[Early French traders carried folktales along with their wares across the American wilderness, to be adopted into the storytelling styles of the tribes they encountered. This version of a Petit-Jean tale comes from Oregon on the West Coast, where young Ptchiza heeds the advice of his spirit guide residing in a carved wooden stick.
In the last chapter, the magical talking stick transforms itself into a battle steed, and changes short scruffy Ptchiza into a burly warrior. They overtake the headman's procession (taking a daughter as sacrifice to a seven-headed monster). Ptchiza snatches the maiden,unseen by others, to accompany him and the horse to a confrontation with the lake serpent. Ptchiza cuts off two of the heads, and the monster retreats to the lake, spitting a challenge for the next day.]
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The second day went like the first, though this time the talking stick turned itself into a chestnut horse. Again Ptchiza snatched the maiden from the wagon. At the lake they fought the serpent, and cut off another two heads. The beast hissed its challenge to return the following day, and vanished into the lake. Ptchiza cut off two more tongues and slid them into the doeskin pouch.
The third day, the talking stick became a black horse, and Ptchiza cut off one head, retrieving its tongue. And again on the fourth day.
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The fifth day, only one head remained to the serpent. Its neck was stronger than the other six, and the monster fought long and hard. The maiden nearly slid from the back of the stamping, plunging, kicking horse.
Ptchiza swung his knife, nicking or missing on nearly every blow. His arm grew heavy, and his legs ached from gripping the flanks of the furious horse. At last his knife struck true. The blade sank deep into flesh and sinew and bone – and the last head thudded to the ground.
The young warrior slid to the ground, legs trembling with weariness. He slashed the tongue from his foe and tucked it into the pouch. He could hardly draw himself back up onto the staggering horse. They turned one last time away from the lake.
"Something you must do," Ptchiza told the maiden. "Tell your father to burn the snake. Be sure not to forget it!"
"I will do so," she said, then with lowered voice added, "Who are you?"
He gave one short laugh. "You don't really want to know."
This time, after the maiden slid back into the wagon and Ptchiza started riding away, the girl hissed to her father, "Turn the horses around quickly! Let's follow him to see who he is. He has saved me. He has saved us all!"
The headman whipped up the horses and chased after Ptchiza, but the young warrior slipped away like a shadow. And like a vague and shifting shadow, he had been recognized by no one. He went back to tending the headman's herds.
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The next day the headman gave orders for all the people to assemble. "The hero must be among us. I want to find out who he is!"
"So do I," said his daughter. "But Father, I almost forgot. He said you must burn the snake. It's important!"
The headman sent a band of men to carry wagon-loads of firewood to the battle site and burn the corpse. The flames and smoke from that burning reached high in the sky.
Ptchiza saw the pillar of smoke from the field where he watched the headman's horses. The talking stick thrummed in his hand. Never again would such a monster haunt the land.
Five men returned from the blaze before the others, joining the rest of the folk assembling at the headman's command. They brought the seven severed heads. "We were the ones to kill the serpent!" they boasted. "See? Look at our trophies!"
"Truly?" asked the headman. "If you did, then one of you brave men may marry my daughter."
The maiden straightened, tall and proud. "Can you prove it?" she challenged. "I gave my hero my doeskin pouch and my ring. Well? Which of you has it?"
They each produced a pouch and a ring, but to each one she answered, "This isn't my pouch. This isn't my ring. You lie!"
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(Stay tuned for the concluding chapter...)
19th century painting: "White Horse and Sunset," ca 1863, by Eugene Delacroix
