by Hunter Liguore.
In the Old Days, as the waters fled the earth, and the birds again took to the sky, a time when the air was drenched in cedar smoke, from the cave fires that burned night and day, a time when the four-leggeds climbed out of Iná’s belly, the two-leggeds carried their fire back to the surface, where they emptied their seed sacks, and raked the soil, and called on Tunkasila to be gentle with rain and great with sunlight, so that the corn would sprout, and the flowers would bloom, and life would return to the Great Earth.
Many months did the new people of Iná prosper, forgetting quickly the years of Great Darkness inside the caves, when the waters reached the mountaintops and drowned the land. Soon they no longer spoke to Tunkasila to bring rain and sun for their crops, nor did they leave offerings of their bounties. In all things they considered their own greatness, and in their circles they danced to show off their proud dress and moves. From their lips they said to the sky: “Look and see what great things we have done. We have borne children and dressed them with the skins of the four-leggeds. We have fed them with the corn we’ve grown. All this and more have we done on our own.”
But there were a few among the people of Iná, the Grandmothers of Old, who felt differently. For in their memory they could recall life before the flood. And so they warned the others that their arrogance would bring back the waters, or worse. The Grandmothers cried, “A time do we remember when earth and sky were in balance, and all things upon it flowed as one. But the vain pride of the two-leggeds pushed the wheel too far in one direction, and in their forgetfulness they were judged. Thus the waters choked the land that we might remember.”
But the people of Iná did not listen, for each day the sun came up and warmed the fields and the rain returned in stride to quench to soil. At night the great Hanepi Wi rose to the top of the sky and bloomed bright, and her children, the stars, multiplied across the dark robe, like 10,000 fires. So the people of Iná grew lulled, and even more forgetful, pleased as the harvest reached its peak, and the four-leggeds ran at their spears. As they celebrated they sang: “What more do we need? We have all and more?” And so the Grandmothers wept, their tears they collected, and hid away for fear that they would bring the floods from all their sorrow.
At night as the people of Iná made celebrations, the Grandmothers watched the changes come. First they witnessed the sun grow dim, giving off little warmth, so that many of their people were forced inside their huts. Night became longer than Day, and the earth turned hard and brittle. No longer did the seeds go into the soil. Then the rains came and froze in mid-flight, covering the fields in snow and ice. The trees shook and rattled, dropping their leaves, the sap retreating to the inner-womb. The birds disappeared from the skies, and the four-leggeds crawled back into Iná’s belly.
When they thought that no more could happen, the Grandmothers saw the great Hanepi Wi draw her light from the midnight sky, until she was only a sliver, and then, as if she blinked, her light was no more. When Hanepi Wi disappeared, so did her children, so that the night sky covered the people of Iná in a cloak of choking darkness.
It remained dark, even when it was morning. The air filled with the smoke of cedar fires, as the people of Iná fed them constant to provide light and warmth. Many went mad, remembering the Great Darkness in the caves. They cried, “Now, Iná, has become an endless cave. No more shall we know light, and without light we cannot grow our crops, we cannot know life.”
When seven days of darkness passed, the people of Iná went to the hut of the Grandmothers and cried: “Tell us, daughters of Iná, what we might do to bring back the light? We are afraid to sit still. We are afraid for our lives. Tell us where to go and what to do to make amends with Tunkasila, that we might live again.”
“Bring us your store of corn,” spoke the Grandmothers, “that we might make amends.”
“But if we bring you our corn,” said the people. “We will have nothing to eat. We do not know how long we will be in darkness, and no more food can we grow without the Light.”
“Fear not for your body, for when the Light is restored you will be filled with more nourishment than if you ate of 1000 acres of corn.”
So the people of Iná trusted the message of the Grandmothers, and took from their stores the last of their corn. “Now, go,” instructed the Grandmothers, “build a fire at the center of our village. Sit around it holding hands. In stillness will Tunkasila come.” So the people of Iná went to the center of their village and built a great bonfire of cedar logs, so that the flames were as high as the trees. Then they sat together, holding hands, whispering the name of Tunkasila, and in stillness did they grow sleepy, and all the land filled with absence of sound, save the essence of wind that fueled the fire on.
Nearby, the Grandmothers gathered in a hut and ground each kernel of corn upon a stone, turning it to flour. All night they worked and all the next day, never stopping to eat or sleep, nor did they speak, until finally all the baskets were empty, and all that remained was a pure yellow powder. They took the flour in baskets to the center of the village, where they added the elements of all life: first they added water, and mixed it, creating a paste, which they rolled out into a large, flat disk that stretched for miles. Then they instructed the people of Iná to put it on the bonfire, to cook it. “With your breath, blow the fires, and watch the flour rise, and with your voice sing the song of the Moon.”
Hanepi Wi, bearer of mysteries
Walk again with your children in the sky
Wax or wane, may you light our way
While this was happening, the Grandmothers gathered around Maká Cega, the great cauldron, where they raised drums and rattles, and danced around it, their voices carrying far into the belly of Iná. Soon, the ground began to rumble, as the four-legged returned from slumber. First came grasshopper and cricket, then skunk and wolf. They circled the pot until rabbit showed them the way into the cauldron. Soon came muskrat and badger, fox and elk. Even sly coyote came. Last but not least Great Mato, the bear, came and squeezed into the pot. Then the Grandmothers stirred the cauldron, and sang the song of the Stars.
Wicahpi, the children of the moon
Souls of lights
Come, let you decorate the sky
To guide our way
The Grandmothers raised up their voices louder, calling forth the winged-ones to return from hiding. From the north came Anukasan, the eagle, largest of all the feathered-ones. To Anukasan the Grandmothers gave the corn disk, now bright yellow from the fire. Anukasan flew to the top of the sky, and placed the corn disk there.
“Look,” said the people of Iná, “Hanepi Wi has returned with her light.”
Then the Grandmothers called on Kangi, and from the south the black crow, the veiled bird that flew between both worlds, came. To Kangi, the Grandmothers gave Maká Cega, now glowing with the spirits of the four-leggeds. Kangi flew above the tallest mountains, and spilled out the glowing spirits over the tops of the trees.
“Look,” said the people of Iná, “Hanepi Wi has given us back her children. Light has returned to the night.”
And so the people of Iná gave thanks to the Grandmothers for reminding them of what was important. They gathered and praised Tunkasila, seeking forgiveness, and begging for the night to go away. Soon they slept, their bodies warmed by the fire, and in the morning, they received the blessing of the sun. It was still weak and dim, but the snows came no more.
Each day, the sun grew stronger, and with it their devotion to Tunkasila. In their songs they remembered the one that provided the Light that nourished them. Happy they were with their lives, that they did not want to slip back to forgetfulness. And so it was that the people of Iná went to the Grandmothers seeking their advice. “Tell us, daughter of Iná how we can live our lives in joy, every day, and not return to being forgetful?”
To this the Grandmothers said, “Each month Hanepi Wi will bloom bright, but she will wane too. And just when she gets to be a sliver in the sky, then you must remember that she could go away for good, taking her children with her, leaving you blinded by the dark. But if you remember to be thankful, and sit in stillness, then she will return.”
“Oh, Grandmothers, you are wise,” said the people of Iná, “but in a whole year, surely we will forget to pay attention to Tunkasila, and as our children grow older and raise families of their own, they too might forget to be watchful. Tell us then, how we can live in joy a whole year and not be forgetful.”
To this the Grandmothers said, “Each year, after the last ear of corn is pulled from the field, Tunkasila will cause the earth to grow brittle, the trees to die, the four-leggeds to disappear into the belly of Iná. Know you then that this is a warning, a warning not to forget. Spend your time in stillness, thinking on the return of the Light (inside you), then will Tunkasila know you are intent, and allow the earth to renew.”
And so it was that the people of Iná watched each month for the waning moon to bloom again, remembering their blessings and from where they came. And once a year, when the cold months prevented life from growing, the people of Iná knew to be still, giving thanks for their bounties, retreating in silence, remembering the return of Light.
And so it was that the people of Iná prospered and lived well upon the earth, the wheel in balance for many generations to come.
So ends the story of the Great Darkness of Tunkasila.