Many Many Moons/The Blue Duck
PART I
FLYING MOCCASINS
THE BLUE DUCK[1]
To be readwith a vigorouslilt emphasizingthe drumbeats
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!Heé-ya! Hói-ya!Heé-ya! Hói-ya!Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,The hunter-moon is chipping,Chipping at his flints,At his dripping bloody flints;He is rising for the hunt,And his face is red with bloodFrom the spears of many spruces,And his blood is on the leavesThat flutter down.The Winter-Maker, White Bee-bóan,Is walking in the sky,And his windy blanketRustles in the trees.He is blazing out the trailThrough the fields of nodding riceFor the swift and whistling wingsOf his She-shé-be,For the worn and weary wings Of many duck—Ho! Plenty duck! Plenty duck!Ho! Plenty, plenty duck!
More slowlyand quietly,verging on achant.
Hí! Hi!Hí! Hi!Hí! Hi!Hí! Hi!Hóy-eeeeeee! Ya!Hóy-eeeeeee! Ya!Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,The seasons have been barren.In the Moon-of-Sugar-Making,And the Moon-of-Flowers-and-Grass,From the blighted berry patchesAnd the maple-sugar bush,The hands of all my childrenCame home empty, came home clean.The big rain of Nee-bin, the Summer-Maker,Washed away the many little partridge.And good Ad-ík-kum-áig, sweet whitefish,Went sulking all the summer-moons,Hiding in the deepest waters,Silver belly in the mud,And he would not walk into my nets! Ugh!Thus the skin-sacks and the mó-kuksHang within my weég-a-wam empty.
Soon the winter moon will come,Slipping through the silent timber,Walking on the silent snow, To be chantedfrom this pointon—slower inrate—higherand higher inpitch—mount-ing to melan-choly wailing.Stalking on the frozen lake.Lean-bellied,Squatting with his rump upon the ice,The phantom wolf will flingHis wailings to the stars.Then Weén-di-go, the Devil-Spirit,Whining through the lodge-poles,Will clutch and shake my teepee,Calling,Calling,Calling as he sifts into my lodge;And ghostly little shadow-armsWill float out throughThe smoke-hole in the night—Leaping, tossing shadow-arms,A sustained
wailing chant,
gathering power
steadily.
Little arms of little children,Hungry hands of shadow-arms,Clutching,Clutching,Clutching at the breast that is not there. . .Shadow-arms and shadow breasts. . .Twisting,Twisting,Twisting in and twisting outOn the ghastly clouds of smoke. . .Riding on the whistling wind. . . .Riding on the whistling wind. . . . . . .Riding on the whistling wind. . . . . . . . . . .Starward!. . .Blow, blow, blow Kee-wáy-din, North Wind,Warm and gentle on my children, Cold and swift upon the wild She-she-be,Ha-a-ah-eee-ooo . . . Plenty duck. . .Ha-a-a-a-ah-eeee-ooooo . . . Plenty duck. . . .
wailing chant,
gathering power
steadily.
Little arms of little children,Hungry hands of shadow-arms,Clutching,Clutching,Clutching at the breast that is not there. . .Shadow-arms and shadow breasts. . .Twisting,Twisting,Twisting in and twisting outOn the ghastly clouds of smoke. . .Riding on the whistling wind. . . .Riding on the whistling wind. . . . . . .Riding on the whistling wind. . . . . . . . . . .Starward!. . .Blow, blow, blow Kee-wáy-din, North Wind,Warm and gentle on my children, Cold and swift upon the wild She-she-be,Ha-a-ah-eee-ooo . . . Plenty duck. . .Ha-a-a-a-ah-eeee-ooooo . . . Plenty duck. . . .
Faster—with alilt—dancingrhythm.
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,Blow on Ah-bi-tóo-bi many wings;Wings of teal and wings of mallard,Wings of green and blue.My little lake lies waiting,Singing for her blustery lover;Dancing on the golden-stranded shoreWith many little moccasins,Pretty little moccasins,Beaded with her silver sands,And with her golden pebbles.And upon her gentle bosomLies Mah-nó-min, sweetest wild-rice,Green and yellow,Rustling blade and rippling blossom—Hi-yee! Hi-yee! Blow on Ah-bi-tdo-bi plenty duck!Ho! Plenty, plenty duck!Ho! Plenty duck, plenty duck!Ho! Ho!
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi! í! HitHée-ya! Hoi-yat Hée-ya! Hoi-ya!Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,I place this pretty duck upon your hand;Upon its sunny palm and in its windy fingers. Faster, louder,with a vigorouslilting beat—with abandon.Hi-yeee! Blue and beautifulIs he, beautifully blue!Carved from sleeping cedar with abandon.When the stars like silver fishesWere a-quiver in the rivers of the sky;Carved from dripping cedarWhen the Kóo-koo-kóo dashed hootingAt the furtive feetThat rustle in the leaves—Hi! And seasoned many moons, many moons,Ho! Seasoned many, many, many sleeps!Hi-yeee! Blue and beautifulIs he, beautifully blue!Though his throat is choked with wood,And he honks not on his pole,And his wings are weak with hunger,Yet his heart is plenty good.Hi-yee! His heart is plenty good!Hi-yee! Plenty good, plenty good!Hi-yee! Hi-yee! Hi-yee! His heart is good! . . .
Broken andbrusquely
My heart like his is good!
Ugh! My tongue talks straight!
Ho!