With his knife he dug and scraped at some white
roots that hung half meshed in the bank of the brook, and when he had
cleaned them in the pool he ate them. The sun stained the sky when he went down to the canoe, but the eternal
curtain of fog, far out at sea, hid it as yet from sight. He lifted the canoe, bottom upwards, to his head, and, paddle and pole
in either hand, carried it into the forest. After he had set it down he stood a moment, opening and shutting his
knife. Then he looked up into the trees. There were birds there, if
he could get at them. He looked at the brook. There were the prints of
his fingers in the sand; there, too, was the print of something else--a
deer's pointed hoof. He had nothing but his knife. He opened it again and looked at it. That day he dug for clams and ate them raw. He waded out into the
shallows, too, and jabbed at fish with his setting pole, but hit
nothing except a yellow crab. Fire was what he wanted. He hacked and chipped at flinty-looking
pebbles, and scraped tinder from a stick of sun-dried driftwood. His
knuckles bled, but no fire came. That night he heard deer in the woods, and could not sleep for
thinking, until the dawn came up behind the wall of mist, and he rose
with it to drink his fill at the brook and tear raw clams with his
white teeth. Again he fought for fire, craving it as he had never
craved water, but his knuckles bled, and the knife scraped on the flint
in vain. His mind, perhaps, had suffered somewhat. The white beach seemed to
rise and fall like a white carpet on a gusty hearth. The birds, too,
that ran along the sand, seemed big and juicy, like partridges; and
he chased them, hurling shells and bits of driftwood at them till he
could scarcely keep his feet for the rising, plunging beach--or carpet,
whichever it was. That night the deer aroused him at intervals. He
heard them splashing and grunting and crackling along the brook. Once
he arose and stole after them, knife in hand, till a false step into
the brook awoke him to his folly, and he felt his way back to the
canoe, trembling. Morning came, and again he drank at the brook, lying on the sand where
countless heart-shaped hoofs had passed leaving clean imprints; and
again he ripped the raw clams from their shells and swallowed them,
whimpering. All day long the white beach rose and fell and heaved and flattened
under his bright dry eyes. He chased the shore birds at times, till the
unsteady beach tripped him up and he fell full length in the sand. Then
he would rise moaning, and creep into the shadow of the wood, and watch
the little song-birds in the branches, moaning, always moaning. His hands, sticky with blood, hacked steel and flint together, but so
feebly that now even the cold sparks no longer came. He began to fear the advancing night; he dreaded to hear the big warm
deer among the thickets. Fear clutched him suddenly, and he lowered his
head and set his teeth and shook fear from his throat again. Then he started aimlessly into the woods, crowding past bushes,
scraping trees, treading on moss and twig and mouldy stump, his bruised
hands swinging, always swinging. The sun set in the mist as he came out of the woods on to another
beach--a warm, soft beach, crimsoned by the glow in the evening clouds. And on the sand at his feet lay a young girl asleep, swathed in the
silken garment of her own black hair, round limbed, brown, smooth as
the bloom on the tawny beach. A gull flapped overhead, screaming. Her eyes, deeper than night,
unclosed. Then her lips parted in a cry, soft with sleep, "Ihó!" She rose, rubbing her velvet eyes. "Ihó!" she cried in wonder; "Inâh!" The gilded sand settled around her little feet. Her cheeks crimsoned. "E-hó! E-hó!" she whispered, and hid her face in her hair. IV. The bridge of the stars spans the sky seas; the sun and the moon are
the travellers who pass over it. This was also known in the lodges of
the Isantee, hundreds of years ago. Chaské told it to Hârpam, and when
Hârpam knew he told it to Hapéda; and so the knowledge spread to Hârka,
and from Winona to Wehârka, up and down, across and ever across, woof
and web, until it came to the Island of Grief. And how? God knows! Wehârka, prattling in the tules, may have told Ne-kâ; and Ne-kâ,
high in the November clouds, may have told Kay-óshk, who told it to
Shinge-bis, who told it to Skeé-skah, who told it to Sé-só-Kah. Ihó! Inâh! Behold the wonder of it! And this is the fate of all
knowledge that comes to the Island of Grief. *       *       *       *       *

As the red glow died in the sky, and the sand swam in shadows, the girl
parted the silken curtains of her hair and looked at him. "Ehó!" she whispered again in soft delight. For now it was plain to her that he was the sun! He had crossed the
bridge of stars in the blue twilight; he had come! "E-tó!" She stepped nearer, shivering, faint with the ecstasy of this holy
miracle wrought before her. He was the Sun! His blood streaked the sky at dawn; his blood stained
the clouds at even. In his eyes the blue of the sky still lingered,
smothering two blue stars; and his body was as white as the breast of
the Moon. She opened both arms, hands timidly stretched, palm upward. Her face
was raised to his, her eyes slowly closed; the deep-fringed lids
trembled. Like a young priestess she stood, motionless save for the sudden quiver
of a limb, a quick pulse-flutter in the rounded throat. And so she
worshipped, naked and unashamed, even after he, reeling, fell heavily
forward on his face; even when the evening breeze stealing over the
sands stirred the hair on his head, as winds stir the fur of a dead
animal in the dust. *       *       *       *       *

When the morning sun peered over the wall of mist, and she saw it was
the sun, and she saw him, flung on the sand at her feet, then she knew
that he was a man, only a man, pallid as death and smeared with blood. And yet--miracle of miracles!--the divine wonder in her eyes deepened,
and her body seemed to swoon, and fall a-trembling, and swoon again. For, although it was but a man who lay at her feet, it had been easier
for her to look upon a god. He dreamed that he breathed fire--fire, that he craved as he had never
craved water. Mad with delirium, he knelt before the flames, rubbing
his torn hands, washing them in the crimson-scented flames. He had
water, too, cool scented water, that sprayed his burning flesh, that
washed in his eyes, his hair, his throat. After that came hunger,
a fierce rending agony, that scorched and clutched and tore at his
entrails; but that, too, died away, and he dreamed that he had eaten
and all his flesh was warm. Then he dreamed that he slept; and when he
slept he dreamed no more. One day he awoke and found her stretched beside him, soft palms tightly
closed, smiling, asleep.