RAIN SONG

They are called "Hopi-Shinumu," which means "peaceful people," and they live in villages of rock and mud houses which cling to the tops of the three great fingers of Black Mesa in Northern Arizona. In August, Yaponcha, the wind god, sends the red earth spiralling in dust devils down the dry bed of Oraibi Wash. High atop the mesas which seem to crown the world he sings his earth-song, wind-song, calling on the gods, the many gods who have helped the Hopi people since the beginning. Serpent gods, moving in the darkness of the Underworld; Antelope gods, treading softly over the earth's strong heart; Eagle gods, soaring across the sun. Serpent baseness and eagle sublimity meet on earth in that creature called man. They meet in neat adobe houses; with singing women grinding corn; with happy children walking hand-in-hand along the mesa's perilous brink; in a car park filled with jostling tourists, clad in shorts and caps and shirt sleeves, arms and legs bared to the sun. The Sun God, Tawa, is amused by the spectacle the dazzling young and handsome god who every evening rushes to woo Huru-ing Wuti, Goddess of Hard Substances, in her western ocean kiva, and in the morn ing, refreshed, fulfilled, leaves her to run another course. Looking suddenly inside themselves with bewilder ment, laughing nervously, friendly smiles for armament, the tourists feign nonchalance, but think, "Is this real?" Not all the visitors question the reality of Hopi cere mony. Not those who possess knowledge of this land and of its people oldtimers, neighboring ranchers, traders, missionaries, well-disposed anthropologists, even a few prophetic souls who see prayer, any prayer, as the expan sion of one's self into eternity.

The Hopis, wiser, do not question the reality of the other world, the white man's world, but take what is needed from it, and some that is not needed. They have learned to cultivate gardens, use machinery, raise live stock, preserve their children's health, watch television and listen to rock 'n' roll music.

Those visitors who are disappointed in the Hopi Snake Ceremony have come there for all the wrong reasons to see "quaintness," or to witness a frenzied primitive rite, which it is not, or to gape in fascinated horror at the snakes they have been conditioned to fear the symbol they desire to see, yet reject as evil. That old "serpent which beguiles," of Milton and the Bible. The treacherous and wily snake. Disgusting... tempt ing. How well all those years of Western culture have taught them to beware the serpent, condemned to crawl on its belly and eat dust for the transgression of tempting Eve to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. And the poor snake is only a living creature, existing on earth without malice, striking out in self defense against its enemies. To the Hopi, the snake is sacred, a messenger to the gods of the Underworld, where man once lived before he emerged out of the first "sipapu" onto this earth. An ancient and respected brother, to be revered, not feared. Dancing with snakes is neither dreadful nor repulsive to the Hopi. Instead, there is an awesome respect, the rever ent feelings of cult members toward their animal patrons.

RAIN SONG the story of the HOPI SNAKE DANCES In Sun Chief, Don Talayesva explains the purpose of the Snake and Antelope ceremonies:

"They are for the propitiation of the Snake deities and to insure plenty of spring water and abundant rain for the maturing crops. The ceremonies dramatize the legends of the Snake Clan, and the Snake priests gather their 'elder brothers... rattlers, bull snakes and others... wash them ritually, and carry them in their teeth during the public dance. They are then released, with prayers, to convey to the Rain Deity. Only the pure in mind and beart can dance successfully with the very wise and sacred snake in his mouth."

A great deal has been written to explain why dancers are seldom harmed by poisonous snakes. It is generally believed that the rattlesnakes have had their fangs cut out or their poison sacs milked, rendering them harmless for the duration of the dance. All of which is completely beside the point and has nothing to do with the meaning or efficacy of the ceremony.

Outsiders are not permitted to witness the catching of snakes or the snake-handling kiva ceremonies. In one instance, a somewhat meddlesome scientist followed the snakes when they had been released, captured a few, and discovered that the snakes had had their functional and reserve fangs removed. On the other hand, there have been recorded cases of sickness and death resulting from snakebite. This prompted Sun Chief to rationalize his lifelong desire to become a Snake man and his disappointment at not having been asked: "That same year a man was bitten by a snake in one of the dances and nearly lost his life. When the dancers are not pure or do not pay close attention to their business, the snakes get angry. If a dancer has slept with a woman during the ceremony he will become sick or unable to perform, or the snake may bite him in the dance. Once a leader was bitten while huming for snakes, and the old people tell of men who have died of snakebites when they have failed to do their duty. I decided that perhaps it was better for me to stay out."

Since the Renaissance, the ideal man of Western Civilization has been "Faustian." His mind is in eternal conflict between good and evil, reason and passion, selfwill and self-control. The very essence of his existence is continual striving for inward development and individual freedom of expression. Eastern culture is closer to Hopi ideals. No dualism exists between good and evil. Conflict and strife and progress are destructive to the order and harmony of the cosmos. Life and death are always present and inseparable. Past, present and future are one. Masao is God of the Earth, but also of the Underworld and Death. Masao is supreme!

Sobriety and inoffensiveness, gentleness and temperance in both men and women are admired. The ideal Hopi man is dignified, affable, generous, non-aggressive and in harmony with his neighbors. He does not betray strong emotion or arrogance, and hesitates to retaliate for injustice. His importance to the community is in direct relationship to his ritual position. Public opinion is stronger than force, and to lose one's reputation is the worst punishment. Sin is unfamiliar, guilt a stranger. Sex is not a temptation to be fiercely resisted, but a vital part of a wellordered life. Militant chastity is met with disfavor. "Proud" girls who stay home rather than go out to be admired by men are criticized. The gods sometimes chastise them by coming down to earth and teaching them delight and submission. Sex symbolism is recognized as such, not with winks and sneers and vulgarity, although they have their ceremonial place in clowning, but as a basic, natural part of life. Young boys and girls make reed circles and small black cylinders which are tied together and thrown into a sacred spring for the fertility of crops, people and animals. Girls run ceremonial races to insure fertility. Boys shoot arrows, representing lightning, the male symbol, into bundles of corn husks, female symbol. Corn is sacred, mother of all. Alosaka, the Two-Horned God, holds in his hands the power of reproduction of all living things. He is kind, gentle, and lives aloof from people, in the Underworld. The gods like the things men like. Many supernatural objects are "danced" because it is believed that dancing gives them pleasure. All animate objects have spirits which are visualized in human form. When a Hopi man hunts, he prays to the spirit of the animal to forgive him for the necessity of killing it. Such is the Hopi way of life!

The spirits of his ancestors are in the kachinas, represented by the grotesque, hand-carved dolls familiar to Arizonans. In the spring, the kachinas dance in the villages. The Niman Kachina, in July, marks the departure of the beloved kachinas for their home on San Francisco Peaks. The people ask them for favors and they give out presents to the children, often small bows and arrows for the boys and dolls for the girls. In August the kachina spirits return in the form of thunderheads, ponderous, moisture laden, moving eastward in formation to bring the long-sought rain to the thirsty land. Hopi mothers point at the great cloudbanks and tell their children, "Look! Your grandfathers are coming!" The gods like to return to the Hopi. To impersonate them is to give them pleasure. When a man puts on the mask of a god, he becomes that god. He is tabu. He utters strange sounds and observes strict continence. Membership in the different kivas is determined by the mother's choice of a ceremonial father at birth. When a boy is between five and nine years old, he endures an initiation into a kiva which is intended to strengthen him. The "scare" kachinas whip the boys with yucca whips, not as a punishment, but to drive the evil from them. When a boy reaches puberty, he is whipped again, by stronger gods. At this time it is revealed to him that the masked gods are mortals like himself, relatives and neighbors. After the first shock of recognition and discovery, the kachina removes his mask, places it on the boy's head and commands the boy to whip him. The young man whips with indignation, sad, too, at his loss of innocence and the necessity for facing reality. He has crossed the border of trust and obedience and carefree pleasure into the world of men, and he realizes that mortals must assume the responsibilities he had formerly attributed to immortals.

When any Pueblo Indian is asked the meaning of any ceremony, he will probably answer "for rain." For centuries, in the arid Colorado Plateau region, rain has been a life-and-death concern of its people. Ask any rancher in the Southwest what he would wish for if he had one wish and he will answer "rain." Rain is the prime requisite for life; water the universal blessing. Throughout the long, hot summer, cattle grow weaker, bawling and restless with hunger and thirst. Parched earth cracks, dirt tanks turn to mud blisters. The little Hopi gardens and orchards and corn fields along the arroyos begin to shrivel and turn yellow. Dust devils whirl in endless mocking of the clear, blue sky. Those who have felt the stinging blasts of sand and the searing heat of sun, find meaning and hope in the rain-promise of the Snake Ceremony.

The ancestors of the Hopi have occupied the site for more than a thousand years. The Hopi live in groups of semi-independent villages. The government of each town is the same as the pre-Columbian government and is composed of a hereditary House Chief or Town Chief, a council of elders, town criers who make announcements, and warriors, who attend to policing. The Council meets once a year at the Soyal Ceremony in mid-December to plan ceremonies and the business of the Tribe. Moenkopi is a colony of Oraibi. Eleven towns speak a dialect of the same language, Shoshonean. The people of Hano, immigrants from New Mexico, speak Tewa.

Of all the Pueblo people, the Hopi alone have retained a complete annual cycle of ceremonies untouched by the white man's beliefs. The dates of all winter ceremonies are fixed by watching the position of the sun as it sets; summer ceremonies are determined by the sunrise position.

In August, Che-Chuk-Ta, the Snake Ceremony, and La-Lent, the Flute Ceremony, take place. In evennumbered years the Snake Ceremony is held at Hotevilla, Shipolovi and Shungopovi; in odd years, at Walpi and Mishongnovi. The Snake Society is assisted by the Antelope Society. It is said that an antelope was once bitten by a snake. The snake sucked the poison out of the antelope and cured him after he promised to sing for them when they had a dance.

The rich and complex ceremonies require a memorization of word-perfect ritual that is staggering to our uninitiated minds. Ceremonial life demands constant time and attention. Daily conversation in the villages centers around ritual life, gossip often concerns the implications of a misstep in a dance. If correct procedure is followed scrupulously, if the offerings are satisfactory, if the words to hours-long prayers are perfect, the effect will follow according to the desires of the people. Every detail of costume has a magical efficacy. Imitative magic is important in ceremonies. To produce thunder, stones are rolled; rattling gourds causes rain.

Priests are not allowed to experience anger, not because anger is evil in itself, but because a strong emotion would detract from concentration on the religious and sublime. The participants fast before a ceremony, as a means of spiritual cleansing and self-denial. After the completion of the ceremony, the dancers purify themselves with an emetic and vomit at the edge of the mesa, in order to resume their everyday lives. The Hopi hold dances more frequently than most tribes, not as a form of self-expression, nor to lose themselves in exaltation, but as a means of worship and pleasure and identification with natural forces. Pounding of feet draws the mist into clouds and forces rain upon the earth. Rhythmic songs are like ritual poetry . . . a monotonous compulsion of nature by reiteration . . . a steady, basic, compulsive rhythm, like the heart-beat of the earth itself, like the rolling in of the tides, like the prelude to an ecstacy. In the prayer-songs, the priests say to the gods, "We shall be one person."

Many of the prayer-songs are ritualistic formulas describing the preparations which have led up to the ceremony. They tell of gathering willow shoots and feathers to make pahos, periods of retreat and abstinence and kiva ceremonies. For the Hopi, religion is not a weekly occurrence, but daily life, into which they put their whole being.

All people - past, present and future - comprehend the life-beat of drums and music and dance; feel it dimly, longingly, as a child feels or remembers his mother's heartbeat, feel it in their feet and limbs and welling up in their throats.

Oliver LaFarge, in A Pictorial History of the American Indian, says of this mystical unity with natural forces: "It is most clear to the outside observer in the ceremonies of the Southwest, which are calculated not only to put the participants into the desired relationship, but also to affect the onlookers so that they, too, are brought in. Anyone who watches a ceremony with sympathy and respect is considered to be helping."

I have talked to several oldtimers who refuse to return to the Hopi Snake Ceremony because of the increasing crowds of onlookers and the newly instituted practice of charging for parking spaces and seats. I believe it is a long-postponed practice, which helps alleviate the yearlycost of having the adobe and plaster walls and cedar roof beams repaired after being trampled and broken by the weight of humanity. It seems to me, from old pictures I have seen, that there have always been pressing crowds of onlookers, even in the days when people drove Model T's over dusty, chuckholed roads and arrived caked with red dirt. Now Arizona 77 from Holbrook to Keams Canyon is paved, as well as Arizona 264 from Keams past the Hopi mesas.

Writing about his turn-of-the-century boyhood, Sun Chief reminisces: On the last day of the ceremony, great crowds of whites and strange Indians came to Oraibi. They climbed over housetops, stood in doorways, and crowded into the plaza near the snake kiva to see everything... When the serpents were placed in a circle on the ground, they ran in every direction before, the snake catcher could get them. Some whites yelled and jumped back shamefully. A bull snake came toward me at the edge of the plaza. I did not cry, but I was ready to run when the snake catcher picked it up. He was brave and had a good heart. I wanted to be a Snake Man.

In every person's life, a few carefree and happy days stand out vividly again and again, I suspect until only death closes the curtain. Last summer I had such a day. A sort of day you seldom have when you get past twelve, let alone thirty-four. In the first place, my companions helped. I chose a handful of my most trusted, stout-hearted and loyal friends and advisors: Julie and Lucy Thompson, wisely teen-aged; Greg Long and Old Father Billings, long-legged and perpetually hungry youths; and intrepid Miss Patty Thompson, aged nine.

We set out after church about nine o'clock one Sunday morning in my Rambler station wagon, known as "The Green Hornet" to members of an erstwhile generation. Words of caution from parents were blithely ignored as we shifted and packed brown paper sacks full of such indispensable items as Fritos, bologna sandwiches, chocolate cookies, cokes, Kleenex and a water bag to add pioneering spirit to the expedition.

It was the brightest day imaginable, cloudless, a slight southwesterly breeze moving in gusts across the dry, flat land. As we turned off onto the Keams Canyon road, Julie, Lucy, Patty and I began singing parts of the American Folk Mass, loud and clear, Greg countering Roman Catholically from the back seat with parts of the Te Deum in Latin.

Thin-flanked Herefords watered at dirt tanks, which were shrunken to mud holes by the summer's drouth. The grass was sparse and brown, the broomweed thick, crowding out the good feed. Once across the cattle guard which marked the Reservation boundary, cattle were replaced by small bands of sheep, tended by dogs and Navajo shepherds. Black stems of ancient volcanoes protruded from out of the red earth. We stopped to pick up a young Navajo hitchhiker I recognized. "Where do you live now, Guy Benally?" I asked.

"I work over in Holbrook," he said.

"Going home?"

"Goin' to a squaw dance over at Jadito," he said.

We topped out the long hill in silence and caught our first glimpse of White Cone, pale-topped butte, standing sentinel over Francis Powell's trading post.

"Where's the squaw dance?" I asked.

"Over at Jadito," he said. "Someplace. I don't know where. We can see lots of pickups, I think."

"I know lots of people over at Jadito," I said. "I'll take you there."

"O. K."

Smoke was rising from a group of hogans on a hill over to the east and we knew that was the place. We turned off onto a sandy, rolling road and passed several pickups full of men, women, kids, goats, sheep and dogs which moved over to let us pass. The people in their best ceremonial clothes stared and smiled at our cargo.

Up at the hogans, dozens of women and girls were cooking on open fires under a long ramada with a roof of cedar branches, which had been set up for the squaw dance. Outside of a smaller hogan, where people were being cured from their illnesses, a group of older men squatted on the ground, chanting the ancient curing songs of the people. Freshly slaughtered carcasses of sheep hung from the limbs of cedar trees, the fat pure white and clean. We could smell coffee and lamb stew and hear grease sizzling in dozens of skillets. I had started to turn the Green Hornet around when I saw Genevieve Yellowhair, a young woman I knew well. She waved at me and then I saw Samuel and his family, Pauline and Helene and their mother, Helen, over by a cookstove under the ramada.

"Yah-teh', Jo," said Genevieve, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Yah-teh', Genevieve," I said. "Where am I?"

"The mother of Joe Brue Pete lives here," she said, smiling. "You sure got lots of kids."

"Pretty good family. How long has the squaw dance been going on?"

"Four days I think. This is the last day. Come over here."

The boys walked off to mingle with Navajo boys Greg knew from school in Holbrook. Genevieve led us over to the ramada, then into a big hogan, and cleared one of the three beds for us to sit on and told us to wait there. A diminutive grandmother, wrinkled and brown as a walnut, her hands, wrists and velvet blouse covered with turquoise and silver, came into the hogan, smiling and shaking hands with us and nodding. She took each of the girl's hands in both of hers, talking all the while in Navajo. "Yah-teh', yah-teh'," she said. "Make yourselves at home."

Genevieve returned with folded camp quilts which she placed on the floor around a square table, about fourinches high, and motioned for us to sit down. Other women relatives brought in a steaming white enamel pan full of mutton stew, a big white pot of coffee, a plate stacked high with freshly made fried bread, four large spoons and four cups. I nodded to the kids and we ate from the pan of stew and tore off pieces of hot, tender fried bread. I was thankful for Julie and Lucy and Patty, their youth and good manners. Youth is adaptable, making itself at home, comfortable even in the presence of strangeness. I was proud to be with them.

SNAKE DANCE ILLUSTRATIONS

inches high, and motioned for us to sit down. Other women relatives brought in a steaming white enamel pan full of mutton stew, a big white pot of coffee, a plate stacked high with freshly made fried bread, four large spoons and four cups. I nodded to the kids and we ate from the pan of stew and tore off pieces of hot, tender fried bread. I was thankful for Julie and Lucy and Patty, their youth and good manners. Youth is adaptable, making itself at home, comfortable even in the presence of strangeness. I was proud to be with them.

We said "Thank you" and "Goodbye" and left easily. Arriving and leaving is easy and natural with Navajos, like the rising and setting of the sun. Life is a matter of coming and going; simple and uncomplicated.

We climbed the steep path up to the plaza at Mishongnovi and strolled around the old parts of the village. Red chiles and bunches of Indian corn hung from the adobe and rock walls. Ubiquitous Hopi children with shining eyes and straight, black hair ran along the dizzying edge of the mesa. On top of the mesa the air is clear and fresh, mingled with juniper smoke and corn stewing. Some of the children were selling piki, the tissue-thin bread made from red or yellow or blue corn, finely ground, baked on a hot rock and rolled into bundles, like papyrus. Far below the mesa, little corn fields and farms dotted the flat, dry country. Almost imperceptibly, a cluster of clouds had gathered over San Francisco Peaks, blotting them out.

For our seats, we chose a rock bench outside a house, directly across from the kisi, or snake house, a tepee of cottonwood limbs and leaves. We gave the lady of the house a dollar each and parked ourselves in the hot midday When we arrived at Mishongnovi, about one o'clock, crowds of people had already begun to come. Joe Sekakuku, a Hopi businessman from Holbrook, had set up some tables by the parking spaces and was unpacking a few things to sell. pottery, jewelry, baskets. He hugged all of us with his bear hug and told us to go over to his sister's house and rest until the dances started. I noticed how straight and strong and handsome he still was, in his seventies.

We walked up the dusty street single file, like so many penguins, to avoid pickups and burros. Joe's sister, a distinguished woman, showed us into her rock house with clean whitewashed walls and roof of cedar beams. Pictures of her family, woven plaques and baskets hung from the walls. She was working on a pot, smoothing and polishing the wet clay. We sat watching her for a while, until the curiosity and restlessness of youth hastened our departure.

sun, pulling our hats down over our eyes for protection against Tawa, the Sun God, and watching with fascination the perambulations of colorful tourists. A few white fluffy clouds drifted across the sun. About four o'clock, distant drums signalled the beginning of the Snake Ceremony. We stood up on the bench in order to see better, all except Miss Patty, who was concerned that she might not get a close enough look at the snakes that way. And I, underestimating nine-year-old girls, had been afraid that she would be afraid. Fascinated, but not afraid!

Stately, deliberately, the chorus of Antelope Men in buckskin skirts and hand-woven sashes marched in single file into the plaza, carrying drums and gourd rattles. Four times they circled the kisi, stamping soft, moccasined feet on the ground in front of it, calling on the gods of the Underworld, the masculinity of their voices strong, controlled. They lined up in front of the kisi. The tempo changed subtly, slowly, stirring emotions to a strange yet familiar awareness.

With sure and lively steps, the Snake Men came into the plaza, their bodies and faces stained dark, painted with white symbols of lightning, snakes, maleness. Tortoise shells rattled around their knees above the leggings and moccasins as they stepped. Abalone shells and pelts of fox and coyote hung from their slim waists down the back of the white buckskin skirts. In their long black hair were light red feathers. The Snake Men circled the kisi slowly, four times, stamping their feet at the entrance. The chorus, in perfect unison, grew stronger, louder. Corn Maidens in Clouds had begun to roll overhead, whipped by a strong westerly wind which swept dust into our eyes. The gods had heard. The grandfathers were coming. Stronger, faster, the drums beat with controlled intensity. Soft feet bore down, the hypnotic rhythm coursed through the crowd, welling up from out of the dark recesses of human history. Time and place were suspended. A roll of thunder ran like a shudder through the people. The Snake Men placed the spirit gods in a circle of sacred cornmeal made by the Corn Maidens, a writhing mass of maleness within the female circle. Another long roll of thunder. The unbearable and longed-for moment. Silver arrows of lightning struck, sharp and piercing, and the clouds above us released rain, cool, gentle, sublime, falling to give fertility to the barren land. "We shall be one person." One by one the Snake Men gathered the spirit gods and released them to the four corners of the earth. It was over.

hand-woven dresses and traditional hairdos came into the plaza, one at a time. They stood in line opposite the Antelope chorus, quietly, submissively female, sprinkling the Snake Men with sacred cornmeal from baskets which they held. The prayers proceeded rhythmically, hypnotically, and the world of the white man receded further and further into the distance.

Once Sun Chief had a dream in which he saw a vision of the afterlife. He wrote: "It is a pleasant future to look forward to, but until then, I want to stay in Oraibi and have plenty to eat, especially flour, sugar, coffee and the good old Hopi foods... Finally, when I have reached the helpless stage, I hope to die in my sleep and without any pain ... perhaps my boy will dress me in the costume of a Special Officer, place a few beads around my neck, put a paho and some sacred cornmeal in my hand and fasten inlaid turquoise to my ears. I shall hasten to my dear ones, but I will return with good rains and dance as a kachina in the plaza with my ancestors - even if Oraibi is in ruins."

Now the Snake Men stooped before the kisi, bringing out handfuls of squirming, wriggling rattlers and bull snakes. A helper followed each snake man, gently coaxing the hissing heads of the serpents from his vulnerable neck with a light touch of a feather. The bodies of the snakes hung limply, obediently, from the white teeth of the Snake Men, jerking slightly with the rhythm of the dance steps.

Quietly the crowd dispersed and went in the clean, fresh rain to their cars and drove out of the dream into the world of television and automatic dishwashers and packaged delicacies and traffic jams and tranquilizers. . . . Our brave new world.