First in a series...

I am fascinated by Native Canadian folklore. This is one of my favorites, demonstrating outstanding creative mythology and expression which I  have attempted to capture.

ℛunning Fawn stood motionless on the shore of the slow-moving stream as the glories of the dying sunset reflected in the water at her feet. She watched the light fade and the shadows of the trees fall more darkly on the river.

The Seneca tribe maiden was listening, with head turned in the direction from which the wind was gently flowing, as if to catch the sound of rustling leaves which would bear the glad news of his coming, and in her eyes shone the light which love alone can kindle.

"Meet me beside the river when the sun fades," Red Cloud had said to her that morning when they met near her wigwam. "Meet me, O Running Fawn, and we shall talk of our love and of the days that we shall spend together."

So she had come and was waiting, knowing that he would be there when the moment came because love like theirs was so strong that even death could not end it.

Then, quietly, the bushes parted and Red Cloud stood before her. Never before had he seemed so perfect in his manhood, erect yet supple in every limb, with strength showing itself in perfect control of body and of feature.

Suddenly Red Cloud stiffened. In the bushes behind them a twig had snapped. The sound was slight but it was enough to warn the young chief of possible unseen danger. He thrust Running Fawn from his embrace, bidding her to crouch on the ground. A bowstring twanged and in an instant Red Cloud was laying in his blood beside her, with an Iroquois arrow between his shoulders.

True to the instincts of her race, Running Fawn uttered no cry but in silence drew out the arrow and sought to stanch the blow of blood. 

She felt, rather than saw, the rival Iroquois tribesmen who had stepped out of the bushes and she beheld the hatred and triumph in their eyes. She also knew that she could expect no mercy. But Red Cloud was gone to that great pow wow in the sky and what did life mean without him except the chance to avenge his death? What could she do, a Seneca Indian maiden in the hands of her enemies?

In an instant she was seized, her hands lashed together with thongs that cut into her tender flesh. She chose to remain silent, knowing the purpose of her captors. She realized all too well the pleasure they anticipated in torturing her with every cruelty they could devise. "Let them do their worst." She cared little now.

Then to the surprise of her captors, she suddenly broke silence.  She winced as in pain and gave out with a great cry of fear. The stolid Iroquois looked at her in puzzlement. Certainly their women would not have reacted in such a way. 

Now Running Fawn was pleading with them...Let them spare her, even take her into their tribe, and she would guide them to a village down the river where they could get many scalps.

The Iroquois listened, the older men seemed doubtful but the younger ones nodded their heads. Moving quickly, they placed Running Fawn in the foremost canoe and the small fleet pushed out into the river. Running Fawn continued talking to them of the great killing they could expect and urged them to paddle faster.

The canoes shot forward in the gathering dusk and the current of the river grew swifter. The region was unfamiliar to the Iroquois but Running Fawn knew it well. She was listening although she did not show her intentness.

Then she heard it -- the distant booming of the cataract. The Iroquois soon heard it too and looked at each other with alarm. With violent strokes of their paddles they tried to turn the canoes to the shore, but it was too late. They were now in the gorge with rocky sides. The raging current had caught them in its grip and they were hopelessly swept on to their destiny.

The dull roar had become so loud that voices could not be heard as they desperately shouted in vain to each other.

Then, above the booming of the cataract falls, the doomed men heard a cry of triumph rising up from the depths. It was the voice of Running Fawn. "I come, O Red Cloud...I come, and in my death I have avenged yours; O my beloved!"

Now, there was nothing but the roaring of the falls -- and the rising mist.

NOTE FROM DICK: It is acknowledged that the tale of the Maid of the Mist has changed with each retelling, and many scholars have unearthed various versions that paint a different picture. I just happen to favor this one because it is most believable. Researchers continue to delve into histories to determine if any portion of the myth is derived from true events; however, no matter its veracity, this bit of Niagara folklore is as fascinating and epic as Niagara Falls themselves. I hope that you have enjoyed it as much as I have in recounting it for you!

The Mist rises! Do you hear an Indian maiden's voice?

Take a ride on the Maid of the Mist https://youtu.be/BcTbW6U4I8E...I have on four occasions and wish I could again one more time.