Many Many Moons/The Conjurer
THE CONJURER
To be chanted.Come ye, spirits three!Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North!Rise ye, ma-ni-do, from your weég-a-wamsIn the corners of the earth!Blow, blow, blow thy raging tempestsThrough the ranks of whining pine!Come ye! Come ye to my chée-sah-kánRiding on thy crazy-running winds.Hear! Hear my potent chantings!Bestow me the strength to work my conjurings!Hi! Take ye my good medicine,This precious skin of the jumping-ratKilled in the hour when death,When purple death walked into my lodge,—And three moons, three moons driedOn the grave of my youngest son.Hi! Hear me! Hear me, má-ni-dó!
Come ye, spirits three!Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North!Hi! Blow, blow, blow thy whirling winds!Sway my wigwam, sway itWith the breathings of the cyclone!Hi! Bend its birchen poles Like the reeds in yonder bay!Hi! Clutch my teepee, bend it'Till its peak shall scrape the ground!Hear me! Hear me, ma-ni-do! . . .·····Brokenly, con-versationally, inan "aside" tothe audience. How! How! Behold! my friends, it bends Like a lily in the storm!·····To be chanted.Come ye, spirits three!Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North!On the wings of the wind send into my lodgeThe lean spirit of a lean coyote—Of the dying prairie wolf whose whimperingsWe followed many sleeps across the desert.Make him, má-ni-dó, fling up againHis last long mournful wailingsWhen thirst and hunger clutchedHis withered aching throat—That the old men of my tribe may hearAgain his ghostly callings as of old.Hear me! Hear me, má-ni-dó! . . .·····Conversa-tionally in an"aside". How! How! Ho! There is a power In my precious ratskin!·····To be chanted.Come ye, spirits three!Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North!On the wings of the wind send into this lodgeThe spirit of Sings-in-the-Hills Who walked to his death in his birch canoeOver the falls of the Cut-Foot Waters.Blow his spirit into my lodge,That his aged father who sits withoutMay hear his voice again.Hear me! Hear me, má-ni-dó!Make his ghost to talk from my lodgeThat the people who watch my jugglingMay know his voice again. . . .·····Conver-sationally. How! How! Hear, my people? My medicine-skin is strong with power!·····To be chanted.Hear ye, spirits three!Go ye back to thy weég-a-wamsIn the corners of the earth!Into the East, into the West, into the North!Leash again the wolves of the wind. . . .To thee, O Má-ni-dó of the East,This handful of burning balsamWhich I fling on the dying wind;To thee, O Má-ni-dó of the West,This handful of yellow medicine,Powder of precious clays;To thee, O Má-ni-dó of the North,This red-willow twig whereon I have rubbedMy potent medicine ratskin.Go ye back, ye má-ni-dó,To the corners of the earth!Hah-eeee-yóoooooooooooo!····· Conver-sationally. How! Enter ye the teepee, my friends! Unbind ye the basswood cords from my body! I am done! How! How!