Part XVIII: The Death of Kwasind
- Far and wide among the nations
- Spread the name and fame of Kwasind;
- No man dared to strive with Kwasind,
- No man could compete with Kwasind.
- But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies,
- They the envious Little People,
- They the fairies and the pygmies,
- Plotted and conspired against him.
- "If this hateful Kwasind," said they,
- "If this great, outrageous fellow
- Goes on thus a little longer,
- Tearing everything he touches,
- Rending everything to pieces,
- Filling all the world with wonder,
- What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies?
- Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies?
- He will tread us down like mushrooms,
- Drive us all into the water,
- Give our bodies to be eaten
- By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs,
- By the Spirits of the water!
- So the angry Little People
- All conspired against the Strong Man,
- All conspired to murder Kwasind,
- Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind,
- The audacious, overbearing,
- Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind!
- Now this wondrous strength of Kwasind
- In his crown alone was seated;
- In his crown too was his weakness;
- There alone could he be wounded,
- Nowhere else could weapon pierce him,
- Nowhere else could weapon harm him.
- Even there the only weapon
- That could wound him, that could slay him,
- Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree,
- Was the blue cone of the fir-tree.
- This was Kwasind's fatal secret,
- Known to no man among mortals;
- But the cunning Little People,
- The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret,
- Knew the only way to kill him.
- So they gathered cones together,
- Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree,
- Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree,
- In the woods by Taquamenaw,
- Brought them to the river's margin,
- Heaped them in great piles together,
- Where the red rocks from the margin
- Jutting overhang the river.
- There they lay in wait for Kwasind,
- The malicious Little People.
- `T was an afternoon in Summer;
- Very hot and still the air was,
- Very smooth the gliding river,
- Motionless the sleeping shadows:
- Insects glistened in the sunshine,
- Insects skated on the water,
- Filled the drowsy air with buzzing,
- With a far resounding war-cry.
- Down the river came the Strong Man,
- In his birch canoe came Kwasind,
- Floating slowly down the current
- Of the sluggish Taquamenaw,
- Very languid with the weather,
- Very sleepy with the silence.
- From the overhanging branches,
- From the tassels of the birch-trees,
- Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended;
- By his airy hosts surrounded,
- His invisible attendants,
- Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin;
- Like a burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she,
- Like a dragon-fly, he hovered
- O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind.
- To his ear there came a murmur
- As of waves upon a sea-shore,
- As of far-off tumbling waters,
- As of winds among the pine-trees;
- And he felt upon his forehead
- Blows of little airy war-clubs,
- Wielded by the slumbrous legions
- Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,
- As of some one breathing on him.
- At the first blow of their war-clubs,
- Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind;
- At the second blow they smote him,
- Motionless his paddle rested;
- At the third, before his vision
- Reeled the landscape Into darkness,
- Very sound asleep was Kwasind.
- So he floated down the river,
- Like a blind man seated upright,
- Floated down the Taquamenaw,
- Underneath the trembling birch-trees,
- Underneath the wooded headlands,
- Underneath the war encampment
- Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies.
- There they stood, all armed and waiting,
- Hurled the pine-cones down upon him,
- Struck him on his brawny shoulders,
- On his crown defenceless struck him.
- "Death to Kwasind!" was the sudden
- War-cry of the Little People.
- And he sideways swayed and tumbled,
- Sideways fell into the river,
- Plunged beneath the sluggish water
- Headlong, as an otter plunges;
- And the birch canoe, abandoned,
- Drifted empty down the river,
- Bottom upward swerved and drifted:
- Nothing more was seen of Kwasind.
- But the memory of the Strong Man
- Lingered long among the people,
- And whenever through the forest
- Raged and roared the wintry tempest,
- And the branches, tossed and troubled,
- Creaked and groaned and split asunder,
- "Kwasind!" cried they; "that is Kwasind!
- He is gathering in his fire-wood!"
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