Tag: 34. Moral Lessons

Stories that teach ethics, values, or life lessons

Rájá Harichand’s Punishment

Rájá Harichand, a generous ruler, faced divine trials after refusing to symbolically offer his wife to a disguised God. Choosing a 12-year famine over catastrophic rain, his land endured hardship, and he experienced profound poverty alongside his wife. Their perseverance and faith eventually led to restoration when the famine ended prematurely. This tale emphasizes humility, sacrifice, and the consequences of disregarding spiritual wisdom.

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

► Themes of the story

Sacrifice: Rájá Harichand’s initial daily offerings of gold to the poor demonstrate his commitment to giving. However, when faced with the symbolic request to offer his wife, he hesitates, highlighting the complexities and limits of personal sacrifice.

Prophecy and Fate: The Rájá is confronted with a divine ultimatum: choose between a twelve-year famine or a catastrophic twelve-hour deluge. His decision to endure the famine sets the course for his and his kingdom’s destiny, emphasizing themes of predestined trials and the consequences of choices.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts lessons on humility, the importance of heeding spiritual wisdom, and the repercussions of pride. Rájá Harichand’s journey from generosity to hardship and eventual restoration serves as a moral exemplar of the virtues of humility and the perils of disregarding divine counsel.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá, March 4th, 1879

There was once a great Rájá, Rájá Harichand, who every morning before he bathed and breakfasted used to give away one hundred pounds weight of gold to the fakírs, his poor ryots, and other poor people. This he did in the name of God, “For,” he said, “God loves me and gives me everything that I have; so daily I will give him this gold.”

Now God heard what a good man Rájá Harichand was, and how much the Rájá loved him, and he thought he would go and see for himself if all that was said of the Rájá were true.

► Continue reading…

He therefore went as a fakír to Rájá Harichand’s palace and stood at his gate. The Rájá had already given away his hundred pounds’ weight of gold, and gone into his palace and bathed and breakfasted; so when his servants came to tell him that another fakír stood at his gate, the Rájá said, “Bid him come to-morrow, for I have bathed, and have eaten my breakfast, and therefore cannot attend to him now.” The servants returned to the fakír, and told him, “The Rájá says you must come to-morrow, for he cannot see you now, as he has bathed and breakfasted.” God went away, and the next day he again came, after all the fakírs and poor people had received their gold and the Rájá had gone into his palace. So the Rájá told his servants, “Bid the fakír come to-morrow. He has again come too late for me to see him now.”

On the third day God was once more too late, for the Rájá had gone into his palace. The Rájá was vexed with him for being a third time too late, and said to his servants, “What sort of a fakír is this that he always comes too late? Go and ask him what he wants.” So the servants went to the fakír and said, “Rájá Harichand says, ‘What do you want from him?'” “I want no rupees,” answered God, “nor anything else; but I want him to give me his wife.” The servants told this to the Rájá, and it made him very angry. He went to his wife, the Rání Báhan, and said to her, “There is a fakír at the gate who asks me to give you to him! As if I should ever do such a thing! Fancy my giving him my wife!”

The Rání was very wise and clever, for she had a book, which she read continually, called the kop shástra; and this book told her everything. So she knew that the fakír at the gate was no fakír, but God himself. (In old days about two people in a thousand, though not more, could read this book; now-a-days hardly any one can read it, for it is far too difficult.) So the Rání said to the Rájá, “Go to this fakír, and say to him, ‘You shall have my wife.’ You need not really give me to him; only give me to him in your thoughts.” “I will do no such thing,” said the Rájá in a rage; and in spite of all her entreaties, he would not say to the fakír, “I will give you my wife.” He ordered his servants to beat the fakír, and send him away; and so they did.

God returned to his place, and called to him two angels. “Take the form of men,” he said to them, “and go to Rájá Harichand. Say to him, ‘God has sent us to you. He says, Which will you have–a twelve years’ famine throughout your land during which no rain will fall? or a great rain for twelve hours?'”

The angels came to the Rájá and said as God had bidden them. The Rájá thought for a long while which he should choose. “If a great rain pours down for twelve hours,” he said to himself, “my whole country will be washed away. But I have a great quantity of gold. I have enough to send to other countries and buy food for myself and my ryots during the twelve years’ famine.” So he said to the angels, “I will choose the famine.” Then the angels came into his palace; and the moment they entered it, all the Rájá’s servants that were in the palace, and all his cows, horses, elephants, and other animals became stone. So did every single thing in the palace, excepting his gold and silver, and these turned to charcoal. The Rájá and Rání did not become stone.

The angels said to them, “For three weeks you will not be able to eat anything; you will not be able to eat any food you may find or may have given you. But you will not die, you will live.” Then the angels went away.

The Rájá was very sad when he looked round his palace and saw everything in it, and all the people in it, stone, and saw all his gold and silver turned to charcoal. He said to his wife, “I cannot stay here. I must go to some other country. I was a great Rájá; how can I ask my ryots to give me food? We will dress ourselves like fakírs, and go to another country.”

They put on fakírs’ clothes and went out of their palace. They wandered in the jungle till they saw a plum-tree covered with fruit. “Do gather some of those plums for me,” said the Rání, who was very hungry. The Rájá went to the tree and put out his hand to gather the plums; but when he did this, they at once all left the tree and went a little way up into the air. When he drew back his hand, the plums returned to the tree. The Rájá tried three times to gather the plums, but never could do so.

He and the Rání then went on till they came to a plain in another country, where was a large tank in which men were fishing. The Rání said to her husband, “Go and ask those men to give us a little of their fish, for I am very hungry.” The Rájá went to the men and said, “I am a fakír, and have no pice. Will you give me some of your fish, for I have not eaten for four days and am hungry?” The men gave him some fish, and he and his wife carried it to a tank on another plain. The Rání cleaned and prepared the fish for cooking, and said to her husband, “I have nothing in which to cook this fish. Go up to the town (there was a town close by) and ask some one to give you an earthen pot with a lid, and some salt.”

The Rájá went up to the town, and some one in the bazar gave him the earthen pot, and a grain merchant put a little salt into it. Then he returned to the Rání, and they made a fire under a tree, put the fish into the pot, and set the pot on the fire. “I have not bathed for some days,” said the Rájá. “I will go and bathe while you cook the fish, and when I come back we will eat it.” So he went to bathe, and the Rání sat watching the fish. Presently she thought, “If I leave the lid on the pot, the fish will dry up and burn.” Then she took off the lid, and the fish instantly jumped out of the pot into the tank and swam away. This made the Rání sad; but she sat there quiet and silent. When the Rájá had bathed, he returned to his wife, and said, “Now we will eat our fish.” The Rání answered, “I had not eaten for four days, and was very hungry, so I ate all the fish.” “Never mind,” said the Rájá, “it does not matter.”

They wandered on, and the next day came to another jungle where they saw two pigeons. The Rájá took some grass and sticks, and made a bow and arrow. He shot the pigeons with these, and the Rání plucked and cleaned them. Her husband and she made a little fire, put the pigeons in their pot, and set them on it. There was a tank near. “Now I will go and bathe,” said the Rání; “I have not bathed for some days. When I come back, we will eat the pigeons.” So she went to bathe, and the Rájá sat down to watch the pigeons. Presently he thought, “If I leave the pot shut, the birds will dry up and burn.” So he took off the lid, and instantly away flew the pigeons out of the pot. He guessed at once what the fish had done yesterday, and sat still and silent till the Rání came back. “I have eaten the pigeons in the same way that you ate the fish yesterday,” he said to her. The Rání understood what had happened, and saw the Rájá knew how the fish had escaped.

So they wandered on; and as they went the Rání remembered an oil merchant, called Gangá Télí, a friend of theirs, and a great man, just like a Rájá. “Let us go to Gangá Télí, if we can walk as far as his house,” she said. “He will be good to us.” He lived a long way off. When they got to him, Gangá Télí knew them at once. “What has happened?” he said. “You were a great Rájá; why are you and the Rání so poor and dressed like fakírs?” “It is God’s will,” they answered. Gangá Télí did not think it worth while to notice them much now they were poor; so, though he did not send them away, he gave them a wretched room to live in, a wretched bed to lie on, and such bad food to eat that, hungry as they were, they could not touch it. “When we were rich,” they said to each other, “and came to stay with Gangá Télí, he received us like friends; he gave us beautiful rooms to live in, beautiful beds to lie on, and delicious food to eat. We cannot stay here.”

So they went away very sorrowful, and wandered for a whole week, and all the time they had no food, till they came to another country whose Rájá, Rájá Bhoj, was one of their friends. Rájá Bhoj received them very kindly. “What has brought you to this state? How is it you are so poor?” he said. “What has happened to you?” “It is God’s will,” they answered. Rájá Bhoj gave them a beautiful room to live in, and told his servants to cook for them the very nicest dinner they could. This the servants did, and they brought the dinner into Rájá Harichand’s room, and set it before him and left him. Then he and the Rání put some of the food on their plates; but before they could eat anything, the food both in the dishes and on their plates became full of maggots. So they could not eat it. They felt greatly humbled. However, they said nothing, but worshipped God; and they buried all the food in a hole they dug in the floor of their room.

Now the daughter of Rájá Bhoj had left her gold necklace hanging on the wall of the room in which were Rájá Harichand and the Rání Báhan. At night when Rájá Harichand was asleep, the Rání saw a crack come in the wall and the necklace go of itself into the crack; then the wall joined together as before. She at once woke her husband, and told him what she had seen. “We had better go away quickly,” she said. “The necklace will not be found to-morrow, and Rájá Bhoj will think we are thieves. It will be useless breaking the wall open to find it.” The Rájá got up at once, and they set out again. Rájá Bhoj, when the necklace was not found, thought Rájá Harichand and the Rání Báhan had stolen it.

They wandered on till they came to a country belonging to another friend, called Rájá Nal, but they were ashamed to go to his palace. The three weeks were now nearly over, only two more days were left. So the Rání said, “In two days we shall be able to eat. Go into the jungle and cut grass, and sell it in the bazar. We shall thus get a few pice and be able to buy a little food.” The Rájá went out to the jungle, but he had to break and pull up the grass with his hands. He worked half the day, and then sold the grass in the bazar for a few pice. They were able to buy food, and worshipped God and cooked it; and as the three weeks were now over they were allowed to eat it.

They stayed in Rájá Nal’s country, and lived in a little house they hired in the bazar. Rájá Harichand went out every day to the jungle for grass, which he pulled up or broke off with his hands, and then sold in the bazar for a few pice. The Rání saved a pice or two whenever she could, and at the end of two years they were rich enough to buy a hook such as grass-cutters use. The Rájá could now cut more grass, and soon the Rání was able to buy some pretty-coloured silks in the bazar.

Her husband went daily to cut grass, and she sat at home making head-collars with the silks for horses. Four years after they had bought the hook, she had four of these head-collars ready, and she took them up to Rájá Nal’s palace to sell. It was the first time she had gone there, for she and her husband were ashamed to see Rájá Nal. Their fakírs’ dresses had become rags, and they had only been able to get wretched common clothes in their place, for they were miserably poor.

“What beautiful head-collars these are!” said Rájá Nal’s coachmen and grooms; and they took them to show to their Rájá. As soon as he saw them he said, “Where did you get these head-collars? Who is it that wishes to sell them?” for he knew that only one woman could make such head-collars, and that woman was the Rání Báhan. “A very poor woman brought them here just now,” they answered. “Bring her to me,” said Rájá Nal. So the servants brought him Rání Báhan, and when she saw the Rájá she burst into tears. “What has brought you to this state? Why are you so poor?” said Rájá Nal. “It is God’s will,” she answered. “Where is your husband?” he asked. “He is cutting grass in the jungle,” she said. Rájá Nal called his servants and said, “Go into the jungle, and there you will see a man cutting grass. Bring him to me.” When Rájá Harichand saw Rájá Nal’s servants coming to him, he was very much frightened; but the servants took him and brought him to the palace. As soon as Rájá Nal saw his old friend, he seized his hands, and burst out crying. “Rájá,” he said, “what has brought you to this state?” “It is God’s will,” said Rájá Harichand.

Rájá Nal was very good to them. He gave them a palace to live in, and servants to wait on them; beautiful clothes to wear, and good food to eat. He went with them to the palace to see that everything was as it should be for them. “To-day,” he said to the Rání, “I shall dine with your husband, and you must give me a dinner cooked just as you used to cook one for me when I went to see you in your own country.” “Good, I will give it you,” said the Rání; but she was quite frightened, for she thought, “The Rájá is so kind, and everything is so comfortable for us, that I am sure something dreadful will happen.” However, she prepared the dinner, and told the servants how to cook it and serve it; but first she worshipped God, and entreated him to have mercy on her and her husband. The dinner was very good, and nothing evil happened to any one. They lived in the palace Rájá Nal gave them for four and a half years.

Meanwhile the farmers in Rájá Harichand’s country had all these years gone on ploughing and turning up the land, although not a drop of rain had fallen all that time, and the earth was hard and dry. Now just when the Rájá and Rání had lived in Rájá Nal’s palace for four and a half years Mahádeo was walking through Rájá Harichand’s country. He saw the farmers digging up the ground, and said, “What is the good of your digging and turning up the ground? Not a drop of rain is going to fall.” “No,” said the farmers, “but if we did not go on ploughing and digging, we should forget how to do our work.” They did not know they were talking to Mahádeo, for he looked like a man. “That is true,” said Mahádeo, and he thought, “The farmers speak the truth; and if I go on neglecting to blow on my horn, I shall forget how to blow on it at all.” So he took his deer’s horn, which was just like those some yogís use, and blew on it. Now when Rájá Harichand had chosen the twelve years’ famine, God had said, “Rain shall not fall on Rájá Harichand’s country till Mahádeo blows his horn in it.” Mahádeo had quite forgotten this decree; so he blew on his horn, although only ten and a half years’ famine had gone by. The moment he blew, down came the rain, and the whole country at once became as it had been before the famine began; and moreover, the moment it rained, everything in Rájá Harichand’s palace became what it was before the angels entered it. All the men and women came to life again; so did all the animals; and the gold and silver were no longer charcoal, but once more gold and silver. God was not angry with Mahádeo for forgetting that he said the famine should last for twelve years, and that the rain should fall when Mahádeo blew on his horn in Rájá Harichand’s country. “If it pleased Mahádeo to blow on his horn,” said God, “it does not matter that eighteen months of famine were still to last.” As soon as they heard the rain had fallen, all the ryots who had gone to other countries on account of the famine returned to Rájá Harichand’s country.

Among the Rájá’s servants was the kotwál, and very anxious he was, when he came to life again, to find the Rájá and Rání; only he did not know how to do so, and wondered where he had best seek for them.

Meanwhile the Rání Báhan had a dream that God sent her, in which an angel said to her, “It is good that you and your husband should return to your country.” She told this dream to her husband; and Rájá Nal gave them horses, elephants, and camels, that they might travel like Rájás to their home, and he went with them. They found everything in order in their own palace and all through their country, and after this lived very happily in it. But the Rání said to Rájá Harichand, “If you had only done what I told you, and said you would give me to the fakír, all this misery would not have come on us.”

Later they went to stay again with Rájá Bhoj, and slept in the same room as they had had when they came to him poor and wretched. In the night they saw the wall open, and the necklace came out of the crack and hung itself up as before, and the wall closed again. The next day they showed the necklace to Rájá Bhoj, saying, “It was on account of this necklace that we ran away from you the last time we were here,” and they told him all that had happened to it. As for Gangá Télí, they never went near him again.

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The Mouse

A mischievous mouse’s quest for food leads to a series of chaotic exchanges and escalating demands, as he trades and seizes items from barbers, farmers, merchants, and cooks, all culminating in his theft of a bride. The mouse’s greed and impulsiveness bring his downfall, leaving the victims to reclaim their belongings and live in peace, while the mouse meets a painful end.

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

► Themes of the story

Trickster: The mouse exhibits cunning behavior by manipulating various characters to obtain what he desires, embodying the classic trickster archetype.

Cunning and Deception: Throughout the tale, the mouse employs deceitful tactics to achieve his goals, showcasing the use of wit and manipulation.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts lessons on the consequences of greed and dishonesty, as the mouse’s actions ultimately lead to his downfall.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Karím

There was a mouse who wanted something to eat; so he went to a garden, where many kinds of grain, and fruit, and cabbages, and other vegetables were growing. All round the garden the people to whom it belonged had planted a hedge of thorns, that nothing might get in. The mouse scrambled through the hedge, but great thorns pierced his tail, and he began to cry. He came out of the garden again through the hedge, and on his way home he met a barber.

“You must take out these thorns,” said he to the barber.

► Continue reading…

“I cannot,” said the barber, “without cutting off your tail with my razor.”

“Never mind cutting off my tail,” said the mouse.

The barber cut off the mouse’s tail. But the mouse was in a rage. He seized the razor and ran away with it. At this the poor barber was very unhappy and began to cry, for he had no pice wherewith to buy another.

The mouse ran on and on until at last he came to another country, in which there were no knives or sickles to cut the grass with. There the mouse saw a man pulling the grass out of the ground with his hands.

“You will cut your hands,” said the mouse.

“There are no knives here,” said the man, “so I must pull up the grass in this way.”

“You must take my razor then,” said the mouse.

“Suppose your razor should break? I could not buy you another,” said the man.

“Never mind if it does break,” said the mouse, “I give it to you as a present.”

So the man took the razor and began cutting the grass, and as he was cutting, the razor broke.

“Oh, why have you broken my razor?” exclaimed the mouse.

“Did not I tell you it would break?” answered the man.

The mouse snatched up the man’s blanket and ran off with it. The grass-cutter began to cry. “What shall I do?” said he. “The mouse has carried away my blanket, and I have not money wherewith to buy another.” And he went home very sad.

Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he arrived at another country, where he saw a grain merchant chopping up sugar-canes; only as he had no blanket or cloth to lay the canes on, he chopped them up on the ground, and so they got dirty.

“Why do you chop up your canes on the ground?” said the mouse; “they all get dirty.”

“What can I do?” answered the man. “I have no pice wherewith to buy a blanket to chop them on.”

“Then why don’t you take mine?” said the mouse.

“If I took yours it would get cut, and I have no money to buy you another,” said the grain merchant.

“Never mind; I don’t want another,” said the mouse.

So the man took the blanket, and of course he cut it. When he had finished chopping up his sugar-canes, he gave it back to the mouse.

When the mouse saw the blanket was full of holes, he was very angry indeed with the man, and seizing all the sugar-canes he ran away with them as fast as he could. The grain merchant began to cry. “What shall I do?” said he; “I have no more sugar-canes.” And he went home very sorrowful.

Then the mouse ran on and on till he came to another country, where he stopped at a sweetmeat-seller’s shop. Now in this country there was no salt and no sugar. And the sweetmeat-seller made his sweetmeats of flour and ghee without either sugar or salt, so that they were very nasty.

“Will you give me some sweetmeats for a pice?” said the mouse to the sweetmeat-seller. “Yes,” answered the man, and he gave one. The mouse began to eat it and thought it very nasty indeed.

“Why, there is no sugar in it!” exclaimed the mouse.

“No,” said the man; “we have no sugar in this country. The few sugar-canes we have are so dear, that poor people like myself cannot buy them.”

“Then take my sugar-canes,” cried the mouse.

“No,” said the man. “Where should I find the money to pay you for them? They would be all used in making sweetmeats.”

“Take them,” said the mouse; “I give them to you.”

The sweetmeat-seller took them and began making sweetmeats of all kinds, so that he used all the sugar-canes.

“Why have you used all my sugar-canes?” cried the mouse.

“Did not I tell you I should do so?” said the man.

“You are a thief!” cried the mouse, and he knocked down the sweetmeat-seller, seized all his sweetmeats, and ran off with them.

“What shall I do now?” cried the sweetmeat-seller. “I have no money to buy flour and ghee to make more sweetmeats with; and if I quarrel with the mouse, he will doubtless kill me.”

Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on till he reached a country, the Rájá of which had a great many cows–hundreds of cows. The mouse stopped at the pasture-ground of these cows. Now, the cowherds were so poor they could not buy bread every day, and sometimes they ate bread which was twelve days old. When the mouse arrived, the cowherds were eating their bread, and it was very stale and mouldy.

“Why do you eat that stale bread?” said the mouse.

“Because we have no money to buy any other with,” answered the cowherds.

“Look at all these sweetmeats,” said the mouse. “Take them and eat them instead of that stale bread.”

“But if we eat them, we must pay you for them, and where shall we get the money?” said the cowherds.

“Oh, never mind the money,” said the mouse.

So the cowherds took the sweetmeats and ate them all up. At this the mouse was furious. He stuck a pole into the ground, and ran and fetched ropes, and tied the cowherds hand and foot to the pole. Then he took all the cows and ran off with them.

He ran on and on till he got to a country where there were no fowls, no cows, no buffaloes, no meat of any kind; and the people in it did not even know what milk and meat were. The day the mouse arrived was the day the Rájá’s daughter was to be married, and a great many people were assembled together. The Rájá’s cooks were cooking, but they had neither meat nor ghee.

“Why are all these people assembled together?” said the mouse.

“To-day is our Rájá’s daughter’s wedding-day, and we are cooking the dinner,” answered the cooks.

“But you have no meat,” said the mouse.

“No,” said the cooks. “There is no meat of any kind in our country.”

“Take my cows,” said the mouse.

“No,” said the cooks; “our Rájá could not pay for them; he is too poor.” (He was only a petty Rájá.)

“It does not matter,” said the mouse. “I don’t want money.”

So the cooks took the cows and the sheep and killed them, and dressed their flesh in different ways; made pilaus and curries; they roasted some and boiled some, and gave it to the people to eat. In this way they made an end of all the cows.

“Why have you made an end of all my cows?” cried the mouse.

“Did not we tell you we should make use of them all?” said the cooks.

“Give me my cows,” said the mouse.

“We can’t. The people have eaten them all up,” said the cooks.

The mouse was in a great rage. He ran off to the bridegroom, who was walking near the kitchen, saying to himself, “Now I will go and fetch my bride.”

“Give me the money for my cows,” cried the mouse to him. “Your people have eaten them all up, and your cooks won’t pay me, so you must.”

“What have I to do with your cows?” said the bridegroom. “I won’t pay you for them.”

“Then if you won’t pay me, your wife’s father must,” said the mouse.

“Oh, he is too poor to pay for your cows,” said the bridegroom, “and I won’t.”

“Then if I am not paid, I will take away your bride,” said the mouse; and he ran off and carried away the bride.

The Rájá was very angry at this; but the mouse ran on and on with his wife (so he called the Rájá’s daughter) till he came to another country.

Now, on the day he arrived in it there were going to be grand sights and fun to please its Rájá. Some jugglers and rope-dancers were going to perform.

“Take my wife and let her walk on the rope; she is young, and your wives are old,” said the mouse to the rope-dancers.

“No,” they answered, “for she does not know how to walk on a rope and carry at the same time a wooden plate on her head. She would fall and break her neck.”

“But you must take my wife,” said the mouse. “She won’t fall; she is young, and your wives are old. You really must take her.”

So the rope-dancers took her, much against their will, and when she began to walk on the rope with the wooden plate on her head, she fell and died.

“Oh, why have you killed my wife?” cried the mouse.

“Did we not tell you she would fall and kill herself?” answered the rope-dancers.

The mouse seized all the jugglers’ and rope-dancers’ wives, and the things they used in dancing and juggling, and ran off with them. Then the rope-dancers and jugglers began to cry, and said, “What shall we do? Our wives and our property are all gone!”

Meanwhile the mouse ran on and on until he came to another country, where he got a house to live in. And he ate a great deal, and grew so fat that he could not get through the door of his house.

“Send for a carpenter,” said he to the rope-dancers’ and jugglers’ wives, “and tell him to cut off some of my flesh. Then I shall be able to get into my house.”

The women sent for a carpenter, and when he came the mouse said to him, “cut off some of my flesh, then I shall be able to go into my house.”

“If I do,” said the carpenter, “you will die.”

“No, I shan’t die,” said the mouse. “Do as I bid you.”

So the carpenter took his knife, and cut off some of the mouse’s flesh.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried the mouse; “how it does hurt! What can I do to make it stop paining me?”

“You must go to a certain place, where a particular kind of grain grows, and rub the grain on your wounds. Then they will get quite well,” said the carpenter.

So the mouse ran off to the place to which the carpenter had told him to go, and rubbed his wounds with the grain. This gave him such pain that he fell down and died.

The rope-dancers’ and jugglers’ wives went home to their husbands with all the things the mouse had carried away, and they all lived happily ever after.

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

The Cat Which Could Not Be Killed

A dog repeatedly tries to harm a resilient cat who remains unhurt despite his efforts and mockingly dances away each time. Seeking help from various animals and even a man, the dog’s allies fail to harm the clever cat, often suffering in return. Frustrated and defeated, the dog ultimately dies in despair, while the unscathed and victorious cat rejoices with her friends.

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

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The cat consistently outsmarts the dog and other animals, using her wit to evade harm and turn situations to her advantage.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts lessons on the futility of malice and the virtue of cleverness in overcoming adversity.

Tragic Flaw: The dog’s persistent aggression and inability to recognize the cat’s superiority lead to his ultimate demise, illustrating the consequences of hubris.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 26th, 1876

There were once a dog and a cat, who were always quarrelling. The dog used to beat the cat, but he never could hurt her. She would only dance about and cry, “You never hurt me, you never hurt me! I had a pain in my shoulder, but now it is all gone away.” So the dog went to a mainá [a kind of starling] and said, “What shall I do to hurt this cat? I beat her and I bite her, and yet I can’t hurt her. I am such a big dog and she is rather a big cat, yet if I beat her I don’t hurt her, but if she beats me she hurts me so much.” The mainá said, “Bite her mouth very, very hard, and then you’ll hurt her.” “Oh, no,” said the cat, who had just come up, laughing; “you won’t hurt me at all.”

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The dog bit her mouth as hard as he could. “Oh, you don’t hurt me,” said the cat, dancing about. So the dog went again to the mainá and said, “What shall I do?” “Bite her ears,” said the mainá. So the dog bit the cat’s ears, but she danced about and said, “Oh, you did not hurt me; now I can put earrings in my ears.” So she put in earrings.

The dog went to the elephant. “Can you kill this cat? she worries me so every day.” “Oh, yes,” said the elephant, “of course I can kill her. She is so little and I am so big.” Then the elephant came and took her up with his trunk, and threw her a long way. Up she jumped at once and danced about, saying, “You did not hurt me one bit. I had a pain, but now I am quite well.” Then the elephant got cross and said, “I’ll teach you to dance in another way than that,” and he took the cat and laid her on the ground and put his great foot on her. But she was not hurt at all. She danced about and said, “You did not hurt me one bit, not one bit,” and she dug her claws into the elephant’s trunk. The elephant ran away screaming, and he told the dog, “You had better beware of that cat. She belongs to the tiger tribe.” The dog felt very angry with the cat. “What shall I do,” said he, “to kill this cat?” And he bit her nose so hard that it bled. But she laughed at him. “Now I can put a ring in my nose,” said she. He got furious. “I’ll bite her tail in half,” said he. So he bit her tail in half, and yet he did not hurt her.

He then went to a leopard. “If you can kill this cat I will give you anything you want.” “Very well, I’ll kill her,” said the leopard. And they went together to the cat. “Stop,” said the cat to the leopard; “I want to speak to you first. I’ll give you something to eat, and then I’ll tell you what I want to say.” And then she ran off ever so far, and after she had run a mile she stopped and danced, calling out, “Oh! I’ll give you nothing to eat; you could not kill me.” The leopard went away very cross, and saying, “What a clever cat that is.”

The dog next went to a man, and said, “Can you kill this cat, she worries me so?” “Of course I can,” said the man; “I’ll stick this knife into her stomach.” And he stuck his knife into the cat’s stomach, but the cat jumped up, and her stomach closed, and the man went home.

And the dog went to a bear. “Can you kill this cat? I can’t.” “I’ll kill her,” said the bear; so he stuck all his claws into the cat, but he didn’t hurt her; and she stuck her claws into the bear’s nose so deep that he died immediately.

Then the poor dog felt very unhappy, and went and threw himself into a hole, and there he died, while the cat went away to her friends.

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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

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.

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

Which Was the Biggest?

Long ago, three brothers sought a wise man’s help to divide a shared bull. On their journey, an eagle snatched the bull, leading to a chain of events: the bull’s bladebone caused pain to a goatherd, an earthquake, and a fox’s death. A woman crafted a baby’s cap from the fox’s skin. But who, among them all, was truly the largest?

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: The three brothers embark on a journey to seek the wisdom of a sage to resolve their dilemma regarding the division of their shared bull.

Conflict with Nature: The narrative highlights the unpredictable forces of nature, exemplified by the eagle’s sudden snatching of the bull and the ensuing natural events.

Moral Lessons: The story imparts lessons on the unpredictability of life and the importance of seeking wisdom in resolving disputes.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Kyrgyz people

Retold by Mikhail Bulatov
Translated by Irina Zheleznova

Long, long ago in a certain village there lived three brothers who had nothing but one piebald bull between them.

One day the brothers decided to separate and live apart. But how was one bull to be divided among the three of them? At first they thought of selling him, but found no one in the neighbourhood rich enough to buy him. Then they thought of slaughtering him and dividing the meat, but this they could not do, for they were sorry for him.

And so they decided to go to a wise man that he might settle the matter for them.

► Continue reading…

“As the wise man says, so will we do,” they said, and they set off with the bull for the wise man’s village. The eldest brother walked by the bull’s head, the middle brother by the bull’s side, and the youngest brother came behind the bull and drove him on with a stick.

At dawn they were overtaken by a man on horseback who greeted the youngest brother and asked him where he was driving the bull. The youngest brother told him all about everything.

“We are taking the bull to a wise man who is going to settle the matter once and for all,” he said.

And he added, as he bade the horseman goodbye:

“You will soon overtake my middle brother. He is walking by the bull’s side. Give him my regards and tell him to urge on the bull. We want to get to the wise man’s village before nightfall.”

“Very well,” said the horseman, and, putting his horse into a trot, he rode away.

At noon he caught up with the middle brother who was walking by the bull’s side.

“Your younger brother sends you his best regards and asks you to urge on the bull if you want to get to where you are going before dark,” said he..

The middle brother thanked the horseman.

“When you ride up to the bull’s head,” he said, “give my regards to my elder brother and ask him to urge on the bull. We want to reach the wise man’s village as soon as we can.”

The horseman rode on, and it was evening by the time he reached the bull’s head and passed on to the eldest brother what his middle brother had said.

“There is nothing I can do,” said the eldest brother. “It is already dusk. We’ll have to stop and spend the night by the wayside.”

And he slowed his steps.

But the horseman did not stop and rode on.

The brothers spent the night in the steppe, and on the following morning started out again with the bull. All of a sudden the most terrible thing happened. A huge eagle swooped down from the sky, seized the bull in its claws, lifted him up to the clouds and flew away.

The brothers grieved and sorrowed for a time, and then went back home, empty-handed.

The eagle flew on with the bull in its claws. Soon it spied below a flock of goats and among them one which had the longest of long horns. The eagle dropped down, perched on the goat’s horns and began pecking and tearing the bull and strewing his bones all around.

All of a sudden it began to rain, and the goatherd and his flock of goats took shelter underneath the selfsame goat’s beard.

Suddenly the goatherd felt a sharp pain in his left eye.

“A mote must have got into my eye,” he thought.

Towards evening, as he drove his flock to the village, the pain grew worse.

“Call forty doctors, good folk!” he cried. “Let them sail in my eye in forty boats and find the mote. Not a moment of peace does it give me.”

And the villagers went and found forty doctors.

“Get into your boats and sail in the eye of our goatherd, doctors,” said they. “Find the mote and put an end to his pain. Only see that you don’t injure the eye.”

The forty doctors set sail in the goatherd’s eye in their forty boats, and they found the mote which was not a mote at all but the bull’s bladebone which had got into the goatherd’s eye while he was sheltering from the rain under the goat’s beard.

After that the goatherd’s eye stopped hurting him, the doctors all went home, and the bull’s bladebone was taken far beyond the village and thrown away.

Now, soon after this, some nomads happened to be passing the place where the bladebone lay. Night was approaching, and they spoke among themselves and decided to stop and build a fire there.

“This salt marsh is the best and safest place we can find to spend the night,” said they.

But when they were all settled and about to go to sleep, the ground beneath their feet began trembling and quaking. The nomads were frightened, and, piling their belongings on to their carts, moved off in haste.

Only when morning came did they recover from their fright and set up camp. And they sent forty horsemen back to the place where the earthquake had been to find out what it was that had caused it.

The forty horsemen were soon there, and they saw that what they had taken for a salt marsh was really a huge bone—the bladebone of a bull—at which a fox was gnawing even as they watched.

“So that is what made the earth tremble!” the horsemen cried. And taking aim, they let fly their arrows and killed the fox.

After that they set to work and began skinning it. But they only succeeded in skinning one side of it, for, hard as they tried, they could not turn the fox over.

They returned to their camp and told the elders all about it, and the elders began thinking what to do.

Just then a young woman came up to them.

“Do please give me the piece of foxskin your horsemen have brought, for I want to make a cap for my newborn baby,” she said.

The elders gave it to her, and the woman measured her baby’s head and began cutting a cap for him out of the foxskin. But she soon saw that there was only enough fur to make half a cap. So she went to the elders again and asked them to give her the second half of the foxskin.

The elders called the forty horsemen, and the forty horsemen confessed that they had not been able to turn the fox wer and skin its other side.

“If one half of the foxskin is too small for you to make your baby a cap out of it,” said they to the woman, “then you had better go and skin the fox’s other side yourself.”

The woman took her baby and went to where they had left the fox. She turned the fox over easily, skinned its other side and made her baby a cap from the two halves of the skin.

Now, here is a question for you. Which, do you think, was the biggest—

Was it the bull?

Don’t forget it took a man on horseback a whole day to ride from its tail to its head.

Was it the eagle?

Don’t forget that it carried the bull with it to the sky.

Was it the goat?

Don’t forget that it was on its horns that the eagle perched and pecked at the bull.

Was it the goatherd?

Don’t forget that forty doctors sailed in his eye in forty boats.

Was it the fox?

Don’t forget that it started an earthquake by gnawing at the bull’s bladebone.

Was it the baby?

Don’t forget that it was as much as its mother could do to make it a cap from the whole of the fox’s skin.

Or was it the woman who had such a giant of a baby?

Think hard now, and perhaps you will know the answer.

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

Three Brothers

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Uzbek people

Retold by Serghei Palastrov
Translated by Olga Shartse

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

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

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

► Continue reading…

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

And on this, their father rose and left them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus passed the first night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He talked so cleverly that the chieftain replied:

“You did well to come to us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, the Shah sent for the gardener.

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

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

“Your life will be spared. Speak up.”

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

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

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

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

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

And Tonguch-batyr replied:

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

But the Shah insisted:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Story of the Parrot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it was his own mother who spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The 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.

► Continue reading…

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.

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 Flute

In Yedo, a man loved his daughter, O’Yoné, dearly, though her mother died early. The father remarried, unaware of his new wife’s cruelty toward O’Yoné. Before leaving for Kioto, he refused to take O’Yoné, who gifted him a bamboo flute. Months later, haunted by the flute’s wails, he returned to find O’Yoné murdered by her stepmother. He avenged her death and began a sorrowful pilgrimage, carrying the flute.

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

► Themes of the story

Family Dynamics: The narrative delves into the complex relationships within a family, highlighting the bond between O’Yoné and her father, and the subsequent cruelty she endures from her stepmother.

Love and Betrayal: O’Yoné’s father’s remarriage brings betrayal into their lives, as the stepmother’s malevolence contrasts sharply with the father’s love for his daughter.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts lessons on the consequences of jealousy and cruelty, and the enduring nature of parental love and grief.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Long since, there lived in Yedo a gentleman of good lineage and very honest conversation. His wife was a gentle and loving lady. To his secret grief, she bore him no sons. But a daughter she did give him, whom they called O’Yoné, which, being interpreted, is “Rice in the ear.”

Each of them loved this child more than life, and guarded her as the apple of their eye. And the child grew up red and white, and long-eyed, straight and slender as the green bamboo.

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When O’Yoné was twelve years old, her mother drooped with the fall of the year, sickened, and pined, and ere the red had faded from the leaves of the maples she was dead and shrouded and laid in the earth. The husband was wild in his grief. He cried aloud, he beat his breast, he lay upon the ground and refused comfort, and for days he neither broke his fast nor slept. The child was quite silent.

Time passed by. The man perforce went about his business. The snows of winter fell and covered his wife’s grave. The beaten pathway from his house to the dwelling of the dead was snow also, undisturbed save for the faint prints of a child’s sandalled feet. In the spring-time he girded up his robe and went forth to see the cherry blossom, making merry enough, and writing a poem upon gilded paper, which he hung to a cherry-tree branch to flutter in the wind. The poem was in praise of the spring and of saké. Later, he planted the orange lily of forgetfulness, and thought of his wife no more. But the child remembered.

Before the year was out he brought a new bride home, a woman with a fair face and a black heart. But the man, poor fool, was happy, and commended his child to her, and believed that all was well.

Now because her father loved O’Yoné, her stepmother hated her with a jealous and deadly hatred, and every day she dealt cruelly by the child, whose gentle ways and patience only angered her the more. But because of her father’s presence she did not dare to do O’Yoné any great ill; therefore she waited, biding her time. The poor child passed her days and her nights in torment and horrible fear. But of these things she said not a word to her father. Such is the manner of children.

Now, after some time, it chanced that the man was called away by his business to a distant city. Kioto was the name of the city, and from Yedo it is many days’ journey on foot or on horseback. Howbeit, go the man needs must, and stay there three moons or more. Therefore he made ready, and equipped himself, and his servants that were to go with him, with all things needful; and so came to the last night before his departure, which was to be very early in the morning.

He called O’Yoné to him and said: “Come here, then, my dear little daughter.” So O’Yoné went and knelt before him.

“What gift shall I bring you home from Kioto?” he said.

But she hung her head and did not answer.

“Answer, then, rude little one,” he bade her. “Shall it be a golden fan, or a roll of silk, or a new obi of red brocade, or a great battledore with images upon it and many light-feathered shuttlecocks?”

Then she burst into bitter weeping, and he took her upon his knees to soothe her. But she hid her face with her sleeves and cried as if her heart would break. And, “O father, father, father,” she said, “do not go away–do not go away!”

“But, my sweet, I needs must,” he answered, “and soon I shall be back–so soon, scarcely it will seem that I am gone, when I shall be here again with fair gifts in my hand.”

“Father, take me with you,” she said.

“Alas, what a great way for a little girl! Will you walk on your feet, my little pilgrim, or mount a pack-horse? And how would you fare in the inns of Kioto? Nay, my dear, stay; it is but for a little time, and your kind mother will be with you.”

She shuddered in his arms.

“Father, if you go, you will never see me more.”

Then the father felt a sudden chill about his heart, that gave him pause. But he would not heed it. What! Must he, a strong man grown, be swayed by a child’s fancies? He put O’Yoné gently from him, and she slipped away as silently as a shadow.

But in the morning she came to him before sunrise with a little flute in her hand, fashioned of bamboo and smoothly polished. “I made it myself,” she said, “from a bamboo in the grove that is behind our garden. I made it for you. As you cannot take me with you, take the little flute, honourable father. Play on it sometimes, if you will, and think of me.” Then she wrapped it in a handkerchief of white silk, lined with scarlet, and wound a scarlet cord about it, and gave it to her father, who put it in his sleeve. After this he departed and went his way, taking the road to Kioto. As he went he looked back thrice, and beheld his child, standing at the gate, looking after him. Then the road turned and he saw her no more.

The city of Kioto was passing great and beautiful, and so the father of O’Yoné found it. And what with his business during the day, which sped very well, and his pleasure in the evening, and his sound sleep at night, the time passed merrily, and small thought he gave to Yedo, to his home, or to his child. Two moons passed, and three, and he made no plans for return.

One evening he was making ready to go forth to a great supper of his friends, and as he searched in his chest for certain brave silken hakama which he intended to wear as an honour to the feast, he came upon the little flute, which had lain hidden all this time in the sleeve of his travelling dress. He drew it forth from its red and white handkerchief, and as he did so, felt strangely cold with an icy chill that crept about his heart. He hung over the live charcoal of the hibachi as one in a dream. He put the flute to his lips, when there came from it a long-drawn wail.

He dropped it hastily upon the mats and clapped his hands for his servant, and told him he would not go forth that night. He was not well, he would be alone. After a long time he reached out his hand for the flute. Again that long, melancholy cry. He shook from head to foot, but he blew into the flute. “Come back to Yedo … come back to Yedo…. Father! Father!” The quavering childish voice rose to a shriek and then broke.

A horrible foreboding now took possession of the man, and he was as one beside himself. He flung himself from the house and from the city, and journeyed day and night, denying himself sleep and food. So pale was he and wild that the people deemed him a madman and fled from him, or pitied him as the afflicted of the gods. At last he came to his journey’s end, travel-stained from head to heel, with bleeding feet and half-dead of weariness.

His wife met him in the gate.

He said: “Where is the child?”

“The child…?” she answered.

“Ay, the child–my child … where is she?” he cried in an agony.

The woman laughed: “Nay, my lord, how should I know? She is within at her books, or she is in the garden, or she is asleep, or mayhap she has gone forth with her playmates, or …”

He said: “Enough; no more of this. Come, where is my child?”

Then she was afraid. And, “In the Bamboo Grove,” she said, looking at him with wide eyes.

There the man ran, and sought O’Yoné among the green stems of the bamboos. But he did not find her. He called, “Yoné! Yoné!” and again, “Yoné! Yoné!” But he had no answer; only the wind sighed in the dry bamboo leaves. Then he felt in his sleeve and brought forth the little flute, and very tenderly put it to his lips. There was a faint sighing sound. Then a voice spoke, thin and pitiful:

“Father, dear father, my wicked stepmother killed me. Three moons since she killed me. She buried me in the clearing of the Bamboo Grove. You may find my bones. As for me, you will never see me any more–you will never see me more….”

* * * * *

With his own two-handed sword the man did justice, and slew his wicked wife, avenging the death of his innocent child. Then he dressed himself in coarse white raiment, with a great rice-straw hat that shadowed his face. And he took a staff and a straw rain-coat and bound sandals on his feet, and thus he set forth upon a pilgrimage to the holy places of Japan.

And he carried the little flute with him, in a fold of his garment, upon his breast.

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How the Mosquitos Came to Oneata

In ancient Oneata, life was blissful—free of mosquitos and rich with the Kekeo shellfish. But this peace ended when the foolish god Wakuli-kuli traded with the cunning god Tuwara of Kambara. Wakuli-kuli, enchanted by mosquitos’ “sweet song,” traded the shellfish for them. The deceitful bargain brought endless torment to Oneata, as the mosquitos thrived, while the Kekeo was forever lost.

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

Trickster: The cunning god Tuwara deceives Wakuli-kuli into trading the valuable Kekeo shellfish for the troublesome mosquitos, showcasing the classic trickster archetype.

Conflict with Nature: The introduction of mosquitos to Oneata disrupts the natural harmony of the island, leading to ongoing struggles between the inhabitants and the new pest.

Moral Lessons: The story imparts a lesson on the consequences of foolish decisions and the importance of wisdom in leadership.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Fijians

by the Lord of Oneata

In the old days there were no mosquitos in Oneata. Happy times were those; for then we were not tormented by their bitings, and our women also were blest, in that they were not weary with beating out tree-bark for cloths, to make curtains withal, as in this our day. Moreover, we had then the Kekeo, that excellent shellfish, in such numbers that the beach was covered with them. Our fathers ate them every day, and were full; but now, you might search the whole island over, and not one would you find.

A foolish god was the root of this evil; even Wakuli-kuli, who was the god of Oneata in the olden time, and who dwelt here, as a chief, ruling his people.

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A great stay-at-home was he; and indeed there was no saiUng about in those days, for there were no canoes. But when the great Serpent-god brought the great flood upon the tribe of the Mataisau (or “Boat-builders”) because they killed Turu-kawa, his dove, then certain of them drifted to Kambara. Twelve of them were they who drifted thither; and they had tied themselves to a big tree, which floated with them over the waters. Ten were living, and two were dead, having been killed by the sharks as they drifted over the sea. So these ten landed at Kambara, and begged their lives of the chiefs, who spared them, making them their carpenters; and this was the beginning of our having canoes up here to Windward.

Now the men of Kambara, in those days, were eaten up by mosquitos. No rest had they, day or night, because of them; and the noise of the beating was heard continually in every house, as the women beat the bark into cloth to make mosquito-curtains, till their arms ached and were sore weary. Neither had they the Kekeo, that excellent shell-fish; though in these days it is found all along the beach, and the inland lake at Vuang-gava (near Kambara) is full of it, while never a mosquito is there to wake them out of their sleep. And that which brought about this blessed change was the wisdom of their god Tuwara, who dwelt with them in the olden time, ruling them as a chief; even as the god of our fathers ruled here at Oneata.

Happy is the country where the gods are wise: but woe to the land whose god is a fool!

A wise one and cunning was Tuwara; therefore he rejoiced greatly when the Boat-builders drifted to his land, and told him of the wonderful vessels which they could build, wherein men could sail across the seas, even in stormy weather, and live. Glad of heart was he; because he saw what good things might come out of his sailing: he saw, moreover, that his land was full of splendid timber; and he set the ten carpenters to work at once, giving them food, and houses, and wives, that they might forget their weeping for those who were lost; for their beautiful town which was swallowed up by the waves; and for the great and mighty kingdom, now gone from them for ever. So they settled down at Kambara, with their wives, and (in due time) with their little ones, working hard every day at the double canoe that they were building for the god.

Two years and more were they in building it; for in those days there were no knives, nor hatchets, nor gouges, nor saws, nor gimlets in Fiji. Weary then was the work of canoe-building; for sharp stones were our only hatchets; and we used to burn the logs with fire, on the side which we wanted to cut, chopping off the charcoal with our stone axes, and then burning again: so that many were the burnings, and many the choppings before so much as one plank was finished; while, for boring holes, we had nothing but a pointed shell and a small firebrand.

Nevertheless the canoe was finished at last, and dragged down to the sea. Great then were the rejoicings in Kambara, and rich the feast that was made for the Boat-builders: but Tuwara could not rest till he sailed away beyond the reef out into the open sea. So he hurried on the work; and, when all was ready — mast, sail, ropes, sculls, steering-oars, poles; even all the fittings — then went he on board, with the ten carpenters as his crew, and a great crowd of his people besides; and sailed away before a pleasant breeze; all the Kambarans, who were on board, singing a merry song; while their friends, who stayed behind, ran along the beach, shouting after them.

But, when the canoe began to pitch and roll among the waves outside, it was not long before the merry chant was changed into a chorus of groans; and all the singers lay sprawling along the deck; not a man of them being able so much as to lift his head; for they were all very sick.

“Here, now, is a terrible thing!” moaned Tuwara. “What is this, ye carpenters? What is this fearful sickness? Oh, my soul is gone. Villains that you are, to bring me into this evil case!”

But the Boat-builders only laughed. “Let not your soul be small, my lord,” said they. “Wait a little while and your trouble will be over. It is always thus when we first put to sea.” Wherewith Tuwara comforted himself, as best he might; and the canoe went swiftly onward before the pleasant breeze, till Oneata rose out of the waters in their course.

Then said Malani, the greybeard, eldest of the Boat-builders, “There is land, sir, ahead. Shall we steer for it; or whither do you wish to go?”

“Steer for it, by all means,” groaned Tuwara. “Let me but get to land once more!”

So they went to Oneata: and, when our fathers saw them coming, they were sore afraid, and hid themselves in the forest; for they took the canoe for some great living sea-monster coming to devour them: wherefore the town was empty when the strangers landed; and Tuwara threw himself down on the mats in the king’s house, saying, “Now I live!” But when, peeping out from their hiding places, they saw that the Kambarans were men, even as themselves, and that they went about peaceably doing no harm, their souls came back to them again; and, when they had heard the strangers’ report, they took courage, and went down to the beach to see the canoe, whereat they wondered greatly.

Many days did Tuwara stay at Oneata, living in great peace and friendship with the god of that island; for the Kambarans were loth to depart from so good a land as ours, where no mosquitos drank their blood by night, and where they ate the shellfish every day to the filling of their stomachs. And, when they went away, they took the god of Oneata with them, that he might see their land, and that they might return to him and to his men the kindness wherewith they had been treated at Oneata. So these two gods sailed and were seasick together, though the wind was light — so light that the sun was near going down into the waters when they reached Kambara. Then they landed, and went up to the great house, where a rich feast was all made ready and waiting for them, the people having seen them coming afar off.

After they had eaten their fill, and when the kava-bowl was empty, the god of Oneata began to yawn; for he was tired and sleepy.

“Come with me, friend,” said Tuwara. And he took im within the great mosquito curtain.

“What is this?” asked the Oneata god, in great surprise at the bigness thereof, and the beauty of the painting. “A wonderful piece of cloth is this! We have none such in my land. But why do you keep it thus hung up, Tuwara? What, then, is its use?”

“Its use,” answered the other — “its use, do you ask? It is a useful thing. It is useful as a — yes, as a screen to hide me, when I wish to sleep. Therefore do I keep it thus hung up in the midst of the house. And, moreover, it is very useful when the wind blows strong and cold. But let us sleep now, and in the morning I will show you the town.”

Thus spake Tuwara, because he was ashamed of the mosquitos; for he knew that there were none at Oneata; and he wanted to hide from his companion the thing which was the plague of his land. Wherefore he lied to him about the curtain.

Not long was it after darkness had closed in, before the house was full of mosquitos, and the god of Oneata heard them buzzing in thousands outside the curtain, just as he was dozing off to sleep.

“What is that?” cried he. “What sweet sound is that?”

“What can I say to him now?” thought Tuwara in great perplexity; and not being able to think of anything, he pretended to be asleep, and answered only with a snore.

“Hi! Tuwara!” shouted the Oneata god, punching him into wakefulness. “Wake up, Tuwara, and tell me what sweet sounds are these.”

“Eh? What? What’s the matter?” said Tuwara with a yawn.

“What are those pleasant sounds? Truly a sweet and soothing note is that which I now hear.”

“Pleasant sounds? Ah, yes — the buzzing. Oh, that’s only the mosquitos.”

“And what are mosquitos? “ asked his companion.

“They are little insects that fly in the air by night and buzz. I keep them to sing me to sleep,” said the artful Tuwara.

“A treasure indeed!” cried the other god. “Woe is me that there are none at Oneata. Give them to me, Tuwara.”

“Give you my mosquitos! I dare not, indeed. My people would never forgive me. They would hate me, and rebel. Wretched indeed should we be if there were no mosquitos on Kambara.”

“Well, then, give me some of them,” pleaded his companion. “Give me some, and keep some yourself, that we may both have them.”

“It is impossible,” replied the cunning one. “They are a loving tribe. If I send even a few of them away, all the rest will leave me. Truly my soul is sore in that I must refuse you, Wakuli-kuli; but refuse you I must. And now let us sleep, for my word is spoken.”

“No, no!” whined the foolish god, in a voice that was neighbour to crying: “refuse me not, I beseech you. Give me the mosquitos, that I may take them to our land; and, when we hear their song in the night, we shall think of you, and say to our children, ‘Great is the love of Tuwara.’”

“That, indeed, is a tempting thought,” said the Kambara god. “ Glad should I be for you to hold us in loving remembrance. But what am I to say to my people 1 How can I appease their anger when they rage against me, saying, ‘Our god has given away for nothing our dear mosquitos?’” And his voice fell heavy on the words “for nothing.”

“For nothing!” cried the other. “No, truly! All that I have is yours. Name anything that you saw in my land, and you shall have it; only let the insects be mine that sing this pleasant song.”

“Well then — I do not ask for myself. Gladly would I give you freely anything that is mine; but my people, friend, my people! You know these children of men, and their ways, how covetous they are. And what is there in your land that would satisfy them? Of a truth I cannot think of anything at all. Ah, yes! There is the shellfish! That will do. That is the very thing for these people. Fill but their stomachs, and you can do anything with them. Give me the shellfish, friend, and my mosquitos are yours.”

“Willingly, willingly!” cried the other in an eager voice. “It’s a bargain, Tuwara. And now let us lift up the curtain and let some of them in, that I may see them.”

“Forbear!” cried Tuwara, starting up in a great fright, lest the mosquitos should get at his companion and bite him, and he thereby repent of his bargain. “Forbear! Lift not the curtain, friend, lift it not! A modest tribe and a bashful are they; nor can they bear to be looked upon: therefore do they hide themselves by day, and it is in the darkness only that they sing their pleasant song.”

“Wou! wou!” exclaimed the silly one. “Wonderful things do I hear! The curtain shall remain unlifted.”

“And now, do let us sleep,” said Tuwara; “for it is far into the night; and we will sail together in the morning, taking with us the mosquitos.”

So they ceased talking, but neither of them slept; for he of Oneata was listening all night to the song of the biters; and Tuwara was chuckling to himself over the good bargain he had made; being, moreover, fearful that the foolish god would find him out before he could get the shellfish. “I must not let him rise too early,” thought he, “lest there should perhaps be still some of them flying about the house.”

But his companion was stirring with the first streak of dawn. “Wake, Tuwara, wake!” cried he. “Give me the mosquitos, and let us go.”

“Isa, isa!” said the other, with a great yawn. “What a restless one you are! Here you have kept me awake all night with your talking; and now you want me to rise before it is day! Lie still, Wakuli-kuli; lie still yet for a little while. This is just about the time when the mosquitos are gathering together to fly away to the cave, where they sleep till night comes again over the land: and, if we go among them now, we shall disturb them, causing them to flee hither and thither, so that we shall not be able to “catch them for you to-day.”

“That would indeed be an unlucky chance,” said he from Oneata. “Let us by all means lie still, and wait till they be fairly asleep.”

But, so great was his eagerness, that he could not rest. Sorely did he plague Tuwara; starting up every little rhWt, and crying out, “Do you think they are asleep yet, Tuwara?” or “Surely by this time they are all in the cave”: and with many suchlike foolish words did he vex the soul of the Kambara god, till he waxed very wroth, and would have smitten him with his club, but for his hope of the shellfish. Therefore he kept his temper, putting the silly one off from time to time, with soothing words, till it was broad day; and then he said, “Now will they be all asleep. Come, friend, rise, and let us sail.”

How he got the mosquitos together we do not know; but our fathers said he shut them all up in a big basket, which was lined inside, and covered with fine mats, through the plait whereof not even a little one could crawl. And, when this basket was carried on board the canoe, they hoisted the sail, and went out, through the passage, into the open sea, steering for Oneata.

Terribly seasick were they both: but neither of them cared so much for it this time; he of Oneata being cheered by the thought of his sweet singers; and Tuwara because he was now well rid of them, and moreover because of the shellfish; wherefore were they both content to suffer.

The sun was still high in the heavens when they furled their sail at Oneata; and the Oneata god leaped on shore, crying aloud, “Come hither, my people. Come hither, all of you, and see the good things I have brought. Hand down the basket, Tuwara, that the hearts of my people may be glad.”

“Not so!” answered the cunning Tuwara. “The mosquitos are a loving folk, as I told you before; and if we were to let them go while I am in sight, they will not leave the canoe; for they love me, friend, they love me. Give me therefore the shellfish, and I will depart, leaving the great basket with you. And, if you are wise, you will not open it till I am beyond the reef, lest the mosquitos should fly after me, and leave you.”

“True!” quoth the foolish god. “True are your words, Tuwara. A wise god are you; for you think of everything. Come from the beach, from the sea, from the rocks, ye shellfish! Come! for your lord is calling!”

Then from the rocks, from the sea, from the beach, came the shellfish, crawling over the sand, a great multitude. And the Boat-builders threw them into the canoe, our fathers also helping, till it was full, and heaped high above the deck, and there was not one shellfish left on the land.

“Go now, Tuwara,” cried his companion, “give me the basket and go; for the shellfish are all on board.”

So Tuwara handed down the basket, while the Boat-builders hoisted the great sail, and soon the canoe was gliding swiftly away towards the passage; while the Oneata men crowded round the basket, asking their god all manner of eager questions as to its contents.

“It must be something wonderful,” said they, “or our lord would never have parted with the shellfish.”

“Wait and see,” quoth the god, with a self-satisfied smile.

As soon as the canoe had cleared the reef, he untied the fastenings of the basket, and lifted the mat wherewith it was covered. “Here is our treasure,” cried the foolish god.

Then uprose the mosquitos in a cloud, fierce and angry; and Tuwara could hear the screams and yells of our fathers, as they smarted under the sharp bites of the savage insects.

“The god of Oneata’s sweet singers have begun their song,” said he, as soon as he could speak for laughing. “Many fools have I met with among the children of men, but never such a fool as the god of Oneata.”

Many were the schemes which the miserable god tried to rid himself of the plague he had bought so dearly; but they were all in vain, for the mosquitos increased in numbers day by day; and their night-song, that sounded so sweetly in his ears when he first heard it at Kambara, became more fearful to him than the war-cry of an enemy.

Many plots, also, did he lay to get back the shellfish; but what chance had such an one as he in plotting against Tuwara! Once, indeed, after some years, when he had a canoe of his own, he went over to Kambara in the night, making sure of getting them. And standing on the beach he cried aloud: “Come from the shore, from the sea, from the rocks, ye shellfish! Come, for your lord is calling!” but not one of them came — it was as if they heard him not.

There was one, however, who heard him — even Tuwara, who had seen him coming, and lain in wait for him. Creeping therefore softly up behind him, he smote him full on the head with his club, crying aloud, “O villainous god! Would you steal my shellfish?” and drove him howling down to his canoe.

Thus the Kekeo, that excellent shellfish, was lost to us; and thus it was that “The Mosquitos came to Oneata.”

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