THE WAR-DANCE OF THE MICE

Tonight, it is the withered Diego1 who begins his tale, speaking in the musical yet strange Tée-wahn tongue, of “Shée-choon t’o-ah-fuar.” Though it sounds serious, it means only “the war-dance of the Mice.”

Once upon a time, there was a war between the people of Isleta and the Mice. A great battle took place, in which the Tée-wahn warriors killed many Mice and took their scalps. Afterward, the warriors returned to their village and went into the estufa (sacred council-chamber) to prepare themselves by fasting for the grand scalp-dance, to be held in twelve days.

While the warriors sat inside, the Mice secretly crept into the village at night. Their spies approached the estufa quietly. When all the Tée-wahn warriors had fallen asleep, the Mice climbed down the big ladder into the room and, creeping from sleeper to sleeper, they gnawed every bowstring, cut the feathers from the arrows, and sliced the straps of every sling.

When this was done, the Mice let out a terrible war-whoop and charged the warriors, brandishing their tiny spears. The Tée-wahn awoke and grabbed their bows and arrows—but found them useless. Helpless, the warriors fled from the little invaders, rushing up the ladder to the roof and then scattering to their homes, leaving the Mice triumphant.

The rest of the town mocked the warriors so severely that they refused to return to the fight. Meanwhile, the victorious Mice held a public dance in front of the estufa. What a brave sight it was—the army of these tiny people, singing, dancing, and waving their spears! They were dressed in red blankets, leather leggings adorned with glistening silver buttons, and colorful moccasins. Each carried two eagle feathers tied to the top of his spear—the token of victory.

As they danced, marched, and counter-marched, they sang exultantly:

Shée-oh-pah ch’-ót-im!
Neh-máh-hlee-oh ch’-ot-im!
Hló-tu feé-ny p’-óh-teh!

Which means:

• Quick, we cut the bowstrings!
• Quick, we cut the sling-straps!
• We shaved the arrow-feathers off!

For four days they danced and sang. On the night of the fourth day, they danced all night around a great bonfire. The next morning, they marched away. That was the time when the Mice conquered men—and that is why, even to this day, we have never been able to drive the Mice from our homes.

“Is that the reason?” ask all the boys, their big black eyes wide with wonder.

“That is exactly the reason,” says the withered Diego. “Now, compadre Antonio, it is your turn to tell a tale.”

Antonio, thus called upon, cannot refuse. Indian etiquette is strict about this, as it is in all matters. He searches his memory for a story, while the boys turn expectant faces toward him. He is not as wrinkled as Diego, but he is very, very old, and his voice trembles slightly at first. Wrapping his blanket about him, he begins:

“Then I will tell you why the Coyote and the Blackbirds are enemies—for once, they were very good friends in the old days.”