WOLFKILLER : The Path of Light

The Path of Light - reading from WOLFKILLER : Wisdom from a Nineteenth-Century Navajo Shepherd - as recorded by Louisa Wade Wetherill - compiled by Harvey Leake - read by Before the Page host Charlie Mehrhoff. 

WOLFKILLER: Wisdom from a Nineteenth-Century Navajo Shepherd - published by Gibbs-Smith - Layton, Utah. 

Transcript

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Before we come to the page, before the first word is ever written down, or read, or listened to, there is a longing to connect. My name is Charlie Merhoff, your host here at Before the Page, a podcast featuring poetry, parable, fiction and none words to echo our longing. Welcome. You are most welcome to episode thirty-seven of Before the Page. In the year 1906, Louisa Wade Weatherall and her husband John, against the warnings of many, moved from New Mexico to Monument Valley in Utah to establish a trading post and to deepen their relationship with the Navajo. Luisa, while in New Mexico, had learned how to speak Navajo. All in all, the Weatherals would spend over four decades among the Navajo as friends. The words you are about to hear come from the book Wolf Killer, Wisdom from a Nineteenth Century Navajo Shepherd, transcribed and translated by Louisa Wade Weatherall. Unpublished in her lifetime, later compiled by her great grandson Harvey Leek. Before the page expresses great gratitude to Harvey Leek for granting permission to read from Wolfkiller. We hope that these words from Wolfkiller inspire our listeners to give the entire book a deep read. Copies can be obtained from local libraries, from the publisher Gibbs Smith, or from good old Amazon. We are going to begin about two-thirds of the way into Luis's introduction of the book, where she writes about reaching Oyato, where she and her husband opened their first trading post, and then continue on with the first chapter, The Path of Light, from Part 1, Education. Luisa's words The next day we reached Oyato. We chose a flat spot on a sandy rise above the water hole where we set up tents and a temporary trading post, which was just a board across two coffee boxes. We then started building a permanent house and trading post. Several Navajo men cut timbers for us and helped with the construction. Among the workers was one man we particularly noticed. He was very quiet and always smiled. He never participated in the arguments that sometimes came up among the other workers, but just went about his own business, paying no attention to what might irritate the others. With his earnings he bought clothing and food for his family, while some of the other men gambled most of their money away. They called him Wolfkiller. After watching him for a while, I began to ask Wolfkiller questions. He told me who the other people were and where they lived, but what he said about them was always good. He never had anything bad to say about anyone. One day a medicine man came in and asked him to gather some plants for a medicine ceremony. We asked some of the other Navajos why he was chosen for this job, and they explained that he was a medicine gatherer and knew more about plants than anyone else did. This interested me very much, and I determined to learn more about the subject. We lived at Oyato for nearly five years. Then in 1910 we moved 30 miles south to Cayenta, Arizona, where most of the Navajos who traded with us lived. Wolfkiller worked for us there and we talked to each other almost every day. He told me these stories of his upbringing and how the lessons of his grandfather and mother had helped him throughout his life. One day he explained why they called him Wolfkiller. I was camping alone one night near the brink of a canyon that runs into the San Juan River when a wolf came near my camp and howled. You know, we were afraid of wolves. I did not want to let my fears get the better of me, so I made myself think of pleasant things. I built a big fire and tried to stay awake, but when I would doze off he would howl again. I knew we were not supposed to shoot a wolf, but when it was almost morning I decided to kill him because he had annoyed me all night. I shot him and he fell down into the canyon. I sat by the fire until it was light enough for me to see, and then climbed down to take a look. Soon I found him, but I discovered that he was not a wolf. He was a man dressed in the skin of a wolf. I went home and told my people what I had done. They said they knew who the man was and that he had been frightening them for some time. They thought he was insane and were glad I had killed him, as now they would not be worried about what he would do to them. I asked Wolf Killer how a person such as the wolf imposter could harm another person without touching him. It is the fear that is put into the mind of one of us by the evil thought of another, he answered. But how can just a thought do any harm? I asked. He seemed surprised that I did not realize that a thought could have much power, even though it was unexpressed. A thought, whether spoken or not, is a real thing, he explained. Don't you know that if someone is very ill and the medicine man is trying to cure him, there must not be anyone around whose thoughts are working against the medicine man. No one must say or think anything but good. No one must think that the patient will not recover. If someone among us does not have faith, the work is all lost. We must all believe that our prayers will be answered and that all will be peace. I would never have thought anything about the sorrows an evil thought can cause if my grandfather had not taught me as he did. I discussed this concept with some of the other old men, and they all said the same thing. They were concerned that some of the younger people were beginning to express doubt in this faith, and that if they did not change soon, the people would soon be lost. As long as we old people live, we will try to keep our children following the path of light as we see it, said one of the elders. To help the younger people along their way, Wolfkiller agreed that I should record his story. Through many winter evenings he narrated it to me, and I translated and transcribed it. Again that was from the introduction to Wolfkiller by Louisa Wade Weatherall. A quick note among the Danay, the people being the Navajo, the word Hogan means the place home. The Hogan is a traditional Navajo dwelling, a home, a conical one room hut, a combination of branches, brush and mud held up by three large forked wood supports, logs usually, no windows, an opening for smoke at the apex of the supports with a doorway always facing east. The path of light words of Wolfkiller. When I was a young boy, about six years old, my grandfather and mother started me on the path of light. One morning, early in the spring, my mother asked my brother and me to take the sheep out to feed. The wind was blowing hard and we were angry that we had to leave the Hoogan fire and go out into the cold. We herded the sheep over to the nearest place we could find greasewood for them to eat, a big flat area where some brush was growing along the banks of a deep wash. To get out of the wind we climbed down into the wash, leaving our sheep in burrow with the big blue dog to guard them. We sat there and talked about the injustice of life, how we had to leave the nice warm hoogen to herd the sheep while other children could stay at home and have a good time. Our mother and sister got to stay inside where it was warm, with nothing to do but cook and weave blankets. I wish the Spaniards and white men had never come to our land, I complained. They have brought us nothing but trouble. They brought these nasty woolly beasts for us to herd, so we have to go out in the wind, snow, rain, and hot sun to herd them. They must always be followed every place no matter what happens. We would be so much happier if these people had never come among us. Think how nice it would be if we could just sit around the hoogan fire listening to stories the men tell of their deer hunts and fights with the Utes and Apaches. In the old days the little boys had nothing to do but wait until they grew up so they could go out and hunt and steal wives from the Pueblos. Just then we heard our grandfather on the bank above. We sat very still, hoping he would not know where we were, but very soon we heard him climbing down the bank toward us. We were quite afraid that he would punish us in some way, but when we saw his face we knew he was not angry. He came and sat down by us and spoke very quietly. I was riding across the flat over there, hunting my horses when I saw the sheep feeding, and Naburo standing with his head down and his tail to the wind. I looked for you boys, but could see nothing of you. I thought you would be watching the sheep, but I saw no one with them except the big blue dog. He is a very faithful dog and seems to be contented. I guess you did not hear me ride up. I decided you were down here out of the wind, letting someone else do your work. I wondered what you would be doing, so I slipped up and lay down on the bank to listen to you. I heard you say that you wished the white people had never come to our land and had never brought these nasty woolly sheep. You wished you could lie around the Hogan fire until you were grown up. You were saying how much nicer it was when our people had nothing to do but hunt, fight the Utes and Apaches, and steal women from the Pueblos. You have heard only one side of the story. You have not heard of the times when the hunters went out but found few deer and had to come home nearly empty handed. You have not heard of the times when we had to dig roots and gather a few berries to keep life in our bodies through the long winter months. We had to camp under any kind of a shelter that could be built with few robes to keep us warm. You have not heard of the times when we went out to gather the yucca fruit and dry it out for our winter's food, and how we had to guard our camps day and night for fear that the Uts would come to steal all our women and children to sell or keep as slaves for themselves. You have not heard how mothers with young babies died because they could not feed two people on what would have been too little for one, and when the mother died how the old women kept the tiny babies alive on the broth from dried meat and the juice from the inner bark of the cedar. You have not heard of the time when our people went out to gather pinyon nuts, and at night had to build their camps on poles in a tree to keep the wolves from getting them. These are only a few of the hardships our people have gone through. There have been times in our past when the people have suffered more than I can tell you, times when we had more enemies than we could count. All the tribes seemed to be against us. Our people were in hiding for moons and moons. We could not camp anywhere near water, and that is where the trails lead. A hoogans, as you know, are built to look just like another mound of earth, but we could not have fire enough to keep warm or cook our food in them, for fear that a travelling party would smelt a smoke and find us. We did not have these nasty woolly beasts you hate so much to furnish us with meat or their wool to make clothes of. Often in those times we had nothing for clothing but cedar bark and sticky mud to keep our bodies from freezing. Sometimes when we could get out into the open for long enough, we gathered yucca to strip down and pound into fiber to weave into clothing. Then when the tribes were all against us and the earth was nothing but evil thoughts of war and greed, the years came when the rain did not fall. The sun was very hot and the wind blew day after day, year after year for seven years. The corn dried up and the grass did not come. The deer and antelope scattered, and many of them died of thirst and starvation. Although the people were full of evil thoughts, we had no war for the time, as everyone was busy trying to find food enough to keep life in their skeletons, which was about all that was left of them. The old men talked among themselves and decided to have some ceremonies to get the people's minds working in the right direction. They called the people together and told them of their decision. We have been having nothing but trouble for many long years, and now we are being punished for our sins. The old man said it has always been so. When we are not satisfied with what comes to us, when we are well and strong and have food, we think things will come to us without any effort on our part. But nothing comes to anyone that is not paid for. If we want the good things of life we must work for them. The anger and evil thoughts in our hearts are what have caused us all of our trouble. We know that anger is the worst sin, as it leads to all kinds of evil thought, and we know that evil thought is just a black path that leads us nowhere but into the dark. The path of light is always running beside us on either side, but we cannot see it for the darkness in our hearts. Now we have decided to have some ceremonies and pray for our minds to turn into the path of light. Then the old men began to tell the stories of the early history of the people that had been handed down to them. They told of the time when the people were suffering from hunger and how they prayed for help, and the next day the ground was covered with white food. For several days the people were happy again as the white food gave them strength. But there is always someone who cannot be satisfied. The coyote man began to complain about the food and to send out evil thoughts. He said it was too cold. The next day when the people went out to eat the food, it was just water in their mouths and had no nourishment. It had turned to snow. For the evil thought of one man all the people had to suffer. We learn from this that a thought is a thing that can either bring us evil or good. A good thought will bring all of our people good, and an evil thought will bring evil to all. They told many other stories of sickness, suffering and death from hunger and war. Then they began their ceremonies. All the people prayed for rain and peace, and they came out of the path of evil thought. Then the rain came, the trees and plants laughed again, and the people had food and clothing. My brother and I had never heard any of the old people talk like this before. It made us ashamed that we had complained about the wind and the sheep that we had to herd. Our grandfather then said that he must go and hunt his horse. I do not expect things to come to me unless I deserve them, he said as he left. We must give something for everything we receive. I must give up the comfort of the Hogan fire and face the wind if I am to find my horse. I have many stories that I think you should hear. Tonight I will come to your hogan and tell you one of them. We followed him out of the wash and gathered our sheep to herd them to better feed. The wind did not bother us half as much now, although it was blowing even harder. The sheep did not seem so bad to us either, as the promise of another story gave us something to look forward to. The rest of the day we talked about the things our grandfather had told us. When evening came, we started the sheep homeward. They travelled slowly, eating as they went, and had to be taken to the water hole on the way home. It took us until sunset to get them back to the stone corral, where we left them to the care of the blue dog for the night. We were glad to finish our chores and go inside out of the wind. Well, thank you all for listening to these words of Wolfkiller Wisdom from a Nineteenth Century Navajo Shepherd. Recorded by Louisa Wade Weatherell and compiled by Harvey Leek. And again, much thanks to Harvey Leek for his permission to allow BeforeThePage to read from this wonderful book. Again, if you wish to reach out to Before the Page, that's easy enough at BeforeThePage at gmail.com spelled. Just how it sounds before the page at gmail.com. Until the next, be well. Adios.