Tag: 25. Trials and Tribulations

Facing and overcoming a series of challenges or tests

Barber Hím and the Tigers

A poor barber named Hím cunningly deceived tigers in a jungle by claiming he was sent to capture or harm them. Frightened, the tigers gave him gold and jewels to spare them. Enriched, he revisited, escalating his ruse each time. Despite close calls, including a fatal mishap involving a companion fakír, Hím avoided the jungle thereafter and lived a prosperous life.

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

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: Barber Hím cleverly deceives the tigers by pretending to be sent to capture them, thereby securing gold and jewels in exchange for their safety.

Trials and Tribulations: Hím faces various challenges, such as confronting the tigers and dealing with the aftermath of his deceit, highlighting the difficulties arising from dishonest actions.

Tragic Flaw: Hím’s greed and overconfidence in his deceptive abilities ultimately lead to perilous situations, illustrating how personal flaws can result in one’s downfall.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

Once there lived a barber called Hím, who was very poor indeed. He had a wife and twelve children, five boys and seven girls: now and then he got a few pice. One day he went away from his home feeling very cross, and left his wife and children to get on as best they could. “What can I do?” said he. “I have not enough money to buy food for my family, and they are crying for it.” And so he walked on till he came to a jungle. It was night when he got there. This jungle was called the “tigers’ jungle,” because only tigers lived in it; no birds, no insects, no other animals, and there were four hundred tigers in it altogether. As soon as Barber Hím reached the jungle he saw a great tiger walking about.

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“What shall I do?” cried he. “This tiger is sure to eat me.” And he took his razor and his razor-strap, and began to sharpen his razor. Then he went close up to the tiger, still sharpening his razor. The tiger was much frightened. “What shall I do?” said the tiger; “this man will certainly gash me.” “I have come,” said the barber, “to catch twenty tigers by order of Mahárájá Káns. You are one, and I want nineteen more.” The tiger, greatly alarmed, answered, “If you won’t catch us, I will give you as much gold and as many jewels as you can carry.” For these tigers used to go out and carry off the men and women from the villages, and some of these people had rupees, and some had jewels, all of which the tigers used to collect together. “Good,” said Hím, “then I won’t catch you.” The tiger led him to the spot where all the tigers used to eat their dinners, and the barber took as much gold and as many jewels as he could carry, and set off home with them.

Then he built a house, and bought his children pretty clothes and good food, and necklaces, and they all lived very happily for some time. But at last he wanted more rupees, so he set off to the tigers’ jungle. There he met the tiger as he did before, and he told him the Mahárájá Káns had sent him to catch twenty tigers. The tiger was terrified and said, “If you will only not catch us, I will give you more gold and jewels.” To this the barber agreed, and the tiger led him to the old spot, and the barber took as many jewels and rupees as he could carry. Then he returned home.

One day a very poor man, a fakír, said to him, “How did you manage to become so rich? In old days you were so poor you could hardly support your family.”

“I will tell you,” said Hím. And he told him all about his visits to the tigers’ jungle. “But don’t you go there for gold to-night,” continued the barber. “Let me go and listen to the tigers talking. If you like, you can come with me. Only you must not be frightened if the tigers roar.”

“I’ll not be frightened,” said the fakír.

So that evening at eight o’clock they went to the tigers’ jungle. There the barber and the fakír climbed into a tall thick tree, and its leaves came all about them and sheltered them as if they were in a house. The tigers used to hold their councils under this tree. Very soon all the tigers in the jungle assembled together under it, and their Rájá–a great, huge beast, with only one eye–came too. “Brothers,” said the tiger who had given the barber the rupees and jewels, “a man has come here twice to catch twenty of us for the Mahárájá Káns; now we are only four hundred in number, and if twenty of us were taken away we should be only a small number, so I gave him each time as many rupees and jewels as he could carry and he went away again. What shall we do if he returns?” The tigers said they would meet again on the morrow, and then they would settle the matter. Then the tigers went off, and the barber and the fakír came down from the tree. They took a quantity of rupees and jewels and returned to their homes.

“To-morrow,” said they, “we will come again and hear what the tigers say.”

The next day the barber went alone to the tigers’ jungle, and there he met his tiger again. “This time,” said he, “I am come to cut off the ears of all the four hundred tigers who live in this jungle; for Mahárájá Káns wants them to make into medicine.”

The tiger was greatly frightened, much more so than at the other times. “Don’t cut off our ears; pray don’t,” said he, “for then we could not hear, and it would hurt so horribly. Go and cut off all the dogs’ ears instead, and I will give you rupees and jewels as much as two men can carry.” “Good,” said the barber, and he made two journeys with the rupees and jewels from the jungle to the borders of his village, and there he got a cooly to help him to carry them to his house.

At night he and the fakír went again to the great tree under which the tigers held their councils. Now the tiger who had given the barber so many rupees and jewels had made ready a great quantity of meat, fowls, chickens, geese, men the tigers had killed–everything he had been able to get hold of–and he made them into a heap under the tree, for he said that after the tigers had settled the matter they would dine. Soon the tigers arrived with their Rájá, and the barber’s tiger said, “Brothers, what are we to do? This man came again to-day to cut off all our ears to make medicine for Mahárájá Káns. I told him this would be a bad business for us, and that he must go and cut off all the dogs’ ears instead; and I gave him as much money and jewels as two men could carry. So he went home. Now what shall we do? We must leave this jungle, and where shall we go?” The other tigers said, “We will not leave the jungle. If this man comes again we will eat him up.” So they dined and went away, saying they would meet again to-morrow.

After the tigers had gone, the barber and fakír came down from the tree and went off to their homes, without taking any rupees or jewels with them. They agreed to return the next evening.

Next evening back they came and climbed into the great tree. The tigers came too, and the barber’s tiger told his story all over again. The tiger Rájá sat up and said, fiercely, “We will not leave this jungle. Should the man come again, I will eat him myself.” When the fakír heard this he was so frightened that he tumbled down out of the tree into the midst of the tigers. The barber instantly cried out with a loud voice, “Now cut off their ears! cut off their ears!” and the tigers, terrified, ran away as fast as they could. Then the barber took the fakír home, but the poor man was so much hurt by his fall that he died.

The barber lived happily ever after, but he took good care never to go to the tigers’ jungle again.

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

The Story of Foolish Sachúlí

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Has she a tail?”

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

“Has she ears?”

“Of course, every one has ears.”

“Has she four feet?”

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

Then Sachúlí brought up the sheep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phúlmati Rání, or The Flower Lady

Phúlmati Rání, a radiant princess weighing only a flower, marries Indrásan Rájá, an equally enchanting prince. Their journey unfolds with trials: betrayal by a wicked shoemaker’s wife, the Rání’s deaths and resurrections by divine intervention, and the Rájá’s regretful mistakes. Guided by magical doves, he ultimately redeems himself, recovers his wife, and ensures justice. Reunited, they return to their kingdom and live happily ever after.

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

► Themes of the story

Trials and Tribulations: Both protagonists face numerous challenges, including betrayal and separation, testing their resilience and commitment.

Cunning and Deception: The shoemaker’s wife employs deceit to harm Phúlmati Rání, introducing conflict and driving the narrative forward.

Rebirth: The literal resurrection of Phúlmati Rání signifies a new beginning, emphasizing the cyclical nature of life and redemption.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 25th, 1876.

There were once a Rájá and a Rání who had an only daughter called the Phúlmati Rání, or the Pink-rose Queen. She was so beautiful that if she went into a very dark room it was all lighted up by her beauty. On her head was the sun; on her hands, moons; and her face was covered with stars. She had hair that reached to the ground, and it was made of pure gold.

Every day after she had had her bath, her father and mother used to weigh her in a pair of scales. She only weighed one flower. She ate very, very little food.

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This made her father most unhappy, and he said, “I cannot let my daughter marry any one who weighs more than one flower.” Now, God loved this girl dearly, so he went down under the ground to see if any of the fairy Rájás was fit to be the Phúlmati Rání’s husband, and he thought none of them good enough. So he went in the form of a Fakír to see the great Indrásan Rájá who ruled over all the other fairy Rájás. This Rájá was exceedingly beautiful. On his head was the sun; and on his hands, moons; and on his face, stars. God made him weigh very little. Then he said to the Rájá, “Come up with me, and we will go to the palace of the Phúlmati Rání.” God had told the Rájá that he was God and not a Fakír, for he loved the Indrásan Rájá. “Very well,” said the Indrásan Rájá. So they travelled on until they came to the Phúlmati Rání’s palace. When they arrived there they pitched a tent in her compound, and they used to walk about, and whenever they saw the Phúlmati Rání they looked at her. One day they saw her having her hair combed, so God said to the Indrásan Rájá, “Get a horse and ride where the Phúlmati Rání can see you, and if any one asks you who you are, say, ‘Oh, it’s only a poor Fakír, and I am his son. We have come to stay here a little while just to see the country. We will go away very soon.'” Well, he got a horse and rode about, and Phúlmati Rání, who was having her hair combed in the verandah, said, “I am sure that must be some Rájá; only see how beautiful he is.” And she sent one of her servants to ask him who he was. So the servant said to the Indrásan Rájá, “Who are you? why are you here? what do you want?” “Oh, it’s only a poor Fakír, and I am his son. We have just come here for a little while to see the country. We will go away very soon.” So the servants returned to the Phúlmati Rání and told her what the Indrásan Rájá had said. The Phúlmati Rání told her father about this. The next day, when the Phúlmati Rání and her father were standing in the verandah, God took a pair of scales and weighed the Indrásan Rájá in them. His weight was only that of one flower! “Oh,” said the Rájá, when he saw that, “here is the husband for the Phúlmati Rání!” The next day, after the Phúlmati Rání had had her bath, her father took her and weighed her, and he also weighed the Indrásan Rájá. And they were each the same weight. Each weighed one flower, although the Indrásan Rájá was fat and the Phúlmati Rání thin. The next day they were married, and there was a grand wedding. God said he was too poor-looking to appear, so he bought a quantity of elephants, and camels, and horses, and cows, and sheep, and goats, and made a procession, and came to the wedding. Then he went back to heaven, but before he went he said to the Indrásan Rájá “You must stay here one whole year; then go back to your father and to your kingdom. As long as you put flowers on your ears no danger will come near you.” (This was in order that the fairies might know that he was a very great Rájá and not hurt him.) “All right,” said the Indrásan Rájá. And God went back to heaven.

So the Indrásan Rájá stayed for a whole year. Then he told the Rájá, the Phúlmati Rání’s father, that he wished to go back to his own kingdom. “All right,” said the Rájá, and he wanted to give him horses, and camels, and elephants. But the Indrásan Rájá and the Phúlmati Rání said they wanted nothing but a tent and a cooly. Well, they set out; but the Indrásan Rájá forgot to put flowers on his ears, and after some days the Indrásan Rájá was very, very tired, so he said, “We will sit down under these big trees and rest awhile. Our baggage will soon be here; it is only a little way behind.” So they sat down, and the Rájá said he felt so tired he must sleep. “Very well,” said the Rání; “lay your head in my lap and sleep.” After a while a shoemaker’s wife came by to get some water from a tank which was close to the spot where the Rájá and Rání were resting. Now, the shoemaker’s wife was very black and ugly, and she had only one eye, and she was exceedingly wicked. The Rání was very thirsty and she said to the woman, “Please give me some water, I am so thirsty.” “If you want any,” said the shoemaker’s wife, “come to the tank and get it yourself.” “But I cannot,” said the Rání, “for the Rájá is sleeping in my lap.” At last the poor Rání got so very, very thirsty, she said she must have some water; so laying the Rájá’s head very gently on the ground she went to the tank. Then the wicked shoemaker’s wife, instead of giving her to drink, gave her a push and sent the beautiful Rání into the water, where she was drowned. The shoemaker’s wife then went back to the Rájá, and, taking his head on her knee, sat still until he woke. When the Rájá woke he was much frightened, and he said, “This is not my wife. My wife was not black, and she had two eyes.” The poor Rájá felt very unhappy. He said, “I am sure something has happened to my wife.” He went to the tank, and he saw flowers floating on the water and he caught them, and as he caught them his own true wife stood before him.

They travelled on till they came to a little house. The shoemaker’s wife went with them. They went into the house and laid themselves down to sleep, and the Rájá laid beside him the flowers he had found floating in the tank. The Rání’s life was in the flowers. As soon as the Rájá and Rání were asleep, the shoemaker’s wife took the flowers, broke them into little bits, and burnt them. The Rání died immediately, for the second time. Then the poor Rájá, feeling very lonely and unhappy, travelled on to his kingdom, and the shoemaker’s wife went after him. God brought the Phúlmati Rání to life a second time, and led her to the Indrásan Rájá’s gardener.

One day as the Indrásan Rájá was going out hunting, he passed by the gardener’s house, and saw a beautiful girl sitting in it. He thought she looked very like his wife, the Phúlmati Rání. So he went home to his father and said, “Father, I should like to be married to the girl who lives in our gardener’s house.” “All right,” said the father; “you can be married at once.” So they were married the next day.

One night the shoemaker’s wife took a ram, killed it, and put some of its blood on the Phúlmati Rání’s mouth while the Rání slept. The next morning she went to the Indrásan Rájá and said, “Whom have you married? You have married a Rakshas. Just see. She has been eating cows, and sheep, and chickens. Just come and see.” The Rájá went, and when he saw the blood on his wife’s mouth he was frightened, and he thought she was really a Rakshas. The shoemaker’s wife said to him, “If you do not cut this woman in pieces, some harm will happen to you.” So the Rájá took a knife and cut his beautiful wife into pieces. He then went away very sorrowful. The Phúlmati Rání’s arms and legs grew into four houses; her chest became a tank, and her head a house in the middle of the tank; her eyes turned into two little doves; and these five houses, the tank and the doves, were transported to the jungle. No one knew this. The little doves lived in the house that stood in the middle of the tank. The other four houses stood round the tank.

One day when the Indrásan Rájá was hunting by himself in the jungle he was very tired, and he saw the house in the tank. So he said, “I will go into that house to rest a little while, and to-morrow I will return home to my father.” So, tying his horse outside, he went into the house and lay down to sleep. By and by, the two little birds came and perched on the roof above his head. They began to talk, and the Rájá listened. The little husband-dove said to his wife, “This is the man who cut his wife to pieces.” And then he told her how the Indrásan Rájá had married the beautiful Phúlmati Rání, who weighed only one flower, and how the shoemaker’s wife had drowned her; how God had brought her to life again; how the shoemaker’s wife had burned her; and last of all, how the Rájá himself had cut her to pieces. “And cannot the Rájá find her again?” said the little wife-dove. “Oh, yes, he can,” said her husband, “but he does not know how to do so.” “But do tell me how he can find her,” said the little wife-dove. “Well,” said her husband, “every night, at twelve o’clock, the Rání and her servants come to bathe in the tank. Her servants wear yellow dresses, but she wears a red one. Now, if the Rájá could get all their dresses, every one, when they lay them down and go into the tank to bathe, and throw away all the yellow dresses one by one, keeping only the red one, he would recover his wife.” The Rájá heard all these things, and at midnight the Rání and her servants came to bathe. The Rájá lay very quiet, and after they all had taken off their dresses and gone into the tank, he jumped up and seized every one of the dresses,–he did not leave one of them,–and ran away as hard as he could. Then each of the servants, who were only fairies, screamed out, “Give me my dress! What are you doing? why do you take it away?” Then the Rájá dropped one by one the yellow dresses and kept the red one. The fairy servants picked up the dresses, and forsook the Phúlmati Rání and ran away. The Rájá came back to her with her dress in his hand, and she said, “Oh, give me back my dress. If you keep it I shall die. Three times has God brought me to life, but he will bring me to life no more.” The Rájá fell at her feet and begged her pardon, and they were reconciled. And he gave her back her dress. Then they went home, and Indrásan Rájá had the shoemaker’s wife cut to pieces, and buried in the jungle. And they lived happily ever after.

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A Mountain of Gems

An old widow and her son Mirali live in poverty until Mirali seeks work. Hired by a bai, Mirali is tricked into gathering gems atop a mountain and abandoned. Mirali escapes using ingenuity and later tricks the bai into suffering the same fate. He retrieves the gems and returns to his mother, leaving the deceitful bai stranded on the mountain.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: Mirali, after realizing the bai’s betrayal, uses his wit to escape the mountain and later turns the tables on the bai, leading to the bai’s own entrapment.

Trials and Tribulations: Mirali faces significant challenges, including being abandoned on a mountain and devising a plan to return home safely.

Revenge and Justice: After being deceived, Mirali ensures the bai faces the same fate, achieving a sense of justice for the wrong done to him.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Turkmen people

Retold by Mikhail Bulatov
Translated by Irina Zheleznova

In a certain village there once lived an old widow who had one son, Mirali by name. The mother and son were very poor. The old woman combed wool and took in washing, and in this way managed to earn enough to feed herself and her son.

When Mirali grew up, his mother said to him:

“I haven’t the strength to work any more, my son. You must find yourself work of some kind to do and so earn your keep.”

“Very well,” said Mirali, and off he went in search of work. He went here, and he went there, but nowhere could he find anything to do.

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After a time he came to the house of a certain bai. [a rich, sometimes titled man in old Turkmenia]

“Do you need a workman, bai?” Mirali asked.

“I do,” the bai replied.

And he hired Mirali on the spot.

A day passed, and the bai did not ask his new workman to do anything at all. Another day passed, and the bai gave him no orders of any kind. A third day passed, and the bai seemed not so much as to notice him.

All this seemed very strange to Mirali who began to wonder why the bai had hired him.

So he went to him and asked:

“Shall I be getting any work to do, master?”

“Yes, yes,” the bai replied, “I am going on a journey tomorrow, and you will come with me.”

The following day the bai ordered Mirali to slaughter a bull and to skin it, and, this done, to bring four large sacks and prepare two camels for a journey.

The bull’s hide and the sacks were put on one of the camels, the bai mounted the other, and off they started on their way.

They got to the foot of a distant mountain, and the bai stopped the camels and ordered Mirali to take down the sacks and the bull’s hide. Mirali did so, and the bai then told him to turn the bull’s hide inside out and lie down on it. Mirali could not understand the reason for this, but he dared not disobey and did as his master told him.

The bai rolled up the hide with Mirali inside it into a bundle, strapped it tight and hid himself behind a rock.

By and by two large birds of prey flew up, seized the hide which had a fresh smell of meat about it in their beaks and carried it off with them to the top of a tall mountain.

The birds began to peck and claw at the hide, and, seeing Mirali, were frightened and flew away.

Mirali got to his feet and began looking about him.

The bai saw him from below and shouted:

“What are you standing there for? Throw down to me the coloured stones that are lying at your feet!”

Mirali looked down at the ground and saw that a great number of precious stones, diamonds and rubies and sapphires and emeralds, were strewn all over it. The gems were large and beautiful and they sparkled in the sun.

Mirali began gathering the gems and throwing them down to the bai, who picked them up as fast as they fell and filled two of the sacks with them.

Mirali kept on working until a thought struck him that turned his blood cold.

“How shall I get down from here, master?” he called to the bai.

“Throw down more of the stones,” the bai called back.

“I will tell you how to get down from the mountain afterwards.”

Mirali believed him and went on throwing down the gems.

When the sacks were full, the bai hoisted them on to the camels’ backs.

“Ho there, my son!” called he with a laugh to Mirali. “Now you can see what kind of work I give my workmen to do. See how many of them are up there, on the mountain!”

And with these words the bai rode away.

Mirali was left on the mountain top all alone. He began looking for a way to climb down, but the mountain was very steep, with precipices on all sides, and he could not find one. Men’s bones lay about everywhere. They were the bones of those who, like Mirali, had been the bai’s workmen.

Mirali was terrified.

Suddenly there came a rush of wings overhead, and before he could tum round, a huge eagle had pounced upon him. He was about to tear Mirali to pieces, but Mirali did not lose his presence of mind, and, grasping the eagle’s legs with both hands, held them in a tight grip. The eagle let out a cry, rose up into the air and flew round and round, trying to shake off Mirali. At last, exhausted, he dropped to the ground well below the mountain top, and when Mirali loosed his hold, flew away.

Thus was Mirali saved from a terrible death. He reached the foot of the mountain, and, going to marketplace, began looking for work again. Suddenly he saw the bai, his former master, coming toward him.

“Do you need a workman, bai?” Mirali asked him.

Now, it did not enter the bai’s head that any workman of his, once he had been left on the mountain top, could have remained alive—it had never happened before—and, not recognising Mirali, he hired him and took him home with him.

Soon after, the bai ordered Mirali to slaughter a bull and skin it, and this being done, told him to get ready two camels and bring four sacks.

They made thair way to the foot of the same mountain, and, just as before, the bai told Mirali to lie down on the bull’s hide and wrap himself up in it.

“Show me how it’s done, for it’s not quite clear to me,” said Mirali.

“What is there to understand? Here is the way it’s done,” the bai replied, and he stretched himself out on the hide which had been turned inside out.

Mirali at once rolled up the hide, with the bai inside it, into a bundle and strapped it tight.

“What have you done to me, my son!” the bai cnied.

The same moment two birds of prey flew up, seized the bull’s hide with the bai in it and flew off with it to the mountain top. Once there, they began to tear at it with their beaks and claws, but, seeing the bai, were frightened and flew away. The bai scrambled to his feet.

“Come bai, do not waste time, throw down the gems to me, just as I did to you,” Mirali called from below.

Only then did the bai recognise him and begin trembling with fear and rage.

“How did you get down the mountain?” he called to Mirali.

“Throw down more of the gems, and when I have enough, I’ll tell you how!” Mirali called back.

The bai began throwing down the gems, and Mirali picked them up as fast as they fell. When the sacks were full, he hoisted them on to the camels’ backs.

“Come bai, look around you,” he called to him. “The bones of your workmen are strewn about everywhere. Why do you not ask them how to get down from the mountain? As for me, I am going home.”

And turning the camels round, Mirali set off for his mother’s house.

The bai rushed about on the mountain top, shouting threats and pleas, but all in vain, for who was there to hear him!

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

Clever Ashik

Ashik, a brave orphan, saves a frog, earning a magical pebble as gratitude. When the tyrant Karakhan threatens Ashik’s village, Ashik cleverly meets the khan’s impossible conditions and uses the pebble’s powers to fulfill a ransom. Escaping Karakhan’s betrayal, Ashik employs magical items to outwit his pursuers. After Karakhan’s demise, Ashik returns as a hero, earning the esteemed title of aksakal for his courage and wisdom.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: Ashik employs wit and cleverness to meet Karakhan’s impossible demands and to escape his treachery.

Supernatural Beings: The magical frog bestows upon Ashik a pebble with mystical powers, aiding him in his challenges.

Trials and Tribulations: Throughout the narrative, Ashik faces and overcomes numerous challenges, including imprisonment and pursuit by Karakhan’s forces.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Kyrgyz people

Retold by Dmitri Brudnyi
Translated by Olga Shartse

Once upon a time there lived a boy whose name was Ashik. His father and mother had died, and Ashik was left to make his own living. A rich bei took him on as a shepherd boy, and winter and summer Ashik tended his flock of sheep up in the mountains, only rarely coming down to the village.

As he was returning from the village one day, Ashik saw a frog with a broken leg lying in the road. He felt sorry for the poor thing, took it home and bandaged its broken leg. In a corner of the sheep-fold he dug a hole, filled it with water, and had the frog live there. He nursed it for days until its leg had quite healed.

When the bei found Ashik fussing with a frog, he got terribly angry, hit the boy with his whip, and screamed:

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“That’s the thanks I get for feeding you! A real man would never dirty his hands touching that slimy thing. Throw it out this moment!”

Ashik took the frog and carried it to the lake.

“You saved my life,” the frog said to him at parting. “I should give you something in gratitude. But I have nothing, only this pebble. It’s a magic pebble. When you’re in difficulties and necd help, touch the ground with it and say: ‘Pebble, Pebble. .’ And it will do your bidding.”

After saying this, the frog spit out a small green pebble, hopped once, hopped once again, and vanished.

Ashik dropped the pebble in his pocket and went home.

Before he was half-way there, a horseman overtook him, galloping at full speed. He shouted something as he passed, but Ashik did not catch the words.

As Ashik approached the village he saw that something terrible must have happened: men were running about and shouting, and women were sobbing at the top of their voices.

The village aksakals—the oldest and most highly esteemed men with long beards—had gathered in front of the bei’s house. Facing them was the horseman who had overtaken \shik on the road, and he was speaking to them in a loud voice:

“The wickedness that Karakhan is planning now…”

Everybody knew Karakhan, the neighbouring khan. He was mean and envious, greedy and merciless. In his own khanate his very name struck terror in people’s hearts, and the threat: “Karakhan will get you!” made the naughtiest child behave himself at once.

“What does he want?” the aksakals asked the horseman.

“He wants to conquer all the people living in the mountains and in the valleys and seize everything they possess. To soften his heart, all the villages have sent messengers to him with gifts. But Karakhan said that he’d only speak to someone who came not on horseback, not riding a camel, not walking on his two feet, not coming along the road and not across the field. None of those messengers came back, and now it’s our turn to send someone.”

Everyone started talking excitedly at once, without arriving at anything. And then Ashik stepped forward and said:

“Send me.”

The long-bearded, grey-haired aksakals were angry at first, and then they laughed and laughed at the boy. But then the aksakal with the longest white beard said:

“Did you hear Karakhan’s conditions?”

“I did, aksakal,” replied Ashik. “I shall not ride a horse or a camel, I’ll ride a goat, and I’ll go along the curb where it’s neither the road nor the field.”

Everyone liked the boy’s clever idea. He was given the oldest goat there was to ride and the tallest camel they had as a gift to the khan. And he set off on his journey.

When Karakhan saw the boy riding an old goat, he screamed furiously:

“Impudent brat! How dare you come into my presence in this manner?”

Everyone froze from terror.

And Ashik replied very calmly:

“I did as you wished, Mighty Khan! I came to you not on a horse or a camel, and not on my two feet either, but I rode a goat, an animal that no one rides, and I rode along the curb where it’s neither road nor field.”

At this, Karakhan screamed more furiously still:

“Impudent brat, wasn’t there anyone bigger than you to send?”

“Mighty Khan, the biggest we have’in our village is this camel, you can speak to him if you wish.”

The khan grew angrier than ever.

“Impudent brat, wasn’t there anyone older than you in your village?”

“Mighty Khan,” Ashik said. “The oldest we have in our village is this goat here. You can speak to him if you wish.”

And then Karakhan said with a nasty grin:

“I’ll let you go and I shan’t touch your village, since you are so brave and quick-witted. But before the moon rises in the sky you must pay me a ransom of a hundred black pacers, a hundred fast camels, a hundred live sables, a hundred brocade robes, and a white yurt with a hundred walls and fully furnished. In the meantime you’ll be locked up in the dungeon. Hey, guards, take him there! If he doesn’t pay me this ransom, chop his head off at daybreak, and raze his village to the ground!”

The guards threw Ashik into the deepest dungeon, and the khan’s djigits, armed with sharp spears, were ordered to watch him. There was no hope of escape.

Ashik was chilled through in that dark, cold dungeon, and he felt so sorry for himself, a poor, defenseless orphan, that he wanted to cry, when suddenly he remembered the green pebble which the frog had given him. He fished it out of his pocket, twisted it in his hands for a minute, then knocked on the ground with it and said:

“Pebble, pebble, help me. Let the wicked Karakhan have his ransom—a hundred black pacers, a hundred fast camels, a hundred live sables, a hundred brocade robes, and a white yurt with a hundred walls and fully furnished.”

No sooner were the words spoken, than the pebble crumbled, and in that very spot a girl appeared, a beauty with a long, long braid, rosy cheeks and teeth gleaming like pearls.

“Do not worry, dear boy. Karakhan will get his ransom. Only beware of his anger. Take this comb, needle and mirror. They’ll help you when you’re in danger.”

The beautiful girl said this, smiled sweetly, and with a flip of her long, long braid, vanished.

The moon had not risen yet, when Karakhan’s servants came to tell him that a strange caravan was approaching his palace. There were a hundred black pacers, a hundred fast camels, a hundred live sables, a hundred djigits were carrying a hundred brocade robes, and next to the khan’s tall palace an even taller white yurt with a hundred walls and fully furnished had appeared overnight.

Karakhan rejoiced in such wealth, but did not let his joy show because he would now have to release the boy from prison. And that was something he hated doing. No one ever came out alive from his dungeons.

Still, a promise was a promise, and so he told his guard to release the prisoner. The guards let out the boy and brought him to the khan.

“I’ll let you go,” Karakhan told him. “But if you’d like to remain in my service I’ll appoint you my vizier.”

“No, Karakhan. I shall not serve you and your wickedness,” Ashik replied bravely. “Let me go, and do not raid my village if your word of a khan can be trusted.”

No one had ever dared speak like that to Karakhan. His eyes flashed red with anger.

“Very well,” he said. ‘I shall keep my word. You may go.

No sooner had Ashik left than Karakhan made a sign to his servants:

“Gallop after him and pierce that impudent brat with your spears.”

The dyjigits hastened to carry out the khan’s orders.

Very soon Ashik heard a thudding behind him, as if a whole herd of horses was galloping after him. He glanced back and saw the khan’s djigits with spears at the ready.

He guessed that Karakhan had sent them after him. The pursuers were almost on him. Ashik took out the comb, given him by that girl of extraordinary beauty, and threw it behind him. Instantly, a dense, impenetrable forest sprang up and barred the horsemen’s way. The djigits stopped. They did not know what to do, and decided to turn back. They fell at the khan’s feet and begged mercy.

“Mighty Khan, be merciful. We did not catch that impudent brat. An impenetrable forest barred our way.”

Karakhan had no mercy to spare his faithful djigits, and ordered their heads chopped off. Then he called his faithful guards and ordered them:

“Go after that impudent brat and catch him. When you do, pierce him with your spears.”

The guards flew to do the khan’s bidding.

Very soon Ashik heard a thudding behind him, as if several herds of horses were galloping along the road. He glanced back and saw the khan’s guards with spears at the ready. Again, the pursuers were almost on him. Then Ashik took the needle, given him by the girl of extraordinary beauty, and threw it on the ground right under the horses’ feet. And instantly a mountain, reaching to the clouds, rose across the road behind him. Ashik was out of reach now.

The horsemen stopped, wondering what to do, and were then obliged to turn back. They fell at the khan’s feet and begged mercy.

“Mighty Khan, have mercy on us. We did not catch that impudent brat. A huge mountain barred our way.”

Karakhan had no mercy to spare his faithful guards either, and had their heads chopped off.

In his towering rage he could not wait to lay his hands upon the impudent brat, and so decided to go in pursuit of him himself.

“Bring my tulpar,” he ordered his servants.

The splendid winged horse was brought, Karakhan leapt into the saddle and off he flew. He came to an impenetrable forest barring his way. Karakhan pulled the reins, the tulpar took a great leap and flew over the forest. And now a tall mountain barred Karakhan’s way. Again he pulled the reins, his tulpar took an even greater leap and flew over the mountain.

And now Karakhan was gaining rapidly on the boy. Ashik threw the mirror, given him by the girl of extraordinary beauty, behind him, and instantly a deep, wide lake was formed.

Again Karakhan thought his tulpar would be able to fly across it, and pulled the reins. The tulpar took a great leap, but it was not long enough, and he fell into the water. Karakhan was knocked out of the saddle, he floundered in the water, thrashing about, and trying to keep afloat. But he had never learnt to swim, and so he drowned.

The tulpar swam to the shore, Ashik mounted it and rode home to his village.

The whole village turned out to welcome him back, and thereafter everyone called him an aksakal for defeating the wicked khan.

Since then the honourable title of aksakal has been applied in Kirghizia not only to old men with white beards, but also to younger men esteemed by the people for their good deeds, bravery and cleverness.

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

Three Brothers

Three brothers, Tonguch, Ortancha, and Kendja, embark on a journey to seek fortune after their father advises them to live honestly, avoid laziness, and explore the world. They overcome challenges, including defeating a lion, a giant snake, and a band of robbers. Kendja saves a shah but faces false accusations. Ultimately, the brothers marry the shah’s daughters, reject royal servitude, and return home to live freely and happily.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Trials and Tribulations: Throughout their adventure, they confront and overcome obstacles, including defeating a lion, a giant snake, and a band of robbers.

Family Dynamics: The bond between the three brothers is central to the story, highlighting their cooperation and mutual support during their quest.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts lessons on honesty, humility, and diligence, as advised by their father before their departure.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Uzbek people

Retold by Serghei Palastrov
Translated by Olga Shartse

Well then, listen… Many, many years ago there lived a man who was neither rich nor poor. He had three sons. All three were handsome boys, they had learnt to read and write, they had good sense, and never kept bad company.

The eldest brother, Tonguch-batyr, was twenty-one, the second brother, Ortancha-batyr, was eighteen, and the youngest, Kendja-batyr, was sixteen.

One day their father called them together, told them to sit down, stroked the head of each fondly, and said:

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“My dear sons, I am not rich, and what you inherit after me will not last you long. Do not expect or hope for anything more than I can leave you. I brought you up in good health, and you became strong young men; I gave you each a sword, and you have become skilled warriors; and I taught you to fear nothing, and you.became brave men. I shall now give you three behests. Listen well and do not forget them: be honest, and you’ll live without any qualms; do not brag, and you’ll never have to feel ashamed of yourselves; do not be lazy, and you’ll be happy. As for the rest, it’s your own lookout. I have prepared three horses for you: a black, a dun, and a grey. Your bags have been filled with food for a week. Fortune is yours to seek. Go now, go and see the world. Without seeing the world you won’t be able to make your way in life. Go and seek your fortune. Goodbye, my sons.”

And on this, their father rose and left them.

Early next morning the three brothers mounted their horses and set off. They rode the whole day without stopping, and covered a great distance from home. When evening came they decided to take a rest. They dismounted, had their supper, but before going to sleep they arranged to take turns keeping watch, as this was a desolate spot and it wouldn’t do for all of them to be asleep. They divided the night into three watches.

Tonguch, the eldest brother, went on watch first, while the other two brothers lay down to sleep. He sat there, playing with his sword, and looking about him in the light of the moon. It was very, very quiet. The whole world slept.

Suddenly, he heard a noise coming from the forest. Tonguch drew his sword and prepared to defend the three of them.

A lion, scenting people, came out into the open.

Tonguch was sure that he could overcome the lion alone, and ran a little way from his brothers so as not to waken them. The lion went after him. Tonguch swung round, brought his sword down on the lion’s left leg. The wounded beast pounced on Tonguch, but he side-stepped in time and with his whole might hit the lion over the head. And the lion went down, dead.

Tonguch then sat astride the dead beast, cut a narrow ribbon out of his hide, tied it round his body under his shirt, and returned to his sleeping brothers as if nothing had happened.

The next to go on watch was Ortancha-batyr, the middle brother.

And after him, the youngest, Kendja-batyr who guarded his sleeping brothers till daybreak.

Thus passed the first night.

In the morning the brothers mounted their horses and continued on their way. They rode until evening, and called a halt at the foot of a tall mountain. A solitary, spreading poplar grew there, and under it a spring of sweet water gushed from the ground. Behind the spring was a cave, and in it lived Azhdar-sultan, the King of Snakes.

The brothers did not know this. They tethered their horses, cleaned them with a curry-comb, fed them, and then sat down to their own supper. They decided to keep watch again, as on the previous night. Tonguch-batyr, the eldest, did his three hours, and then it was the turn for the middle brother, Ortancha-batyr to stand watch.

It was a moonlit night, and very quiet. Suddenly Ortancha heard a strange rustling sound coming, he thought, from the cave. And out crawled Azhdar-sultan, with a head like a tree stump, and a body that was long and thick like a tree trunk. The King of Snakes was making for the spring.

Ortancha-batyr did not want to waken his brothers, and so he ran a little distance off, to lure the snake away from them. Scenting man, Azhdar-sultan went after him. Ortancha-batyr side-stepped and struck him on the tail. The snake writhed and twisted. And then Ortancha-batyr struck him on the back. The gravely wounded snake made a desperate lunge at him, and here Ortancha-batyr finished him off.

He cut a narrow ribbon out of the snake’s back, tied it round his middle under the shirt, returned to camp and squatted on the ground as if he had never left the place.

The youngest brother had an uneventful watch next, and early in the morning they set off again.

They rode all day over the steppe. When the sun was setting they came to a solitary hill, dismounted, started a fire, had their supper, and as before had one of them keep watch while the other two brothers slept.

It was the youngest brother’s turn to watch. He sat there, lost in thought, and did not notice that the fire had gone out. “It’s not safe for us to have no fire going,” he chided himself. He climbed to the top of the hill and looked around. A tiny light twinkled in the distance. Kendja-batyr mounted his horse and rode in that direction. He rode for a long time, and finally came to a house standing all by itself in the middle of the steppe. He dismounted, tiptoed to the window and peeped in.

A lamp was burning, and a pot of broth was cooking on the hearth. There were about twenty men sitting round it. All of them had sullen faces and angry eyes. Kendja-batyr guessed that they were up to no good.

“They look like a band of robbers,” he thought. “It won’t do for an honest man to simply let them be and quietly slip away. I’ll try to outwit them: I’ll get them to trust me, and then I’ll do what I must.”

Kendja-batyr pushed open the door and walked in. The robbers grabbed their knives.

“Master,” Kendja-batyr addressed their chieftain. “I’m your worthless slave. I come from a town far away. Until now I’ve been living by petty deals, and I’ve long dreamed of joining a large band like yours. When I heard that you were here, I hastened to you. I know I’m very young, but give it no mind. You’re my only hope. Please take me in. I know a lot of different tricks. I’m good at spying, at nosing things out, and doing other such things. You’ll find me useful in your business.”

He talked so cleverly that the chieftain replied:

“You did well to come to us.”

Kendja-batyr pressed his palms to his breast, bowed low, and sat down close to the hearth. The broth was ready now, and they supped on it.

That night the robbers were planning to rob the shah. When they had eaten, they got on their horses and rode off. Kendja-batyr went with them. When they came to the shah’s garden, they dismounted and put their heads together about the best way to steal into the palace. And this is what they decided to do: Kendja-batyr would climb over the garden wall first and spy out the land. If the guards were sleeping, the robbers would climb over the wall one after the other, assemble in the garden and break into the palace all together.

The robbers helped Kendja-batyr on to the wall. He jumped down on the other side, walked about the garden, finding all the guards fast asleep, then rolled a cart right up to the wall. Standing on this cart, he looked over the wall and said: “The time’s just right.”

The chieftain ordered his men to climb over one after the other.

When the first robber heaved himself on to the wall and bent over to climb down to the cart, Kendja-batyr swung his sword and chopped off his head.

“Climb down now,” he said, and pulled the body down to the ground.

To cut a long story short, he chopped off the heads of all the robbers, one after another, and after that went to the palace.

He slipped past the sleeping guards and entered a hall that had three doors. Ten girl-servants were keeping guard here, but they, too, were fast asleep.

Unnoticed, Kendja-batyr opened the first door and found himself in a gorgeously decorated room. The walls were hung with silk curtains embroidered in red flowers.

A beauty, lovelier than all the flowers in the world, was sleeping on a silver bed, wrapped in white cloth. Kendja- batyr stole up to her, pulled a gold ring off a finger on her right hand, dropped it in his pocket and tiptoed back into the great hall.

Now he opened the second door, and found himself in a gorgeously decorated room. The silk drapes here had birds embroidered on them. In the middle of the room stood a silver bed and on it slept a beautiful girl surrounded by her ten handmaidens. Was it from the sun or the moon that she had taken her beauty?

Kendja-batyr stole up to her, took a golden bracelet off her arm, dropped it in his pocket, and tiptoed back into the main hall.

He now went into the third room. It was even more gorgeously decorated than the other two. The walls were hung with crimson silk.

A beauty was sleeping on the silver bed, surrounded by sixteen pretty handmaidens. She was so lovely that even the queen of stars, the Morning Star, might well be her servant.

Stealthily, Kendja-batyr took the gold earring out of the beauty’s right ear and dropped it in his pocket.

He left the palace, climbed over the garden wall, mounted his horse and rode back to his brothers.

They were still asleep. Kendja-batyr squatted beside them and played with his sword-till daybreak.

When it grew light, the brothers had breakfast, got on their horses and continued on their travels.

Before long they came to a town and put up at the caravanserai. They tethered their horses under the shed and went to the tea-room to have a nice pot of tea.

The quiet of the morning was disrupted by the loud voice of the town crier.

“Those who have ears to hear, listen! Last night a person unknown chopped off the heads of twelve robbers in the palace garden. It is the wish of our Shah that the entire population, old and young alike, should try to throw some light upon this puzzling happening and to name the hero who has performed such an outstanding feat. Anyone in whose house there are guests, newly arrived from other towns or lands, must bring them to the palace at once. The Shah’s three grown daughters have reported the loss of a piece of gold jewelry each.”

The owner of the caravanserai asked the three brothers to go to the palace forthwith. They finished their tea and went.

When the Shah heard that they came from another country, he ordered them to be put in a richly. furnished room all by themselves, and told his vizier to make them talk.

The vizier said: “If I ask them straight out they may not tell me anything. Eavesdropping would be better, I think.”

The brothers were served a lavish meal, and they sat down to eat, while the Shah and his vizier sat in the next room and listened.

“We’ve been given the meat of a young lamb, but it was a bitch and not a sheep that had nursed it,” said Tonguch- batyr. “Shahs don’t turn up their noses at the taste of dog, it seems. What really amazes me is that this grape syrup smells of human blood.”

“You’re right,” said Kendja-batyr. “All shahs are blood- suckers. It may well be that human blood has been mixed in with the syrup. There’s one thing that amazes me too: those flat cakes have been arranged so artfully on the platter as only a good baker could arrange them.”

“Probably you’re right,” said Tonguch-batyr. “Listen, brothers; the Shah wants to find out what happened in the palace last night, and that’s why we’ve been called here. We’ll be questioned, naturally. What shall we tell them?”

“We’re not going to lie, we’ll speak the truth,” said Ortancha-batyr.

“Yes, it’s time we told what we’d seen in those last three days,” said Kendja-batyr.

Tonguch-batyr then told his brothers about killing the lion that first night. He undid the ribbon of lion hide which he wore under his shirt and threw it down before his brothers. Next, Ortancha-batyr told them what happened on the second night, and removing the ribbon cut from the back of the King of Snakes, showed it to his brothers. Now it was Kendja-batyr’s turn. He told his brothers what happened on the third night and showed them the gold ring, gold earring and gold bracelet he had taken from the sleeping princesses.

Now the Shah and his vizier knew the whole truth about the night’s happenings in the palace, but they simply could not understand what the brothers had meant about the lamb, the syrup and the flat cakes. So, first of all they sent for the shepherd.

“Tell me the truth,” the Shah said to him. “Had the lamb you sent to the palace yesterday been nursed by a bitch?”

“Oh Mighty Shah! If my life is spared, I’ll tell all!” wailed the shepherd.

“Please tell me the truth,” said the Shah.

“One of my sheep died in the winter. I was sorry for the wee lamb and gave it to a bitch to nurse together with her pups. And it was this very lamb I sent you yesterday, because it was the only one I had left, your servants having already taken all the others.”

Now, the Shah sent for the gardener.

“Tell me the truth,” the Shah said to him. “Has human blood been mixed into the grape syrup?”

“Oh Mighty Shah!” replied the gardener. “Something did happen, and if my life is spared I’ll tell you the whole truth.”

“Your life will be spared. Speak up.”

“Last summer, someone took to coming every night to steal the best grapes which I was saving for you, oh mighty Shah! I hid in the vineyard and watched. I saw someone coming towards me, and hit him over the head with a cudgel. I then dug a deep hole under the vine and buried the body in it. The vine grew so big and strong, there were more grapes on it than leaves. Only the taste was a bit different. So instead of sending you the fresh grapes I cooked that syrup from them.”

As for the flat cakes, the truth was that the Shah himself had arranged them so nicely on the platter. His father, surprisingly, had been.a baker.

The Shah came into the room where the three brothers were, greeted them, and said:

“Everything you said here turned out to be true, and I like you for it. I have a request to make of you, dear guests. Please hear me out.

“I have three daughters and no sons. Stay here. I’ll give you my daughters in marriage, I’ll invite the whole town to the wedding, and for forty days I’ll treat all my guests to pilau.”

And Tonguch-batyr replied:

“Your speech sounds fine, but how can we marry your daughters when we are not a shah’s sons and our father is not rich at all? Your wealth came to you for sitting on the throne, while we were brought up in industry.”

But the Shah insisted:

“I am a Shah but a father who brought up such fine, brave sons is in no way inferior to me. In fact, he is richer than I am. And I, the father of three lovely girls who had been sought in marriage by mighty rulers of the world, by great Shahs who were smitten by my daughters’ beauty and wept brokenly before them, now I stand here before you and implore you to marry my daughters!”

The brothers consented. The Shah gave a great feast which went on for forty days. The three brothers now came to live in the Shah’s palace. The Shah grew fondest of the youngest brother, Kendja-batyr.

One day the Shah was taking a nap in his garden in the shade. Suddenly a poisonous snake crawled out of a ditch and would have bitten the Shah if not for Kendja-batyr who saw it in the nick of time, drew his sword, slashed the snake in two and threw the pieces into the bushes. He was still holding the sword in his hands when the Shah woke up. And what he saw made him suspicious. “Probably being my son-in-law isn’t good enough for him,” the Shah was thinking. “He’s scheming to kill me and himself become the Shah.”

The Shan went to his vizier and confided his suspicions to him. The vizier had long been nursing a grudge against the three brothers, and this was a marvellous chance to get rid of them.

“You did not care to consult me and married off your daughters to some nobodies. And now your beloved son-in- law wanted to kill you. He’s a sly fox, he’ll do the deed anyway one day if you don’t look out.”

The Shah believed the vizier and ordered Kendja-batyr to be put in prison.

The young princess, Kendja-batyr’s wife, cried all day and night, she grew pale and wan, and her heart ached terribly for her beloved husband. And then one day she threw herself at her father’s feet and begged him to release Kendja-batyr. The Shah ordered the prisoner to be brought into his presence.

“What a traitor you turned out to be!” he said to Kendja- batyr. “So you resolved to kill me, did you?” For answer, Kendja-batyr told the Shah the story of the parrot.

The Story of the Parrot

Once upon a time there lived a shah who had a pet parrot. The Shah was so fond of this parrot that he could not live without him for even an hour.

The parrot said flattering things to the Shah and generally amused him. And then one day the parrot said:

“At home, in India, I have my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, and I haven’t seen them for a very long time, ever since I started living in this cage. Please let me go home for twenty days. It will take me six days to fly there, six days to fly back, and eight days I’ll spend at home and look my fill at my father and mother, my brothers and sisters.”

“No,” replied the Shah. “If I let you go you’ll never come back, and I’ll have no one to keep me amused.”

“I give you my word and I’ll keep it,” begged the parrot.

“Very well then, I’ll let you go but only for two weeks,” said the Shah.

“I’ll have to look sharp then. Goodbye,” said the parrot happily.

From the cage he flew to the top of the garden wall, cried goodbye to everyone, and hastened southward. The Shah stood and watched him out of sight. He did not believe that the parrot would keep his word.

It took the parrot six days to reach India and his parents’ home. How happy the poor thing was, flitting about, playing, flying from one tree to another, from one branch to another, relishing the green forests, visiting his relatives and old friends, and before he knew it the two days he had were over. It was time to fly back to prison, to his cage. He had to part again with his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, and it nearly broke his heart. The minutes of happiness he had enjoyed were to be followed by hours and days of grief and sorrow. His wings drooped. Perhaps he’d be given leave again some day, perhaps not. All the relatives and friends came to say goodbye, all felt sorry for the parrot and advised him not to return to the Shah at all. But the parrot said:

“I gave him my word. How can I break my promise?”

“Was there ever a shah who kept his promise?” said one of the relatives. “If your Shah were a fair-minded person would he have kept you in a cage for fourteen years and set you free for a mere fourteen days? Were you born to live in a cage? You have your freedom now, so don’t give it up just to keep someone amused! Hang on to it! There’s more meanness than kindness in your Shah. It’s foolish and dangerous to come too close to a Shah or a tiger.”

Still, the parrot was resolved to fly back, and no one could make him change his mind.

And then it was his own mother who spoke.

“Listen to me then. Growing in our forests here are the fruits of life. It is enough to eat just one fruit for an old man to turn into a youth, and an old woman to turn into a girl. Take some of these precious fruits to your Shah and ask him to set you free. Maybe a sense of justice will awaken in him, and he’ll give you your freedom.”

Everyone approved. Three of the fruits were brought at once. The parrot said goodbye to his family and friends, and flew northward. Everyone watched him, hopefully.

It took the parrot six days to fly back. He gave the fruits to the Shah and told him what magic properties they possessed. The Shah was delighted, and promised to free the parrot. One of the fruits he gave to his wife, and the other two he placed in a cup.

The Shah’s vizier went quite sick with envy and spite, and his scheming mind cooked up a plan at once.

“Do not eat the fruits brought by your parrot right away, let’s first test them,” he said to the Shah. “If they’re good, it will never be too late to eat them.”

The Shah agreed, and the vizier furtively injected some strong poison into one of the fruits.

Two peacocks were brought in and given the fruit to peck. Both died instantly.

“That’s what would have happened to you if you’d eaten it,” said the vizier.

“I would have died too!” cried the Shah, dragged the parrot out of the cage and tore off his head. And that was how the ruler rewarded his pet for his loyalty.

Soon after this the Shah was so displeased with one of his old servants that he wanted his head chopped off, but instead he ordered him to eat the remaining fruit. And no sooner had the old man eaten it than his hair turned black, new teeth were cut, a youthful sparkle shone in his eyes, and altogether he looked like a man of twenty.

The Shah knew then that he shouldn’t have killed his parrot, but too late.

* * *

“And now I’ll tell you what happened while you were sleeping,” said Kendja-batyr in conclusion.

He went to the garden and brought back the two halves of the poisonous snake. The Shah begged his son-in-law to forgive him.

“Master, permit my brothers and me to go home. One cannot live in peace and friendship with shahs, it seems.”

The brothers remained deaf to the Shah’s pleas and promises. They refused to live in his palace as his servants, even if privileged. They wanted to work for their living as free men.

“But my daughters shall stay here with me,” said the Shah.

“No, I won’t part with my husband,” replied each of his daughters.

And so the three brothers returned home to their father with their young wives, and they all lived happily ever after.

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The Tongue-Cut Sparrow

An old man and a cruel old woman lived separately in a village. The man cherished his talking sparrow, while the woman, angry when it ate her starch, cut its tongue. The sparrow fled, and the man found it, receiving treasure as a gift. The greedy woman sought her own reward, choosing a heavy basket, only to find it full of demons, giving her a well-deserved fright.

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

► Themes of the story

Trials and Tribulations: Along the way, Aisling faces a series of challenges, both physical and emotional. These trials test her courage, resolve, and resourcefulness, pushing her to her limits.

Mythical Creatures: Her encounters with legendary beings—both allies and adversaries—add a layer of mysticism to the narrative, highlighting the interplay between humans and the supernatural.

Sacred Objects: The stolen artifact is central to the story, symbolizing the cultural and spiritual heritage of Aisling’s community. Its recovery represents not just a personal triumph but the restoration of balance and order.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Once upon a time there was an old man who lived all alone. And there was an old woman who lived all alone. The old man was merry and kind and gentle, with a good word and a smile for all the world. The old woman was sour and sad, as cross a patch as could be found in all the country-side. She grumbled and growled for ever, and would not so much as pass the time of day with respectable folk. The old man had a pet sparrow that he kept as the apple of his eye. The sparrow could talk and sing and dance and do all manner of tricks, and was very good company. So the old man found when he came home from his work at night.

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There would be the sparrow twittering on the doorstep, and “Welcome home, master,” he would say, his head on one side, as pert and pretty as you please.

One day the old man went off to cut wood in the mountains. The old woman, she stayed at home for it was her washing day. She made some good starch in a bowl and she put it outside her door to cool.

“It will be all ready when I want it,” she said to herself. But that’s just where she made a mistake. The little sparrow flew over the bamboo fence and lighted on the edge of the starch bowl. And he pecked at the starch with his little beak. He pecked and he pecked till all the starch was gone, and a good meal he made, to be sure.

Then out came the old woman for the starch to starch her clothes.

You may believe she was angry. She caught the little sparrow roughly in her hand, and, alas and alack! she took a sharp, sharp scissors and cut his little tongue. Then she let him go.

Away and away flew the little sparrow, over hill and over dale.

“And a good riddance, too!” said the cruel old woman.

When the old man came home from the mountains he found his pet sparrow gone. And before long he knew all the tale. He lost no time, the good old man; he set out at once on foot, calling “Sparrow, sparrow, where are you, my tongue-cut sparrow?”

Over hill and over dale he went, calling “Sparrow, sparrow, where are you, my tongue-cut sparrow?”

At last and at length he came to the sparrow’s house, and the sparrow flew out to greet his master. Then there was a twittering, to be sure. The sparrow called his brothers and sisters and his children and his wife and his mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother. And they all flew out to do the old man honour. They brought him into the house and they set him down upon mats of silk. Then they spread a great feast; red rice and daikon and fish, and who knows what all besides, and the very best saké to drink. The sparrow waited upon the good old man, and his brothers and sisters and his children and his wife and his mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother with him.

After supper the sparrow danced, whilst his grandmother played the samisen and the good old man beat time.

It was a merry evening.

At last, “All good things come to an end,” says the old man; “I fear ’tis late and high time I was getting home.”

“Not without a little present,” says the sparrow.

“Ah, sparrow dear,” says the old man, “I’d sooner have yourself than any present.”

But the sparrow shook his head.

Presently they brought in two wicker baskets.

“One of them is heavy,” says the sparrow, “and the other is light. Say, master, will you take the heavy basket or the light?”

“I’m not so young as I once was,” says the good old man. “Thanking you kindly, I’d sooner have the light basket; it will suit me better to carry–that is, if it’s the same to you,” he says.

So he went home with the light basket. When he opened it, wonderful to tell, it was full of gold and silver and tortoise-shell and coral and jade and fine rolls of silk. So the good old man was rich for life.

Now, when the bad old woman heard tell of all this, she tied on her sandals and kilted her skirts and took a stout stick in her hand. Over hill and over dale she went, and took the straight road to the sparrow’s house. There was the sparrow, and there were his brothers and sisters and children and his wife and his mother and his mother-in-law and his grandmother. They were not too pleased to see the bad old woman, but they couldn’t do less than ask her in as she’d come so far. They gave her red rice and white rice and daikon and fish, and who knows what besides, and she gobbled it up in a twinkling, and drank a good cup of saké. Then up she got. “I can’t waste any more time here,” she says, “so you’d best bring out your presents.”

They brought in two wicker baskets.

“One of them is heavy,” says the sparrow, “and the other is light. Say, mistress, will you take the heavy basket or the light?”

“I’ll take the heavy one,” says the old woman, quick as a thought. So she heaved it up on her back and off she set. Sure enough it was as heavy as lead.

When she was gone, Lord! how the sparrows did laugh!

No sooner did she reach home than she undid the cords of the basket.

“Now for the gold and silver,” she said, and smiled–though she hadn’t smiled for a twelve-month. And she lifted up the lid.

“Ai! Ai! Kowai! Obaké da! Obaké!” she screeched.

The basket was full of ugly imps and elves and pixies and demons and devils. Out they came to tease the old woman, to pull her and to poke her, to push her and to pinch her. She had the fine fright of her life, I warrant you.

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 Black Bowl

In a remote village, a poor, kind girl wears a heavy black wooden bowl on her head, per her dying mother’s advice, to protect her beauty. Mocked and rejected, she works hard and finds shelter with a kind farmer. The farmer’s son falls in love with her, bowl and all, and on their wedding day, the bowl shatters, revealing priceless jewels. Yet her true beauty remains her gentle heart and sparkling eyes.

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

► Themes of the story

Transformation: The girl undergoes a significant change when the black bowl shatters, revealing her hidden beauty and the jewels, symbolizing a transformation in her life circumstances.

Trials and Tribulations: The girl faces hardships, including mockery and rejection, yet she endures these challenges with resilience.

Sacred Objects: The black bowl serves as a significant artifact, embodying protection and concealment, and plays a crucial role in the unfolding of the story.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Long ago, in a part of the country not very remote from Kioto, the great gay city, there dwelt an honest couple. In a lonely place was their cottage, upon the outskirts of a deep wood of pine trees. Folks had it that the wood was haunted. They said it was full of deceiving foxes; they said that beneath the mossy ground the elves built their kitchens; they said that long-nosed Tengu had tea-parties in the forest thrice a month, and that the fairies’ children played at hide-and-seek there every morning before seven. Over and above all this they didn’t mind saying that the honest couple were queer in their ways, that the woman was wise, and that the man was a warlock–which was as may be.

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But sure it was that they did no harm to living soul, that they lived as poor as poor, and that they had one fair daughter. She was as neat and pretty as a princess, and her manners were very fine; but for all that she worked as hard as a boy in the rice-fields, and within doors she was the housewife indeed, for she washed and cooked and drew water. She went barefoot in a grey homespun gown, and tied her back hair with a tough wistaria tendril. Brown she was and thin, but the sweetest beggar-maid that ever made shift with a bed of dry moss and no supper.

By-and-by the good man her father dies, and the wise woman her mother sickens within the year, and soon she lies in a corner of the cottage waiting for her end, with the maid near her crying bitter tears.

“Child,” says the mother, “do you know you are as pretty as a princess?”

“Am I that?” says the maid, and goes on with her crying.

“Do you know that your manners are fine?” says the mother.

“Are they, then?” says the maid, and goes on with her crying.

“My own baby,” says the mother, “could you stop your crying a minute and listen to me?”

So the maid stopped crying and put her head close by her mother’s on the poor pillow.

“Now listen,” says the mother, “and afterwards remember. It is a bad thing for a poor girl to be pretty. If she is pretty and lonely and innocent, none but the gods will help her. They will help you, my poor child, and I have thought of a way besides. Fetch me the great black rice-bowl from the shelf.”

The girl fetched it.

“See, now, I put it on your head and all your beauty is hidden away.”

“Alack, mother,” said the poor child, “it is heavy.”

“It will save you from what is heavier to bear,” said the mother. “If you love me, promise me that you will not move it till the time comes.”

“I promise! I promise! But how shall I know when the time comes?”

“That you shall know…. And now help me outside, for the sweet morning dawns and I’ve a fancy to see the fairies’ children once again, as they run in the forest.”

So the child, having the black bowl upon her head, held her mother in her arms in a grassy place near the great trees, and presently they saw the fairies’ children threading their way between the dark trunks as they played at hide-and-seek. Their bright garments fluttered, and they laughed lightly as they went. The mother smiled to see them; before seven she died very sweetly as she smiled.

When her little store of rice was done, the maid with the wooden bowl knew well enough that she must starve or go and find more. So first she tended her father’s and mother’s graves and poured water for the dead, as is meet, and recited many a holy text. Then she bound on her sandals, kilted her grey skirts to show her scarlet petticoat, tied her household gods in a blue printed handkerchief, and set out all alone to seek her fortunes, the brave girl!

For all her slenderness and pretty feet she was a rarely odd sight, and soon she was to know it. The great black bowl covered her head and shadowed her face. As she went through a village two women looked up from washing in the stream, stared and laughed.

“It’s a boggart come alive,” says one.

“Out upon her,” cries the other, “for a shameless wench! Out upon her false modesty to roam the country thus with her head in a black bowl, as who should cry aloud to every passing man, ‘Come and see what is hidden!’ It is enough to make a wholesome body sick.”

On went the poor maid, and sometimes the children pelted her with mud and pebbles for sport. Sometimes she was handled roughly by village louts, who scoffed and caught at her dress as she went; they even laid hands upon the bowl itself and sought to drag it from her head by force. But they only played at that game once, for the bowl stung them as fiercely as if it had been a nettle, and the bullies ran away howling.

The beggar-maiden might seek her fortune, but it was very hard to find. She might ask for work; but see, would she get it? None were wishful to employ a girl with a black bowl on her head.

At last, on a fine day when she was tired out, she sat her upon a stone and began to cry as if her heart would break. Down rolled her tears from under the black bowl. They rolled down her cheeks and reached her white chin.

A wandering ballad-singer passed that way, with his biwa slung across his back. He had a sharp eye and marked the tears upon the maid’s white chin. It was all he could see of her face, and, “Oh, girl with the black bowl on your head,” quoth he, “why do you sit weeping by the roadside?”

“I weep,” she answered, “because the world is hard. I am hungry and tired…. No one will give me work or pay me money.”

“Now that’s unfortunate,” said the ballad-singer, for he had a kind heart; “but I haven’t a rin of my own, or it would be yours. Indeed I am sorry for you. In the circumstances the best I can do for you is to make you a little song.” With that he whips his biwa round, thrums on it with his fingers and starts as easy as you please. “To the tears on your white chin,” he says, and sings:

“The white cherry blooms by the roadside,
How black is the canopy of cloud!
The wild cherry droops by the roadside,
Beware of the black canopy of cloud.
Hark, hear the rain, hear the rainfall
From the black canopy of cloud.
Alas, the wild cherry, its sweet flowers are marred,
Marred are the sweet flowers, forlorn on the spray!”

“Sir, I do not understand your song,” said the girl with the bowl on her head.

“Yet it is plain enough,” said the ballad-singer, and went his way. He came to the house of a passing rich farmer. In he went, and they asked him to sing before the master of the house.

“With all the will in the world,” says the ballad-singer. “I will sing him a new song that I have just made.” So he sang of the wild cherry and the great black cloud.

When he had made an end, “Tell us the interpretation of your song,” says the master of the house.

“With all the will in the world,” quoth the ballad-singer. “The wild cherry is the face of a maiden whom I saw sitting by the wayside. She wore a great black wooden bowl upon her head, which is the great black cloud in my song, and from under it her tears flowed like rain, for I saw the drops upon her white chin. And she said that she wept for hunger, and because no one would give her work nor pay her money.”

“Now I would I might help the poor girl with the bowl on her head,” said the master of the house.

“That you may if you wish,” quoth the ballad-singer. “She sits but a stone’s throw from your gate.”

The long and short of it was that the maid was put to labour in the rich farmer’s harvest-fields. All the day long she worked in the waving rice, with her grey skirts kilted and her sleeves bound back with cords. All day long she plied the sickle, and the sun shone down upon the black bowl; but she had food to eat and good rest at night, and was well content.

She found favour in her master’s eyes, and he kept her in the fields till all the harvest was gathered in. Then he took her into his house, where there was plenty for her to do, for his wife was but sickly. Now the maiden lived well and happily as a bird, and went singing about her labours. And every night she thanked the august gods for her good fortune. Still she wore the black bowl upon her head.

At the New Year time, “Bustle, bustle,” says the farmer’s wife; “scrub and cook and sew; put your best foot foremost, my dear, for we must have the house look at its very neatest.”

“To be sure, and with all my heart,” says the girl, and she put her back into the work; “but, mistress,” she says, “if I may be so bold as to ask, are we having a party, or what?”

“Indeed we are, and many of them,” says the farmer’s wife. “My son that is in Kioto, the great and gay, is coming home for a visit.”

Presently home he comes, the handsome young man. Then the neighbours were called in, and great was the merry-making. They feasted and they danced, they jested and they sang, many a bowl of good red rice they ate, and many a cup of good saké they drank. All this time the girl, with bowl on her head, plied her work modestly in the kitchen, and well out of the way she was–the farmer’s wife saw to that, good soul! All the same, one fine day the company called for more wine, and the wine was done, so the son of the house takes up the saké bottle and goes with it himself to the kitchen. What should he see there but the maiden sitting upon a pile of faggots, and fanning the kitchen fire with a split bamboo fan!

“My life, but I must see what is under that black bowl,” says the handsome young man to himself. And sure enough he made it his daily care, and peeped as much as he could, which was not very much; but seemingly it was enough for him, for he thought no more of Kioto, the great and gay, but stayed at home to do his courting.

His father laughed and his mother fretted, the neighbours held up their hands, all to no purpose.

“Oh, dear, dear maiden with the wooden bowl, she shall be my bride and no other. I must and will have her,” cried the impetuous young man, and very soon he fixed the wedding-day himself.

When the time came, the young maidens of the village went to array the bride. They dressed her in a fair and costly robe of white brocade, and in trailing hakama of scarlet silk, and on her shoulders they hung a cloak of blue and purple and gold. They chattered, but as for the bride she said never a word. She was sad because she brought her bridegroom nothing, and because his parents were sore at his choice of a beggar-maid. She said nothing, but the tears glistened on her white chin.

“Now off with the ugly old bowl,” cried the maidens; “it is time to dress the bride’s hair and to do it with golden combs.” So they laid hands to the bowl and would have lifted it away, but they could not move it.

“Try again,” they said, and tugged at it with all their might. But it would not stir.

“There’s witchcraft in it,” they said; “try a third time.” They tried a third time, and still the bowl stuck fast, but it gave out fearsome moans and cries.

“Ah! Let be, let be for pity’s sake,” said the poor bride, “for you make my head ache.”

They were forced to lead her as she was to the bridegroom’s presence.

“My dear, I am not afraid of the wooden bowl,” said the young man.

So they poured the saké from the silver flagon, and from the silver cup the two of them drank the mystic “Three Times Three” that made them man and wife.

Then the black bowl burst asunder with a loud noise, and fell to the ground in a thousand pieces. With it fell a shower of silver and gold, and pearls and rubies and emeralds, and every jewel of price. Great was the astonishment of the company as they gazed upon a dowry that for a princess would have been rich and rare.

But the bridegroom looked into the bride’s face. “My dear,” he said, “there are no jewels that shine like your eyes.”

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The Story of the Sun-Child

The tale tells of the Sun-child, born to a beautiful, hidden maiden loved by the Sun. Mocked by other boys for his unknown father, he learns of his divine parentage and sets out to meet the Sun. Despite warnings, he disobeys his father’s instructions, seeking “Monuia” from the Moon. His impatience leads him to unwrap the gift at sea, causing his tragic death as fish overwhelm him.

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

Prophecy and Fate: The Sun-child’s destiny is influenced by his divine parentage, leading him on a predetermined path to seek out his father.

Trials and Tribulations: The Sun-child faces challenges, including mockery from peers and the perilous journey to meet his father.

Tragic Flaw: The Sun-child’s impatience and disobedience lead to his untimely death, serving as a cautionary element in the tale.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Fijians

by the Lord of Naiau

In the old days there was a great chief in Tonga, whose name has not come down to us; and he had a daughter whose name also has not been told us by our fathers, so that we always speak of her as the Mother of the Sun-child (Jiji-matailaa).

Now this girl was beautiful exceedingly, and her father hid her from the eyes of men, so that none should look upon her; for he had never seen one whom he thought worthy to be her husband.

Down on the sea-beach he built a fence, thick and strong and high, and this was where the Mother of the Sun-child used to go down and bathe.

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Every day she bathed herself in the salt water, till she grew wondrous fair; and amongst all the daughters of men there was not one so beautiful as the Mother of the Sun-child. After bathing it was her custom to lie down for a time upon the clean white sand within the fence, that she might rest for a while, and that her body might be dry. So it came to pass that the Sun looked upon her, and saw her, and loved her; and in the course of time a child was born to her, whose name she called the Sun-child.

And the child grew up into a fine lad, comely and strong; proud, too, was he, and given to strike other children, like the son of a great chief. So one day, when all the town lads were playing together in the public square, some of them did something that was displeasing to the Sun-child, whereupon he beat them with a stick till his arm was weary and their bodies were sore.

Then the lads rose up against him, saying, “Who perchance, then, are you, child of the Sun? Why should you take upon yourself to beat us? We know who are our fathers; but you — you have no father: you are but a ‘child of the path,’ a bastard!”

Then was the boy eaten up by a devouring rage. Gladly would he have leaped upon them and killed them, but he could not stir, so great was his rage; his voice, too, was choked, and his eyes filled with angry tears.

Thus he stood, glaring upon them, till, with a sudden cry, he turned and fled away to his home. And seeing there his mother within the house, he rushed up to her, seizing her by the arm, and cried aloud, “What is this, mother, that the boys of the town have been saying to me? Who, then, is my father?” and, with a loud and bitter cry, he burst into a passion of tears.

“Hush, my son,” said his mother. “The boys of the town are liars. Let not your soul be small because of their words, for you are the child of a greater chief than they.”

“Who, then, is my father?” asked the lad once more, looking up with streaming eyes; and his mother laughed a scornful laugh as she answered.

“Who, then, are the boys of the town, that they should despise my son? They are the children of men, but you are the child of the Sun; he is your father.” And she told him all.

Then was the heart of the Sun-child glad within him, and, dashing away his tears, he cried: “I scorn them, these children of men! No more will I talk with them, or live with them. Good-bye, mother, for I am going to my father.” And, with a proud step, he went on his way, not even turning his head when his mother called after him; so she watched him going, till the forest hid him from her sight, and after that she saw him no more for ever.

For the lad went along through the dark wood till he came to where his canoe was lying on the beach, and there, sitting down, he made for himself a sail of magi-magi or sinnet, plaited out of coconut fibre, and, when the tide came in, he launched his canoe and sailed away to visit his father the Sun.

It was morning when he hoisted his sail and steered towards the east, where the sun was rising; but, as he sailed along, it rose higher and higher above his head; and he shouted aloud, but his father heard him not. Then he tacked, and stood over to the west, whither the sun was hastening; but, though the wind was fair, he was too late, and his father dived down beneath the waters before he could come near enough to speak with him; so that he was left alone in the midst of the sea.

Then he thought within himself: “It is in the east that my father climbs up out of the water. I will now go back and wait for him there.” So he tacked again, sailing all night towards the east, and when morning dawned he saw the Sun close to him, and shouted aloud, just as it was rising above the waves, “Father, father; here am I!”

“Who are you? “ asked the Sun, still climbing up into the sky.

“I am the Sun-child,” cried the lad. “You know me. I am your son, and my mother is left behind in Tonga. Stay but a little, my father, and talk with me.”

“I cannot stay,” said the Sun, still rising higher and higher, “for the children of earth have already seen my face, and how then can I stay to talk with you? If you had only been here a little earlier! Farewell, my son, for I must go.”

“Stay, my father,” cried the Sun-child. “It is easy, even though the children of earth have seen you. Hide but your face behind a cloud, and then you can come down to me here.”

Then the Sun laughed, and said, “Truly you are wise, my child; great is your wisdom, though you are but a boy.” So he called up a cloud, behind which he slipped down again to the sea, and there greeted his son, asking him about his mother, and telling him many useful things, which it would be well for us to know, but the knowledge whereof we have lost through this lad’s disobedience.

At last he told him that he could stay no longer. “And now, my son,” said he, “listen to my words. Stay about here till the night comes over the waters, and then you will see your aunt, the Moon, my sister. When she begins to rise out of the sea, call out to her and tell her to give you one of the two things which she has in keeping. One of them is called ‘Melaia,’ and the name of the other is ‘Monuia.’ Ask her for ‘Melaia,’ and she will give it to you. Remember now my words, and follow them, that it may be well with you; for know that evil will assuredly befall you if you are disobedient.”

So the Sun leaped up above the black cloud, and the world was glad, but the children of men said one to another —

“Surely the Sun is climbing up into the sky more slowly to-day than on other days;” and the Sun-child furled his sail, and, lying down in the folds thereof, slept till evening.

Then he woke up again and hoisted his sail, in readiness to hasten to the spot where he should first see the brightness of his aunt’s face, so that he was close upon the Moon before she could rise above the waters; and she cried, “Luff! Luff! child of the earth. Luff! or you will pierce my face with the sharp stem of your canoe,”

But the Sun-child kept his canoe away a little with the steering-oar, so that he almost touched the Moon’s face in passing; and then luffing suddenly into the wind, he shot up alongside of her, and caught her with a firm hold, saying, “I am no child of the earth. The child of your brother, the Sun, am L My name is the Sun-child, and you are my aunt.”

“Are you indeed the Sun-child?” asked the Moon in great surprise. “Truly this is a wonderful thing. But loosen your hold, my nephew, for you are pinching me.”

“Ah, but,” said the lad, “ if I let you go you will leave me; and then how am I to get that from you for which my father told me to ask?”

“Indeed I will not leave you, my nephew,” said the Moon with great earnestness. “Truly my heart is glad that you are come. Only let go your hold, for indeed it hurts.” So the Sun-child loosed his hold.

“But what was it,” continued the Moon, “ that your father told you to ask of me?”

Now the Sun-child had made up his mind not to act according to his father’s words; for indeed it was his custom to be disobedient — a high-spirited, headstrong boy was he — so he said —

“My father told me to ask for ‘ Monuia.’ “

“For ‘Monuia ‘!” cried his aunt. “’Monuia’! Do you not perhaps forget, my nephew, your father’s words? Was it not ‘Melaia’ that he told you to ask for?”

“Indeed it was not,” said the lad stoutly. “He told me that ‘Melaia’ was to stay with you, and that I should have ‘Monuia.’ “

“Truly that is strange,” said the Moon musingly. “Surely the Sun cannot hate the boy, and wish to kill him. Nevertheless I must obey his commands. You shall have ‘Monuia,’ my nephew. See, it is but a little thing. It is here wrapped up in this piece of cloth. Now I wrap it in another wrapper, and fasten it with this string, winding it many times around, so that it cannot come loose of itself. Take it, my nephew, and remember these my words: Loose not the string, neither unfold the wrapper while you are at sea; but hoist your sail at once, and steer for Tonga. When you have landed then look at ‘Monuia,’ but not before, or a great and terrible evil will befall you.

So she bade him farewell, and climbed up into the sky, whereupon all who were sailing in the midst of the waters shouted for joy, and said, “There is our friend, the Moon. It is only we who go sailing by that know how good she is.”

The girls also, and the boys in the towns, came running out of the houses, crying aloud, “Here is the Moon; come, let us dance together in the public square.” And the Sun-child hoisted his sail and steered away for Tonga.

All that night, and the next day, and the following night also went he sailing over the waters, till on the morning of the second day he saw the land. Then he could wait no longer, for the Sun-child was of a self-willed, impatient spirit; and so he lifted the parcel which his aunt had given him from the bottom of the canoe, and untied the string wherewith it was bound. Then he unrolled the cloth, fold after fold, till he held “Monuia” in his hand. It was a pearl shell, beautiful exceedingly; not white like the shells in our land, but of a shining red, such as had never been seen before, and the like whereof no man has since beheld; and his heart was glad as he thought how the boys of his town would envy him when they saw it hanging round his neck. But while he was thus gazing upon it he heard a great rushing and splashing over the waters, and, looking up, he saw a multitude of fishes swimming hastily towards him — great whales, and sharks, and porpoises, and dolphins, and turtle, and every other kind of fish — a vast multitude. And they leaped upon him in their eagerness to get at “Monuia,” so that in one moment his canoe sank beneath the waves, and the sharks tore him to pieces, so there was an end of the Sun-child.

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

Ai Kanaka: A Legend of Molokai

The tale of Mapulehu Valley tells of Kamalo, a priest seeking revenge against King Kupa for the wrongful murder of his sons. Guided by prophets and encountering trials, Kamalo ultimately appeals to Kauhuhu, the shark god. After strict preparations, Kamalo witnesses Kauhuhu’s wrath as a storm devastates the valley, sparing only Kamalo’s family. This legend explains the rainbow’s warning of storms over Mapulehu Valley.

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

► Themes of the story

Revenge and Justice: Kamalo seeks retribution against King Kupa for the unjust murder of his sons, highlighting the pursuit of justice.

Trials and Tribulations: Kamalo endures a series of challenges, including long journeys and consultations with various prophets, reflecting the hardships faced in his quest for vengeance.

Prophecy and Fate: Kamalo’s journey is guided by prophets who foretell the means to achieve his revenge, indicating the role of destiny in his actions.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hawaiians

by Rev. A.O. Forbes

On the leeward side of the island of Molokai, a little to the east of Kaluaaha lies the beautiful valley of Mapulehu, at the mouth of which is located the heiau, or temple, of Iliiliopae, which was erected by direction of Ku-pa, the Moi, to look directly out upon the harbor of Ai-Kanaka, now known as Pukoo. At the time of its construction, centuries ago, Kupa was the Moi, or sovereign, of the district embracing the Ahupuaas, or land divisions, of Mapulehu and Kaluaaha, and he had his residence in this heiau which was built by him and famed as the largest throughout the whole Hawaiian group. Kupa had a priest named Kamalo, who resided at Kaluaaha.

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This priest had two boys, embodiments of mischief, who one day while the King was absent on a fishing expedition, took the opportunity to visit his house at the heiau (temple). Finding there the pahu kaeke belonging to the temple, they commenced drumming on it. [“pahu kaeke” is a species of drum made out of a hollowed section of the trunk of a cocoanut tree and covered over one end with sharkskin. It was generally used in pairs, one larger than the other, somewhat after the idea of the bass and tenor drums of civilized nations. One of these drums was placed on either side of the performer, and the drumming was performed with both hands by tapping with the fingers. By peculiar variations of the drumming, known only to the initiated, the performer could drum out whatever he wished to express in such a way, it is alleged, as to be intelligible to initiated listeners without uttering a single syllable with the voice.]

Some evil-minded persons heard Kamalo’s boys drumming on the Kaeke and immediately went and told Kupa that the priest’s children were reviling him in the grossest manner on his own drum. This so enraged the King that he ordered his servants to put them to death. Forthwith they were seized and murdered; whereupon Kamalo, their father, set about to secure revenge on the King.

Taking with him a black pig as a present, he started forth to enlist the sympathy and services of the celebrated seer, or wizard, Lanikaula, living some twelve miles distant at the eastern end of Molokai. On the way thither, at the village of Honouli, Kamalo met a man the lower half of whose body had been bitten off by a shark, and who promised to avenge him provided he would slay some man and bring him the lower half of his body to replace his own. But Kamalo, putting no credence in such an offer, pressed on to the sacred grove of Lanikaula. Upon arrival there Lanikaula listened to his grievances but could do nothing for him. He directed him, however, to another prophet, named Kaneakama, at the west end of the island, forty miles distant. Poor Kamalo picked up his pig and travelled back again, past his own home, down the coast to Palaau. Meeting with Kaneakama the prophet directed him to the heiau of Puukahi, at the foot of the pali, or precipice, of Kalaupapa, on the windward side of the island, where he would find the priest Kahiwakaapuu, who was a kahu, or steward, of Kauhuhu, the shark god. Once more the poor man shouldered his pig, wended his way up the long ascent of the hills of Kalae to the pali of Kalaupapa, descending which he presented himself before Kahiwakaapuu, and pleaded his cause. He was again directed to go still farther along the windward side of the island till he should come to the Ana puhi (eel’s cave), a singular cavern at sea level in the bold cliffs between the valleys of Waikolu and Pelekunu, where Kauhuhu, the shark god, dwelt, and to him he must apply. Upon this away went Kamalo and his pig. Arriving at the cave, he found there Waka and Moo, two kahus of the shark god. “Keep off! Keep off!” they shouted. “This place is kapu. No man can enter here, on penalty of death.”

“Death or life,” answered he, “it is all the same to me if I can only gain my revenge for my poor boys who have been killed.” He then related his story, and his wanderings, adding that he had come to make his appeal to Kauhuhu and cared not for his own life.

“Well,” said they to him, “Kauhuhu is away now fishing, but if he finds you here when he returns, our lives as well as yours will pay the forfeit. However, we will see what we can do to help you. We must hide you hereabouts, somewhere, and when he returns trust to circumstances to accomplish your purpose.”

But they could find no place to hide him where he would be secure from the search of the god, except the rubbish pile where the offal and scrapings of taro were thrown. They therefore thrust him and his pig into the rubbish heap and covered them over with the taro peelings, enjoining him to keep perfectly still, and watch till he should see eight heavy breakers roll in successively from the sea. He then would know that Kauhuhu was returning from his fishing expedition.

Accordingly, after waiting a while, the eight heavy rollers appeared, breaking successively against the rocks; and sure enough, as the eighth dissolved into foam, the great shark god came ashore. Immediately assuming human form, he began snuffing about the place, and addressing Waka and Moo, his kahus, said to them, “There is a man here.” They strenuously denied the charge and protested against the possibility of their allowing such a desecration of the premises. But he was not satisfied. He insisted that there was a man somewhere about, saying, “I smell him, and if I find him you are dead men; if not, you escape.” He examined the premises over and over again, never suspecting the rubbish heap, and was about giving up the search when, unfortunately, Kamalo’s pig sent forth a squeal which revealed the poor fellow’s hiding-place.

Now came the dread moment. The enraged Kauhuhu seized Kamalo with both hands and, lifting him up with the intention of swallowing him, according to his shark instinct, had already inserted the victim’s head and shoulders into his mouth before he could speak.

“O Kauhuhu, before you eat me, hear my petition; then do as you like.”

“Well for you that you spoke as you did,” answered Kauhuhu, setting him down again on the ground. “Now, what have you to say? Be quick about it.”

Kamalo then rehearsed his grievances and his travels in search for revenge, and presented his pig to the god.

Compassion arose in the breast of Kauhuhu, and he said, “Had you come for any other purpose I would have eaten you, but as your cause is a sacred one I espouse it, and will revenge it on Kupa the King. You must, however, do all that I tell you. Return to the heiau of Puukahi, at the foot of the pali, and take the priest Kahiwakaapuu on your back, and carry him up the pali over to the other side of the island, all the way to your home at Kaluaaha. Erect a sacred fence all around your dwelling-place, and surround it with the sacred flags of white kapa. Collect black hogs by the lau (four hundred), red fish by the lau, white fowls by the lau, and bide my coming. Wait and watch till you see a small cloud the size of a man’s hand arise, white as snow, over the island of Lanai. That cloud will enlarge as it makes its way across the channel against the wind until it rests on the mountain peaks of Molokai back of Mapulehu Valley. Then a rainbow will span the valley from side to side, whereby you will know that I am there, and that your time of revenge has come. Go now, and remember that you are the only man who ever ventured into the sacred precincts of the great Kauhuhu and returned alive.”

Kamalo returned with a joyful heart and performed all that had been commanded him. He built the sacred fence around his dwelling; surrounded the inclosure with sacred flags of white kapa; gathered together black hogs, red fish, and white fowls, each by the lau, as directed, with other articles sacred to the gods, such as cocoanuts and white kapas, and then sat himself down to watch for the promised signs of his revenge. Day after day passed until they multiplied into weeks, and the weeks began to run into months.

Finally, one day, the promised sign appeared. The snow white speck of cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand, arose over the mountains of Lanai and made its way across the stormy channel in the face of the opposing gale, increasing as it came, until it settled in a majestic mass on the mountains at the head of Mapulehu Valley. Then appeared a splendid rainbow, proudly overarching the valley, its ends resting on the high lands on either side. The wind began to blow; the rain began to pour, and shortly a furious storm came down the doomed valley, filling its bed from side to side with a mad rushing torrent, which, sweeping everything before it, spread out upon the belt of lowlands at the mouth of the valley, overwhelming Kupa and all his people in one common ruin, and washing them all into the sea, where they were devoured by the sharks. All were destroyed except Kamalo and his family, who were safe within their sacred inclosure, which the flood dared not touch, though it spread terror and ruin on every side of them. Wherefore the harbor of Pukoo, where this terrible event occurred, was long known as Ai Kanaka (man eater), and it has passed into a proverb among the inhabitants of that region that “when the rainbow spans Mapulehu Valley, then look out for the Waiakoloa,”–a furious storm of rain and wind which sometimes comes suddenly down that valley.

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