Tag: 30. Cunning and Deception

Using wit or deceit to achieve goals

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 Bought Dream

Sarsembai, an orphan boy, embarks on a journey of resilience, kindness, and courage. From enduring harsh hardships to saving Altyn-kyz from a wicked witch, he triumphs against all odds. Along the way, his compassion for creatures earns him their loyalty. His bravery leads to love, family, and prosperity, fulfilling a dream he once purchased. Ultimately, Sarsembai’s selflessness transforms his fortune into abundance for his entire community.

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

Quest: Sarsembai embarks on a transformative journey, facing numerous challenges that lead to personal growth and fulfillment.

Cunning and Deception: Throughout his adventure, Sarsembai encounters situations requiring wit and cleverness to overcome obstacles and adversaries.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts values of kindness, resilience, and the rewards of compassion and bravery.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Kazakh people

Retold by Evgenia Malyug
Translated by Olga Shartse

Sarsembai was an orphan. Both his father and mother were dead, and the boy had to earn his own bread. The local bei hired him as a shepherd boy, and promised to give him a lame sheep for his work when autumn came. It wasn’t much, but it was something anyway. And so Sarsembai tended the flock, ate the master’s leftovers, and waited for autumn to come.

“Come autumn, I’ll be given that lame sheep for my own and then at last I’ll find out what mutton tastes like,” dreamed the boy.

One day he was driving the flock to another pasture when suddenly a wolf sprang out from behind a bush, and said:

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“Give me a sheep. Just one. If you don’t, I’ll kill ten.”

“How can I give you a sheep? This flock isn’t mine. The master will kill me if there’s one sheep missing.”

The wolf thought for a minute, and then said:

“I’m terribly hungry. Go to your master and ask him to give me a sheep.”

Sarsembai went to his master and told him everything. The bei reasoned that ten sheep were more than one sheep, and one sheep cost less than ten. And so he told Sarsembai:

“Let him take one sheep. Only he must not choose. Blindfold him, and the sheep he grabs he can take.”

Sarsembai did as his master told him. The blindfolded wolf rushed into the thick of the flock, grabbed one sheep with his teeth. There is a saying: a stick thrown into the desert will anyway find some poor wretch to hit. And, true enough, it was Sarsembai’s promised lame sheep that the wolf grabbed. The boy burst into tears. The wolf felt sorry for him and said:

“It’s too bad, but that’s the kind of luck you have. Look, Ill leave you the sheep’s hide, so you can sell it to someone and make a little money.”

Sarsembai picked up the sheep’s hide from the ground, flung it over his shoulder, and drove on the flock.

Down the hill came the bei on a red pacer. Standing up on his stirrups he started counting the sheep. They were all there except for the lame sheep he had promised Sarsembai. Behind the flock came Sarsembai with a shepherd’s crook in his hand, a sheep’s hide flung over his shoulder, and tears pouring down his face.

The bei gave such a roar of laughter that his startled pacer lurched on his feet.

“Some shepherd I have! You couldn’t even watch your one sheep! You’ll lose my whole flock like that. Get out of my sight!”

And poor Sarsembai trudged across the steppe, following the shadow cast by his shepherd’s crook.

After some time he came to a strange town, and there found the bazaar. He hung about in the crowd for hours, but no one wanted to buy his sheep’s hide. It was late in the evening when at last he managed to sell it to someone for three coins.

“For the three coins I’ll buy three flat cakes, and they’ll last me three days. After that, come what may.”

He made for the bread stalls, but on the way he came upon a sick old man who was begging alms. Sarsembai gave him one coin, which left him with only two.

The old beggar nodded his thanks, then he bent down, scooped up some sand and held it out to the boy.

“Take this for your kindness,” he said.

Sarsembai thought the old beggar was not all there, but he did not want to hurt his feelings and so accepted the sand and poured it into his pocket.

Night fell. It grew quite dark. Sarsembai went to the caravanserai and asked the owner to let him stay the night. The owner would not let him stay for free, and demanded payment. And so Sarsembai had to give him one of his two remaining coins.

The owner laid down carpets and felts for his lodgers to sleep on, but as for Sarsembai, he told him to lie down on the bare ground. The ground was cold and hard, Sarsembai was hungry, and when he did fall asleep he had bad dreams.

At daybreak the caravanserai came awake, the merchants who had stayed the night started loading their bags of goods on to their camels out in the yard, and Sarsembai heard them talking as they moved about their business.

“I had a wonderful dream,” one of the merchants said. “I dreamt that I was lying like a khan on a gorgeous divan, the bright sun was leaning over me, and a young silver moon was playing on my chest.”

Sarsembal went up to the merchant and said:

“I’ve never had a good dream in my whole life. Please, sell me your dream, and let it be mine.”

“Sell my dream?” the merchant asked, laughing. “Very well. What will you pay me?”

“I have one coin. Here it is.”

“Hand it over!” cried the merchant. “My dream is yours now, little fellow.”

The merchant roared with laughter, and everyone who had watched the scene joined in. And Sarsembai, delighted with his purchase, left the caravanserai, hopping as he went.

Sarsembai walked near and far, he came to many villages, but nowhere was there work for him, no one offered him shelter or a bowl of soup.

Winter came. One dark, cold night Sarsembai was plodding across the steppe, blowing on his frozen fingers. He swayed like a reed in the vicious wind, and the blizzard made him go round in circles. Sarsembai was crying, and his tears froze on his cheeks. Too weak to go on, he fell on a snowdrift and cried in despair:

“Better fall prey to the wolves than suffer this misery any longer!”

The moment he had spoken those words, a huge wolf appeared from the darkness, his eyes burning and the fur bristling on his neck.

“Some food at last!” he wailed. “Won’t my cubs be happy!”

“Kill me, wolf. Let your cubs be happy,” Sarsembai said in a weak voice. “I’d rather die than live…”

The wolf made no move. He stood peering at the boy, and then he said: |

“Is it you, Sarsembai, who once let me take a sheep? I’ve recognised you. Don’t be afraid, I shan’t touch you, and maybe I’ll save your life too. Climb on to my back and hold tight!”

Sarsembai climbed on to the wolf’s back, and the wolf carried him across the snow-drifted steppe. He brought him to the edge of a dense forest and said:

“See that little light, Sarsembai? It’s a bonfire. A band of robbers had been camping there. They have now ridden on their way and won’t be back soon. Go and warm yourself at their fire. And perhaps it won’t be so cold tomorrow… Goodbye!”

The wolf vanished, and Sarsembai ran to the fire. He warmed himself and even appeased his: hunger a little by gnawing the bones the robbers had left on the ground near the fire. He felt so happy that he could sing. It doesn’t take much to cheer up a poor beggar, does it?

The sky paled, and the fire went out. When the coals had turned black, Sarsembai thrust his hands into the warm cinders. It was lovely and warm! And as he pushed his hands deeper and deeper, his fingers came upon some hard object. Sarsembai pulled it out and gasped! It was a golden casket. His heart hammered excitedly.

He raised the lid, and in that very moment the first sunray fell right on it. Sarsembai cried out and shut his dazzled eyes: the casket was filled with diamonds!

He clutched his treasure to his chest and ran into the forest as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Oh, to reach people quickly!” he was thinking. “I’ll live like a bei now! These riches will be enough for a hundred people.”

The forest was growing denser and denser. It was a creepy place, and Sarsembai was afraid he’d never find his way out of the impenetrable thickets.

“What am I going to do with my treasures in this dark, terrible forest?” .

Suddenly, the pale sky showed between the trees, and Sarsembai came out of the forest into a wide glade. In the middle of the glade, near a stream that never froze, stood a handsome yurt covered with white felts.

“What kind of people live here, I wonder?” Sarsembai was thinking. “Will they be good or mean to a ragged beggar boy?”

He hid his casket in the hollow of an ancient oak tree, and went into the yurt.

“Good morming,” he said.

A fire was burning in the yurt, and crouching before it sat a little girl, deep in thought. At the sound of the stranger’s voice she sprang up and stared at Sarsembai in fright and amazement.

“Who are you, what brings you here?” the girl asked at last.

Sarsembai gazed at the girl and could not utter a word, for he had never seen anyone so beautiful, a lovely princess only the bards sing of in their legends. But her eyes were sad, her pretty face was whiter than snow: some terrible grief must have befallen her.

Sarsembai pulled himself together and told her:

“I am Sarsembai, an orphan. I’ve been wandering about the land in search of work, food and a roof over my head, but I lost my way in the forest and happened upon this yurt. And who are you?”

The girl stepped close to him and, trembling all over, spoke:

“My name is Altyn-kyz, and there isn’t an unhappier girl in the whole world. But why should you worry about me, Sarsembai, when you yourself are in terrible danger… Run for your life from here, run if you can find your way out of this horrible forest. Do you know where your misfortune has brought you? This is the yurt of the bloodthirsty Zhalmawiz-Kempir. She’ll be back any minute. You won’t have a chance… Run then, before it’s too late!”

A loud thudding, crackling and snapping came from outside. The little girl turned paler still.

“It is too late!” she whispered in horror and, grabbing Sarsembai by the hand, pulled him away from the hearth and hid him under some felts.

Through a slit between the felts Sarsembai saw the door flung wide open and the frightening Zhalmawiz-Kempir stomping into the yurt. This monster of a witch had thick red lips, a beak of a nose, and fangs like a she-wolf. She swept the yurt with her mean little purblind eyes, squatted in front of the fire and stretched her bony black fingers to the flames. She sat like that for some time, wheezing heavily, while the little girl stood out of her reach, numbed by fear.

When the witch had warmed her bones enough, she snarled:

“Altyn-kyz, come here.”

Trembling like a leaf, the little girl made a small step and stopped, but the old witch grabbed her with her claw-like fingers and drew her close.

Altyn-kyz moaned with pain. Sarsembai clenched his fists and would have pounced on the mean old witch, but just then she pushed the girl away and screamed at her:

“Nasty brat! Growing paler and skinnier with every day! Don’t you know what I’m keeping you in my yurt for? I should have eaten you long ago, but I keep putting it off, waiting for you to come to your senses and start putting on flesh. Mark my words: if when I return tomorrow I find you as skinny as you are now, I’ll fry you alive on this fire here!”

The old witch flopped on her bed and started snoring. Poor Altyn-kyz cried all night long, crouching in front of the fire.

In the morning, the witch repeated her threat to the girl, took her crook and left the yurt. There was a great noise outside, a thudding, crackling and snapping, and then with the witch’s departure everything grew quiet again.

Sarsembai crawled out from under the felts and asked the girl to tell him how she had fallen into the clutches of the witch.

“I lived in my home village with my father and mother in happiness and in plenty,” Altyn-kyz began. “Once, my parents went away to visit friends, and my father said to me in parting: ‘Be a good girl, Altyn-kyz, don’t go outside and don’t let any strangers in.’ It was dull staying indoors all by myself, and so I went outside. A crowd of my girl-friends were off to the steppe to pick flowers, and they asked me to come with them. And I did go, stupid me. There I was picking flowers when a very old woman came towards me, leaning on her crook. ‘My, what a lovely girl, my, what a beauty!’ she said to me. ‘Is your home far?’ And I replied: ‘No, it’s very near, there’s our yurt over there.’ And she said: ‘Take me home with you and give me a drink of fresh water, child.’ I didn’t think there was anything wrong, and so I took her home and gave her some water. But she just sat there, gazing and gazing at me. ‘My, what a lovely girl, my, what a beauty! Come, let me comb your hair for you.’ I laid my head on her knee, she took out a golden comb and started combing out my hair. And all of a sudden I felt so sleepy. I closed my eyes and fell fast asleep. I don’t know how long I slept, only I came awake in this yurt. It was many days ago. Since then I haven’t seen anyone except this Zhalmawiz-Kempir, my torturer. And every day I think is my last.”

When she had finished her story, she again implored Sarsembai to escape while the going was good, begging him with tears.

But Sarsembai only smiled gently in response, then he put his arms round Altyn-kyz like a big brother, and said:

“I’ll never abandon you, Altyn-kyz. We shall run away together.”

“Oh, thank.you, Sarsembai, for your kind words, but it is not to be. If we run away, Zhalmawiz-Kempir will overtake us, and if she doesn’t overtake us we’ll die anyway, freezing to death in the snow.”

“We’ll wait till spring and then run away…” said Sarsembai.

Altyn-kyz sighed sadly. “The brave are often reckless,” she said. “You must have forgotten that I’m to be fried alive today.”

“No, Altyn-kyz, you won’t be!” the boy cried hotly. “I’ve thought it all out. The witch may be cunning, but we’ll try to outwit her. It’s dark inside the yurt, Ill put on your dress and let the witch feel me instead of you. I’m bigger and fatter than you. Maybe she’ll be taken in, and we’ll survive until it gets warmer.”

Altyn-kyz would not hear of the risk which Sarsembai wanted to run for her, but he stood his ground.

“If you don’t listen to reason, I’ll attack the old witch this very evening and be the first of us to die when she sinks her sharp fangs into me!” he told Altyn-kyz.

She had to give in then. They changed clothes, Altyn- kyz hid under the felts, and Sarsembai sat down in front of the hearth in her usual place.

Again there was a great noise outside—a thudding, a crackling, and a snapping—and the red-lipped monster stomped into the yurt.

She warmed her hands at the fire, and then snarled:

“Altyn-kyz, come here.”

Sarsembai stepped forward bravely. She looked him up and down with her mean little purblind eyes, and mumbled:

“You do seem to have grown a bit.”

She felt him all over, pinched him, and said with a nasty snicker:

“Aren’t you a sly thing! I’ve long guessed that you were making a fool of me. I only had to give you a proper scare, for you to change at once. Oh well, if that’s how it is, you can live a little longer, fattening up…”

Time flowed on—days and nights full of fear for the boy and girl.

Spring came at last. The stream began to babble merrily, the birds began to twitter, and the flowers to open out.

“Dear Altyn-kyz, we must get ready to run,” Sarsembai said to the girl. “I’ve noticed that the witch has grown fiercer than ever: could she have guessed that you’re planning to escape? If she finds out about me, then it’ll be the end for both of us. I’ll make a bow and arrow, go into the forest, bag game enough to last us the journey, I’ll return in three days’ time and then we’ll run away.”

“Do what you think best, Sarsembai, you know best,” Altyn-kyz replied with tears in her eyes. “Only be careful, and come back safe and sound.”

“Don’t cry, Altyn-kyz, don’t worry about me,” Sarsembai said to her. “When you feel lonely, go to the stream and look at the water: if you see goose feathers floating along then you’ll know that all’s well with me and I am sending you my greetings from afar.”

Altyn-kyz walked with him a little way, and then hurried back in case the witch returmed before her usual time and found the yurt empty.

Sarsembai followed the stream, going farther and farther away.

That first day he shot three wild geese. He plucked them and sent the feathers floating along the stream. The second day he shot three wild geese again, and sent the feathers floating on the water.

On the third day he saw a baby deer standing in the middle of a glade with a flock of black ravens hovering over him with a noisy flapping of wings and a greedy croaking. The ravens wanted to pluck out the poor thing’s eyes. Sarsembai shooed away the ravens, frightening them off. And here the father deer came loping across the glade.

“Thank you, Sarsembai,” he said to the boy. “I’ll also do you a good turn one day.”

Sarsembai went on, and suddenly he heard a piteous bleating, and guessed that it came from a hole in the ground. He looked down, and there was a little lamb, bleating, thrashing about and vainly trying to climb out.

Sarsembai pulled out the poor thing, and there the old father ram came running.

“Thank you, Sarsembai,” he said. “I’ll also do you a good turn one day.”

On went Sarsembai. Suddenly he heard a tiny squeak almost under his feet. It was an eagle chick that had fallen out of the nest. The boy felt sorry for the poor thing, picked it up and put it back in the nest.

Here, the old father eagle flew down to him.

“Thank you, Sarsembai. I’ll also do you a good turn one day,” he told the boy.

That day Sarsembai did not bag any game, and the sun was already setting. His heart sank as he remembered that he had not thrown a single feather on the water yet, and what poor Altyn-kyz must be thinking. He turned and ran back to the witch’s yurt as fast as he could.

Altyn-kyz, missing him sorely and feeling very lonely, had been going to the stream every day, hurrying there as soon as the witch left on her business. She’d see the goose feathers floating on the water, and smile, knowing that all was well with Sarsembai.

On the third day, she came to the stream and there were no feathers floating on the water. Altyn-kyz stood there gazing at the stream and waiting for an hour, another hour, and yet another hour, and still there was not a feather to see. She fell down on the ground, covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

“Sarsembai is no more! I’d have died a thousand deaths only so that he’d live and be happy… And now he’s dead, kind, brave, Sarsembai!”

She was sobbing her heart out, too overcome with grief to see that Zhalmawiz-Kempir was stealing up to her, shaking with rage. The old witch grabbed the girl by the shoulders and dragged her to the yurt.

“You thought you’d play a trick on me, did you!” she snarled. “I’ve found you out now. Run away, would you? You found someone to help you, did you! Forget it, girl: you won’t get away from me and no one will rescue you. Your end has come. I’ll eat you alive with my bare teeth!”

Suddenly, the door was thrown wide, and on the threshold stood Sarsembai. Altyn-kyz threw her arms round his neck, but the old witch still held her fast in her clutches.

“Listen, Zhalmawiz-Kempir,” shouted Sarsembai. “If you let Altyn-kyz go I’ll pay you a rich ransom for her.”

“A ransom? What ransom can you give me, you ragged beggar?”

Sarsembai fetched the casket from the hollow in the ancient oak, and raised the lid for the old witch to see. The sight of the diamonds made her howl from greed, her hands itched to seize them and she slackened her hold on the girl.

“Take her, take the girl, and hand over your stones!”

But Sarsembai was no simpleton, and he was not going to put the casket into the old witch’s hands.

“Here are the stones, pick them up, old witch!” he said, and scattered the diamonds all over the floor. As they rolled this way and that they sparkled like stars. Zhalmawiz-Kempir dropped down on all fours and started picking them up, and Sarsembai, taking his chance, caught Altyn-kyz’s hand and together they dashed out of the yurt.

They ran across the meadow, then they ran through the forest, afraid to pause for breath or look back. The branches whipped their faces, the dry twigs scratched them, and great old tree roots blocked their path. Altyn-kyz was at her last gasp, her poor feet were blistered and wounded by the stones and prickles, her braids had got undone, and sweat poured down her face.

Suddenly they heard a seas noise behind them: trees turned out by the root, the earth quaking. Zhalmawiz- Kempir hard in pursuit.

“We must run faster, Altyn-kyz,” Sarsembai begged her. “Our legs are our only hope.”

“I can’t go on, Sarsembai,” Altyn-kyz pleaded. “I feel dizzy, my knees are giving way. Go on without me. While Zhalmawiz-Kempir is eating me you’ll go a long way to safety…”

“What are you saying, Altyn-kyz! I’ll never abandon you. You’re all I have in the world.”

So on they ran together. And Zhalmawiz-Kempir was already gaining on them. They could already hear her voice, cursing them and threatening: “I’ll catch you anyway! Ill eat you alive anyway!”

Altyn-kyz’s legs gave way, she could hardly breathe and whispered:

“Goodbye, Sarsembai… Leave me, save your own life… There’s no help for me now…”

Sarsembai burst into tears.

“No, if we must die, we’ll die together.”

He picked up Altyn-kyz, hoisted her on his back, and ran on, gasping painfully.

Suddenly the old father deer appeared before them, and said:

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sarsembai. Climb on to my back and clutch my neck: the old witch will never outrun me.”

In minutes he brought them to a tall mountain and said:

“Zhalmawiz-Kempir won’t find you here.”

The children sat down on the ground, close to one another, but before they could get their breath back they saw the old witch coming straight at them, howling and shrieking, and raising great clouds of dust.

Sarsembai jumped to his feet, shielded Altyn-kyz with his body, picked up a sharp stone and prepared to fight for their lives.

And here the old father ram suddenly appeared from nowhere, and said:

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sarsembai. Get on my back, children, take hold of my horns, and I’ll take you out of the old witch’s reach.”

When Zhalmawiz-Kempir got to the mountain, the boy and the girl were already on the very top. Enraged, the old witch started gnawing at the mountain with her teeth and scraping at it with her claws. The mountain began to sway, and in a moment it would collapse.

And here the old father eagle came flying down to the children, and said:

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sarsembai. Quickly, climb on to my wings, and I’ll take you to safety.”

The children jumped on to his wings, and just as the eagle took off the mountain collapsed and buried the cruel witch under.

The eagle flew all that day and all that night. He flew under the clouds and above the clouds. At last he alighted in the middle of the steppe near a village.

Altyn-kyz stepped down, looked about her and cried in delight:

“Why, it’s my own home village!”

Her father and mother came running out of their yurt, they hugged and kissed their little daughter, asking her anxiously all the time:

“Where have you been, Altyn-kyz? Who had carried you off? Whom must we thank for your rescue?”

Altyn-kyz told them the whole story, and pointed to Sarsembai:

“This is my rescuer!”

Sarsembai was too embarrassed to raise his eyes. He stood before Altyn-kyz’s parents, a beggar boy in dirty rags, barefoot, and covered with scratches.

The parents took him by the arms, brought him into their yurt, made him change into good clothes, and seated him in the place of honour.

“Stay with us, dear Sarsembai, stay with us for good. We shall cherish you like a child and esteem you like a white-bearded sage.”

Sarsembai stayed in the village, and he and Altyn-kyz were always together. They shared everything—work, leisure, joys and sorrows. Years passed. In the whole steppe there was no djigit braver and worthier than Sarsembai, and in the whole world there was no girl lovelier and sweeter than Altyn-kyz. When they came of age, they married and became happier still. In time, a child was born to them, it was a son—the father’s pride, and the mother’s delight.

One day his work done, Sarsembai was lying on the fragrant steppe grass, beside him sat Altyn-kyz, and their baby son was playing on his chest. Sarsembai laughed happily and sald:

“My old dream has come true, the dream I once bought for a coin from a merchant at the caravanserai. People, come and look: here I’m lying on a gorgeous divan—the sacred soil of my motherland, the bright sun is smiling at me—that’s you, my beloved Altyn-kyz, and the young moon is playing on my chest, that’s our darling son, our firstborn… There isn’t a khan who wouldn’t envy me at this moment!”

Remembering his miserable childhood, Sarsembai said he’d like to take another look at the rags in which he left the bei, went wandering about the land, and met his Altyn-kyz in the yurt of the bloodthirsty old witch. His wife brought him the small, tattered coat. Sarsembai took it in his hands, and sighed: there was no counting the holes and the patches on it. There was a pocket too, and it wasn’t empty… There was something in it, but what? He thrust his hand in and felt sand. Now, he remembered the old beggar at the bazzar giving him that sand-in gratitude for his coin, and with a sigh he scattered the sand on the wind. The wind picked up the light grains of sand and strewed them over the steppe. And instantly all over the boundless steppe there appeared countless herds of cattle and horses, and flocks of sheep: the grains of sand turned into powerful camels, mettlesome horses, milch cows and fat sheep.

The villagers poured out of doors, exclaiming in wonder: “Whose herds are they? Whose fabulous riches are these?” And Sarsembai replied:

“They belong to you and me, to all of us.”

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

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.

► Continue reading…

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

Yarty-Gulok

This tale recounts the adventures of Yarty-gulok, a clever boy no bigger than half a camel’s ear. Born from a camel’s ear, he brings joy to his adoptive parents and aids a young man in love by outsmarting a greedy moneylender. Through wit and courage, Yarty removes the village’s troubles and ensures justice, concluding with a joyous wedding celebration for the young couple.

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: Yarty-Gulok employs his wit to outsmart the greedy moneylender, showcasing cleverness in overcoming adversaries.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts values of justice and the triumph of cleverness over greed, teaching ethical lessons through Yarty-Gulok’s actions.

Cultural Heroes: Yarty-Gulok emerges as a foundational figure who alleviates his village’s troubles, embodying the qualities of a cultural hero in Turkmen lore.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Turkmen people

Retold by Anna Alexandrova
and Mikhail Tuberovsky
Translated by Olga Shartse

Maybe this really did happen, or maybe it did not, but the story goes that an old man was riding across the sands, white-hot from the sun. He was riding a donkey and leading a camel. The old man had been working at the flour mill since before daybreak, and was very tired. The camel had the heavy bags to carry and felt tired too. As for the donkey, he felt tired because he had the old man sitting on his back. The old man was riding along and singing a song. He sang of whatever was uppermost in his mind:

Now, if I had a son,
If only a wee little boy,
With a face like a poppy,
A nature like the smiling sun,
And like a bee industrious,
I’d be a happy man…

► Continue reading…

Suddenly he heard someone calling him:

“Hey, ata-djan, dear father! If you have no son, take me!”

Astonished, the old man stopped and peered at the ground around him, but all he saw were the ordinary dry prickly clumps.

Again he heard the same voice:

“If you want to see the eagle don’t look at the ground!’

The old man then gazed into the sky, but there was nothing there to see.

“Hey, ata-djan, does anyone look for a snow leopard in the clouds?”

The old man cried:

“Stop hiding! Come out imw the open this minute

He could not wait to see his long-awaited son. And suddenly there he was, peeping out of the camel’s ear! The tiny little boy said in a thin little voice:

“I’m here! Can’t you see me? Do please help me out of this narrow opening.”

The old man took the boy out of the camel’s ear and sat him on the palm of his hand. My, what a wee little boy he was! Like all Turkmenian boys he had his head shaved. in front, and the back hair been plaited into two tight little braids that stuck out behind his ears.

“What’s your name?” the old man asked. “I swear you’re no bigger than half a camel’s ear!”

The boy glanced at him and laughed:

“That’s a name for me! I like it.”

And the old man called him Yarty-gulok which means “half an ear”.

Yarty-gulok jumped to his feet and yelled like a proper driver at the sleepy donkey:

“Io, io, get a move on! Take us home quickly before my mother’s pilau gets overdone!”

The donkey shook his ears, and started homeward.

In the meantime I’ll tell you about the old woman.

She was sitting on a white felt in the middle of her yard weaving a carpet. As she tied the wool into little knots she brooded on her sorrow. And when a person has some sorrow to brood on he either weeps or sings. And the old woman sang:

Now, if I had a son,
If only a wee little boy,
I’d weave a carpet for him,
In red, the colour of carnations,
In yellow, like the setting sun,
In dark blue, like the sky at night…

She glanced out at the road and saw her old man galloping on his donkey straight for their house, with the old camel running behind, hardly able to keep up.

“Hey, mother!” the old man shouted. “Happiness comes both to the young and the old! Fate has smiled upon us and sent us a small son.”

Yarty was sitting between the camel’s ears and looking curiously at his parents.

The old woman cradled the wee boy in her warm hands and whispered endearments to him, calling him her darling little apple, or a baby camel.

Later that evening, she called on all her neighbour women and asked them to come and help her cook a feast. The best of everything was served: a huge pot of pilau, a mountain of rich flat cakes, and a wooden platter full of currants and slices of sweet musk melons.

The women stayed far into the night, singing songs to the accompaniment of a dutar. They sewed as they sang, and made three tiny coats for Yarty-gulok, a fur cap and a pair of leather hose. They dressed up the boy, made him turn round this way and that to see how he looked, clapped their hands in delight and laughed.

“Now he’s a proper djigit!”

Yarty-gulok bowed to his parents and said:

“Thank you for your kindness. Now it’s my turn to help you and people here.”

That’s what he said. Now let’s see what he did.

* * *

One day he was walking home from the neighbouring village. It was a long road for someone so small, and he was very tired.

A horse was nibbling the dry grass on the edge of the road, and its rider—a young, handsome djigit—stood beside it, pulling straight the saddle on its back. Yarty- gulok said to himself: “It can’t be much fun riding all alone, can it? And two can ride that horse just as well as one.

He ran to the horse, caught its tail and climbed up to sit on its back. The djigit did not see him. He leapt into the saddle, gave the reins a tug and the horse its head. My, how he flew! Yarty, sitting behind the djigit, all but jumped for joy. “I’ll be home soon, spooning porridge too!” thought the hungry boy, and suddenly it struck him that his rider was making straight for the desert and had not taken the road leading to the village.

“Hey, hey,” shouted Yarty. “Are you crazy? Where are you going? You’ll lose your way in the sands and perish, and I’ll perish with you!”

“Who’s that squeaking behind me?” said the startled djigit, and reined in the horse at full gallop. Turning round, he saw Yarty-gulok.

“Yes, it’s I, Yarty,” the little boy told him. “But why are you heading for the desert? Instead of galloping senselessly about the sands, you’d much better take me home.”

“No, Yarty, I can’t do that,” the djigit replied sadly. “I’ve sworn an oath not to see anyone before I’ve carried my trouble away into the desert.”

“How big is your trouble?” asked Yarty.

“It’s so big that I can’t find enough words to describe it,” replied the djigit.

“Look, if you’re in trouble you must shout, and not keep quiet about it, because just supposing I can help you?”

“Oh no, no one can help me,” the djigit said. “I love Gul-Asal better than I love life, but I’m poor, and her master is the richest man in the village. He’s mean and hard, he’ll never let his servant go, and will never consent to our marriage.” All at once, the djigit flared up: “Get off my horse this minute, and be on your way. And leave me alone with my trouble.”

But Yarty did not so much as stir. He merely shook his head and said:

“My, you’re such a big man, but where’s your big heart? You worry only about your own trouble, but don’t your good neighbours have any troubles at all?”

“In our village there’s trouble enough for everyone,” replied the djigit.

“Then collect all their troubles from everyone!” cried Yarty. “Load those troubles on to seven camels and take them so far away that they’ll never find their way back to the village.”

“Id gladly do that, but I haven’t the strength.”

“Who, you?” Yarty gave a peel of laughter. ‘Why, your chest is as broad as a snow leopard’s, and your hands are stronger than iron!”

At this, the djigit quite lost his temper.

“Get off my horse at once, and don’t teach others if you can’t do anything yourself!”

“Can’t I? Just watch me. Turn the horse round, and ride back to the village. We’ll collect all the troubles there are.”

They rode back to the village. Yarty had never seen such a poverty-stricken village.

They stopped at the first gate they came to. A very, very old woman, her back bent from her burden of years and troubles, told them:

“Great is my trouble, and it comes from behind that tall white-washed wall.”

A small boy came out from another yard. He looked about him to make sure that no one was listening, and whispered:

“My father says that all our troubles come from there,” and he pointed at the same white-washed wall.

Men were shouting and women were weeping in the next yard.

“Someone must have fallen ill or died in this house,” Yarty said anxiously.

“No,” replied the djigit. “Can’t you see that men are carrying everything out of that poor house and taking it to the same place behind that tall white-washed wall?”

“But who lives there? A ferocious tiger or a terrible dragon?” asked the bewildered boy.

“The man who lives there is fiercer than a tiger and more merciless than a dragon,” the djigit told Yarty. “His name is Kara-Bek, he is a money lender. Like a greedy spider he has spun his web round all the villagers and is sucking their blood. He ruins everyone! He has ruined my life too. Because my love, Gul-Asal, is his servant girl!”

“Then let’s go quickly to that shaitan!” cried Yarty. “My hands are itching to get even with him!”

“Kara-Bek won’t let us in,” the djigit said. “Can’t you see how securely his gates are locked, and how sharp those thongs stuck into the wall? His servants and savage dogs watch the house day and night. Not even a bird could fly in, not even a weasel could sneak in. So what chance does a man have?”

Yarty was not put out in the least.

“And my father told me time and again that a man who runs away from a fight might as well be dead and buried,” he said. “Let’s not be cowards, let’s ride quickly to that greedy miser!”

Early every morning Kara-Bek went down to his cellars where chests packed with gold stood in rows. He would light an oil lamp and count over his gold coins. Nothing gladdened the old miser so much—not the singing of birds, not the babbling of brooks, not the brilliant sunlight on a day in spring. Nothing touched his hard heart—neither tears, nor pleas. All he worried about from morning to night was how to get more money and fill more chests with gold.

On this particular day, he filled his hundredth bag with gold coins, placed it in his hundredth chest, and locked it with seven locks. In that dead silence a faint rustling startled him: he turned round and saw a tiny mouse peeping out of a hole.

“Hey, you,” the mouse piped in a small squeak. “Don’t bother to lock up your coins any more. Your wealth has become worthless since that golden rainfall in the desert.”

Angrily, the old miser hurled his slipper at the mouse, who vanished at once.

And now a spider climbed down from the ceiling on a long thread he had spun, and twitching his legs, whispered:

“You shouldn’t have hurt that small mouse. He told you the truth. Now that a gold rain has fallen in the sands, everyone can go to the Kara-Kum desert and shovel gold coins into his bag.”

“It’s a lie, you’re both lying!” wheezed the old miser. “No one can ever collect more gold coins than I have in these chests here!”

“Ha-ha-ha!” snickered a large black cockroach, as he crawled about the wall. “The poorest beggar in the village will soon have more gold than you, Kara-Bek!”

“You want to drive me out of my mind!” moaned the miser.

“Not at all,” squeaked the small mouse again, poking his head out of the hole. “We simply wanted to warn you for old friendship’s sake. Don’t waste time. Ride quickly to the desert and fill your bags with gold before others can get there.”

“Do that,” whispered the spider. “Fill your bags with gold coins, take them to lands far away and sell them there for three times the cost.”

“You’ll be the richest man here, the richest man again,” snickered the cockroach.

“Oh my, oh my, who’s going to take me to the desert?” wailed the old miser. “I was so thrifty all my life that I kept neither a camel, nor a horse, nor a donkey to ride!”

“Then it’s too bad, too bad for you,” squeaked the small mouse. “Then you’ll never get to the desert.”

“And you’ll miss all that gold!” whispered the spider.

“The poor beggars will rake in all those gold coins and leave nothing for you,” snickered the cockroach.

“Oh no, they won’t!” roared the old miser. “I’ll get there first, and all the gold will be mine!”

He rushed out of the house and was about to call his servants when he thought better of it. If his servants found out about the gold rain, they’d reach the desert first and collect the coins before he got there.

And so, he stole outside very cautiously, and to his great joy saw a man on horseback, a local young man.

“Hello, my young friend, I know you,” the miser said to the djigit. “You owe me a hundred tengas, but I’ll reduce your debt to half if you take me to the desert.”

“No one will take you there today even for a thousand copper tengas,” answered the young djigit.

“I’l pay two thousand!”

“I wouldn’t take you there even for five thousand,” the djigit said. “Give me Gul-Asal in marriage, and then I’ll take you.”

“Take Gul-Asal, take everything, only get me to the desert right away!”

“Alright. Climb on,” the djigit said, laughing.

The old miser clambered on to the horse behind the djigit, and off they rode to the desert.

They rode on and on, the whole of that day, until the sun began to set in the sands of the Kara-Kum desert.

The dyjigit reined in the horse, and ordered the miser sharply to get off.

Kara-Bek looked about him, but there was nothing to see, only the lifeless sands. There was no beginning and no end to these sands running in waves to the very horizon. And there was not the smallest glimmer of gold in that boundless desert.

“Where have you brought me, you cheat?” screamed Kara- Bek.

“Why, you said the Kara-Kum desert, didn’t you?” to his astonishment Kara-Bek heard the voice of the small mouse.

“But where are the gold coins?” he roared.

“Dig in the sand and you’ll find them,” replied the voice of the spider.

“You’ve cheated me!” wailed the old money lender.

“What about you? Didn’t you cheat your good neighbours?” snickered the cockroach.

Kara-Bek swung round and saw a tiny little boy, the size of half a camel’s ear, sitting on the djigit’s shoulder, and speaking in these different voices, as he had done in the: money cellar. He was laughing now and shaking a finger at Kara-Bek. In fright, Kara-Bek backed away and fell off the horse on to the sand.

“Well, that’s that,” Yarty announced to the djigit. “We’ve taken people’s troubles away into the desert to be stranded here, and now let’s hurry back to the village.”

“Wait, wait, take me with you!” screamed Kara-Bek.

“Not on your life!” Yarty shouted. “Can you see anyone getting rid of his troubles and then taking them back? You’ll have to make your own way home, you wicked man!”

The djigit gave a whoop, and his horse took off, raising clouds of sand.

Kara-Bek stood there, gaping, for a long time. Then he dug in the sand in one place, then in another, and not a coin did he find, of course. He turned homeward on dragging feet. He trudged the whole day, then another day, and on the third day a black sandstorm started up in the desert. And the old money lender was buried under, and with him the villagers’ troubles. All the neighbours came to the wedding of the beautiful Gul-Asal and the handsome young djigit. When friends gather together of an evening they love recalling the story of the gold rain in the desert and how the clever, wee Yarty-gulok got the better of the wicked money lender.

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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.

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The Jelly-Fish Takes a Journey

The jellyfish, once handsome and beloved, is tasked by the Dragon King to fetch a monkey for the Queen’s cure. He persuades a monkey to ride on his back, revealing mid-journey that the Queen needs its liver. The monkey tricks the jellyfish into returning him to the forest and escapes. Furious, the Dragon King punishes the jellyfish, leaving it boneless. The Queen recovers anyway.

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

► Themes of the story

Quest: The jellyfish undertakes a journey to retrieve a monkey’s liver to cure the Dragon Queen.

Cunning and Deception: Both the jellyfish and the monkey use deceit—the jellyfish lures the monkey under false pretenses, and the monkey fabricates a story to escape.

Divine Punishment: The Dragon King punishes the jellyfish for failing his mission, resulting in the jellyfish losing its bones.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Once upon a time the jelly-fish was a very handsome fellow. His form was beautiful, and round as the full moon. He had glittering scales and fins and a tail as other fishes have, but he had more than these. He had little feet as well, so that he could walk upon the land as well as swim in the sea. He was merry and he was gay, he was beloved and trusted of the Dragon King. In spite of all this, his grandmother always said he would come to a bad end, because he would not mind his books at school. She was right. It all came about in this wise.

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The Dragon King was but lately wed when the young Lady Dragon his wife fell very sick. She took to her bed and stayed there, and wise folk in Dragonland shook their heads and said her last day was at hand. Doctors came from far and near, and they dosed her and they bled her, but no good at all could they do her, the poor young thing, nor recover her of her sickness.

The Dragon King was beside himself.

“Heart’s Desire,” he said to his pale bride, “I would give my life for you.”

“Little good would it do me,” she answered. “Howbeit, if you will fetch me a monkey’s liver I will eat it and live.”

“A monkey’s liver!” cried the Dragon King. “A monkey’s liver! You talk wildly, O light of mine eyes. How shall I find a monkey’s liver? Know you not, sweet one, that monkeys dwell in the trees of the forest, whilst we are in the deep sea?”

Tears ran down the Dragon Queen’s lovely countenance.

“If I do not have the monkey’s liver, I shall die,” she said.

Then the Dragon went forth and called to him the jelly-fish.

“The Queen must have a monkey’s liver,” he said, “to cure her of her sickness.”

“What will she do with the monkey’s liver?” asked the jelly-fish.

“Why, she will eat it,” said the Dragon King.

“Oh!” said the jelly-fish.

“Now,” said the King, “you must go and fetch me a live monkey. I have heard that they dwell in the tall trees of the forest. Therefore swim quickly, O jelly-fish, and bring a monkey with you back again.”

“How will I get the monkey to come back with me?” said the jelly-fish.

“Tell him of all the beauties and pleasures of Dragonland. Tell him he will be happy here and that he may play with mermaids all the day long.”

“Well,” said the jelly-fish, “I’ll tell him that.”

Off set the jelly-fish; and he swam and he swam, till at last he reached the shore where grew the tall trees of the forest. And, sure enough, there was a monkey sitting in the branches of a persimmon tree, eating persimmons.

“The very thing,” said the jelly-fish to himself; “I’m in luck.”

“Noble monkey,” he said, “will you come to Dragonland with me?”

“How should I get there?” said the monkey.

“Only sit on my back,” said the jelly-fish, “and I’ll take you there; you’ll have no trouble at all.”

“Why should I go there, after all?” said the monkey. “I am very well off as I am.”

“Ah,” said the jelly-fish, “it’s plain that you know little of all the beauties and pleasures of Dragonland. There you will be happy as the day is long. You will win great riches and honour. Besides, you may play with the mermaids from morn till eve.”

“I’ll come,” said the monkey.

And he slipped down from the persimmon tree and jumped on the jelly-fish’s back.

When the two of them were about half-way over to Dragonland, the jelly-fish laughed.

“Now, jelly-fish, why do you laugh?”

“I laugh for joy,” said the jelly-fish. “When you come to Dragonland, my master, the Dragon King, will get your liver, and give it to my mistress the Dragon Queen to eat, and then she will recover from her sickness.”

“My liver?” said the monkey.

“Why, of course,” said the jelly-fish.

“Alas and alack,” cried the monkey, “I’m grieved indeed, but if it’s my liver you’re wanting I haven’t it with me. To tell you the truth, it weighs pretty heavy, so I just took it out and hung it upon a branch of that persimmon tree where you found me. Quick, quick, let’s go back for it.”

Back they went, and the monkey was up in the persimmon tree in a twinkling.

“Mercy me, I don’t see it at all,” he said. “Where can I have mislaid it? I should not be surprised if some rascal has stolen it,” he said.

Now if the jelly-fish had minded his books at school, would he have been hoodwinked by the monkey? You may believe not. But his grandmother always said he would come to a bad end.

“I shall be some time finding it,” said the monkey. “You’d best be getting home to Dragonland. The King would be loath for you to be out after dark. You can call for me another day. Sayonara.”

The monkey and the jelly-fish parted on the best of terms.

The minute the Dragon King set eyes on the jelly-fish, “Where’s the monkey?” he said.

“I’m to call for him another day,” said the jelly-fish. And he told all the tale.

The Dragon King flew into a towering rage. He called his executioners and bid them beat the jelly-fish.

“Break every bone in his body,” he cried; “beat him to a jelly.”

Alas for the sad fate of the jelly-fish! Jelly he remains to this very day.

As for the young Dragon Queen, she was fain to laugh when she heard the story.

“If I can’t have a monkey’s liver I must needs do without it,” she said. “Give me my best brocade gown and I will get up, for I feel a good deal better.”

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 Espousal of the Rat’s Daughter

Mr. Rat, a proud and well-to-do figure, sought the most powerful suitor for his beautiful daughter, Yuki. Consulting the Sun, Cloud, Wind, and Wall, he discovered each had a weakness. Ultimately, the Wall revealed Mr. Rat’s own nephew—who had gnawed through it—as the most powerful. Satisfied, Yuki married her cousin, proving that true strength often lies closest to home.

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

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The story highlights the cleverness of the rat, who, despite being small, is capable of gnawing through the sturdy wall, demonstrating that true strength isn’t always apparent.

Family Dynamics: The narrative focuses on Mr. Rat’s desire to secure a powerful match for his daughter, reflecting familial aspirations and relationships.

Illusion vs. Reality: Mr. Rat perceives the Sun, Cloud, Wind, and Wall as the most powerful beings, but learns that their apparent strength has limitations, leading him to recognize the true power within his own kind.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Mr. Nedzumi, the Rat, was an important personage in the hamlet where he lived–at least he was so in his own and his wife’s estimation. This was in part, of course, due to the long line of ancestors from whom he was descended, and to their intimate association with the gods of Good Fortune. For, be it remembered, his ancestry went back into a remote past, in fact as far as time itself; for had not one of his race been selected as the first animal in the cycle of the hours, precedence being even given him over the dragon, the tiger, and the horse? As to his intimacy with the gods, had not one of his forebears been the chosen companion of the great Daikoku, the most revered and the most beneficent of the gods of Good Fortune?

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Mr. Rat was well-to-do in life. His home had for generations been established in a snug, warm and cosy bank, hard by one of the most fertile rice-fields on the country-side, where crops never failed, and where in spring he could nibble his fill of the young green shoots, and in autumn gather into his storerooms supplies of the ripened grain sufficient for all his wants during the coming winter.

For his needs were not great. Entertainment cost him but little, and, unlike his fellows, he had the smallest of families, in fact a family of one only.

But, as regards that one, quality more than compensated for quantity, for it consisted of a daughter, of a beauty unsurpassed in the whole province. He himself had been the object of envy in his married life, for he had had the good fortune to marry into a family of a very select piebald breed, which seldom condescended to mix its blood with the ordinary self-coloured tribe, and now his daughter had been born a peerless white, and had received the name of Yuki, owing to her resemblance to pure snow.

It is little wonder, then, that as she grew up beautiful in form and feature, her father’s ambitions were fired, and that he aspired to marry her to the highest in the land.

As it happened, the hamlet where he lived was not very far removed from a celebrated temple, and Mr. Rat, having been brought up in the odour of sanctity, had all his life long been accustomed to make pilgrimages to the great shrine. There he had formed the acquaintance of an old priest, who was good enough to provide for him out of the temple offerings in return for gossip as to the doings of his village, which happened to be that in which the priest had been born and bred. To him the rat had often unburdened his mind, and the old priest had come to see his friend’s self-importance and his little weaknesses, and had in vain impressed upon him the virtues of humility.

Now Mr. Rat could find no one amongst his village companions to inform him where to attain what had now become an insatiable desire, namely, a fine marriage for his daughter. So he turned to the temple custodian for advice, and one summer morn found him hammering on the gong which summoned his friend the priest.

“Welcome, Mr. Rat; to what am I indebted for your visit?” said the old priest, for experience had shown him that his friend seldom came so far afield unless he had some request to make.

Thereupon Mr. Rat unburdened himself of all that was in his mind, of his aspiration, and of the difficulty he had in ascertaining in what manner he could obtain it.

Nor did the priest immediately satisfy him, for he said the matter was a difficult one, and would require much consideration. However, on the third day the oracle gave answer as follows: “There is no doubt that apart from the gods there is no one so powerful, or who exercises so beneficent a rule over us, as His Majesty the Sun. Had I a daughter, and did I aspire to such heights for her as you do, I should make my suit to him, and I should take the opportunity of so doing when he comes down to our earth at sundown, for then it is that he decks himself in his most gorgeous apparel; moreover, he is more readily approached when his day’s work is done, and he is about to take his well-earned rest. Were I you I would lose no time, but present myself in company with your honourable wife and daughter to him this very evening at the end of the great Cryptomeria Avenue at the hour when he especially honours it by flooding it with his beams.”

“A thousand thanks,” said Mr. Rat. “No time is to be lost if I am to get my folk together at the time and place you mention.”

“Good fortune to you,” said the priest; “may I hail you the next time I see you as father-in-law to His Majesty the Sun.”

At the appointed hour parents and daughter were to be seen in the avenue, robed in their finest clothes; and as the sun came earthwards and his rays illumined the gloom under the great pines, Mr. Rat, noway abashed, addressed His Majesty and at once informed him of his desire.

His Majesty, evidently considering that one business personage addressing another should not waste time in beating about the bush, replied as follows: “I am extremely beholden to you for your kind intention of allowing me to wed your honourable and beautiful daughter, O Yuki San, but may I ask your reason for selecting me to be your honourable son-in-law?”

To this Mr. Rat replied, “We have determined to marry our daughter to whoever is the most powerful personage in the world, and that is why we desire to offer her to you in marriage.”

“Yes,” said His Majesty, “you are certainly not without reason in imagining me to be the most august and powerful person in the world; but, unfortunately, it has been my misfortune to discover that there is one other even more powerful than myself, against whose plottings I have no power. It is to him that you should very certainly marry your daughter.”

“And may we honourably ask you who that potentate may be?” said Mr. Rat.

“Certainly,” rejoined the Sun. “It is the Cloud. Oftentimes when I have set myself to illumine the world he comes across my path and covers my face so that my subjects may not see me, and so long as he does this I am altogether in his power. If, therefore, it is the most powerful personage in the world whom you seek for your daughter, the honourable O Yuki San, you must bestow her on no one else than the Cloud.”

It required little consideration for both father and mother to see the wisdom of the Sun’s advice, and upon his suggestion they determined to wait on the Cloud at the very earliest opportunity, and at an hour before he rose from his bed, which he usually made on the slopes of a mountain some leagues removed from their village. So they set out, and a long journey they had, so long that Mr. Rat decided that if he was to present his daughter when she was looking her best, the journey must not be hurried. Consequently, instead of arriving at early dawn, it was full afternoon when they neared the summit where the Cloud was apparently wrapped in slumber. But he roused himself as he saw the family approaching, and bade them welcome in so urbane a manner that the Rat at once proceeded to lay his request before him.

To this the Cloud answered, “I am indeed honoured by your condescension in proposing that I should marry your beauteous daughter, O Yuki San. It is quite true, as His August Majesty the Sun says, that when I so desire I have the strength to stay him from exercising his power upon his subjects, and I should much esteem the privilege of wedding your daughter. But as you would single out for that honour the most powerful person in the world, you must seek out His Majesty the Wind, against whom I have no strength, for as soon as he competes with me for supremacy I must fain fly away to the ends of the earth.”

“You surprise me,” said the Rat, “but I take your word for it. I would, therefore, ask you whether His Majesty the Wind will be this way shortly, and where I may best meet him.”

“I am afraid I cannot tell you at the moment when he is likely to be this way. He usually announces his coming by harrying some of my subjects who act as my outposts, but, as you see, they are now all resting quietly. His Majesty is at this moment, I believe, holding a court far out in the Eastern Seas. Were I you I would go down to the seashore and await his coming. He is often somewhat inclined to be short-tempered by the time he gets up into these mountainous parts, owing to the obstructions he has met with on his journey, and he will have had few of these vexatious annoyances during his ride over the sea.”

Now, although from the slopes of the mountain the sea looked not very far distant, it was in reality a long way for a delicately-nurtured young lady such as Yuki, and every mile of the journey that she had to traverse increased her querulousness. Her father had often boasted of the journeys that he had taken down to the coast, free of cost, concealed in a truck-load of rice, and she would take no excuses that there was no railway to the point at which they were to await His Highness the Wind, although had there been it would never have done for a party engaged on such an embassy to ride in a railway truck. Nor was her humour improved by the time they had to wait in the very second-rate accommodation afforded by a fishing hamlet, as none of them were accustomed to a fish fare. But after many days there were signs that the great personage was arriving, and they watched with some trepidation his passage over the sea, although when, in due time, he neared the shore they could hardly credit the Cloud’s assurance as to his strength, for he seemed the personification of all that was gentle; and Madame Rat at once interposed the remark that you should never judge a person’s character by what you hear, and that the Cloud evidently owed the Wind a grudge.

So the Rat at once unburdened himself to the Wind as it came over the water towards him, making its face ripple with smiles. And the Wind itself was in the fairest good humour and addressed the Rat as follows: “Mr. Cloud is a flatterer, and knows full well that I have no power against him when he really comes up against me in one of his thunderous moods. To call me the most powerful person in the world is nonsense. Where do you come from? Why, in that very village there is one stronger than me, namely, the high wall that fences in the house of your good neighbour. If your daughter must fain marry the strongest thing in the world, wed her to the wall. You will find him a very stalwart spouse. I wish you good day. I am sorry I cannot offer you a seat in my chariot, but I am not going in the direction of that wall to-day, else I should have had much pleasure in introducing your honourable self to my powerful antagonist.”

By this time the party was getting much disheartened, and the stress of the journey and the chagrin of so many disappointments were beginning to tell on O Yuki San’s beauty. But Mr. Rat said there was nothing for it but to return home; he knew the wall in question very well, but had no idea it stood so high in the world’s estimation–he had always thought of it as somewhat of a dullard.

So they trudged homewards, and it was weary work, for the Cloud had hidden the Sun, and the Wind had fretted the Cloud, who showed his ill-humour by discharging a surplusage of moisture he had in his pocket, and they approached their home wet through, bedraggled and worn out. As luck would have it, just as they gained the wall which the wind had singled out for its power, a heavier downpour than ever came on and they were glad to take shelter under the lee of the wall. Now Mr. Wall had always been known for his inquisitive nature, which, it is said, arose from one side of his face never being able to see what was going on on the other; and so hearing his leeward side addressing Mr. Rat, and ascertaining that he had come from the sea, the windward side at once asked whether he had any tidings of that scoundrel the Wind, who was always coming and chafing his complexion.

“Why,” said Mr. Rat, “we met him but recently, and he desired to be remembered to you, who, he said, was the strongest person in the world.”

“I the strongest! It shows his ignorance. Why, only yesterday your nephew, the big brown rat, because he would not be at the trouble of going round, must needs gnaw a hole through me. The strongest thing in the world! Why, next time the wind comes this way he’ll rush through the hole and be telling your nephew that he’s the strongest person in the world.”

At this moment the rain stopped, the clouds rolled by, and the sun shone out, and Mr. and Mrs. Rat went home congratulating themselves that they had not had to demean themselves by proposing their daughter in marriage to a neighbour with such a false character.

And a month afterwards O Yuki San expressed her determination to marry her cousin, and her parents were fain to give their consent, for had he not proved himself to be the most powerful person in the world?

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The Mallet

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

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

► Continue reading…

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re early, Kanè,” says Cho.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now what else?” asks the boy.

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

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

“Now what else?” says the boy.

“A lot of sweets.”

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

“A red crêpe frock and a brocade obi.”

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

“Books, story books.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kanè, I am very sick,” says he.

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

“Wait you still a minute,” says Kanè.

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

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

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

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

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The Tea-Kettle

A holy priest acquires a mysterious tea-kettle, which transforms into a badger, dancing and causing chaos. Frightened, the priest sells it to a tinker. The tea-kettle, named Bumbuku-Chagama, befriends the tinker and performs as a showpiece, earning them fame and fortune. When its time ends, it becomes an ordinary kettle, gifted to Morinji Temple as a sacred treasure, revered for generations.

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

► Themes of the story

Transformation: The tea-kettle metamorphoses into a badger, showcasing a physical change central to the narrative.

Cunning and Deception: The badger’s antics, including dancing and causing chaos, reflect its cunning nature, leading to various events in the story.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts lessons on greed, contentment, and the unforeseen consequences of one’s actions.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Long ago, as I’ve heard tell, there dwelt at the temple of Morinji, in the Province of Kotsuke, a holy priest.

Now there were three things about this reverend man. First, he was wrapped up in meditations and observances and forms and doctrines. He was a great one for the Sacred Sutras, and knew strange and mystical things. Then he had a fine exquisite taste of his own, and nothing pleased him so much as the ancient tea ceremony of the Cha-no-yu; and for the third thing about him, he knew both sides of a copper coin well enough and loved a bargain.

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None so pleased as he when he happened upon an ancient tea-kettle, lying rusty and dirty and half-forgotten in a corner of a poor shop in a back street of his town.

“An ugly bit of old metal,” says the holy man to the shopkeeper; “but it will do well enough to boil my humble drop of water of an evening. I’ll give you three rin for it.” This he did and took the kettle home, rejoicing; for it was of bronze, fine work, the very thing for the Cha-no-yu.

A novice cleaned and scoured the tea-kettle, and it came out as pretty as you please. The priest turned it this way and that, and upside down, looked into it, tapped it with his finger-nail. He smiled. “A bargain,” he cried, “a bargain!” and rubbed his hands. He set the kettle upon a box covered over with a purple cloth, and looked at it so long that first he was fain to rub his eyes many times, and then to close them altogether. His head dropped forward and he slept.

And then, believe me, the wonderful thing happened. The tea-kettle moved, though no hand was near it. A hairy head, with two bright eyes, looked out of the spout. The lid jumped up and down. Four brown and hairy paws appeared, and a fine bushy tail. In a minute the kettle was down from the box and going round and round looking at things.

“A very comfortable room, to be sure,” says the tea-kettle.

Pleased enough to find itself so well lodged, it soon began to dance and to caper nimbly and to sing at the top of its voice. Three or four novices were studying in the next room. “The old man is lively,” they said; “only hark to him. What can he be at?” And they laughed in their sleeves.

Heaven’s mercy, the noise that the tea-kettle made! Bang! bang! Thud! thud! thud!

The novices soon stopped laughing. One of them slid aside the kara-kami and peeped through.

“Arah, the devil and all’s in it!” he cried. “Here’s the master’s old tea-kettle turned into a sort of a badger. The gods protect us from witchcraft, or for certain we shall be lost!”

“And I scoured it not an hour since,” said another novice, and he fell to reciting the Holy Sutras on his knees.

A third laughed. “I’m for a nearer view of the hobgoblin,” he said.

So the lot of them left their books in a twinkling, and gave chase to the tea-kettle to catch it. But could they come up with the tea-kettle? Not a bit of it. It danced and it leapt and it flew up into the air. The novices rushed here and there, slipping upon the mats. They grew hot. They grew breathless.

“Ha, ha! Ha, ha!” laughed the tea-kettle; and “Catch me if you can!” laughed the wonderful tea-kettle.

Presently the priest awoke, all rosy, the holy man.

“And what’s the meaning of this racket,” he says, “disturbing me at my holy meditations and all?”

“Master, master,” cry the novices, panting and mopping their brows, “your tea-kettle is bewitched. It was a badger, no less. And the dance it has been giving us, you’d never believe!”

“Stuff and nonsense,” says the priest; “bewitched? Not a bit of it. There it rests on its box, good quiet thing, just where I put it.”

Sure enough, so it did, looking as hard and cold and innocent as you please. There was not a hair of a badger near it. It was the novices that looked foolish.

“A likely story indeed,” says the priest. “I have heard of the pestle that took wings to itself and flew away, parting company with the mortar. That is easily to be understood by any man. But a kettle that turned into a badger–no, no! To your books, my sons, and pray to be preserved from the perils of illusion.”

That very night the holy man filled the kettle with water from the spring and set it on the hibachi to boil for his cup of tea. When the water began to boil–

“Ai! Ai!” the kettle cried; “Ai! Ai! The heat of the Great Hell!” And it lost no time at all, but hopped off the fire as quick as you please.

“Sorcery!” cried the priest. “Black magic! A devil! A devil! A devil! Mercy on me! Help! Help! Help!” He was frightened out of his wits, the dear good man. All the novices came running to see what was the matter.

“The tea-kettle is bewitched,” he gasped; “it was a badger, assuredly it was a badger … it both speaks and leaps about the room.”

“Nay, master,” said a novice, “see where it rests upon its box, good quiet thing.”

And sure enough, so it did.

“Most reverend sir,” said the novice, “let us all pray to be preserved from the perils of illusion.”

The priest sold the tea-kettle to a tinker and got for it twenty copper coins.

“It’s a mighty fine bit of bronze,” says the priest. “Mind, I’m giving it away to you, I’m sure I cannot tell what for.” Ah, he was the one for a bargain! The tinker was a happy man and carried home the kettle. He turned it this way and that, and upside down, and looked into it.

“A pretty piece,” says the tinker; “a very good bargain.” And when he went to bed that night he put the kettle by him, to see it first thing in the morning.

He awoke at midnight and fell to looking at the kettle by the bright light of the moon.

Presently it moved, though there was no hand near it.

“Strange,” said the tinker; but he was a man who took things as they came.

A hairy head, with two bright eyes, looked out of the kettle’s spout. The lid jumped up and down. Four brown and hairy paws appeared, and a fine bushy tail. It came quite close to the tinker and laid a paw upon him.

“Well?” says the tinker.

“I am not wicked,” says the tea-kettle.

“No,” says the tinker.

“But I like to be well treated. I am a badger tea-kettle.”

“So it seems,” says the tinker.

“At the temple they called me names, and beat me and set me on the fire. I couldn’t stand it, you know.”

“I like your spirit,” says the tinker.

“I think I shall settle down with you.”

“Shall I keep you in a lacquer box?” says the tinker.

“Not a bit of it, keep me with you; let us have a talk now and again. I am very fond of a pipe. I like rice to eat, and beans and sweet things.”

“A cup of saké sometimes?” says the tinker.

“Well, yes, now you mention it.”

“I’m willing,” says the tinker.

“Thank you kindly,” says the tea-kettle; “and, as a beginning, would you object to my sharing your bed? The night has turned a little chilly.”

“Not the least in the world,” says the tinker.

The tinker and the tea-kettle became the best of friends. They ate and talked together. The kettle knew a thing or two and was very good company.

One day: “Are you poor?” says the kettle.

“Yes,” says the tinker, “middling poor.”

“Well, I have a happy thought. For a tea-kettle, I am out-of-the-way–really very accomplished.”

“I believe you,” says the tinker.

“My name is Bumbuku-Chagama; I am the very prince of Badger Tea-Kettles.”

“Your servant, my lord,” says the tinker.

“If you’ll take my advice,” says the tea-kettle, “you’ll carry me round as a show; I really am out-of-the-way, and it’s my opinion you’d make a mint of money.”

“That would be hard work for you, my dear Bumbuku,” says the tinker.

“Not at all; let us start forthwith,” says the tea-kettle.

So they did. The tinker bought hangings for a theatre, and he called the show Bumbuku-Chagama. How the people flocked to see the fun! For the wonderful and most accomplished tea-kettle danced and sang, and walked the tight rope as to the manner born. It played such tricks and had such droll ways that the people laughed till their sides ached. It was a treat to see the tea-kettle bow as gracefully as a lord and thank the people for their patience.

The Bumbuku-Chagama was the talk of the country-side, and all the gentry came to see it as well as the commonalty. As for the tinker, he waved a fan and took the money. You may believe that he grew fat and rich. He even went to Court, where the great ladies and the royal princesses made much of the wonderful tea-kettle.

At last the tinker retired from business, and to him the tea-kettle came with tears in its bright eyes.

“I’m much afraid it’s time to leave you,” it says.

“Now, don’t say that, Bumbuku, dear,” says the tinker. “We’ll be so happy together now we are rich.”

“I’ve come to the end of my time,” says the tea-kettle. “You’ll not see old Bumbuku any more; henceforth I shall be an ordinary kettle, nothing more or less.”

“Oh, my dear Bumbuku, what shall I do?” cried the poor tinker in tears.

“I think I should like to be given to the temple of Morinji, as a very sacred treasure,” says the tea-kettle.

It never spoke or moved again. So the tinker presented it as a very sacred treasure to the temple, and the half of his wealth with it.

And the tea-kettle was held in wondrous fame for many a long year. Some persons even worshipped it as a saint.

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How the Fijian Ate the Sacred Cat

The Tongans of Haapai once revered a cat from a foreign ship, believing it to be a god. Dau-lawaki, a cunning Fijian, tricked the people by imitating the god’s voice and claiming the cat should be eaten. Though fearful, he obeyed, feigning reluctance, then confessed his deception back home, mocking the Tongans. Humiliated, they returned, while Dau-lawaki avoided Haapai forever.

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

Cunning and Deception: Dau-lawaki, the Fijian, employs trickery by imitating the god’s voice to convince the Tongans to eat the sacred cat.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts a lesson on the consequences of blind faith and the potential for exploitation by deceitful individuals.

Cultural Heroes: Dau-lawaki’s actions, though morally ambiguous, position him as a clever figure who outsmarts the Tongans, reflecting traits often celebrated in cultural narratives.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Fijians

by the Lord of Naiau

In the old days, when we were all heathens, we, the men of Tonga, saw a large ship anchored at Haapai. Our fathers took counsel together as to how they might kill the people and take the vessel; and a plot was laid; so that we looked upon the crew of that ship as dead men, and the women laughed together, as they said, “See the slain walking about the beach. To-morrow they will be in the ovens.” But, when all was ready, the vessel sailed away in the night, and great was the anger of our people when they rose in the morning, and found that the bay was empty. Great was their rage, and loud was their angry talk, as they accused one another of warning the foreigners, so that from words they came to blows, and there was a great fight, wherein many died, and that night was a night of much weeping at Haapai.

► Continue reading…

In the morning the high priest went into the temple to speak with the god, and to inquire why he was thus angry with his people, while the townsfolk were gathered together, sad and silent, in the public square, waiting to hear the words of Alo-alo, the god of the men of Haapai. Not long did they wait, for the priest came running out of the temple, and sat down in their midst, trembling exceedingly; and there was a great silence and fear, because all the people saw that something wonderful had happened.

“Hear my words,” said he at last in a low voice. “Hear my words, ye men of Haapai, great is the thing that has come to pass to-day; for with these eyes have I looked upon Alo-alo. See! Look! Behold he comes!” And from the doorway there stepped forth a cat, which seated itself on the top of the mound whereon the temple stood, and looked solemnly down upon the people. It had, doubtless, come ashore from the vessel; but our fathers then, for the first time, looked upon a cat, and they feared greatly, for they thought it had come down from heaven. Great were the honours which they paid it; many the feasts that were made ready for it; and a useful animal was it indeed to the priest, who, you may be sure, took his full share of the food provided for it, so that both he and the cat grew sleek and fat together.

Then it fell out that one of our canoes came back from a voyage to Fiji, bringing many of our countrymen, who had been helping the men of Lakemba in their wars; and with them came a Fijian, whose name was Dau-lawaki, the Great Rogue, a man strong of soul, fearing nothing, believing nothing, and caring for no one but himself.

And when he saw the cat his stomach craved for it; and day and night he could think of nothing else than how he could secure it for his food; but he feared to steal it because of the people, who honoured it even as a god; nor could he think of any plan for getting that which his soul desired.

At length, one night when the townsfolk were all asleep in their houses, a great shout was heard in the temple, and the people rushed together into the public square, crying out, “What is this? What does the shouting mean?”

But the priest said, “Stand still, ye men of Haapai, and listen; for it may be that the god is about to speak.”

So they stood in silence, and from the midst of the temple there sounded forth a solemn voice. Three times was the voice heard, and then all was quiet; and these were the words that were spoken: —

“Deliver the cat to the Fijian for the eating thereof.”

Then our fathers went back in great awe to their houses; but the chiefs assembled together and took counsel with the priest. So in the morning the drum was beaten, whereupon all the townsfolk came together in the public square, with the chiefs and the old men and the priest in their midst, while the cat was brought forth, bound, and laid at their feet. Then rose the high priest and called the Rogue. “Come forward,” said he; and the Great Rogue came forward and sat down in the midst of the public square, while the priest spoke on: —

“We have taken counsel together during the night as to this great thing, this wonderful thing which has happened. We cannot understand it. Alo-alo has spoken to us, his people. But why should he have spoken in a foreign tongue? We are men of Tonga, and he is a Tongan god; why then should he have spoken to us with the tongue of a Fijian? Is it perhaps that, being angry with us, his people, he is about to leave us? What have we done? wherein have we offended? My soul is small, ye people of Haapai. Our god perhaps is hungry. He is a great chief, having many followers; and the food we have given him has not been enough for him and for his household. Therefore bestir yourselves, and make ready for him a great feast, that he may have compassion upon us, and not leave us to perish; for you know that it is he who gives us the rain, and the sun, and causes the fruits of the earth to grow. Let his feasts be greater from this day henceforward: then will he stay in Haapai, and it shall be well with us. But one thing is plain to us — that we must obey his voice to-day. Rise therefore, Dau-lawaki, kill the cat of Alo-alo, and bake it in the oven, that you may eat it, according to his word, which was spoken three times to us during the night.” And the priest sat down again amongst the chiefs.

Then spake the Rogue, trembling like one in great fear: “Spare me, ye chiefs, spare me! Let me not kill the sacred cat, lest some great evil befall me.”

But the chiefs looked angrily upon him. “Who are you,” cried they, “that you should dare question the command of the god? Eat or die!”

“Life is sweet,” said the Rogue. “Give me a knife, and let some of the young men heat an oven.”

So he killed the holy cat, and cooked and ate it, leaving nothing but the skull and the bones, which the Haapai men buried with great pomp in the midst of the temple. And, after this, he begged the chiefs to send him back to his own land: “For,” said he, “I am afraid of the Tongan gods. Have I not eaten their sacred cat?”

Then the chiefs ordered a large double canoe to be made ready for him, and therein he sailed back to Lakemba, whence he came. Three nights they went sailing over the waters, and on the fourth morning the land was seen, whereat they rejoiced exceedingly, inasmuch as they sailed in great fear lest the anger of Alo-alo should follow them because of the Rogue.

A prudent man was the Rogue, and not a word did he say about the cat till he landed safe at Lakemba; and then he told all his people how he had cheated the Haapai men, hiding himself in the temple at night, and shouting forth the words which they thought the god had spoken. “And truly,” said he, “I was afraid that they would find me out; for I spoke in Fijian, not knowing their tongue; but they are without souls, those men of Haapai!” And he went on to tell them how he had feigned to be terribly frightened when they ordered him to eat the cat; and how they threatened to kill him unless he hearkened to their words; till all the people roared with laughter, and said, “True now are the words of the Rogue. Men without souls are the men of Haapai!”

Great also was the shame and vexation of the Tongans who had brought him back to Lakemba; for the children were always shouting after them, “Give the cat to the Fijian for the eating thereof!” And they sailed back to their land in a great rage. But Dau-lawaki took care never to show his face again in Haapai.

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