Long ago in a far away time, a snow-white owl peered through the evergreen
trees of what would eventually come to be known as Washington State. He studied an old man
sitting in the doorway of a Salish longhouse. The man’s ancient face was wrinkled and worn. His
forehead was wide and flat. He owed this feature to his mother who had shaped his head by binding
it with padded boards when he was a baby.
The old man’s name was Chehalis, and he sat on a mat of woven tules. Chehalis turned his gaze to
the tree-studded shoreline of the great sea inlet. Out there along the mud flats, Chehalis could
see the boy Duwamish wading with a harpoon in hand. Chehalis called to him and motioned for
the boy to return to the longhouse. Duwamish heard his cry and began circling back toward the
shoreline.
"Klatskanie!" the old man called. "Klatskanie!"
Halfway up a hill, beyond the poles of drying salmon, a small girl, Klatskanie, began speeding down the
hillside toward the longhouse, her thin arms waving as she ran. Old Chehalis sat back in the
doorway, satisfied he had assembled everyone left in the longhouse that day. The rest of the
families were deep in the forest. The women and babies were digging camas roots, while the men
and older boys fished in the nearby rivers.
Klatskanie was the first to arrive at the longhouse. The girl darted past the old man and settled
on a wide cedar bench near the cooking fire. Moments later, Duwamish arrived, his legs dripping
with sea water. Duwamish sat on the raised plank where his older brother usually slept. The two
children gazed at old Chehalis as he settled near the fire.
"Klatskanie, my blanket," Chehalis demanded. "It grows cold."
Klatskanie handed the old man his one precious possession, his dog’s wool blanket. Chehalis was
not a nobleman, he was not a hunter, but he had the Salish gift of storytelling and teaching. The
blanket had once belonged to his brother.
"Today is the day of the telling of tales," Chehalis began. "But first, what will you do for your
story?"
"We will bathe in the river," the two children offered in exchange for the old man’s story.
Chehalis nodded in approval. "Very well."
"Tell us a story of the camas prairie," Duwamish said.
"Tell us about the great white mountain Takhoma," chimed Klatskanie.
"How about a story of both?"
"Ham qi," urged the children, happy and anxious to hear the tale.
"You know the rules," said Chehalis. "Duwamish shall tend the fire, but no other movement is
allowed." Chehalis lay down flat on his back, which was the traditional position for the telling
of stories. The children quickly followed.
The old man cleared his throat. "Long, long ago," Chehalis began, "before Doquebuth moved over
the world and changed all things, when mountains and rocks and stars were living things…there was
a great mountain known to our people as Dosewallips. This mountain had two wives. One was a small
and quarrelsome mountain and her name was Ee-Looth. The other wife was a very large mountain and
her name was Takobeed. For many years, little Ee-Looth argued with the mountain Takobeed.
"You are growing too big, Takobeed,' she would say. 'There is no room for us anymore."
"And it was true. Takobeed was growing every day and there was no more room for the other
mountains. Ee-Looth and Takobeed argued continuously. They spit fire at each other, and when two
mountains do that you have lightning.
"One day, Takobeed decided to move to the other end of the great sea inlet. She would take her
young son with her. Takobeed filled her canoe with food and plants and sailed across the ocean
inlet. As she passed the Skokomish River, Takobeed dropped a piece of salmon into the water and
ever since the salmon have run up the Skokomish.
"Takobeed landed at the southern end of the inland waterway and began dragging herself and her
child across the land to the south, bulbs of camas dropped to the ground from her basket of food,
and the great blue camas prairies were born. Later, our people arrived on Earth and would go to
the camas prairies to dig for the roots that we eat.
"Takobeed smoothed and flattened the land as she headed south. Finally, she grew too tired to
travel any further. Her great weight had exhausted her, and still she continued to grow. She clutched her child, Little Takhoma, to her chest and began to weep. She cried
because she was tired. She cried because she was growing so tall and it was very cold so way up
high.
"Soon her tears began to freeze as they ran down her sides. She became covered in ice. Little Takhoma froze to her chest and can still be seen huddled against
the highest point of her eastern flank. Takobeed was now the great white mountain we know as
Takhoma. Some say she was turned into a white mountain by the Transformer, Doquebuth, who
punished her for wanting to leave her husband."
The old storyteller wheezed. For a time, there was silence.
"Another story, tell us another story," Klatskanie begged.
"But you have not done as you promised for this one," Chehalis said.
Duwamish and Klatskanie looked at each other. The young boy was the first to move. A smile
flashed across his face as he scrambled out of the longhouse. Klatskanie was soon on his heels.
Old Chehalis watched them as they headed off to the river to bathe. He was happy on this day of
the telling of tales.
High up in the treetops, the white owl watched the children, too. As they bounded along the
riverbank, they frightened a pigeon that had come for water. The pigeon fluttered skyward. The
two children stopped to follow its flight and watched as a great white owl passed above them in
pursuit.