Tag: 05. Transformation

Physical, emotional, or spiritual changes

A Wonderful Story

Ajít, the incredibly strong daughter of a wrestler, astounds others with her feats, including sweeping away elephants and carrying houses. When a rival wrestler challenges her father, Ajít’s strength deters him. Her power escalates as she defeats the Nabha Rájá, taking over his kingdom. Ajít becomes the queen of a rich land, living happily and showcasing her unmatched strength and resourcefulness.

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

► Themes of the story

Hero’s Journey: Ajít embarks on a transformative adventure, showcasing her exceptional strength and ultimately becoming the queen of a rich land.

Transformation: The narrative highlights physical feats, such as Ajít sweeping away elephants and carrying houses, emphasizing extraordinary physical transformations.

Trials and Tribulations: Throughout the story, Ajít faces and overcomes various challenges, demonstrating her resilience and strength.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Karím, 13th January, 1877

Once there lived two wrestlers, who were both very very strong. The stronger of the two had a daughter called Ajít; the other had no daughter at all. These wrestlers did not live in the same country, but their two villages were not far apart.

One day the wrestler that had no daughter heard of the wrestler that had a daughter, and he determined to go and find him and wrestle with him, to see who was the stronger. He went therefore to Ajít’s father’s country, and when he arrived at his house, he knocked at the door and said, “Is any one here?” Ajít answered, “Yes, I am here;” and she came out.

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“Where is the wrestler who lives in this house?” he asked. “My father,” answered Ajít, “has taken three hundred carts to the jungle, and he is drawing them himself, as he could not get enough bullocks and horses to pull them along. He is gone to get wood.” This astonished the wrestler very much. “Your father must indeed be very strong,” he said.

Then he set off to the jungle, and in the jungle he found two dead elephants. He tied them to the two ends of a pole, took the pole on his shoulder, and returned to Ajít’s house. There he knocked at the door, crying, “Is any one here?” “Yes, I am here,” said Ajít. “Has your father come back?” asked the wrestler. “Not yet,” said Ajít, who was busy sweeping the room. Now, her father had twelve elephants. Eleven were in the stables, but one was lying dead in the room Ajít was sweeping; and as she swept, she swept the dead elephant without any trouble out of the door. This frightened the wrestler. “What a strong girl this is!” he said to himself. When Ajít had swept all the dust out of the room, she came and gathered it and the dead elephant up, and threw dust and elephant away. The wrestler was more and more astonished.

He set off again to find Ajít’s father, and met him pulling the three hundred carts along. At this he was still more alarmed, but he said to him, “Will you wrestle with me now?” “No,” said Ajít’s father, “I won’t; for here there is no one to see us.” The other again begged him to wrestle at once, and at that moment an old woman bent with age came by. She was carrying bread to her son, who had taken his mother’s three or four thousand camels to browse.

The first wrestler called to her at once, “Come and see us wrestle.” “No,” said the old woman, “for I must take my son his dinner. He is very hungry.” “No, no; you must stay and see us wrestle,” cried both the wrestlers. “I cannot stay,” she said; “but do one of you stand on one of my hands, and the other on the other, and then you can wrestle as we go along.” “You carry us!” cried the men. “You are so old, you will never be able to carry us.” “Indeed I shall,” said the old woman. So they got up on her hands, and she rested her hands, with the wrestlers standing on them, on her shoulders; and her son’s flour-cakes she put on her head. Thus they went on their way, and the men wrestled as they went.

Now the old woman had told her son that if he did not do his work well, she would bring men to kill him; so he was dreadfully frightened when he saw his mother coming with the wrestlers. “Here is my mother coming to kill me,” he said: and he tied up the three or four thousand camels in his cloth, put them all on his head, and ran off with them as fast as he could. “Stop, stop!” cried his mother, when she saw him running away. But he only ran on still faster, and the old woman and the wrestlers ran after him.

Just then a kite was flying about, and the kite said to itself, “There must be some meat in that man’s cloth,” so it swept down and carried off the bundle of camels. The old woman’s son at this sat down and cried.

The wrestlers soon came up to him and said, “What are you crying for?” “Oh,” answered the boy, “my mother said that if I did not do my work, she would bring men to kill me. So, when I saw you coming with her, I tied all the camels up in my cloth, put them on my head, and ran off. A kite came down and carried them all away. That is why I am crying.” The wrestlers were much astonished at the boy’s strength and at the kite’s strength, and they all three set off in the direction in which the kite had flown.

Meanwhile the kite had flown on and on till it had reached another country, and the daughter of the Rájá of this country was sitting on the roof of the palace, combing her long black hair. The princess looked up at the kite and the bundle, and said, “There must be meat in that bundle.” At that moment the kite let the bundle of camels fall, and it fell into the princess’s eye, and went deep into it; but her eye was so large that it did not hurt her much. “Oh, mother! mother!” she cried, “something has fallen into my eye! come and take it out.” Her mother rushed up, took the bundle of camels out of the princess’s eye, and shoved the bundle into her pocket.

The wrestlers and the old woman’s son now came up, having seen all that had happened. “Where is the bundle of camels?” said they, “and why do you cry?” they asked the princess. “Oh,” said her mother, “she is crying because something fell into her eye.” “It was the bundle of camels that fell into her eye, and the bundle is in your pocket,” said the old woman’s son to the Rání: and he put his hand into her pocket and pulled out the bundle. Then he and the wrestlers went back to Ajít’s father’s house, and on the way they met his old mother, who went with them.

They invited a great many people to dinner, and Ajít took a large quantity of flour and made it into flat cakes. Then she handed a cake to the wrestler who had come to see her father, and gave one to everybody else. “I can’t eat such a big cake as this,” said the wrestler. “Can’t you?” said Ajít. “I can’t indeed,” he answered; “it is much too big.” “Then I will eat it myself,” said Ajít, and taking it and all the other cakes she popped them into her mouth together. “That is not half enough for me,” she said. Then she offered him a can of water. “I cannot drink all that water,” he said. “Can’t you?” said Ajít; “I can drink much more than that.” So she filled a large tub with water, lifted it to her mouth, and drank it all up at a draught.

The wrestler was very much astonished, and said to her, “Will you come to my house? I will give you a dinner.” “You will never be able to give me enough to eat and drink,” said Ajít. “Yes, I shall,” he said. “You will not be able to give me enough, I am sure,” said Ajít; “I cannot come.” “Do come,” he said. “Very well,” she answered, “I will come; but I know you will never be able to give me enough food.”

So they set off to his house. But when they had gone a little way, she said, “I must have my house with me.” “I cannot carry your house,” said the wrestler. “You must,” said Ajít, “if you don’t, I cannot go with you.” “But I cannot carry your house,” said the wrestler. “Well, then,” said Ajít, “I will carry it myself.” So she went back, dug up her house, and hoisted it on her head. This frightened the wrestler. “What a strong woman she must be!” he thought. “I will not wrestle with her father; for if I do, he will kill me.”

Then they all went on till they came to his house. When they got to it, Ajít set her house down on the ground, and the wrestler went to get the dinner he had promised her. He brought quantities of things–all sorts of things–everything he could think of. Three kinds of flour, milk, dhall, rice, curries, and meat. Then he showed them all to Ajít. “That is not enough for my dinner,” she said. “Why, that would be hardly enough for my mice!”

The wrestler wondered very much at this, and asked, “Are your mice so very big?” “Yes, they are very big,” she answered; “come and see.” So he took up all the food he had brought, and laid it on the floor of Ajít’s house. Then at once all the mice came and ate it up every bit. The wrestler was greatly surprised; and Ajít said, “Did I not tell you true? and did I not tell you, you would never be able to get me enough to eat?” “Come to the Nabha Rájá’s country,” said the wrestler. “There you will surely get enough to eat.”

To this she agreed; so she, her father, and the wrestler went off to the Nabha Rájá’s country. “I have brought a very strong girl,” said the wrestler to the Nabha Rájá. “I will try her strength,” said the Rájá. “Give me three elephants,” said Ajít, “and I will carry them for you.” Then the Rájá sent for three elephants, and said to her, “Now, carry these.” “Give me a rope,” said Ajít. So they gave her a rope, and she tied the three elephants together, and flung them over her shoulder. “Now, where shall I throw them?” she said to the astonished Rájá. “Shall I throw them on to the roof of your palace? or on to the ground? or away out there?” “I don’t know,” said the Rájá. “Throw them upon my roof.” She threw the elephants up on to the roof with such force that it broke, and the elephants fell through into the palace.

“What have you done?” cried the Rájá. “It is not my fault,” answered Ajít. “You told me to throw the elephants on to your roof, and so I did.” Then the Rájá sent for a great many men and bullocks and horses to pull the elephants out of his palace. But they could not the first time they pulled; then they tried a second time and succeeded, and they threw the elephants away.

Then Ajít went home. “What shall I do with this dreadful woman?” said the Nabha Rájá. “She is sure to kill me, and take all my country. I will try to kill her.” So he got his sepoys and guns into order, and went out to kill Ajít. She was looking out of her window, and saw them coming. “Oh,” she said, “here is the Nabha Rájá coming to kill me.” Then she went out of her house and asked him why he had come. “To kill you,” said the Rájá. “Is that what you want to do?” she said; and with one hand she took up the Rájá, his guns, and his sepoys, and put them all under her arm: and she carried them all off to the Nabha Rájá’s country. There she put the Rájá into prison, and made herself Rání of his kingdom. She was very much pleased at being Rání of the Nabha country; for it was a rich country, and there were quantities of fruits and of corn in it. And she lived happily for a long, long time.

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How King Burtal Became a Fakír

King Burtal, a ruler saddened by childlessness, undergoes a transformative journey, seeking spiritual enlightenment under Fakír Goraknáth. Through 36 years of trials in jungles, villages, and self-denial, Burtal gains divine favor. He returns to his kingdom with 160 sons, including the radiant Prince Sazádá, who marries a fairy princess. Goraknáth, instrumental in Burtal’s redemption, unites the family, leaving behind prosperity and joy.

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

► Themes of the story

Transformation: King Burtal undergoes a profound change from a monarch to a fakír, embracing a life of spirituality and self-denial.

Quest: The king embarks on a journey seeking spiritual enlightenment and the blessing of children, demonstrating his dedication to achieving his goals.

Divine Intervention: The narrative features the fakír Goraknáth invoking divine power to resurrect the antelope, highlighting the influence of higher powers in mortal affairs.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

Once there was a great king called Burtal, and he had a hundred and sixty wives, but he had no children, which made him sad. One day he said to his wives, “I am going to a very distant jungle which is full of antelopes, to hunt them.” “Very well,” they answered, “go.” So he went. In that jungle lived neither tigers nor men, but only antelopes. When King Burtal reached the jungle, some of the antelopes came to him and said, “Pray don’t kill the black antelope, for he is our Rájá, and we have no other antelope like him among us; but try to kill any of the others–the brown or the yellow antelopes–that you choose.”

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Now, the king was not a kind man, and he said, “I will kill your black antelope, and no other.” So he shot him dead. When the other antelopes saw this they began to scream and cry with sorrow. But the dead antelope’s wife said to them, “There is a holy man, a fakír, in the jungle. Let us take the dead body to him and ask him to bring our Rájá to life.” And King Burtal laughed at them and said, “How can any man bring a dead antelope to life?” But the antelopes took the body of their dead Rájá on their backs, and the dead antelope’s wife went at their head; and King Burtal went too; and they carried it to the fakír, who was called Goraknáth, and who was resting in the jungle, and they said to him, “Bring our Rájá to life again, for what can we do without a Rájá? and he has left no son to succeed him.” And the queen antelope said, “I have no other husband. I had only this one husband. Do bring him to life for me.” King Burtal laughed and mocked them, and said to the fakír, “I never heard of any man being able to bring a dead antelope to life. I don’t believe you can do it.” At this Goraknáth got angry, and he knelt down and asked God to bring the antelope to life; and God told him to take a wand and beat the dead antelope with it, and then the antelope would be alive again. So Goraknáth took a wand and beat the dead antelope, and it was alive once more, and then it instantly sprang up into heaven. The antelopes were delighted to see their Rájá alive again, and they said, “We do not mind his going up to heaven, for he will come down again to us.”

King Burtal had stood by all the time, and he said to Goraknáth, “Make me a fakír like yourself,” for he thought it would be fine to do such wonderful things. But Goraknáth would not, and King Burtal stayed in the jungle with Goraknáth for twelve years, and all that time he never ceased begging and praying to be made a fakír, till at last Goraknáth said, “I cannot make you a fakír unless you go home and address your wives as ‘Mamma,’ and ask them to give you money and food.” Now, it is a very shameful thing to call one’s wife ‘Mamma,’ for if a wife is called ‘Mamma’ she has to leave her husband. Then Goraknáth took off the king’s clothes, and dressed him only in a cloth and a tiger’s skin; and the king went to his palace and began begging for rice and food, and he would not take any from the palace servants: he said he must and would see the Ránís, and that they themselves should give him food. The servants told the Ránís about this fakír who said he must and would see them himself, and that they should give him food and rice with their own hands, and one of their ayahs, who had recognized King Burtal, told them the fakír was their husband who had been away twelve years. The Ránís cried out, “Do not talk nonsense. That fakír can never be our husband.” “Go and see for yourselves,” answered the ayah. They went, and the fakír said to them, “Mamma, give me rice.” “Why do you call us ‘Mamma’?” they said. “We have no sons. You are not our son.” But at last they saw he was indeed their husband, and they wrung their hands and wept bitterly, and threw themselves on the ground before him and said, “Why have you called us ‘Mamma’? Why do you ask for bread? We must now leave you.” “Don’t go away,” said the king. “Take my kingdom, my money, my houses, and stay here till I return. I am going to be a fakír.” His wives gave him some rice and some money, and he went back to Goraknáth.

In old days men who intended to become fakírs had to do three tasks set them by one who was already a fakír; so Goraknáth said to the king, “Now you must go to a jungle that I will show you, and stay there for twelve years.” Then King Burtal took the flat pan and the rolling-pin which he used in making his flour cakes, and was quite ready to start for the jungle, but the fakír stopped him. “You must leave your pan and your rolling-pin behind,” he said; “and all these twelve years you must neither eat nor drink, or you can never be a fakír. You must sit quite still on the same spot and never move.” “I shall die if I don’t eat,” said the king; “but I don’t care if I do die, so I will do all you tell me.” Then the fakír took him to a jungle, and made him sit down on the grass, and instantly all the grass round him grew up so tall and thick that King Burtal was quite hidden by it, and no one could see him. Here he lived for twelve years, and never moved, and he ate nothing, and drank nothing, and nobody knew he was there.

At the end of that time Goraknáth came and took him away and said, “Now go home to your wives.” “Why should I go to my wives? I do not wish to see my wives, for they have given me no children,” said King Burtal. But Goraknáth said, “Go and see them.” So King Burtal went; and he begged for rice from them; and they entreated him to stay with them, but he would not. “I will return to the fakír Goraknáth,” he said. “Why should I stay with you? You have never given me a child. What use is all my wealth to me? I have no son to take it when I am dead. I will become a fakír.” And they threw themselves on the ground and wrung their hands, and said, “Oh, why will you leave us?” He answered, “Because it pleases me to do so.” And he called them all “Mamma,” and told them to stay in his palace and take all he possessed for their own use. Then he returned to Goraknáth.

“Now,” said Goraknáth, “you must learn to be sweeper to all the beasts of the jungle, and you must serve them for twelve years.” So for twelve years King Burtal cleared the grass and kept the jungle clean for all the creatures in it–cows, sheep, goats, tigers, cats, bears. Sometimes he stayed in one part of the jungle, and sometimes in another.

When the twelve years were over he went to Goraknáth, who said to him, “Good; you have learnt to serve the wild beasts; now you must learn to serve men.” Then the fakír took the king to a village, and bade him sweep it and keep it clean for twelve years. Here King Burtal stayed for another twelve years, and all that time he was the village-sweeper and kept the village clean, and he swept all the dust and dirt into a great heap till the heap was as high and as big as a hut.

When the twelve years were over he returned to Goraknáth and stood before him, and as he stood there came a man who was an angel sent by God, and he threw some dirt on King Burtal’s head; but the king never moved nor spoke. “Now,” cried Goraknáth, “I see you are a true fakír: go and cleanse yourself by bathing in the river.”

The river in which he was sent to bathe was the Jamná. In this river lived water-nymphs, and the nymph Gangá was playing in it when her sister Jamná [Yamuná] came to her and said, “Come quickly; our father is dying and wants to see you;” and off Jamná went to her father. Gangá was hurrying after her when King Burtal saw her, and stopped her, and asked her where she was going so fast. “To my father, who is very ill and dying,” said Gangá; “let me go.” “I will not let you go,” said King Burtal. Then Gangá began to run, and said, “You cannot keep me, you cannot catch me; no man can catch me, no man can keep me.” This provoked King Burtal, and he said, “I can catch you, and I can keep you.” “No, no,” she answered; “no one can catch me, no one can hold me.” Then King Burtal got quite vexed, and he ran till he caught her, and then he said, “Now, I will not let you go; I will keep you.” Then he held her in his hands and rubbed her between his palms, and when he opened his hands she had turned into a little round ball. He tried to hide the ball in his hair, but could not, for his hair was too short, and he found he could not hold Gangá, as she was too strong for him; so he thought he would take her to Mahádeo,[Mahadeva, i.e. Siva] who had long thick hair, and make him keep her, for King Burtal was dreadfully frightened and did not dare let the ball go, for fear Gangá, who he knew was very angry, should take her own form and bring a great flood to drown him. So he went quickly to Mahádeo, and gave the ball to him. Mahádeo said, “Why not keep her yourself?” “I cannot,” said King Burtal, “for my hair is too short to tie her into; and I cannot hold her, for she is too strong for me; but your hair is long, and so you can hide her in it.” Then Mahádeo had a round box made of bamboo, and in this box was a hole into which he dropped the ball. And he let down his long hair, and it reached to the ground, and was thick–so thick; he put the box in his hair on the top of his head, and rolled his long hair all round his head and over the box just like a turban.

Jamná finding her sister did not follow her, came up from the bottom of the river to look for her, and she asked whether any one had seen her, and at last some one said, “King Burtal has taken her away.” Jamná set off to King Burtal and said, “Give me my sister Gangá, for our father is dying and wants to see her.” “It is true that I took her away,” said King Burtal, “but I have not got her now; she is with Mahádeo.” So Jamná went to Mahádeo,–“Give me my sister quickly, for our father is dying and wants to see her.” (Now Gangá was in a great passion inside her box.) “I cannot give you Gangá,” said Mahádeo, “for she is so angry that if I let her loose she will flood the country with water.” “No, she will not; indeed, she will not,” said Jamná. “If I give her to you, you will not be able to keep her,” said Mahádeo. “Yes, yes, I shall,” said Jamná. “I do not think you will,” said Mahádeo; “but here is the box in which said is. Hold it tight, and be careful that neither you nor any one else mentions her name on the journey.” Jamná said she would be very careful, and took the box; but she had to pass through a jungle in which were a number of cowherds and holy men, one of whom was called Gangá. Just as Jamná passed by, one of these men called to this man by his name, Gangá, and instantly Gangá burst the box and flooded the country with water. The holy men and the cowherd called to her to have pity on them, and so did Jamná; but Gangá was too angry to listen to them or speak to them, so she drowned all the holy men and the cowherds, and when she got to her father’s house and found he was dead, she was in such a rage that she declared she would send a still greater flood to ruin the country; and so she did.

After this, King Burtal went to Goraknáth and stayed with him some years, till Goraknáth said, “Now go to your own kingdom.” But King Burtal refused, saying, “I wish to stay with you; my wives have never given me a child. I have no son. I do not care to return to my kingdom.” However, Goraknáth would not allow him to stay. “Go to your own kingdom,” he said again; “but first tell me how many wives you have.” “A hundred and sixty,” answered the King. “Here are a hundred and sixty líchí fruits for you,” said the fakír. “Give one to each of your wives to eat, and they will each have a son, and I will go with you.” So King Burtal obeyed, and Goraknáth went with him.

Seventy years had passed since King Burtal had left his kingdom. When he and Goraknáth reached it, they went to an open plain and made a fire and sat down beside it. Everybody who passed them said, “Who are these fakírs?” Some servants of King Burtal’s Ránís passed too, and when they got home they told the Ránís that their husband had returned to his kingdom. But the Ránís said, “What nonsense you talk! King Burtal went away with the fakír Goraknáth.” The servants answered, “We are quite sure that King Burtal is here, for Goraknáth is here, and with him is another man, and we are sure this man is King Burtal.” So all the Ránís went to see for themselves, and when they saw the fakír that was with Goraknáth they knew he was their husband. Then the first Rání, who was very angry with him for having left them, said a spell over him: “God is very angry with you for leaving us, and he will send you a bad illness.” But King Burtal answered, “Do not be angry with me. I am your husband, and have come back to you after an absence of seventy years.” At this the youngest Rání was very glad, and she ordered drums to be beaten and she beat a drum herself, and they sang songs, and all went to the palace together, and Goraknáth with them.

Then Goraknáth said he must now go away, but first he asked King Burtal to show him a grand feat as a proof of his skill. So King Burtal sent to the smith for a great iron chain. Then he lit a big fire. This alarmed the palace servants, who wondered if he were going to burn his palace and his wives. King Burtal next sent for some ghee. “What is he going to do with the ghee?” said the palace servants. Then he drove a nail into the wall, rubbed his hands with the ghee, put the iron chain into the fire and drew it out red-hot; flames came from the iron. Then King Burtal hung it on the nail and pulled and pulled at the chain till he drew it off the nail, and his hands were not in the least burnt. The Ránís and palace servants were greatly astonished and Goraknáth much pleased. “You know how to do your work well,” said he to the king. Then Goraknáth bade him good bye, telling him to look after his kingdom and his wives; but they all said he must not leave them, and they built him a grand house in the compound, and gave him a great many servants to wait on him, and plenty of money; so Goraknáth agreed to live in this house; only, as he was a fakír, he often went away by himself to spend some time in his jungle, always returning to his house in King Burtal’s compound. Meanwhile King Burtal gave each of his wives a líchí to eat, and after a little while each wife had a little son. They were all such beautiful children; but the biggest and handsomest of all was the eldest Rání’s little son. His name was Sazádá, and his father and mother loved him dearly.

When Prince Sazádá was about six or seven years old, the fakír Goraknáth came to King Burtal and said, “Now you must give me your son Sazádá, for I want to take him away with me for some years.” The Rání, his mother, refused to let him go, but at last she had to do so, and then she became mad and very sick for grief.

Goraknáth took the little prince to Indrásan to be taught by the fairies, and on arriving he married him to Jahúr Rání, who was the daughter of the greatest of the fairy queens. Goraknáth made a grand wedding for the little prince, and all the fairies were delighted that he should be the little Jahúr Rání’s husband, for he was such a beautiful child they all fell in love with him the moment they saw him, and they taught him to play on all kinds of instruments, and to sing beautifully, and to read and write, and he grew handsomer and handsomer every day in the fairy kingdom. Goraknáth came often to see him, and the fairies took great care of him.

When Prince Sazádá had grown a fine strong young man, Goraknáth took him and his wife, the Jahúr Rání, and brought them in great state to King Burtal’s kingdom. First he took the young prince and presented him to his father and said, “See, here is your son. Now he can read and write, sing and play on all kinds of instruments, for I have had him taught all these things.” But they, when they saw him, fell on their faces, for they could not look at him on account of his great beauty. He had grown so handsome in Indrásan, and his cheeks were red. “How can this beautiful boy be our son?” they said, and they did not recognize him. “Stand up,” said Goraknáth. “This is your son Sazádá; do not fall down before your son.” So they stood up, and the fakír said, “I have married your son to the fairy princess Jahúr Rání, and I will bring her to you.” So then he brought the little Rání, and when they saw her they fell down again, for they could not look at her beauty. Her hair was like red gold, her eyes were dark, and her eyelashes black. But Goraknáth made them stand up; and when they really understood it was their son and his wife that he had brought them, they took Prince Sazádá into their arms, and kissed him and loved him, and his Rání too. Goraknáth made a grand wedding-feast for them all, and they were all very happy.

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 Monkey Prince

Jabhú Rájá, a childless king, meets a fakír who gives him mangoes to share with his seven wives. The youngest wife, denied a mango, eats a discarded seed and gives birth to Prince Monkey, who hides his human form under a monkey-skin. Overcoming trials and revealing his true identity, Prince Monkey wins a princess, reconciles with his family, and brings joy to the kingdom.

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

► Themes of the story

Transformation: Prince Monkey conceals his human form beneath a monkey skin, ultimately revealing his true identity.

Quest: Prince Monkey embarks on a journey to win Princess Jahúran by attempting to throw the heavy iron ball, as decreed by her father, King Jamársá.

Family Dynamics: The narrative explores the relationships between Prince Monkey, his six brothers who despise him, and his mother, who is unaware of his true nature.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

Once upon a time there was a Rájá called Jabhú Rájá, and he had a great many wives; at least he had seven wives, but he had no children. Although he had married seven wives, not one of them had given him a child.

At this he was greatly vexed and said, “I have married seven wives, and not one of them has given me a child.” And he got very angry with God: he said, “Why doesn’t God give me any children? I will go into the jungle and die by myself.” The Ránís coaxed him to stay, but he wouldn’t; he would go out into the jungle.

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So he went out into the jungle very far, and God sent him an old fakír leaning on a stick. The Rájá met him, and the fakír said, “Why do you come into the jungle? If you go far into the jungle you will meet plenty of tigers, and they will eat you. Tell me what you want. Whatever you want I will give you.” “No, I won’t tell you,” said the Rájá. But at last the Rájá told him, “I have seven wives, and none of them has given me any children, and so here I will die by myself.” Then the fakír said, “Take this stick, and a little way off you will find a mango-tree with some mangoes on it. Throw the stick at the mangoes with one hand, and catch them as they fall with the other, and when you have caught them all, take them home and give one to each of your seven wives.” So the Rájá went and knocked the mangoes off the tree and caught them as the fakír had told him. Then he looked about for the fakír, but he could not find him, for he had gone away into another part of the jungle. So he went home and gave the seven mangoes to his wives. But the fruit was so good that six of the wives ate it up, and would not give the youngest wife any. She cried very much, and went into the compound and picked up one of the mango stones which one of the six wives had thrown away, and ate it. By and by each of the six wives had a son; but the one who had eaten the stone had a monkey, who was called in consequence Bandarsábásá, or Prince Monkey. He was really a boy, but no one knew it, for he had a monkey-skin covering him. His six brothers hated him. They went to school every day; and the monkey went under the ground, and was taught by the fairies. His mother did not know this; she thought, as he was a monkey, he went to the jungle and swung in the trees. He was the best and the cleverest of all the boys.

Now, in a kingdom a three months’ journey off by land from Jabhú Rájá’s country, there lived a king called King Jamársá. He had a very beautiful daughter whose name was Princess Jahúran, and as her father wanted a very strong son-in-law, he had a large heavy iron ball made, and he sent letters to all the Rájás and Rájás’ sons far and near to say that whoever wished to marry his daughter, the Princess Jahúran, must be able to throw this heavy ball at her and hit her. So many Rájás went to try, but none of them could even lift the ball. Now, one of these letters had come to Jabhú Rájá, and his six elder sons determined they would go to King Jamársá’s country, for each of them was sure he could throw the ball, and win the princess.

Prince Monkey laughed softly and said to himself, “I will go and try too. I know I shall succeed.”

Off, therefore, the six brothers set on their long journey, and the monkey followed them; but before he did so, he went into the jungle and took off his monkey-skin, and God sent him a beautiful horse and beautiful clothes. Then he followed his brothers and overtook them, and gave them betel-leaf and lovely flowers. “What a beautiful boy!” they said. “Who is it owns such a beautiful boy? He must be some Rájá’s son.” Then he galloped quickly away, took off his grand clothes and put them on his horse, and the horse rose into the air. He put on his monkey-skin and followed his brothers.

When they reached King Jamársá’s palace they pitched their tents in his compound, which was very big. Every evening the princess used to stand in her verandah and let down her long golden hair so that it fell all round her, and then the Rájás who wished to marry her had to try to hit her with the great heavy ball that lay on the ground just in front of where she stood.

King Jamársá’s house had more than one storey, and you had to go upstairs to get to the Princess Jahúran’s rooms which led into the verandah in which she used to stand.

Well, Prince Monkey’s six elder brothers all got ready to go up to the palace and throw the ball. They were quite sure they would throw it without any trouble. Before they went they told their monkey brother to take care of their tents, and to have a good dinner ready for them when they returned. “If the dinner is not ready, we will beat you.”

As soon as they were gone, Prince Monkey took some gold mohurs he had, and he went to a traveller’s resting-house, which was a little way outside King Jamársá’s compound, and gave them to the man who owned it, and bade him give him a grand dinner for his six brothers. Then he took the dinner to the tents, went into the jungle, and took off his monkey-skin. And God sent him a grand horse from heaven, and splendid clothes. These he put on, mounted his horse, and rode to King Jamársá’s compound. There he took no notice of either the king, or his daughter, or of the ball, or of the Rájás who were there to try and lift it. He spoke only to his brothers, and gave them lovely flowers and betel-leaf. Meanwhile, everybody was looking at him and talking about him. “Who can he be? Did you ever see any one so lovely? Where does he come from? Just look at his clothes! In our countries we cannot get any like them!” As for the Princess Jahúran she thought to herself, “That Rájá shall be my husband, whether he lifts the ball or not.” When he had given his brothers the flowers and betel-leaf, Prince Monkey rode straight to the jungle, took off his clothes, laid them on his horse (which instantly went up to heaven), put on his monkey-skin, went back to the tents, and lay down to sleep.

When his brothers came home they were talking eagerly about the unknown beautiful Rájá. All the time they were eating their dinner they could speak of nothing else.

Well, every evening for about ten evenings it was just the same story. Only every evening Prince Monkey appeared in a different dress. The princess always thought, “That is the man I will marry, whether he can throw the ball or not.” Then about the eleventh evening, after he had given his brothers the flowers and betel-leaf, he said to all the Rájás who were standing there, and to King Jamársá and to all the servants, “Now every one of you go and stand far away, for I am going to throw the ball.” “No, no!” they all cried, “we will stand here and see you.” “You must go far away. You can look on at a distance,” said the Monkey Prince; “the ball might fall back among you and hurt you.” So they all went off and stood round him at a distance.

“Now,” said Prince Monkey to himself, “I won’t hit the princess this time; but I will hit the verandah railing.” Then he took up the ball with one hand, just as if it were quite light, and threw it on the verandah railing, and then he rode off fast to the jungle.

The next evening it was the same thing over again, only this time he threw the ball into the Princess Jahúran’s clothes.

The next evening the ball fell on one of her feet, and hurt her little toe-nail. Now, Princess Jahúran was very angry that this unknown beautiful prince should have thrown the ball three times, and hit her twice, and hurt her the third time, and yet had never spoken to her father, or let any one know who he was, and had always, on the contrary, ridden away as hard as he could, no one knew where. She was very much in love with him, and was very anxious to find this Rájá who had hit her twice, so she ordered a bow and arrow to be brought to her, and said she would shoot the Rájá the next time he hit her. She would not kill him; she would only shoot the arrow at him. Well, the next evening Prince Monkey threw the ball, and it fell on her other foot and hurt her great toe-nail. When he saw she was hurt, he was very sorry in his heart, and said, “Did I hurt you?” “Yes,” she said, “very much.” “Oh, I am so sorry,” said the prince. “I would not have thrown the ball so hard had I thought it would hurt you.” Then she shot the arrow, and hit him in the leg, and a great deal of blood came out of the wound; but he rode hard away to the jungle all the same, only this time he did not take off his fine clothes, but he drew the monkey-skin over them, and his horse went up to heaven, and he went back to the tents. Then the princess sent a servant into the town, and said, whoever or whatever he should hear crying with pain, he should bring to her–were it a man, or a jackal, or a dog, or a wild beast. So the servant went round the town. The six brothers had gone to sleep, but the poor monkey brother could not sleep, but sat up crying from pain. He could not help it, do what he would, and the servant, as he went round the town, heard him crying. So he took him and brought him to the princess, and the princess said she would marry him.

“What!” cried her father, “marry that monkey? Never! Who ever heard of any one marrying a monkey, a nasty monkey?” But in spite of all the king said, the princess declared marry that monkey she would. “I like that monkey very, very much,” she said. “I will marry him. It is my pleasure to marry him.” “Well,” said the Rájá at last, “if it is your pleasure to marry him, you must marry him; but who ever heard of any one marrying a nasty monkey?”

So they were married at once; and the Monkey Prince wore his monkey-skin for a wedding garment.

That night when they went to bed, the young prince drew off his skin and lay down by Jahúran, and when she saw her beautiful husband she was so glad, so glad. “Why do you wear a monkey-skin?” she asked. He answered, “I wear it as a protection, because my brothers are naughty, and would kill me if they knew what I really am.”

They lived very happily with King Jamársá for six months, and the six elder brothers went on living there too, and hating him more and more for having such a beautiful wife.

But one night Prince Monkey thought of his mother, and he said to his wife, “My mother perhaps is crying for me. Let us go to my father’s kingdom, and see her.” Princess Jahúran agreed; so next morning they spoke to King Jamársá, who said they might go.

The six brothers at once said, “We will go with you;” and they also said, “Let us get two big boats, one for you and the princess, and one for ourselves, and let us go by water, and not by land.” Now by water it took only six days to get to Jabhú Rájá’s kingdom, by land it took three months. The Monkey Prince agreed to all his brothers said.

Princess Jahúran heard them planning to throw the monkey into the water on the journey, and then to take her home to their father as the wife of one of them; so as she was very wise she went to her father and begged him to have six large beautiful mattresses, well stuffed with cotton, made for her.

“What can you want with six mattresses?” said the king. “I want my bed to be very comfortable on board the boat,” said his daughter. Her father loved her dearly, so he had her mattresses made, beautiful mattresses and well stuffed with cotton. The princess had them all carried to her boat.

When everything was ready they went on board the boats with the monkey’s six brothers. Now, the princess had warned her husband of his brothers’ wicked plans, and she said to him, “Never go near your brothers; never speak to your brothers; for they want to kill you.” The first day the six brothers said to the monkey, “Please bring us a little salt.” But the monkey said, “No; my wife will take you some.” “No,” said the brothers, “your wife cannot bring us any. She is a princess. Do you bring us some.” So they threw a rope from one boat to another, and the monkey went on the rope, and the brothers untied it, and the monkey fell into the water. Then the princess cried out, “My husband will be drowned! My husband will be drowned!” And she threw out one of the mattresses; the monkey sat on it; it floated back to his boat, and the crew drew him up.

The next day the six brothers begged Prince Monkey to bring them water, and they threw a plank from their boat to his for him to cross on. The prince set off with the water, in spite of all his wife’s entreaties, and his brothers tilted the plank into the water. The prince would have been drowned had not the Princess Jahúran thrown him a mattress. And the same thing happened during the next four days. The brothers wanted something to eat or drink, and their monkey-brother brought it them across a rope or plank, which they cut or dropped into the water, and he would have died but for the mattresses which his wife threw to him one by one.

When they reached Jabhú Rájá’s kingdom, the eldest son went on shore up to his father’s palace. Each of the Rájá’s seven wives had a house to herself in his compound. He went to his mother’s house and said, “Give me your palanquin, mother, for I have brought home a most lovely wife, and want to bring her to the palace.”

At this news his mother was delighted, and she told it to the other Ránís, and said, “My son has brought home such a lovely wife! I am so glad! oh, I am so glad!” The youngest Rání began to cry bitterly. “My son,” she said, “is nothing but a monkey; he will never be married; he will never have a wife at all.”

Then the palanquin was got ready, and the seven Ránís and the prince went with it to the boat. The Princess Jahúran came on land with her monkey, and when the Ránís saw her, they all cried, “How lovely she is! how beautiful!” And the eldest Rání was gladder than ever, and the youngest cried still more. The princess got into the palanquin with her monkey. “What are you doing with that horrid monkey?” said the eldest prince. “Put him out of the palanquin directly.” “Indeed I will not,” said the princess. “He is my husband, and I love him.” “What!” cried all the Ránís, “are you married to that monkey?” “Yes,” said the princess. “Then get out of my palanquin at once,” said the eldest Rání. “You shall not ride in my palanquin with that nasty monkey.” The youngest Rání was very glad her son had such a beautiful wife. So the princess got out, and took her monkey in her arms and walked with him to the youngest Rání’s house, and there they all lived for some time. Now the little Rání did not know her son was really a beautiful man, for the princess never told her, as her husband had forbidden her to tell any one.

One evening Jabhú Rájá’s servants had a grand nautch in the Rájá’s compound, and the Rájá and his sons and the neighbouring Rájás all came to see it. Prince Monkey said to his wife, “I, too, will go and see this nautch.” So he took off his monkey-skin, folded it up and laid it under her pillow. Then he put on the clothes God had sent him from heaven the last time he threw the ball, and which he had not laid on his horse’s back when he put his monkey-skin on again, and when he came among all the Rájás and people who were looking on at the nautch, they all exclaimed, “Who is that? Who can it be?” He was very handsome, and he had beautiful hair all gold. When he had stayed some time, Prince Monkey went quickly back to his wife, and in the morning he put on his monkey-skin again.

Now the little Rání, his mother, though she was very glad her monkey son had such a wife, could never understand how it was that her daughter-in-law was so happy with him. “How could you marry him?” she used to say to her. “Because it pleased me to marry him,” the princess used to answer. “How can you be so happy with him?” said the mother. “I love him,” said the princess; and the poor Rání used to wonder at this more and more.

Well, one day there was another nautch, and Prince Monkey went to it; but he left his skin under his wife’s pillow. As soon as he had gone, she called the little Rání, and said, “See, you think my husband is a monkey; he is no monkey, but a very handsome man. There is no one like him, he is so beautiful.” The Rání did not believe her. Then the princess took the skin from under her pillow. “See,” she said, “when your son puts this on, then he is a monkey; when he takes it off he is a beautiful man. And now, I think I will burn this skin, and then he must always be a man. What do you say?” “Are you sure it won’t hurt him if you burn his skin?” said his mother. “Perhaps he may die if it is burnt.” “Oh, no, he won’t die,” said the princess. “Shall I burn it?” “Burn it,” said the little Rání. Then the princess threw the skin on the fire and burnt it quite up.

Prince Monkey was sitting looking on at the nautch when suddenly his heart told him his wife had burnt his skin. He jumped up directly and went home, and when he found his heart had told him true, he was so angry with his wife, that he would say nothing to her but “Why did you burn my skin?” and he was in such a rage that he went straight to bed and went to sleep.

In the morning, while he slept, the princess went to the little Rání, and said, “Come and see your beautiful son.” “I am ashamed to do so,” said the Rání. “Ashamed to look at your own son? What nonsense! Come directly,” said Princess Jahúran. Then the little Rání went with her, and when she saw her beautiful son she was indeed glad, and the prince opened his eyes and saw her, and then he kissed her, and they were very happy.

The news spread through the compound, and Jabhú Rájá and his sons and everybody came at once to see if it were true. When they saw the beautiful young prince, with his hair all gold, they could not stand, but fell down. Prince Monkey lifted his father and loved him, and put his arms round him, and said, “I am your son, your own son; you must not fall down before me.” “Why did you wear that monkey-skin?” asked his father. “Because,” he said, “my mother ate the mango stone instead of eating the mango, and so I was born with this skin, and God ordered me to wear it till I had found a wife.” His brothers said, “Who could have guessed there was such a beautiful man inside that monkey-skin? God’s decrees are good!” And they left off hating their brother, Prince Monkey.

There were great rejoicings and feasts now, and all were very happy. The six elder brothers lived always with their father and Prince Monkey, but none of them ever married.

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The Story of Foolish Sachúlí

Sachúlí, a simple-minded young man, unwittingly causes chaos through his naive antics, including accidentally killing a woman, revealing hidden riches, and interacting with magical fairies. Through misadventures involving enchanted items—a cooking pot, a clothes box, and a magical stick—he outwits those who exploit him and proves his worth. Eventually, he gains his mother’s approval, marries, and settles into a happy life.

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

► Themes of the story

Trials and Tribulations: Throughout the narrative, Sachúlí faces numerous challenges and misadventures, reflecting the theme of overcoming a series of tests.

Transformation: Sachúlí evolves from a simple-minded youth causing chaos to someone who gains his mother’s approval and settles into a happy life, indicating personal growth.

Magic and Enchantment: The story features enchanted items—a cooking pot, a clothes box, and a magical stick—that play significant roles in Sachúlí’s adventures.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

There once lived a poor old widow woman named Hungní, who had a little idiot son called Sachúlí. She used to beg every day. One day when the son had grown up, he said to his mother. “What makes women laugh?” “If you throw a tiny stone at them,” answered she, “they will laugh.” So one day Sachúlí went and sat by a well, and three women came to it to fill their water-jars. “Now,” said Sachúlí “I will make one of these women laugh.” Two of the women filled their water-jars and went away home, and he threw no stones at them; but as the last, who also had on the most jewels, passed him, he threw a great big stone at her, and she fell down dead, with her mouth set as if she were smiling.

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“Oh, look! look! how she is laughing!” said Sachúlí, and he ran off to call his mother.

“Come, come, mother,” said he, “and see how I have made this woman laugh.”

His mother came, and when she saw the woman lying dead, she was much frightened, for the dead woman belonged to a great and very rich family, and she wore jewels worth a thousand rupees. Hungní took off all her jewels, and threw her body into the well.

After some days the dead woman’s father and mother and all her people sent round a crier with a drum to try and find her. “Whoever brings back a young woman who wears a great many gold necklaces and bracelets and rings shall get a great deal of money,” cried the crier. Sachúlí heard him. “I know where she is,” said he. “My mother took off all her jewels, and threw her into the well.”

The crier said, “Can you go down into the well and bring her up?”

“If you will tie a rope round my waist and let me down the well, I shall be able to bring her up.”

So they set off towards the well, which was near Hungní’s house; and when she saw them coming, she guessed what they came for, and she ran out and killed a sheep, threw it into the well, and took out the dead woman and hid her.

The crier got some men to come with him, and they let Sachúlí down the well. “Has she got eyes?” said Sachúlí. “Of course, every one has eyes,” answered the men. “Has she a nose?” asked Sachúlí. “Yes, she has a nose,” said the men. “Has she got a mouth?” asked Sachúlí. “Yes,” said the men. “Has she a long face?”

“What does he mean?” said the men, who were getting cross. “No one has a long face; perhaps she has, though. Yes, she has a long face,” cried the men.

“Has she a tail?”

“A tail! Why no one has a tail. Perhaps, though, she has long hair. No doubt that is what he calls a tail. Yes, she has a tail.”

“Has she ears?”

“Of course, every one has ears.”

“Has she four feet?”

“Four feet!” said the men. “Why, no one has four feet. Perhaps you call her hands feet. Yes, she has four feet. Bring her up quickly.”

Then Sachúlí brought up the sheep.

The men were very angry when they saw the sheep, and they beat Sachúlí, and called him a very stupid fellow and a great liar, and they went away feeling very cross.

Sachúlí went home to his mother, who, as soon as she saw him coming, ran out and put the woman’s body back in the well, and when he got home she beat him. “Mother,” said he, “give me some bread, and I will go away and die.” His mother cooked him some bread, and he went away.

He walked on, and on, and on, a long way.

Now, some Rájá’s ten camels had been travelling along the road on which Sachúlí went, each carrying sacks of gold mohurs and rupees, and one of these camels broke loose from the string and strayed away, and the camel-drivers could not find it again. But Sachúlí met it, and caught it and took it home.

“See, mother! see what a quantity of money I have brought you!” cried Sachúlí. Hungní rushed out, and was delighted to see so much money. She took off the sacks at once and sent the camel away. Then she hid the rupees and the gold with the jewels she had taken from the dead woman. And, as she was a cunning woman, she went and bought a great many comfits and scattered them all about her house, when Sachúlí was out of the way. “Oh, look! look!” cried Sachúlí, “at all these comfits.” “God has rained them from heaven,” said his mother. Sachúlí began to pick them up and eat them, and he told all the people in the village how God had rained down comfits from heaven on his mother’s house. “What nonsense!” cried they. “Yes, he has,” said Sachúlí, “and I have been eating them.” “No comfits have fallen on our houses,” said they. “Yes, yes,” cried he, “the day my mother got all those rupees, God rained comfits on our house.” “What lies!” cried the people; “as if it ever rained comfits. Why did not the comfits rain down on our houses? Why did they fall only on your house? And what’s all this about rupees?” And then they came to see if there were any rupees or comfits in Hungní’s house, and they found none at all, for Hungní had hidden the rupees and thrown away the comfits. “There,” said they to Sachúlí, “where are your rupees? where are your comfits? What a liar you are! as if it ever rained comfits. How can you tell such stories?” And they beat him. “But it did rain comfits,” said Sachúlí, “for I ate them. It rained comfits the day my mother got the rupees.”

Now the Rájá who had lost his camel sent round the crier with his drum to find his camel and his money-bags. “Whoever has found a camel carrying money-bags and brings it and the money back to the Rájá, will get a great many rupees,” cried the crier. “Oh!” says Sachúlí, “I know where the money is. One day I went out and I found a stray camel, and he had sacks of rupees on his back, and I took him home to my mother, and she took the sacks off his back and sent the camel away.” So the crier went to find the rupees, and the people in the bazar went with him. But Hungní had hidden the rupees so carefully that, though they hunted all over her house, they could find none, and they beat Sachúlí, and told him he was a liar. “I am not telling lies,” said Sachúlí. “My mother took the rupees the day it rained comfits on our house.” So they beat him again, and they went away. Then Hungní beat Sachúlí, and said, “What a bad boy you are! trying to get me beaten and put into prison, telling every one about the rupees. Go away; I don’t want you any more, such a bad boy as you are! go away and die.” He said, “Very well, mother; give me some bread, and I’ll go.”

Sachúlí set off and took an axe with him. “How shall I kill myself?” said he. So he climbed up a tree and sat out on a long branch, and began cutting off the branch between himself and the tree on which he was sitting. “What are you doing up there?” said a man who came by. “You’ll die if you cut that branch off.” “What do you say?” cries Sachúlí, jumping down on the man, and seizing his hand. “When shall I die?” “How can I tell? Let me go.” “I won’t let you go till you tell me when I shall die.” And at last the man said, “When you find a scarlet thread on your jacket, then you will die.”

Sachúlí went off to the bazar, and sat down by some tailors, and one of the tailors, in throwing away their shreds of cloth, threw a scarlet thread on Sachúlí’s coat. “Oh,” said Sachúlí, when he saw the thread, “now I shall die!” “How do you know that?” said the tailors. “A man told me that when I found a scarlet thread on my jacket, I should die,” said Sachúlí; and the tailors all laughed at him and made fun of him, but he went off into the jungle and dug his grave with his axe, and lay down in it. In the night a sepoy came by with a large jar of ghee on his head. “How heavy this jar is,” said the sepoy. “Is there no cooly that will come and carry my ghee home for me? I would give him four pice for his trouble.” Up jumped Sachúlí out of his grave. “I’ll carry it for you,” said he. “Who are you?” said the sepoy, much frightened. “Oh, I am a man who is dead,” said Sachúlí, “and I am tired of lying here. I can’t lie here any more.” “Well,” said the sepoy, very much frightened, “you may carry my ghee.” So Sachúlí put the jar on his head, and he went on, with the sepoy following. “Now,” said Sachúlí, “with these four pice I will buy a hen, and I will sell the hen and her eggs, and with the money I get for them I will buy a goat; and then I will sell the goat and her milk and her hide and buy a cow, and I will sell her milk; and then I will marry a wife, and then I shall have some children, and they will say to me, ‘Father, will you have some rice?’ and I will say, ‘No, I won’t have any rice.'” And as he said, “No, I won’t have any rice,” he shook his head, and down came the jar of ghee, and the jar was smashed, and the ghee spilled. “Oh, dear! what have you done?” cried the sepoy. “Why did you shake your head?” “Because my children asked me to have some rice, and I did not want any, so I shook my head,” said Sachúlí. “Oh,” said the sepoy, “he is an utter idiot.” And the sepoy went home, and Sachúlí went back to his mother. “Why have you come back?” said she. “I have been dead twelve years,” said Sachúlí. “What lies you tell!” said she. “You have only been away a few days. Be off! I don’t want any liars here.”

Sachúlí asked her to give him two flour-cakes, which she did, and he went off to the jungle, and it was night. Five fairies lived in this jungle, and as Sachúlí went along, he broke his flour-cakes into five pieces, and said, “Now I’ll eat one, then the second, then the third, then the fourth, and then the fifth.” And the fairies heard him and were afraid, and said to each other, “What shall we do? Here is this man, and he is going to eat us all up. What shall we do to save ourselves? We will give him something.” So they went out all five, and said to Sachúlí, “If only you won’t eat us, we will give you a present.” Now Sachúlí did not know there were fairies in this jungle. “What will you give me?” said Sachúlí. “We will give you a cooking-pot. When you want anything to eat, all you have to do is to ask the pot for it, and you will get it.” Sachúlí took the pot and went off to the bazar. He stopped at a cook-shop, and asked for some pilau. “Pilau? There’s no pilau here,” said the shopman. “Well,” said Sachúlí, “I have a cooking-pot here, and I have only to ask it for any dish I want, and I get it at once.” “What nonsense!” said the man. “Just see,” said Sachúlí; and he said to the cooking-pot, “I want some pilau,” and immediately the pot was full of pilau, and all the people in the shop set to work to help him to eat it up, it was so good. “Oh,” thought the cook, “I must have that pot,” so he gave Sachúlí a sleepy drink. Then Sachúlí went to sleep, and while he slept the cook stole the fairy cooking-pot, and put a common cooking-pot in its place. Sachúlí went home with the cook’s pot, and said, “Mother, I have brought home a cooking-pot. If you ask it for any food you want, you will get it.” “Nonsense,” said Hungní; “what lies you are telling!” “It is quite true, mother; only see,” and he asked the pot for different dishes, but none came. Hungní was furious. “Go away,” she said. “Why do you come back to me? I want no liars here.” “Give me five flour-cakes and I will go,” said her son. So she baked the bread for him, and he set off for the jungle where he had met the five fairies, and as he went along he said, “I will eat one, and I will eat two, and I will eat three, and I will eat four, and I will eat five.” The five fairies heard him, and were terrified. “Here is this bad man again,” said they, “and he will eat us all five. Oh, what shall we do? Let us give him a present.” So they went to Sachúlí, and said, “Here is a box for you. Whenever you want any clothes you have only to tell this box, and it will give them to you; take it, and don’t eat us.” So he took the box and went to the bazar, and he stopped at the cook-shop again, and asked the cook for a red silk dress, and a pair of long black silk trousers, and a blue silk turban, and a pair of red shoes, and the cook laughed and asked how he should have such beautiful things. “Well,” said Sachúlí, “here is a box; when I ask it for the dress and trousers, and turban and shoes, I shall get them.” So the cook laughed at him. “Just see,” said Sachúlí, and he said, “Box, give me a red silk dress and a pair of long black silk trousers, and a blue silk turban, and red shoes,” and there they were at once. And the cook was delighted, and said to himself, “I will have that box,” and he gave Sachúlí a good dinner and a sleepy drink, and Sachúlí fell fast asleep. While he slept the cook came and stole the fairy box, and put a common box in its place. In the morning Sachúlí went home to his mother and said, “Mother, I’ve brought you a box. You have only to ask it for any clothes you may want, and you will get them.” “Nonsense,” said his mother, “don’t tell me such lies.” “Only see, mother; I am telling you truth,” said he. He asked the box for coats and all sorts of things–no; he got nothing. His mother was very angry, and said, “You liar! you naughty boy! Go away and don’t come back any more.” And she broke the box to pieces, and threw the bits away. “Well, mother, bake me some flour-cakes.” So she baked him the cakes and gave them to him, and sent him away. He went off to the fairies’ jungle, and as he went he said, “Now I’ll eat one, then two, then three, then four, then five.” The five fairies were very frightened. “Here is this man come back to eat us all five. Let us give him a present.” So they went to him and gave him a rope and stick, and said, “Only say to this rope, ‘Bind that man,’ and he will be tied up at once; and to this stick, ‘Beat that man,’ and the stick will beat him.” Sachúlí was very glad to get these things, for he guessed what had happened to his cooking-pot and box. So he went to the bazar, and at the cook-shop he said, “Rope, bind all these men that are here!” and the cook and every one in the shop were tied up instantly. Then Sachúlí said, “Stick, beat these men!” and the stick began to beat them. “Oh, stop, stop beating us, and untie, and I’ll give you your pot and your box!” cried the cook. “No, I won’t stop beating you, and I won’t untie you till I have my pot and my box.” And the cook gave them both to him, and he untied the rope. Then Sachúlí went home, and when his mother saw him, she was very angry, but he showed her the box and the cooking-pot, and she saw he had told her the truth. So she sent for the doctor, and he declared Sachúlí was wise and not silly, and he and Hungní found a wife for Sachúlí, and made a grand wedding for him, and they lived happily ever after.

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The Pomegranate King

The Pomegranate King mourns his wife’s death and cares for their two children. He remarries, but the new queen mistreats the children and tries to kill them. Through divine intervention, the children are repeatedly saved, eventually becoming fruits on a magical tree. The king discovers the truth, punishes the queen, and reunites with his wife, who returns in bird form before regaining her human shape. They live happily ever after.

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

► Themes of the story

Transformation: The children undergo physical changes, becoming fruits on a magical tree, and the mother transforms from a bird back into her human form, symbolizing change and renewal.

Revenge and Justice: The king discovers the truth about the queen’s malice, leading to her punishment and the restoration of order within the family.

Resurrection: The mother’s return from death, first as a bird and then regaining her human form, signifies a literal resurrection, bringing the family back together.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní at Simla, 26th July, 1876

There was once a Mahárájá, called the Anárbásá, or Pomegranate King; and a Mahárání called the Gulíanár, or Pomegranate-flower. The Mahárání died leaving two children: a little girl of four or five years old, and a little boy of three. The Mahárájá was very sorry when she died, for he loved her dearly. He was exceedingly fond of his two children, and got for them two servants: a man to cook their dinner, and an ayah to take care of them. He also had them taught to read and write. Soon after his wife’s death the neighbouring Rájá’s daughter’s husband died, and she said if any other Rájá would marry her, she would be quite willing to marry him, and she also said she would like very much to marry the Pomegranate Rájá.

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So her father went to see the Pomegranate Rájá, and told him that his daughter wished to marry him. “Oh,” said the Pomegranate Rájá, “I do not want to marry again, for if I do, the woman I marry will be sure to be unkind to my two children. She will not take care of them. She will not pet them and comfort them when they are unhappy.” “Oh,” said the other Rájá, “my daughter will be very good to them, I assure you.” “Very well,” said the Mahárájá, “I will marry her.” So they were married.

For two or three months everything went on well, but then the new Rání, who was called the Sunkásí Mahárání, began to beat the poor children, and to scold their servants. One day she gave the boy such a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled. When the Mahárájá came out of his office to get his tiffin, he saw the boy’s swollen face, and, calling the two servants, he said, “Who did this? how did my boy get hurt?” They said, “The Rání gave him such a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled, and she gets very angry with us if we say anything about her ill-treatment of the children, or how she scolds us.” The Mahárájá was exceedingly angry with his wife for this, and said to her, “I never beat my children. Why should you beat them? If you beat them I will send you away.” And he went off to his office in a great rage. The Rání was very angry. So she told the little girl to go with the ayah to the bazar. The ayah and the little girl set off, never suspecting any evil. As soon as they had gone, the Rání took the little boy and told him she would kill him. The boy went down on his knees and begged her to spare his life. But she said, “No; your father is always quarrelling with me, beating me, and scolding me, all through your fault.” The boy begged and prayed again, saying he would never be naughty any more. The Rání shook her head, and taking a large knife she cut off his head. She then cut him up and made him into a curry. She then buried his head, and his nails, and his feet in the ground, and she covered them well with earth, and stamped the ground well down so that no one should notice it had been disturbed. When the Pomegranate Rájá came home to his dinner, she put the curry and some rice on the table before him; but the Rájá, seeing his boy was not there, would not eat. He went and looked everywhere for his son, crying very much, and the little girl cried very much too, for she loved her brother dearly. After they had hunted for him for some time, the little boy appeared. His father embraced him. “Where have you been?” said he. “I cannot eat my dinner without you.” The little boy said, “Oh, I was in the jungle playing with other boys.” They then sat down to dinner, and the curry changed into a kid curry. The Rání was greatly astonished when she saw the boy. She said to herself, “I cut his head off; I cut him into little pieces, and I made him into a curry, and yet he is alive!” She then went into the garden to see if his head, and nails, and feet were in the hole where she had buried them. But they were not there; it was quite empty. She then called a sepoy, and said to him, “If you will take two children into the jungle and kill them, I will give you as much money as you like.” “All right,” said the sepoy. She then brought the children, and told him to take them to the jungle. So he took them away to the jungle, but he had not the heart to kill them, for they were exceedingly beautiful, and he left them in the jungle near their dead mother’s grave. Then he returned to the Rání, saying he had done as she wished, and she gave him as much money as he wanted.

The poor Pomegranate Rájá was very unhappy when he saw his children were not in the palace, and that they could not be found. He asked his Rání where they were, but she said she did not know; they had gone out to play and had never returned. From the day he lost his children the Pomegranate Rájá became melancholy. He did not love the Rání any more; he hated her.

Meanwhile the children lived in a little house built close to their mother’s grave. God had given her life again that she might take care of them. But they did not know she was their mother; they thought she was another woman sent to take care of them. God sent also a man to teach them. Somehow or other the Rání Sunkásí heard they were still alive in the jungle. She did not know how she could kill them. So at last she pretended she was very ill, and she said to the Rájá, “The doctor says that in the jungle there are two children, and he says if you will have them killed, and will bring their livers for me to stand on when I bathe, then I shall get well.” The Rájá sent a second sepoy to kill the children, and this man killed them and brought their livers to the Rání. She stood on them while bathing, and then said she was quite well. She then threw the livers into the garden, and during the night a tree grew up there with two large beautiful flowers on it. Next morning the Rání looked out and said, “I will gather those flowers to-day.” Every day she said she would gather them, and every day she forgot. At last one day she said, “Every day I forget to gather those flowers, but to-day I really will do so,” and she sent her servant to pluck them. So he went out, and, just as he was going to gather them, the flowers flew up just out of his reach. Then the Rání went down, and when she was going to pick them they flew up so high that they could not be seen. Every day she tried to gather them, and every day they went high up, and came back again to the tree as soon as she had gone. Then the flowers disappeared and two large fruits came in their stead. The Rání looked out of her window: “Oh, what delicious fruits! I’ll eat them all myself. I won’t give a bit to anybody, and I’ll eat them by myself quite quietly.” She went down to the garden, but they flew high up into the sky, and then they came down again. So this went on, day after day, until she got so cross she ordered the tree to be cut down. But it was of no use. The tree was cut down, but the fruits flew high up into the sky, and in the night the tree grew up again and the fruits came back again to it. And so this went on for many days. Every day she cut down the tree, and every night it grew up again, but she could never get the fruits. At last she became very angry, and had the tree hewn into tiny bits and all the bits thrown away, but still the tree grew again in the night, and in the morning the fruits were hanging on it. So she went to the Rájá and told him that in the garden was a tree with two fruits, and every time she tried to get them, the fruits went up into the air. She had had the tree cut down ever so many times, and it always grew up again in the night and the fruits returned to it. “Why cannot you leave the tree alone?” said the Rájá. “But I should like to see if what you say is true.” So the Rájá and the Rání went down to the garden, and the Rání tried to get the fruits, but she could not, for they went right up into the air.

That evening the Rájá went alone to the garden to gather the fruits, and the fruits of themselves fell into his hand. He took them into his room, and putting them on a little table close to his bed, he lay down to sleep. As soon as he was in bed a little voice inside one of the fruits said, “Brother;” and a little voice in the other fruit said, “Sister, speak more gently. To-morrow the Rájá will break open the fruits, and if the Rání finds us she will kill us. Three times has God made us alive again, but if we die a fourth time he will bring us to life no more.” The Rájá listened and said, “I will break them open in a little while.” Then he went to sleep, and after a little he woke and said, “A little while longer,” and went to sleep again. Several times he woke up and said, “I will break the fruits open in a little while,” and went to sleep. At last he took a knife and began cutting the fruits open very fast, and the little boy cried, “Gently, gently, father; you hurt us!” So then the Rájá cut more gently, and he stopped to ask, “Are you hurt?” and they said, “No.” And then he cut again and asked, “Are you hurt?” and they said, “No.” And a third time he asked, “Are you hurt?” and they answered, “No.” Then the fruits broke open and his two children jumped out. They rushed into their father’s arms, and he clasped them tight, and they cried softly, that the Rání might not hear.

He shut his room up close, and fed and dressed his children, and then went out of the room, locking the door behind him. He had a little wooden house built that could easily catch fire, and as soon as it was ready he went to the Rání and said, “Will you go into a little house I have made ready for you while your room is getting repaired?” “All right,” said the Rání; so she went into the little house, and that night a man set it on fire, and the Rání and everything in it was burnt up. Then the Pomegranate Rájá took her bones, put them into a tin box, and sent them as a present to her mother. “Oh,” said the mother, “my daughter has married the Pomegranate Mahárájá, and so she sends me some delicious food.” When she opened the box, to her horror she found only bones! Then she wrote to the Mahárájá, “Of what use are bones?” The Mahárájá wrote back, “They are your bones; they belong to you, for they are your daughter’s bones. She ill-treated and killed my children, and so I had her burnt.”

The Pomegranate Rájá and his children lived very happily for some time, and their dead mother, the Gulíanár Rání, having a wish to see her husband and her children, prayed to God to let her go and visit them. God said she could go, but not in her human shape, so he changed her into a beautiful bird, and put a pin in her head, and said, “As soon as the pin is pulled out you will become a woman again.” She flew to the palace where the Mahárájá lived, and there were great trees about the palace. On one of these she perched at night. The doorkeeper was lying near it. She called out, “Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!” and he answered, “What is it? Who is it?” And she asked, “Is the Rájá well?” and the doorkeeper said, “Yes.” “Are the children well?” and he said, “Yes.” “And all the servants, and camels, and horses?” “Yes.” “Are you well?” “Yes.” “Have you had plenty of food?” “Yes.” “What a great donkey your Mahárájá is!” And then she began to cry very much, and pearls fell from her eyes as she cried. Then she began to laugh very much, and great big rubies fell from her beak as she laughed. The next morning the doorkeeper got up and felt about, and said, “What is all this?” meaning the pearls and the rubies, for he did not know what they were. “I will keep them.” So he picked them all up and put them into a corner of his house. Every night the bird came and asked after the Mahárájá and the children and the servants, and left a great many pearls and rubies behind her. At last the doorkeeper had a whole heap of pearls and rubies.

One day a Fakír came and begged, and as the doorkeeper had no pice, or flour, or rice to give, he gave him a handful of pearls and rubies. “Well,” said the Fakír to himself, “I am sure these are pearls and rubies.” So he tied them up in his cloth. Then he went to the Rájá to beg, and the Rájá gave him a handful of rice. “What!” said the Fakír, “the great Mahárájá only gives me a handful of rice when his doorkeeper gives me pearls and rubies!” and he turned to walk away. But the Mahárájá stopped him. “What did you say?” said he, “that my doorkeeper gave you pearls and rubies?” “Yes,” said the Fakír, “your doorkeeper gave me pearls and rubies.” So the Mahárájá went to the doorkeeper’s house, and when he saw all the pearls and rubies that were there, he thought the man had stolen them from his treasury. The Mahárájá had not as many pearls and rubies as his doorkeeper had. Then turning to the doorkeeper he asked him to tell him truly where and how he had got them. “Yes, I will,” said the doorkeeper. “Every night a beautiful bird comes and asks after you, after your children, after all your elephants, horses, and servants; and then it cries, and when it cries pearls drop from its eyes; and then it laughs, and rubies fall from its beak. If you come to-night I dare say you will see it.” “All right,” said the Pomegranate Rájá.

So that night the Mahárájá pulled his bed out under the tree on which the bird always perched. At night the bird came and called out, “Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!” and the doorkeeper answered, “Yes, lord.” And the bird said, “Is your Mahárájá well?” “Yes.” “Are the children well?” “Yes.” “And all his servants, horses, and camels and elephants–are they well?” “Yes.” “Are you well?” “Yes.” “Have you had plenty of food?” “Yes.” “What a fool your Mahárájá is!” And then she cried, and the pearls came tumbling down on the Mahárájá’s eyes, and the Mahárájá opened one eye and saw what a beautiful bird it was. And then it laughed, and rubies fell from its beak on to the Mahárájá. Next morning the Mahárájá said he would give any one who would catch the bird as much money as he wanted. So he called a fisherman, and asked him to bring his net and catch the bird when it came that night. The fisherman said he would for one thousand rupees. That night the fisherman, the Mahárájá, and the doorkeeper, all waited under the tree. Soon the bird came, and asked after the Mahárájá, after his children, and all his servants and elephants, and camels and horses, and then after the doorkeeper, and then it called the Mahárájá a fool. Then it cried, and then it laughed, and just as it laughed the fisherman threw the net over the bird and caught it. Then they shut it up in an iron cage, and the next morning the Mahárájá took it out and stroked it, and said, “What a sweet little bird! what a lovely little bird!” And the Mahárájá felt something like a pin in its head, and he gave a pull, and out came the pin, and then his own dear wife, the Pomegranate-flower Rání, stood before him. The Rájá was exceedingly glad, and so were his two children. And there were great rejoicings, and they lived happily ever after.

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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.

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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.

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The Beautiful Dancer of Yedo

Sakura-ko, the “Flower of the Cherry,” is a geisha in Yedo, famed for her beauty and artistry but burdened by a tragic past. She rejects the love of a rich man, an old suitor, and a young admirer, seeking dignity over material or fleeting desires. Disappearing to spare her young lover heartbreak, she later reappears as a wandering nun, quietly reconciling with her sorrowful choices.

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

► Themes of the story

Forbidden Love: Sakura-ko encounters suitors whose affections she must navigate within the constraints of her societal role.

Transformation: Her journey from a samurai’s daughter to a geisha, and later to a wandering nun, reflects significant personal and social transformations.

Sacrifice: Sakura-ko sells herself into bondage to provide for her mother, exemplifying personal sacrifice for familial duty.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

This is the tale of Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, who was the beautiful dancer of Yedo. She was a geisha, born a samurai’s daughter, that sold herself into bondage after her father died, so that her mother might have food to eat. Ah, the pity of it! The money that bought her was called Namida no Kané, that is “the money of tears.” She dwelt in the narrow street of the geisha, where the red and white lanterns swing and the plum trees flourish by the low eves. The street of the geisha is full of music, for they play the samisen there all day long.

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Sakura-ko played it too; indeed she was skilful in every lovely art. She played the samisen, the kotto, the biwa, and the small hand-drum. She could make songs and sing them. Her eyes were long, her hair was black, her hands were white. Her beauty was wonderful, and wonderful her power to please. From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn she could go smiling and hide her heart. In the cool of the day she would stand upon the gallery of her mistress’s house, and muse as she stood and looked down into the street of the geisha. And the folk that passed that way said to one another, “See, yonder stands Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, the beautiful dancer of Yedo, the geisha without peer.”

But Sakura-ko looked down and mused and said, “Little narrow street of the geisha, paved with bitterness and broken hearts, your houses are full of vain hopes and vain regrets; youth and love and grief dwell here. The flowers in your gardens are watered with tears.”

The gentlemen of Yedo must needs have their pleasure, so Sakura-ko served at feasts every night. They whitened her cheeks and her forehead, and gilded her lips with beni. She wore silk attires, gold and purple and grey and green and black, obi of brocade magnificently tied. Her hair was pinned with coral and jade, fastened with combs of gold lacquer and tortoise-shell. She poured saké, she made merry with the good company. More than this, she danced.

Three poets sang of her dancing. One said, “She is lighter than the rainbow-tinted dragonfly.”

And another said, “She moves like the mist of the morning when the bright sun shines.”

And the third said, “She is like the shadow in the river of the waving willow-branch.”

But it is time to tell of her three lovers.

The first lover was neither old nor young. He was passing rich, and a great man in Yedo. He sent his servant to the street of the geisha with money in his girdle. Sakura-ko shut the door in his face.

“You are wrong, fellow,” she said, “you have lost your way. You should have gone to the street of the toy-shops and bought your master a doll; let him know there are no dolls here.”

After this the master came himself. “Come to me, O Flower of the Cherry,” he said, “for I must have you.”

“Must?” she said, and looked down with her long eyes.

“Aye,” he said, “must is the word, O Flower of the Cherry.”

“What will you give me?” she said.

“Fine attires, silk and brocade, a house, white mats and cool galleries; servants to wait on you, gold hairpins–what you will.”

“What do I give you?” she said.

“Yourself, just that, O Flower of the Cherry.”

“Body and soul?” she said.

And he answered her, “Body and soul.”

“Now, fare you well,” she said, “I have a fancy to remain a geisha. It is a merry life,” she said, and she laughed.

So that was the end of the first lover.

The second lover was old. To be old and wise is very well, but he was old and foolish. “Sakura-ko,” he cried, “ah, cruel one, I am mad for love of you!”

“My lord,” she said, “I can easily believe it.”

He said, “I am not so very old.”

“By the divine compassion of the gods,” she told him, “you may yet have time to prepare for your end. Go home and read the good law.” But the old lover would hear nothing of her counsel. Instead, he bade her to his house by night to a great feast which he had prepared for her. And when they had made an end of the feast she danced before him wearing scarlet hakama and a robe of gold brocade. After the dancing he made her sit beside him and he called for wine, that they might drink together. And the geisha who poured the saké was called Silver Wave.

When they had drunk together, Sakura-ko and her old lover, he drew her to him and cried:

“Come, my love, my bride, you are mine for the time of many existences; there was poison in the cup. Be not afraid, for we shall die together. Come with me to the Meido.”

But Sakura-ko said, “My sister, the Silver Wave, and I are not children, neither are we old and foolish to be deceived. I drank no saké and no poison. My sister, the Silver Wave, poured fresh tea in my cup. Howbeit I am sorry for you, and so I will stay with you till you die.”

He died in her arms and was fain to take his way alone to the Meido.

“Alas! alas!” cried the Flower of the Cherry. But her sister, Silver Wave, gave her counsel thus: “Keep your tears, you will yet have cause for weeping. Waste not grief for such as he.”

And that was the end of the second lover.

The third lover was young and brave and gay. Impetuous he was, and beautiful. He first set eyes on the Flower of the Cherry at a festival in his father’s house. Afterwards he went to seek her out in the street of the geisha. He found her as she leaned against the gallery railing of her mistress’s house.

She looked down into the street of the geisha and sang this song:

“My mother bade me spin fine thread
Out of the yellow sea sand–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My father gave me a basket of reeds;
He said, ‘Draw water from the spring
And carry it a mile’–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My heart would remember,
My heart must forget;
Forget, my heart, forget–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!”

When she had made an end of singing, the lover saw that her eyes were full of tears.

“Do you remember me,” he said, “O Flower of the Cherry? I saw you last night at my father’s house.”

“Aye, my young lord,” she answered him, “I remember you very well.”

He said, “I am not so very young. And I love you, O Flower of the Cherry. Be gentle, hear me, be free, be my dear wife.”

At this she flushed neck and chin, cheeks and forehead.

“My dear,” said the young man, “now you are Flower of the Cherry indeed.”

“Child,” she said, “go home and think of me no more. I am too old for such as you.”

“Old!” he said; “why, there lies not a year between us!”

“No, not a year–no year, but an eternity,” said Flower of the Cherry. “Think no more of me,” she said; but the lover thought of nothing else. His young blood was on fire. He could not eat, nor drink, nor sleep. He pined and grew pale, he wandered day and night, his heart heavy with longing. He lived in torment; weak he grew, and weaker. One night he fell fainting at the entrance of the street of the geisha. Sakura-ko came home at dawn from a festival in a great house. There she found him. She said no word, but she bore him to his house outside Yedo, and stayed with him there full three moons. And after that time he was nursed back to ruddy health. Swiftly, swiftly, the glad days sped by for both of them.

“This is the happy time of all my life. I thank the dear gods,” said Flower of the Cherry one evening.

“My dear,” the young man bade her, “fetch hither your samisen and let me hear you sing.”

So she did. She said, “I shall sing you a song you have heard already.”

“My mother bade me spin fine thread
Out of the yellow sea sand–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My father gave me a basket of reeds;
He said, ‘Draw water from the spring
And carry it a mile’–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My heart would remember,
My heart must forget;
Forget, my heart, forget–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!”

“Sweet,” he said, “what does this song mean, and why do you sing it?”

She answered, “My lord, it means that I must leave you, and therefore do I sing it. I must forget you; you must forget me. That is my desire.”

He said, “I will never forget you, not in a thousand existences.”

She smiled, “Pray the gods you may wed a sweet wife and have children.”

He cried, “No wife but you, and no children but yours, O Flower of the Cherry.”

“The gods forbid, my dear, my dear. All the world lies between us.”

The next day she was gone. High and low the lover wandered, weeping and lamenting and seeking her both near and far. It was all in vain, for he found her not. The city of Yedo knew her no more–Sakura-ko, the beautiful dancer.

And her lover mourned many many days. Howbeit at last he was comforted, and they found for him a very sweet fair lady whom he took to wife willingly enough, and soon she bore him a son. And he was glad, for time dries all tears.

Now when the boy was five years old he sat in the gate of his father’s house. And it chanced that a wandering nun came that way begging for alms. The servants of the house brought rice and would have put it into her begging bowl, but the child said, “Let me give.”

So he did as he would.

As he filled the begging bowl and patted down the rice with a wooden spoon and laughed, the nun caught him by the sleeve and held him and looked into his eyes.

“Holy nun, why do you look at me so?” cried the child.

She said, “Because I once had a little boy like you, and I went away and left him.”

“Poor little boy!” said the child.

“It was better for him, my dear, my dear–far, far better.”

And when she had said this, she went her way.

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

Tamamo, the Fox Maiden

A pedlar encounters a mysterious child who joins him on his journey to the Mikado’s Palace in Kioto. The girl, Tamamo, dazzles with beauty and skill, captivating the Mikado into neglect and illness. Revealed as a nine-tailed fox through divination, she flees, cursed to a stone. Centuries later, a holy priest exorcises her spirit, offering redemption through repentance and the hope of Nirvana.

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

► Themes of the story

Transformation: Tamamo transforms from a nine-tailed fox into a beautiful maiden, showcasing physical and possibly spiritual changes.

Trickster: As a cunning figure, Tamamo uses her wit and charm to captivate the Mikado and integrate herself into the royal court.

Divine Punishment: Tamamo’s true identity is revealed through divination, leading to her fleeing and being cursed into a stone, representing retribution from higher powers for her deception.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

A pedlar journeyed with his pack upon the great high-road which leads to the city of Kioto. He found a child sitting all alone by the wayside.

“Well, my little girl,” he said, “and what make you all alone by the wayside?”

“What do you,” said the child, “with a staff and a pack, and sandals outworn?”

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“I am bound for Kioto, and the Mikado’s Palace, to sell my gauds to the ladies of the Court.”

“Ah,” said the child, “take me too.”

“What is your name, my little girl?”

“I have no name.”

“Whence come you?”

“I come from nowhere.”

“You seem to be about seven years old.”

“I have no age.”

“Why are you here?”

“I have been waiting for you.”

“How long have you waited?”

“For more than a hundred years.”

The Pedlar laughed.

“Take me to Kioto,” said the child.

“You may come if you will,” said the Pedlar. So they went their ways together, and in time they came to Kioto and to the Mikado’s Palace. Here the child danced in the august presence of the Son of Heaven. She was as light as the sea-bird upon a wave’s crest. When she had made an end of dancing, the Mikado called her to him.

“Little maid,” he said, “what guerdon shall I give you? Ask!”

“O Divinely Descended,” said the child, “Son of the Gods … I cannot ask…. I am afraid.”

“Ask without fear,” said the Mikado.

The child murmured, “Let me stay in the bright presence of your Augustness.”

“So be it,” said the Mikado, and he received the child into his household. And he called her Tamamo.

Very speedily she became mistress of every lovely art. She could sing, and she could play upon any instrument of music. She had more skill in painting than any painter in the land; she was a wonder with the needle and a wonder at the loom. The poetry that she made moved men to tears and to laughter. The many thousand characters were child’s play to her, and all the hard philosophies she had at her fingers’ ends. She knew Confucius well enough, the Scriptures of Buddha, and the lore of Cathay. She was called the Exquisite Perfection, the Gold Unalloyed, the Jewel without Flaw.

And the Mikado loved her.

Soon he clean forgot honour and duty and kingly state. Day and night he kept Tamamo by his side. He grew rough and fierce and passionate, so that his servants feared to approach him. He grew sick, listless, and languid, he pined, and his physicians could do nothing for him.

“Alas and alack,” they cried, “what ails the Divinely Descended? Of a surety he is bewitched. Woe! woe! for he will die upon our hands.”

“Out upon them, every one,” cried the Mikado, “for a pack of tedious fools. As for me, I will do my own will and pleasure.”

He was mad for love of Tamamo.

He took her to his Summer Palace, where he prepared a great feast in her honour. To the feast were bidden all the highest of the land, princes and lords and ladies of high estate; and, willy-nilly, to the Summer Palace they all repaired, where was the Mikado, wan and wild, and mad with love, and Tamamo by his side, attired in scarlet and cloth of gold. Radiantly fair she was, and she poured the Mikado’s saké out of a golden flagon.

He looked into her eyes.

“Other women are feeble toys beside you,” he said. “There’s not a woman here that’s fit to touch the end of your sleeve. O Tamamo, how I love you….”

He spoke loudly so that all could hear him, and laughed bitterly when he had spoken.

“My lord … my lord …” said Tamamo.

Now as the high company sat and feasted, the sky became overcast with black clouds, and the moon and the stars were hid. Suddenly a fearful wind tore through the Summer Palace and put out every torch in the great Hall of Feasting. And the rain came down in torrents. In the pitchy darkness fear and horror fell upon the assembly. The courtiers ran to and fro in a panic, the air was full of cries, the tables were overturned. The dishes and drinking-vessels crashed together, the saké spilled and soaked into the white mats. Then a radiance was made visible. It came from the place where Tamamo was, and it streamed in long flames of fire from her body.

The Mikado cried aloud in a terrible voice, “Tamamo! Tamamo! Tamamo!” three times. And when he had done this he fell in a deathly swoon upon the ground.

And for many days he was thus, and he seemed either asleep or dead, and no one could recover him from his swoon.

Then the Wise and Holy Men of the land met together, and when they had prayed to the gods, they called to them Abé Yasu, the Diviner. They said:

“O Abé Yasu, learned in dark things, find out for us the cause, and if it may be, the cure, of our Lord’s strange sickness. Perform divination for us, O Abé Yasu.”

Then Abé Yasu performed divination, and he came before the Wise Men and said:

“The wine is sweet, but the aftertaste is bitter.
Set not your teeth in the golden persimmon,
It is rotten at the core.
Fair is the scarlet flower of the Death Lily,
Pluck it not.
What is beauty?
What is wisdom?
What is love?
Be not deceived. They are threads in the fabric of illusion!”

Then the Wise Men said, “Speak out, Abé Yasu, for your saying is dark, and we cannot understand it.”

“I will do more than speak,” said Abé Yasu. And he spent three days in fasting and in prayer. Then he took the sacred Gohei from its place in the Temple, and calling the Wise Men to him he waved the sacred Gohei and with it touched each one of them. And together they went to Tamamo’s bower, and Abé Yasu took the sacred Gohei in his right hand.

Tamamo was in her bower adorning herself, and her maidens were with her.

“My lords,” she said, “you come all unbidden. What would you have with me?”

“My lady Tamamo,” said Abé Yasu the Diviner, “I have made a song after the fashion of the Chinese. You who are learned in poetry, I pray you hear and judge my song.”

“I am in no mood for songs,” she said, “with my dear lord lying sick to death.”

“Nevertheless, my lady Tamamo, this song of mine you needs must hear.”

“Why, then, if I must …” she said.

Then spoke Abé Yasu:

“The wine is sweet, the aftertaste is bitter.
Set not your teeth in the golden persimmon,
It is rotten at the core.
Fair is the scarlet flower of the Death Lily,
Pluck it not.
What is beauty?
What is wisdom?
What is love?
Be not deceived. They are threads in the fabric of illusion!”

When Abé Yasu the Diviner had spoken, he came to Tamamo and he touched her with the sacred Gohei.

She gave a loud and terrible cry, and on the instant her form was changed into that of a great fox having nine long tails and hair like golden wire. The fox fled from Tamamo’s bower, away and away, until it reached the far plain of Nasu, and it hid itself beneath a great black stone that was upon that plain.

But the Mikado was immediately recovered from his sickness.

Soon, strange and terrible things were told concerning the great stone of Nasu. A stream of poisonous water flowed from under it and withered the bright flowers of the plain. All who drank of the stream died, both man and beast. Moreover, nothing could go near the stone and live. The traveller who rested in its shadow arose no more, and the birds that perched upon it fell dead in a moment. People named it the Death Stone, and thus it was called for more than a hundred years.

Then it chanced that Genyo, the High Priest, who was a holy man indeed, took his staff and his begging bowl and went upon a pilgrimage.

When he came to Nasu, the dwellers upon the plain put rice into his bowl.

“O thou Holy Man,” they said, “beware the Death Stone of Nasu. Rest not in its shade.”

But Genyo, the High Priest, having remained a while in thought, made answer thus:

“Know, my children, what is written in the Book of the Good Law: ‘Herbs, trees and rocks shall all enter into Nirvana.’”

With that he took his way to the Death Stone. He burnt incense, he struck the stone with his staff, and he cried, “Come forth, Spirit of the Death Stone; come forth, I conjure thee.”

Then there was a great flame of fire and a rending noise, and the Stone burst and split in sunder. From the stone and from the fire there came a woman.

She stood before the Holy Man. She said:

“I am Tamamo, once called the Proud Perfection;
I am the golden-haired Fox;
I know the Sorceries of the East;
I was worshipped by the Princes of Ind;
I was great Cathay’s undoing;
I was wise and beautiful,
Evil incarnate.
The power of the Buddha has changed me;
I have dwelt in grief for a hundred years;
Tears have washed away my beauty and my sin.
Shrive me, Genyo, shrive me, Holy Man;
Let me have peace.”

“Poor Spirit,” said Genyo. “Take my staff and my priestly robe and my begging bowl and set forth upon the long journey of repentance.”

Tamamo took the priestly robe and put it upon her; in one hand she took the staff, in the other the bowl. And when she had done this, she vanished for ever from the sight of earthly men.

“O thou, Tathagatha,” said Genyo, “and thou, Kwannon, Merciful Lady, make it possible that one day even she may attain Nirvana.”

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 Bell of Dōjōji

The young monk Anchin, devout and scholarly, encounters Kiohimé, a magical lady of irresistible allure. Entranced by her beauty, he struggles between his sacred vows and newfound love. Despite penance, Kiohimé’s relentless pursuit transforms her into a vengeful dragon. Anchin seeks refuge under the Dōjōji temple bell, but she coils around it, unleashing flames, and seals his tragic fate in a fiery embrace.

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

► Themes of the story

Transformation: Kiohimé’s metamorphosis from a beautiful woman into a fearsome dragon symbolizes the destructive power of unrequited love and obsession.

Tragic Love: The doomed relationship between Anchin and Kiohimé highlights the sorrowful consequences of forbidden or unfulfilled love.

Divine Punishment: Anchin’s struggle between his monastic vows and his attraction to Kiohimé, followed by his tragic end, suggests a form of retribution for breaking sacred commitments.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

The monk Anchin was young in years but old in scholarship. Every day for many hours he read the Great Books of the Good Law and never wearied, and hard characters weren’t hard to him.

The monk Anchin was young in years but old in holiness; he kept his body under by fastings and watchings and long prayers. He was acquainted with the blessedness of sublime meditations. His countenance was white as ivory and as smooth; his eyes were deep as a brown pool in autumn; his smile was that of a Buddha; his voice was like an angel’s.

► Continue reading…

He dwelt with a score of holy men in a monastery of the mountains, where he learned the mystic “Way of the Gods.” He was bound to his order by the strictest vows, but was content, rejoicing in the shade of the great pine trees and the sound of the running water of the streams.

Now it happened that on a day in spring-time, the old man, his Abbot, sent the young monk Anchin upon an errand of mercy. And he said, “My son, bind your sandals fast and tie spare sandals to your girdle, take your hat and your staff and your rosary and begging bowl, for you have far to go, over mountain and stream, and across the great plain.”

So the monk Anchin made him ready.

“My son,” the Abbot said, “if any wayfarer do you a kindness, forget not to commend him to the gods for the space of nine existences.”

“I will remember,” said the monk, and so he set forth upon his way.

Over mountain and stream he passed, and as he went his spirit was wrapped in contemplation, and he recited the Holy Sutras aloud in a singing voice. And the Wise Birds called and twittered from branch to branch of the tall trees, the birds that are beloved of Buddha. One bird chanted the grand Scripture of the Nicheten, the Praise of the Sutra of the Lotus, of the Good Law, and the other bird called upon his Master’s name, for he cried:

“O thou Compassionate Mind! O thou Compassionate Mind!”

The monk smiled. “Sweet and happy bird,” he said.

And the bird answered, “O thou Compassionate Mind!… O thou Compassionate Mind!”

When the monk Anchin came to the great plain, the sun was high in the heavens, and all the blue and golden flowers of the plain languished in the noon-tide heat. The monk likewise became very weary, and when he beheld the Marshy Mere, where were bulrush and sedge that cooled their feet in the water, he laid him down to rest under a sycamore tree that grew by the Marshy Mere.

Over the mere and upon the farther side of it there hung a glittering haze.

Long did the monk Anchin lie; and as he lay he looked through the glittering haze, and as he looked the haze quivered and moved and grew and gathered upon the farther side of the mere. At the last it drew into a slender column of vapour, and out of the vapour there came forth a very dazzling lady. She wore a robe of green and gold, interwoven, and golden sandals on her slender feet. In her hands were jewels–in each hand one bright jewel like a star. Her hair was tied with a braid of scarlet, and she had a crown of scarlet flowers. She came, skirting the Marshy Mere. She came, gliding in and out of the bulrush and the sedge. In the silence there could be heard the rustle of her green skirt upon the green grass.

The monk Anchin stumbled to his feet and, trembling, he leaned against the sycamore tree.

Nearer and nearer came the lady, till she stood before Anchin and looked into his eyes. With the jewel that was in her right hand she touched his forehead and his lips. With the jewel that was in her left hand she touched his rice-straw hat and his staff and his rosary and his begging bowl. After this she had him safe in thrall. Then the wind blew a tress of her hair across his face, and when he felt it he gave one sob.

For the rest of his journey the monk went as a man in a dream. Once a rich traveller riding on horseback threw a silver coin into Anchin’s begging bowl; once a woman gave him a piece of cake made of millet; and once a little boy knelt down and tied the fastening of his sandal that had become loose. But each time the monk passed on without a word, for he forgot to commend the souls of these compassionate ones for the space of nine existences. In the tree-tops the Wise Birds of Buddha sang for him no more, only from the thicket was heard the cry of the Hototogisu, the bird lovelorn and forsaken.

Nevertheless, well or ill, he performed his errand of mercy and returned to the monastery by another way.

Howbeit, sweet peace left him from the hour in which he had seen the lady of the Marshy Mere. The Great Books of the Good Law sufficed him no longer; no more was he acquainted with the blessedness of divine meditations. His heart was hot within him; his eyes burned and his soul longed after the lady of the green and golden robe.

She had told him her name, and he murmured it in his sleep. “Kiohimé–Kiohimé!” Waking, he repeated it instead of his prayers–to the great scandal of the brethren, who whispered together and said, “Is our brother mad?”

At length Anchin went to the good Abbot, and in his ear poured forth all his tale in a passion of mingled love and grief, humbly asking what he must do.

The Abbot said, “Alack, my son, now you suffer for sin committed in a former life, for Karma must needs be worked out.”

Anchin asked him, “Then is it past help?”

“Not that,” said the Abbot, “but you are in a very great strait.”

“Are you angry with me?” said Anchin.

“Nay, Heaven forbid, my poor son.”

“Then what must I do?”

“Fast and pray, and for a penance stand in the ice-cold water of our mountain torrent an hour at sunrise and an hour at sunset. Thus shall you be purged from carnal affection and escape the perils of illusion.”

So Anchin fasted and prayed, he scourged his body, and hour after hour he did penance in the ice-cold water of the torrent. Wan as a ghost he grew, and his eyes were like flames. His trouble would not leave him. A battle raged in his breast. He could not be faithful to his vows and faithful to his love.

The brethren wondered, “What can ail the monk Anchin, who was so learned and so holy–is he bewitched by a fox or a badger, or can he have a devil?”

But the Abbot said, “Let be.”

Now on a hot night of summer, the monk being sleepless in his cell, he was visited by Kiohimé, the magic lady of the mere. The moonlight was on her hands and her long sleeves. Her robe was green and gold, interwoven; golden were her sandals. Her hair was braided with scarlet and adorned with scarlet flowers.

“Long, long have I waited for thee on the plains,” she said. “The night wind sighs in the sedge–the frogs sing by the Marshy Mere. Come, lord….”

But he cried, “My vows that I have vowed–alas! the love that I love. I keep faith and loyalty, the bird in my bosom … I may not come.”

She smiled, “May not?” she said, and with that she lifted the monk Anchin in her arms.

But he, gathering all his strength together, tore himself from her and fled from the place. Barefooted and bareheaded he went, his white robe flying, through the dark halls of the monastery, where the air was heavy with incense and sweet with prayers, where the golden Amida rested upon her lotus, ineffably smiling. He leaped the grey stone steps that led down from her shrine and gained the pine trees and the mountain path. Down, down he fled on the rough way, the nymph Kiohimé pursuing. As for her, her feet never touched the ground, and she spread her green sleeves like wings. Down, down they fled together, and so close was she behind him that the monk felt her breath upon his neck.

“As a young goddess, she is fleet of foot …” he moaned.

At last they came to the famed temple of Dōjōji, which was upon the plains. By this Anchin sobbed and staggered as he ran; his knees failed him and his head swam.

“I am lost,” he cried, “for a hundred existences.” But with that he saw the great temple bell of Dōjōji that hung but a little way from the ground. He cast himself down and crept beneath it, and so deemed himself sheltered and secure.

Then came Kiohimé, the Merciless Lady, and the moonlight shone upon her long sleeves. She did not sigh, nor cry, nor call upon her love. She stood still for a little space and smiled. Then lightly she sprang to the top of the great bronze bell of Dōjōji, and with her sharp teeth she bit through the ropes that held it, so that the bell came to the ground and the monk was a prisoner. And Kiohimé embraced the bell with her arms. She crept about it, she crawled about it and her green robe flowed over it. Her green robe glittered with a thousand golden scales; long flames burst from her lips and from her eyes; a huge and fearsome Dragon, she wound and coiled herself about the bell of Dōjōji. With her Dragon’s tail she lashed the bell, and lashed it till its bronze was red hot.

Still she lashed the bell, while the monk called piteously for mercy. And when he was very quiet she did not stop. All the night long the frogs sang by the Marshy Mere and the wind sighed in the sedges. But the Dragon Lady was upon the bell of Dōjōji, and she lashed it furiously with her tail till dawn.

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The Mallet

Two farmer brothers, Cho and Kanè, live very different lives. Cho, a miserly rich man, mistreats his kindhearted but poor brother Kanè. Cho tricks Kanè with dead silk-worm eggs and bad rice, but miraculously, Kanè thrives. Envious, Cho seeks similar luck but instead angers fairies, earning a comically long nose. Kanè’s kindness redeems Cho, and he restores the fairies’ magical mallet to its rightful place.

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

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: Cho’s attempts to deceive Kanè with dead silk-worm eggs and bad rice showcase the use of deceit, which ultimately backfires.

Supernatural Beings: The involvement of fairies who bestow and later retrieve the magical mallet introduces elements of the supernatural.

Transformation: Cho’s punishment of developing a comically long nose serves as a physical transformation symbolizing the consequences of his greed.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

There were once two farmer men who were brothers. Both of them worked hard in seed-time and in harvest-time. They stood knee-deep in water to plant out the young rice, bending their backs a thousand times an hour; they wielded the sickle when the hot sun shone; when the rain poured down in torrents, there they were still at their digging or such like, huddled up in their rice-straw rain coats, for in the sweat of their brows did they eat their bread. The elder of the two brothers was called Cho. For all he laboured so hard he was passing rich. From a boy he had had a saving way with him, and had put by a mint of money.

► Continue reading…

He had a big farm, too, and not a year but that he did well, what with his rice, and his silk-worms, and his granaries and storehouses. But there was nothing to show for all this, if it will be believed. He was a mean, sour man with not so much as a “good day” and a cup of tea for a wayfarer, or a cake of cold rice for a beggar man. His children whimpered when he came near them, and his wife was much to be pitied.

The younger of the two brothers was called Kanè. For all he laboured so hard he was as poor as a church mouse. Bad was his luck, his silk-worms died, and his rice would not flourish. In spite of this he was a merry fellow, a bachelor who loved a song and an honest cup of saké. His roof, his pipe, his meagre supper, all these he would share, very gladly, with the first-comer. He had the nimblest tongue for a comical joke, and the kindest heart in the world. But it is a true thing, though it is a pity all the same, that a man cannot live on love and laughter, and presently Kanè was in a bad way.

“There’s nothing for it,” he says, “but to pocket my pride” (for he had some) “and go and see what my brother Cho will do for me, and I’m greatly mistaken if it will be much.”

So he borrows some clothes from a friend for the visit, and sets off in very neat hakama, looking quite the gentleman, and singing a song to keep his heart up.

He sees his brother standing outside his house, and the first minute he thinks he is seeing a boggart, Cho is in such ragged gear. But presently he sings out, “You’re early, Cho.”

“You’re early, Kanè,” says Cho.

“May I come in and talk a bit?” asks Kanè.

“Yes,” says Cho, “you can; but you won’t find anything to eat at this time of day, nor yet to drink, so let disappointments be avoided.”

“Very well,” says Kanè; “as it happens, it’s not food I’ve come for.”

When they were inside the house and sitting on the mats, Cho says, “That’s a fine suit of clothes you’ve got on you, Kanè. You must be doing well. It’s not me that can afford to go about the muddy roads dressed up like a prince. Times are bad, very bad.”

In spite of this not being a good beginning, Kanè plucks up his courage and laughs. And presently he says:

“Look here, brother. These are borrowed clothes, my own will hardly hold together. My rice crop was ruined, and my silk-worms are dead. I have not a rin to buy rice seed or new worms. I am at my wits’ end, and I have come to you begging, so now you have it. For the sake of the mother that bore us both, give me a handful of seed and a few silk-worms’ eggs.”

At this Cho made as if he would faint with astonishment and dismay.

“Alack! Alack!” he says. “I am a poor man, a very poor man. Must I rob my wife and my miserable children?” And thus he bewailed himself and talked for half an hour.

But to make a long story short, Cho says that out of filial piety, and because of the blessed mother of them both, he must make shift to give Kanè the silk-worms’ eggs and the rice. So he gets a handful of dead eggs and a handful of musty and mouldy rice. “These are no good to man or beast,” says the old fox to himself, and he laughs. But to his own blood-brother he says, “Here, Kanè. It’s the best silk-worms’ eggs I am giving you, and the best rice of all my poor store, and I cannot afford it at all; and may the gods forgive me for robbing my poor wife and my children.”

Kanè thanks his brother with all his heart for his great generosity, and bows his head to the mats three times. Then off he goes, with the silk-worms’ eggs and the rice in his sleeve, skipping and jumping with joy, for he thought that his luck had turned at last. But in the muddy parts of the road he was careful to hold up his hakama, for they were borrowed.

When he reached home he gathered great store of green mulberry leaves. This was for the silk-worms that were going to be hatched out of the dead eggs. And he sat down and waited for the silk-worms to come. And come they did, too, and that was very strange, because the eggs were dead eggs for sure. The silk-worms were a lively lot; they ate the mulberry leaves in a twinkling, and lost no time at all, but began to wind themselves into cocoons that minute. Then Kanè was the happy man. He went out and told his good fortune to all the neighbours. This was where he made his mistake. And he found a peddlar man who did his rounds in those parts, and gave him a message to take to his brother Cho, with his compliments and respectful thanks, that the silk-worms were doing uncommonly well. This was where he made a bigger mistake. It was a pity he could not let well alone.

When Cho heard of his brother’s luck he was not pleased. Pretty soon he tied on his straw sandals and was off to Kanè’s farm. Kanè was out when he got there, but Cho did not care for that. He went to have a look at the silk-worms. And when he saw how they were beginning to spin themselves into cocoons, as neat as you please, he took a sharp knife and cut every one of them in two. Then he went away home, the bad man! When Kanè came to look after his silk-worms he could not help thinking they looked a bit queer. He scratches his head and he says, “It almost appears as though each of them has been cut in half. They seem dead,” he says. Then out he goes and gathers a great lot of mulberry leaves. And all those half silk-worms set to and ate up the mulberry leaves, and after that there were just twice as many silk-worms spinning away as there were before. And that was very strange, because the silk-worms were dead for sure.

When Cho heard of this he goes and chops his own silk-worms in two with a sharp knife; but he gained nothing by that, for the silk-worms never moved again, but stayed as dead as dead, and his wife had to throw them away next morning.

After this Kanè sowed the rice seed that he had from his brother, and when the young rice came up as green as you please he planted it out with care, and it flourished wonderfully, and soon the rice was formed in the ear.

One day an immense flight of swallows came and settled on Kanè’s rice-field.

“Arah! Arah!” Kanè shouted. He clapped his hands and beat about with a bamboo stick. So the swallows flew away. In two minutes back they came.

“Arah! Arah!” Kanè shouted, and he clapped his hands and beat about with his bamboo stick. So the swallows flew away. In two minutes back they came.

“Arah! Arah!” Kanè shouted. He clapped his hands and beat about with his bamboo stick. So the swallows flew away. In two minutes back they came.

When he had scared them away for the ninth time, Kanè takes his tenegui and wipes his face. “This grows into a habit,” he says. But in two minutes back came the swallows for the tenth time. “Arah! Arah!” Kanè shouted, and he chased them over hill and dale, hedge and ditch, rice-field and mulberry-field, till at last they flew away from his sight, and he found himself in a mossy dell shaded by spreading pine trees. Being very tired with running he lies down his full length upon the moss, and presently falls fast asleep and snoring.

The next thing was that he dreamed. He thought he saw a troop of children come to the mossy glade, for in his dream he remembered very well where he was. The children fluttered here and there among the pine-trees’ trunks. They were as pretty as flowers or butterflies. One and all of them had dancing bare feet; their hair hung down, long, loose and black; their skins were white like the plum blossom.

“For good or for evil,” says Kanè to himself, “I have seen the fairies’ children.”

The children made an end of their dancing, and sat them upon the ground in a ring. “Leader! Leader!” they cried. “Fetch us the mallet.” Then there rose up a beautiful boy, about fourteen or fifteen years old, the eldest and the tallest there. He lifted a mossy stone quite close to Kanè’s head. Underneath was a plain little mallet of white wood. The boy took it up and went and stood within the circle of children. He laughed and cried, “Now what will you have?”

“A kite, a kite,” calls out one of the children.

The boy shakes the mallet, and lo and behold he shakes a kite out of it!–a great kite with a tail to it, and a good ball of twine as well.

“Now what else?” asks the boy.

“Battledore and shuttlecock for me,” says a little girl.

And sure enough there they are, a battledore of the best, and twenty shuttlecocks, meetly feathered and gilded.

“Now what else?” says the boy.

“A lot of sweets.”

“Greedy!” says the boy, but he shakes the mallet, and there are the sweets.

“A red crêpe frock and a brocade obi.”

“Miss Vanity!” says the boy, but he shakes all this gravely out of the mallet.

“Books, story books.”

“That’s better,” says the boy, and out come the books by the dozen and score, all open to show the lovely pictures.

Now, when the children had their hearts’ desires, the leader put away the mallet beneath its mossy stone, and after they had played for some time they became tired; their bright attires melted away into the gloom of the wood, and their pretty voices grew distant and then were heard no more. It was very still.

Kanè awoke, good man, and found the sun set and darkness beginning to fall. There was the mossy stone right under his hand. He lifted it, and there was the mallet.

“Now,” said Kanè, taking it up, “begging the pardon of the fairies’ children, I’ll make bold to borrow that mallet.” So he took it home in his sleeve and spent a pleasant evening shaking gold pieces out of it, and saké, and new clothes, and farmers’ tools, and musical instruments, and who knows what all!

It is not hard to believe that pretty soon he became the richest and jolliest farmer in all that country-side. Sleek and fat he grew, and his heart was bigger and kinder than ever.

But what like was Cho’s heart when he got wind of all this? Ay, there’s the question. Cho turned green with envy, as green as grass. “I’ll have a fairy mallet, too,” he says, “and be rich for nothing. Why should that idiot spendthrift Kanè have all the good fortune?” So he goes and begs rice from his brother, which his brother gives him very willingly, a good sackful. And he waits for it to ripen, quite wild with impatience. It ripens sure enough, and sure enough a flight of swallows comes and settles upon the good grain in the ear.

“Arah! Arah!” shouted Cho, clapping his hands and laughing aloud for joy. The swallows flew away, and Cho was after them. He chased them over hill and dale, hedge and ditch, rice-field and mulberry-field, till at last they flew away from his sight, and he found himself in a mossy dell shaded by spreading pine-trees. Cho looks about him.

“This should be the place,” says he. So he lies down and waits with one wily eye shut and one wily eye open.

Presently who should trip into the dell but the fairies’ children! Very fresh they were as they moved among the pine-tree trunks.

“Leader! Leader! Fetch us the mallet,” they cried. Up stepped the leader and lifted away the mossy stone. And behold there was no mallet there!

Now the fairies’ children became very angry. They stamped their little feet, and cried and rushed wildly to and fro, and were beside themselves altogether because the mallet was gone.

“See,” cried the leader at last, “see this ugly old farmer man; he must have taken our mallet. Let us pull his nose for him.”

With a shrill scream the fairies’ children set upon Cho. They pinched him, and pulled him, and buffeted him, and set their sharp teeth in his flesh till he yelled in agony. Worst of all, they laid hold of his nose and pulled it. Long it grew, and longer. It reached his waist. It reached his feet.

Lord, how they laughed, the fairies’ children! Then they scampered away like fallen leaves before the wind.

Cho sighed, and he groaned, and he cursed, and he swore, but for all that his nose was not an inch shorter. So, sad and sorry, he gathered it up in his two hands and went to Kanè’s house.

“Kanè, I am very sick,” says he.

“Indeed, so I see,” says Kanè, “a terrible sickness; and how did you catch it?” he says. And so kind he was that he never laughed at Cho’s nose, nor yet he never smiled, but there were tears in his eyes at his brother’s misfortunes. Then Cho’s heart melted and he told his brother all the tale, and he never kept back how mean he had been about the dead silk-worms’ eggs, and about the other things that have been told of. And he asked Kanè to forgive him and to help him.

“Wait you still a minute,” says Kanè.

He goes to his chest, and he brings out the mallet. And he rubs it very gently up and down Cho’s long nose, and sure enough it shortened up very quickly. In two minutes it was a natural size. Cho danced for joy.

Kanè looks at him and says, “If I were you, I’d just go home and try to be different.”

When Cho had gone, Kanè sat still and thought for a long time. When the moon rose that night he went out and took the mallet with him. He came to the mossy dell that was shaded with spreading pine trees, and he laid the mallet in its old place under the stone.

“I’m the last man in the world,” he said, “to be unfriendly to the fairies’ children.”

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