SRR ERS poe Gia SER April 30, 1980 Ghewahtok and Wanhulta The Legend of Chiques Rock From ‘‘Saga of the Susquehanna,” by Chester Wittell Where Susquehanna’s tranquil tide Quickens its current slow and wide, And, narrowing, bends around the joint Of that long finger, called the ‘‘Point;"’ A precipice abrupt and sheer In solemn grandeur rises. Here The wanderer in awe may stand To view a scene sublime and grand, Letting his gaze in rapture fall Upon the plain of Donegal, Where smiling fields of wheat and corn With verdant hue the land adorn; Or, looking downward to the left, See how the swirling rapids cleft A bouldered passage, dark and deep, Between the ridges high and steep. Then, if of courage stout he be, He may step to its edge to see And scan the perpendicular Of the dreadful and appalling scaur Whose base to reach must plummet drop Three hundred feet ere brought to stop: So looms that cliff, named ‘‘Chiques Rock,’ Whose walls of stone the secret lock In silence that forbears to tell What here unwitnessed once befell. In days of yore agone ’tis said When by the lure of conquest led, The white man came with ruthless hand To pilfer and possess the land, An Indian brave, Ghewahtok named, Looked on the scene with eye inflamed By such undying hate that he Swore vengeance on the enemy, And to that end, or soon or late, Vowed he would lurk and lie in wait. Now in the tribe there dwelt a maid,— Dark, lithe, with raven hair abraid,— Whom did Ghewahtok love; but she— As lissom as a bird and free— His love with such indifference met As youth and coyness oft beget. Try as he would, he could not gain The secret vails that love sustain, Nor win by wooing’s tender art The warm requital of her heart; Though half in pity, half in pride, Some slight regard did she divide, Which, given parcel, heartened him And made him vassal to her whim. But maugre all the charms of love, Such dole distrust could not remove, Nor could her casual smile dispel The doubt that made his life seem hell; And oft as sank the evening sun, When day its wonted course had run, And ’'round the campfire, stern and squat, In converse grave the tribesmen sat, His dark eyes glared with jealous flame Upon her as he went and came. Wanhulta (thus her name) to stray Into the forest went one day, And as she sat beside a brook, In its clear mirror chanced to look, When lo! she saw reflected there. The image of a youth most fair, Whose golden hair and pallid face Proclaimed him of the white man’s race. Silent he stood in deference meet To her who tarried at his feet, All signs forbearing (save to stare) That had betrayed his presence there. A while she sat in mute amaze On his reflection there to gaze, Ere, roused from revrie, did she start With strange emotion in her heart— A feeling like a current strong That bore resolve its course along And canceled by new rapture gained What of Ghewahtok’s love remained. Whereat and instant she arose As one its ecstasy who knows And senses inwardly the source Whence true love wends its wilful course. Some words there were of timely ruse, Such young and flustered lovers use, Which, spoken, leave in after-stead No memory of what was said— A language terse, yet apt and bland, Which only love may understand. BVio@ Wat dn lsu? Albeit watchful eyes were set Upon their love, the lovers met; For whose the eye endued to trace The feet of love from place to place? And where the shaman who could guess Its hiding in the wilderness? Moons waxed and waned and still the twain To do their hearts’ sweet will were fain, And often while her people slept Thence from the fire Wanhulta crept Her lover in the night to meet And know his kisses berry-sweet. Time flew on eagle wings; the days Grew dim with autumn’s amber haze, As southward through the azure sky The honking geese were seen to fly. The paw-paw bulged with yellow mell, And from the oak the acorn fell, And the wild grape, ripening on the vine, Told of the austral sun’s decline. One day Ghewahtok, hunting, came Across the hills in search of game, When at a streamlet’s grassy brink He saw a stranger stoop to drink. He stole anigh, by caution led, But paused ere ‘‘Itah’'* could be said; For the man was white and therefore he Was deemed a mortal enemy. He drew his knife; the other, too, A longer and a sharper drew; But strength prevailed; though he fought well, At last the stranger gasped and fell. Ghewahtok eyed him lying there While the red blood hued his golden hair, And thought: ‘My work so. featly done, The long-knives** shall be less by one.”’ Then straightway to Wanhuita's tent, Vainglorious and bold he went. “Behold! another knave is dead. Here is his scalp.’’ These words he said. Wanhulta heard but did not speak; A death-like pallor blanched her cheek; For thus her heart the cold words found And deeply dealt their dealy wound. She gazed upon that golden hair, With blood imbrued before her there, And with one look of withering hate Withdrew without the tent and sate. Though keen the blade of mortal woe, As they who feel its sharp edge know, Yet keener grinds its edge the stone Of misery that bides alone; For whoso grief with friend may share Has halved the burden of his care, But doomed alone with grief to bide, Doubled the same shall him betide. And so Wanhulta: small relief She found, with none to share her grief, And shutting sorrow thus unnamed, Her heart with woe became inflamed. As one who by dire circumstance, Dumb and astound, moves in a trance; So in the toils of mortal anguish Henceforth was she doomed to languish. Winter passed; came spring again With winds of March and April rain. The maple buds began to swell; The Wadwah*** raised its golden bell, And in the river's crystal tide The sparkling shad was seen to glide. But in her heart, as in a vise, Harsh winter with its snow and ice Still held Wanhulta in a grip That baffled plaint of tongue or lip; Till, numb with woe and hopeless, care Attained the zero of despair. One summer eve (to seek relief From the keen torture of her grief) She walked abroad until she came To that high cliff of tragic fame, And stepping lightly to its edge Sat down to ponder on a ledge. Above her in the azure sky She saw the white clouds scud and fly. And wished that she, as they, might find Peace in communion with the wind. SUSQUEHANNA TIMES—Page 13 Chiques Rock She looked below where, dark and deep, The angry waters swirl and leap, And thought how well her pain were done If smothered in oblivion. And as she sat and pondered there, Suddenly she seemed aware Of something dire and sinister Whose evil power threatened her. Instinctively she turned her head And a frantic chill of fear and dread Swept over her, for at her side— A fiend of rage and wounded pride— Ghewahtok stood. Within his eye The rabid fire of jealousy Yet burned, and when at last he spoke, The pent-up tide of hatred broke The dam of thought. ‘‘Love me or die!" He roared.... The far hills heard his cry And answered it, but not so well As she who said: ‘‘Love you? Not hell Would pit a monster like to you. “Twill naught avail to plead or sue, For rather would I grasp the snake Whose mottled coils a rattle shake Than favor you. Henceforth alone I'll bide. Ugh! murderer; begone!”’ As winds blown upward from the mouth Of torrid regions of the south In funneled shapes loud-thundering, roar Across the prairie’s level floor, Blackening the sky that shinks aghast, As if it heard the judgement blast; So on his face his cholor grew, A presage terrible to view; As with a frightful oath that rang From shore to shore, Ghewahtok sprang Toward Wanhulta. ‘‘Cozener!”’ He shouted hoarsely, seizing her: “*“Though twain while living, you and I Thus linked as one at least can die.” So saying, he clasped her to his breast And on her lips one last kiss pressed And leaped.....As from the zenith's height The falcon swoops in downward flight, So, locked in close embrace, they fell Down...down...down in death to dwell. ~ And thenceforth to this very day Adepts far-seen in legend say A certain pine tree on a ledge, That juts out from the cliff’s high edge, Some remnant of that tragedy Still keeps preserved in memory; For often when the wet wind blows Its psalter strangely vocal grows And whispers forth from every rame Ghewahtok’s and Wanhulta’s name. * The common greeting, or ‘‘How-do-you-do?’’ of the Indians. ** The white men were called ‘‘long knives’’ by the Indians. *** The Indian name of an unidentified flower—possibly the dandelion or the butter-cup.
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