Cloudfoot the Fairytale

For those of you who are interested, here is the revised Cloudfoot, now technically a fairytale. Hopefully. If I had my druthers I would have revised the original in a different way, but an assignment is an assignment, and a fairytale this must be. If you care to take the time to read both Cloudfoots, let me know which one you like better.

Once there was a beautiful girl who pleased her father the chief very much. She was smart and engaging which made her father happy in his old age. Her eyes sparkled in the sun and her dancing pleased the gods so much, they showered the land with rain whenever she moved to the drums. For this she was called Cloudfoot, and the people of the tribe would bring her toys to make her giggle and dance so that their fields would be moistened with rain.

But not all was well with little happy Cloudfoot. Her mother was very sick and one day she called Cloudfoot to her bed. “Little Cloud,” she said, “I want you to listen very carefully. I will not be here much longer. You may never see me again, but I will always be with you. When I die, I want you to take my finger bone and wrap it sinew and wear it as a necklace.” Not long afterwords, Cloudfoot’s mother died. Although she was very upset, Cloudfoot did just as her mother said.

As years passed, Cloudfoot grew more and more beautiful. Her hair was dark like the earth and it shone in the sun as she picked flowers in the fields. When she smiled, men couldn’t help but stare at her until she had passed. The chief was very watchful, for she had become the most beautiful maiden on the island or even past its rivers. This made him worried, for he knew many wanted to marry her and he became jealous.

He built a house of clay all around her with only one small window. He brought her food and water and precious gifts, to keep her happy, but she would not eat or even smile. Cloudfoot curled up in a corner and held on to her necklace. She rubbed her mothers bone until she cried herself to sleep.

For months Cloudfoot sat imprisoned unhappy in her cage. The rain no longer came. The fields were parched and thirsty. The tribe went hungry as they rationed food from one week to the next, hoping for rain. Day after day they went up to Cloudfoot’s hut and begged her to dance. “We have no food. The crops are dying. Please help us, Cloudfoot!” they cried. But Cloudfoot never moved. She just curled up in her corner and rubbed her necklace.

One night as the moon shone through the one tiny window in the hut, Cloudfoot rubbed her mother’s bone. She cried and cried and begged her mother to take her away. Cloudfoot’s tears fell down her face and onto the bone, and the bone said, “Little Cloud, Little Cloud, why are you crying?”

“I am locked up in a mud hut all alone,” she said.

“Little Cloud, Little Cloud, where are you people?” cried the bone.

“They come every day to beg me to dance.”

“Little Cloud, Little Cloud, why do they want you to dance?”

“They want rain for their crops because they are starving.”

The bone trembled in Cloudfoot’s hand and said, “Little Cloud, Little Cloud, why do you cry for yourself when your people are starving?” At this Cloudfoot had no answer. She waited for the bone to continue, but it fell silent and left her once again on her own.

The next morning the people came again to Cloudfoot and begged her to dance. She told them, “Bring me a hollowed log, some elkskin, and sinew.” She stretched the elkskin tight across the log. She sewed it with the sinew. She told them to play the drums soft, like the wind before a storm. She told them to play them loud like thunder. She told them to play them hard and steady like the pouring rain.

They brushed their hands against the drum like the wind before the storm. SWISH SWISH. They hit the drums like thunder. BOOM BOOM. They beat the drums hard and steady like the pouring rain. SHUCKA SHUCKA. And all the while Cloudfoot danced and danced and danced.

The gods delighted in Cloudfoot’s dance and they sent water all over the earth. Rain poured down on their fields and watered their crops. The rain washed away the clay house and sent Cloudfoot free.

Cloudfoot ran. She did not know where she was going and she could not stop. If her father found her, he would close her up in a mud house again. She had no choice but to run, and run she did. She ran into the forest, and ran past the trails she knew. She ran until the trees grew thick and she could barely breathe from the musty air. Exhausted she stopped, falling to the ground, panting.

She smelled venison stew. She looked up and saw an old woman sitting under tarp cooking over a fire. Cloudfoot walked over to her, begging her for some stew. The old woman stared at her. “How dare you ask for some of my soup? Did you kill the deer? Did you skin it? Did you chop it up and add the spices?”

“No, I did none of those things,” Cloudfoot replied, “But I am willing to do whatever you ask if you would kindly give me just one bowl of stew.”

“Anything I ask? You are not too bright to be offering a price you do not know. But I accept.”

The old woman handed her a bowl and Cloudfoot ate it greedily. The old woman watched her until Cloudfoot had licked the bowl clean. Then she said, “For that bowl of stew, you must become my slave for seven years.” Cloudfoot tried to refuse, but she knew she was caught. The old woman chuckled. “Not a bright one, you’re not. Not a bright one.”

Cloudfoot was heartbroken. At night she curled up on the floor and cried herself to sleep. One night as her tears fell on her mother’s bone and the bone said, “Little Cloud, Little Cloud, why do you cry?”

“Because I am locked up and all alone.”

“Where are your people, Little Cloud?”

“They are in their village and I am in a witch’s house.”

“How can you leave the witch’s house?”

“I don’t know. I am her slave for seven years since I ate her stew.”

“Well you must pay your debt then.”

For seven years Cloudfoot labored away after the woman. She cleaned, she cooked, she gardened, she hunted, she worked day, and she worked night. After seven years she went up to the old woman and said, “I have worked for you for seven years. It is now time for you to let me go.”

The old woman was startled. She had grown accustomed to having all her work done for her. She refused to let Cloudfoot go. She told her the time was not up, she offered another bowl of stew, and she even begged her to stay. Nothing worked. Cloudfoot insisted on returning home. As she left the house, the witch cast a spell on her and Cloudfoot became a mute.

That night Cloudfoot curled up in a corner and cried. As her tears hit her necklace the bone said, “Little Cloud, Little Cloud, why do you cry? It’s been seven years and your time is done.”

Cloudfoot made no answer, for she had no voice. That did not fool the bone. “Little Cloud, Little Cloud, you may have no voice, but you still have feet. It is time to go home.”

As the seven years passed, Cloudfoot’s father had become old. He did not know where his beloved Cloudfoot had gone, and his bent frame kept him from looking any longer. He called all the men of the tribe to him and told them he was soon going to become unable to rule them. He told had the entire tribe to gather together at the Great Rock, a massive pink stone larger than two men, one standing on the others shoulders. He told all the men in the tribe that whoever could perform three tasks would be the next chief. All the young men gathered around him at the Great Rock and listened carefully to what they would have to do. “First,” said the chief, “tomorrow you must bring me the sun I can hold in my hand.

The men grumbled and turned away; only a few stayed behind to watch the chief walk away and leave them hopeless. The next day the village looked up at the sky, and there shown the sun. Not a single man had captured it. Still they came gathered around the Great Rock to see the chief gloat in his victory. The chief spoke loud and clear so that all could hear, “Did anyone bring me the sun I could hold in my hand?”

As the chief stood on the Great Rock, he looked down at his feet and saw a tiny basket. He picked it up and opened it. Inside he found a small lump and he took it out, but the glare in the bright daylight made him shut his eyes. The crowd gasped. The chief threw the fool’s gold aside, angry he did not know who had brought this to him.
“Who did this?” he bellowed. Noone answered. After some silence he growled,

“Tomorrow you must catch me the wind I can pull with my arm.”

The next day the villagers gathered again at the Great Rock to see if anyone could impress the chief. It was a gusty day and again the villagers knew there was no chance anyone had caught the wind. If someone had caught the wind, it wouldn’t be blowing so hard. They hushed as the chief rose up in front of them. “Did anyone catch me the wind I can pull with my arm?”

Noone spoke. They started to whisper and the chief silenced them saying, “Is there noone? Then noone can be…” but before he finished, something in the air caught his eye. A strange bird flew in the sky attached to a string. The chief found the string caught in a tree and untied it. “What’s this new magic?” they cried, “Someone has caught the wind!”

The chief grabbed the string, assured it was merely a trick. He pulled and pulled, but the kite kept dragging him farther and farther. Exhausted, he let go. The chief looked angrily up at the crowd and said, “You have not won yet, Silent One. Tomorrow you must break the land in two.”

The next day, the villagers were afraid. They could not help their curiosity though and came one by one to the Great Rock to see what the third day would bring. Again the chief came before the crowd and called, “Can anyone break the land in two?”

Noone answered. The crowd looked to the sky, to the tree, to the rock, there was nothing there, nothing but a single acorn. The chief looked out at his people. “Is this all? Is this what you have for me? An acorn?” The people were silent. “An acorn can not break the Great Rock. Since noone can pass all three tests, noone will reign,” and he stormed off, infuriated.

Every day after that, rains came. Rains never came day after day with no relent. The land was green and the crops burst with corn and wheat. The people were happy. In the sunny days they harvested their crops. Still the rains came. And the acorn grew. It grew into a small oak tree. The rain kept falling and it grew tall and large.

One day there was a CRACK. The chief ran to the Great Rock to see what had happened. There was the Great Rock, split in two, and Cloudfoot dancing beside it. “So it was you who made the rains come?”

Cloudfoot nodded.

“And it was you who gave me the kite which caught the wind?”

Cloudfoot nodded.

“And it was you who gave me the fool’s gold which held the sun in my hand?”

Cloudfoot nodded.

“Then it must be you who are chief. Oh my princess, my princess, where have you been? You nearly broke this heart before you broke the rock.”

At that, the chief grasped his daughter in his arms and he wept until his tears hit her necklace. The tiny bone shook and Cloudfoot’s voice returned. And they all lived happily ever after.