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  In
  The
  Time
  That
  Was

  Dedicated
  to
  _Ah-Koo_

  Done into English
  by
  J. Frederic Thorne
  (_Kitchakahaech_)

  Illustrated
  by
  Judson T. Sergeant
  (_To-u-sucka_)

  Seattle,
  Washington,
  U. S. A.

  BEING THE FIRST
  volume _of_ a series
  of Legends _of_ the tribe
  of Alaskan Indians
  known as the Chilkats--_of_
  the Klingats
  _As told by Zachook the "Bear"
  to Kitchakahaech the "Raven"_

[Illustration]




_In the Time That Was_

"And There Was Light."


Zachook of the Chilkats told me these tales of The Time That Was.
But before the telling, he of the Northland and I of the Southland
had travelled many a mile with dog-team, snowshoes, and canoe.

If the stories suffer in the telling, as suffer they must afar from
that wondrous Alaskan background of mountain and forest, glacier
and river, wrenched from the setting of campfires and trail, and
divorced from the soft gutturals and halting throat notes in which
they have been handed down from generation to generation of Chilkat
and Chilkoot, blame not Zachook, who told them to me, and forbear
to blame me who tell them to you as best I may in this stiff
English tongue. They were many months in the telling and many weary
miles have I had to carry them in my memory pack.

       *       *       *       *       *

I had lost count of the hours, lost count of the days that at best
are marked by little change between darkness and dawn in the
Northland winter, until I knew not how long I had lain there in my
blanket of snow, waiting for the lingering feet of that dawdler,
Death, to put an end to my sufferings.

Some hours, or days, or years before I had been pushing along the
trail to the coast, thinking little where I placed my feet and much
of the eating that lay at Dalton Post House; and of other things
thousands of miles from this bleak waste, where men exist in the
hope of ultimate living, with kaleidoscope death by their side;
other things that had to do with women's faces, bills of fare from
which bacon and beans were rigidly excluded, and comforts of the
flesh that some day I again might enjoy.

Then, as if to mock me, teach me the folly of allowing even my
thoughts to wander from her cold face, the Northland meted swift
punishment. The packed snow of the trail beneath my feet gave way,
there was a sharp click of steel meeting steel, and a shooting pain
that ran from heel to head. For a moment I was sick and giddy from
the shock and sudden pain, then, loosening the pack from my
shoulders, fell to digging the snow with my mittened hands away
from what, even before I uncovered it, I knew to be a bear trap
that had bitten deep into my ankle and held it in vise clutch.
Roundly I cursed at the worse than fool who had set bear trap in
man trail, as I tore and tugged to free myself. As well might I
have tried to wrench apart the jaws of its intended victim.

Weakened at last by my efforts and the excruciating pain I lay back
upon the snow. A short rest, and again I pulled feebly at the steel
teeth, until my hands were bleeding and my brain swirling.

How long I struggled blindly, viciously, like a trapped beaver, I
do not know, though I have an indistinct memory of reaching for my
knife to emulate his sometime method of escape. But with the first
flakes of falling snow came a delicious, contentful langour,
deadening the pain, soothing the weariness of my muscles, calming
the tempest of my thoughts and fears, and lulling me gently to
sleep to the music of an old song crooned by the breeze among the
trees.

When I awoke it was with that queer feeling of foreign surroundings
we sometimes experience, and the snow, the forest, the pain in my
leg, my own being, were as strange as the crackling fire, the warm
blanket that wrapped me, and the Indian who bent over me smiling
into my half opened eyes.

So were our trails joined and made one; Zachook of the Northland,
and I of the Southland, by him later called Kitchakahaech, because
my tongue moved as moved our feet on the trail, unceasingly. And
because of this same love of speech in me, and the limp I bore for
memory of the bear trap, for these and possibly other reasons, and
that a man must have a family to bear his sins, of the Raven was I
christened by Zachook, the Bear, and to the family of the Raven was
I joined.

Orator among his people though he was, Zachook was no spendthrift
of speech. But surly he never was; his silence was a pleasant
silence, a companionable interchange of unspoken thoughts. Nor did
he need words as I needed them, his eyes, his hands, his wordless
lips could convey whole volumes of meaning, with lights and shades
beyond the power that prisons thought. Not often did he speak at
length, even to me, unless, as it came to be, he was moved by some
hap or mishap of camp or trail to tell of the doings of that arch
rascal, Yaeethl, the raven, God, Bird, and Scamp. And when, sitting
over the fire, or with steering paddle in hand, he did open the
gates that lead to the land of legend, he seemed but to listen and
repeat the words of Kahn, the fire spirit, who stands between the
Northland and death, or of Klingat-on-ootke, God of the Waters,
whose words seemed to glisten on the dripping paddle.

So it was upon an evening in the time when we had come to be as
sons of the same mother, when we shared pack and blanket and grub
alike, and were known, each to the other, for the men we were. We
had finished our supper of salmon baked in the coals, crisply fried
young grouse and the omnipresent sourdough bread, and with the
content that comes of well filled stomachs were seated with the
fire between us, Zachook studying the glowing embers, I with that
friend of solitude, my pipe, murmuring peacefully in response to my
puffing.

As usual, I had been talking, and my words had run upon the trail
of the raven, whose hoarse call floated up to us from the river.
Idly I had spoken, and disparagingly, until Zachook half smilingly,
half earnestly quoted:

"He who fires in the air without aim may hit a friend."

And as I relapsed into silence added: "It is time, Kitchakahaech,
that you heard of the head of your family, this same Yaeethl, the
raven. Then will you have other words for him, though, when you
have heard, it will be for you to speak them as a friend speaks or
as an enemy. Of both has Yaeethl many."

I accepted the rebuke in silence, for Zachook's trail was longer
then mine by many years, and he had seen and done things which were
yet as thoughts with me.

For the time of the smoking and refilling of my pipe Zachook was
silent, then with eyes gazing deep into the fire, began:

     "Before there was a North or South, when Time was not,
     Klingatona-Kla, the Earth Mother, was blind, and all the world
     was dark. No man had seen the sun, moon, or stars, for they
     were kept hidden by Yakootsekaya-ka, the Wise Man. Locked in a
     great chest were they, in a chest that stood in the corner of
     the lodge of the Wise Man, in Tskekowani, the place that
     always was and ever will be. Carefully were they guarded, many
     locks had the chest, curious, secret locks, beyond the fingers
     of a thief. To outwit the cunning of Yaeethl were the locks
     made. Yaeethl the God, Yaeethl the Raven, Yaeethl the Great
     Thief, of whom the Wise Man was most afraid.

     "The Earth Mother needed light that her eyes might be opened,
     that she might bear children and escape the disgrace of her
     barrenness. To Yaeethl the Clever, Yaeethl the Cunning, went
     Klingatona-Kla, weeping, and of the Raven begged aid. And
     Yaeethl took pity on her and promised that she should have
     Kayah, the Light, to father her children.

     "Many times had Yaeethl, because of his promise, tried to
     steal the Worlds of Light, and as many times had he failed.
     But with each attempt his desire grew, grew until it filled
     his belly and his brain.

     "Was he not Yaeethl, the Great White Raven, the Father of
     Thieves? What if the Wise Man put new and heavier locks upon
     the chest after each attempt? Were locks greater than the
     cunning of the Raven?

     "Now Yakootsekaya-ka, the Wise Man, and his wife had a
     daughter. Of their marriage was she, a young girl, beautiful
     and good. No man had ever seen her face. On no one, god or
     man, had the eyes of the young girl ever rested, save only her
     father and mother, the Wise Ones. Ye-see-et, a virgin, was
     she.

     "Yaeethl, of his wisdom knowing that the weakness of men is
     the strength of children, that a babe may enter where a
     warrior may not cast his shadow, bethought him of this virgin,
     this daughter of Yakootsekaya-ka. As the thought and its
     children made camp in his brain Yaeethl spread wide his
     snow-white wings.

     [Illustration]

     "Thrice he circled high in air, then took flight towards
     Tskekowani, the meeting place of Memory and Hope. Like Chunet,
     the Arrow, he flew, straight, and as Heen, the River, swift.
     Twice ten moons, and another, flew Yaeethl without rest of
     wing before he drew near the cabin of the Wise Man. Away from
     the lodge he alighted, by the edge of the spring were his
     white wings folded, by the spring where the daughter of the
     Wise Man would come for water.

     "Then, with the power that was his, Yaeethl, the God, changed
     the shape that was his, the shape of the raven; into a small
     white pebble did he change, and lay in the water of the
     spring, and in the water waited for the coming of the girl.

     "Long waited Yaeethl, the Pebble, with the patience of wisdom
     and great desire. And the girl came.

     "Beautiful in her maidenhood, graceful in the dawning of her
     womanhood, came the girl, the virgin, the daughter of
     Yakootsekaya-ka, the Keeper of the Worlds of Light. Stooping,
     she dipped her cup into the cool water. From the edge of the
     spring rolled Yaeethl, into the cup he rolled, and lay quiet
     in the shadow of her hand. Quiet he lay, but full of the Great
     Desire.

     "And the girl saw him not.

     "To the lodge returned the maiden, bearing the cup, the water,
     and the Pebble. Into the lodge entered the maiden. In the
     lodge where lay the Sun, Moon, and Stars, was Yaeethl.

     "From the cup the Wise Man drank, but Yaeethl moved not. From
     the cup the Mother drank, and Yaeethl was motionless. When the
     Daughter raised the cup to her lips, toward her lips rolled
     Yaeethl. Softly he rolled, but the Mother, ever careful, heard
     the sound of the pebble on the cup-side, and the keen eyes of
     the Father saw the white pebble shine.

     "'Do not drink, Daughter,' said the Wise Man, laying his hand
     on the maiden's arm. 'Small things sometimes contain great
     evils. A white pebble it may be, and only a white pebble.
     Yaeethl it may be, Yaeethl the Raven, Yaeethl the Father of
     Thieves.'

     [Illustration]

     "Then the Mother took the cup and out through the door cast
     the water. Through the door cast the pebble. And when the door
     of the lodge was closed behind him Yaeethl, the Disappointed,
     once more took his own form, the shape of the raven, white of
     wing and white of feather.

     "Back to earth flew Yaeethl, angry, ashamed, but more than
     ever filled with a great longing for the Worlds of Light that
     lay locked in the chest of the Wise Man.

     "Klingatona-Kla, Earth Mother, wept long and sore when
     empty-handed returned Yaeethl, loud she wailed, making sure
     she must remain forever dark and barren. But Yaeethl, the
     Undaunted, comforted her with strong words, and renewed his
     promise that the Light should be given her in marriage, and
     her disgrace forgotten in many children, children should she
     have as the shore has sand.

     "Though he had flown as speeds Hoon, the North Wind, the going
     and coming of Yaeethl had eaten three winters and two summers.

     "Awhile he rested in the lap of Klingatona-Kla, for the winter
     he rested, but with the coming of the spring, he spread again
     his wings and took flight towards the lodge of the Wise Man,
     towards the Great Desire. Mightily he flew, and swift, for
     though the dead make the journey between the opening and the
     closing of an eye, for the living it is a long trail.

     "When again he alighted, wing weary, by the spring where the
     daughter of Yakootsekaya-ka drew water, Yaeethl remembered the
     shape and whiteness that had betrayed him, remembered the
     traitor Pebble, and from the memory gathered wisdom.

     "Close to his side folded he the wings of whiteness, beneath
     his feathers tucked head and feet, and grew small. Small and
     yet smaller he grew, as melts ice before the fire, and when
     the shrinking was ended he had taken upon himself the form of
     Thlay-oo, the sand grain. As Thlay-oo, the Little, he waited.

     "As Thlay-oo, the Invisible, watched Yaeethl for the coming of
     the maiden. Waited as does the bear for the coming of Takeete,
     the After Winter. Watched as does the lynx for the young
     caribou.

     "And as before came the girl, cup in hand, innocent in her
     maidenhood, wise in her womanhood, in both beautiful.
     Gracefully she stooped and filled the cup with the water of
     the spring. Into the cup floated Yaeethl in the shape of
     Thlay-oo. In the spring water he sank and lay against the
     bottom of the cup. Small was Yaeethl, but big with desire for
     what was within the chest of the Wise Man.

     "Then the lodge door opened and received the maiden and the
     cup, received Yaeethl the Grain of Sand, Yaeethl the Raven.

     "To Yakootsekaya-ka, her father, the girl gave the cup, and
     the Wise Man drank of the water. Drank, but saw not Yaeethl,
     the Invisible. To the wife, her mother, the maiden gave the
     cup, and of the water the Mother drank. Drank, but heard not
     Yaeethl, the Still. Then the maiden, Ye-see-et, the Virgin,
     daughter of Yakootsekaya-ka, the Keeper of the Sun, Moon, and
     Stars, lifted the cup to her lips.

     "The Mother spoke not. The Father moved not. The Daughter
     drank.

     "Past the red of her lips, by the white of her teeth, down the
     throat of the girl rolled the grain of sand. Rolled until it
     lay close under her heart, and paused. Under the heart of the
     maiden lay Yaeethl, waited Yaeethl, grew Yaeethl. Warmed by
     the heart of the maiden Yaeethl grew.

     "And time passed.

     "Then the mother of the maiden, looking upon her daughter,
     became troubled in her mind. Troubled was the mind of the
     Mother, but silent her tongue.

     "And time passed.

     [Illustration]

     "Again the Mother looked upon her daughter, and looking, spoke
     to the Wise Man, her husband, of the thought that was hers.
     Spoke she of the troubled thought concerning the maiden, their
     daughter.

     "When the Mother's thought was the thought of the Father his
     heart was filled with anger at his daughter for the disgrace
     she would bring upon his name. Angrily he questioned her, that
     he might revenge himself upon the thief of her innocence. But
     the girl looked into the eyes of her father and denied both
     thief and theft. No man had she seen save him, her father. Of
     the cause of The Thought that troubled them was she ignorant,
     and as innocent as ignorant. And the truth shone from her eyes
     as she spoke, straight was her tongue. Empty of shame was her
     face.

     "And the Mother, looking into the eyes of her daughter,
     believed. And