Tag: 04. Good vs. Evil

The struggle between opposing forces

Brave Hírálálbásá

A greedy Rájá named Mánikbásá marries a disguised Rakshas, leading to the exile of his seven wives and children. The youngest wife, sparing her son Hírálálbásá, survives through divine help. Hírálál embarks on dangerous quests, defeats Rakshas foes, rescues the enchanted Sonahrí Rání, and retrieves his mothers’ stolen eyes. Reunited with his family, Hírálál exposes the Rakshas-Rání, restores justice, and they all live happily ever after.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Divine Intervention: The youngest wife receives daily sustenance from a divine source, aiding her survival and that of her son.

Quest: Hírálálbásá embarks on perilous journeys, including defeating Rakshas foes and rescuing the enchanted Sonahrí Rání.

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the virtuous characters, like Hírálálbásá and his mother, against malevolent beings such as the Rakshas-Rání.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní at Simla, 26th July and 1st August, 1876

Once there was a Rájá called Mánikbásá Rájá, or the Ruby King, who had seven wives and seven children. One day he told his wives he would go out hunting, and he rode on and on, a long, long way from his palace. A Rakshas was sitting by the wayside, who, seeing the Rájá coming, quickly turned herself into a beautiful Rání, and sat there crying. The Rájá asked her, “Why do you cry?” And the Rakshas answered, “My husband has gone away. He has been away many days, and I think he will never come back again. If some Rájá will take me to his house and marry me, I shall be very glad.” So the Rájá said, “Will you come with me?” And the Rakshas answered, “Very well, I will come.”

► Continue reading…

And then the Rájá took the pretended Rání home with him and married her. He gave her a room to live in. Every night at twelve o’clock the Rakshas got up and devoured an elephant, or a horse, or some other animal. The Rájá said, “What can become of my elephants and horses? Every day either an elephant or a horse disappears. Who can take them away?” The Rakshas-Rání said to him, “Your seven Ránís are Rakshases, and every night at twelve o’clock they devour a horse, or an elephant, or some other creature.”

So the Rájá believed her, and had a great hole dug just outside his kingdom, into which he put the seven Ránís with their children, and then he sent a sepoy to them and bade him take out all the Ránís’ eyes, and bring them to him. This the sepoy did. After a time the poor Ránís grew so hungry that six of them ate their children, but the seventh Rání, who was the youngest of them all, declared she would never eat her child though she might die of hunger, “for,” she said, “I love him a great deal too much.” God was very pleased with the seventh Rání for this, and so every day he sent her a little food, which she divided with the other Ránís. And every day her little boy grew bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until he had become a strong lad, when, as he thought it was very dark in the hole, he climbed out of it and looked all about. Then he came back to his mothers (for he called all the seven Ránís “Mother” now), who told him he was not to clamber up out of the hole any more, for if he did, some one might kill him. “Still, if you will go,” they added, “do not go to your father’s kingdom, but stay near this place.” The boy said, “Very well,” and every day he climbed out of the hole and only went where his seven mothers told him he might go, and he used to beg the people about to give him a little rice, and flour and bread, which they did.

One day he said to his mothers, “If you let me go now to my father’s kingdom, I will go.” “Well, you may go,” they said; “but come back again soon.” This he promised to do, and he went to his father’s kingdom. For some time he stood daily at the door of his father’s palace and then returned to the hole. One day the Rakshas-Rání was standing in the verandah, and she thought, “I am sure that is the Rájá’s son.” The servants every day asked the boy, “Why do you always stand at the door of the palace?” “I want service with the Rájá,” he would reply. “If the Rájá has any place he can give me, I will take it.”

The Rakshas-Rání said to the Rájá, “The boy standing out there wants service. May I take him into mine?” The Rájá answered, “Very well, send for him.” So all the servants ran and fetched the boy. The Rakshas-Rání asked him, “Are you willing to do anything I tell you?” The boy said, “Yes.” “Then you shall be my servant,” she said, and first she told him he must go to the Rakshas country to fetch some rose-water for her. “I will give you a letter,” she said, “so that no harm may happen to you.” The lad answered, “Very well, only you must give me three shields full of money.” She gave him the three shields full of money, and he took them and went home to his mothers. Then he got two servants for them, one to take care of them, and one to go to the bazar. His mothers gave him food for the journey, and he left them the remainder of his money, telling them to take great care of it. He then returned to the Rakshas-Rání for his letter. She told the Rájá she was feeling ill, and would not be quite well until she got some rose-water from the Rakshas country. The Rájá said, “Then you had better send this boy for it.” So she gave him a letter, in which she had written, “When this boy arrives among you, kill him and eat him instantly,” and he set out at once.

He went on and on till he came to a great river in which lived a huge water-snake. When the water-snake saw him it began to weep very much, and cried out to the boy, “If you go to the Rakshas country you will be eaten up.” The lad, whose name was Hírálálbásá, said, “I cannot help it; I am the Rání’s servant, so I must do what she tells me.” “Well,” said the water-snake, “get on my back, and I will take you across this river.” So he got on the water-snake’s back, and it took him over the river. Then Hírálálbásá went on and on until he came to a house in which a Rakshas lived. A Rání lived there too that the Rakshas had carried off from her father and mother when she was a little girl. She was playing in her father the Sondarbásá Rájá’s garden, which was full of delicious fruits, which the Rakshas came to eat, and when he saw Sonahrí Rání he seized her in his mouth and ran off with her. Only she was so beautiful he could never find it in his heart to eat her, but brought her up as his own child. Her name was Sonahrí Rání, that is, the Golden Rání, because her teeth and her hair were made of gold. Now the Rakshas who had carried her off, and whom she called Papa, had a great thick stick, and when he laid this stick at her feet she could not stir, but when he laid it at her head, she could move again.

When the Rájá’s son came up, Sonahrí Rání was lying on her bed with the thick stick at her feet, and as soon as she saw the Rájá’s son she began to cry very much. “Oh, why have you come here? You will surely be killed,” she said. The Rájá’s son answered, “I cannot help that. I am the Rání’s servant, so I must do what she tells me.” “Of course,” said Sonahrí Rání; “but put this stick at my head, and then I shall be able to move.” The Rájá’s son laid the stick at her head, and she got up and gave him some food, and then asked him if he had a letter. “Yes,” he answered. “Let me see it,” said the Sonahrí Rání. So he gave her the letter, and when she had read it she cried, “Oh, this is a very wicked letter. It will bring you no good; for if the Rakshases see it, they will kill you.” “Indeed,” said Hírálálbásá. And the Sonahrí Rání tore up the letter and wrote another in which she said, “Make much of this boy. Send him home quickly, and give him a jug of rose-water to bring back with him, and see that he gets no hurt.” Then the Rájá’s son set out again for the Rakshas-Rání’s mother’s house. He had not gone very far when he met a very big Rakshas, and he cried out to him, “Uncle.” “Who is this boy,” said the Rakshas, “who calls me uncle?” And he was just going to kill him when Hírálálbásá showed his letter, and the Rakshas let him pass on. He went a little further until he met another Rakshas, bigger than the first, and the Rakshas screamed at him and was just going to fall on him and kill him, but the Rájá’s son showed the letter, and the Rakshas let him pass unhurt. When Hírálálbásá came to the Rakshas-Rání’s mother he showed her the letter, and she gave him the rose-water at once and sent him off. All the Rakshases were very good to him, and some carried him part of the way home. When he came to Sonahrí Rání’s house she was lying on her bed with the stick at her feet, and as soon as she saw Hírálálbásá she laughed and said, “Oh, you have come back again? Put this stick at my head.” “Yes,” said the Rájá’s son, “I’ve come back again, but I was dreadfully frightened very often.” Then he put the stick at her head, and she gave him some food to eat. After he had eaten it he went on again, and when he came to the river the water-snake carried him across to the other side, and he travelled to his father’s kingdom. There he went to the Rakshas-Rání and gave her the rose-water. She was very angry at seeing him, and said, “I’m sure my father and my mother, my brothers and my sisters, don’t love me one bit.”

And she said to Hírálálbásá, “You must go to-morrow to the Rakshas kingdom to fetch me flowers.” “I will go,” said Hírálál, “but this time I must have four shields full of rupees.” The Rakshas-Rání gave him the four shields full of rupees; and the Rájá’s son went to his mother’s hole and bought a quantity of food for them, enough to last them all the time he should be away, and he hired two servants for them, and said good-bye to his seven mothers and returned to Mánikbásá’s palace for his letter. This the Rakshas-Rání gave him, and in it she wrote, “Kill him and eat him at once. If you do not, and you send him back to me, I will never see your faces again.” Hírálál took his letters and went on his way. When he reached the river the water-snake took him across to the other side, and he walked on till he came to Sonahrí Rání’s house. She was lying on the bed with the stick at her feet. “Oh, why have you come here again?” she said. “How can I help coming?” said the Rájá’s son. “I must do what my mistress bids me.” “So you must,” said the Sonahrí Rání; “but put this stick at my head.” This he did, and she got up and gave him food, and asked him to let her see his letter, and when she had read it she cried, “This is a very wicked letter. If you take it with you, you will surely die.” Then she tore up the letter and burnt it, and wrote another in which she said, “You must all be very good to this boy. Show him all the gardens and see that he is not hurt in any way.” She gave it to Hírálál, and he begged her to ask the Rakshas, her father, where he kept his soul. Sonahrí Rání promised she would. She then turned Hírálál into a little fly, and put him into a tiny box, and put the box under her pillow. When the Rakshas came home he began sniffing about and said, “Surely there is a man here.” “Oh, no,” said Sonahrí Rání; “no one is here but me.” The Rakshas was satisfied. When Sonahrí Rání and her father were in bed she asked, “Papa, where is your soul?” “Why do you want to know?” said the Rakshas. “I will tell you another day.”

The next day at nine in the morning the Rakshas went away, and Sonahrí Rání took Hírálál and restored him to his human shape, and gave him some food, and he travelled on till he reached the Rakshas-Rání’s mother, whom he called Grannie. She welcomed him very kindly and showed him the garden, which was very large. The Rájá’s son noticed a number of jugs and water-jars. So he said, “Grannie, what is there in all these jars and jugs?” She answered, showing them to him one by one, “In this is such and such a thing,” and so on, telling him the contents of each, till she came to the water-jar in which were his mothers’ eyes. “In this jar,” said the Rakshas, “are your seven mothers’ eyes.” “Oh, grannie dear!” said Hírálál, “give me my mothers’ eyes.” “Very well, dear boy,” said the old Rakshas, “you shall have them.” She gave him, too, some ointment, and told him to rub the eyes with it when he put them into his mothers’ heads, and that then they would see quite well; and he took the eyes and tied them up in a corner of his cloth. His grannie gave him the flowers, and he went back to Sonahrí Rání. She was lying on her bed with the stick at her feet, and when she saw him she laughed and said, “Oh, so you have come back again?” “Yes, I have,” said Hírálál; “and I have got the flowers, and my seven mothers’ eyes too.” “Have you indeed?” said Sonahrí Rání. “Put this stick at my head.” He did so, and she got up and gave him some food, and he told her to ask her father the Rakshas where his soul was. She promised she would, and she changed him into a little fly, and shut him up in a tiny box, and put the tiny box under her pillow. By and by home came the Rakshas, and began to sniff about crying, “A man is here!” “Oh, no,” said Sonahrí Rání; and she gave him some dinner, and when they were in bed she asked him, “Papa, where is your soul?” “I’ll tell you another day,” said the Rakshas. The next day, when he had gone out to find food, Sonahrí Rání took the little fly, Hírálál, and restored him to his human shape, and gave him some food and sent him on his way. When he reached the river, the water-snake took him over to the other side, and he journeyed on till he came to his father’s kingdom. First he went to his mothers’ hole and gave them their fourteen eyes, and he put them into their heads with the ointment which the Rakshas-grannie had given him. Then he went to Mánikbásá Rájá’s palace, and when the Rakshas-Rání saw him she was furious. “I am sure my father and my mother, my sisters and my brothers, do not love me one bit. I will never see their faces again. But I’ll send him to them once more.”

This is what she thought, but she took the flowers and said, “You must go a third time to the Rakshas country.”

“I will,” said the boy: “only I’ll not go till the fourth day from to-day, for I am very tired. And you must give me four shields full of rupees.” “Good,” said the Rakshas-Rání. “This time you must get me a sárí.” [a long piece of stuff which Hindú women wind round the body as a petticoat, passing one end over the head, like a veil] And she gave him the four shields full of money. Then he went to his mothers, and bought them a house and got food for them, and stayed with them four days.

At the end of the four days he went to the Rakshas-Rání, who gave him a letter in which she had written, “If you do not kill and eat this boy as soon as he arrives, I will never see your faces again.” The Rájá’s son took the letter and set out on his journey.

When he came to the river, the water-snake took him across; and when he arrived at Sonahrí Rání’s house, there she was lying on her bed with the thick stick at her feet. She said, “Oh, you have come here again, have you?” “Yes,” he said, “I have come for the last time.” “Put the stick at my head,” said she. So he laid the stick at her head. Then she gave him some food, and just before the Rakshas came home, he bade her ask him where he kept his soul. When she saw him coming, Sonahrí Rání turned Hírálálbásá into a little fly, put him in a tiny box, and put the box under her pillow. As soon as she and the Rakshas had gone to bed, she asked him, “Papa, where do you keep your soul?” “Sixteen miles away from this place,” said he, “is a tree. Round the tree are tigers, and bears, and scorpions, and snakes; on the top of the tree is a very great fat snake; on his head is a little cage; in the cage is a bird; and my soul is in that bird.” The little fly listened all the time. The next morning, when the Rakshas had gone, Sonahrí Rání took the fly and gave him back his human form, gave him some food, and then asked to see his letter. When she had read it she screamed and said, “Oh! if you go with this letter you will surely die.” So she tore it up into little bits and threw it into the fire. And she wrote another in which she said, “Make a great deal of this boy; see that he gets no hurt; give him the sárí for me; show him the garden; and be very kind to him.” She then gave Hírálál the letter, and he journeyed on in safety till he reached his Rakshas-grannie’s house.

The Rakshas-grannie was very good to him; showed him the garden, and gave him the sárí; and he then said his mother, the Rakshas-Rání, was in great trouble about her soul, and wanted very much to have it. So the Rakshas-grannie gave him a bird in which was the Rakshas-Rání’s soul, charging him to take the greatest care of it. Then he said, “My mother, the Rakshas-Rání, also wants a stone such that, if you lay it on the ground, or if you put it in your clothes, it will become gold, and also your long heavy gold necklace that hangs down to the waist.” Both these things the Rakshas-grannie gave to Hírálál. Then he returned to Sonahrí Rání’s house, where he found her lying on her bed with the thick stick at her feet. “Oh, there you are,” said Sonahrí Rání, laughing. “Yes,” he said, “I have come.” And he put the stick at her head, and she got up and gave him some food.

He told her he was going to fetch her Rakshas-father’s soul, but that he did not quite know how to pass through the tigers and bears, and scorpions and snakes, that guarded it. So she gave him a feather, and said, “As long as you hold this feather straight, you can come to no harm, for you will be invisible. You will see everything, but nothing will see you.”

He carried the feather straight as she had bidden him and reached the tree in safety. Then he climbed up it, took the little cage, and came down again. Though the Rakshas was far off, he knew at once something had happened to his bird. Hírálál pulled off the bird’s right leg, and the Rakshas’ right leg fell off, but on he hopped on one leg. Then the Rájá’s son pulled off the bird’s left leg, and off fell the Rakshas’ left leg, but still he went on towards his house on his hands. Then Hírálál pulled off the bird’s wings, and the Rakshas’ two arms fell off. And then, just as the Rakshas reached the door of his house, Hírálál wrung the bird’s neck, and the Rakshas fell dead. Sonahrí Rání was greatly frightened when she heard such a heavy thing fall thump on the ground so close to the house, but she could not move, for the thick stick lay at her feet. Hírálál ran as fast as he could to Sonahrí Rání. When he arrived at the door of her house he saw the Rakshas lying dead, and he went in and told Sonahrí Rání that her Rakshas-father was killed. “Nonsense,” she said. “It is true,” said Hírálál; “come and see.” So he put the stick at her head. “I am sure you are telling a lie,” said Sonahrí Rání. “I should be very glad if he were dead, for I do not like living with him, I am so afraid of him.” “Indeed he’s dead. Do come and see,” said Hírálál. Then they went outside, and when Sonahrí Rání saw her Rakshas-father lying there dead, she was exceedingly happy, and said to Hírálál, “I will go home with you, and be your wife.” So they were married, and then they went into Sonahrí Rání’s Rakshas-father’s house and took all the money and jewels they could find. And Hírálál gave the sárí, the stone, and the necklace to Sonahrí Rání, and he took some flowers for the Rakshas-Rání.

When they came to the river, the water-snake carried them across to the other side, and they travelled on till they came to Mánikbásá Rájá’s kingdom. There Hírálál went first of all to his mothers, and when they saw Sonahrí Rání they wondered who the beautiful woman could be that their son had brought home. He said to them, “This is Sonahrí Rání, my wife. But for her I should have died.” Then he bought a grand house for Sonahrí Rání and his seven mothers to live in, and he got four servants for Sonahrí Rání, two to cook, and two to wait on her. The seven mothers and Sonahrí used all to sit on a beautiful, clean quilted cushion, as big as a carpet, Sonahrí Rání in the middle and the seven mothers round her, while they sewed, or wrote, and talked. Hírálál then went to the Rakshas-Rání and said, “I could not get the sárí you sent me for, so I brought you these flowers instead.” When she saw the flowers she was frantic. She said, “My father, my mother, my sisters, my brothers, don’t care for me, not one bit! not one scrap! I will never see their faces again–never! never! I will send some other messenger to them.”

One day the Rájá’s son came to Mánikbásá and said, “Would you like to see a grand sight?” Mánikbásá Rájá said, “What sight?” Hírálál said, “If you would like to see a really grand sight you must do what I tell you.” “Good,” answered Mánikbásá, “I will do whatever you tell me.” “Well, then,” said his son, “you must build a very strong iron house, and round it you must lay heaps of wood. In that house you must put your present Rání.” So Mánikbásá Rájá had a very strong iron house built, round which he set walls of wood. Then he went to his Rakshas-Rání and said, “Will you go inside that iron house, and see what it is like?” “Yes, I will,” answered she. The Rájá had had great venetians made for the house, and only one door. As soon as the Rakshas-Rání had gone in, he locked the door. Then Hírálál took the little bird, a cockatoo, in which was the Rakshas-Rání’s soul, and showed it to the Rakshas-Rání from afar off. When she saw it she turned herself into a huge Rakshas as big as a house. She could not turn in the iron house because she was so huge. Mánikbásá was dreadfully frightened when he saw his Rání was a horrible Rakshas. Then Hírálál pulled off the bird’s legs, and as the Rakshas was breaking through the iron house to seize Hírálál, he wrung the cockatoo’s neck, and the Rakshas died instantly. They set fire to the walls of wood, and the body of the wicked Rakshas was burnt to fine ashes.

The Rájá’s Wazír turned to the Rájá and said, “What a fool you were to marry this Rakshas, and at her bidding to send your seven wives and your seven sons away into the jungle, taking out your seven wives’ eyes, and being altogether so cruel to them! You are a great, great fool!” The poor Rájá wept, and then the Wazír, pointing to Hírálál, said, “This is your seventh and youngest Rání’s son.” The Rájá then embraced Hírálálbásá and asked his forgiveness. And Hírálál told him his story, how he and his mothers had lived a long, long time in the hole; how six of the Ránís had eaten their children; how his mother had not had the heart to eat him; how he had got his seven mothers’ eyes from the Rakshas-grannie; and lastly, how he had married Sonahrí Rání. Then the Rájá ordered seven litters for his seven Ránís, and a beautiful litter with rich cloth for Sonahrí Rání. The Rájá and his Wazír and his attendants, and his son, all went with the litters to Hírálál’s house; and when the Rájá saw Sonahrí Rání he fell flat on his face, he was so struck by her beauty. For she had a fair, fair skin, rosy cheeks, blue eyes, rosy lips, golden eyelashes, and golden eyebrows, and golden hair. When she combed her hair, she used to put the hair she combed out in paper and to lay the paper on the river, and it floated down to where the poor people caught it, and sold it, and got heaps of money for it. Her sárí was of gold, her shoes were of gold, for God loved her dearly. Then the Rájá rose and embraced all his wives and Sonahrí Rání, and the seven Ránís walked into the seven litters; but Sonahrí Rání was carried to hers, for fear she should soil her feet, or get hurt. Then Mánikbásá Rájá gave Hírálál’s house to his Wazír, while his seven Ránís and Hírálál and Sonahrí Rání lived with him in his palace. And they lived happily for ever after.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Voracious Frog

A rat and a frog cooperated to prepare dinner, but the mischievous frog repeatedly ate the meals while the rat bathed, blaming a “big dog.” Finally, the frog ate the rat and later consumed others, including a baker and a groom. A barber, noticing the frog’s bloated appearance, cut him open, freeing everyone, including the rat. The frog met his end, ending his mischief.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The frog repeatedly deceives the rat by consuming their shared meals and fabricating stories about a “big dog” to cover his actions.

Trickster: The frog embodies the trickster archetype, using his wits to manipulate and consume others, including the rat, a baker, and a groom.

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the malevolent actions of the voracious frog against the innocence of his victims, highlighting the struggle between harmful deceit and unsuspecting goodness.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

There were a rat and a frog. And the rat said to the frog, “Go and get me some sticks, while I go and get some flour and milk.” So the frog went out far into the jungle and brought home plenty of sticks, and the rat went out and brought home flour and milk for their dinner. Then she cooked the dinner, and when it was cooked she said to the frog, “Now, you sit here while I go to bathe, and take care of the food so that no one may come and eat it up.” Then the rat went to take her bath, and as soon as she had gone the frog made haste and ate up the dinner quickly, and went away.

► Continue reading…

When the rat came back she found no dinner, and she could not find the frog. So she went out to look for him, calling to him as loudly as she could, and she saw him in the distance, and overtook him. “Why have you eaten my dinner? Why did you go away?” said the rat. Said the frog, “Oh, dear! it was not I that ate your dinner, but a huge dog that came; and I was only a tiny, tiny thing, and he was a great big dog, and so he frightened me, and I ran away.” “Very well,” said the rat; “go and fetch me more sticks while I go for flour and milk.” So the frog went out far into the jungle and brought back plenty of sticks. And the rat went to fetch flour and milk. Then she lit the fire and cooked the dinner, and told the frog to take care of the dinner while she went to bathe. As soon as she had gone, the frog ate up all the dinner, and went away and hid himself. When the rat came back she saw no frog, no dinner. She went away into the jungle and called to him, and the frog answered from behind a tree, “Here I am, here I am.” The rat went to him and said, “Why did you eat my dinner?” “I didn’t,” said the frog. “It was a great big dog ate the dinner, and he wanted to eat me too, and so I ran away.” The rat said, “Very well. Go and fetch me some more sticks, and I will go for flour and milk.” Then she cooked the dinner again and went to bathe. The frog ate up all the dinner, and went away and hid himself. When the rat returned she saw no dinner, no frog. So she went far into the jungle, found the frog, and told him that it was he that had eaten the dinner. And the frog said, “No,” and the rat said, “Yes.” And the frog said, “If you say that again, I will eat you up.” “All right,” says the rat, “eat me up.” So he ate her up and sat behind a tree, and the baker came past. The frog called out, “Baker, come here! come here! Give me some bread.” The baker looked about everywhere, could not see anybody, could not think who was calling him. At last he saw the frog sitting behind a tree. “Give me some bread,” says the frog. The man said, “No, I won’t give you any bread. I am a great big man, and you are only a little frog, and you have no money.” “Yes, I have money. I will give you some pice, and you will give me some bread.” But the man said, “No, I won’t.” “Well,” said the frog, “if you won’t give me bread, I will eat you up first, and then I will eat up your bread.” So he ate up the man, and then ate up his bread. Presently a man with oranges and lemons passed by. The frog called to him, “Come here! come here!” The man was very much afraid. He didn’t know who had called him. Then he saw the frog, and the frog said, “Give me some lemons.” The man wouldn’t, and said, “No.” “Very well,” says the frog, “if you won’t, I’ll eat you up.” So he ate up the man with his lemons and oranges. Presently a horse and his groom went by. The frog says, “Please give me a ride, and I will give you some money.” “No,” said the horse, “I won’t let you ride on me. You are like a monkey,–very little–I won’t let you ride on my back.” The frog said, “If you won’t, I’ll eat you up.” Then the frog ate him up, and his groom too. Then a barber passed by. “Come and shave me,” says the frog. “Good,” says the barber, “I’ll come and shave you.” So he shaved him, and he thought the frog looked very fat, and so as he was shaving him he suddenly made a cut in his stomach. Out jumped the rat with her flour and milk–the baker with his bread–the lemon-seller with his oranges and lemons–the horse and his groom. And the barber ran away home. And the frog died.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Jackal and the Kite

A she-jackal and a she-kite, neighbors on a tree, sought children through fasting. The kite sincerely worshipped and bore seven sons, while the jackal deceitfully feigned fasting and remained childless. Consumed by jealousy, the jackal repeatedly harmed the kite’s sons, but God revived them each time. Angered by the jackal’s actions, God cursed her, while the kite and her sons thrived happily ever after.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the virtuous behavior of the kite, who sincerely fasts and worships, against the deceitful and malicious actions of the jackal, who feigns fasting and harms the kite’s children.

Cunning and Deception: The jackal employs deceit by pretending to fast and later by harming the kite’s children under the guise of friendship.

Divine Intervention: God intervenes to revive the kite’s children each time the jackal kills them, showcasing a higher power influencing mortal affairs.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

There was once a she-jackal and a she-kite. They lived in the same tree; the jackal at the bottom of the tree, and the kite at the top. Neither had any children. One day the kite said to the jackal, “Let us go and worship God, and fast, and then he will give us children.” So the jackal said, “Very good.” That day the kite ate nothing, nor that night; but the jackal at night brought a dead animal, and was sitting eating it quietly under the tree. By-and-by the kite heard her crunching the bones, instead of fasting. “What have you got there,” said the kite, “that you are making such a noise?” “Nothing,” said the jackal; “it is only my own bones that rattle inside my body whenever I move.”

► Continue reading…

The kite went to sleep again, and took no more notice of the jackal. Next morning the kite ate some food in the name of God. That night again the jackal brought a dead animal. The kite called out, “What are you crunching there? Why are you making that noise? I am sure you have something to eat.” The jackal said, “Oh, no! It is only my own bones rattling in my body.” So the kite went to sleep again.

Some time after, the kite had seven little boys–real little boys–but the jackal had none, because she had not fasted. A year after that the kite went and worshipped God, asking Him to take care of her children. One day–it was their great day–the kite set out seven plates. On one she put cocoa-nuts, on another cucumbers, on a third rice, on a fourth plantains, and so on. Then she gave a plate to each of her seven sons, and told them to take the plates to their aunt the jackal. So they took the seven plates, and carried them to their aunt, crying out, “Aunty, aunty, look here! Mamma has sent you these things.” The jackal took the plates, and cut off the heads of the seven boys, and their hands, and their feet, and their noses, and their ears, and took out their eyes. Then she laid their heads in one plate, and their eyes in another, and their noses in a third, and their ears in a fourth, and their hands in a fifth, and their feet in a sixth, and their trunks in the seventh, and then she covered all the plates over. Then she took the plates to the kite, and called out, “Here! I have brought you something in return. You sent me a present, and I bring you a present.” Now the poor kite thought the jackal had killed all her seven children, so she cried out, “Oh, it’s too dark now to see what you have brought. Put the plates down in my tree.” The jackal put the plates down and went home. Then God made the boys alive again, and they came running to their mother, quite well. And instead of the heads and eyes, and noses and ears, and hands and feet, and trunks, there were again on the plates cocoa-nuts and cucumbers, and plantains and rice, and so on.

Now the jackal got hold of the boys again. And this time she killed them, and cooked them and ate them; and again God brought them to life. Well, the jackal was very much astonished to see the boys alive, and she got angry, and said to the kite, “I will take your seven sons and throw them into the water, and they will be drowned.” “Very well,” said the kite, “take them. I don’t mind. God will take care of them.” The jackal took them and threw them into the water, and left them to die, while the kite looked on without crying. And again God made them alive, and the jackal was so surprised. “Why,” said she, “I put these children into the water, and left them to drown. And here they are alive!” Then God got very angry with the jackal, and said to her, “Go out of this village. And wherever you go, men will try to shoot you, and you shall always be afraid of them.” So the jackal had to go away; and the kite and her children lived very happily ever afterwards.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Cat and the Dog

A dog and a cat argue over caste and seek a jackal’s judgment. The jackal declares the dog superior, angering the cat. In the jungle, they encounter a tiger with a thorn in his paw. A man removes it, but the tiger breaks his promise not to harm him. The jackal tricks the tiger into a bag, and with help, the tiger is killed, resolving the conflict.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The jackal’s judgment and the subsequent events involve cleverness and trickery, especially in dealing with the tiger.

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the benevolent actions of the man who removes the thorn from the tiger’s paw with the tiger’s malevolent betrayal.

Revenge and Justice: The jackal orchestrates a plan to punish the tiger for breaking his promise, leading to the tiger’s demise and the restoration of order.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 26th, 1876

Now all cats are aunts to the tigers, and the cat in this story was the aunt of the tiger in this story. She was his mother’s sister. When the tiger’s mother was dying, she called the cat to her, and taking her paw she said, “When I am dead you must take care of my child.” The cat answered, “Very well,” and then the tiger’s mother died. The tiger said to the cat, “Aunt, I am very hungry. Go and fetch some fire. When I go to ask men for fire they are afraid of me, and run away from me, and won’t give me any. But you are such a little creature that men are not afraid of you, and so they will give you fire, and then you must bring it to me.” So the cat said, “Very good,” and off she started, and went into a house where some men were eating their dinner: they had thrown away the bones, and the cat began to eat them.

► Continue reading…

This house was very near the place where the tiger lived, and on peeping round the corner he saw his aunt eating the bones. “Oh,” said he, “I sent my aunt to fetch fire that I might cook my dinner as I am very hungry, and there she sits eating the bones, and never thinks of me.” So the tiger called out, “Aunt, I sent you to fetch fire, and there you sit eating bones and leave me hungry! If ever you come near me again, I will kill you at once.” So the cat ran away screaming, “I will never go near the tiger again, for he will kill me!” This is why all cats are so afraid of tigers, or of anything like a tiger. And this is why, when the cat in the story saw the tiger, her nephew, fighting with the man, she ran away as hard as she could.

The Story

There were once a dog and a cat. It was a very rainy day, and some men were eating their dinner inside their house. The cat sat inside too, eating her dinner, and the dog sat on the door-step. The cat called out to the dog, “I am a high-caste person, and you are a very low-caste person.” “Oh,” said the dog, “not at all. I am the high-caste person and you are of very low caste. You eat all the men’s dinner up, and snatch the food from their hands just as they are putting it into their mouths. And you scratch them, and they beat you; while I sit away from them, and so they don’t beat me. And if they give me any dinner I’ll eat it; but if they don’t, I won’t.” “Oh,” says the cat, “not a bit of it. I eat nice clean food; but you eat nasty, dirty food, which the men have thrown away.” “No,” said the dog, “I am high caste and you are very low caste, for if I gave you a slap you would tumble down directly.” “No, no!” said the cat. And they went on disputing and began to fight, till the dog said, “Very well, let us go to the wise jackal and ask him which of us is the better.” “Good,” said the cat. So they went to the jackal and asked him. Said the cat, “I am of the higher caste, and the dog is of the lower caste.” “No,” said the jackal, “the dog is of the higher caste.” The cat said, “No,” and the jackal said, “Yes,” and they began to fight. Then the jackal and the dog proposed to go and ask a great big beast who lived in the jungle and was like a tiger. But the cat said, “I cannot go near a tiger or anything like one.” So then they said, “When we come near the beast, you can remain behind, and we will go on and speak to him.” So they ran into the jungle, where there was a tiger who had been lying on the ground with a great thorn sticking in his foot. When his aunt, the cat, saw him, she scampered off, for she was dreadfully frightened.

The thorn had given the tiger great pain; for a long while he could get no one to take it out, so had lain there for days. At last he had seen a man passing by, to whom he called and said, “Take out this thorn, and I promise I won’t eat you.” But the man refused through fear, saying, “No, I won’t, for you will eat me.” Three times the tiger had promised not to eat him; so at last the man took out the thorn. Then the tiger sprang up and said, “Now I will eat you, for I am very hungry.” “Oh, no, no!” said the man. “What a liar you are! You promised not to eat me if I would take the thorn out of your foot, and now that I have done so you say you will eat me.” And they began to fight, and the man said, “If you won’t eat me, I will bring you a cow and a goat.” But the tiger refused, saying, “No, I won’t eat them; I will eat you.”

At this moment the jackal and the dog came up. And the jackal asked, “What is the matter? why are you fighting?” So then the man told him why they were fighting; and the jackal said to the tiger, “I will tell you a good way of eating the man. Go and fetch a big bag.” So the tiger went and fetched the bag, and brought it to the jackal. Then the jackal said, “Get inside the bag, and leave its mouth open and I’ll throw the man in to you.” So the tiger got inside the bag, and the jackal, the dog and the man quickly tied it up as tight as they could. Then they began to beat the tiger with all their might until at last they killed him. Then the man went home, and the jackal went home, and the dog went home.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

Hana-Saka-Jiji

A kind old couple, despite their poverty, discovers a treasure with the help of their loyal dog, inspiring envy in their greedy neighbors. The neighbors’ attempts to replicate their fortune end in disaster, leading to the dog’s tragic death. However, the good couple finds new magical blessings, while the bad couple faces humiliation and punishment. Ultimately, goodness is rewarded, and the virtuous live happily ever after.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the virtuous old couple with their envious neighbors, highlighting the moral dichotomy between kindness and greed.

Sacrifice: The loyal dog sacrifices itself, leading to subsequent events that test the characters’ virtues.

Transformation: The withered cherry tree miraculously blooms, symbolizing renewal and the power of goodness.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

In the early days there lived a good old couple. All their lives long they had been honest and hard-working, but they had always been poor. Now in their old age it was all they could do to make both ends meet, the poor old creatures. But they didn’t complain, not a bit. They were merry as the day is long. If they ever went to bed cold or hungry they said nothing about it, and if they had bite or sup in the house you may be sure they shared it with their dog, for they were very fond of him. He was faithful, good, and clever. One evening the old man and the old woman went out to do a bit of digging in their garden, and the dog went with them.

► Continue reading…

While they were working the dog was sniffing the ground, and presently he began to scratch up the earth with his paws.

“What can the dog be about now?” says the old woman.

“Oh, just nothing at all,” says the old man; “he’s playing.”

“It’s more than playing,” says the old woman. “It’s my belief he’s found something worth having.”

So off she went to see what the dog would be at, and the old man followed her and leaned on his spade. Sure enough the dog had dug a pretty big hole by this time, and he went on scratching with his paws for dear life and barking short and sharp. The old man helped with his spade, and before long they came on a big box of hidden treasure, silver and gold and jewels and rich stuffs.

It is easy to believe that the good old couple were glad. They patted their clever dog, and he jumped up and licked their faces. After this they carried the treasure into the house. The dog ran to and fro and barked.

Now, next door to the good old couple lived another old couple, not so good as they, but envious and discontented. When the dog found the hidden treasure they looked through a hole in the bamboo hedge and saw the whole affair. Do you think they were pleased? Why, not a bit of it. They were so angry and envious that they could get no pleasure by day nor rest at night.

At last the bad old man came to the good old man.

“I’ve come to ask for the loan of your dog,” he says.

“With all my heart,” says the good old man; “take him and welcome.”

So the bad old man took the dog and brought him to their best room. And the bad old man and his wife put a supper, of all manner of fine things to eat, before the dog, and bade him fall to.

“Honourable Dog,” they said, “you are good and wise, eat and afterwards find us treasure.”

But the dog would not eat.

“All the more left for us,” said the greedy old couple, and they ate up the dog’s supper in a twinkling. Then they tied a string round his neck and dragged him into the garden to find treasure. But never a morsel of treasure did he find, nor a glint of gold, nor a shred of rich stuff.

“The devil’s in the beast,” cries the bad old man, and he beat the dog with a big stick. Then the dog began to scratch up the earth with his paws.

“Oho! Oho!” says the bad old man to his wife, “now for the treasure.”

But was it treasure that the dog dug up? Not a bit of it. It was a heap of loathly rubbish, too bad to tell of. But they say it smelt most vilely and the bad old couple were fain to run away, hiding their noses with their sleeves.

“Arah, arah!” they cried, “the dog has deceived us.” And that very night they killed the poor dog and buried him at the foot of a tall pine tree.

Alack for the good old man and the good old woman when they heard the dog was gone! It was they that wept the bitter tears. They pulled flowers and strewed them on the poor dog’s grave. They burned incense and they spread out good things to eat, and the vapour that rose from them comforted the poor dog’s spirit.

Then the good old man cut down the pine tree, and made a mortar of its wood. He put rice in the mortar and pounded the rice with a pestle.

“Wonder of wonders,” cried the old woman, who was looking on, “wonder of wonders, good man, our rice is all turned into broad gold pieces!”

So it was sure enough.

Presently, in comes the bad old man to ask for the loan of the mortar.

“For I’m needing a mortar something very special,” says he.

“Take it,” says the good old man; “I’m sure you’re welcome.”

So the bad old man took away the mortar under his arm, and when he had got it home he filled it with rice in a twinkling. And he pounded away at it for dear life’s sake.

“Do you see any gold coming?” he says to his wife, who was looking on.

“Never a bit,” she says, “but the rice looks queer.”

Queer enough it was, mildewed and rotten, no use to man or beast.

“Arah, arah!” they cried, “the mortar has deceived us.” And they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet, but lit a fire and burnt the mortar.

Now the good old couple had lost their fairy mortar. But they never said a word, the patient old folk. The good old man took some of the ashes of the mortar and went his way.

Now it was mid-winter time, and all the trees were bare. There was not a flower to be seen, nor yet a little green leaf.

What does the good old man do but climb into a cherry tree and scatter a handful of his ashes over the branches? In a moment the tree was covered with blossoms.

“It will do,” says the good old man, and down he gets from the tree and off he sets for the Prince’s palace, where he knocks at the gate as bold as brass.

“Who are you?” they ask him.

“I am Hana-saka-jiji,” says the old man, “the man who makes dead trees to blossom; my business is with the Prince.”

Mighty pleased the Prince was when he saw his cherry trees and his peach trees and his plum trees rush into blossom.

“Why,” he said, “it is mid-winter, and we have the joys of spring.” And he called forth his lady wife and her maidens and all his own retainers to see the work of Hana-saka-jiji. At last he sent the old man home with a passing rich reward.

Now what of the bad old couple? Were they content to let well alone? Oh no.

They gathered together all the ashes that were left, and when they had put them in a basket they went about the town crying:

“We are the Hana-saka-jiji. We can make dead trees blossom.”

Presently out comes the Prince and all his company to see the show. And the bad old man climbs up into a tree forthwith and scatters his ashes.

But the tree never blossomed, never a bit. The ashes flew into the Prince’s eyes, and the Prince flew into a rage. There was a pretty to-do. The bad old couple were caught and well beaten. Sad and sorry they crept home at night. It is to be hoped that they mended their ways. Howbeit the good people, their neighbours, grew rich and lived happy all their days.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

Momotaro

In a time of magic and wonder, an old couple discovers a boy, Momotaro, born from a peach. Growing into a brave young man, he sets off to Ogres’ Island to retrieve their treasure. With the help of a monkey, pheasant, and dog—each won over by millet dumplings—he defeats the ogres, claims their riches, and shares his victory with his loyal companions.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Quest: Momotaro embarks on a journey to Ogres’ Island to retrieve their treasure, showcasing the classic quest motif.

Supernatural Beings: The ogres represent supernatural adversaries that Momotaro must confront.

Good vs. Evil: The battle between Momotaro and the ogres underscores the timeless struggle between good and evil.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

If you’ll believe me there was a time when the fairies were none so shy as they are now. That was the time when beasts talked to men, when there were spells and enchantments and magic every day, when there was great store of hidden treasure to be dug up, and adventures for the asking.

At that time, you must know, an old man and an old woman lived alone by themselves. They were good and they were poor and they had no children at all.

► Continue reading…

One fine day, “What are you doing this morning, good man?” says the old woman.

“Oh,” says the old man, “I’m off to the mountains with my billhook to gather a faggot of sticks for our fire. And what are you doing, good wife?”

“Oh,” says the old woman, “I’m off to the stream to wash clothes. It’s my washing day,” she adds.

So the old man went to the mountains and the old woman went to the stream.

Now, while she was washing the clothes, what should she see but a fine ripe peach that came floating down the stream? The peach was big enough, and rosy red on both sides.

“I’m in luck this morning,” said the dame, and she pulled the peach to shore with a split bamboo stick.

By-and-by, when her good man came home from the hills, she set the peach before him. “Eat, good man,” she said; “this is a lucky peach I found in the stream and brought home for you.”

But the old man never got a taste of the peach. And why did he not?

All of a sudden the peach burst in two and there was no stone to it, but a fine boy baby where the stone should have been.

“Mercy me!” says the old woman.

“Mercy me!” says the old man.

The boy baby first ate up one half of the peach and then he ate up the other half. When he had done this he was finer and stronger than ever.

“Momotaro! Momotaro!” cries the old man; “the eldest son of the peach.”

“Truth it is indeed,” says the old woman; “he was born in a peach.”

Both of them took such good care of Momotaro that soon he was the stoutest and bravest boy of all that country-side. He was a credit to them, you may believe. The neighbours nodded their heads and they said, “Momotaro is the fine young man!”

“Mother,” says Momotaro one day to the old woman, “make me a good store of kimi-dango” (which is the way that they call millet dumplings in those parts).

“What for do you want kimi-dango?” says his mother.

“Why,” says Momotaro, “I’m going on a journey, or as you may say, an adventure, and I shall be needing the kimi-dango on the way.”

“Where are you going, Momotaro?” says his mother.

“I’m off to the Ogres’ Island,” says Momotaro, “to get their treasure, and I should be obliged if you’d let me have the kimi-dango as soon as may be,” he says.

So they made him the kimi-dango, and he put them in a wallet, and he tied the wallet to his girdle and off he set.

“Sayonara, and good luck to you, Momotaro!” cried the old man and the old woman.

“Sayonara! Sayonara!” cried Momotaro.

He hadn’t gone far when he fell in with a monkey.

“Kia! Kia!” says the monkey. “Where are you off to, Momotaro?”

Says Momotaro, “I’m off to the Ogres’ Island for an adventure.”

“What have you got in the wallet hanging at your girdle?”

“Now you’re asking me something,” says Momotaro; “sure, I’ve some of the best millet dumplings in all Japan.”

“Give me one,” says the monkey, “and I will go with you.”

So Momotaro gave a millet dumpling to the monkey, and the two of them jogged on together. They hadn’t gone far when they fell in with a pheasant.

“Ken! Ken!” said the pheasant. “Where are you off to, Momotaro?”

Says Momotaro, “I’m off to the Ogres’ Island for an adventure.”

“What have you got in your wallet, Momotaro?”

“I’ve got some of the best millet dumplings in all Japan.”

“Give me one,” says the pheasant, “and I will go with you.”

So Momotaro gave a millet dumpling to the pheasant, and the three of them jogged on together.

They hadn’t gone far when they fell in with a dog.

“Bow! Wow! Wow!” says the dog. “Where are you off to, Momotaro?”

Says Momotaro, “I’m off to the Ogres’ Island.”

“What have you got in your wallet, Momotaro?”

“I’ve got some of the best millet dumplings in all Japan.”

“Give me one,” says the dog, “and I will go with you.”

So Momotaro gave a millet dumpling to the dog, and the four of them jogged on together. By-and-by they came to the Ogres’ Island.

“Now, brothers,” says Momotaro, “listen to my plan. The pheasant must fly over the castle gate and peck the Ogres. The monkey must climb over the castle wall and pinch the Ogres. The dog and I will break the bolts and bars. He will bite the Ogres, and I will fight the Ogres.”

Then there was the great battle.

The pheasant flew over the castle gate: “Ken! Ken! Ken!”

Momotaro broke the bolts and bars, and the dog leapt into the castle courtyard. “Bow! Wow! Wow!”

The brave companions fought till sundown and overcame the Ogres. Those that were left alive they took prisoners and bound with cords–a wicked lot they were.

“Now, brothers,” says Momotaro, “bring out the Ogres’ treasure.”

So they did.

The treasure was worth having, indeed. There were magic jewels there, and caps and coats to make you invisible. There was gold and silver, and jade and coral, and amber and tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl.

“Here’s riches for all,” says Momotaro. “Choose, brothers, and take your fill.”

“Kia! Kia!” says the monkey. “Thanks, my Lord Momotaro.”

“Ken! Ken!” says the pheasant. “Thanks, my Lord Momotaro.”

“Bow! Wow! Wow!” says the dog. “Thanks, my dear Lord Momotaro.”

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Story of Longa-Poa

It must be borne in mind that Taliai-tupou was not a Tongan but a Fijian, and regarded the legend from a Fijian point of view. For instance, the Tongans were not cannibals, and the words he puts into the mouth of Fekai as to the bokolas could not have been spoken by a Tongan woman.

Source
Tales from Old Fiji
by Lorimer Fison
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
at the Ballantyne Press
by Alexander Moring Ltd
London, 1904

► Themes of the story

Conflict with Authority: Longa-Poa’s wife, Fekai, wields significant power over him due to her royal lineage, creating a dynamic where Longa-Poa, despite his own status, is subjugated to her authority.

Family Dynamics: The tumultuous relationship between Longa-Poa and Fekai highlights complex familial interactions, particularly the challenges faced when power imbalances exist within a marriage.

Good vs. Evil: Fekai’s cruel and domineering behavior contrasts sharply with Longa-Poa’s more tempered demeanor, setting up a classic dichotomy between malevolent and benevolent forces within the household.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Fijians

by the Lord of Naiau

There was once, so our fathers said, a chief in Tonga whose name was Longa-poa, a chief great and mighty, strong of arm, bold of heart, wise in council, and mighty in war. He was of the royal clan, and was reverenced by his own people, and feared by all who dwelt in the other islands. But, great and mighty as he was, there was nevertheless one before whom he trembled and quaked even – Fekai, the “Ferocious One,” his own wife, the daughter of the king, a woman tall of stature and loud of tongue, whose soul was altogether evil. A wretched man was Longa-poa, for he feared her greatly; nor dare he lift his club against her, after the manner of other chiefs, who kept their wives in order each by the strength of his arm; for useful indeed is the club for women, and quiet is the house that is ruled by the stick.

► Continue reading…

But she was the daughter of a “Sacred King”; and he could not lift his hand against her, for she was nearer to the gods than he.

So it fell on a certain day that Longa-poa came back from Haa-pai, whither he had gone sailing with his warriors because the War-King Kano-ku-bolu, the “Heart of Samoa,” had said, “Let Longa-poa hoist his sail and go to the men of Haa-pai, that they may know the evil of their ways, in that they have not sent the yearly tribute.” And he came back, bringing the tribute, a great store of wealth; for the souls of the Haa-pai folk were small before him, and they feared because of their revolt. Therefore they gave much more than the appointed gifts; and Longa-poa was glad of heart as he came sailing back to Tonga with his deep-laden canoes; and a joyful chief was the War-King when the property was brought to his Great House. He said to his men, “Bring hither a pig, that Longa-poa may eat. Make ready a feast for him, and for his men. Good is his sailing! A happy voyage! Eat now, Longa-poa, and then go away to your house. Is not your wife waiting for you there?” Whereupon a cloud came over the face of Longa-poa, which had brightened up when the king spoke of the pig.

So, after the feast was over, he went his way; and coming to the house, he found his wife there, beating one of her women with a stick, as her manner was, for she was always either beating or scolding, and indeed often both of the two at once. When he lifted the mat that hung in the doorway, she turned round and saw him.

“You are come back, then!” said she, in a scornful voice.

“I am come, Fekai,” answered Longa-poa. “And where, then, are the bodies of your foes?” asked the Ferocious One, twitching a tuft of hair from the head of the girl that she had been beating; for she had clutched her by the hair with one hand, while she was thrashing her with the other; nor had she let go when her lord came in, “Where are your bokolas?” she cried. “Let our share be dragged up to the house, and let the young men — the lazy, the useless ones — let them make ready the ovens.”

“There are no bokolas, O Fekai,” said Longa-poa. “Their souls were small, the men of Haa-pai, and they brought a peace-offering, giving also great store of wealth. Therefore they live, and there are no hokolas.”

Great then was the Ferocious One’s wrath. Her eyes glared, and the foam flew from her lips, as she flung the tuft of hair, that she had pulled out, in the face of her lord — great chief as he was — a thing not to be endured by any man. “Let that be your food!” she cried. “Cursed be the winds that brought you back! Man of a watery soul! Weak one! Coward! A chief, perhaps? Truly a great chief! A mighty lord!” And rushing upon him, she smote him with the stick with which she had just been beating the girl. He leaped to his feet and fled from the house, and she ran after him, cursing him, till she was out of breath and could follow him no longer.

Longa-poa ran to the seaside, where he sat down on the prow of his canoe, which was hauled up on to the beach; and covering his face with his hands, he wept aloud, while his young men gathered round him, sitting it his feet in awe-struck silence.

“Are you all here?” said he at length; “Lolo-hea, Pulu, Tama-eiki, are you all here?”

“We are all here, my lord,” answered Lolo-hea in a subdued tone, for he was full of distress at the sorrow of his chief, and so were they all.

“Let the canoe float!” said the wretched chief. “Drag her down to the deep water!” And the young men leaped to the work with a loud shout; and they dragged the great canoe into the deep water till it was well afloat, and no longer grated along the sand. Then said Longa-poa, as he rose to his feet, tall and strong: “Listen to me,” he cried. “Hear my words this day, and let them sink down into your souls. I am going away. Henceforth let no man say that Longa-poa is a Tongan. A stranger am I in the land where that woman dwells. You, therefore, whose souls are small, you who are afraid, go back to the shore, and stay with the women. But you who love your chief, you whose hearts are strong, come with me, and we will find a new land wherein we may dwell. My words are spoken!”

Then there was a great silence, and the young men looked into each other’s faces.

“I will go with my lord,” said Pulu. And as he spoke, the tears ran down his cheeks; for he thought of Fonua, the young girl to whom he had spoken, and whose friends were then making ready the marriage-feast. A fine young chief was Pulu, and beautiful exceedingly was the girl Fonua. “We will all go,” said Lolo-hea. “We will follow you, Longa-poa. If we die in the midst of the waters, we will all die together; and if we find a strange land, we will fight with its people, making them our servants, and you shall reign over us and them.” And thus said they all.

THE SAILING OF THE EXILES

So when they had hastily gathered food and water they hoisted the sail, and the great canoe moved swiftly over the waters till the land grew dark behind them, and the sun went down into the western sea.

Then cried Longa-poa in a cheery voice from the top of the deck-house where he was sitting: “Let not your hearts be sore, my men. Good is our sailing! A good wind! A smooth sea! It will be a fine night, for there are many stars. See also how they twinkle! Therefore will this north-east wind continue to blow. Strike up a song, that our hearts may be glad; for that woman will not live for ever, and we shall yet go back to our own land in peace.”

Then Moala, the gleeman, began the canoe-chaunt, and the young men clapped their hands, keeping time as they took up the strain, while Longa-poa cheered them on from the top of the deck-house, singing also himself in company with them. But when they came to the part of the chaunt where it is said,

“The sun has set, and the land is far away,”

the strong voice of Moala faltered, and grew weak and quavering, like the voice of a little child — of a little child that is about to weep; and lowering their heads, the young men wept with a bitter weeping, as they thought of their land now hidden in the darkness, of their homes, their kinsfolk, and their friends, all left behind without so much as a word of parting, and never more to be seen by them again.

But Longa-poa sang on, as he sat on the top of the deck-house. Changing the strain, in a loud voice and a stern, he chaunted a song of war. It rang out over the waters full and clear above the noise of the weeping, as it told how their tribe had taken the stronghold of Vavau in the olden days. Nor was it long before the young men raised their heads, and the noise of the weeping ceased; for their souls grew hot within them as they hearkened to the words; till, when the chief came to the song of triumph which their fathers sang after the victory, they leaped to their feet, shouting the war-cry, and joined with him in that terrible chaunt which is called “The Song of Death.”

Thus they went sailing throughout that night and the following day, passing island after island of the group, until at last Niua sank down into the waters behind them; after which no land was seen for many days, and the crew said to one another, “We have passed the ends of the earth. There is now nothing but water.” Nevertheless they came to other lands, sailing continually, till the canoe became to them even as their house, and the sea their land; nor were they content to stay quietly ashore; but ever after a few days they longed to be sailing again. True children of the sea had they become.

Too long were it to tell you of all the mighty deeds they wrought in the lands to which the winds carried them; of all their fightings and feastings, and of all the hunger and thirst and hardships they endured. How Moala, the gleeman, was treacherously slain on the beach of an island, which stands alone in the midst of the sea, being thrust through the back with a spear as he was gathering firewood; wherefore Longa-poa smote all that people, men, women, and children, leaving not one alive; so that the land is empty even unto this day. How Pulu forgot Fonua, being ensnared by a young girl of another land, who prevailed upon him to hide himself in the mangroves when his comrades sailed away, that he might be her husband; and how she murdered him on that very night as he lay asleep, and shared his body out among her friends. How Longa-poa, coming back in the morning to look for Pulu, found her people feasting upon the body, and the head stuck on the point of a spear, which was thrust into the ground in the midst of the public square; whereupon the Tongans, shouting their war-cry, rushed forward, and smote the townsfolk with a great and terrible slaughter, leaving none alive but a few, who fled to the hills, and so escaped. How, sailing thence for many days without seeing land, they grew desperate in their hunger, and ran their canoe down upon a sleeping whale, leaping all of them upon him, stabbing him with their spears, and so fighting with and killing him. How thereupon they grew mad with pride, and said, “We are gods! We are gods! No children of men could have done the mighty deeds that we have done.” And how the gods heard them, and were sore displeased, and took counsel together how they should slay them. All this were too long to tell.

But after that the exiles had killed the whale, nothing went well with them; for how can they prosper with whom the gods are wroth? First, there smote them suddenly a raging blast, that tore their sail, breaking the mast also, and coming near to sink the canoe. But they baled her out, and fought stoutly with the tempest, scudding before it for many days, till they were well-nigh spent with hunger and weariness. Then they came to a land where they thought to rest their limbs and recruit; but the people crept secretly upon them in the night, and killed three of them before they could snatch up their weapons to fight with. Two more also fell, and Longa-poa himself was shot through the arm by an arrow as they attacked the town in the morning. Nevertheless they took the place, and burnt it to the ground, with all the townsfolk. Here they made another sail for themselves, and cut a new mast in the place of that which the storm had broken, resting also for many days, until the chiefs wound was healed. After this they sailed away again, and then came the end.

FEKAI ENDS HER SCOLDING

When they had been two days at sea, Longa-poa said to one of the young men, “Climb now to the mast-head and look around. There may perchance be land in sight.”

“There is nothing, sir,” cried the youth from aloft, when he had looked all around. But just as he was about to glide down the mast his eye caught a little speck far away on the waters to windward, and he shouted, “A sail! A sail!”

Glad then were the hearts of the Tongans; and seizing their weapons, they struck up the “Song of Death” as the strange canoe ran swiftly down towards them. But when they were very near, and had risen to their feet, making ready to leap on board and smite with the club, then suddenly the chieFs heart became as water, and scrambling down from the roof of the deck-house he thrust the steersman away from the big sheer-oar, and luffed close up into the wind. Great then was the wonder of his crew; but not long did they wonder; for from the strange canoe a laugh rang out across the water, loud, and fierce, and shrill. And they trembled as they heard it; for they knew the voice — it was the voice of Fekai!

“Good is your sailing!” shrieked that terrible woman. “Good is your sailing! A happy voyage! Long have we been looking for you, and now we have found you at last. O villainous chief! O crew of rascals! We have you at last. Rise, my men, and let these, our friends, see what manner of gifts we have brought them.” And, springing to their feet with a dreadful shout, they brandished their weapons of war. “These are our gifts,” they cried. “Come now and take them!”

And the hearts of Longa-poa and his men died within them as they looked upon the faces of the other crew, and saw that every one of them was their bitter foe. There was Lutui, the Haa-pai chief, whose brother Longa-poa had slain, and Mafi, whose wife he had taken away by force, giving her to one of his own men — the wife of a chief to a commoner — an insult never to be forgotten. This he had done unwillingly on the urging of Fekai herself, against whom Mafi’s wife had offended. There too was Fuaki, whose house he had burned, and Moa, whose face he had smashed with a back-handed blow of his club. Old Napa, also, of Navau was among them, whose two sons he had killed at sea, running their canoe down in the midst of the waters because they had kept their flag flying when he was in sight. Napa was old and grey-headed, and his limbs were feeble; yet he stood there shaking a heavy club, and shouting more savagely than them all; for the thought of his two lads burned within his soul, and made him strong. These and many more had Fekai gathered together to hunt her lord, for she longed to kill him; and now, after many days, they met in the open sea.

So Longa-poa fled before his wife, trying to escape; but so equal in their speed were the two canoes, that he could not shake her off, nor could she come nearer to him, for she had gone to leeward when he luffed up into the wind to prevent her from running him down, and now both canoes were sailing close-hauled, with Longa-poa’s to windward. For three days they thus sailed, he fleeing and she pursuing — a wretched time; for when it was day, Longa-poa and his men could see their foes chasing them; and during the night the awful voice of Fekai ceased not to ring in their ears as she taunted and reviled them.

On the fourth day land was seen; and Longa-poa said to his men, “Let us go ashore on that island. Here will we make a stand against our foes. We shall be there before them, for we are still leading. Leap ashore quickly, my men, as soon as the canoe touches the beach; then shall we be all in order, and ready to smite them as they land.”

So they steered for the shore, and Fekai yelled with joy. “They are going to land,” she cried; “now we have them! They are going to flee to the land.”

But when they were not yet near the island a great and terrible thing befell; for they sailed into water that was leaping and bubbling like a boiling pot; and a raging current seized the two canoes, whirling them round and round, and carrying them nearer and nearer to a great black rock, where the water plunged downwards, white and roaring, into a deep, dark cavern, which was — as our fathers said — one of the places where men’s ghosts went down to Bulu, the land of spirits. Here the two canoes were brought close together; but no one thought of smiting his foe, for they all crouched down in speechless terror, and even Fekai was silent. Her canoe was the first to go. Never before had her tongue been idle; but silent she went to her death, and there was an end to her scolding.

When Longa-poa saw her canoe plunge down into the abyss, his soul came back to him again. “She is gone!” he cried; and he laughed in the face of Death. “Cheer up, my men, for there is yet a chance. Stand you all ready, and when we come close to the rock, leap for your lives.”

And even as he spoke, the canoe was caught by the downward rush, and whirled swiftly towards the rock.

“Leap!” shouted Longa-poa, springing forward with a mighty bound, and clutching a bush which grew out of a cleft in the rock. It was a fearful leap; and he, alone of them all, reached the shore. Looking back, he saw that they had all gone down, excepting one young man, who, though he fell into the water, had leaped far enough to clutch the rock with his hands. He held on for a moment, and then with a cry of “Farewell, my chief!” he loosed his hold, and gave himself to death. A pang smote the heart of Longa-poa; but so full of joy was he at the thought of being now rid of Fekai for evermore, that his being left thus alone in a strange land seemed but a little thing; and clambering over the rock, he came to a sandy beach, where he lay down at the foot of a palm tree and fell asleep, for he was faint and weary.

THE TREE OF FEASTS

Nevertheless, when he awoke in the morning his soul was very sad, for he thought of his brave men, of all the wars to which they had followed him; how true and faithful they had ever been, even when he led them into the very jaws of death. Moreover, he now began to think of Tonga, his native land, and the longing to return thither was like a burning fire in his soul. But how was he to get back? His canoe was sunk, and his men were dead! Truly in an evil case was Longa-poa! He began to be very hungry also, for heaviness of soul does not do away with emptiness of stomach. So he said, “If I stay here I shall perish with hunger; I will go and look for food. If the dwellers on this land meet me and kill me, I can but die.” So, taking a heavy stick in his hand, he set forth on his search after something to eat.

All that day he searched, but nothing did he find, neither food, nor dwelling, nor any living thing — not so much as even a crab, for it was an empty land. There were palms along the beach, but the coconuts on them were small, not one of them was as large as an orange; and when the second night came on Longa-poa threw himself upon the ground in utter despair, weeping and moaning because of his wretched fate. Then there came a shrill voice to his ears from the darkness above him, calling, “Longa-poa! Longa-poa!”

“Who calls me?” he cried, springing to his feet in great fear; but still the voice continued its call, “Longa-poa! Longa-poa!”

“Here am I, my lord,” he said again; “here is that wretched man. But who are you, my lord? Who is it that speaks to me?” And moving round the palm-tree, at the foot of which he had been lying, he saw a strange thing between him and the star-lit sky, for just on the very end of a long palm-leaf, which would not have supported the weight of a rat without bending, there sat astride a little old man, bobbing up and down as the leaf swayed and tossed in the night wind. Very little was he, no taller than the length of an arm from hand to elbow; but his head was big, and so were his eyes, which glared through the darkness, glowing like firebrands, so that Longa-poa could see the face of the little old man because of the brightness that shone from his eyes; and his heart died within him, for he knew that it was a god who had spoken.

“What are you crying for, Longa-poa?” asked the little old man. “What are you crying for? You are a god, you know. You said so when you killed the whale. What then are you crying for? It is not the custom of the gods to weep?”

Then was the chief terribly afraid; and he crouched down on the ground, clapping his hands softly. “Be not angry, my lord,” said he in a low tone. “Let not your soul be evil against me. Those were foolish words. But many are dead; let that suffice; is it not enough?”

“Where is your wife, Longa-poa?” asked the little old man again, chuckling a grim laugh as he swayed up and down on the end of the palm-leaf. “Where is Fekai? Where can I find that excellent woman? Why did you flee from her, Longa-poa? You are a god, you know. You said so when you killed the whale. Why then did you run away? It is not the custom of the gods to flee before women.”

“I wish you had her to wife,” said Longa-poa within himself. “She would make you glad to run away, god though you be.” But he took good care not to utter his thought aloud, and his only answer was a groan.

“Where are your men, Longa-poa?” cried the little old man. “Where are those great and mighty gods? They are gods, you know. They said so when they killed the whale. Surely they are not drowned in the whirlpool over there! It is not the custom of the gods to drown,” And once more Longa-poa answered with a groan.

“Are you hungry, Longa-poa?” his tormentor asked. “What are your worshippers about? for you are a god, you know. Why do they not make a feast for you? It is not the way of the gods to be hungry. They eat and are full.”

Then was the chiefs soul hot within him, and he was mad with rage; nevertheless he answered not a word, and the little old man mocked on.

“Do you want to go back to Tonga, Longa-poa?” said he with a grin. “Where is your canoe? Is it at anchor, or is it perhaps hauled up on the beach? Call your men, Longa-poa; hoist your sail and start, for the wind is fair. You are a god, you know, and the gods go whither they will.”

“Look you!” cried Longa-poa, starting to his feet, “let there be an end to these words of yours. It is enough. I will bear with you no longer. My canoe is sunk; my men are drowned; I am hungry; I want to go to Tonga; a stranger am I in a strange land. These are the things that made me weep. And now come down from the tree and kill me if you like. I can but die, and death is not so bitter as are bitter words to one who is helpless and without a friend.”

Then the little old man screamed with laughter. Long and loud laughed he from his perch on the palm-leaf. “Well spoken, Longa-poa!” he cried at last. “Good are your words! You are a brave man after all, though you be not a god, and I will take pity upon you. Be of good cheer, for your troubles are over. Get ready now an oven, for your hunger must first be appeased.”

“You are mocking me,” said Longa-poa. “Why should I make ready an oven? Where is the food?”

“Dig out the oven and heat it,” said the other. “That is your share of the work, the food is mine.” So he got ready the oven, digging it in the sand, and putting dry sticks in it with stones on the top of them, and the god dropped a fire-stick down to him to light the wood. After a time the little old man spoke again —

“Is the oven ready?” he asked. “Are the stones well heated? Go now to that tree on your right hand and break ofF a small branch. Bring it hither. Lay it on the hot stones, and cover the oven with plenty of earth.”

But the chief was very angry. “This is worse than all your taunts,” he cried. “What is the use of baking a stick? Come down from the tree and kill me at once!”

“Do as I bid you, foolish man!” the god replied. “Follow my words, and your hunger shall be satisfied. Why should you wish to die?”

Then Longa-poa laid the branch in the oven and covered it up, heaping the earth carefully over it. And having done this, he sat down in silence and in great unbelief, while the little old man, with the big head and fiery eyes, went on swinging himself up and down on the end of the palm-leaf

“The food is cooked,” he cried at length. “Dig up your feast, Longa-poa, for it is ready.”

And Longa-poa cleared the earth from the top of the oven, expecting to find nothing but a scorched branch in it. But as soon as he thrust in the piece of wood he had used as a digging-stick a savoury steam rose up into his nostrils, and he shouted aloud for joy.

“It smells well,” said the little old man, sniffing the air. “Ah, the pleasant smell! Dig, Longa-poa, dig! and let us feast together.”

A joyful man was Longa-poa when he had cleared away the earth with which the oven had been covered; for there, under the large leaves which he had laid upon the branch, as the custom is before the earth-covering is put upon the food in an oven, he saw a great pig, and ducks, and fowls, and turtle, and all manner of fish, and yams, and sweet potatoes — a rich feast, all well cooked, pleasant to see, and sweet to smell. “Here now is a wonderful thing!” said Longa-poa.

So they ate together till their hunger was satisfied. Longa-poa made full amends for his long abstinence; but, though he was so many sizes larger than his companion — all but his head — he could not eat one-tenth part as much as the little old man did, and he was lost in wonderment to know how he had bestowed it.

“I am thirsty,” said the little old man at last.

“Climb one of these palms, Longa-poa, and throw down me green coconuts, that we may drink.” “The nuts are small, my lord,” the chief replied. “There is not one full-grown one on the island. Have I not been searching all the day?”

“Climb nevertheless,” said the other, and Longa-poa did as he bade him, throwing down a cluster of the little nuts. Then, coming down from the tree, he fixed a pointed stick slanting in the ground, with which he tore off the husks; and piercing the eye of a nut, he gave it to the little old man, and then made one ready for himself He drank and drank again till his thirst was fully satisfied, and when he ceased there was milk still in the nut, although he had drunk till he could drink no more. “Here again is a wonderful thing!” he cried. “Truly this is a land of wonders.” At this the little old man laughed a merry laugh.

“And now, Longa-poa,” said he, “it is time that you were going, if you want to get to Tonga before sunrise.”

“To Tonga!” cried the chief in a doleful voice, while his eyes grew moist. “Tonga before sunrise! Wonderful was the feast, and wonderful the nut; but Tonga before sunrise, that were the most wonderful of all! Why! the stars are already growing pale in the east. Take pity upon me, my lord, and mock me no more.”

“Man of an unbelieving soul!” said the god. “Why will you still doubt my words? Is it then so great a thing that I should be able to send you back to your home before the sun rises from the sea? Not so! It is but a little thing. Go now to the tree whence you cut the branch, and take thence a slip, that you may plant it in Tonga, and hunger no more for ever. Then come back hither to me.”

So Longa-poa did as the god bade him; and when he returned, behold a bird great and terrible! — so tall that the tops of the palms looked but breast-high against it, as it walked upon the ground, and he was afraid.

“Fear not!” said the little old man. “It is my bird, and it will do you no harm. Tie yourself to its legs with your waistcloth. Tie yourself tight to it above its knee, and fear not. It will take you back to your land; and when you reach Tonga, plant then at once that slip from the Tree of Feasts. Plant it before sunrise. Be sure to do that. Before sunrise; do not forget! And now, Longa-poa, farewell, for it is time to go; the middle of the night is past.”

“I am your man, my lord,” said the chief, as he tied himself to the leg of the bird above its knee. “ Henceforth and for ever will I be your man, for you surely are the mightiest of all the gods.” And therewith the great bird spread its wings and flew swiftly away. When it rose from the earth it drew up its legs and thus held him tightly to its breast so that he went safely and at his ease.

“Farewell, Longa-poa,” shouted the little old man after him, in his shrill voice that carried so far. “Farewell! Remember to plant the slip before sunrise I And, Longa-poa! if ever you chance to kill another whale, don’t reckon yourself therefore to be a god.” And a shrill cackle of laughter came faintly up, as the bird rose higher and higher into the night.

When the day had begun to break over the land, the bird alighted upon Tonga-tibu, near to the town of the king; whereupon Longa-poa untied himself from its leg, and ran up into the town, wellnigh beside himself with joy; and whom should he see coming out of the king’s house, but his own little son, Vea, his only child! And, when he saw him, he had no thought for aught else, albeit the twig was still in his hand, for had he not his boy in his arms, clinging round his neck, and crying aloud, “My father! My father! It is my father. He is not dead, as they told me. He has come back to me again. My father! My own father!” And the shouting woke the king.

“What is this?” he cried in anger. “What is the meaning of this?” and seizing his club, he rushed out of doors. But, when he saw who it was, he threw down the club, and running up to Longa-poa, he caught him in his arms, and kissed him, weeping over him, for he loved him, and had long thought that he had been dead.

Quickly spread the news, and soon the whole town was in an uproar, all the people running together towards the king’s house to see the great chief who had just returned to his own. Only Fonua came not with them, for she was ashamed. She had grown tired of waiting for Pulu, and had married one-eyed Lua, who beat her every day.

“Come into the house, Longa-poa,” said the king, “for the sun is hot outside.”

“The sun!” cried Longa-poa with a start, and looking down upon the twig which he still carried in his hand, he continued, “The sun! Wretched man that I am!” And hastily scratching a hole in the ground with his fingers, he thrust the slip into it, and called some of the men to put a fence round it at once. To this the king gave permission at his request, for it was within his own precincts. “What is it? Why are you troubled, Longa-poa?” he asked. “Let us go into the house,” was the reply, “and I will tell you all. It is a long tale, and sad.”

So they went in together, and the house was filled with people who had a place there; and Longa-poa told all that had befallen him, to which the king and the people listened in breathless silence, till he had done; and then the king said, “Marvellous things are these!” and the people answered, “It is true!”

There was much rejoicing that day in Tonga-tabu because the great chief — the wise, the mighty, the pillar of the land — who had been mourned as dead, had at last returned. But there was much weeping also among the kinsfolk of the dead.

“And so Fekai is gone!” said the king. “Truly she was a wonderful woman. Let us make ready to-day her death-feast. A rich feast, my people, for she was a great lady, and the daughter of a king.”

So the people made ready the death-feast, and mourned for Fekai, because she was dead. Many voices were loud in their wail, but never an eye was wet with tears; and when the old man, Afu, spoke aloud, the feast being over, and said, “She who never did aught but evil while she lived, has done good in her death; for on her account I have eaten, and am full,” they all burst into a roar of laughter, and Longa-poa’s laugh was the loudest of all.

Now the king had no sons. Daughters had he in plenty, but his wife had given him no sons. So, when he died in the following year, Longa-poa was made Tui, or Master, of Tonga, and ruled in his stead, for he was of the royal kin, and all the people honoured him. A good king was Longa-poa, for he learned many things from what had befallen him during his travels; so that he became kinder of heart, and more humble of soul, than he was when Fekai threw the tuft of hair in his face, and drove him away with her stick.

The slip, which he planted from the Tree of Feasts, grew up strong and flourishing; but when he baked a branch of it, as he had done in the empty land, no savoury steam came forth from the oven, and nothing but a branch was found therein, when it was afterwards uncovered; for had not the sun risen before the slip was planted? And often, as he looked upon the tree, he said with a sigh, “Oh that I had remembered the words of the little old man!” And thus here ends the Story of Longa-poa.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

Oahunui

Kukaniloko on Oahu, once a sacred royal birthplace, became infamous through the tragic tale of King Oahunui. Enamored by cannibalistic chiefs, he developed a taste for human flesh, allegedly consuming his own nephews. This act led their father, Lehuanui, to avenge them by killing the King. Betrayal, divine curses, and stone memorials mark the abandoned site, symbolizing the gods’ wrath and its grim legacy.

Source
Hawaiian Folk Tales
a collection of native legends
compiled by Thos. G. Thrum
A.C. McClurg & Co., Chicago, 1907

► Themes of the story

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the malevolent actions of the cannibalistic chiefs and King Oahunui with the virtuous characters who oppose them.

Sacred Spaces: Kukaniloko serves as a significant location, being the sacred birthplace of Oahu’s royalty and later marked by stone memorials symbolizing its tragic history.

Tragic Flaw: King Oahunui’s descent into cannibalism, influenced by the southern chiefs, represents a fatal flaw that ultimately leads to his downfall.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hawaiians

by Mrs. E.M. Nakuina

On the plateau lying between Ewa and Waialua, on the island of Oahu, and about a mile off, and mauka of the Kaukonahua bridge, is the historical place called Kukaniloko. This was the ancient birthplace of the Oahu kings and rulers. It was incumbent on all women of the royal line to retire to this place when about to give birth to a child, on pain of forfeiting the rank, privileges, and prerogatives of her expected offspring, should that event happen in a less sacred place.

The stones were still standing some years ago, and perhaps are yet undisturbed, where the royal accouchements took place.

► Continue reading…

In ancient times this locality was taboo ground, for here the high priest of the island had his headquarters. Himself descended from the chief families, and being, in many instances, an uncle or younger brother of the reigning king, or connected by marriage with those of the royal line, and being also at the head of a numerous, well organized, and powerful priesthood, his influence was hardly second to that of the king, and in some matters his authority was paramount.

A few miles mauka of Kukaniloko, toward the Waimea Mountains, is Helemano, where the last of the cannibal chiefs from the South Seas finally settled when driven from the plains of Mokuleia and Waialua by the inhabitants of those districts; for the people had been exasperated by the frequent requisitions on the kamaainas (original inhabitants) by the stranger chiefs to furnish material for their cannibal feasts.

To the east of Helemano, and about the same distance from Kukaniloko, is Oahunui (Greater Oahu), another historical place. This was the residence of the kings of the island. Tradition has it that previous to the advent of the cannibal strangers the place was known by another name.

When the Lo Aikanaka, as the last of the man-eating chiefs are called, were constrained to take up their residence in upper Helemano, a district just outside of the boundaries of those reserved for the royal and priestly residences, a young man called Oahunui was king. An elder sister named Kilikiliula, who had been as a mother to him, was supposed to share equally with him the royal power and prerogative. This sister was married to a chief named Lehuanui, of the priestly line, but one not otherwise directly connected with royalty, and was the mother of three children; the two eldest being boys and the youngest a girl. They all lived together in the royal enclosure, but in separate houses, according to ancient custom.

Now, the Lo Aikanaka, on establishing themselves in upper Helemano, had at first behaved very well. They had been circumspect and prudent in their intercourse with the royal retainers, and had visited the young King to render their homage with every appearance of humility.

Oahunui was quite captivated by the plausible, suave manners of the ingratiating southern chief and those of his immediate retainers, and he invited them to a feast.

This civility was reciprocated, and the King dined with the strangers. Here it was strongly suspected that the dish of honor placed before the King was human flesh, served under the guise of pork.

The King found the dish very much to his liking, and intimated to the Lo Aikanaka chief that his aipuu-puu (chief cook or steward) understood the preparation and cooking of pork better than the royal cook did.

The Lo Aikanaka took the hint, and the young King became a very frequent guest at the Southerner’s board–or rather, mat table. Some excuse or other would be given to invite the royal guest, such as a challenge to the King to a game of konane (a game like checkers); or a contest of skill in the different athletic and warlike sports would be arranged, and Oahunui would be asked to be the judge, or simply invited to view them. As a matter of course, it would be expected that the King would remain after the sports and partake of food when on friendly visits of this nature. Thus with one excuse or another he spent a great deal of his time with his new subjects and friends.

To supply the particular dainty craved by the royal visitor, the Lo Aikanaka had to send out warriors to the passes leading to Waianae from Lihue and Kalena, and also to the lonely pathway leading up to Kalakini, on the Waimea side, there to lie in ambush for any lone traveller, or belated person after la-i, aaho, or ferns. Such a one would fall an easy prey to the Lo Aikanaka stalwarts, skilful in the art of the lua (to kill by breaking the bones).

This went on for some time, until the unaccountable disappearance of so many people began to be connected with the frequent entertainments by the southern chief. Oahunui’s subjects began to hint that their young King had acquired the taste for human flesh at these feasts, and that it was to gratify his unnatural appetite for the horrid dish that he paid his frequent visits to those who were his inferiors, contrary to all royal precedent.

The people’s disapproval of the intimacy of Oahunui with his new friends was expressed more and more openly, and the murmurs of discontent grew loud and deep. His chiefs and high priest became alarmed, and begged him to discontinue his visits, or they would not be answerable for the consequences. The King was thereby forced to heed their admonitions and promised to keep away from Lo’s, and did so for quite a while.

Now, all the male members of the royal family ate their meals with the King when he was at home. This included, among others, Lehuanui, his sister’s husband, and their two sons–healthy, chubby little lads of about eight and six years of age. One day after breakfast, as the roar of the surf at Waialua could be distinctly heard, the King remarked that the fish of Ukoa pond at Waialua must be pressing on to the makaha (floodgates) and he would like some aholehole.

This observation really meant a command to his brother-in-law to go and get the fish, as he was the highest chief present except his two royal nephews, too small to assume such duties.

Lehuanui, Kilikiliula’s husband, accordingly went to Waialua with a few of his own family retainers and a number of those belonging to the King. They found the fish packed thick at the makaha, and were soon busily engaged in scooping out, cleaning, and salting them. It was quite late at night when Lehuanui, fatigued with the labors of the day, lay down to rest. He had been asleep but a short time when he seemed to see his two sons standing by his head. The eldest spoke to him: “Why do you sleep, my father? While you are down here we are being eaten by your brother-in-law, the King. We were cooked and eaten up, and our skulls are now hanging in a net from a branch of the lehua-tree you are called after, and the rest of our bones are tied in a bundle and buried under the tree by the big root running to the setting sun.”

Then they seemed to fade away, and Lehuanui started up, shivering with fear. He hardly knew whether he had been dreaming or had actually seen an apparition of his little sons. He had no doubt they were dead, and as he remembered all the talk and innuendoes about the King’s supposed reasons for visiting the strangers and the enforced cessation of those visits at the urgent request of the high priest and the chiefs, he came to the conclusion that the King had expressed a desire for fish in his presence only to send him out of the way. He reasoned that no doubt the King had noticed the chubby forms and rounded limbs of the little lads, and being debarred a chance of partaking surreptitiously of human flesh, had compelled his servants to kill, cook, and serve up his own nephews. In satisfying his depraved appetite, he had also got rid of two who might become formidable rivals; for it was quite within the possibilities that the priests and chiefs in the near future, should he be suspected of a desire for a further indulgence in cannibal diet, might depose him, and proclaim either one of the young nephews his successor.

The father was so troubled that he aroused his immediate body servant, and the two left Waialua for home shortly after midnight. They arrived at the royal enclosure at dawn, and went first to the lehua-tree spoken of by the apparition of the child, and on looking up amid the branches, sure enough there dangled two little skulls in a large-meshed fishing-net. Lehuanui then stooped down and scraped away the leaves and loose dirt from the root indicated, and out rolled a bundle of tapa, which on being opened was found to contain the bones of two children. The father reached up for the net containing the skulls, and putting the bundle of tapa in it, tied the net around his neck. The servant stood by, a silent and grieved spectator of a scene whose meaning he fully understood.

The father procured a stone adze and went to the King’s sleeping-house, the servant still following. Here every one but an old woman tending the kukui-nut candle was asleep. Oahunui was stretched out on a pile of soft mats covered with his paiula, the royal red kapa of old. The cruel wretch had eaten to excess of the hateful dish he craved, and having accompanied it with copious draughts of awa juice, was in a heavy, drunken sleep.

Lehuanui stood over him, adze in hand, and called, “O King, where are my children?” The stupefied King only stirred uneasily, and would not, or could not, awake. Lehuanui called him three times, and the sight of the drunken brute, gorged with his flesh and blood, so enraged the father that he struck at Oahunui’s neck with his stone adze, and severed the head from the body at one blow.

The father and husband then strode to his own sleeping-house, where his wife lay asleep with their youngest child in her arms. He aroused her and asked for his boys. The mother could only weep, without answering. He upbraided her for her devotion to her brother, and for having tamely surrendered her children to satisfy the appetite of the inhuman monster. He reminded her that she had equal power with her brother, and that the latter was very unpopular, and had she chosen to resist his demands and called on the retainers to defend her children, the King would have been killed and her children saved.

He then informed her that, as she had given up his children to be killed for her brother, he had killed him in retaliation, and, saying, “You have preferred your brother to me and mine, so you will see no more of me and mine,” he tore the sleeping child from her arms and turned to leave the house.

The poor wife and mother followed, and, flinging herself on her husband, attempted to detain him by clinging to his knees; but the father, crazed by his loss and the thought of her greater affection for a cruel, inhuman brother than for her own children, struck at her with all his might, exclaiming, “Well, then, follow your brother,” and rushed away, followed by all his retainers.

Kilikiliula fell on the side of the stream opposite to where the lehua-tree stood, and is said to have turned to stone. The stone is pointed out to this day, balanced on the hillside of the ravine formed by the stream, and is one of the objects for the Hawaiian sightseer.

The headless body of Oahunui lay where he was killed, abandoned by every one. The story runs that in process of time it also turned to stone, as a witness to the anger of the gods and their detestation of his horrible crime. All the servants who had in any way been concerned, in obedience to royal mandate, in killing and cooking the young princes were, at the death of Kilikiliula, likewise turned to stone, just as they were, in the various positions of crouching, kneeling, or sitting. All the rest of the royal retainers, with the lesser chiefs and guards, fled in fear and disgust from the place, and thus the once sacred royal home of the Oahuan chiefs was abandoned and deserted.

The great god Kane’s curse, it is believed, still hangs over the desolate spot, in proof of which it is asserted that, although all this happened hundreds of years ago, no one has ever lived there since.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Waits of Bremen

An aging donkey, dog, cat, and rooster, abandoned by their masters, decide to become musicians in Bremen. On their journey, they discover a robbers’ house. Using their combined noises, they scare the robbers away and enjoy the spoils. When a robber returns, the animals defend their new home fiercely, ensuring the gang never comes back. Content with their victory, the four companions settle there happily ever after.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Quest: The animals embark on a journey to Bremen with the goal of becoming musicians.

Cunning and Deception: The animals cleverly devise a plan to scare away the robbers and claim the house for themselves.

Good vs. Evil: The story contrasts the virtuous animals seeking a new life with the malicious robbers they encounter.

From the lore

Learn more about German Folklore

An honest farmer had once an ass that had been a faithful hard-working slave to him for a great many years, but was now growing old, and every day more and more unfit for work. His master therefore was tired of keeping him to live at ease like a gentleman, and so began to think of putting an end to him. The ass, who was a shrewd hand, saw that some mischief was in the wind, so he took himself slily off, and began his journey towards Bremen. “There,” thought he to himself, “as I have a good voice, I may chance to be chosen town musician.”

After he had travelled a little way, he spied a dog lying by the roadside, and panting as if very tired.

► Continue reading…

“What makes you pant so, my friend?” said the ass.

“Alas!” said the dog, “my master was going to knock me on the head, because I am old and weak, and can no longer make myself useful to him in hunting, so I ran away. But what can I do to earn my livelihood?”

“Hark ye,” said the ass, “I am going to Bremen to turn musician. Come with me, and try what you can do in the same way.”

The dog said he was willing, and on they went.

They had not gone far before they saw a cat sitting in the middle of the road, with tears in her eyes, and making a most rueful face.

“Pray, my good lady,” said the ass, “what’s the matter with you? You look quite out of spirits.”

“Ah, me!” said the cat. “How can a body be in good spirits when one’s life is in danger? Because I am beginning to grow old, and had rather lie at my ease before the fire than run about the house after the mice, my mistress laid hold of me, and was going to drown me, and though I have been lucky enough to get away from her, I know not how I am to live.”

“Oh!” said the ass, “by all means go with us to Bremen. You are a good night-singer, and may make your fortune as one of the waits.”

The cat was pleased with the thought, and joined the party. Soon afterwards, as they were passing by a farmyard, they saw a cock perched upon a gate, screaming out with all his might and main.

“Bravo!” said the ass. “Upon my word, you make a famous noise. Pray, what is all this about?”

“Why,” said the cock, “I was just now telling all our neighbours that we were to have fine weather for our washing-day; and yet my mistress and the cook don’t thank me for my pains, but threaten to cut my head off to-morrow, and make broth of me for the guests that are coming on Sunday.”

“Heaven forbid!” said the ass. “Come with us. Anything will be better than staying here. Besides, who knows, if we take care to sing in tune, we may get up a concert of our own, so come along with us.”

“With all my heart,” replied the cock; so they all four went on jollily together towards Bremen.

They could not, however, reach the town the first day, so when night came on they turned off the high-road into a wood to sleep. The ass and the dog laid themselves down under a great tree, and the cat climbed up into the branches; while the cock, thinking that the higher he sat the safer he should be, flew up to the very top of the tree, and then, according to his custom, before he sounded his trumpet and went to sleep, looked out on all sides to see that everything was well. In doing this he saw afar off something bright, and calling to his companions, said–

“There must be a house no great way off, for I see a light.”

“If that be the case,” replied the ass, “we had better change our quarters, for our lodging here is not the best in the world.”

“Besides,” said the dog, “I should not be the worse for a bone or two.”

“And may be,” remarked the cat, “a stray mouse will be found somewhere about the premises.”

So they walked off together towards the spot where the cock had seen the light; and as they drew near, it became larger and brighter, till they came at last to a lonely house, in which was a gang of robbers.

The ass, being the tallest of the company, marched up to the window and peeped in.

“Well,” said the cock, “what do you see?”

“What do I see?” replied the ass. “Why, I see a table spread with all kinds of good things, and robbers sitting round it making merry.”

“That would be a noble lodging for us,” said the cock.

“Yes,” rejoined the ass, “if we could only get in.”

They laid their heads together to see how they could get the robbers out, and at last they hit upon a plan. The ass set himself upright on his hind-legs, with his fore-feet resting on the window; the dog got upon his back; the cat scrambled up to the dog’s shoulders, and the cock flew up and sat upon the cat. When all were ready the cock gave the signal, and up struck the whole band of music. The ass brayed, the dog barked, the cat mewed, and the cock crew. Then they all broke through the window at once, and came tumbling into the room amongst the broken glass, with a hideous clatter. The robbers, who had been not a little frightened by the opening concert, had now no doubt that some frightful hobgoblins had broken in upon them, and scampered away as fast as they could.

The coast once clear, the travellers soon sat down and despatched what the robbers had left, with as much eagerness as if they had not hoped to eat again for a month. As soon as they had had enough they put out the lights, and each once more sought out a resting-place to his liking. The donkey laid himself down upon a heap of straw in the yard; the dog stretched himself upon a mat behind the door; the cat rolled herself up on the hearth before the warm ashes; the cock perched upon a beam on the top of the house; and as all were rather tired with their journey, they soon fell fast asleep.

About midnight, however, when the robbers saw from afar that the lights were out and that all was quiet, they began to think that they had been in too great a hurry to run away; and one of them, who was bolder than the rest, went to see what was going on. Finding everything still, he marched into the kitchen, and groped about till he found a match in order to light a candle. Espying the glittering fiery eyes of the cat, he mistook them for live coals, and held the match to them to light it. The cat, however, not understanding such a joke, sprang at his face, and spat, and scratched him. This frightened him dreadfully, and away he ran to the back door, where the dog jumped up and bit him in the leg. As he was crossing over the yard the ass kicked him; and the cock, who had been awakened by the noise, crew with all his might.

At this the robber ran back as fast as he could to his comrades, and told the captain that a horrid witch had got into the house, and had scratched his face with her long bony fingers–that a man with a knife in his hand had hidden himself behind the door, and stabbed him in the leg–that a black monster stood in the yard and struck him with a club–and that the devil sat upon the top of the house, and cried out–

“Throw the rascal up here!” After this the robbers never dared to go back to the house; but the musicians were so pleased with their quarters, that they never found their way to Bremen, but took up their abode in the wood. And there they live, I dare say, to this very day.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Mouse Tower

The tale of Bishop Hatto II, Archbishop of Mentz, recounts a chilling legend of cruelty and divine retribution. During a famine, Hatto lured starving peasants into a barn, burned them alive, and mocked their cries. As punishment, an endless swarm of mice haunted him, pursuing him even to a secluded tower on the Rhine, where they ultimately consumed him, fulfilling Heaven’s vengeance.

Source
Folk-lore and Legends: German
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press
W.W. Gibbings, London, 1892

► Themes of the story

Divine Punishment: Bishop Hatto’s cruel actions lead to a supernatural retribution, where the swarm of mice serves as an instrument of divine justice.

Good vs. Evil: The narrative highlights the moral dichotomy between the bishop’s malevolent deeds and the righteous retribution that follows.

Cunning and Deception: The bishop’s deceitful tactic of luring peasants with the promise of food only to betray them showcases the use of cunning for malicious purposes.

From the lore

Learn more about German Folklore

To the traveller who has traversed the delightful environs of the Rhine, from the city of Mentz as far as Coblentz, or from the clear waves of this old Germanic stream gazed upon the grand creations of Nature, all upon so magnificent a scale, the appearance of the old decayed tower which forms the subject of the ensuing tradition forms no uninteresting object. It rises before him as he mounts the Rhine from the little island below Bingen, toward the left shore. He listens to the old shipmaster as he relates with earnest tone the wonderful story of the tower, and, shuddering at the description of the frightful punishment of priestly pride and cruelty, exclaims in strong emotion: “The Lord be with us!”

► Continue reading…

For, as the saying runs, it was about the year of Our Lord 968, when Hatto II., Duke of the Ostro-franks, surnamed Bonosus, Abbot of Fulda, a man of singular skill and great spiritual endowments, was elected Archbishop of Mentz. He was also a harsh man, and being extremely avaricious, heaped up treasure which he guarded with the utmost care.

It so happened, under his spiritual sway, that a cruel famine began to prevail in the city of Mentz and its adjacent parts, insomuch that in a short time numbers of the poorer people fell victims to utter want. Crowds of wretches were to be seen assembled before the Archbishop’s palace in the act of beseeching with cries and prayers for some mitigation of their heavy lot.

But their harsh lord refused to afford relief out of his own substance, reproaching them at the same time as the authors of their own calamity by their indolence and want of economy. But the poor souls were mad for food, and in frightful and threatening accents cried out–

“Bread, bread!”

Fearing the result, Bishop Hatto ordered a vast number of hungry souls to range themselves in order in one of his empty barns under the pretence of supplying them with provisions. Then, having closed the doors, he commanded his minions to fire the place, in which all fell victims to the flames. When he heard the death shouts and shrieks of the unhappy poor, turning towards the menial parasites who abetted his crime he said–

“Hark you! how the mice squeak!”

But Heaven that witnessed the deed did not permit its vengeance to sleep. A strange and unheard of death was preparing to loose its terrors upon the sacrilegious prelate. For behold, there arose out of the yet warm ashes of the dead an innumerable throng of mice which were seen to approach the Bishop, and to follow him whithersoever he went. At length he flew into one of his steepest and highest towers, but the mice climbed over the walls. He closed every door and window, yet after him they came, piercing their way through the smallest nooks and crannies of the building. They poured in upon him, and covered him from head to foot, in numberless heaps. They bit, they scratched, they tortured his flesh, till they nearly devoured him. So great was the throng that the more his domestics sought to beat them off, the more keen and savagely, with increased numbers, did they return to the charge. Even where his name was found placed upon the walls and tapestries they gnawed it in their rage away.

In this frightful predicament the Bishop, finding that he could obtain no help on land, bethought of taking himself to the water. A tower was hastily erected upon the Rhine. He took ship and shut himself up there. Enclosed within double walls, and surrounded by water, he flattered himself that the rushing stream would effectually check the rage of his enemies. Here too, however, the vengeance of offended Heaven gave them entrance. Myriads of mice took to the stream, and swam and swam, and though myriads of them were swept away, an innumerable throng still reached the spot. Again they climbed and clattered up the walls. The Bishop heard their approach. It was his last retreat. They rushed in upon him with more irresistible fury than before, and, amidst stifled cries of protracted suffering, Bishop Hatto at length rendered up his cruel and avaricious soul.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page