Lang Andrew
The Brown Fairy Book
THE SACRED MILK OF KOUMONGOÉ
Far away, in a very hot country, there once lived a man and woman who had two children, a son named Koané and a daughter called Thakané.
Early in the morning and late in the evenings the parents worked hard in the fields, resting, when the sun was high, under the shade of some tree. While they were absent the little girl kept house alone, for her brother always got up before the dawn, when the air was fresh and cool, and drove out the cattle to the sweetest patches of grass he could find.
One day, when Koané had slept later than usual, his father and mother went to their work before him, and there was only Thakané to be seen busy making the bread for supper.
‘Thakané,’ he said, ‘I am thirsty. Give me a drink from the tree Koumongoé, which has the best milk in the world.’
‘Oh, Koané,’ cried his sister, ‘you know that we are forbidden to touch that tree. What would father say when he came home? For he would be sure to know.’
‘Nonsense,’ replied Koané, ‘there is so much milk in Koumongoé that he will never miss a little. If you won’t give it to me, I sha’n’t take the cattle out. They will just have to stay all day in the hut, and you know that they will starve.’ And he turned from her in a rage, and sat down in the corner.
After a while Thakané said to him: ‘It is getting hot, had you not better drive out the cattle now?’
But Koané only answered sulkily: ‘I told you I am not going to drive them out at all. If I have to do without milk, they shall do without grass.’
Thakané did not know what to do. She was afraid to disobey her parents, who would most likely beat her, yet the beasts would be sure to suffer if they were kept in, and she would perhaps be beaten for that too. So at last she took an axe and a tiny earthen bowl, she cut a very small hole in the side of Koumongoé, and out gushed enough milk to fill the bowl.
‘Here is the milk you wanted,’ said she, going up to Koané, who was still sulking in his corner.
‘What is the use of that?’ grumbled Koané; ‘why, there is not enough to drown a fly. Go and get me three times as much!’
Trembling with fright, Thakané returned to the tree, and struck it a sharp blow with the axe. In an instant there poured forth such a stream of milk that it ran like a river into the hut.
‘Koané! Koané!’ cried she, ‘come and help me to plug up the hole. There will be no milk left for our father and mother.’ But Koané could not stop it any more than Thakané, and soon the milk was flowing through the hut downhill towards their parents in the fields below.
The man saw the white stream a long way off, and guessed what had happened.
‘Wife, wife,’ he called loudly to the woman, who was working at a little distance: ‘Do you see Koumongoé running fast down the hill? That is some mischief of the children’s, I am sure. I must go home and find out what is the matter.’ And they both threw down their hoes and hurried to the side of Koumongoé.
Kneeling on the grass, the man and his wife made a cup of their hands and drank the milk from it. And no sooner had they done this, than Koumongoé flowed back again up the hill, and entered the hut.
‘Thakané,’ said the parents, severely, when they reached home panting from the heat of the sun, ‘what have you been doing? Why did Koumongoé come to us in the fields instead of staying in the garden?’
‘It was Koané’s fault,’ answered Thakané. ‘He would not take the cattle to feed until he drank some of the milk from Koumongoé. So, as I did not know what else to do, I gave it to him.’
The father listened to Thakané’s words, but made no answer. Instead, he went outside and brought in two sheepskins, which he stained red and sent for a blacksmith to forge some iron rings. The rings were then passed over Thakané’s arms and legs and neck, and the skins fastened on her before and behind. When all was ready, the man sent for his servants and said:
‘I am going to get rid of Thakané.’
‘Get rid of your only daughter?’ they answered, in surprise. ‘But why?’
‘Because she has eaten what she ought not to have eaten. She has touched the sacred tree which belongs to her mother and me alone.’ And, turning his back, he called to Thakané to follow him, and they went down the road which led to the dwelling of an ogre.
They were passing along some fields where the corn was ripening, when a rabbit suddenly sprang out at their feet, and standing on its hind legs, it sang:
Why do you give to the ogre
Your child, so fair, so fair?
‘You had better ask her,’ replied the man, ‘she is old enough to give you an answer.’
Then, in her turn, Thakané sang:
I gave Koumongoé to Koané,
Koumongoé to the keeper of beasts;
For without Koumongoé they could not go to the meadows:
Without Koumongoé they would starve in the hut;
That was why I gave him the Koumongoé of my father.
And when the rabbit heard that, he cried: ‘Wretched man! it is you whom the ogre should eat, and not your beautiful daughter.’
But the father paid no heed to what the rabbit said, and only walked on the faster, bidding Thakané to keep close behind him. By-and-by they met with a troop of great deer, called elands, and they stopped when they saw Thakané and sang:
Why do you give to the ogre
Your child, so fair, so fair?
‘You had better ask her,’ replied the man, ‘she is old enough to give you an answer.’
Then, in her turn, Thakané sang:
I gave Koumongoé to Koané,
Koumongoé to the keeper of beasts;
For without Koumongoé they could not go to the meadows:
Without Koumongoé they would starve in the hut;
That was why I gave him the Koumongoé of my father.
And the elands all cried: ‘Wretched man! it is you whom the ogre should eat, and not your beautiful daughter.’
By this time it was nearly dark, and the father said they could travel no further that night, and must go to sleep where they were. Thakané was thankful indeed when she heard this, for she was very tired, and found the two skins fastened round her almost too heavy to carry. So, in spite of her dread of the ogre, she slept till dawn, when her father woke her, and told her roughly that he was ready to continue their journey.
Crossing the plain, the girl and her father passed a herd of gazelles feeding. They lifted their heads, wondering who was out so early, and when they caught sight of Thakané, they sang:
Why do you give to the ogre
Your child, so fair, so fair?
‘You had better ask her,’ replied the man, ‘she is old enough to answer for herself.’
Then, in her turn, Thakané sang:
I gave Koumongoé to Koané,
Koumongoé to the keeper of beasts;
For without Koumongoé they could not go to the meadows:
Without Koumongoé they would starve in the hut;
That was why I gave him the Koumongoé of my father.
And the gazelles all cried: ‘Wretched man! it is you whom the ogre should eat, and not your beautiful daughter.’
At last they arrived at the village where the ogre lived, and they went straight to his hut. He was nowhere to be seen, but in his place was his son Masilo, who was not an ogre at all, but a very polite young man. He ordered his servants to bring a pile of skins for Thakané to sit on, but told her father he must sit on the ground. Then, catching sight of the girl’s face, which she had kept bent down, he was struck by its beauty, and put the same question that the rabbit, and the elands, and the gazelles had done.
Thakané answered him as before, and he instantly commanded that she should be taken to the hut of his mother, and placed under her care, while the man should be led to his father. Directly the ogre saw him he bade the servant throw him into the great pot which always stood ready on the fire, and in five minutes he was done to a turn. After that the servant returned to Masilo and related all that had happened.
Now Masilo had fallen in love with Thakané the moment he saw her. At first he did not know what to make of this strange feeling, for all his life he had hated women, and had refused several brides whom his parents had chosen for him. However, they were so anxious that he should marry, that they willingly accepted Thakané as their daughter-in-law, though she did not bring any marriage portion with her.
After some time a baby was born to her, and Thakané thought it was the most beautiful baby that ever was seen. But when her mother-in-law saw it was a girl, she wrung her hands and wept, saying:
‘O miserable mother! Miserable child! Alas for you! why were you not a boy!’
Thakané, in great surprise, asked the meaning of her distress; and the old woman told her that it was the custom in that country that all the girls who were born should be given to the ogre to eat.
Then Thakané clasped the baby tightly in her arms, and cried:
‘But it is not the custom in my country! There, when children die, they are buried in the earth. No one shall take my baby from me.’
That night, when everyone in the hut was asleep, Thakané rose, and carrying her baby on her back, went down to a place where the river spread itself out into a large lake, with tall willows all round the bank. Here, hidden from everyone, she sat down on a stone and began to think what she should do to save her child.
Suddenly she heard a rustling among the willows, and an old woman appeared before her.
‘What are you crying for, my dear?’ said she.
And Thakané answered: ‘I was crying for my baby – I cannot hide her for ever, and if the ogre sees her, he will eat her; and I would rather she was drowned than that.’
‘What you say is true,’ replied the old woman. ‘Give me your child, and let me take care of it. And if you will fix a day to meet me here I will bring the baby.’
Then Thakané dried her eyes, and gladly accepted the old woman’s offer. When she got home she told her husband she had thrown it in the river, and as he had watched her go in that direction he never thought of doubting what she said.
On the appointed day, Thakané slipped out when everybody was busy, and ran down the path that led to the lake. As soon as she got there, she crouched down among the willows, and sang softly:
Bring to me Dilah, Dilah the rejected one,
Dilah, whom her father Masilo cast out!
And in a moment the old woman appeared holding the baby in her arms. Dilah had become so big and strong, that Thakané’s heart was filled with joy and gratitude, and she stayed as long as she dared, playing with her baby. At last she felt she must return to the village, lest she should be missed, and the child was handed back to the old woman, who vanished with her into the lake.
Children grow up very quickly when they live under water, and in less time than anyone could suppose, Dilah had changed from a baby to a woman. Her mother came to visit her whenever she was able, and one day, when they were sitting talking together, they were spied out by a man who had come to cut willows to weave into baskets. He was so surprised to see how like the face of the girl was to Masilo, that he left his work and returned to the village.
‘Masilo,’ he said, as he entered the hut, ‘I have just beheld your wife near the river with a girl who must be your daughter, she is so like you. We have been deceived, for we all thought she was dead.’
When he heard this, Masilo tried to look shocked because his wife had broken the law; but in his heart he was very glad.
‘But what shall we do now?’ asked he.
‘Make sure for yourself that I am speaking the truth by hiding among the bushes the first time Thakané says she is going to bathe in the river, and waiting till the girl appears.’
For some days Thakané stayed quietly at home, and her husband began to think that the man had been mistaken; but at last she said to her husband: ‘I am going to bathe in the river.’
‘Well, you can go,’ answered he. But he ran down quickly by another path, and got there first, and hid himself in the bushes. An instant later, Thakané arrived, and standing on the bank, she sang:
Bring to me Dilah, Dilah the rejected one,
Dilah, whom her father Masilo cast out!
Then the old woman came out of the water, holding the girl, now tall and slender, by the hand. And as Masilo looked, he saw that she was indeed his daughter, and he wept for joy that she was not lying dead in the bottom of the lake. The old woman, however, seemed uneasy, and said to Thakané: ‘I feel as if someone was watching us. I will not leave the girl to-day, but will take her back with me’; and sinking beneath the surface, she drew the girl after her. After they had gone, Thakané returned to the village, which Masilo had managed to reach before her.
All the rest of the day he sat in a corner weeping, and his mother who came in asked: ‘Why are you weeping so bitterly, my son?’
‘My head aches,’ he answered; ‘it aches very badly.’ And his mother passed on, and left him alone.
In the evening he said to his wife: ‘I have seen my daughter, in the place where you told me you had drowned her. Instead, she lives at the bottom of the lake, and has now grown into a young woman.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ replied Thakané. ‘I buried my child under the sand on the beach.’
Then Masilo implored her to give the child back to him; but she would not listen, and only answered: ‘If I were to give her back you would only obey the laws of your country and take her to your father, the ogre, and she would be eaten.’
But Masilo promised that he would never let his father see her, and that now she was a woman no one would try to hurt her; so Thakané’s heart melted, and she went down to the lake to consult the old woman.
‘What am I to do?’ she asked, when, after clapping her hands, the old woman appeared before her. ‘Yesterday Masilo beheld Dilah, and ever since he has entreated me to give him back his daughter.’
‘If I let her go he must pay me a thousand head of cattle in exchange,’ replied the old woman. And Thakané carried her answer back to Masilo.
‘Why, I would gladly give her two thousand!’ cried he, ‘for she has saved my daughter.’ And he bade messengers hasten to all the neighbouring villages, and tell his people to send him at once all the cattle he possessed. When they were all assembled he chose a thousand of the finest bulls and cows, and drove them down to the river, followed by a great crowd wondering what would happen.
Then Thakané stepped forward in front of the cattle and sang:
Bring to me Dilah, Dilah the rejected one,
Dilah, whom her father Masilo cast out!
And Dilah came from the waters holding out her hands to Masilo and Thakané, and in her place the cattle sank into the lake, and were driven by the old woman to the great city filled with people, which lies at the bottom.
[Contes Populaires des Bassoutos.]
THE WICKED WOLVERINE
One day a wolverine was out walking on the hillside, when, on turning a corner, he suddenly saw a large rock.
‘Was that you I heard walking about just now?’ he asked, for wolverines are cautious animals, and always like to know the reasons of things.
‘No, certainly not,’ answered the rock; ‘I don’t know how to walk.’
‘But I saw you walking,’ continued the wolverine.
‘I am afraid that you were not taught to speak the truth,’ retorted the rock.
‘You need not speak like that, for I have seen you walking,’ replied the wolverine, ‘though I am quite sure that you could never catch me!’ and he ran a little distance and then stopped to see if the rock was pursuing him; but, to his vexation, the rock was still in the same place. Then the wolverine went up close, and struck the rock a blow with his paw, saying: ‘Well, will you catch me now?’
‘I can’t walk, but I can roll,’ answered the rock.
And the wolverine laughed and said: ‘Oh, that will do just as well’; and began to run down the side of the mountain.
At first he went quite slowly, ‘just to give the rock a chance,’ he thought to himself; but soon he quickened his pace, for he found that the rock was almost at his heels. But the faster the wolverine ran, the faster the rock rolled, and by-and-by the little creature began to get very tired, and was sorry he had not left the rock to itself. Thinking that if he could manage to put on a spurt he would reach the forest of great trees at the bottom of the mountain, where the rock could not come, he gathered up all his strength, and instead of running he leaped over sticks and stones, but, whatever he did, the rock was always close behind him. At length he grew so weary that he could not even see where he was going, and catching his foot in a branch he tripped and fell. The rock stopped at once, but there came a shriek from the wolverine:
‘Get off, get off! can’t you see that you are on my legs?’
‘Why did you not leave me alone?’ asked the rock. ‘I did not want to move – I hate moving. But you would have it, and I certainly sha’n’t move now till I am forced to.’
‘I will call my brothers,’ answered the wolverine. ‘There are many of them in the forest, and you will soon see that they are stronger than you.’ And he called, and called, and called, till wolves and foxes and all sorts of other creatures all came running to see what was the matter.
‘How did you get under that rock?’ asked they, making a ring round him; but they had to repeat their question several times before the wolverine would answer, for he, like many other persons, found it hard to confess that he had brought his troubles on himself.
‘Well, I was dull, and wanted someone to play with me,’ he said at last, in a sulky voice, ‘and I challenged the rock to catch me. Of course I thought I could run the fastest; but I tripped, and it rolled on me. It was just an accident.’
‘It serves you right for being so silly,’ said they; but they pushed and hauled at the rock for a long time without making it move an inch.
‘You are no good at all,’ cried the wolverine crossly, for it was suffering great pain, ‘and if you cannot get me free, I shall see what my friends the lightning and the thunder can do.’ And he called loudly to the lightning to come and help him as quickly as possible.
In a few minutes a dark cloud came rolling up the sky, giving out such terrific claps of thunder that the wolves and the foxes and all the other creatures ran helter-skelter in all directions. But, frightened though they were, they did not forget to beg the lightning to take off the wolverine’s coat and to free his legs, but to be careful not to hurt him. So the lightning disappeared into the cloud for a moment to gather up fresh strength, and then came rushing down, right upon the rock, which it sent flying in all directions, and took off the wolverine’s coat so neatly that, though it was torn into tiny shreds, the wolverine himself was quite unharmed.
‘That was rather clumsy of you,’ said he, standing up naked in his flesh. ‘Surely you could have split the rock without tearing my coat to bits!’ And he stooped down to pick up the pieces. It took him a long time, for there were a great many of them, but at last he had them all in his hand.
‘I’ll go to my sister the frog,’ he thought to himself, ‘and she will sew them together for me’; and he set off at once for the swamp in which his sister lived.
‘Will you sew my coat together? I had an unlucky accident, and it is quite impossible to wear,’ he said, when he found her.
‘With pleasure,’ she answered, for she had always been taught to be polite; and getting her needle and thread she began to fit the pieces. But though she was very good-natured, she was not very clever, and she got some of the bits wrong. When the wolverine, who was very particular about his clothes, came to put it on, he grew very angry.
‘What a useless creature you are!’ cried he. ‘Do you expect me to go about in such a coat as that? Why it bulges all down the back, as if I had a hump, and it is so tight across the chest that I expect it to burst every time I breathe. I knew you were stupid, but I did not think you were as stupid as that.’ And giving the poor frog a blow on her head, which knocked her straight into the water, he walked off in a rage to his younger sister the mouse.
‘I tore my coat this morning,’ he began, when he had found her sitting at the door of her house eating an apple. ‘It was all in little bits, and I took it to our sister the frog to ask her to sew it for me. But just look at the way she has done it! You will have to take it to pieces and fit them together properly, and I hope I shall not have to complain again.’ For as the wolverine was older than the mouse, he was accustomed to speak to her in this manner. However, the mouse was used to it and only answered: ‘I think you had better stay here till it is done, and if there is any alteration needed I can make it.’ So the wolverine sat down on a heap of dry ferns, and, picking up the apple, he finished it without even asking the mouse’s leave.
At last the coat was ready, and the wolverine put it on.
‘Yes, it fits very well,’ said he, ‘and you have sewn it very neatly. When I pass this way again I will bring you a handful of corn, as a reward’; and he ran off as smart as ever, leaving the mouse quite grateful behind him.
He wandered about for many days, till he reached a place where food was very scarce, and for a whole week he went without any. He was growing desperate, when he suddenly came upon a bear that was lying asleep. ‘Ah! here is food at last!’ thought he; but how was he to kill the bear, who was so much bigger than himself? It was no use to try force, he must invent some cunning plan which would get her into his power. At last, after thinking hard, he decided upon something, and going up to the bear, he exclaimed: ‘Is that you, my sister?’
The bear turned round and saw the wolverine, and murmuring to herself, so low that nobody could hear, ‘I never heard before that I had a brother,’ got up and ran quickly to a tree, up which she climbed. Now the wolverine was very angry when he saw his dinner vanishing in front of him, especially as he could not climb trees like the bear, so he followed, and stood at the foot of the tree, shrieking as loud as he could, ‘Come down, sister; our father has sent me to look for you! You were lost when you were a little girl and went out picking berries, and it was only the other day that we heard from a beaver where you were.’ At these words, the bear came a little way down the tree, and the wolverine, seeing this, went on:
‘Are you not fond of berries? I am! And I know a place where they grow so thick the ground is quite hidden. Why, look for yourself! That hillside is quite red with them!’
‘I can’t see so far,’ answered the bear, now climbing down altogether. ‘You must have wonderfully good eyes! I wish I had; but my sight is very short.’
‘So was mine till my father smashed a pailful of cranberries, and rubbed my eyes with them,’ replied the wolverine. ‘But if you like to go and gather some of the berries I will do just as he did, and you will soon be able to see as far as me.’
It took the bear a long while to gather the berries, for she was slow about everything, and, besides, it made her back ache to stoop. But at last she returned with a sackful, and put them down beside the wolverine. ‘That is splendid, sister!’ cried the wolverine. ‘Now lie flat on the ground with your head on this stone, while I smash them.’
The bear, who was very tired, was only too glad to do as she was bid, and stretched herself comfortably on the grass.
‘I am ready now,’ said the wolverine after a bit; ‘just at first you will find that the berries make your eyes smart, but you must be careful not to move, or the juice will run out, and then it will have to be done all over again.’
So the bear promised to lie very still; but the moment the cranberries touched her eyes she sprang up with a roar.
‘Oh, you mustn’t mind a little pain,’ said the wolverine, ‘it will soon be over, and then you will see all sorts of things you have never dreamt of.’ The bear sank down with a groan, and as her eyes were full of cranberry juice, which completely blinded her, the wolverine took up a sharp knife and stabbed her to the heart.
Then he took off the skin, and, stealing some fire from a tent, which his sharp eyes had perceived hidden behind a rock, he set about roasting the bear bit by bit. He thought the meat was the best he ever had tasted, and when dinner was done he made up his mind to try that same trick again, if ever he was hungry.
And very likely he did!
