Set in the mid-nineteenth century and rich in cultural detail, Ella Cara Deloria’s novel Waterlily tells the story of what life was like for a traditional Dakota woman from infancy to early adulthood. This selection reveals the warmth of family life, the intricate web of reciprocity and responsibility that is kinship, and the depth of what it means to be honored as a hunka, a child-beloved.
Ella Cara Deloria (Dakota/Sioux) was born in 1889 on the Yankton Sioux Reservation in South Dakota. Considered an authority on the language and lifeways of her Dakota people, she worked closely with the American anthropologist, Franz Boas. During her lifetime, she produced several books, including Speaking of Indians and a bilingual collection of her people’s mythology entitled Dakota Texts. Ella Cara Deloria died in 1971.
WHEN TETON CHILDREN COULD BE REASONED WITH THEY WERE then said to have their senses. Waterlily was past six winters and going on her seventh when this could be truly said of her. Before that time, many things that happened were known to her, but not always because she remembered them in sequence. Rather, she knew them from repeated accounts of them. And how she loved those recitals of her early doings and sayings—so much that she came to think she remembered them as they had occurred.
“Mother, what was that I did before I was even two winters old?” she would insist, while Blue Bird pretended to forget the story she especially liked to hear over and over. “Let me think…You did so many things, I hardly know…” And then, finally, “Oh, yes, for one thing, you once forecast the weather.”
“Did I really, Mother?” she would ask, surprised all over again. “What did I say?”
“You said nothing. You were too small to talk yet. But you toddled into our tipi with two sticks for the fire. We did not need a fire, for it was summer, and very warm. We did not ask for fuel.”
“Oh! And then?”
“Well, then”—Blue Bird always had to smile into the eager upturned face at this point—“And then you seated yourself by the fireplace and warmed your hands.”
Waterlily would laugh merrily. “And what did Grandmother-killed-by-the-tree say to that?” Blue Bird’s old grandmother who was killed by a falling limb was of course unknown to Waterlily, but because her way of dying was a familiar story, Waterlily had so named her.
“She said, ‘Hina! This means we are going to have a hard winter, sure! Children do not pretend cold weather for nothing.’”
This was the place for a long, thoughtful pause, always. And then Waterlily asked, much impressed with her power, “And did we have a hard winter, Mother?” She knew the answer very well, but it was good to hear it again. “Very hard. One of the worst our people could remember. There was snow and more snow. Men could not hunt and no buffalo came near, and our food gave out and many people died. A very hard winter indeed; may we never know another like the one you predicted.”
“Oh, my!” Waterlily would say with awe, her amazement renewed with each telling. “How did I know that, Mother?” And Blue Bird would say, “Well, how did you?” and they would laugh, and the interview would end very satisfactorily to Waterlily.
She liked to go over her past with Gloku, too. “Grandmother, what did I do when you carried me on your back?”
“You were such a lively little girl—never quiet. You used to take my two braids for reins as if you were on horseback, and pull first this way and then that way until you had my eyelids stretched back so far that it is a wonder I did not fall into a gopher hole with you on my back!” This was very amusing. Waterlily would clap her hands and laugh, and ask, “Did it hurt, Grandmother?” But Gloku would say, “I forget if it hurt. I only remember how you enjoyed yourself.”
Then Blue Bird would cut in, defending her mother-in-law, who was always too indulgent of her grandchildren, Waterlily included. “It was not funny, Waterlily. You were naughty to hurt your grandmother. How would you like your two braids pulled?”
Waterlily would not like it at all. But those had been days when she did not know any better and nothing she did could be held against her. Now, going on seven, she was growing more and more accountable and able to remember past experiences and to be guided by them. And that was because she had her senses at last—her senses and her memory; it was all one.
The autumn day was raw and overcast when Gloku took her dogs and went after fuel, leaving Waterlily and her grandfather in the tipi. “You are a big girl, now, grandchild. Remember to hand water to your grandfather when he is thirsty. That is why your mother wants you to stay with him while I am gone.”
The energetic Gloku set her tipi to rights while she said this. She hung all the food high up on the tipi poles, beyond the reach of dogs that might stray in. Then she made her old man comfortable. His sight, which had been failing for years, was now practically gone and he had to have things handed to him that were not close by. So before leaving him alone, Gloku always seated him exactly right, where he could blow the ashes from his pipe into the fire. He was able to fill and light his pipe and to clean it out when he finished, having developed the habit during the last few years by sitting with eyes shut and doing things by feel, as though preparing for total blindness. At least he was already well able to take care of his smoking needs.
The old man sat silently, with thoughts of his past activities. Waterlily threw back the fur rug and set up her play tipi on the ground for a pleasant time with her little dolls. She assigned them different roles and invented simple situations such as came up in the family. She carried on a spirited conversation as though the dolls were talking. After a long time she remembered her duty. “Grandfather! Grandfather! Water!” She held some water out to him. He groped for the dipper, saying “Hao, grandchild,” by ways of thanks, and drank noisily.
Soon he was back into his reverie, and Waterlily played on until she felt hungry. Opening out the container of food her grandmother had left for them, she offered some to the old man and then started to eat. But the food did not taste as good as that sweetened cake of pemmican hanging high up on the tipi pole. Suddenly she wanted some of it, so badly that she piled up many rawhide cases full of dried meat until she could reach it by standing on them.
It was of a pemmican base, filled with wild fruits and held together in a hard cake by rich oils derived from bones. A little of it was enough, for it was the richest delicacy there was. But Waterlily ate and ate and could not leave off, until she began to feel miserable in her stomach. She was lying very still when Gloku returned. She could hear her outside feeding and thanking her dogs as she unhitched them.
The old man called out, “Are you back?” He knew she was, but this was their way of saying hello. “Yes,” she replied. “I am back.” As she entered, he said, “You better see what the child has been up to. For a long time she played very nicely with her dolls. But since we ate our meal, she has been very still, and for a child to be that still is a bad sign. It seemed to me she was moving heavy things about and reaching upward—to judge by her grunting efforts. For a time she was all over the place and then she became very silent. I called to her, but she did not answer. See if something is wrong.”
Very soon Gloku discovered the half-eaten pemmican cake and let out a cry of distress that brought her daughters and Waterlily’s mother running. “My grandchild has sickened herself! Oh, what is to be done?” Her only concern was for the child; that the pemmican cake was largely a loss was something she had no time to think of. But she did turn on the old man. “And you! Here you sit placid while terrible things go on! You might have called out to the others—our tipis all but touch!” Not a word from him.
Waterlily’s aunts and mother tried to force medicine down her throat, but it seemed to Waterlily that the tipi was turning round and round. The tipi poles meeting overhead were a great spider web spinning rapidly; the anxious faces of the women whirled with the web until they were all of a piece, slowly fading into darkness.
Fainting was considered the opening step in the dying process. To give in was to surrender to death. If the one fainting were allowed to recline and lose consciousness, permanent death could ensue. With such beliefs, the women shook the ailing girl and kept her in a sitting position though she toppled this way and that. They continually dashed water in her face. Gloku kept saying as she rubbed Waterlily’s cold wrists and temples, “Do not forget, grandchild. Keep remembering, or you will die.” Remembering also meant being conscious. But Waterlily was not frightened by the threat of dying; it was not important. “Let me alone. I just want to lie still,” she moaned.
The medicine eased her enough that she finally slept normally while her relatives sat around her all night. Early next morning the first person she saw was her stepfather, Rainbow. Never had he spoken directly to her till now; always at a distance had he provided her wants dutifully. Waterlily, closer to his mother and father, felt herself a stranger to her silent stepfather. But now his worried eyes said he was very much affected. “Daughter,” he spoke to her, “I have tried in my humble way to provide for you because I do not want any child in my tipi to grow up in want. Yesterday you gave me a great fright, but if you will hurry and get well, then by and by you shall wear a gown and put red paint on your face.”
It was not a very exciting promise to Waterlily. What was so extraordinary about wearing a gown, when one had always worn a gown? And red paint? She had worn that, too. But to the adults who understood the significance it was very important, for Rainbow was saying he would arrange and pay for a hunka ceremony for Waterlily. To become a hunka (child-beloved) was to be elevated to a high station in the tribe, and that was an honor that did not come to everyone.
Rainbow began at once to hunt for elk and to watch the hunting of other men so that he might buy from those who shot an elk the teeth that would be needed to decorate Waterlily’s ceremonial gown. People were much impressed and spread the news about. “Have you heard? Rainbow is pledged to a great undertaking. He is making that little daughter of his wife a ‘beloved.’ Right now he is collecting elk teeth for her gown.”
Everyone helped. But it was slow work because each animal yielded only two teeth that could be used. Moreover they must come only from the female elk. So widespread was the interest that even hunters from other camp circles saved elk teeth for Rainbow and sent or brought them to him from time to time. For these that were proffered he gave suitable presents in return. Only where he asked for teeth outright did he buy them.
When enough elk teeth were on hand, his sister Dream Woman made the gown; and it was something to behold. Many women, especially those who fancied themselves to be inspired artists, as Dream Woman was believed to be though she never said, came in to examine the finished gown and went away marveling at its beauty of material and workmanship. As usual, Dream Woman had dreamed an original design. It was worked into the wide border of embroidery that topped the heavy fringe around the bottom of the skirt and of the loose, open sleeves. The matched teeth, which had been painstakingly polished to a high luster by the grandfather, who was happy to help to that extent, were appliquéed in pleasing groups all over the upper half of the gown, above the belt and down over the sleeves. The gown was exactly alike both front and back.
Two whole years were spent in getting ready for the ceremony, and meantime Waterlily was preoccupied with a new baby sister, to the extent that she often forgot for long periods the great event awaiting her. The baby was named Mysterious Hand, and that was in compliment to her aunt Dream Woman, whose hands turned out unvarying beauty “too perfect to be human,” as people said. But Mysterious Hand would be the ceremonial name, not to be spoken carelessly. Waterlily’s descriptive term for the baby became her nickname, Smiling One.
But at last the great day arrived. At dawn Gloku began to prepare special foods for the hunka candidate and fed her as the sun appeared. Then Blue Bird bathed her at the stream and washed and oiled her long hair until it shone. She braided it in two long braids in the usual style and tied on the new hair ties that were part of the special outfit. They were fragrant, for Dream Woman had made colorfully embroidered balls and stuffed them with perfume leaf, and these were attached to the ties.
The new gown and the necklace and belt and bracelet were put on Waterlily, and some long, wide pendants of tiny shells were hung from her ears. Though they were so heavy that they pulled the small lobes down, elongating them, Waterlily knew they must be endured for beauty’s sake. Last of all, the new moccasins of solid red quillwork with matching leggings went on. A detail of the dreamed design on the gown was here skillfully repeated, making of the entire costume a charming harmony. And not only the tops but also the soles of the moccasins were covered with quillwork. This seemed extravagant and unnecessary, and Waterlily ventured to say so. “When I walk, I shall quickly break the quills and ruin the soles.” Her aunt Dream Woman replied, “But you will not walk.” Then she told the girl that child-be-loved moccasins for the hunka were always decorated so, and that one did not walk to the ceremonial tipi; one was carried.
And now Waterlily was sitting stiffly attired in the rare outfit, so heavy with elegance that she hardly dared move, nor even so much as look sideways because of the ear ornaments that hung well below her collarbone on either side. She was all ready, there in the honor-place of the tipi, but as yet she was not wearing the face paint Rainbow had promised her.
Leaping Fawn and Prairie Flower, her cousins, brought other girls in to admire her. Leaping Fawn thought it needful to explain, “You see, my cousin nearly died, but lived. That is why she is being honored. My uncle promised her this ceremony.” That was a perfectly acceptable explanation, for everyone knew that there was always a valid reason for parents to go to such expense—either because of a vow, as in Waterlily’s case, or because a child was sickly and there was fear of its death, or something of the sort.
Now and then a child asked, but not often, “Mother, why is my brother a hunka and not I?” And then he was told, “Because we prayed for his recovery and promised to feast the people in his name if he should be spared to us, and he was.” A feast always accompanied the ceremony, and through it everyone in the community was related to the child being honored. The singling out of a child for the honor was accepted by the other children when they understood. They had always been taught it was shameful to be jealous of a brother or sister. “You are all one,” they were told. “Be happy for each other.” Children with normal endowments and sound health did not need any such compensating honor, and the majority lived and died content without its coming to them personally.
Little Chief stayed around home today, as did everyone, for this was an occasion. He watched the ceremonial lodge being erected in the center of the circle and then ran home to wait for the ritual custom called the “pretended search” that was soon to start. Presently he shouted, “Here they come!” and ran telling everyone. But he knew what the searchers would do. He had seen them act out their role on similar occasions, for, like all boys, he often roamed throughout the circle and had watched many family ceremonies of several kinds, of which the hunka was one. He knew about the dramatics connected with bringing in the candidates, of the way the four men who were sent out as escorts for the candidate must pretend to lose their way.
That was what they were doing now. They came out of the ceremonial tipi and walked rapidly away, only to stop short, argue, and change their direction. Three times they did this, and only the fourth time did they head straight for Black Eagle’s camp. And each time they stopped to confer and decide on another direction, they sang the traditional song that said,
“Just where do they live?
“Just where do they live?”
though they knew all the time.
The men arrived, entered the tipi, and lifted Waterlily gently onto the back of the one who was to carry her. Then the four men left the tipi, with Waterlily riding high and looking a little bewildered. The spectators who jammed the entrance made comments in praise of her costume, but she did not hear them.
Three other children whose parents were also honoring them were borne in the same way by their particular escorts to the ceremonial tipi. There they were seated in the honor-place and an immense curtain was held in front of them while the officials gave them the hunka painting: tiny pencil lines of red vermilion down their cheeks to signify their new status. They were now children-beloved. All their lives they would have the right to mark their faces in this manner for important occasions, and people would say of them, “There goes a hunka!” and that would be an honor. It would mean “There goes one whose family loved him so much that they gave a great feast and many presents to the people in his name.” To have something given away in one’s name was the greatest compliment one could have. It was better than to receive.
When the painting was finished and the curtain removed, the spectators saw the four children sitting in a row, each one holding a beautiful ear of blue corn mounted on a stick. This was to symbolize the hospitality to which they were in effect pledging themselves by accepting hunka status. They were now of the elect.
It was required of the officiant of every ceremony that he first declare his qualifications. Accordingly, the man who had been engaged to administer the hunka rite began by saying, “I have myself known this rite. And have ever striven to live up to its demands; all who hear me know that this is so. I have gladly accepted the obligation of hospitality. No one in need has opened my tipi entrance curtain in vain,” and so he “presented his credentials.”
Then he sang a very holy song while he waved the hunka wand over the heads of the candidates to invoke on them a blessing. The wand was wrapped solid with ornamental quillwork, and long strands of horsetail dyed in bright colors hung from it. At the end of the wand was a pipe.
After the song, the man offered a drink of water to each child and then withdrew it as they were about to take it, saying, “As you go on from here, there may be those about you who are faint and weary. Of such you shall be mindful. And though you would hastily bring water to your lips to quench your own thirst, yet you shall first stop to look about you,” and only then he allowed them to drink.
Next he held a piece of food over incense and then cut it in two. He threw one piece in the fire and laid the other on the candidate’s tongue, saying, “Whenever you sit down to eat, there may perhaps be someone waiting near, hungering for a swallow of your food. At such a time you shall remember what you have become here. And though you might be lifting meat to your mouth, yet you shall stop midway. You shall forbear to eat your food alone. Only half the morsel shall you eat, and with the other shall you show mercy.”
This was all of the ritual; the feasts followed at the homes of the candidates. Rainbow gave some horses away in Waterlily’s name and provided much of the food, allowing the other relatives to share in giving it, for that was the way of the people—that all those families who belonged together help each other.
Waterlily did not immediately understand what she had been committed to, but she would learn as time went on. She had been set apart as one of those who must make hospitality their first concern. Until she was a mature woman she would not be expected to carry on independently; till then, her mother and other relatives would carry on in her name. But the hunka obligation had been laid on her and it was a compelling thing. Its reward was high in prestige. The hairline stripes of red which she was thereafter privileged to wear were a sign of that.
Immediately after the feast the elaborate costume was laid away and once more Waterlily wore ordinary dress, so there was nothing in her daily appearance to make her different from other children. Nothing further was said about her recent honor. In time she would realize fully that she was of the elect, but the honor was something she must appear to wear casually. Let others speak of it—self-boasting was out.
Waterlily was beginning to take homely things and family doings with more appreciation. These she had always taken for granted, until this grand gesture of her stepfather brought them into focus. And so it was very much to her liking when one of her cousins, the youngest son of Black Eagle, came in one evening with the following report: “I came upon a stray buffalo with a broken leg today, so I shot him and left him in the hollow he rolled into and died.”
News of meat was always a cause for rejoicing. For Black Eagle, this particular news was cause for pride and elation, for it was the boy’s first real killing. Immediately he invited any of the family members who wished to go, to move out to the scene with him and camp there for the butchering. In short, it was to be a family outing.
At dawn, Rainbow and his sisters, First Woman and Dream Woman, and two or three cousins, all with their families, and of course the grandparents, Gloku and her old man, moved out there, leaving their homes standing in the camp circle and setting up temporary tipis near the ravine where the buffalo was. All the men were experienced butchers. They always cut up the animals they shot and brought the meat home in pieces. It was the Teton custom to skin the animal carefully, since hides were as important as the meat, and then to dissect the flesh according to the muscle structure. Each muscle was removed intact and called by name. The anatomical names of parts of animals were many. As each piece was removed and handed to the waiting women, they set at once to preparing it for drying. The old people took care of the bones, pounding them and then boiling them to derive their rich oils that took the place of butter, which they did not have.
But it was not all work. There was feasting on the side. Nothing seemed so desirable as meat broiled while still fresh. It was the men who took charge here, broiling the whole sides, on a grand scale called “warpath style.” Over a huge fire of elm and oak they made a dome of green willows, and when the fire died down to a pile of hot coals, they flung the meat like an immense tent over the dome. It quite well covered the fire and caught all the rising heat. To a people subsisting principally on buffalo meat, the sound of sizzling juices dripping into the fire was delicious to hear; the occasional flare-up from the melting grease whetted all appetites. When the meat was cooked, it was lifted off by means of stout sticks sharpened to a point and was laid level on elm boughs spread on the ground. Then it was cut into juicy strips and passed around. And everyone had a wonderful time, the children making the most of it.
Inveterate givers of food as the Tetons were, it was not enough that Black Eagle’s group of relatives were feasting after this windfall in their midst. No, they must share it. So they scanned the surrounding country for people passing in the distance and summoned them by waving a blanket or by calling to them, or some youth on a swift pony was dispatched to bring them in, to partake of the feast.
It was wonderfully pleasant to be out there. When all the meat had been cared for properly, nobody wanted to return to the camp circle just yet, though it was in sight and there was constant going in and coming out by different ones, especially the boys on horseback, who were sent back with meat for those who did not come out.
The fact that the tinpsila, wild prairie turnips, were at their best and grew plentifully on the hillsides offered a good excuse to stay; the women wanted to dig them for winter use. Meantime the men hunted desultorily. If one brought in a deer it was all to the good—more broiling of fresh meat. But they were too near the large circle to be hopeful of finding many.
To Waterlily these were memorable days, for this was the time she began to like her mother best and enjoy being with her more than with the other family members. Before, she had turned as readily to her grandmother, aunts, and other relatives as to her mother—it was the way of related families—but now she was learning to appreciate her mother for the rare and sympathetic person she was. The two were beginning to have little heart-to-heart talks on serious matters that were on Waterlily’s mind, which her mother seemed to anticipate.
There was that lovely afternoon when they went from the camp for a walk, just Blue Bird and her three children, Waterlily, Ohiya, and Smiling One, who was now past two winters. Beyond the knoll they sat down to rest, and there was nobody and nothing in sight, only country. Blue Bird looked on her children fondly and said, “Now I am truly happy—surrounded by my children.” And this she said because here was one of her rare opportunities to love them without limit, and to show them that she did. For in the larger family, where all adults acted parental toward all the children, they tried to be careful not to seem partial to any.
Waterlily said eagerly, “We are happy, too, Mother, having you to ourselves. Mother, let’s play that game ‘hard times’ that we used to play with elder brother.”
“Do you remember that, Waterlily?” Blue Bird was surprised. “You were very little, you know, when your brother Little Chief invented it for the three of us. It was fun, wasn’t it?” Then she added, looking far off, “Your brother is too big to play with us any more. He is out there somewhere, riding with the other boys. And that is right. These are the times when he must learn to ride. It is needful that all men ride well. Come now!”
She pulled her wrap over her head and brought her three children under it. They snuggled up to her as she began a running commentary about their “awful plight,” and listened to the imagined misery with playful shudders.
“Now…here we are…all alone…just us four. On a wide, deserted, strange prairie. And worst of all, we have so little food, and it is not likely we shall find any more…Oh dear, isn’t it terrible?”
“Terrible! Terrible!” The two older children repeated in a chorus, being well into the spirit of it.
“All we have is this tiny shelter…only a makeshift and not at all secure…Well, at least it protects us…if only the wind would not blow so hard!”
“The wind! The wind!” They shuddered again.
“Come, Ohiya,” the mother said, “a little closer in. Waterlily, pull the tent downward and hold it firm, there, back of you…Oh, for some anchoring pins! But there is no tree to cut from, alas. The wind grows worse, and colder. It could rip our shelter right off…Hold tight! Oh, whatever shall become of us!” The children loved it—it was such fun to be so wretched when it was only play.
Ohiya added his bit of make-believe by crying, “Mother! Look at Smiling One, crawling out from under the tipi!”
“No, no, Smiling One, come back here or you will freeze! All of you, keep close so we can warm one another.” They huddled still closer, in a tight knot. And then Ohiya began to moan in great misery. “What is it, my son?” “Mother, I am starving…soon I shall be dead. I have eaten nothing for three days and three nights…”
His mother was appropriately distressed, as she hastened to offer him food. “Here, son, I have a very little pemmican…a mere handful. But at least hold a bit of it in your mouth…don’t swallow it…swallow the juice only…That will sustain you. It is what warriors sometimes have to do.”
“Give, give! Quick!” And Ohiya gasped and rolled his eyes in agony, according to his notion of correct dying from starvation. His mother passed out a pinch of the food to each one and took some herself and they sat holding it in the mouth, swallowing the juice only.
“I wonder, Ohiya, whether the storm has spent itself…it seems suddenly very quiet. Just peek out and see.” She said this to find out if the children were tired of the game. Far from it. At least Ohiya wanted to prolong it, for he stuck his head out and then jerked it back in with teeth chattering noisily. “Ouch! My ears are nearly frozen off, it is so cold…I think we must stay here some more.”
Waterlily said, “Mother, in that case, tell us a story.” And so Blue Bird told them not one story but two and then a third. They were the same little stories long familiar but always welcome—about the stupid bear; the deceitful fox; the wily Iktomi, master of trickery; and about Meadowlark and her babies.
In due time the children, who had wriggled about into more comfortable position against their mother, were sound asleep, their heads on her lap. She gazed on them tenderly as she wiped their flushed faces damp along the hairline, for it was actually a very warm day. “A lapful of babies—what more should a woman want?”
She sat very still, her back against a rock, so they might have their rest, until someone called from beyond the hill telling them their evening meal was waiting.
On the way back she carried the baby while the two older ones walked ahead. Suddenly Waterlily turned back to her and said, “Mother, this was such fun! Can we go walking with you again—often?”
Waterlily went everywhere with her grandmother, Gloku, and her aunts and others, and always it was very pleasant, for they were all most agreeable. But now at last she had found her preference, her own mother, who could play games and talk about many things that were perplexing, clearing them away. She would stay close to her from now on. It was well she decided this, for very soon she would be needing more guidance through the extraordinary days of adolescence that were not too far off. And then it would be her own mother who would be most understanding and helpful.