Tag: 06. Divine Intervention

The gods influencing mortal affairs

The Upright King

Harchand Mahárájá, a devout and charitable ruler, is tested by God, who transforms his wealth into charcoal and forces him to sell his family. Despite these hardships, Harchand remains faithful and patient. After twelve years, God restores his wealth, revives his son, and reunites him with his family, rewarding his unwavering devotion. The Mahárájá returns to his palace and lives happily ever after.

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

► Themes of the story

Divine Intervention: God tests Harchand Mahárájá’s devotion by stripping him of his wealth and possessions.

Sacrifice: The Mahárájá sells his wife, son, and himself to fulfill his promise to the fakír, demonstrating selflessness.

Trials and Tribulations: Harchand endures twelve years of hardship, including the loss of his family and status.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

There was a great Mahárájá whose name was Harchand Rájá, and he had an only son called Mánikchand. He was very rich and had a great deal of money, and he also had a very large garden full of lovely flowers and fruits which he prized greatly. Every morning before he bathed he used to give some poor fakír two pounds and a half of gold. Now Harchand Mahárájá used to pray a great deal to God, and God was very fond of him, so he said one day, “To see if Harchand Mahárájá really loves me, I will make him very poor for twelve years.” And at night God came down in the shape of a great boar, and ate up everything that was in Harchand Mahárájá’s garden. The boar then ran away into the jungle.

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Next morning the gardener got up and looked out into the garden, and what was his astonishment when he saw it was all spoilt. Nothing was left in it; it was not a garden any more. He went quickly to the Mahárájá and said, “Oh, master! oh, Mahárájá! your garden is quite spoilt. Last night a boar came and ate up everything in it.” “Nonsense,” said the Mahárájá, who would not believe him. “It is quite true,” said the gardener; “you can come and see for yourself.” So the Rájá got up at once and put on his clothes, and went into the garden, and found it all empty. He went back to the house very melancholy. Then as usual he gave a fakír his two pounds and a half of gold. After breakfast he went out hunting. The boar which had run away into the wood changed himself into a very old fakír, who shook from old age. As Harchand Mahárájá passed, the old fakír held out his hand, saying, “Please give me a few pice, I am so poor and hungry.” The Mahárájá said, “Come to my palace and I will give you two pounds and a half of gold.” “Oh, no,” said the fakír, “surely you would never give me so much as that.” “Yes, I will,” said the Mahárájá. “Every morning before I bathe I give a fakír two pounds and a half of gold.” “Nonsense,” said the fakír, “you don’t give away your money in that way.” “Really, I do,” said the Mahárájá, “and I promise to give you two pounds and a half of gold.” So the fakír followed Harchand Mahárájá home, and when they reached the palace, the Mahárájá told his treasurer to give the old fakír two pounds and a half of gold. The treasurer went into the treasury, but all the Mahárájá’s gold and silver and jewels had become charcoal! The treasurer came out again to the Mahárájá saying, “Oh, Mahárájá, all your gold and silver and jewels are turned into charcoal!” “Oh, nonsense,” said the Mahárájá. “Come and see, Mahárájá,” said the treasurer, who was in a great fright. The Mahárájá went into his treasury, and was quite sad at the sight of the charcoal. “Alas!” he said, “God has made me very poor, but still I must give this fakír his money.” So he went to the fakír and said, “All my gold and silver and jewels are turned into charcoal; but I will sell my wife, and my boy, and myself, and then I will give you the money I promised you.” And he went and fetched his wife and son, and left his palace, his houses, servants, and possessions.

He then went to a merchant, who bought from him his Mahárání, who was called Hírálí, that is, the diamond lady, for she was very beautiful, and her face shone like a diamond. Her hands were very small, and so were her feet. The merchant gave the Mahárájá a pound of gold for the Mahárání. Next, Harchand Mahárájá went to a cowherd and sold him his son Mánikchand. The cowherd gave him for the boy half a pound of gold. Then he went to a dom, that is, a man of a very low caste, who kept a tank into which it was his business to throw the bodies of those who died. If it was a dead man or woman, the dom took one rupee, if it was a dead child he was only paid eight annas. To this dom Harchand sold himself for a pound of gold, and he gave the two pounds and a half of gold to the fakír, who then went home. The dom said, “Will you stay by the tank for a few days while I go home and do my other work, which is weaving baskets? If any one brings you a dead body you must throw it into the water. If it is the body of a man or woman, take one rupee in payment; if it is a dead child, take eight annas; and if the bearers have got no money, take a bit of cloth. Don’t forget.” And the dom went away, leaving Harchand sitting by the tank.

Well, Harchand Mahárájá sat for some days by the tank, and when any one brought him dead bodies he threw them into it. For a dead man or woman he took one rupee, for a dead child eight annas, and if the bearers had no money to give him, he took some cloth. Some time had passed, and Mánikchand, the Mahárájá’s son, died; so Hírálí Rání went to the cowherd to ask him for her dead child. The cowherd gave him to her, and she took him to the tank. Harchand Mahárájá was sitting by the tank, and when Hírálí Mahárání saw him she said, “I know that man is my husband, so he will not take any money for throwing his child into the water.” So she went up to him and said, “Will you throw this child into the tank for me?” “Yes, I will,” said Harchand Mahárájá; “only first give me eight annas.” “You surely won’t take any money for throwing your own son into the tank?” said the Mahárání. “You must pay me,” said Harchand Mahárájá, “for I must obey the dom’s orders. If you have no money, give me a piece of cloth.” So the Mahárání tore off a great piece of her sárí and gave it him, and the Mahárájá took his son and threw him into the tank. As he threw him in he cried out to the king of the fishes, who was an alligator, “Take great care of this body.” The king of fishes said, “I will.” Then the Mahárání went back to the merchant.

And the Mahárájá caught a fish, and cooked it, and laid it by the tank, saying, “I will go and bathe and then I will eat it.” So he took off his clothes and went into the tank to bathe, and when he had bathed he put on fresh clothes, and as he took hold of his fish to eat it, it slipped back alive into the water, although it had been dead and cooked. The Mahárájá sat down by the tank again, very sad. He said, “For twelve years I have found it hard to get anything to eat; how long will God keep me without food?” God was very pleased with Harchand for being so patient, for he had never complained.

Some days later God came down to earth in the shape of a man, and with him he took an angel to be his Wazír. The Wazír said to God, “Come this way and let us see who it is sitting by the tank.” “No,” said God, “I am too tired, I can go no further.” “Do come,” said the Wazír; “I want so much to go.” God said, “Well, let us go.” Then they walked on till they came to the place where Harchand Mahárájá was sitting, and God said to him, “Would you like to have your wife, and your son, and your kingdom back again?” “Yes, I should,” said the Mahárájá; “but how can I get them?” “Tell me truly,” said God, “would you like to have your kingdom back again?” “Indeed I should,” said the Mahárájá. Then Mánikchand’s body, which had never sunk to the bottom of the tank like the other bodies, but had always floated on the water, rose up out of the water, and Mánikchand was alive once more. The father and son embraced each other. “Now,” said God, “let us go to the dom.” Harchand Mahárájá agreed, and they went to the dom and asked him how much he would take for Harchand Mahárájá. The dom said, “I gave one pound of gold for him, and I will take two pounds.” So they paid down the two pounds of gold. Then they went to the merchant and said to him, “How much will you take for Hírálí Rání?” The merchant said, “I gave a pound of gold for her; I will take four pounds.” So they paid down the four pounds of gold, took Hírálí Rání, and went to the cowherd. “How much will you take for Mánikchand?” said they to him. “I gave half a pound of gold for him,” answered the cowherd; “I will take one pound.” So they paid down the pound of gold, and Harchand Mahárájá went home to his palace, taking with him Hírálí Rání and Mánikchand, after thanking the strange man for his goodness to them. When they reached the palace, the garden was in splendid beauty; the charcoal was turned back into gold, and silver, and jewels; the servants were in waiting as usual, and they went into the palace and lived happily for evermore.

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Brave Hírálálbásá

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Jackal and the Kite

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

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

► Continue reading…

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

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

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

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The Moon Maiden

Také Tori, an elderly bamboo cutter, discovers a magical jewel containing a fairy, Lady Beaming Bright, who brings wealth and joy to his household. Despite her beauty attracting many suitors, including the Mikado, she refuses marriage, revealing her exile from the Moon. After three years, celestial beings reclaim her. Heartbroken, the Mikado burns the elixir of life, sending his love to her in the heavens.

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

► Themes of the story

Divine Intervention: The celestial beings’ eventual return to reclaim Lady Beaming Bright underscores the influence of higher powers in mortal affairs.

Love and Betrayal: The Mikado’s deep affection for Lady Beaming Bright and her subsequent departure to the Moon introduces elements of unfulfilled love and emotional loss.

Sacred Objects: The elixir of life, which the Mikado chooses to burn in his grief, serves as a powerful artifact with symbolic significance.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

There was an old bamboo cutter called Také Tori. He was an honest old man, very poor and hard-working, and he lived with his good old wife in a cottage on the hills. Children they had none, and little comfort in their old age, poor souls. Také Tori rose early upon a summer morning, and went forth to cut bamboos as was his wont, for he sold them for a fair price in the town, and thus he gained his humble living.

Up the steep hillside he went, and came to the bamboo grove quite wearied out.

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He took his blue tenegui and wiped his forehead, “Alack for my old bones!” he said. “I am not so young as I once was, nor the good wife either, and there’s no chick nor child to help us in our old age, more’s the pity.” He sighed as he got to work, poor Také Tori.

Soon he saw a bright light shining among the green stems of the bamboos.

“What is this?” said Také Tori, for as a rule it was dim and shady enough in the bamboo grove. “Is it the sun?” said Také Tori. “No, that cannot well be, for it comes from the ground.” Very soon he pushed his way through the bamboo stems to see what the bright light came from. Sure enough it came from the root of a great big green bamboo. Také Tori took his axe and cut down the great big green bamboo, and there was a fine shining green jewel, the size of his two fists.

“Wonder of wonders!” cried Také Tori. “Wonder of wonders! For five-and-thirty years I’ve cut bamboo. This is the very first time I’ve found a great big green jewel at the root of one of them.” With that he takes up the jewel in his hands, and as soon as he does that, it bursts in two with a loud noise, if you’ll believe it, and out of it came a young person and stood on Také Tori’s hand.

You must understand the young person was small but very beautiful. She was dressed all in green silk.

“Greetings to you, Také Tori,” she says, as easy as you please.

“Mercy me!” says Také Tori. “Thank you kindly. I suppose, now, you’ll be a fairy,” he says, “if I’m not making too bold in asking?”

“You’re right,” she says, “it’s a fairy I am, and I’m come to live with you and your good wife for a little.”

“Well, now,” says Také Tori, “begging your pardon, we’re very poor. Our cottage is good enough, but I’m afraid there’d be no comforts for a lady like you.”

“Where’s the big green jewel?” says the fairy.

Take Tori picks up the two halves. “Why, it’s full of gold pieces,” he says.

“That will do to go on with,” says the fairy; “and now, Také Tori, let us make for home.”

Home they went. “Wife! wife!” cried Také Tori, “here’s a fairy come to live with us, and she has brought us a shining jewel as big as a persimmon, full of gold pieces.”

The good wife came running to the door. She could hardly believe her eyes.

“What is this,” she said, “about a persimmon and gold pieces? Persimmons I have seen often enough–moreover, it is the season–but gold pieces are hard to come by.”

“Let be, woman,” said Také Tori, “you are dull.” And he brought the fairy into the house.

Wondrous fast the fairy grew. Before many days were gone she was a fine tall maiden, as fresh and as fair as the morning, as bright as the noonday, as sweet and still as the evening, and as deep as the night. Také Tori called her the Lady Beaming Bright, because she had come out of the shining jewel.

Take Tori had the gold pieces out of the jewel every day. He grew rich, and spent his money like a man, but there was always plenty and to spare. He built him a fine house, he had servants to wait on him. The Lady Beaming Bright was lodged like an empress. Her beauty was famed both near and far, and scores of lovers came to seek her hand.

But she would have none of them. “Také Tori and the dear good wife are my true lovers,” she said; “I will live with them and be their daughter.”

So three happy years went by; and in the third year the Mikado himself came to woo the Lady Beaming Bright. He was the brave lover, indeed.

“Lady,” he said, “I bow before you, my soul salutes you. Sweet lady, be my Queen.”

Then the Lady Beaming Bright sighed and great tears stood in her eyes, and she hid her face with her sleeve.

“Lord, I cannot,” she said.

“Cannot?” said the Mikado; “and why not, O dear Lady Beaming Bright?”

“Wait and see, lord,” she said.

Now about the seventh month she grew very sorrowful, and would go abroad no more, but was for long upon the garden gallery of Také Tori’s house. There she sat in the daytime and brooded. There she sat at night and gazed upon the moon and the stars. There she was one fine night when the moon was at its full. Her maidens were with her, and Také Tori and the good wife, and the Mikado, her brave lover.

“How bright the moon shines!” said Také Tori.

“Truly,” said the good wife, “it is like a brass saucepan well scoured.”

“See how pale and wan it is,” said the Mikado; “it is like a sad despairing lover.”

“How long and bright a beam!” quoth Také Tori. “It is like a highway from the moon reaching to this garden gallery.”

“O dear foster-father,” cried the Lady Beaming Bright. “You speak truth, it is a highway indeed. And along the highway come countless heavenly beings swiftly, swiftly, to bear me home. My father is the King of the Moon. I disobeyed his behest. He sent me to earth three years to dwell in exile. The three years are past and I go to mine own country. Ah, I am sad at parting.”

“The mist descends,” said Také Tori.

“Nay,” said the Mikado, “it is the cohorts of the King of the Moon.”

Down they came in their hundreds and their thousands, bearing torches. Silently they came, and lighted round about the garden gallery. The chief among them brought a heavenly feather robe. Up rose the Lady Beaming Bright and put the robe upon her.

“Farewell, Také Tori,” she said, “farewell, dear foster-mother, I leave you my jewel for a remembrance…. As for you, my lord, I would you might come with me–but there is no feather robe for you. I leave you a phial of the pure elixir of life. Drink, my lord, and be even as the Immortals.”

Then she spread her bright wings and the cohorts of Heaven closed about her. Together they passed up the highway to the moon, and were no more seen.

The Mikado took the elixir of life in his hand, and he went to the top of the highest mountain in that country. And he made a great fire to consume the elixir of life, for he said, “Of what profit shall it be to me to live for ever, being parted from the Lady Beaming Bright?” So the elixir of life was consumed, and its blue vapour floated up to Heaven. And the Mikado said, “Let my message float up with the vapour and reach the ears of my Lady Beaming Bright.”

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 Nurse

Idé, a samurai, entrusts his son Fugiwaka with his clan’s sacred sword, emphasizing its significance as their treasure and trust. After Idé’s death, Fugiwaka is cast out by his jealous stepmother, Lady Sadako. His loyal nurse, O Matsu, sacrifices herself to safeguard the sword. Her spirit delivers it to Fugiwaka, reaffirming his duty to honor and protect the legacy of the House of Idé.

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

► Themes of the story

Sacrifice: O Matsu, the loyal nurse, sacrifices herself to protect the sacred sword and ensure Fugiwaka’s legacy.

Divine Intervention: After her death, O Matsu’s spirit intervenes to deliver the sword to Fugiwaka, guiding him to honor his family’s heritage.

Sacred Objects: The sword symbolizes the clan’s honor and trust, serving as a central element around which the story revolves.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Idé the samurai was wedded to a fair wife and had an only child, a boy called Fugiwaka. Idé was a mighty man of war, and as often as not he was away from home upon the business of his liege lord. So the child Fugiwaka was reared by his mother and by the faithful woman, his nurse. Matsu was her name, which is, in the speech of the country, the Pine Tree. And even as the pine tree, strong and evergreen, was she, unchanging and enduring. In the house of Idé there was a very precious sword. Aforetime a hero of Idé’s clan slew eight-and-forty of his enemies with this sword in one battle. The sword was Idé’s most sacred treasure. He kept it laid away in a safe place with his household gods.

► Continue reading…

Morning and evening the child Fugiwaka came to make salutations before the household gods, and to reverence the glorious memory of his ancestors. And Matsu, the nurse, knelt by his side.

Morning and evening, “Show me the sword, O Matsu, my nurse,” said Fugiwaka.

And O Matsu made answer, “Of a surety, my lord, I will show it to you.”

Then she brought the sword from its place, wrapped in a covering of red and gold brocade. And she drew off the covering and she took the sword from its golden sheath and displayed the bright steel to Fugiwaka. And the child made obeisance till his forehead touched the mats.

At bedtime O Matsu sang songs and lullabies. She sang this song:

“Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep–
Would you know the secret,
The secret of the hare o Nennin Yama?
Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep–
You shall know the secret.
Oh, the august hare of Nennin Yama,
How augustly long are his ears!
Why should this be, oh, best beloved?
You shall know the secret.
His mother ate the bamboo seed.
Hush! Hush!
His mother ate the loquat seed.
Hush! Hush!
Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep–
Now you know the secret.”

Then O Matsu said, “Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?”

And the child answered, “I will sleep now, O Matsu.”

“Listen, my lord,” she said, “and, sleeping or waking, remember. The sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it.”

“Sleeping or waking, I will remember,” said Fugiwaka.

Now in an evil day the mother of Fugiwaka fell sick and died. And there was mourning in the house of Idé. Howbeit, when years were past, the samurai took another bride, and he had a son by her and called him Goro. And after this Idé himself was slain in an ambush, and his retainers brought his body home and laid him with his fathers.

Fugiwaka was chief of the House of Idé. But the Lady Sadako, his stepmother, was ill-pleased. Black mischief stirred in her heart; she bent her brows and she brooded as she went her ways, bearing her babe in her arms. At night she tossed upon her bed.

“My child is a beggar,” she said. “Fugiwaka is chief of the House of Idé. Evil fortune betide him! It is too much,” said the proud lady. “I will not brook it; my child a beggar! I would rather strangle him with my hands….” Thus she spoke and tossed upon her bed, thinking of a plan.

When Fugiwaka was fifteen years old she turned him out of the house with a poor garment upon his back, barefooted, with never a bite nor a sup nor a gold piece to see him on his way.

“Ah, lady mother,” he said, “you use me ill. Why do you take my birthright?”

“I know nought of birthrights,” she said. “Go, make your own fortune if you can. Your brother Goro is chief of the House of Idé.”

With that she bade them shut the door in his face.

Fugiwaka departed sorrowfully, and at the cross-roads O Matsu, his nurse, met him. She had made herself ready for a journey: her robe was kilted, she had a staff in her hand and sandals on her feet.

“My lord,” she said, “I am come to follow you to the world’s end.”

Then Fugiwaka wept and laid his head upon the woman’s breast.

“Ah,” he said, “my nurse, my nurse! And,” he said, “what of my father’s sword? I have lost the precious sword of Idé. The sword is my treasure, the sword is my trust, the sword is my fortune. I am bound to cherish it, to guard it, to keep it. But now I have lost it. Woe is me! I am undone, and so is all the House of Idé!”

“Oh, say not so, my lord,” said O Matsu. “Here is gold; go you your way and I will return and guard the sword of Idé.”

So Fugiwaka went his way with the gold that his nurse gave him.

As for O Matsu, she went straightway and took the sword from its place where it lay with the household gods, and she buried it deep in the ground until such time as she might bear it in safety to her young lord.

But soon the Lady Sadako became aware that the sacred sword was gone.

“It is the nurse!” she cried. “The nurse has stolen it…. Some of you bring her to me.”

Then the Lady Sadako’s people laid their hands roughly upon O Matsu and brought her before their mistress. But for all they could do O Matsu’s lips were sealed. She spoke never a word, neither could the Lady Sadako find out where the sword was. She pressed her thin lips together.

“The woman is obstinate,” she said. “No matter; for such a fault I know the sovereign cure.”

So she locked O Matsu in a dark dungeon and gave her neither food nor drink. Every day the Lady Sadako went to the door of the dark dungeon.

“Well,” she said, “where is the sword of Idé? Will you say?”

But O Matsu answered not a word.

Howbeit she wept and sighed to herself in the darkness–“Alas! Alas! never alive may I come to my young lord. Yet he must have the sword of Idé, and I shall find a way.”

Now after seven days the Lady Sadako sat in the garden-house to cool herself, for it was summer. The time was evening. Presently she saw a woman that came towards her through the garden flowers and trees. Frail and slender was the woman; as she came her body swayed and her slow steps faltered.

“Why, this is strange!” said the Lady Sadako. “Here is O Matsu, that was locked in the dark dungeon.” And she sat still, watching.

But O Matsu went to the place where she had buried the sword and scratched at the ground with her fingers. There she was, weeping and moaning and dragging at the earth. The stones cut her hands and they bled. Still she tore away the earth and found the sword at last. It was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she clasped it to her bosom with a loud cry.

“Woman, I have you now,” shrieked the Lady Sadako, “and the sword of Idé as well!” And she leaped from the garden-house and ran at full speed. She stretched forth her hand to catch O Matsu by the sleeve, but did not have her or the sword either, for both of them were gone in a flash, and the lady beat the empty air. Swiftly she sped to the dark dungeon, and as she went she called her people to bring torches. There lay the body of poor O Matsu, cold and dead upon the dungeon floor.

“Send me the Wise Woman,” said the Lady Sadako.

So they sent for the Wise Woman. And the Lady Sadako asked, “How long has she been dead?”

The Wise Woman said, “She was starved to death; she has been dead two days. It were well you gave her fit burial; she was a good soul.”

As for the sword of Idé, it was not found.

Fugiwaka tossed to and fro upon his lowly bed in a wayside tavern. And it seemed to him that his nurse came to him and knelt by his side. Then he was soothed.

O Matsu said, “Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?”

And he answered, “I will sleep now, O Matsu.”

“Listen, my lord,” she said, “and, sleeping or waking, remember. The sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it.”

The sword was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she laid it by Fugiwaka’s side. The boy turned over to sleep, and his hand clasped the sword of Idé.

“Waking or sleeping,” he said, “I will remember.”

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The Spring Lover and the Autumn Lover

This mythic tale recounts the rivalry between the God of Autumn and the God of Spring as they seek the hand of the Fairest of the Fair, the Greatly Desired Princess. Autumn fails despite his bravery, while Spring wins her love through his mother’s magical help. The story explains why Spring is youthful and vibrant, while Autumn remains sorrowful and faded.

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

► Themes of the story

Forbidden Love: The rivalry between the God of Autumn and the God of Spring for the affection of the Greatly Desired Princess highlights the challenges and consequences of pursuing a love that may be unattainable or prohibited.

Divine Intervention: The involvement of the gods, particularly the God of Spring’s mother who provides magical assistance, demonstrates how divine forces influence mortal affairs and outcomes.

Quest: Both gods embark on a quest to win the heart of the Princess, facing trials and employing different strategies to achieve their goal, embodying the classic journey motif.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

This is a story of the youth of Yamato, when the gods still walked upon the Land of the Reed Plains and took pleasure in the fresh and waving rice-ears of the country-side.

There was a lady having in her something of earth and something of heaven. She was a king’s daughter. She was augustly radiant and renowned. She was called the Dear Delight of the World, the Greatly Desired, the Fairest of the Fair. She was slender and strong, at once mysterious and gay, fickle yet faithful, gentle yet hard to please. The gods loved her, but men worshipped her.

► Continue reading…

The coming of the Dear Delight was on this wise. Prince Ama Boko had a red jewel of one of his enemies. The jewel was a peace-offering. Prince Ama Boko set it in a casket upon a stand. He said, “This is a jewel of price.” Then the jewel was transformed into an exceeding fair lady. Her name was the Lady of the Red Jewel, and Prince Ama Boko took her to wife. There was born to them one only daughter, who was the Greatly Desired, the Fairest of the Fair.

It is true that eighty men of name came to seek her hand. Princes they were, and warriors, and deities. They came from near and they came from far. Across the Sea Path they came in great ships, white sails or creaking oars, with brave and lusty sailors. Through the forests dark and dangerous they made their way to the Princess, the Greatly Desired; or lightly, lightly they descended by way of the Floating Bridge in garments of glamour and silver-shod. They brought their gifts with them–gold, fair jewels upon a string, light garments of feathers, singing birds, sweet things to eat, silk cocoons, oranges in a basket. They brought minstrels and singers and dancers and tellers of tales to entertain the Princess, the Greatly Desired.

As for the Princess, she sat still in her white bower with her maidens about her. Passing rich was her robe, and ever and anon her maidens spread it afresh over the mats, set out her deep sleeves, or combed her long hair with a golden comb.

Round about the bower was a gallery of white wood, and here the suitors came and knelt in the presence of their liege lady.

Many and many a time the carp leapt in the garden fish-pond. Many and many a time a scarlet pomegranate flower fluttered and dropped from the tree. Many and many a time the lady shook her head and a lover went his way, sad and sorry.

Now it happened that the God of Autumn went to try his fortune with the Princess. He was a brave young man indeed. Ardent were his eyes; the colour flamed in his dark cheek. He was girded with a sword that ten men could not lift. The chrysanthemums of autumn burned upon his coat in cunning broidery. He came and bent his proud head to the very ground before the Princess, then raised it and looked her full in the eyes. She opened her sweet red lips–waited–said nothing–but shook her head.

So the God of Autumn went forth from her presence, blinded with his bitter tears.

He found his younger brother, the God of Spring.

“How fares it with you, my brother?” said the God of Spring.

“Ill, ill indeed, for she will not have me. She is the proud lady. Mine is the broken heart.”

“Ah, my brother!” said the God of Spring.

“You’d best come home with me, for all is over with us,” said the God of Autumn.

But the God of Spring said, “I stay here.”

“What,” cried his brother, “is it likely, then, that she will take you if she’ll have none of me? Will she love the smooth cheeks of a child and flout the man full grown? Will you go to her, brother? She’ll laugh at you for your pains.”

“Still I will go,” said the God of Spring.

“A wager! A wager!” the God of Autumn cried. “I’ll give you a cask of saké if you win her–saké for the merry feast of your wedding. If you lose her, the saké will be for me. I’ll drown my grief in it.”

“Well, brother,” said the God of Spring, “I take the wager. You’ll have your saké like enough indeed.”

“And so I think,” said the God of Autumn, and went his ways.

Then the young God of Spring went to his mother, who loved him.

“Do you love me, my mother?” he said.

She answered, “More than a hundred existences.”

“Mother,” he said, “get me for my wife the Princess, the Fairest of the Fair. She is called the Greatly Desired; greatly, oh, greatly, do I desire her.”

“You love her, my son?” said his mother.

“More than a hundred existences,” he said.

“Then lie down, my son, my best beloved, lie down and sleep, and I will work for you.”

So she spread a couch for him, and when he was asleep she looked on him.

“Your face,” she said, “is the sweetest thing in the world.”

There was no sleep for her the live-long night, but she went swiftly to a place she knew of, where the wistaria drooped over a still pool. She plucked her sprays and tendrils and brought home as much as she could carry. The wistaria was white and purple, and you must know it was not yet in flower, but hidden in the unopened bud. From it she wove magically a robe. She fashioned sandals also, and a bow and arrows.

In the morning she waked the God of Spring.

“Come, my son,” she said, “let me put this robe on you.”

The God of Spring rubbed his eyes. “A sober suit for courting,” he said. But he did as his mother bade him. And he bound the sandals on his feet, and slung the bow and the arrows in their quiver on his back.

“Will all be well, my mother?” he said.

“All will be well, beloved,” she answered him.

So the God of Spring came before the Fairest of the Fair. And one of her maidens laughed and said:

“See, mistress, there comes to woo you to-day only a little plain boy, all in sober grey.”

But the Fairest of the Fair lifted up her eyes and looked upon the God of Spring. And in the same moment the wistaria with which he was clothed burst into flower. He was sweet-scented, white and purple from head to heel.

The Princess rose from the white mats.

“Lord,” she said, “I am yours if you will have me.”

Hand in hand they went together to the mother of the God of Spring.

“Ah, my mother,” he said, “what shall I do now? My brother the God of Autumn is angry with me. He will not give me the saké I have won from him in a wager. Great is his rage. He will seek to take our lives.”

“Be still, beloved,” said his mother, “and fear not.”

She took a cane of hollow bamboo, and in the hollow she put salt and stones; and when she had wrapped the cane round with leaves, she hung it in the smoke of the fire. She said:

“The green leaves fade and die. So you must do, my eldest born, the God of Autumn. The stone sinks in the sea, so must you sink. You must sink, you must fail, like the ebb tide.”

Now the tale is told, and all the world knows why Spring is fresh and merry and young, and Autumn the saddest thing that is.

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A Legend of Kwannon

In the days of the gods, Ama-no-Hashidate symbolized the link between heaven and earth. Saion Zenji, a holy man, built a shrine to Kwannon the Merciful there, dedicating his life to prayer. In a harsh winter, starving, he reluctantly ate the flesh of a mystical deer. Later, this proved to be a miracle of Kwannon herself, affirming her compassion and Zenji’s faith.

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

► Themes of the story

Sacred Spaces: The hermit Saion Zenji builds a shrine dedicated to Kwannon the Merciful at Ama-no-Hashidate, a place revered as the “Floating Bridge of Heaven,” highlighting the significance of holy locations.

Divine Intervention: During a harsh winter, when Saion Zenji faces starvation, he consumes the flesh of a mystical deer, which later reveals itself as a miracle of Kwannon, demonstrating the gods’ influence in mortal affairs.

Harmony with Nature: The narrative emphasizes the interconnectedness between Saion Zenji and his natural surroundings, as he perceives trees, rocks, and the sea as sentient beings joining in praise, reflecting a harmonious relationship with the environment.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

In the days of the gods, Ama-no-Hashidate was the Floating Bridge of Heaven. By way of this bridge came the deities from heaven to earth, bearing their jewelled spears, their great bows and heavenly-feathered arrows, their wonder robes and their magic mirrors. Afterwards, when the direct way was closed that had been between earth and heaven, and the deities walked no more upon the Land of Fresh Rice Ears, the people still called a place Ama-no-Hashidate, for the sake of happy memory. This place is one of the Three Fair Views of Yamato. It is where a strip of land runs out into the blue sea, like a floating bridge covered with dark pine trees.

► Continue reading…

There was a holy man of Kioto called Saion Zenji. He had followed the Way of the Gods from his youth up. He was also a disciple of the great Buddha; well versed was he in doctrines and philosophies; he knew the perils of illusion and the ineffable joys of Nirvana. Long hours would he pass in mystic meditation, and many of the Scriptures he had by heart. When he was on a pilgrimage he came to Ama-no-Hashidate, and he offered up thanks because the place was so lovely in his eyes.

He said, “The blind and ignorant have it that trees and rocks and the green sea-water are not sentient things, but the wise know that they also sing aloud and praise the Tathagata. Here will I take up my rest, and join my voice with theirs, and will not see my home again.”

So Saion Zenji, the holy man, climbed Nariai-San, the mountain over against Ama-no-Hashidate. And when he had come to the place of the Lone Pine, he built him a shrine to Kwannon the Merciful, and a hut to cover his own head.

All day he chanted the Holy Sutras. From dawn to eventide he sang, till his very being was exalted and seemed to float in an ecstasy of praise. Then his voice grew so loud and clear that it was a marvel. The blue campanula of the mountain in reverence bowed its head; the great white lily distilled incense from its deep heart; the cicala shrilled aloud; the Forsaken Bird gave a long note from the thicket. About the hermit’s hut there fluttered dragon-flies and butterflies innumerable, which are the souls of the happy dead. In the far valleys the peasant people were comforted in their toil, whether they planted out the green young rice, or gathered in the ears. The sun and the wind were tempered, and the rain fell softly upon their faces. Ever and again they climbed the steep hillside to kneel at the shrine of Kwannon the Merciful, and to speak with the holy man, whose wooden bowl they would fill with rice or millet, or barley-meal or beans. Sometimes he came down and went through the villages, where he soothed the sick and touched the little children. Folks said that his very garments shone.

Now in that country there came a winter season the like of which there had not been within the memory of man. First came the wind blowing wildly from the north, and then came the snow in great flakes which never ceased to fall for the period of nine days. All the folk of the valleys kept within doors as warm as might be, and those that had their winter stores fared none so ill. But, ah me, for the bitter cold upon the heights of Nariai-San! At the Lone Pine, and about the hermit’s hut, the snow was piled and drifted. The shrine of Kwannon the Merciful could no more be seen. Saion Zenji, the holy man, lived for some time upon the food that was in his wooden bowl. Then he drew about him the warm garment of thought, and passed many days in meditation, which was meat and drink and sleep to him. Howbeit, even his clear spirit could not utterly dispel the clouds of illusion. At length it came to earth and all the man trembled with bodily weakness.

“Forgive me, O Kwannon the Merciful,” said Saion Zenji; “but verily it seems to me that if I have no food I die.”

Slowly he rose, and painfully he pushed open the door of his hut. The snow had ceased; it was clear and cold. White were the branches of the Lone Pine, and all white the Floating Bridge.

“Forgive me, O Kwannon the Merciful,” said Saion Zenji; “I know not the reason, but I am loath to depart and be with the Shades of Yomi. Save me this life, O Kwannon the Merciful.”

Turning, he beheld a dappled hind lying on the snow, newly dead of the cold. He bowed his head. “Poor gentle creature,” he said, “never more shalt thou run in the hills, and nibble the grass and the sweet flowers.” And he stroked the hind’s soft flank, sorrowing.

“Poor deer, I would not eat thy flesh. Is it not forbidden by the Law of the Blessed One? Is it not forbidden by the word of Kwannon the Merciful?” Thus he mused. But even as he mused he seemed to hear a voice that spoke to him, and the voice said:

“Alas, Saion Zenji, if thou die of hunger and cold, what shall become of my people, the poor folk of the valleys? Shall they not be comforted any more by the Sutras of the Tathagata? Break the law to keep the law, beloved, thou that countest the world well lost for a divine song.”

Then presently Saion Zenji took a knife, and cut him a piece of flesh from the side of the dappled hind. And he gathered fir cones and made a little fire and cooked the deer’s flesh in an iron pot. When it was ready he ate half of it. And his strength came to him again, and he opened his lips and sang praises to the Tathagata, and the very embers of the dying fire leapt up in flame to hear him.

“Howbeit I must bury the poor deer,” said Saion Zenji. So he went to the door of his hut. But look where he might no deer nor dappled hind did he see, nor yet the mark of one in the deep snow.

“It is passing strange,” he said, and wondered.

As soon as might be, up came the poor folk from the valley to see how their hermit had fared through the snow and the stormy weather. “The gods send he be not dead of cold or hunger,” they said one to another. But they found him chanting in his hut, and he told them how he had eaten of the flesh of a dappled hind and was satisfied.

“I cut but a hand’s breadth of the meat,” he said, “and half of it is yet in the iron pot.”

But when they came to look in the pot, they found there no flesh of deer, but a piece of cedar wood gilded upon the one side. Marvelling greatly, they carried it to the shrine of Kwannon the Merciful, and when they had cleared away the deep snow, all of them went in to worship. There smiled the image of the sweet heavenly lady, golden among her golden flowers. In her right side there was a gash where the gilded wood was cut away. Then the poor folk from the valley reverently brought that which they had found in the hermit’s pot, and set it in the gash. And immediately the wound was healed and the smooth gold shone over the place. All the people fell on their faces, but the hermit stood singing the high praise of Kwannon the Merciful.

The sun set in glory. The valley folk crept softly from the shrine and went down to their own homes. The cold moon and the stars shone upon the Lone Pine and the Floating Bridge and the sea. Through a rent in the shrine’s roof they illumined the face of Kwannon the Merciful, and made visible her manifold arms of love. Yet Saion Zenji, her servant, stood before her singing in an ecstasy, with tears upon his face:

“O wonder-woman, strong and beautiful,
Tender-hearted, pitiful, and thousand-armed!
Thou hast fed me with thine own flesh–
Mystery of mysteries!
Poor dead dappled hind thou cam’st to me;
In the deep of mine own heart thou spoke to me
To keep, yet break, and breaking, keep thy law–
Mystery of mysteries!
Kwannon, the Merciful Lady, stay with me,
Save me from the perils of illusion;
Let me not be afraid of the snow or the Lone Pine.
Mystery of mysteries–
Thou hast refused Nirvana,
Help me that I may lose the world, content,
And sing the Divine Song.”

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Why the Kings of Lakemba Are Called Lords of Naiau

The old chief Tui Naiau explains that no mortal can claim the title “Lord of Lakemba,” as it belongs to a god who once ruled Fiji. The tale recounts the god’s mortal origins, his journey to the Sky-King (his father), and his conquests across Fiji, defeating gods and humans alike. He became “Slayer-that-came-from-Heaven,” married the Serpent-god’s daughter, and ultimately ruled Lakemba. His descendants honor the legacy by avoiding the title, fearing divine retribution.

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

► Themes of the story

Cultural Heroes: The narrative centers on a god of mortal descent who becomes a foundational figure in Fijian lore, shaping societal structures and titles.

Quest: The god’s journey from his mortal origins to the sky and back, conquering various realms, represents a transformative adventure.

Divine Intervention: The narrative involves interactions between gods and mortals, with divine beings influencing human affairs and societal norms.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Fijians

by the Lord of Naiau

“How is it, sir,” said I to old Tui Naiau, “that you, being King of Lakemba, are called Lord of Naiau? Why is not your title Lord of Lakemba?”

“Hush!” said the old chief, with a sort of startled look. “No mortal must be called Lord of Lakemba; for that is the name of him who was the god of this land in the old, old days. Look you, we are Christians now — we have thrown aside our heathen gods, but we remember them — we, the old men. And by night, within the houses, the young people gather round us, that we may tell them about the old times, when we had our own gods, and the lotu of the white men had not yet reached Fiji.

► Continue reading…

A great chief was the Lord of Lakemba, a great chief was he among the gods of old, though he was of mortal race by his mother’s side, for he was the son of Tui Langi, the Sky-King (he who sent Lekambai back to Samoa on the turtle); his mother, a woman of Tonga, was called the “Charitable one,” and there he was born.

When he grew to be a strong lad, he never played with the other boys, but kept himself apart; and his mother asked him why he acted thus.

“Why, my son,” said she, “do you walk alone all the day? Why do you not play with the other children of chiefs in the rara (the public square)? Truly, my son, it is not good for you thus to act; for they call you proud and haughty, and hate you; so that when you are a man you will have none to follow you in your goings forth to kill your enemies.”

Then the boy looked steadfastly upon his mother’s face. “Tell me, my mother,” said he, “tell me who is my father. The boys of the town have fathers who love them. Even little Tua-piko, the Hunchback, has a father, for I saw him run suddenly away from the other lads as they were playing together at ‘dragging the bodies of the slain’; he ran away to a man who was carrying yams from the gardens, shouting ‘Father, my father!’ And the man stopped, and put down his basket of yams, and, smiling upon Tua-piko, he took him in his arms, and kissed him, and danced him upon his shoulder; so that little Tua-piko shouted for joy. The big boys also — their fathers teach them to throw the spear, and to strike with the club, that they may be fitted for war; but no one teaches me.” Then the boy smiled, and his eyes glittered while he muttered to himself in a low tone, “But I teach myself. Yet a little while, and they shall see whose spear will fly the fastest through the air, and whose club shall be the best crusher of skulls.”

Then was the soul of his mother troubled, for she feared to hide from him the name of his father, and she was also afraid to tell him, lest he should go away and leave her. Great, therefore, was her trouble, and she wept. “Truly, my son,” said she, “you have indeed a father. Not such a one as the fathers of these children of men is the father of my child. But indeed, my son, I am afraid to tell you his name, lest you should leave me alone in this land. Leave me not, my boy, leave me not; for I love you dearly, and if you go away I shall die.”

And she wept bitterly; but the lad only smiled, and said quietly, in a low tone, “Tell me his name, mother, or I will kill you.” Then she told him, and without a word he turned round and went away, leaving his mother alone with her grief.

All day long he walked across the land, laughing softly to himself, and striking o£F the heads of the flowers with his walking-stick — a stick of noko-noko (or ironwood), and as the flowers fell around him, he said, “Thus will I strike off the heads of my enemies.” When it was night he thrust the stick into the ground, and lying down beside it slept till morning. Then waking, he saw a wonderful thing; for the stick of ironwood had grown up into a great and mighty tree, whose head was hidden in the clouds. And, climbing up the tree, he saw, when he had got above the clouds, that it reached quite up to the sky; for the sky was much nearer to the earth in those days. So he climbed and climbed till he reached the sky, and then he cried with a loud voice, “Here am I, O Sky-King, my father! Here am I!” And the Sky-King heard him. “Who are you?” asked the Sky-King angrily, for there had been fighting in the sky that day, and he had fled before his enemies, so that his soul was sore.

“I am the ‘Child that challenges Men,’ your son from Tonga,” answered the lad (for that was his name in those days; it was not till long afterwards that he was called Lord of Lakemba).

“Come up here, then, that I may see you,” growled the Sky-King. “Ugh, you are small. Why did you not wait till you had grown bigger? You had better go back again to your mother. Men are wanted here, now, not boys like you, for we are fighting.” And the sky-men, who were sitting round the King, laughed at the child.

Then the lad answered not a word; but smiling, as was his wont, while his eyes glittered, he stepped up to a big sky-man, whose laugh was the loudest of all, and smote him on the head with his fist so fierce a blow that he fell back senseless on the ground, and the laughter ceased, for they were all astounded at the boy’s strength and daring. But the King was mad with joy, and cried out, clapping his hands:

“Well done! Well done, my boy! A terrible stroke! Take this club, my son, and strike him again;” for the big sky-man was now sitting up, winking his eyes, and rubbing his head with his hands. So the lad took the club, and therewith struck him so dreadful a stroke that the club sank down into the midst of his broken skull. Then he threw the weapon down at his father’s feet, saying, “He will laugh no more. And now I had better go back to my mother; for it is men that are wanted here, not boys like me.”

“You shall stay with us, my boy,” cried the Sky-King, catching him by the hand, “you shall stay with us. Let the ovens be heated; for to-night will we feast with my son, and to-morrow shall we slay our enemies.” So the lad sat down with his father and made for himself a club out of the ironwood tree.

And on the morrow, in the early morning, the foe came up to the town, shouting for war, and crying, “Come out to us, O Sky-King, for we are hungry. Come out to us, that we may eat.”

Then the boy rose up, saying, “Let no man follow me. Stay you all in the town,” and, taking in his hand the club which he had made, he rushed out into the midst of the enemy, striking savagely right and left, and killing with every blow; till at length they fled before him, and he sat down on a heap of dead bodies, calling to the townsfolk —

“Come forth and drag the slain away.” So they came out, singing the Death-song, and dragged away the bodies of the slain, forty and two, while the wooden drum that we call lali sounded the Dorua or “Death-roll” in the town.

Four times afterwards, five times in all, did the boy smite his father’s enemies, so that their souls grew small, and they came bringing peace-offerings to the Sky-King, saying, “Pity us, my lord, and let us live;” wherefore he was left without an enemy, and his rule stretched over all the sky. And the lad stayed with his father, growing up into a youth great and tall; and you may be sure that no one dared again to laugh at him after the day when he climbed up the ironwood tree, and killed the big sky-man.

But after all the enemies had humbled themselves before the Sky-King and become his servants, there was no more fighting to be done; and the Child-that-challenges-men began to be weary, because there was no one for him to kill: so he said to his father, “I will now go back again to the earth, and seek a wife among the children of men;” and the Sky-King said, “Good are your words, my son. Go down to the earth, and take therefrom to yourself a wife.” Then he kissed his son, and wept over him; though indeed he was glad at heart at his going, for he feared him.

Now the ironwood tree had been swept away by a great flood, so that he could not get down again to the earth by it; nevertheless he came down to Fiji at Bengga. We do not know clearly how he got down; but the Bengga people say that two men, great and tall, whose faces were white, came with him; and whether they helped him or not we cannot tell — all we know is that he lighted first upon Bengga. And there, when the gods of the place raised their people and fought against him, he smote them with a great slaughter, and took their land, dividing it into two parts, whereof he gave one to his friends, the white men, and the other he gave to the King of Rewa. So he went from island to island, smiting the gods in every place, and forcing them all to make peace-ofFerings to him, throughout all the islands, and all Bau, and the inland parts of Great Fiji also, till he came to the Hill of Kauvandra, where the great Serpent-god dwelt, and with him he did not fight; for the great Serpent came forth to meet him, saying, “Why should we two fight, O Slayer that camest from Heaven? See, here is my daughter. Lady Sweet-eyes; it will be better for you to marry her, than to fight with me.” So these words pleased the Slayer that came from Heaven; and he married the daughter of the great Serpent. (Now “Slayer-that-came-from-Heaven” is the name that the men of Bengga gave him.)

Then he went to Bau, and to all the kingdoms of Vanua Levu, fighting with the gods of the land, and making them all his servants; so that he and the great Serpent are the two greatest gods in Fiji. Thus he came at length to Windward, landing here at Lakemba in the night; and in the morning an old woman found him on the beach, as she was going down to fetch salt water.

“Sa yandra — I salute you, sir stranger,” said she. “Whence do you come?”

“Take me up to the town,” said he; “lead me to the house of your lord.” So the woman led him along the path, and reported him to the chief.

Now, in those days Wathi-wathi was the chief town in Lakemba, as Tubou is at this present day. Each town had its own god, who lived among the people, and these were the rulers of the land: jealous also were they of one another, so that they were always at war, and men were clubbed every day. He who ruled here in Tubou was a god called Ratu-mai-na-koro, the “Lord that came from the Town,” and when he heard of the coming of the Slayer-that-came-from-Heaven he said, “Let him come hither.” So they two sat down together in the great house; and the Slayer-that-came-from-Heaven told him about his fightings, and how that he had conquered all the gods of Fiji, except the great Serpent whose daughter he had married. And the other replied, “Good is your coming, and good is your report. But now let us eat. Truly I am ashamed to-day, because I have no food to set before you. Everything is taken to Wathi-wathi. But the bananas are ripe. See, there is a tree. Let us pluck some and eat.”

“Sit you still,” said the Slayer-that-came-from-Heaven. “I will go and pluck the bananas that we two may eat.”

But when the townsfolk saw him at the tree, they cried aloud, “You there, what are you doing? The bananas are tabu, for the first fruits have not yet been taken to our lords at Wathi-wathi.”

Then the Slayer-that-came-from-Heaven smiled, as he looked upon them with glittering eyes.

“I know them not,” said he, “these lords of yours at Wathi-wathi. One thing only I know — that I am hungry;” whereupon he cut the bananas, and the people shouted for war, and fell upon him: but he smote them with his terrible fist, killing two outright, and hurting many more; so that the living fled from before him, leaving him alone with the dead. And, taking up the bananas and the bodies of the two who were slain, he threw them down in the house before the Lord-that-came-from-the-Town, saying, “Here is food. Come, let us eat.”

Thus also he did on the morrow at Nasangkalau, bringing the bananas and the bodies of the slain with him, to the Lord-that-came-from-the-Town in his house at Tubou. Then he went on to Vakano, but the people there brought him a peace-offering, as did all the other towns also, excepting Wathi-wathi, and it he destroyed with a great slaughter; so that all the chiefs came to Tubou, bringing offerings, and humbling themselves, whereby Tubou became the chief town of Lakemba, as it is to this day.

Then spake the Lord-that-came-from-the-Town: “It is not right, O Slayer-that-came-from-Heaven, that I should rule over this people. You alone have conquered the land, and you alone shall rule it.”

So the Slayer-that-came-from-Heaven sat himself down here in Tubou, ruling all the land. Moreover, he sent for his wife. Lady Sweet-eyes, and she bare him a son, whom he called Taliaitupou; after whom also I, the Lord of Naiau, am named. Thus he came to be the Lord of Lakemba. First he was the “Child that challenges men,” then he was the “Slayer that came from Heaven,” and lastly the “Lord of Lakemba.”

Many years did he rule here till his son was a grown man, and then he gave the kingdom to him, going himself to Tonga, where also he conquered all the mighty ones; and at length returned to his father the Sky-King, with whom he lived ever after, receiving the worship of many lands.

And this is why I, the ruler of this kingdom, am called the “Lord of Naiau”; for our fathers always said that if any man should take to himself the title of “Lord of Lakemba,” he would come down from the sky and crush his skull with a blow of his terrible fist.

Therefore is my title Tui, or lord, of Naiau.

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Kaneaukai: A Legend of Waialua

Two fishermen in ancient Hawaii, praying to Kaneaukai for fish, discovered a wooden idol resembling the god, and later received guidance from a young man claiming to be Kaneaukai. Similarly, two kahunas found a stone idol believed to represent the deity. Through their devotion, they secured abundant fish. Despite efforts to suppress idolatry, beliefs surrounding Kaneaukai persisted, reinforced by local legends and mysterious misfortunes.

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

► Themes of the story

Sacred Objects: The fishermen discover a log resembling Kaneaukai, which becomes an object of worship and a conduit for divine interaction.

Divine Intervention: Kaneaukai directly influences the fishermen’s fortunes, providing them with guidance that leads to an abundant catch.

Moral Lessons: The narrative underscores the virtues of faith and devotion, illustrating how sincere worship and belief can lead to divine favor and prosperity.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hawaiians

by Thos. G. Thrum

Long ago, when the Hawaiians were in the darkness of superstition and kahunaism, with their gods and lords many, there lived at Mokuleia, Waialua, two old men whose business it was to pray to Kaneaukai for a plentiful supply of fish. These men were quite poor in worldly possessions, but given to the habit of drinking a potion of awa after their evening meal of poi and fish.

The fish found in the waters of Mokuleia were the aweoweo, kala, manini, and many other varieties that find their habitat inside the coral reefs. Crabs of the white variety burrowed in the sand near the seashore and were dug out by the people, young and old.

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The squid also were speared by the skilful fishermen, and were eaten stewed, or salted and sun-dried and roasted on the coals. The salt likely came from Kaena Point, from salt-water evaporation in the holes of rocks so plentiful on that stormy cape. Or it may have been made on the salt pans of Paukauwila, near the stream of that name, where a few years ago this industry existed on a small scale.

But to return to our worshippers of Kaneaukai. One morning on going out upon the seashore they found a log of wood, somewhat resembling the human form, which they took home and set in a corner of their lowly hut, and continued their habit of praying to Kaneaukai. One evening, after having prepared a scanty supper of poi and salt, with perhaps a few roasted kukui-nuts, as a relish, and a couple of cocoanut cups of awa as their usual drink, they saw a handsome young man approaching, who entered their hut and saluted them. He introduced himself by saying, “I am Kaneaukai to whom you have been praying, and that which you have set up is my image; you have done well in caring for it.”

He sat down, after the Hawaiian custom, as if to share their evening meal, which the two old men invited him to partake of with them, but regretted the scanty supply of awa. He said: “Pour the awa back into the bowl and divide into three.” This they did and at once shared their meal with their guest.

After supper Kaneaukai said to the two old men, “Go to Keawanui and you will get fish enough for the present.” He then disappeared, and the fishermen went as instructed and obtained three fishes; one they gave to an old sorceress who lived near by, and the other two they kept for themselves.

Soon after this there was a large school of fish secured by the fishermen of Mokuleia. So abundant were the fish that after salting all they could, there was enough to give away to the neighbors; and even the dogs had more than they desired.

Leaving the Mokuleia people to the enjoyment of their unusual supply of fish, we will turn to the abode of two kahunas, who were also fishermen, living on the south side of Waimea Valley, Oahu. One morning, being out of fish, they went out into the harbor to try their luck, and casting their net they caught up a calcareous stone about as large as a man’s head, and a pilot fish. They let the pilot fish go, and threw the stone back into the sea. Again they cast their net and again they caught the stone and the pilot fish; and so again at the third haul. At this they concluded that the stone was a representative of some god. The elder of the two said: “Let us take this stone ashore and set it up as an idol, but the pilot fish we will let go.” So they did, setting it up on the turn of the bluff on the south side of the harbor of Waimea. They built an inclosure about it and smoothed off the rocky bluff by putting flat stones from the immediate neighborhood about the stone idol thus strangely found.

About ten days after the finding of the stone idol the two old kahunas were sitting by their grass hut in the dusk of the evening, bewailing the scarcity of fish, when Kaneaukai himself appeared before them in the guise of a young man. He told them that they had done well in setting up his stone image, and if they would follow his directions they would have a plentiful supply of fish. Said he, “Go to Mokuleia, and you will find my wooden idol; bring it here and set it up alongside of my stone idol.” But they demurred, as it was a dark night and there were usually quicksands after a freshet in the Kamananui River. His answer was, “Send your grandsons.” And so the two young men were sent to get the wooden idol and were told where they could find it.

The young men started for Mokuleia by way of Kaika, near the place where salt was made a few years ago. Being strangers, they were in doubt about the true way, when a meteor (hoku kaolele) appeared and went before them, showing them how to escape the quicksands. After crossing the river they went on to Mokuleia as directed by Kaneaukai, and found the wooden idol in the hut of the two old men. They shouldered it, and taking as much dried fish as they could carry, returned by the same way that they had come, arriving at home about midnight.

The next day the two old kahunas set up the wooden idol in the same inclosure with the stone representative of Kaneaukai. The wooden image has long since disappeared, having been destroyed, probably, at the time Kaahumanu made a tour of Oahu after her conversion to Christianity, when she issued her edict to burn all the idols. But the stone idol was not destroyed. Even during the past sixty years offerings of roast pigs are known to have been placed before it. This was done secretly for fear of the chiefs, who had published laws against idolatry.

Accounts differ, various narrators giving the story some embellishments of their own. So good a man as a deacon of Waialua in telling the above seemed to believe that, instead of being a legend it was true; for an old man, to whom he referred as authority, said that one of the young men who went to Mokuleia and brought the wooden idol to Waimea was his own grandfather.

An aged resident of the locality gives this version: Following the placement of their strangely found stone these two men dreamed of Kaneaukai as a god in some far-distant land, to whom they petitioned that he would crown their labors with success by granting them a plentiful supply of fish. Dreaming thus, Kaneaukai revealed himself to them as being already at their shore; that the stone which they had been permitted to find and had honored by setting up at Kehauapuu, was himself, in response to their petitions; and since they had been faithful so far, upon continuance of the same, and offerings thereto, they should ever after be successful in their fishing. As if in confirmation of this covenant, this locality has ever since been noted for the periodical visits of schools of the anae-holo and kala, which are prevalent from April to July, coming, it is said, from Ohea, Honuaula, Maui, by way of Kahuku, and returning the same way.

So strong was the superstitious belief of the people in this deified stone that when, some twenty years ago, the road supervisor of the district threw it over and broke off a portion, it was prophesied that Kaneaukai would be avenged for the insult. And when shortly afterward the supervisor lost his position and removed from the district, returning not to the day of his death; and since several of his relatives have met untimely ends, not a few felt it was the recompense of his sacrilegious act.

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Pele and the Deluge

Hawaiian legends link Pele, the goddess of volcanoes, to a great ancient flood known as the Kai a Kahinalii. Born in Hapakuela, Pele embarked on a journey to Hawaii in search of her husband, bringing the sea with her, which flooded the islands. Her migration aligns with geological evidence of volcanic activity, beginning on Kauai and culminating in her permanent settlement at Kilauea on Hawaii Island.

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

► Themes of the story

Creation: The legend explains the formation of the Hawaiian Islands’ volcanic features through Pele’s actions.

Divine Intervention: As a goddess, Pele’s influence directly shapes the natural world, demonstrating the impact of deities on earthly events.

Sacred Spaces: Pele’s eventual settlement at Kilauea establishes it as a sacred site, central to Hawaiian cultural and spiritual identity.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hawaiians

by Rev. A.O. Forbes

All volcanic phenomena are associated in Hawaiian legendary lore with the goddess Pele; and it is a somewhat curious fact that to the same celebrated personage is also attributed a great flood that occurred in ancient times. The legends of this flood are various, but mainly connected with the doings of Pele in this part of the Pacific Ocean. The story runs thus:

Kahinalii was the mother of Pele; Kanehoalani was her father; and her two brothers were Kamohoalii and Kahuilaokalani. Pele was born in the land of Hapakuela, a far-distant land at the edge of the sky, toward the southwest.

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There she lived with her parents until she was grown up, when she married Wahialoa; and to these were born a daughter named Laka, and a son named Menehune. But after a time Pele’s husband, Wahialoa, was enticed away from her by Pele-kumulani. The deserted Pele, being much displeased and troubled in mind on account of her husband, started on her travels in search of him, and came in the direction of the Hawaiian Islands. Now, at that time these islands were a vast waste. There was no sea, nor was there any fresh water. When Pele set out on her journey, her parents gave her the sea to go with her and bear her canoes onward. So she sailed forward, flood-borne by the sea, until she reached the land of Pakuela, and thence onward to the land of Kanaloa. From her head she poured forth the sea as she went, and her brothers composed the celebrated ancient mele:

O the sea, the great sea!
Forth bursts the sea:
Behold, it bursts on Kanaloa!

But the waters of the sea continued to rise until only the highest points of the great mountains, Haleakala, Maunakea, and Maunaloa, were visible; all else was covered. Afterward the sea receded until it reached its present level. This event is called the Kai a Kahinalii (Sea of Kahinalii), because it was from Kahinalii, her mother, that Pele received the gift of the sea, and she herself only brought it to Hawaii.

And from that time to this, Pele and all her family forsook their former land of Hapakuela and have dwelt in Hawaii-nei, Pele coming first and the rest following at a later time.

On her first arrival at Hawaii-nei, Pele dwelt on the island of Kauai. From there she went to Kalaupapa, [now the Leper Settlement] on the island of Molokai, and dwelt in the crater of Kauhako at that place; thence she departed to Puulaina, [the hill visible from the Lahaina anchorage to the north of Lahainaluna School, and near to it] near Lahainaluna, where she dug out that crater. Afterward she moved still further to Haleakala, where she stayed until she hollowed out that great crater; and finally she settled at Kilauea, on the island of Hawaii, where she has remained ever since.

[It is not a little remarkable that the progress of Pele, as stated in this tradition, agrees with geological observation in locating the earliest volcanic action in this group, on the island of Kauai, and the latest, on the island of Hawaii.]

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