on for months, and he had sung his song wherever he found people to listen, and their praise went to his head. And the one who called himself Singing Wonderfully sang his song for many purposes for which it was not designed, and he sang it so often that people grew bored with it and fell asleep while he was singing. And so, one night when this man calling himself Singing Wonderfully was asleep, Coyote crept up to him and took the song back. Coyote felt justified in doing this, because Singing Wonderfully had misused the song. And when the singer awoke, the song was gone. He could not remember a single word of it and neither could anyone else. And the people called him No-Song again. So now he is sitting there every day with a huge bag of corn before him and a huge bubbling pot of venison stew, but, so far, Coyote has not come back.

{
Northern Pueblo
}

 

Rabbit Boy was resting inside his snug burrow when, suddenly, Coyote’s head was appearing in the entrance hole.

“Good morning, little friend,” said Coyote. “You look good enough to eat.”

“That’s a bad joke, uncle,” said Rabbit Boy. He was frantically trying to think of a way to save himself.

“Yes,” Coyote went on, “you look very appetizing.”

“I was just leaving for a party—my aunt is giving a big feast tonight for all her relatives.”

“A big feast,” thought Coyote. “There will be many rabbits. And many rabbits are better than just one measly rabbit!” It was exactly what Rabbit Boy wanted him to think. “You can come along, uncle,” he told Coyote, “and share in the feast, provided you let me ride on your back. My aunt’s home is quite a way off, my legs are short, and I tire easily. Also, by myself, I could not get there in time.”

“Why, sure, hop on my back, little brother,” said Coyote, smiling to himself at the thought of a large pot of succulent rabbit stew.