Passamaquoddy

Piʾche uskichinwi utenesizek.

All in the early time In an inland village Many Indians lived, Of two of them I’ll tell: One was a handsome man, Young, brave, a great hunter; The other, a beautiful girl.

What might be her name?— Malikakusquess? Or Kaliwahdasi? I do not remember Which of the two it was. But she was very proud, Fierce as she was fair, And through and through revengeful. And, what was worst of all, She was an awful witch, Seven witches in one, Like seven devils united But this she hid from all; Only the Wʾnagʾmeswuk, The singular silent spirits, Who are ever flitting around us, Knew of this terrible secret.

She wanted the youth to wed her, But he at that time was busy, Very busy in getting ready To go on his autumn hunt, Which would last far into the winter; And he had no time for wooing, As he very plainly told her.

Truly he must have spoken Very plainly indeed; For her heart shrunk up in anger Until ’twas hard as a flint With sharply cutting edges, And thus she cut in reply: “You may go afar to the North, You may go if you like on your hunt But you never will return The same as when you departed; Remember me when the change Comes over you in the forest.”

He gave no heed to her words, He cared not for her, nor feared her, So he went away with his brother, And for many days together They hunted in the North, Hunted the deer and moose; The girl was all forgotten.

But one day when deep in the woods, And very far in the North, In the mid winter gloom, The youth went raging mad, For the witch had struck him sore, Though far and far away, Struck him with sorcery.

The elder brother with him Was a brave among the braves, A fierce and terrible man Who had no dream of fear: And as he could do naught else He did the most desperate deed Which the wildest of the warriors Among the Wabanaki Has ever dared to do; For he went down to the river At midnight and alone, And sang the terrible song Which calls the Wîwilmekw, The Demon of the Worm, Even to devils a terror.

Nil nʾwikwima Wîwilmekw Nil nʾwikwima chipinaʿkwsit Nit besq weshʾmʾwit Nil npechikinapin nekmomeswelas

“I call on the Wîwilmekw, I call on the Terrible One, On the One with the Horns, I dare him to appear!”

It came in all its horrors, Its eyes were like deep red fire, Its horns rose sharp and high. It asked him, what he would have? He answered that his brother Had lost himself in madness, And he fain would cure the youth.

“I will give you what you want,” Answered the Wîwilmekw, “If you are not afraid.”

“I have no fear at all,” The Indian replied, “Of anything that lives.”

“Hast thou no fear of me?” The Demon Worm inquired.

“No more of thee than I Have of the Michihant, Who is the Devil of all.”

“If you dare take me by My horns,” the fiend replied, “And scrape them with your knife, And lay the scrapings by, Then you may have your wish.”

In truth this Indian was As savage, wild and brave, As was the Devil himself; He had great need indeed To be all that he was; For the Wîwilmekw, Most terrible to see, Grew fiercer than before, Yet the man drew out his knife And boldly scraped away, Until the Demon said: “Now hold! You have enough.”

“And now go seek your camp, Put half the scrapings then Into a cup half full Of water from the spring, And bid your brother drink!” “And with the other half?” The Indian inquired. “Keep that till you return, Then give it to the girl Who made the trouble—she Needs medicine as well.”

So the man returned to camp And made his brother well. And when the hunt was o’er They turned them to their home.

There they arrived at night; A great festivity Was stirring all the town, Torches were everywhere, And everywhere the scent Of mskîkwul wʾli-mhaskil, Which is the perfumed grass Burning intensely sweet.

The dance was going on, So, many were athirst. And this the hunter knew, The younger of the pair; So he had made a drink Cool, and with honey sweet, Fragrant with pleasant herbs— A dainty drink indeed— But, mingled with it all, There lurked a subtle life, The powder from the horn Of the Wîwilmekw. So thirsty was the witch As she from dancing came, So warm that, when the youth Held out to her the cup, She seized and drank it dry All without giving heed As to what hand had held The cool, refreshing draught; Then turning to the one Who was her partner, she Went on into the dance, And then a wondrous thing Was seen by all therein: For lo! at every turn The maiden older grew, One year for every round; Beginning as a girl In all her freshest youth She at the lodge’s end, Seemed fifty years of age, And still, as she danced on, Added unto her age, Till just as she returned Unto the very place Whence she had come, she fell All dead upon the floor, A little dried-up thing, A wrinkled, wizened squaw, A thing of the last old age Or of a hundred years.