The Land of Little Rain

“A Man,” says Seyavi of the campoodie, “must have a woman, but a woman who has a child will do very well.”

That was perhaps why, when she lost her mate in the dying struggle of his race, she never took another, but set her wit to fend for herself and her young son.  No doubt she was often put to it in the beginning to find food for them both.  The Paiutes had made their last stand at the border of the Bitter Lake; battle-driven they died in its waters, and the land filled with cattle-men and adventurers for gold:  this while Seyavi and the boy lay up in the caverns of the Black Rock and ate tule roots and fresh-water clams that they dug out of the slough bottoms with their toes.

In the interim, while the tribes swallowed their defeat, and before the rumor of war died out, they must have come very near to the bare core of things.  That was the time Seyavi learned the sufficiency of mother wit, and how much more easily one can do without a man than might at first be supposed.

To understand the fashion of any life, one must know the land it is lived in and the procession of the year.  This valley is a narrow one, a mere trough between hills, a draught for storms, hardly a crow’s flight from the sharp Sierras of the Snows to the curled, red and ochre, uncomforted, bare ribs of Waban.  Midway of the groove runs a burrowing, dull river, nearly a hundred miles from where it cuts the lava flats of the north to its widening in a thick, tideless pool of a lake.  Hereabouts the ranges have no foothills, but rise up steeply from the bench lands above the river.  Down from the Sierras, for the east ranges have almost no rain, pour glancing white floods toward the lowest land, and all beside them lie the campoodies, brown wattled brush heaps, looking east.

In the river are mussels, and reeds that have edible white roots, and in the soddy meadows tubers of joint grass; all these at their best in the spring.  On the slope the summer growth affords seeds; up the steep the one-leafed pines, an oily nut.  That was really all they could depend upon, and that only at the mercy of the little gods of frost and rain.  For the rest it was cunning against cunning, caution against skill, against quacking hordes of wild-fowl in the tulares, against pronghorn and bighorn and deer.  You can guess, however, that all this warring of rifles and bowstrings, this influx of overlording whites, had made game wilder and hunters fearful of being hunted.  You can surmise also, for it was a crude time and the land was raw, that the women became in turn the game of the conquerors.

There used to be in the Little Antelope a she dog, stray or outcast, that had a litter in some forsaken lair, and ranged and foraged for them, slinking savage and afraid, remembering and mistrusting humankind, wistful, lean, and sufficient for her young.  I have thought Seyavi might have had days like that, and have had perfect leave to think, since she will not talk of it.  Paiutes have the art of reducing life to its lowest ebb and yet saving it alive on grasshoppers, lizards, and strange herbs; and that time must have left no shift untried.

It lasted long enough for Seyavi to have evolved the philosophy of life which I have set down at the beginning.  She had gone beyond learning to do for her son, and learned to believe it worth while.

In our kind of society, when a woman ceases to alter the fashion of her hair, you guess that she has passed the crisis of her experience.  If she goes on crimping and uncrimping with the changing mode, it is safe to suppose she has never come up against anything too big for her.  The Indian woman gets nearly the same personal note in the pattern of her baskets.  Not that she doe’s not make all kinds, carriers, water-bottles, and cradles,—­these are kitchen ware,—­but her works of art are all of the same piece.  Seyavi made flaring, flat-bottomed bowls, cooking pots really, when cooking was done by dropping hot stones into water-tight food baskets, and for decoration a design in colored bark of the procession of plumed crests of the valley quail.  In this pattern she had made cooking pots in the golden spring of her wedding year, when the quail went up two and two to their resting places about the foot of Oppapago.  In this fashion she made them when, after pillage, it was possible to reinstate the housewifely crafts.  Quail ran then in the Black Rock by hundreds,—­so you will still find them in fortunate years,—­and in the famine time the women cut their long hair to make snares when the flocks came morning and evening to the springs.

Seyavi made baskets for love and sold them for money, in a generation that preferred iron pots for utility.  Every Indian woman is an artist,—­sees, feels, creates, but does not philosophize about her processes.  Seyavi’s bowls are wonders of technical precision, inside and out, the palm finds no fault with them, but the subtlest appeal is in the sense that warns us of humanness in the way the design spreads into the flare of the bowl.  There used to be an Indian woman at Olancha who made bottle-neck trinket baskets in the rattlesnake pattern, and could accommodate the design to the swelling bowl and flat shoulder of the basket without sensible disproportion, and so cleverly that you might own one a year without thinking how it was done; but Seyavi’s baskets had a touch beyond cleverness.  The weaver and the warp lived next to the earth and were saturated with the same elements.  Twice a year, in the time of white butterflies and again when young quail ran neck and neck in the chaparral, Seyavi cut willows for basketry by the creek where it wound toward the river against the sun and sucking winds.  It never quite reached the river except in far-between times of summer flood, but it always tried, and the willows encouraged it as much as they could.  You nearly always found them a little farther down than the trickle of eager water.  The Paiute fashion of counting time appeals to me more than any other calendar.  They have no stamp of heathen gods nor great ones, nor any succession of moons as have red men of the East and North, but count forward and back by the progress of the season; the time of taboose, before the trout begin to leap, the end of the piñon harvest, about the beginning of deep snows.  So they get nearer the sense of the season, which runs early or late according as the rains are forward or delayed.  But whenever Seyavi cut willows for baskets was always a golden time, and the soul of the weather went into the wood.  If you had ever owned one of Seyavi’s golden russet cooking bowls with the pattern of plumed quail, you would understand all this without saying anything.

Before Seyavi made baskets for the satisfaction of desire,—­for that is a house-bred theory of art that makes anything more of it,—­she danced and dressed her hair.  In those days, when the spring was at flood and the blood pricked to the mating fever, the maids chose their flowers, wreathed themselves, and danced in the twilights, young desire crying out to young desire.  They sang what the heart prompted, what the flower expressed, what boded in the mating weather.

“And what flower did you wear, Seyavi?”

“I, ah,—­the white flower of twining (clematis), on my body and my hair, and so I sang:—­

     “I am the white flower of twining,
     Little white flower by the river,
     Oh, flower that twines close by the river;
     Oh, trembling flower! 
     So trembles the maiden heart.”

So sang Seyavi of the campoodie before she made baskets, and in her later days laid her arms upon her knees and laughed in them at the recollection.  But it was not often she would say so much, never understanding the keen hunger I had for bits of lore and the “fool talk” of her people.  She had fed her young son with meadowlarks’ tongues, to make him quick of speech; but in late years was loath to admit it, though she had come through the period of unfaith in the lore of the clan with a fine appreciation of its beauty and significance.

“What good will your dead get, Seyavi, of the baskets you burn?” said I, coveting them for my own collection.

Thus Seyavi, “As much good as yours of the flowers you strew.”

Oppapago looks on Waban, and Waban on Coso and the Bitter Lake, and the campoodie looks on these three; and more, it sees the beginning of winds along the foot of Coso, the gathering of clouds behind the high ridges, the spring flush, the soft spread of wild almond bloom on the mesa.  These first, you understand, are the Paiute’s walls, the other his furnishings.  Not the wattled hut is his home, but the land, the winds, the hill front, the stream.

These he cannot duplicate at any furbisher’s shop as you who live within doors, who, if your purse allows, may have the same home at Sitka and Samarcand.  So you see how it is that the homesickness of an Indian is often unto death, since he gets no relief from it; neither wind nor weed nor sky-line, nor any aspect of the hills of a strange land sufficiently like his own.  So it was when the government reached out for the Paiutes, they gathered into the Northern Reservation only such poor tribes as could devise no other end of their affairs.  Here, all along the river, and south to Shoshone Land, live the clans who owned the earth, fallen into the deplorable condition of hangers-on.  Yet you hear them laughing at the hour when they draw in to the campoodie after labor, when there is a smell of meat and the steam of the cooking pots goes up against the sun.  Then the children lie with their toes in the ashes to hear tales; then they are merry, and have the joys of repletion and the nearness of their kind.  They have their hills, and though jostled are sufficiently free to get some fortitude for what will come.  For now you shall hear of the end of the basket maker.

In her best days Seyavi was most like Deborah, deep bosomed, broad in the hips, quick in counsel, slow of speech, esteemed of her people.  This was that Seyavi who reared a man by her own hand, her own wit, and none other.  When the townspeople began to take note of her—­and it was some years after the war before there began to be any towns—­she was then in the quick maturity of primitive women; but when I knew her she seemed already old.

Indian women do not often live to great age, though they look incredibly steeped in years.  They have the wit to win sustenance from the raw material of life without intervention, but they have not the sleek look of the women whom the social organization conspires to nourish.  Seyavi had somehow squeezed out of her daily round a spiritual ichor that kept the skill in her knotted fingers long after the accustomed time, but that also failed.  By all counts she would have been about sixty years old when it came her turn to sit in the dust on the sunny side of the wickiup, with little strength left for anything but looking.  And in time she paid the toll of the smoky huts and became blind.  This is a thing so long expected by the Paiutes that when it comes they find it neither bitter nor sweet, but tolerable because common.  There were three other blind women in the campoodie, withered fruit on a bough, but they had memory and speech.  By noon of the sun there were never any left in the campoodie but these or some mother of weanlings, and they sat to keep the ashes warm upon the hearth.  If it were cold, they burrowed in the blankets of the hut; if it were warm, they followed the shadow of the wickiup around.  Stir much out of their places they hardly dared, since one might not help another; but they called, in high, old cracked voices, gossip and reminder across the ash heaps.

Then, if they have your speech or you theirs, and have an hour to spare, there are things to be learned of life not set down in any books, folk tales, famine tales, love and long-suffering and desire, but no whimpering.  Now and then one or another of the blind keepers of the camp will come across to where you sit gossiping, tapping her way among the kitchen middens, guided by your voice that carries far in the clearness and stillness of mesa afternoons.  But suppose you find Seyavi retired into the privacy of her blanket, you will get nothing for that day.  There is no other privacy possible in a campoodie.  All the processes of life are carried on out of doors or behind the thin, twig-woven walls of the wickiup, and laughter is the only corrective for behavior.  Very early the Indian learns to possess his countenance in impassivity, to cover his head with his blanket.  Something to wrap around him is as necessary to the Paiute as to you your closet to pray in.

So in her blanket Seyavi, sometime basket maker, sits by the unlit hearths of her tribe and digests her life, nourishing her spirit against the time of the spirit’s need, for she knows in fact quite as much of these matters as you who have a larger hope, though she has none but the certainty that having borne herself courageously to this end she will not be reborn a coyote.