Myths and Poetry by John E. Smelcer
Alaska

Two Conservation Myths From Alaska Native Oral Tradition The indigenous Peoples of Alaska have long known that natural balance, indeed their very subsistence lifestyles, depends much upon how the land is treated. Whereas the western philosophy of environmental usage was, and still is to an extent, "Take everything and give nothing," the natives of Alaska, like most Native American Indian Peoples, have traditionally regarded the land as both provider and protector. To them, the land and its resources are sacred and the connection between human actions and the Earth's welfare is clear.       From this understanding, numerous taboo myths and legends, didactic in function, exist to illustrate and warn that the land must be treated with respect and stewardship. In these narratives from long-lived oral traditions, the consequences of violating the land and its many resources are portrayed in such horrific accounts that young listeners will remember the lessons throughout their lives and pass on the moralistic message to the next generation.       The following two narratives, "The Ptarmigan Story" from Inupiaq Eskimo and "The Squirrel Shaman" from southeast Alaska Tsimshian, show what happens when nature is destroyed indiscriminately. The Ptarmigan Story When young boys are trained to hunt and fish, one of the first lessons they are taught is to respect and care for the game they hunt. If animals are mistreated, then they may no longer allow themselves to be killed for food and clothing, and the Eskimos would certainly die of hunger or freeze to death. Therefore, fathers always tell their children to show respect when they kill an animal.       One day, though, two young brothers left their village to check ptarmigan snares. As they approached the traps, they saw one white bird caught by the leg in one of the snares. The bird was frightened and tried to escape. It jumped up and down and tried to fly away, but the string was very tight around its leg.       The brothers watched the bird and then one spoke to the other.       "I wonder if ptarmigan can fly straight without eyes?" he asked.       The other brother laughed and poked the bird's eyes out with a small branch. Then he threw the blind ptarmigan into the air. It tried to fly but because it could not see, it kept crashing into the hillside and into small bushes. The brothers chased it and they laughed aloud.       Then the other brother asked, "I wonder if ptarmigan can fly without feathers?"       They began to pluck the blind bird while it was still alive! Then they threw it up into the air as before, but each time it just fell to the frozen ground. They did this many times until the bird was nearly dead. When it was time to check the other snares they dropped the poor bird and left it to die without even taking its meat for food.       The next morning both boys awoke feeling very sick. They had the fever and they kept throwing up. The shaman was sent for, but he could do nothing for them. He gave them special medicine, but nothing stopped their suffering. Soon, blood began to pour from their eyes!       The shaman told the parents that the sickness was too great. He said that they must have broken a powerful taboo.       That night the two boys, who had shown such great disrespect to the ptarmigan, died in terrible agony. The Squirrel Shaman In a small village upon the Skenna River, three young brothers would hunt and kill squirrels. They hung the tiny furs to dry and collected the tails. Together they had killed so many squirrels that they had to go farther and farther away from home to find more.       One day, one of the boys was hunting alone far from the village when he saw a perfectly white squirrel running along the trunk of a very tall tree. The boy raised his bow to shoot, but he saw that it was so pretty that he could not kill this one.       The white squirrel ran into a hole in the tree and turned around and motioned for the boy to follow. The handsome young man approached and looked inside. He saw that it was a house with a great many empty beds. It was a community house for many people, but there was no one inside. It was entirely empty except for the white squirrel who stood in the middle waving at him to come inside.       "I cannot come in," said the Tsimshian boy. "I am much too big."       "Lean your bow against the Great House, and then you will be able to come inside," replied the white squirrel.       The boy did so and to his surprise he became small enough to walk into the empty hall. He saw that the white squirrel was a beautiful young woman who was wearing a white fur coat. She told the boy to follow her up to the top of the Great Tree. When they arrived, an old man who looked like a chief spoke to him.       "I have been waiting for you to come. Why have you killed all of my people? All of my children and grandchildren are gone except for my favorite granddaughter who led you to the Great House. Why have you done this?"       The young man looked around and saw that this room too was empty, and then he answered the old chief, "I have not killed your people. I have never killed a person before. I do not know what you are saying, old father."       "Look around you," said the chief. "See how we are alone here now where once these halls were full of my people."       The boy looked again and replied, "But I did not kill anyone."       The old man came close to the boy and spoke to him again, "I am the chieftain of the Squirrel People. You and your brothers have killed all of my children and now their skins hang outside your house."       Suddenly the boy understood what had happened. He looked at the girl and saw that she was indeed very beautiful. He felt ashamed and saddened.       "We did not know that you live like people. We did not know that you love your children and grandchildren. I am sorry. Forgive me. I will tell my brothers not to hunt your people any longer."       But the chief was still sad. "It is too late to stop killing us. We are all dead now. My granddaughter and I are all that is left."       "But I did not mean to kill you all!" exclaimed the young hunter as a tear filled his eye. Is there not something I can do?" he asked the old father Squirrel.       "There is a way," said the chief. "I can make you a great shaman and you can return my people."       The young Tsimshian agreed, and so the old man began to work his powerful magic. He took the boy outside and tied his limbs to the tree. Then he pushed sharp needles with string through his skin and pulled them tight in every direction. There was a piercing needle for every dead squirrel. The boy screamed in pain, but the old man said that the pain was part of the power. When he was finished, the chief left the boy hanging for three days. On the third day he returned and sang his magic song for three more days. He did not rest, and he did not eat or drink either. After that, the chief left the boy alone.       One day, the boy's two younger brothers were out hunting squirrels when they came across the carcass of their brother who had been lost for six days. It was hanging in a tall tree just as they had hung the squirrel furs at their house. They cut him down and took his body home.       That night, after they arrived with their dead brother, a magic filled the entire village and all of the dead squirrels came back to life. They ran back to the Great House and told the chief what had happened. After all of the squirrels were returned, the spirit of the young man flew back into his dead body and returned him to life. From that time on, he was a great and powerful shaman and the Tsimshian did not kill squirrels. Tern Creek I entered Tern Creek below the slow falls to fish where the stream began its bend before it passed beneath the stone bridge. My wife and I always fished rainbows from the dark eddy swirling beyond our feet where I found a trout waving in the shadows, taking what it could off the smooth gravel. My fly touched the surface white line sinking into sparkling depths I strained to see the alloy of his polished belly in my willow creel upon the soft pillow of green pine boughs I cut that morning for his bed. He reeled me and sliced the stream, igniting it as he ran up the falling water with my taut line through the powdery light of early morning. Bonanza Creek Years ago I came here after the lightning burn. Now I come alone in search of spruce hens hidden in the tender growth. I go deep into your singed forest of birch and spruce whose roots once drank from the blue waters of the rainbow trout. And resting on a burnt log among lupin and larkspur, I see in the ashes beside the fireweed a single wild rose. Crooked Creek All things are connected --Chief Seattle Like perennial swallows returning to Capistrano's white stucco and Franciscans in monk's cloth the color of Raven's feathers, two green shadows arrive below the gentle ripples from around a willow-tangled bend where an eagle tears pink flesh from a spawned and battered steelhead against the protestations of angry gulls screeching profanities-- having flown in from where too many fisherman flail gray water at the confluence where Kasilof blends and engulfs Crooked Creek. At Kalifornsky Village a Tanaina man mends his worn net as tidewater rises.