John Gneisenau Neihardt
The End of the Dream
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About the print version
The End of the Dream
Overland Monthly
John G. Neihardt pp. 253-259
Overland Monthly Co.
San Francisco, CA
September 1905
Published: 1905
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THE END OF THE DREAM
By John G. Neihardt
"I taught thee nothing is a trifle."
-- Tupper.
A MAN who has the deeper sense of God finds nothing unimportant; he who
imputes insignificance to the most inconspicuous of objects or aspirations,
not only belittles his God, but clearly defines the capacity of his being.
It is merely subjective egotism that gives size to the object. Does not
the small boy's careless step upon an ant hill mark an epoch in insect
history?
God is no trifler.
There is as much of the epic in the unlyred and futile toil of the tumble
bug as there is in the classic hopelessness of the endeavor of Sysyphus. It
cannot be proven without the aid of egotism that the crushing of a worm
under foot is less laden with meaning to the universe than the decimation of
a phalanx. The failure of the superstitious hope of an unhistoric savage is
of as much importance to eternity as the calamitous miscarriage of a
diplomat's scheme!
This is a simple tale of failure.
The old woman Gunthai had nothing but a past over which she brooded, and
a son upon whom she doted. Had she been able to write the latter in the
letters of that tongue which did not come to the prairie until many moons
after her death, she would have written it with a "u," for her son was the
day to her; his coming was the morning and his going was the sunset. When he
laughed, there was summer in the wretched little tepee; when he cried the
snows drifted about the mother heart.
Winter and summer the old woman sat in her lodge, her back bent with the
burdens of many seasons, and her face seamed with many memories, yet stern
and expressionless, as the face of one who has followed a long trail and
cannot see its end, though the sun be falling.
All day she would sit in her lodge weaving baskets of willow; these she
exchanged with her tribesmen for the meat and robes which had been furnished
in abundance by her brave until the arrow of a Sioux brought him low.
Her little lad, whom she tenderly called Nu Zhinga (Little Man), would
lie long hours before her, resting his chin upon his little brown fists,
watching the hands of his mother weave the twigs into form with marvelous
skill, as it seemed to him.
And often the mother would forget the unwoven basket with gazing into his
big black eyes, for in them she could read great deeds that were to be done
after many unborn moons had died.
Then she would tell him tales of his father, tales that were noisy with
the snarl of drums, the twang of bow thongs, the shriek of arrows, the
thunder of hoofs. But there was no responsive glitter in the eyes of the
boy. His heart was not a warrior's, and the mother, seeing this, sighed and
fell to work with nervous haste.
And the days of the sun and the snow wove themselves into years, until Nu
Zhinga had reached that time when boyhood deepens into manhood, and yet as
the mother looked upon her son, she found him scarcely taller than a weak
man's bow. His legs were short and bowed, his hips narrow, and upon
shoulders of abnormal breadth sat his monstrous, shaggy head. It was
as if he were the visible body of a black spirit's joke, save for his
lustrous eyes, that were like two stars that burn big in the air of evening
through a film of mist.
And thus it was that when Nu Zhinga would pass through the village, those
who were still foolish with youth jeered at the boy, calling his name in
contempt -- the name which his mother had given in love, "Little man!" But
the old men and women only shook their heads and pitied Gunthai in silence.
At such times the lad would walk on sullen and silent. He lived in a
little world of his own, which was isolated from the great world by the
unkindness of his people, like a range of frozen hills. And in this small
world there were but three dwellers -- Gunthai, himself and one other. That
other was a despised little cripple, and her name was Tabea (Frog).
These three, and about them the chromatic glory of dreams, like a sunrise
that lingers, this was the world of Nu Zhinga.
All day among the quiet of the summer hills, Nu Zhinga and Tabea played
together. He telling the great, indefinite deeds that he would do in that
big, mysterious Sometime, when the days would be pregnant with wonders! For
in his soul the strong pulse of uncertain and lofty resolve bounded, and as
he peered into the future, lo! it was vast, yet dim with misty possibilities
like a broad stretch of prairie expanding under the new moon.
And Tabea, with all of her crooked little body, listened attentively and
believed even more than she heard. This is the way of those who love.
One day when the last white footsteps of the winter had vanished from the
coldest valley, the old woman Gunthai called her boy to her side.
"It is the time," she said, "the time is ripe with summers. Nu Zhinga
must touch no meat for four days; then he must go to the hill where the
visions come, that he may know what is to be for him in the light of the
unborn moons."
So Nu Zhinga ate no meat for four days, and when the fourth evening had
come, as the fires roared up among the circled lodges, he passed through the
village, and wonderingly took his way to the hill of dreams.
It was the time when the valleys are loud with the song of frogs, and
when the earth begins to learn anew the pleasant lesson of the sun.
When he had stopped breathless with toiling up the long incline (for he
was weak with fasting, he turned and looked back upon the jumbled village,
and saw, indistinctly through the mist of the evening, his mother standing
before the door of her lodge, straining her gaze that she might see her boy
for the last time, climbing the height where the dream awaited, which should
send him back a man with a future big in deeds.
Then Nu Zhinga climbed to the summit of the hill and watched the west
pass from brilliant colors into dun, and the darkness come with the stars.
There are those whose souls should not have been born into bodies that
must battle for a breathing space. Some souls should have remained a part of
the great, kind pulse of the universe, a part of the wind, the spirit of a
flower's fragrance, a vibration in a ray of light, a factor in a bird's joy.
Such souls never understand their surroundings and languish into pathetic
failure.
Such a soul warmed the small body of Nu Zhinga. In the light of a thin
moon the far hills whitened. The big stars glowed kindly like the camp fires
of a people that are known to be friendly. The night wind talked. Attentive
to these, Nu Zhinga forgot the reason of his coming, and lulled by the many
pleasant sounds of the prairie night, fell asleep, and was awakened by the pale, damp dawn.
Then he ran down the hill, and as he passed through the village, the old
women, some busy about the steaming kettle, others stooped beneath the load
of fuel, shook their heads wisely, and said: "Gunthai's boy has had no
vision. Not thus do they return who dream great dreams."
In the doorway of her lodge Gunthai stood awaiting the approach of her
son. Her body, which was wont to be bent like a bow upon which a heavy hand
is laid in the stress of battle, was erect and vibrant as is the bow when
the arrow has sped like a purpose. Upon her leathery, wrinkled face dwelt
the glimmer of an inner illumination. Only the flesh of her face was old;
the light was young. Hope is a youth.
As the lad approached, the tenseness of expectation held the old woman's
tongue, and her question came from her eyes. "What has Nu Zhinga dreamed?"
"I saw the stars that were like the eyes of friends," said the boy, "and
I heard the wind as it talked to itself in the gulches. I slept and awoke,
and lo! the sun was teaching gladness to the hills."
Many seasons sit lightly upon a form when Hope sits with them. But
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