…and remember, my little grandchildren, in the old days there were more bears than Indian people, black bears and brown bears, cinnamon bears and the great grizzly, and we had no honey, no sweetness in the teepees, and Brother Bee was always angry, going around stinging the Indian people. The bears always found the bee trees before the Indian people, ripped them apart, ate the honeycomb, and stole the honey with their sharp claws and rough tongues. And the bees were always angry, because the bears, poor souls, did not know about the sacred smoke to make the bees feel friendly, and the bears did not know about the songs of thanksgiving so the bees would forgive them, but worst of all, the bears suffered from greed and they always took all the honey, left none for the bees. The bears knew about honey but not about bees, so the Indian people had no sweetness in the teepees.

Then one day, little grandchildren, a young man of peace, Chil-a-ma-cho, He Who Dreams Awake, came upon a ruined bee tree. Even though there was no honey left for him to take and even though the bees were very angry, he smoked his pipe with the bees and sang the songs of thanksgiving for all the good things of the earth. And when the bees smelled the sacred smoke and heard the songs, they settled down and went about their business. In return, the Grandmother Bee gave Chil-a-ma-cho a vision.

When he woke from the dream, he blessed the Grandmother Bee for her wisdom, then followed the tracks of Brother Bear across the mountains to the edge of a chokecherry thicket by the meadows where once we dug the camas root, singing the songs of thanksgiving and the songs of sadness as he went along. In the thicket he found Brother Bear sleeping, his breath still sweet with honeycomb, and Chil-a-ma-cho prayed to the spirit of Brother Bear for forgiveness, then plunged his lance into the bear’s throat. Once again, as we always should, little grandchildren, Chil-a-ma-cho prayed for forgiveness for killing one of Mother Earth’s precious beasts. Then he skinned the hide from Brother Bear, ate the liver and the heart dipped in gall, scraped the fat from the hide, saved it, then worked the skin for three days and three nights with the brains until it was as soft as a deerskin shirt. For another three days and three nights, he purified himself with fire and fasting and bathing away his man smell. Then he rubbed his skin with the fat of Brother Bear and put the hide on his shoulders.

When the moon rose high over the meadows, little grandchildren, Chil-a-ma-cho walked on all fours into the open, grunting and snuffling, speaking the bear language the Grandmother Bee had given him. When the other bears around came to greet their new brother, Chil-a-ma-cho began to dance the steps the Grandmother Bee had given him. The first night the other bears thought their new brother must have come from someplace beyond the mountains where the bears were crazy, so they went back into the lodge-pole pine to watch. The second night a few danced with him to be polite, as we must be to our brothers from beyond the mountains, and on the third night they all joined in, danced and danced in the sacred circle, danced until all the bears dropped.

The next day as the bears slept, Chil-a-ma-cho led the Benniwah as they followed the bees, the bees whose legs were hairy with pollen, led them to the bee trees and the honey. The People were happy, in a hurry for honey, but Chil-a-ma-cho made them make the friendly smoke, made them leave half the honey for the bees, made them sing the songs of forgiveness. The bees forgave the Benniwah, and stopped going around stinging everybody.

After that we had sweetness in our lodges—except for Chil-a-ma-cho, who gave himself to the dancing and the bears and never ate honey, and it is for his memory that the Benniwah forsake honey during the days of the Bear Dance before we harvest the honey with the sacred smoke and sing the songs of forgiveness for sweetness in the lodges.

Of course, as you well know, little grandchildren, sometime later the white man showed up, and now there are not too many Indian people and even fewer bears, and even Brother Bee, bless his spirit, lives in a little square house and works for the white man. There has not been much sweetness in this world, or the next, since then, not much dancing either. Even He Who Dreams Awake, Chil-a-ma-cho, sleeps.

— A BENNIWAH TALE