The Legend of Sica Hollow, South Dakota
Deep within the rolling prairies of northeastern South Dakota lies a place shrouded in mystery, a landscape etched with ancient stories and whispered secrets. This is Sica Hollow, a name that resonates with both beauty and unease. Known by the local Dakota people as a place of power and peril, Sica Hollow is more than just a geographical location; it’s a repository of legend, a testament to the enduring connection between the land and its indigenous inhabitants.
Today, Sica Hollow is officially designated as Sica Hollow State Park, offering visitors a chance to immerse themselves in its unique environment. However, beyond the hiking trails and scenic overlooks, a deeper narrative unfolds, one woven with the threads of Lakota and Dakota tradition, of spiritual significance and cautionary tales. The park’s name itself, derived from the Dakota language, hints at the stories that linger within its boundaries. "Sica" translates to "evil" or "bad," lending the hollow a sense of foreboding that has persisted through generations.
The legend of Sica Hollow, as recounted by Wambdi Wicasa (Eagle Man), Father Stanislaus Maudlin, offers a glimpse into the historical and spiritual significance of this unique place. It speaks of a time when the hollow served as a sanctuary, a haven from the harsh Dakota winters. The towering trees formed a natural barrier against the relentless North Wind, providing shelter for both humans and animals alike. Deer and antelope sought refuge in the hollow’s folds, finding open water and salt licks amidst the frozen landscape.
In this protected environment, Dakota communities thrived. Tipis dotted the landscape, their smoke rising peacefully to the prairie sky. The elders gathered in their meeting houses, their bones warmed by the fire, their pipes offering prayers to Ate, the Great Father, for the blessings bestowed upon them. Life was harmonious, a testament to the symbiotic relationship between the people and the land.
But this idyllic existence was shattered by the arrival of a stranger, a man known only as Hand. He emerged from the west, his appearance hinting at hardship and isolation. His bow was broken, his moccasins worn, and he claimed to have no family. Though he was granted refuge within the hollow, his presence was unsettling. He ate voraciously without showing gratitude, and his eyes held a chilling quality that made the young women uneasy.
Hand’s behavior defied the established customs of the community. He scoffed at the wisdom of the elders and was never seen to offer prayers. The old women, sensing a deep-seated malevolence, advocated for his expulsion. However, compassion prevailed, and the elders decided to allow him to stay until the warmth of spring returned.
As the seasons shifted, Hand began to exert a corrupting influence on the young braves. He was cunning and manipulative, surpassing them in skill and cunning during hunting expeditions. Around the campfire, away from the ears of the elders, he sowed seeds of discontent, questioning the traditional ways and promising them glory through acts of violence.
He questioned their adherence to the old ways, dismissing their achievements as insignificant. He spoke of opportunities for great kills, for earning the respect of warriors and the admiration of maidens. He offered to lead them to victories that would elevate them to the status of great chiefs, adorned with the scalps of their enemies.
His words resonated with the young braves, whose hearts were filled with youthful ambition and a desire to prove their manhood. The prospect of winning the affections of the beautiful maidens hidden within their mothers’ tipis fueled their desire for glory. They succumbed to Hand’s influence, crafting war clubs and eagerly awaiting the opportunity to demonstrate their newfound prowess.
The opportunity soon presented itself. As camps began to move north along the valley trail towards the Lakes of Rice, Hand led the young braves in a series of brutal attacks. The travelers, accustomed to the hospitality and peaceful nature of the Dakota people, were caught completely off guard.
The once-sacred hollow was transformed into a scene of horror. Travelers woke to find their loved ones slain, their peaceful journey turned into a desperate flight for survival. Blood stained the earth, flowing into the river that would forever be known as the Red River. The violence instilled fear and revulsion within the hollow itself. Children cowered at the sight of the dripping scalps, and women spat upon the ground where the young braves walked.
The elders, horrified by the actions of their sons, convened a council, seeking guidance from the Medicine Man. They lamented the desecration of their hollow and sought a way to atone for the atrocities that had been committed. "How can we wash our hollow from this crime? What will be our sacrifice? We want our hollow to be as it was long ago," they pleaded.
The Wicasa Wakan, the Holy Man, listened intently to the elders’ pleas. He retreated to his lodge to seek guidance from Wakantanka, the Great Spirit. He sat in solemn meditation, his whistle and rattle accompanying the burning sweetgrass, awaiting a message from the Thunderer.
Meanwhile, Hand and his followers reveled in their wickedness. They lit a massive fire in the center of the camp, celebrating their acts of violence with macabre displays. They bragged and boasted, attempting to entice the young women to join them, promising them children who would instill fear in all who crossed their path.
But the camp remained steadfast in their devotion to the Holy Man and their prayers for redemption. They recognized that an evil had infiltrated their peace, and only the intervention of the Great Spirit could cleanse them of its taint.
As the Holy Man prayed, a powerful wind swept through the hollow. The whistle and rattle fell silent, signaling that Ate, the Great Father, had heard the cries of his people and accepted their sacrifice. The women, peering through the smoke holes of their tipis, witnessed the arrival of the Thunderer, his dark wings blotting out the sky, his eyes flashing with divine judgment.
A sudden wave of fear washed over Hand. He trembled and cowered, unable to escape the impending doom. He fled in terror, but the wings of the Thunderer beat him back into the torrential rain. Vines reached out, ensnaring his ankles, and the rising waters engulfed him. He was too consumed by evil to cry for mercy, and the talons of the Thunderer ripped out his sight, denying him access to the Happy Hunting Ground.
While the Great Spirit demanded sacrifice, not all were taken. Most remained within their tipis, offering their prayers and entrusting themselves to the divine will. However, one was spared, a young woman named Fawn.
As the Wicasa Wakan began his prayer, Fawn slipped into her mother’s tipi. Her hair, as black as a raven’s wing, cascaded down her back. She meticulously combed and oiled it, braiding it with care and securing the ends with ermine. She donned her tasseled dress and high white moccasins, heeding the call of her Medicine to flee the rising flood.
She ascended the steep slope, the waters rising relentlessly behind her. As the world was consumed by the flood, she stood alone, pure and untouched by the evil that had befallen her people, atop the highest hill.
She began to sing, her voice carrying a message of grief and supplication to the Great Spirit behind the Sun. "I am grieved for the evil that my brothers did. Your beautiful land is destroyed. I stand alone with you. Let me sing my song before I join my sisters. You were good to us before evil entered our Peace. Now I grieve. I ask for your kindness. Ate, make this ground, where I stand, holy again. Remember this little spot and send your love here. From this ground, make a new people, and they will worship you always. Now I go to you."
Her song, imbued with profound sorrow and unwavering faith, caused her to collapse to the ground in a deep slumber. Wakantanka, witnessing her devotion, sent a white cloud to envelop her, shielding her from the devastation. She slept for many days, unaware that new life stirred within her, a gift from the cloud.
Awakened by the hunger of a child, she found herself gazing into the eyes of a tall, brave warrior who touched her face with tenderness. Below, the hollow was cleansed, restored to its former beauty. Only the memory of the tragedy remained, a reminder of the darkness that had once gripped the land.
The legend concludes with the hope that even the name Sica Hollow, with its connotations of evil, will eventually be forgotten, replaced by the ancient name Mokoce Waste, the Good Land. A future where peace and harmony reign once more, and gentle smokes rise to the sky in a testament to the enduring spirit of the Dakota people.