THE GRAVE LIGHT 

OR

ADVENTURES OF A WARRIORS SOUL

FROM THE ODJIBWA.

There was once a battle between the Indians, in which many were killed on both sides. Among the number was the leader of the Odjibwas, a very brave man, who had fought in many battles; but while he was shouting for victory, he received an arrow in his flesh, and fell as if dead. At last his companions thought he was dead, and treated him as if he were. They placed his body in a sitting posture, on the field of battle, his back being supported by a tree, and his face toward the enemies’ country. They put on him his head-dress of feathers, and leaned his bow against his shoulders, for it was before the white men had brought guns for the Indians. They then left him and returned to their homes.

The warrior, however, heard and saw all they did. Although his body was deprived of muscular motion, his soul was living within it. He heard them lament his death, and felt their touch as they set him up. “They will not be so cruel as to leave me here,” he thought to himself. “I am certainly not dead. I have the use of my senses.” But his anguish was extreme, when he saw them, one after another depart, till he was left alone among the dead. He could not move a limb, nor a muscle, and felt as if he were buried in his own body. Horrid agonies came over him. He exerted himself, but found that he had no power over his muscles. At last he appeared to leap out of himself. He first stood up, and then followed his friends. He soon overtook them, but when he arrived at their camp no one noticed him. He spoke to them, but no one answered He seemed to be invisible to them, and his voice appeared to have no sound. Unconscious, however, of his body’s being left behind, he thought their conduct most strange. He determined to follow them, and exactly imitated all they did, walking when they walked, running when they ran, sleeping when they slept. But the most unbroken silence was maintained as to his presence.

When evening came he addressed the party. “Is it possible,” said he, “that you do not see me, nor hear me, nor understand me? Will you permit me to starve when you have plenty? Is there no one who recollects me?” And with similar sentiments he continued to talk to them, and to upbraid them at every stage of their homeward journey, but his words seemed to pass like the sounds of the wind.

At length they reached the village, and the women and children, and old men, came out, according to custom, to welcome the returning war party. They set up the shout of praise. Kumaudjing! kumaudjing! kumaudjing! They have met, fought, and conquered, was heard at every side. Group after group repeated the cry.

Kumaudjing! kumaudjing! kumaudjing!
They have met, fought, and conquered
The strong and the brave,
See the eagle plumes nod,
And the red trophies wave.
Kumaudjing! kumaudjing!
The war-banner waves,
They have fought like our fathers,
And scorn to be slaves,
The sons of the noble,
They scorn to be slaves.
And he where is he, who has led them to fight,
Whose arrow was death,
And whose war-club was might.
Kumaudjing! kumaudjing!
The hero is near,
He is tying his enemies’ scalp to his robe.
And wiping the enemies’ blood from his spear.
He is near he is near,
And, hark, his Sa-sa-kwan
Now bursts on the ear.

The truth, however, was soon revealed; although it caused a momentary check, it did not mar the general joy. The sight of scalps made every tongue vocal. A thousand inquiries were made, and he heard his own fate described, how he had fought bravely, been killed, and left among the dead.

“It is not true,” replied the indignant chief, “that I was killed and left upon the field of battle. I am here. I live. I move. See me.” Nobody answered. He then walked to his own lodge. He saw his wife tearing her hair, and lamenting his fate. He asked her to bind up his wounds. She made no reply. He placed his mouth close to her ear, and called for food. She did not notice it. He drew back his arm and struck her a blow. She felt nothing.

Thus foiled he determined to go back. He followed the track of the warriors. It was four days’ journey. During three days he met with nothing extraordinary. On the fourth, toward evening, as he drew near the skirts of the battle field, he saw a fire in the path. He stepped on one side, but the fire had also moved its position. He crossed to the other side, but the fire was still before him. Whichever way he took, the fire appeared to bar his approach. At this moment he espied the enemy of his fortunes in the moccasin, or flat-headed snake. “My son,” said the reptile, “you have heretofore been considered a brave man but beware of this fire. It is a strong spirit. You must appease it by the sacred gift.” The warrior put his hand to his side, but he had left his sack behind him. “Demon,” he exclaimed, addressing the flame, “why do you bar my approach. Know that I am a spirit. I have never been defeated by my enemies, and I will not be defeated by you.”

So saying, he made a sudden effort and leaped through the flames. In this effort he awoke from his trance. He had lain eight days on the battle field. He found himself sitting on the ground, with his back supported by a tree, and his bow leaning against his shoulder, as his friends had left him. He looked up and beheld a large Gha Niew, or war eagle, sitting in the tree, which he immediately recognised as his guardian spirit, or personal Manito. This bird had watched his body, and prevented the other birds of prey from devouring it.

He arose and stood for a few minutes, but found himself weak and emaciated. By the use of simples and such forest arts as our people are versed in, he succeeded in reaching his home. When he came near, he uttered the Sa sa kwan, or war cry, which threw the village into an uproar. But while they were debating the meaning of so unexpected a sound, the wounded chief was ushered into their midst. He related his adventures as before given. He concluded his narrative by telling them that it is pleasing to the spirits of the dead to have a fire lit up on their graves at night, after their burial. He gave as a reason, that it is four days’ travel to the place appointed for the residence of the soul, and it requires a light every night at the place of its encampment. If the friends of the deceased neglect this rite, the spirit is compelled to build a fire for itself.

Light up the fire upon my grave
When I am dead.
’Twill softly shed its beaming rays,
To guide the soul its darkling ways,
And ever, as the day’s full light
Goes down, and leaves the world in night,
These kindly gleams, with warmth possest,
Shall show my spirit where to rest
When I am dead.

Four days the funeral rite renew,
When I am dead.
While onward bent, with typic woes,
I seek the red man’s last repose;
Let no rude hand the flame destroy,
Nor mar the scene with festive joy;
While night by night, a ghostly guest,
I journey to my final rest,
When I am dead.

No moral light directs my way
When I am dead.
A hunter’s fate a warrior’s fame,
A shade, a phantom, or a name,
All life-long through my hands have sought,
Unblest, unlettered, and untaught:
Deny me not the boon I crave
A symbol-light upon my grave,
When I am dead.