Waltey
Indijanska perjanica
037 The Indian Plume
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land · Charles M. SkinnerO besedilu
Indijanska perjanica
- Vir
- Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
- Avtor
- Charles M. Skinner
- Jezik branja
- Slovenščina
- Jezik izvirnika
- English
- Čas branja
- 2 min branja
- Obseg
- 2 strani
- Naslov izvirnika
- 037 The Indian Plume
O izvirniku
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
Obsežna zgodovinska zbirka ameriških legend, ki jih je Skinner zbral in avtorsko rekonstruiral. Bralni jezik je Slovenščina, izvirnik pa prihaja iz vira Myths and Legends of Our Own Land v jeziku English.
Besedilo
Indijanska perjanica
Najsvetlejša cvetlica, ki raste ob potokih, je škrlatni cvet indijanske perjanice: kri Lenawee. Pred več sto leti je srečno živela med svojimi brati in sestrami iz plemena Saranac ob Stony Creeku, Kačjem potoku, in kmalu naj bi se poročila s postavnim mladeničem, ki so ga zaradi njegovih hitrih nog imenovali Puščica. Toda nekega poletja je med ljudstvo prišla Nagla smrt, in ko je nevidni demon hodil skozi vas, so pred njim padali mladi in stari. Puščica je umrl prvi. Zaman je Prerok kadil Veliki kalumet: dvigajoči se dim ni privzel nobene oblike, iz katere bi lahko razbral znamenje. Zaman so ubili belega psa, da bi ponesel grehe ljudstva v višave. Nazadnje pa se je sam Veliki duh spustil na goro, imenovano Kljubovalec viharjem, veličasten v bliskih, strašen s svojim gromovitim glasom in ogrinjalom iz oblakov. »Moj srd vas je zadel zaradi vaših grehov,« je zaklical, »in nič razen človeške krvi ga ne bo pomirilo.«
Zjutraj je Prerok prenesel njegovo sporočilo in vsi so nekaj časa molče sedeli. Tedaj je Lenawee stopila v krog. »Lenawee je ovenela cvetlica,« je zaihtela. »Naj njena kri teče za njeno ljudstvo.« Izza Prerokovega pasu je zgrabila nož in z njim stekla k potoku, po katerem sta s Puščico tolikokrat plula v svojem kanuju. Že naslednji hip je njena kri orosila zemljo. »Položite me k Puščici,« je zašepetala in z nasmehom, uprtim v njihove žalostne obraze, izdihnila. Demon nagle smrti se je umaknil s tistega kraja in Veliki duh se je znova nasmehnil plemenu, ki je zmoglo takšno junaštvo. Telo Lenawee so položili poleg njenega ljubega, naslednje jutro pa je bila zemlja tam, kjer se je prelila njena kri, čista in na njej je v vitkih steblih rasla nova cvetlica — indijanska perjanica: preobražena kri žrtvovanja. Ljudstvo je to cvetlico ljubilo vsa leta zatem. Z njo so si krasili lase in oblačila ter ji v čast prirejali slavje. Kadar so starši otroke učili o lepoti nesebičnosti, so jim za njen simbol pokazali steblo indijanske perjanice.
Izvirnik
037 The Indian Plume
Naslednje strani prikazujejo izvirno besedilo za primerjavo.
Brightest flower that grows beside the brooks is the scarlet blossom of the Indian plume: the blood of Lenawee. Hundreds of years ago she lived happily among her brother and sister Saranacs beside Stony Creek, the Stream of the Snake, and was soon to marry the comely youth who, for the speed of his foot, was called the Arrow. But one summer the Quick Death came on the people, and as the viewless devil stalked through the village young and old fell before him. The Arrow was the first to die. In vain the Prophet smoked the Great Calumet: its smoke ascending took no shape that he could read. In vain was the white dog killed to take aloft the people's sins. But at last the Great Spirit himself came down to the mountain called the Storm Darer, splendid in lightning, awful in his thunder voice and robe of cloud. “My wrath is against you for your sins,” he cried, “and naught but human blood will appease it.”
In the morning the Prophet told his message, and all sat silent for a time. Then Lenawee entered the circle. “Lenawee is a blighted flower,” she sobbed. “Let her blood flow for her people.” And catching a knife from the Prophet's belt, she ran with it to the stream on which she and the Arrow had so often floated in their canoe. In another moment her blood had bedewed the earth. “Lay me with the Arrow,” she murmured, and, smiling in their sad faces, breathed her last. The demon of the quick death shrank from the spot, and the Great Spirit smiled once more on the tribe that could produce such heroism. Lenawee's body was placed beside her lover's, and next morning, where her blood had spilt, the ground was pure, and on it grew in slender spires a new flower,--the Indian plume: the transformed blood of sacrifice. The people loved that flower in all years after. They decked their hair and dresses with it and made a feast in its honor. When parents taught their children the beauty of unselfishness they used as its emblem a stalk of Indian plume.
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