path: root/75833-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75833 ***





                              FAIRY TALES
                           FROM SOUTH AFRICA


                 COLLECTED FROM ORIGINAL NATIVE SOURCES
                            AND ARRANGED BY

                          Mrs. E. J. BOURHILL
                                  AND
                            Mrs. J. B. DRAKE

                         WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

                          W. HERBERT HOLLOWAY


                       MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
                      ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON

                                  1908








TO ALL CHILDREN WHO STILL LOVE FAIRY TALES


All the stories in this book are real Fairy Tales, just as much as
“Jack the Giant-Killer” or “The Sleeping Beauty.” By this I mean that
they are traditional, handed down by word of mouth. Nobody knows how
old they are, or who told them first. But little Kafir children sit
round the fire at night and hear them from their old grandmother, and
sometimes—but very very seldom—white people are allowed to hear them
too. You see, the Kafirs are afraid white people would laugh at them,
and so they will only begin if they are quite sure you are really
interested. Even then they never like to tell the tales by daylight,
for they say that if they do so a wicked spirit will cause a horn to
grow out of the middle of their forehead, and they will become as ugly
as an Imbula. [1] Sometimes they can be persuaded, but then they always
take a piece of grass and place it in their hair to ward off evil lest
they be bewitched. But the best time to hear the tales is in the
evening when all the work is done. Then a huge fire is made, and when
all the children have played till they are tired, and sung and danced
till they can remember no more songs to sing, they gather in a circle
and lie upon the ground where they can best see the story-teller. And
if the Kafir people were quite sure you would be interested and
wouldn’t laugh, they would give you the best seat of all and let you
hear the finest tales. All the Kafir children know the tales as we know
ours, but not all can tell them well. When many people are there the
best story-teller will be asked to come forward. Most often it is a
woman with children and grandchildren of her own, whom everybody knows
well. She sits in the firelight, and begins quite quietly. But soon she
gets excited, and before long she acts the whole story before you. She
does it so well that if I were to tell you just the name of the story
you could follow it without knowing a word of the language. One
favourite tale is that which we have called “The Beauty and the Beast,”
and there are ever so many different versions of this story. Other
well-known ones are “Nya-nya Bulembu,” “The Fairy Frog,” and “The Fairy
Bird.”

The little black children all open their eyes with horror when the
monster appears, and you cannot think how glad they are to remember
there are no ogres nowadays who have long red hair and kill and eat
little girls. I don’t think such people ever really existed anywhere,
not even in Kafir-land. They are just like our fairies and ogres;
nobody knows who first thought of them.

But there used to be many bad Kings, like Semai-mai, who made their
subjects unhappy, and much fighting took place in former days. For all
these stories come from the olden times, when there were no white
settlers in the country, and when the Kafirs lived alone and followed
their own customs. They did not have one great King over all, but were
broken up into tribes, and each tribe had its Chief, who was sometimes
called its King. That is why there are so many Kings and Princes and
Princesses in the tales. They were much commoner then than in our days.

These tribes often fought against one another. The great aim of every
Chief was to have plenty of men to do his bidding, and plenty of cattle
in his kraal; and if his neighbour were better off, he often tried to
steal from him. You will notice that the Princes in these tales did not
think of conquering new lands to occupy, as we should, but they all
wanted men to fight for them. It seems as if, in South Africa, there
was always plenty of land, but never enough men and women to occupy it.
There was no money then, but a man’s riches were counted by the number
of his cattle and his wives.

In peaceful times the Kafir men do very little except look after the
cattle. This the women have nothing to do with; they must not so much
as touch the bowls in which milk has been placed. In the old times
fighting was very frequent, so that a Kafir Chief was not so lazy as
many people seem to think. Still, to fight, to look after cattle, and
now and then to set the foundations of a hut, were the only occupations
he had. His women-folk tilled the land, fetched water and wood, and saw
to the cooking. They also thatched the huts, and made the most
beautiful fences of woven reeds. You see, they were often left alone
for weeks and months while the men were away hunting or fighting, so
they had to be able to help themselves.

A Kafir Chief usually had many wives; this was considered due to his
position, but the wife he married first remained the chief lady in his
kraal and ruled the others. They each had their own hut and managed
their own affairs, but of course there were often many quarrels. Poorer
men had one or two wives only. You see, it was expensive to have many;
for every woman had to be paid for with a certain number of cattle.
This payment was called the “lobola,” and no marriage was legal without
it. This does not sound a very good custom, but it worked well in
practice. Savage people are often very unkind to baby girls because
they cannot fight, but among the Kafirs they were always well treated.
The daughters were valuable to their father because of the dowry they
would bring him, and the husbands thought all the more of their wives
because they had cost them something.

Most of these stories were told by Swazis, others by Zulus, and two by
the tribes which live on the Portuguese border in the low, wooded
country. “The Shining Princess” came from the Mapoch Kafirs, who
formerly lived in the north. None of the people who tell them lived on
what is called the high veld. A Kafir loves country with plenty of wood
and water, and he likes to build his hut in some green valley on a
well-drained slope facing the morning sun. Such country is found in
Natal and the eastern parts of Cape Colony, and again in Swaziland and
the Eastern Transvaal. In summer there are marvellous wild flowers and
abundant green grass, and in every mountain valley there are clear
streams bordered with luxuriant ferns and overshadowed with beautiful
evergreen trees. All the rain falls in summer amidst continuous
thunderstorms, and it is often very hot. In winter no rain falls for
four or five months; the sky is clear and shining and the nights are
cold, but by day the sun makes everything pleasantly warm.

The Kafir people still live and flourish in this country. They no
longer make war on one another, for the white people oblige them to
dwell in peace. So now their customs are slowly changing. The women are
gradually ceasing to hoe the lands in the old fashion, and the men are
beginning to plough with oxen; it seems as if in time they will become
tillers of the soil like men in other lands. These stories may soon be
forgotten; so we have written them down for your amusement before it is
too late and no one tells them any more.


                                                  Barberton, Transvaal,
                                                            April 1908.








CONTENTS


                                                             PAGE
    I.     Setuli; or, the King of the Birds                    1
    II.    The Story of the King’s Son and the Magic Song      18
    III.   The Story of the Little Birds who lived in a Cave   28
    IV.    The Story of the Shining Princess                   32
    V.     The Rabbit Prince                                   43
    VI.    The Unnatural Mother                                58
    VII.   The Three Little Eggs                               66
    VIII.  The Serpent’s Bride—Part I.                         78
    IX.    The Serpent’s Bride—Part II.                        99
    X.     The Fairy Bird                                     115
    XI.    The Cock’s Kraal                                   132
    XII.   Baboon-Skins                                       139
    XIII.  The Reward of Industry                             151
    XIV.   The Story of Semai-mai—Part I.                     160
    XV.    The Story of Semai-mai—Part II.                    171
    XVI.   The Fairy Frog                                     187
    XVII.  Nya-nya Bulembu; or, the Moss-green Princess       198
    XVIII. The Enchanted Buck                                 212
    XIX.   The Beauty and the Beast                           224
    XX.    The White Dove                                     237








ILLUSTRATIONS


“The old woman continued to gaze at Setuli, and said
  three times in a loud voice, ‘Speak!’”                   Frontispiece
“He turned to the mountain-side and shouted,
  ‘Men, appear!’”                                       To face page 17
“They climbed and climbed till they were above the clouds”           49
“She came in sight of an enormous hut”                               72
“She ... threw them down a rocky precipice”                         121
“Such was their strength and ferocity that but two or three
  escaped alive out of the whole regiment”                          137
“It was a very old woman, leaning on an immense assegai”            183
“Suddenly a flock of rock-pigeons ... seized the beautiful
  Princess and carried her away”                                    204








I

SETULI;
OR, THE KING OF THE BIRDS

A SWAZI TALE


Many, many years ago there lived a poor man, named Setuli, who was deaf
and dumb. He had never been able to speak, or understand anything but
signs from his birth, and was despised by all his brothers and sisters.

Although he was the son of a powerful Chief, no one so much as looked
at him, and he could never hope to win a bride or have a home of his
own. He had but one friend, an elder brother, who gave him food and
shelter, and was always kind to him. This brother was already old, and
was known as a great magician; he knew the properties of every herb,
and the wonderful powers possessed by birds and beasts. When he went to
search for magic roots he always took Setuli with him, for he found his
eyes were quicker than those of any man in the country-side, and his
fingers more deft.

One day in Spring, when the first rains had fallen and green shoots
were showing among the dry grass, the two brothers went out to gather
roots as usual. They travelled far into the mountains till they reached
a narrow valley full of trees just bursting into leaf. A clear stream
ran down one side among great boulders, ferns were just uncurling their
early fronds, and in sheltered nooks big scarlet daisies shone like
tiny suns. The old magician and Setuli set to work at once, for here
many rare plants flourished. They had been at work an hour or more when
a swarm of beautiful black birds with long waving tails came towards
them, flying in a zigzag course. They settled on the low bushes,
swinging up and down on the branches, and balancing their long tails.

The two brothers both looked up, and in a grave voice the old magician
said to the birds, “Sakobulas, [2] we go to sleep and we get up as we
used to do.” This was the magic greeting they expected. I cannot tell
you what it meant, but when the sakobulas heard it, they flew away
quite satisfied. The two brothers went on digging, and moved farther up
the stream. Then a great swarm of dear little rooibekkies [3] suddenly
appeared, tiny little brown birds with pink breasts and bright red
bills. They fluttered all round, chattering gaily.

The old magician again looked up. “Mantsiane,” [4] said he, “we go to
sleep and we get up as we used to do”; and the rooibekkies flew away
quite satisfied. Then the two brothers went on digging again, and
worked for a long time. All at once there rushed upon them an immense
flight of the most beautiful birds, shining from head to foot with
glorious yellow plumage. Round their necks showed a ring of velvety
black, and there were black feathers in their wings.

“Follow us up! Follow us up!” they cried to the two brothers. “These
are orioles,” said the old magician; “without doubt some great
adventure is before us.” He signed to his brother to leave the roots
and follow the birds.

They travelled over the mountains for three days and three nights,
following the golden birds. On the morning of the fourth day the birds
led them down a steep mountain-side to a deep green valley through
which ran a wide stream. The birds followed the stream till they came
to a deep clear pool under the shadow of great trees. It was very cool
and very still. Tall reeds and big white lilies grew all round the
water’s edge, and over the pool itself were hundreds of water-lilies,
white and purple.

The golden birds turned to the magician and said, “Bring your brother
here and tell him on no account to be afraid, no matter what may happen
to him. He must wait by the edge of the pool amongst the reeds and
lilies.”

The elder brother fetched Setuli and made him understand what was
wanted of him. Then he went away and left his brother alone, wondering
what this new adventure would bring.

Now, though Setuli had always been despised and set aside by all his
relations, he was in reality both wise and brave. He sat down at the
water’s edge and remained perfectly still. Suddenly the waters moved,
and up rose a huge alligator. It came straight towards him, lashing its
great tail and opening its huge jaws. Its teeth glistened in the sun,
and as it walked up the bank it snapped at Setuli and blinked its
wicked little eyes. But Setuli sat perfectly still and pretended not to
notice. The alligator thrust its long nose almost in his face, snapped
its jaws once more, and then, seeing he showed no sign of fear, turned
tail and slipped into the pool again.

Setuli remained sitting, waiting to see what would happen next. For a
little while the pool was still; then the whole of the waters moved and
out came a huge ogre, far more hideous and terrible than the alligator.
He was covered with eyes and glared with every one of them at the deaf
man. Then he roared fiercely and sprang towards him; but still Setuli
did not move so much as an eyelid. The ogre shouted again, and then
disappeared, like the alligator before him.

After that there was no sound or motion for many hours. Setuli sat
watching by the pool. Just as he began to think nothing more would
happen, the water moved quietly and out came a Fairy in the shape of an
old woman. She stood in the waters up to her waist and gazed at Setuli.
On her right hand there perched a beautiful black sakobula, on her left
hand a little rooibekkie, and on her head was a most wonderful oriole,
bright as the rising moon. The old woman continued to gaze at Setuli,
and said three times in a loud voice, “Speak!”

When she uttered the third word Setuli felt a new power had come to
him. He could speak like other people, and he could understand all the
Fairy said.

“Go to your brother,” said she, “and show him you are cured. I have
known both of you long and have determined to help you. Whatever you
want in the future you shall receive; you have only to ask for it.” The
Fairy vanished, and the three birds flew away.

Setuli soon found his brother, and the old man’s astonishment was great
when he heard the deaf man speak. Setuli in his turn was much surprised
to find the three swarms of birds again, just as he had left them on
his journey out. They flew in three separate companies, and at the head
of each company was one more beautiful than the others, evidently the
leader. Setuli soon saw these were the very birds who had accompanied
the Fairy; no doubt she had sent them for his use. He thought deeply
for a time and then made new plans. The result you shall soon hear.

The two brothers journeyed on till they saw a great storm rising. The
sky was blue-black, and a noise could be heard like continuous thunder.

“That is hail,” cried the magician; “we shall be caught here in the
open. Nothing can save us from death.”

“Do not fear,” said Setuli; “wait and you shall see.” He gave a command
and instantly one thousand huts appeared. His brother gazed in
astonishment and delight. Then he said, “What do we want with so many
huts? There is no one to shelter but you and me.”

“I shall want huts for my soldiers and people,” said Setuli. Then he
turned to the companies of birds and changed them all with one word
into warriors. The sakobulas became his first regiment. They were great
tall men clad in leopard skins, holding in their hands assegais [5] and
huge shields of ox-hide. But one thing remained of their former state.
Each man wore on his head a huge cap of the long tail-feathers of the
sakobula. They stood in line, saluted their Chief, and marched to their
huts. Then came the golden orioles. These were Setuli’s bodyguard, and
were even finer than the sakobulas. Their skins were of the silver
jackal; round their knees and arms were bracelets of white ox-tails,
and on their heads were long black ostrich-plumes. Before them stood
the golden oriole, bright as the rising moon, now the general in
command next to Setuli himself. Last of all came the rooibekkies. These
became the little umfaans, the lads who carry all the baggage of the
army and wait on the grown men. Setuli sent them all to their huts just
as the first hailstones struck the ground.

For an hour no one stirred. The sound of the storm was like continuous
roaring thunder; the hailstones were as large as great plums, jagged
and sharp as crystals. Every tree was stripped of its leaves and all
birds and beasts who could not find shelter were killed or maimed. When
the storm ceased the hail lay in icy heaps in every hollow, and the air
was frosty and cold as in mid-winter on the high mountains. A raw mist
rose from the valleys, but Setuli felt no cold. His heart was great
within him, for now he had proved his powers. He called out his troops
once more and reviewed them with joy and pride. “We shall go forth and
conquer a great kingdom,” he said to his brother. “I shall yet be a
rich man.”

The regiments shouted “Bayeta,” the salute which is given only to the
Chief, and swore to follow wherever Setuli led. Generals were appointed
for each division of the army, the three leaders being the birds who
sat on the Fairy’s hands. There was no trouble about provisions or
shelter, for Setuli had only to ask for food and there was abundance
for all.

He now determined to search for a kingdom to conquer. He left the
country of mountains and wooded valleys, and went up to the great
tableland to search for new people to overcome. He travelled with his
army for a year, but never saw so much as one little hut. The land was
empty; on every side was waving grass extending as far as eye could
reach, but no path appeared nor any tree. Great herds of buck sometimes
came towards them and then followed fine hunting; but no man or woman
could they find though they travelled for many months. At last they
turned back towards the low country, and at the end of a year they came
to a range of mountains overlooking an immense plain. Below they saw
great cities surrounded by fields full of mealies. [6] Thousands of
cattle roamed on the hills; they had but to descend and seize all they
wanted.

Setuli bade his men camp in a great valley which could not be seen from
the plain. Then he sent spies to find out how strong the cities were
and how big was the King’s army. But first his brother the magician
gave them a wonderful potion which made them invisible, so that no one
should suspect them. In the evening they returned in great fear. “The
people,” cried they, “are all deaf and dumb; they have but one arm, and
walk on one leg only. Not only that, but as soon as we approached them
we found we were becoming deaf and dumb also, so we ran back as quickly
as possible.”

This troubled Setuli very much. “Don’t go near these people,” said he.
“Let us get right away from the towns and go hunting in the mountains.”

Now Setuli was very wise, and had besides the advice of his brother,
the great magician. He had determined to take possession of all the
inhabitants of this country and drive away all their cattle, but he
felt sure some powerful monster ruled over them who would first have to
be discovered and destroyed. The only thing to do was to devise some
means of attracting him to the camp and killing him unawares. A big
hunt was arranged, and an immense number of birds were taken of all
shapes and colours. Setuli drew a feather out of the tail of every bird
and made a huge many-coloured ball, which he wore as a head-dress and
as a protection for himself, for magic power was in the feathers. Then
he allowed preparations to be made for the great feast which followed
the hunt, but gave special directions to his men.

“Do not eat all the birds,” he said. “Place half of those you have
killed in front of the huts. Put first a whole bird, then the head of a
bird you have eaten, in long rows all round the camp, and then put a
treble row about my own hut.”

The men carried out these commands carefully, and soon the whole camp
was surrounded with dead birds of every hue and shape. When all the
feasting was over and the camp quite still, Setuli crept out of his hut
and hid behind the screen which sheltered the entrance. It was full
moon, and the country shone like silver. Sharp inky black shadows
showed near the river where the bushes grew, and round each hut was a
dark narrow ring in which no object was visible. Setuli crouched behind
his screen of reeds; the camp was absolutely still and deserted.
Towards midnight he heard heavy footsteps approaching. Every now and
then they stopped, then they began again. Setuli stooped lower; without
doubt the monster who owned all the cities in the plain was
approaching. The footsteps were not even; they resembled some one
hopping very heavily. Presently a huge black figure came in sight,
holding a long assegai. He had but one leg and one arm, and stopped
greedily at every hut to eat the birds which lay there. As he came
nearer, Setuli saw that he was of unimaginable ugliness. His eyes were
divided; one was in the middle of his forehead and the other at the
back of his head, so that whichever way he stood he saw you, and you
could not escape him. At the entrance of Setuli’s hut he stopped, gave
a snarl of delight at the sight of so many birds, and sat down to enjoy
them.

He had but one arm, so he laid his assegai down just before the
door-screen. Setuli asked for no better chance; he rose quickly, seized
the assegai and stabbed the monster in the neck. He rolled over with a
groan and lay quite still, apparently dead.

With a joyous heart Setuli roused all his men, and at break of day led
them into the great plain. To their surprise they found the people
walking on two legs and talking as well as themselves. The death of the
ogre relieved the people from the bonds of a wicked enchantment, and
they were only too glad to go with Setuli and his men, they and all
their cattle. By evening all was in order for the march, and at
earliest dawn the company started for the mountains.

They had gone a whole day’s journey, and had reached a point high above
the great plain, when Setuli discovered that he had lost his ball of
feathers. He did not wish to turn his followers back, but neither could
he bear to travel farther without his head-dress, for it had magic
power, and it might be long before he could get such another. So he
bade his army go on under the leadership of his brother, and went down
the mountain-paths as fast as possible till he came to the valley in
which they had camped. There he saw a sight which made his heart stand
still. The ogre whom he had left for dead was sitting up alive and
well, and round him danced and romped hundreds of little ogres, all
with one leg and one arm like their father. They tossed the magic ball
of feathers from one to another and shouted with glee.

Setuli saw he must risk all and trust to his swift feet to get away. He
ran in suddenly, seized the ball of feathers, and turned quickly away
up the mountain-path. As he touched the ball, all the little ogres
vanished like smoke. Only the big one remained, and for a moment he was
dazed and did not understand what had happened. Then he got up and
stamped after Setuli with astonishing speed. It was all Setuli could do
to keep the distance between them, but he was strong and knew the
paths. They leapt from rock to rock, in and out among the trees, till
they came to the grassy slopes which led to the great pass. They
climbed all day till the sun began to set. Then at the very top of the
mountain range Setuli found his army camped along the side of a deep
ravine. Below was a valley many hundreds of feet deep, lined with huge
rocks and great trees. Beyond, many weary hours away, rose another
mountain with green slopes marked with the course of many streams.

“Bayeta!” cried the army when they saw their Chief. “My men,” cried
Setuli, “we have not a moment to lose. Our enemy is behind us and we
shall soon be in his hands. Let every man, woman, and child fix his
eyes on the mountain-side opposite and then leap with all his might.”

Setuli could hear his enemy behind him as his people leapt together
into the air. He ran forward, touched the cattle with his ball of
feathers, and they too jumped with all their might. All landed safely
on the other side, and placed the great ravine between them and the
terrible ogre. Setuli jumped last, just as the monster, breathless and
exhausted, reached the edge of the precipice.

Twilight set in, and when the sun rose next morning Setuli and all his
people found themselves in perfect safety, and set forth once more on
their journey. They travelled all day, and at sunset came to the most
beautiful valley they had ever beheld. It lay far below them, wide,
green, and fertile. Down its centre flowed a clear stream shaded by
great tree-ferns, and bordered with thick green bushes covered with
scarlet flowers. The valley extended as far as eye could see towards
the setting sun; all the hills on either side were closely wooded and
well watered. Setuli turned to his brother and said, “This is the
finest country I have ever seen. We will settle here with all our men.”

At the end of the valley was a very large kraal wherein dwelt the Chief
of the country. Setuli determined to win him over to his side and make
him his man.

So he took his bodyguard and marched down the mountain-paths to the
gate of the kraal. Just as they approached the Chief’s hut he struck
every one of his men on the leg with his magic assegai. They at once
began to walk every man on one leg.

“Never have I seen such magic power,” said the Chief. “You shall be our
King and protect us against all our enemies.”

“I will show you yet more marvels,” said Setuli. He struck his men once
more and they all walked like ordinary human beings. While the Chief
still stared in open-mouthed wonder, he turned to the mountain-side and
shouted, “Men, appear!”

Instantly from top to bottom of the great hill stood line upon line of
magnificent warriors, clad in leopard skins and holding white shields.
They lifted their right hands and shouted “Bayeta!” so that the cry
echoed like thunder from side to side of the valley.

Then Setuli shouted once more, “Men, disappear!” and at once the
hillside was empty and silent.

“You see,” said Setuli, “I have men at my command whenever we need
them.”

“You shall certainly be our King,” cried all the people. So Setuli and
his brother and all the men and women who belonged to them stayed in
the valley, and lived in great peace and happiness all their lives
long.








II

THE STORY OF THE KING’S SON AND THE MAGIC SONG

A SWAZI TALE


Once upon a time there lived among the mountains a great King; and he
had many cattle, which he loved. Among them was a fairy ox, with horns
which curled right across his forehead, and with a voice like thunder;
this ox led the herd, and at his call all the cattle followed him. In
the day-time they fed in the tall grass in the valley, and at night
they were brought home to the big kraal, round which were the huts of
the King and all his men, so that they might be safe from any harm. And
the fence of the kraal was strong and high, and the men watched so that
no evil befell the cattle.

Now the King loved the cattle so much that he made one of his own sons
herdsman. Every morning this boy took the cattle to graze in the
pasture, and at sunset he drove them back to the kraal. All day, in the
hot sunshine, he watched the herd to see that none strayed and were
lost, and to take care that no enemy came in to steal. And because the
grass in summer grew tall, high above his head, and thick, so that he
could not see, he would climb on to one of the great rocks that lay
scattered about the valley. For the rocks were large, large as a hut,
and in the shadow beneath them it was cool and the little rock-ferns
grew; but on the top, where the sunlight fell, the little lizards lay
and caught flies.

Often the boy grew tired as he watched the herds, and longed to lie in
the warm sun and sleep; but he dared not, for he feared his father’s
anger if he should lose him an ox.

But it happened one day that as he watched the cattle a Fairy appeared
to him in the shape of a very old woman. She came and talked to him,
and he told her how he had always watched lest the cattle strayed, and
how he feared lest his father’s foes should come and kill him and take
the cattle.

Then the Fairy pointed to a stone, smooth and large and round, like a
hut that showed up above the grass of the valley. The boy looked, for
he had never seen the stone before. “Come,” she said, “this is your
stone. See, it is so smooth that no one can keep his footing on it or
climb it. But you shall be able. As you grow the stone will grow, and
from it you can watch all the valley, and no enemy will be able to hurt
you, for they could not climb it. But beware that you do not fall
asleep on it, for then all your cattle will be stolen.”

She also taught him a magic song, “Come, cattle, come, all you cattle
come to me,” the melody of which was so enchanting that all cattle who
heard it followed the singer. Then the Fairy vanished away.

So the boy became a splendid herdsman, and none of his cattle were
lost, for every evening he sang to them and they followed him to the
kraal, and none strayed. Nor could any be stolen, for on the rock he
watched in safety. But at last one hot day he fell asleep on the rock,
and the enemy who were watching saw him sleeping, and crept down from
the hills and drove off all the cattle. When he woke up not one head of
cattle could he find. He sang “Come, cattle, come,” but it was in vain;
they did not hear him. He wandered about the valley looking and singing
till the sun began to set, and then in shame and fear went to the kraal
alone. He went to his father and told him all, but the old King was
very angry and drove him from the kraal, saying, “Never come back
unless you bring my cattle with you.”

So the poor boy wandered back sadly to the valley, and climbed upon the
big stone and lay there in the moonlight crying, for he had lost his
cattle and he had lost his home. And as he lay some one touched him,
and he looked up and saw the old woman, the Fairy, who had given him
the stone and taught him the charm. “I know what has happened,” she
said; “you have slept, and what I foretold has come to pass—the cattle
are gone.” “And I am driven from the kraal till I find them,” he said,
and cried again. “Do not despair,” she said, “but go to the Chief who
has your cattle and ask to be his man.”

So the boy rose, and all night long under the moon he travelled between
the grey mountains, up and down by little winding paths between the
grass and rocks, through the streams and bushes, till in the morning,
when the sun rose, he came to his enemy’s kraal, and within it he heard
his father’s cattle.

So he entered the kraal and went to the Chief and offered to be his
man, and the Chief made him herdsman of his own cattle. Every morning
he took them out to pasture and every evening he sang to them the magic
song and brought them home, and none strayed and were lost. Thus he
served the Chief many years, till he was a man full grown. And always
he thought of his father’s kraal, and looked how he might take the
cattle and return. At last the chance came. The great festival of the
first-fruits was at hand. The women made the beer, placed the
calabashes in a row outside the kraal, and on the day appointed the men
and women went out to gather the first ripe maize and Kafir corn from
the lands, and the children went to get wood for the cooking of the
feast, and no one was left in the kraal but an old woman and the King’s
son, who was in charge of the cattle.

When all were gone he took some sango, the herb that intoxicates men
and makes them sleep, and powdered it very fine. Then he went to the
row of calabashes in which the beer stood waiting for the evening’s
feast, and put some into each calabash, and went away and waited till
all came back.

When the Chief and his people returned there was great rejoicing. A hut
of green boughs was made for the Chief, in which he sat, and the
first-fruits were all brought to him, and a branch from each offering
was tied to his arms or neck. Then his wise men brought him a drink
made of herbs and water from the sea, and gave it to all present as a
sign that the feast was to begin. Every one ate of the new corn and the
fresh nuts, and drank of the new beer. Only the King’s son drank none,
and at last all fell asleep; and when the evening came and the moon
rose not a man or woman was left awake.

Then the King’s son stood up and climbed on the wall of the cattle
kraal, and sang the magic song, “Come, cattle, come to me,” and opened
the gate of the kraal. At once the cattle rose up and walked straight
past the huts and the sleeping men and out into the country, following
the King’s son; and as they went the fairy ox with the crumpled horn
bellowed loudly, and at his call all the cattle came from the east and
the west and the south, [7] and followed the King’s son.

And he went towards his father’s kraal.

When his enemies woke in the morning they could not find one head of
cattle in their kraal, nor yet in all the surrounding country. The old
Chief felt sure when he heard this that the King’s son had taken them
away, and he bade all his men arm themselves and follow the culprit. So
his men gathered with their shields of ox-hide and their assegais, and,
finding the path of the oxen, followed it. It did not take them long to
overtake the King’s son, for the cattle moved slowly; and by the
evening of the second day they were in sight of the cattle, and
rejoiced over the thought of their capture.

The King’s son, who saw his enemies moving on the mountains behind him,
was in great fear and knew not what to do, for the cattle could not
travel fast. He led them down the mountain along the banks of a little
stream where the trees grew—tall thick thorns with yellow flowers like
small pincushions, and wild figs with tiny fruit—and tall reeds covered
the banks, and from the trees the monkey ropes hung down to the rocks
and water. And everywhere grew the fern, and the clear water ran and
raced between the stones, slipping from pool to pool and playing with
the leaves and rushes; and the bright flies hung over it in the little
ladders of sunlight slanting through the trees. And there the King’s
son hid his cattle amongst the bush, and sat in the grass under a big
fig-tree to think what he should do.

But he could think of no way to save the cattle. And the evening drew
on, and the shadow rose over the creek [8] and crept up the
mountain-side; and the frogs began to croak and the crickets to sing,
and everywhere was the humming of the gnats. And he sat under the
fig-tree and looked across the valley to the mountain where his enemies
were; and he knew that in the morning they would come and kill him and
take his cattle.

A bat flitted round him in the darkness, so near that he looked up, and
there before him he saw the Fairy. “Do not despair,” she said; “your
task is nearly done. Obey me and all shall be well. Go now and kill a
white ox, skin it, and cut the hide into ten thousand little white
shields, and I will find you soldiers.” So he slew the ox and skinned
it and made of the hide ten thousand little white shields.

Then the Fairy cried to the frogs who lived near the stream, sitting
under all the stones from the top of the hill to the bottom, and whose
voices could be heard all across the valley. “Frogs!” she cried, “will
you take these shields and do as the King’s son bids you?” And from all
over the valley they cried, “We will!” So the King’s son gave them the
shields, and all night long he drilled them in the moonlight. When he
called “Woo-ooh,” they rose up, shouting, with their shields extended;
and when he cried “Boo-ooh,” they fell down and lay hidden.

Before the dawn he placed them in a long line on the mountain-side
where the enemy would see them.

As the first company of the enemy appeared the frogs rose together,
raised their shields, and croaked “Woo-ooh,” with a sound like thunder;
so great, indeed, was the sound that the enemy fell back to their Chief
in terror. “There is an impi [9] of many thousand men across the
creek,” they said; “no one can stand against them.”

The Chief then sent a larger company, but they returned with the same
tale.

Then he went himself with all his army; but when he saw the thousands
of white shields and heard the war-cry, fear seized his heart. “It is
better to return without our cattle than lose our lives,” he said, and
ordered all to go back home again.

So the King’s son was safe. He thanked the frogs, gathered his cattle
together and reached his father’s kraal. The King received him with
great honour, gave him a Princess for his wife, and made him Chief of
all his sons; but every night the King’s son sang his magic song as
before, and kept the cattle in safety.








III

THE STORY OF THE LITTLE BIRDS WHO LIVED IN A CAVE

A ZULU NURSERY TALE


Once upon a time there was a big cave in a hillside, in which lived
hundreds of little birds. There were fathers and mothers and lots of
little ones. Each had his little kraal with a hut no bigger than your
hand, and a fence all round beautifully woven of tiny reeds. One day
all the mothers went out to get food, and said to their little ones,
“Be very good and quiet, and make the huts clean and tidy while we hoe
the lands.”

Then they went out to see to their tiny fields in which they grew their
food—little mealies and tiny sugar-cane, pumpkins no larger than a nut,
and nuts no bigger than grass seeds. The little birds were very good;
they swept the huts out beautifully and tidied them up. Then they
cleaned little shells ready to cook the food, and got water in tiny
leaves. When all was done they sat down and waited for their parents to
arrive.

Suddenly a blackbird came to the door of the cave. He had a long sharp
beak and very long claws. He put his head in and cried, “Fir-r-r-r!
Fir-r-r-r!” first to one side and then to the other in a high clear
voice. All the little birds put their heads out of the tiny huts at
once to see who the intruder might be.

The big bird then said, “All you little birds must turn out at once.
This cave belongs to me.”

At that the little birds were very angry. The boldest of them flew
straight at the blackbird to turn him out, but he was pecked right in
the neck. A little stream of blood appeared, as black as charcoal, and
the little bird fell dead.

Then the big bird attacked many others. He broke the leg of one, he
picked out the eyes of another, he broke the wing of a third. When he
had frightened and scattered them all he flew away.

That evening the mother birds came home, but could not make out why the
cave was so silent. “What is wrong?” they said. “There is no
twittering, no rustling of wings. Something must have happened.”

Great was their grief when they found one little bird dead and so many
others crippled and hurt. “Whoever has done all this?” they cried. Then
the little birds told their tale.

“It was a wicked bird with black feathers and a long beak. There he is
again at the door.”

The mothers turned round and flew in a body at the marauder. But he
just cried “Fir-r-r-r! Fir-r-r-r!” and flew straight up in the air far
out of their reach.

The next day the blackbird came and destroyed all their little lands.
Not a blade of mealies or sugar-cane remained. The mothers were in
despair, and that evening they said they must leave the cave and find a
safer home elsewhere.

Suddenly a tiny bird entered the cave, no bigger than your finger-nail.
He cried “Tweet, Tweet,” ever so sweetly, and flew straight to a little
bird who was only a hen. “You,” said he, “shall kill the blackbird.”

Every one cried out that the little bird was not nearly strong enough.

“You shall kill him,” said the tiny bird. “Fly straight at his head and
pick out his eyes. Then you can easily kill him.”

The little hen took heart of grace and promised to be brave.

Next morning the big bird, sure that this time the cave would soon be
his, put his head in at the door and called in his high wicked voice,
“Fir-r-r-r! Fir-r-r-r!”

Out flew the little hen straight at his head and picked out his eyes
before he knew what had happened. Then the fathers and mothers all
threw themselves on him and in a few minutes he was dead.

After that all the families lived in much peace and happiness, and were
never troubled any more.








IV

THE STORY OF THE SHINING PRINCESS

A ’MSUTO STORY


In a green valley far away among the mountains there was once a most
beautiful kraal. The hut was bright green, finely thatched with grass,
the floor within of red earth, firm and beautifully polished. All the
cooking-pots were of red clay, and stood in good order round the walls,
and with them were shining green calabashes full of milk and cream.
Fine green mats lay on the floor, save in one corner where there was a
little mat woven of mountain-grass the colour of gold. Round the hut
was a high green fence, also of exquisite neatness; indeed all was in
perfect order, and no kraal was kept like it in all the country round.

For it was the home of a great Chief’s wife. Her husband had been dead
many years, and had left her all alone in the world with one little
girl named Maholia, who was only three years old. The Queen had been a
most beautiful woman in her day, and as the little girl grew up she was
just as lovely as her mother. The greatest care was taken of her, and
she was soon as good and obedient as she was charming. Her mother never
married again; indeed it would not have been fitting, as she had been a
King’s wife. She lived only for her child, and they loved one another
dearly. Maholia was the envy of every little girl in the country.
Everything she had was the colour of the golden moon, her necklaces,
her bracelets, and the gold circle she wore round her neck. As she grew
up she became more and more noted for her beauty and charm; she was so
lovely that she dazzled the eyes of all beholders, and was known as the
Shining Princess. Time went on, and when she grew to womanhood many
lovers came forward to ask her in marriage. There was not a Chief’s son
for many days’ journey who did not long to make her his wife. But
neither the Princess herself nor her mother cared for any of them, nor
would they hear of marriage.

Then one day came an embassy from a very powerful King. He was
searching everywhere for a beautiful girl to be his son’s wife, but
though his wise men had travelled far and wide and many girls had been
brought to his kraal, not one had been found to his mind. He decided to
seek yet farther afield, and sent his chief Induna [10] with attendants
in great state to see all the Princesses in far countries who were
famous for their beauty. After many months of travel the Induna began
to hear talk of the Shining Princess. He decided to visit her, though
he feared to be disappointed once more. But at the sight of the green
kraal his hopes rose. At the door the Princess met him. She was shining
from head to foot in the bright sun. Round her neck were thick bars of
red-gold copper; copper and brass rings adorned her shapely arms from
wrist to elbow, and appeared again on her slender ankles, reaching
almost to her knees. Round her waist was a girdle of golden beads,
twisted into a thick rope behind, and in front hanging in a long,
glistening fringe over her short apron of skin. This was again
embroidered in squares with gold and copper beads. Over her pretty
shoulders hung her cloak, also embroidered in circles of gold and
bordered with a wide band of shining beads. Even her snuff-calabash was
gold-coloured, of jackal-skin. Every movement was full of grace, and
her laughing lips and bright eyes showed the kindness of her heart.

When the Induna saw this beautiful woman clad in gold and shining like
the rising moon, he said, “This is the Princess I have been seeking!
This is indeed the wife for our great King’s son!”

He begged to see Maholia’s mother, and formally demanded the hand of
her daughter. Many days passed in discussion. The Queen was loth to
part with her child, but the Induna talked so wisely of his master’s
power and riches, and the bravery and wisdom of the bridegroom, that
she at last consented. The embassy then returned home to the King, and
told him with great joy of the beauty and goodness of the Shining
Princess. The King bade his Chief rest while he gathered together the
marriage-gift of cattle for the Queen-mother. These consisted of one
hundred beautiful animals, at the head of which marched a fairy ox. He
was magnificent, the King’s great pride, but he was considered only due
payment for so fair a Princess. He was black as charcoal, save for two
long white horns, and between his shoulders burned a steady light,
which illumined his path by night and gave him magic power.

When all was ready the wedding-party set out to fetch the bride and
deliver the tribute due to her mother. The Queen was delighted with the
cattle, and especially with the fairy ox.

“Here,” said she to her daughter, “take this ox with you. He is my
present to you; your journey will be long and you will often be glad
to ride him.”

Then she turned to the King’s men and said, “Do not leave my daughter
alone. I am afraid of what may happen to her. If you leave her, I shall
know at once, for the corner in which she has always sat at home will
crumble away.”

The wedding-party promised faithfully to guard Maholia with every care.
The Princess and her mother parted with bitter tears, and she and her
attendant maids set forth with the King’s men.

For two days all went well. But on the third day the men came upon
hundreds of buck of every kind, large and small, and behind these
appeared great herds of elephant and giraffe. The country was full of
game. The King’s men could not resist the temptation, and started off
to hunt; such abundance they had never seen in their lives before. In
the end even the girls joined their party, and all were soon in hot
pursuit. The Shining Princess was left all alone seated on an ant-heap,
the fairy ox by her side. That very moment, as her mother sat in the
hut thinking anxiously of her absent child, the corner on which the
golden mat had lain cracked from end to end and crumbled away.

In the meantime the wedding-party went on gaily hunting; the farther
they went the more fresh buck appeared. They forgot all about the bride
and continued the chase for days. The poor bride sat alone till she was
discovered by a party of cannibals, who seized her and carried her
away. They endeavoured also to secure the fairy ox, but he gave one
great leap into the air out of the midst of the enemy, and flew like
the wind to the Princess’s mother.

The poor Queen met him at the kraal gate, for well she knew some evil
had befallen her daughter. The great ox stood still while she knelt
before him and heard his tale.

“But where is she now?” cried the Queen; “where have they taken her?”

“That is all I know,” said the ox. “The cannibals took her, and so I
came with all speed to you. But do not despair; all will yet be well.”

Meanwhile the King and his son waited and waited for the expected
bride. Weeks and months passed by, and they began to fear some great
calamity. Then, one by one, their men straggled in. They told their
story in great shame; they had left the Princess and forgotten her.
They could not find her again, though they had travelled far and wide.
The King had them all put to death. Then he called his Chiefs together
and asked their advice. They all decided that the bridegroom himself
must go with a body of picked men and search for the bride in her
mother’s home.

The Queen received them with much joy, but her grief was great when she
heard they knew nothing of her daughter. She told them of the return of
the fairy ox and all his tale.

“Be of good cheer,” said the Prince. “I will take the fairy ox myself
and will never return till I can bring your daughter with me.”

Then the Prince took the ox and set forth on his journey. He travelled
for weeks and months, but no trace of the Princess could he find. One
day he came to a marula-tree covered with shining yellow fruit.

“This would be good to make cider,” said the Prince. “I will eat some.”

He had scarcely eaten a few berries when a deep voice came out of the
tree.

“What do you want?” it asked.

“I seek for the Shining Princess,” said the Prince. “Am I on the right
way?”

“Go on,” said the marula, “till you come to the big fig-tree.”

The Prince journeyed yet farther among country overgrown with bush,
till by the side of a stream he came to an immense tree covered with
little red figs. They even grew on the roots, and its leaves were so
thick that no sun could pierce them. He sat down in its deep shade and
said, “I seek the Shining Princess. Am I on the right way?”

“Go on,” said the fig-tree, “till you come to a big river. Beyond it
lies a great forest, and in that forest you will find the Princess.”

The Prince started forth full of joy, and followed the course of the
stream. The next day he found himself in full view of a deep river; it
was in flood, and so wide that he could not hope to cross it.

“Climb on my back,” said the fairy ox; “I will carry you over.”

The Prince did as he was told, and the ox plunged into the water, swam
across, and then flew like the wind over a huge plain. In the far
distance they saw the forest. Every hour it grew larger, till at last
they reached its outskirts, when the Prince found the trees were taller
and thicker than any he had ever seen. He could find no path at all,
and the trees met over his head so that only a dim light filtered
through. High ferns grew on every side, and here and there he crossed
tiny streams fringed with maidenhair. He wandered on for hours without
so much as seeing the sun, always hoping to find some open glade. At
last, far away, he saw a shining pool of water. So he went forward,
guided by the distant shimmer through the trees. As he drew nearer he
saw that the pool was surrounded by reeds. One tall reed stood
quivering in the middle. The gleam of the water grew yet brighter and
more golden, till, as he burst through the last thicket, he found it
was no pool at all, but the Shining Princess herself seated in a circle
of tall grass.

The Prince hailed her with delight, for never had he hoped to find such
beauty. As for Maholia, she knew at once that this was her lover; no
one else could have shown such skill and bravery. Besides, the fairy ox
was there once more, the light between his shoulders burning bright
with joy.

There they sat for hours among the fern, telling one another of all
their wanderings. Maholia, it seemed, had been taken by the cannibals
to the edge of the great forest, for they were travelling towards the
country of their King, which lay in that direction. One dark night she
escaped them and had lived ever since in the midst of the great bush.
When she had told her tale, the Prince had to relate his adventures,
and then he told the Princess how beautiful she was, and how well worth
every danger. And that she wanted to hear over and over again.

Indeed, they might never have left the forest had not the Princess
suddenly remembered her mother and her long anxiety.

“But how am I to take you home?” said the Prince. “I cannot hide you,
and every one will envy me such a beautiful woman, and try to steal you
from me.”

“I can help you,” said the ox, nuzzling the bride affectionately. “I
will change the Princess into an ugly old man. No one will know her
then, and we will travel like the wind.”

Straightway the Princess became a little old man. She and the Prince
mounted on the back of the fairy ox, and they all flew together over
forest, river, and mountain for seven days, till they reached the very
door of her mother’s home.

Then at last all was safely over. The Shining Princess became a bride,
and she and her husband went to their own kingdom. They reigned in
great peace and happiness, and the fairy ox was their devoted follower
and adviser all the days of his life.








V

THE RABBIT PRINCE

A SHANGANI TALE


Many, many years ago there lived a Rabbit and a Duyker who were great
friends. The Rabbit was cunning and wise beyond all animals; the Duyker
was just an innocent little antelope, who was fond of men, and so never
went far from a kraal.

One day the Rabbit said to the Duyker, “Why shouldn’t we have lands and
grow our own mealies and calabashes, just like the men who live in
yonder kraal? I know where there is good ground.”

The Duyker agreed at once, and the two friends had soon chosen their
patch of land. They then hoed it well and set their mealies, their
calabashes, and their ground-nuts, just as they had seen them done by
the wives of the neighbouring Chief. The Duyker had the biggest patch,
and his mealies were wonderfully tall and fine. When autumn drew near
the Rabbit took a bag every day and went to get corn and nuts. But he
never got them from his own field, for that still remained untouched.
One day the Duyker went to see how his crops were getting on, and found
a great part of them gone. He instantly suspected the Rabbit, and
accused him of stealing.

The Rabbit denied the accusation at once with great indignation, and
said, “I have not touched your lands. The King of Kings has done it,
and you will never catch the thief.”

“Then where do you get your mealies? They do not come from your own
lands.”

“What do you suppose we live near a kraal for?” said the Rabbit
cheerfully. “I eat the Chief’s mealies.”

The Duyker was much puzzled, especially when he found only a day later
that his crops had been attacked again. “I shall soon have nothing
left,” said he to the Rabbit. “Do think of something I can do.”

“Let us make a trap,” said the Rabbit. “Perhaps we may catch the thief
after all.”

He took some hairs out of a horse’s tail and tied the whole length in a
succession of slip-knots. Then he laid it on the ground, fixed it with
tiny sticks, and sprinkled earth all over, so that no one could see the
line. Then a few mealies were scattered about lightly, so that birds
might be tempted to scratch and entangle their feet in the knots, which
would tighten at once when they struggled to free themselves.

Next morning the Rabbit and the Duyker went together to the
mealie-patch to examine the trap. To their great joy they found a most
beautiful bird held tight by the fine black threads. It had very long
wings, and was beating them ineffectually in great distress. The Rabbit
seized the knots with his teeth, while the Duyker held the bird; but it
was too quick for them. As soon as it felt the knots were loose it
slipped away from the Duyker with one stroke of its powerful wings, and
soared high up into the clouds.

“Never mind,” said the Rabbit; “we will set the trap again to-night.”

The next day they found the beautiful bird again caught in the long
line of knots. She was not alone, but had with her a great swarm of
birds as beautiful as herself. They circled round and round, watching
the Rabbit and the Duyker as they took the culprit and began to untie
the knots. This time they were more careful, and their prey had no
chance of escape. They carried her to their hut before removing the
slip-knots, and examined her very carefully. She was very handsome, but
the most remarkable thing about her was a very long feather which was
in one wing only. The wise Rabbit instantly guessed that this was the
source of her strength. He pulled it out, but to his astonishment the
bird at once disappeared, and a beautiful Princess stood before him. He
instantly hid the feather, and asked the Princess to remain in the hut.
He would treat her well and bring her food every day.

So the Princess stayed in the hut, for now that she had lost her
feather she could no longer go back to her home in the clouds. The
birds flew to the door of the hut every day and asked her when she was
coming home again.

“Have patience,” said the Princess. “I will return in good time.”

“Where is your long feather?” asked the birds. “Have you lost it?”

“It is quite safe,” said the Princess; “the Rabbit has put it away.”

The Princess lived thus for many days. The more she saw of the Rabbit
the more she admired his wisdom and cunning. “What a pity,” thought
she, “that he is only a Rabbit! No Chief can compare with him in the
whole of my father’s dominions.” And as she was a Fairy and had magic
power, she determined he should be a Rabbit no longer.

One day when the Princess and the Rabbit were alone he said to her, “Do
you know who took your feather?”

“Yes,” said the Princess, “you took it.”

“You are quite right,” said the Rabbit; “do you know where I put it?”

“No,” said the Princess, “but I am quite sure it is safe with you.
Please keep it, but just let me see it for one moment.”

The Rabbit could not resist her, she was so beautiful; so he fetched
the feather. The Princess took it in her hand but did not attempt to
fly away. She just laughed and threw it at the Rabbit.

Instantly he became a handsome Prince, to the Princess’s great joy. The
Rabbit Prince himself saw that this made a great change in his
prospects. He could now woo the Princess as an equal, but he had no
lands to give her. Suddenly he remembered the beautiful plot of ground
which belonged to the Duyker. “I am a man now,” said the Rabbit. “I
will kill the Duyker and give his lands to the Princess.” He lay in
wait, slew the little antelope, and brought it home to the hut. They
had buck that night for supper, and as they sat eating he said to the
Princess, “Come, will you marry me?”

The Princess said, “Yes, I will indeed. But let us keep it secret.
These birds who come from my home must never hear of it, for my parents
would never allow me to marry a man from the earth.”

In the meantime the birds got tired of waiting for the Princess, and
said to one another, “It is all the fault of the Rabbit Prince. We must
kill him or the Princess will never see home again.” They sought
counsel with the Mouse and the Woodpecker, who were reckoned the wisest
magicians in the country, and lived near at hand. They told of a safe
poison to put in the Prince’s food. But the Princess knew her people
well, and warned the Prince in good time. He ate nothing, and escaped
in safety. The Mouse and the Woodpecker in the meantime became so fond
of him they soon refused to do him any harm, and made their home close
to his hut, so that they might see him every day.

But there came a time when the Princess longed to go home again. She
said to the Prince, “Would you like to see my father and mother?”

“Very much,” said the Prince. “Where are they?”

“They live in the sky,” said the Princess. “Go and fetch me the feather
once more.”

The Rabbit Prince brought the feather again, and gave it to the
Princess. She set the feather on the ground. It instantly began to grow
and became taller and taller, till at last it reached the very clouds.

Then they began to climb up. The Prince and Princess went first, and
the Mouse and the Woodpecker followed, for they said they must be with
the Prince, to protect him in case of harm. They climbed and climbed
till they were above the clouds. There they came to the mouth of an
enormous cave, but it was shut by a great big stone. The Princess was
in despair. “How ever can we roll this aside?” she cried.

“There is nothing I cannot nibble through,” said the Mouse. “Let me try
for a few minutes.”

He nibbled hard at the corner of the stone, but had to come back, for
he had made no impression whatever.

Then the Woodpecker stepped forward. “Let me try,” said she. “I make my
little nest in wood; the crevice my beak cannot enter has yet to be
made.” She tapped carefully all round the edge of the great stone, and
suddenly cried: “This is the way to do it.” She had found a tiny swivel
on one side of the stone, no longer than your finger. This she pulled,
and the stone rolled back and the cave stood open.

The Prince was just about to lead his bride in when a huge monster
appeared. On his head were two horns, and on each horn was the head of
a human being. He had eyes all over his body from head to foot, and
every eye glared at the Prince with a green light. But the Princess
just drew out the long feather once more and dug it right into his
face; and he vanished away like smoke.

“Now,” said she, “we can go forward safely.” They walked through the
cave and at the other end found an opening, which looked out on just
such another world as ours. There were wide green valleys and flowing
streams, and in front was a big kraal with beautifully woven huts. This
was the Princess’s home, and she ran towards it joyfully. Her father
and mother appeared in human form to greet her, and all her friends,
whom the Prince had only seen as birds, crowded round her as men and
women, each more full of rejoicing than the other.

“But where did you get this man you have brought with you?” asked her
father when the first greetings were over.

“I have stolen him from below,” said the Princess, laughing merrily.

Her father frowned; he had never had anything to do with the
inhabitants of earth, and was very angry at the idea of any intercourse
with them. When the Princess explained that the Rabbit Prince was her
chosen husband, her parents and all her friends were much annoyed, and
said that they could never hear of any such marriage. The Princess
still pleaded hard for her lover; she told her parents of his wisdom
and power, and said that no girl ever had so clever or so noble a
husband; but the old Chief simply replied that no daughter of the
clouds had ever married a man from the earth. The Prince must be sent
back home.

But as the Princess still clung to the Prince and refused to dismiss
him, her people decided that he must be killed. A big feast of welcome
was arranged, and many days were spent in preparation. The Mouse was
never far from the cooking-pots, and ran in and out all day, picking up
savoury morsels. No one saw him, but nothing escaped his little black
eyes. On the morning of the feast-day he saw all the food set out in
dishes ready for the guests. The Prince’s portion was placed in two
little black pots and decorated with green leaves. When no one was
looking, a strangely-dressed old woman came up, a witch for certain,
and powdered it with some curious stuff, but touched no other pot.

Just as the feast was about to open the Mouse crept up to the Prince,
ran up his back and whispered in his ear: “Eat none of the food
prepared for you; drink the beer—that is the only safe thing.”

The Prince obeyed, and thus escaped the first danger. But the people of
the clouds, much disappointed, assembled all their greatest magicians
and made fresh plans. “We will arrange a hailstorm,” said these wise
men. “Let the Prince go out on the great plains to-morrow. We will see
he does not come back alive.”

Next morning the King of the Sky sent the Rabbit Prince on a journey to
another kraal across a wide plain. When he had travelled some three
hours and was many miles from any shelter, great clouds appeared on the
horizon. They were of the deepest blue-black, and every minute they
spread farther, till the sun was blotted out. And then far away came a
distant continuous rumble of thunder. It never ceased for a moment; the
sound was ever sharper and more threatening, and grew closer and
closer. “That is not thunder,” said the Prince; “it is hail, and there
is no shelter for miles. I shall never see the Princess again.”

“Do not fear,” said a voice at his ear, and he turned and saw the
Woodpecker. “Lie down on the ground. I will protect your head, for I
also am a magician.”

So the Prince lay down, and the little Woodpecker spread out her wings
and hovered over his head. One great hailstone came as if shot from a
gun, then another and another, and then they came in hundreds and
thousands, large as fowls’ eggs, jagged and icy-cold, with a sound like
the roar of many torrents over endless precipices. Such a storm had
never been known in cloudland.

When the Prince returned unhurt and cheerful his enemies were
dumbfounded and more enraged than ever. But they still persevered. They
held a big indaba [11] under a shady tree, attended by their chief men
and all their magicians. A royal hunt was arranged to last for many
days. During their absence from the kraal the Prince was to be killed
by an assegai, as it were by an accident, for none wanted the Princess
to think her husband had been murdered. This time they thought they
could not fail, for they would be sure to have numberless opportunities
in the heat of the chase. But the Woodpecker sat unseen in the boughs
of the tree and heard everything. She was a wise bird and a great
magician, and the instant she understood she flew to the empty hut of
the first wizard of cloudland and there made a charm. She took the fat
of the mamba, the most deadly of all snakes, the fat of the python, who
is the biggest of snakes, and the skin round the lungs of the tiger.
These she mixed together and placed in three little bags of
python-skin, such as could easily be hidden. Then she flew straight to
the Rabbit Prince with the bags in her mouth.

“Take these,” said she, “and wear them always. New dangers threaten
you.”

The Prince obeyed and went gaily to the hunt. He was away for many
days, and every day some Chief attempted his life, but all the assegais
fell back powerless. The charms had rendered him invulnerable.

He returned home safe and sound, but that evening he told the Princess
it was useless to struggle any longer. Her people would never rest till
they had killed him.

The Princess listened in sorrow. Then she said, “You are quite right. I
had hoped they would see in time how clever and brave you are, but it
is no use. We must steal away quickly to earth to-night, and seek our
fortune below. Call the Mouse and the Woodpecker while I make the
ladder ready.”

The Princess drew out the magic feather and held it point downwards
towards the earth. It at once began to grow, and in a few minutes the
point rested close to the Rabbit Prince’s hut. Then the four friends
climbed down and left the land of clouds for ever.

Next morning they held a council. “Something must be done to find men
to serve under us,” said the Prince. “I want a kingdom and cattle for
the Princess; she cannot live in a hut alone.”

“Those three little bags will do all you want,” said the Woodpecker.
“You have only to wish and everything will be given you.”

“Then,” said the Prince, “let me have beautiful huts, strong willing
maids to wait on the Princess, and a wise woman to advise her.”

Straightway there appeared the most perfect huts you can imagine,
filled with everything they could want. Thirty strong cheerful girls
stood before them, and a dear old Queen, who knew everything a wise
woman should, and had the kindest heart in the world.

Then the Rabbit Prince felt his wife would be safe and well cared for,
so he left her under the special protection of the Woodpecker, and he
and the Mouse went forth to seek soldiers and cattle.

Nor did they seek in vain. They soon heard of a mighty King who
possessed warriors and cattle in thousands. By the power of the little
bags the Prince overcame him and took all his warriors and cattle back
to the Princess.

Then he established a great kingdom, and to reward his two friends he
made the Mouse a Prince and the Woodpecker a Princess. He gave the
Mouse soldiers and sent him forth to conquer. I am afraid I have
forgotten the adventures of the Mouse. All I know is that he became a
great Chief, and that to this day both he and his wife are devoted to
the Rabbit Prince.








VI

THE UNNATURAL MOTHER

A SWAZI TALE


Many, many years ago there lived a bride and bridegroom. Now among the
Kafir people a newly-wedded pair always spend their first year with the
bridegroom’s mother, for there are many important ceremonies to be
completed before the bride can be given a home of her own.

So the bride and bridegroom lived in a little hut close to the hut of
the old mother. Every day they all went out to hoe their land, on which
they grew maize, sugar-cane, pumpkins, and calabashes. The calabashes
are good to eat when they are green, and when they are ripe the skin
becomes quite hard, and they make beautiful drinking-vessels. The
mother worked at her patch, and the young people at a separate one of
their own. And every day before they started the young wife made
beautiful food for her husband, and left it in the hut ready for his
return from work, when he would be hungry. There was green
mealie-porridge flavoured with the juice of sugar-cane, young calabash
and spinach, all set out neatly in brown clay pots, and cool native
beer in a big calabash. All was made ready for the evening, when they
would return and her husband would be hungry. But the old mother saw
the beautiful food and longed to have it. So when the young people were
hard at work on their patch she took off her kilt of black ox-skins and
hung it on the handle of her pick. Then she said to the pick, “Pick, go
on working till I return.” This the pick obediently did, and thus
whenever the son looked towards his mother’s patch some one appeared to
be working there.

When all seemed in good order the old mother ran away back to her son’s
hut, entered in and put on his beautiful kilt of jackal and cat-skins,
and all his bead ornaments, which the bride had made for him. She took,
too, his long staff carved at the head, such as no woman uses, and hung
with tails of many animals. In this way she deceived all who passed,
and sat down to her meal, singing a gleeful little song to herself:—


       “I am the bridegroom,
        I wear the bridegroom’s clothes,
        All his beautiful food is for me.”


Then she sat down and ate up everything. When she had finished she went
back to her mealie-patch and hoed busily till it was time to go home.
The bride was dreadfully disappointed when she found all the beautiful
food gone which she had made for her husband, for she was anxious to
show him how clever a cook she was, and so to win the praises of all
his family.

So the next day she tried again, and did yet better. But in the evening
the food had disappeared once more. This happened several days in
succession. So at last the bride and bridegroom consulted together, for
no one knew who the thief was.

“I have a plan,” said the bridegroom. “To-morrow morning you will make
the food as usual, and we will start out together very early and say we
are going to be out all day. Then in an hour or two I will come back
secretly and watch by the hut. In that way I shall be sure to catch the
thief.”

So the next morning the bridegroom returned secretly and sat near his
hut to see what would happen. He could hardly believe his eyes when he
saw his own mother come running back from the field. When he saw her
enter the hut, put on his dress, and begin to eat his food, his horror
was such that he could hardly speak. He rose immediately, went into the
hut, and accused her of being the thief.

“Alas, it is true,” moaned the old mother. “The food was good, and I
was tempted. What can I do to be forgiven?”

“For this crime,” said the son, “you deserve to die, for you have
sinned against nature. But I will not kill you. Only you must go far
away from here and travel into strange countries, and you must never
come back till you have found the water in which there are no frogs, no
fishes, and no animals of any kind. When you have found it, fill this
calabash with it and bring it back to me.”

So the mother took the calabash and set forth on her journey. She
walked for many days over dry and barren country. At last she came to a
beautiful clear pool. She went down to the edge of the water and struck
it with her staff, crying out, “I have been bidden by my son to find
water in which there are no frogs, no fish, and no animals of any
kind.”

Instantly she heard a loud croaking all round the pool, and hundreds of
frogs came out to look at her. So then she knew that this was not the
promised water. She took up her staff and calabash and journeyed on
once more.

And after many more days she came to another pool. This was beautifully
clear, and shone bright blue, like the sky itself. But directly she
came to the edge and struck it with her staff, hundreds of little
silver fishes put their heads out and told her this was not the pool
she was seeking.

Then she was very sad, and thought she would never see home any more.
But she took up her calabash and started again. And after many days of
travel in a dry sandy country she came to a big forest. Here the trees
were very tall, with big glossy green leaves, and underneath were thick
bushes all covered with thorns. But the forest was full of little
paths, which crossed and recrossed one another, and up and down them
passed all kinds of animals. On one side of the forest lay a mountain,
and towards this she journeyed. After a long tramp through the bush she
reached its foot. There at last she saw the most beautiful water. It
fell in a cascade right down the mountain-side, and it glittered like
the moon. Below it formed a pool clear as crystal, and when the old
mother struck it with her staff there was no sound or ripple.

Then she knew she had reached her journey’s end. So she sat down to
rest under a big tree close to the pool, and took snuff. Then she began
to observe the animals who went and came busily by many paths.
Presently they approached and sniffed at her, and at last they said,
“Do you know where you are? This forest and this water belong to a
great King. He allows no one even to set foot in it, and if he finds
you here you will die.”

Then the old mother tried to rise and get away quickly. But she found
she could not do it. While she had been sitting down the limbs of the
tree had grown round her and held her fast. She knew then nothing could
save her, and burst into tears.

In the meantime the animals consulted together as to what could be done
for the old woman. The Lion, their King, was absent in the depths of
the forest, so the Elephant spoke first.

“We must choose wisely,” said he, “for she may help us all. Let the
Giraffe protect her; his neck is so long that he can see through the
trees easily.”

But the Giraffe refused, and suggested that the Tiger was better. He
was so strong and his claws so sharp that no one under his care would
be touched.

“That is quite true at night,” said the Tiger, “but in the day I sit
with my eyes half-closed and see nothing. No! let the Rabbit be sent;
his eyes are large and bright, and no one in all the forest is half so
clever as he.”

The Rabbit consented, and went up to the old mother, saying, “Dear old
mother, why are you crying?”

“I am crying,” she answered, “because I shall never see my home again.
I stole my child’s food, and can never be forgiven till I have found
water in which are no frogs, no fish, and no animals of any kind. Here
I have found the water, but the tree has grown round me and I cannot
move.”

“I will help you,” said the Rabbit. He set to work at once with his
pretty little teeth, and soon he had nibbled through the branches which
grew round her, and she stood upright again. Then he filled her
calabash from the pool and said, “Get out of the forest as fast as ever
you can, before the King sees you, and go straight home. Do not stop to
thank me; your escape will bring us great good fortune.”

The old mother took the water and hastened away. After many days she
reached home, and gave the water to her son. At that very moment the
forest behind her disappeared, and all the animals in it. Instead
appeared a big, big town full of people. All the little paths became
winding streets, and the trees became beautiful round huts, woven with
great skill. The animals became men and women, who lived happily
together in peace and plenty. Many years before a wicked enchanter had
bewitched them, and they had been freed by the old mother who had
carried the water to her son.

As for her, she was forgiven, and awarded every honour in her own home.








VII

THE THREE LITTLE EGGS

A SWAZI TALE


It was very early morning in mid-winter. The sun was just rising over
the great plains in a silver haze which melted into pale gold as the
wide stretches of veld came into view, burnt dry with the summer heats.
The rains had long ago been over. The sun shone every day and all day,
with a pleasant temperate heat in a clear heaven. The whole country
appeared golden, save where the water-courses ran, and a few great
evergreen trees stood up in vivid contrast to the bleached summer
grasses.

By the side of a great fig-tree there was one poor little hut
surrounded by a plaited fence. Close to it was a little patch of
cultivated ground, where a few dried mealie-stalks were still standing.
The air was very cold and raw, and chilled you through and through, but
the sun had barely touched the top of the great tree when a woman came
out hurriedly from the hut and passed through the kraal gate. You could
see she was a married woman by her full kilt of black ox-skins and her
curious peaked headdress. Besides, she carried on her back the dearest
little baby girl, wrapt in a goat-skin and half asleep, and by her side
ran a merry little boy. The mother herself was still young and pretty,
but her face was worn and thin, and if you had looked close you would
have seen that her arms were covered with scars and burns, as if she
had been badly used.

She stood for a few minutes and looked first towards the wide plains.
Then she turned to the other side, where great hills rose up, ruddy and
golden in the early sun. She seemed to hesitate; then she turned to the
mountains, and was soon on a tiny pathway, which led by many windings
to a wooded gorge hundreds of feet above the plains. She did not sing
as she went, and often cast frightened looks behind her. But no one
followed, and after a time, as the hut disappeared from view and the
sun made all things warm and pleasant, she grew less anxious and went
on her way more quietly.

For she was running away from her husband. She had been married now
four years, and every year he had been more unkind. He not only worked
her very hard, and gave her scarcely anything to eat, but also often
beat her, and had even branded her with hot irons till she screamed
with pain. She was good and obedient, and tried hard to please him, but
he only became more and more cruel to her and her children. Two days
before he had gone off to a big dance in a far-away kraal. The poor
woman so dreaded his return that she decided to run away and beg her
living as best she could. She knew there were great Chiefs on the other
side of the mountains, and big cities; she was a good worker, doubtless
they would give her food.

She walked on and on, and the baby girl woke up and began to laugh and
play. They were now following the course of a stream, but only a tiny
trickle of water remained, and the ferns were withered, and the thick
bushes dry and leafless. All at once the mother saw a fluffy white nest
hanging on a long bough.

“How pretty!” said she. “That will be the very thing to amuse baby.”

She went to the bough and detached the soft white nest, while her
little son looked on with much interest. To her great surprise, for it
was yet many months to spring-time, she found it contained three little
eggs.

“Hold it fast,” said she to her little one, “and do not smash the
little eggs on any account.”

Then she journeyed on once more. The sun was sinking fast, and the air
grew colder and colder, for on the hill-tops there is sharp frost every
night. No hut was in sight, though they were now on more level ground,
and the poor mother had no covering but her one goat-skin, and no food.
“Where shall I rest to-night?” said she to herself. “There is nothing
to be seen but the open country.”

Then she heard a tiny voice at her ear, “Take the road to the right; it
will lead you to a safe place.”

She turned and looked, and found it was one of the little eggs in the
fluffy white nest. In very truth she saw there was a tiny pathway to
the right, which she had not noticed before. She took it at once, and
just as the sun disappeared and the white frost began to show, she
found a beautiful hut under the side of a great rock. No one seemed to
live there, but it was warm and cosy, and all ready for her use.
Beautiful karosses [12] of ox-skin and goat-skin hung on the walls;
food was there all ready prepared in little red pots, crushed mealies
and monkey-nuts; and in the calabashes was abundance of delicious thick
milk. [13] The little boy and baby girl cried with delight, and you can
imagine how pleased the poor mother was. The little nest was first
carefully laid aside. Then both mother and children ate a good meal,
for they were very hungry. The little boy fell asleep at once, covered
with the warm skins, but his sister cried and would not lie down
quietly. So her mother tied her on her back once more and sang the
Kafir cradle-song, which is as pretty a thing as you will hear. She
swung gently to and fro, moving her arms as well in time to the low
chant:—


             “Tula, mtwana
              Binda, mtwana
              U nina u fulela
              U nina u fulela
                    Tula, mtwana.”

             “Be quiet, my baby;
              Be still, my child;
        Your mother has gone to get green mealies,
        Your sisters are all gone gathering wood,
                  So be quiet, baby, be still.
        Your father has gone a-walking,
        He has gone to drink good beer,
        Your mother is working with a will,
                  So be quiet, baby, be still.”


Soon the tiny black head leaned forward, the little round arms relaxed,
and baby girl was fast asleep. The tired mother laid her down, and in a
few moments was dreaming by her children’s side.

The next morning they set forth again, much refreshed; they continued
on the same path, and baby girl carried the little eggs as before.
Towards mid-day they came to a place where two ways met. The mother
stood looking at the two paths for a long while, uncertain which to
take. Then a tiny voice spoke in her ear. It was the second little egg
this time. “Take the road to the left,” said he.

So she turned and followed the left-hand path till she came in sight of
an enormous hut, three times as big as any she had ever seen before.
She went straight up to it and looked in at the door, full of
curiosity. It was like no hut she had ever seen. The calabashes and
pots were all blood-red in colour, and very thin; as the breeze came in
at the door they swayed like bubbles and nearly fell, for they were as
light as air. One big pot was blown right across the room, and as the
poor mother’s eyes followed it she all but screamed aloud. For, on the
other side, lay a huge monster, fast asleep. He was immensely tall and
very stout, his body was covered with tufts of brick-red hair, on his
head were two horns, and his long tail lay curled across his knees. He
was an Inzimu, [14] without any doubt, and if he awoke he would kill
the mother and both her babies and eat them up.

“Whatever shall I do?” cried the mother, as she ran from the door. “My
little ones will both be killed.”

Then the third little egg spoke up. “Do you see that big stone? Carry
it with you, and climb on top of the hut.”

The mother looked around, for many rocks were near. She soon saw a
round white stone, just of a size to drop through the thatched roof of
the hut and kill any one it fell on. But it was far beyond her power to
lift it.

“However can I pick it up?” said the poor woman. “It is so heavy.”

“Do as I bid you,” said the egg.

So she stooped down and tried to lift the stone. To her great surprise
she found it quite light, and took it to the back of the hut. Then she
lifted her babies on to the roof, and climbed up herself afterwards,
with the stone in her hand.

“Now let the stone drop on top of the monster,” said the egg.

The mother was just peering through the thatch to find the exact spot
under which the monster lay, when the door opened and in came a second
ogre, dragging after him several dead bodies.

“Now we shall certainly be seen,” said the mother; “all is over.” But
she kept quiet, and did not move. The second Inzimu began to chop up
one of his victims for the evening meal. Once he stopped, sniffed the
air, and said, “There is something good hidden in this hut, but I can’t
make out where it is.”

He looked all round carefully, but never thought of the roof, and
presently put his supper on to boil, and sat down to watch it. Soon
both Inzimus were fast asleep. The mother then looked at her stone, and
said, “Here are two Inzimus. I cannot kill both. What am I to do next?”

“Come down as quietly as you can,” said all the little eggs at once,
“and run with the babies as fast as possible.”

She slipped quietly down, for the hut was round, and the little boy
helped her with the baby. In a few minutes they were away, trembling in
every limb, but the Inzimus did not wake up, and soon the big hut was
out of sight.

The poor mother breathed again, and hoped that now at last she would
find a kraal and human beings to talk to. The path wound in and out
among bushes. They grew ever thicker and more thorny, great trees began
to appear, and it was soon impossible to walk save in the one
direction. The path gave a sudden turn, and there, under a huge
evergreen tree, was a horrible ogress. She lay right across the path,
fast asleep, for the afternoon sun was warm. No doubt she was on her
way home to the big hut. She was even uglier than the Inzimus, for she
had a hideous snout like a wolf’s, and one little horn just between her
eyes. She snored most terribly, so that the branches of the tree shook.

Then the mother thought her last hour had really come, for she could
not return, and the bush was too thick on either side for her to
escape. But the little eggs did not desert her. Two little voices
sounded together.

“Look on your right: there lies a big axe.”

She looked, and sure enough a great axe lay winking in the sun. It was
so large that it must have belonged to the ogress, but the mother
seized it quickly.

“Now,” said the little eggs again, “take that in your hand, go softly
to the tree and lift your babies into the low branches. When they are
safe, climb up yourself and creep along the great arm which is over the
monster’s head.”

The mother crept softly to the tree and lifted her little son up into
the branches. The trunk was smooth and round like that of a beech at
home, and the branches were many and not far from the ground. So the
little boy was able to hold his baby sister when they were safe among
the leaves; the mother mounted herself and crept forward right over the
monster’s head, the axe in her hand. She nearly fell off with fright,
but the little eggs spoke again.

“Aim the axe at the monster’s head.”

She threw it with all her force and hit the ogress just above her horn;
but she was only stunned, not killed.

“Slip down from the tree,” said the third little egg, “and chop off the
monster’s head quickly before she revives.”

The mother was down in a moment, ran forward with desperate courage,
and in a few minutes she had severed the monster’s head from its body.

When it was done she stood back to recover herself, but could scarcely
believe her eyes as she looked. For out of the monster came men, women,
and children, cattle and goats, one after another, till they filled the
path and had to pass along to open ground. Many hundreds appeared, for
the ogress had eaten every kind of animal and whole families of men in
her wicked life. When all had come there were enough to people a great
kraal. Each one on his arrival turned to thank the poor mother and her
children, and when all were there the leaders came forward to ask her
to be their Queen.

“But I should never have done it without the three little eggs,” said
she, and turned to show them the little white nest. She barely touched
it with her hands when it vanished away, and instead appeared three
handsome Princes. The eldest took her hand and said, “You have freed us
from a wicked enchantress by your courage. Your cruel husband is dead;
he was killed in a quarrel the day you fled from home. Be my wife, and
we will rule over these people for ever.”

So the poor mother and her children found a happy home and much honour.
And all the people shouted for joy because they had now both a King and
a Queen.








VIII

THE SERPENT’S BRIDE

A SHANGANI STORY

PART I


In the great wooded plains which lie between the mountains and the sea
there was once a most wonderful river. It was broad and deep, filling
its banks from side to side; great fig-trees and white-flowering thorns
marked its course; and both winter and summer you could tell it afar
off by the masses of evergreen foliage which followed its many
windings. The land through which it flowed was fertile, and vast herds
of goat and sheep fed on the neighbouring hills, for the grass was
sweet and good.

A powerful tribe had settled in these regions and had built themselves
a big city on the side of a hill which sloped up from the river-banks.
There was abundance of wood and good water, and the city was well
drained and faced the morning sun. Below the great kraal the
mealie-fields extended almost to the river-side. The people had plenty
of cattle, and their King was the richest and most powerful in the
whole country. He was also a great hunter, for in the wide plains big
game abounded, and his lion and tiger skins were wonderful to behold.
Indeed, he had but one trouble. He and his people depended on the river
for their daily supply of water, and every now and then it would
suddenly cease to flow. The whole body of the river would dry up,
sometimes in winter, but quite as often in the height of summer, when
rain fell daily and the great white clouds rose from the horizon every
noon. No one knew why this strange thing should happen; sometimes no
water would appear for many days together, and all the women had to
walk long hours through the forest to get fresh water from a distant
stream.

Only one Princess could always fill her calabash, no matter how dry the
river-bed. She was the most beautiful of all the King’s daughters, tall
and graceful, with a skin like satin and eyes that danced like sun upon
the water. But she never went with her sisters to the river, and no one
knew the source of her supply; they supposed she had found some hidden
pool which never quite dried up, and did not wish to share her secret.

Now the river had flowed steadily for many months; spring had come and
then summer; the cornfields were in full ear, and the great tasselled
mealies stood higher than a man’s head. Every day all the Princesses
went down to the river to fetch water and bathe in the great Red Pool.
Only Timba still went alone, but her sisters had long ceased to notice
her love of solitude.

Then one day a strange thing happened. The morning was cool and fresh
after a heavy thunderstorm, the tall grass was drenched with rain, and
all the maidens from the neighbouring kraals came down to the river
singing and laughing. There were tall, well-grown women, and slender
girls, and even little maids of five and six, each with a calabash on
her head. They walked in single file, for the paths were narrow, and
they shouted gaily to one another across the mealie-fields. Only Timba
was silent and walked last of the line behind her sisters.

At the river-side they all stopped, and cries of dismay broke from
every mouth. The bed of the stream was all but empty, and rocks that
were only visible at the end of winter stood high and dry. A tiny
trickle of water still ran in the great Red Pool, but its banks of
crimson earth were bare, and the waving reeds and bulrushes on the
margin showed their mud-stained roots. In a few hours the little water
still remaining would have disappeared in the heat of the summer sun.
With heavy hearts the girls ascended the course of the stream to see if
clear water still remained, but none could be found. Even the little
water-courses lined with fern, which fed the great river, were dry.

“It is no use,” cried they. “We must take what water we can to-day, and
to-morrow we must seek fresh streams.”

They returned home, their calabashes half full of muddy water, and told
the bad news to the King. Only Timba’s water was clear as crystal, and
her jar was so full that she had placed branches of the white-flowering
thorn round the brim to prevent its spilling over as she walked.

The King was much disturbed to find that the river had failed once
more. He set all his greatest magicians to work, and promised
unheard-of rewards to those who would bring water into the river-bed;
but no incantations were of any avail. Rain-doctors came from far away
and cast their magic spells; but though great storms arose and passed
over the land, the river-bed remained empty, and even the deepest
water-holes dried up. But Timba could still get water from the river,
and every day she went down alone as often as she wished and returned
with her brimming calabash crowned with green leaves, her eyes brighter
than ever and full of mysterious joy.

Then her sisters asked at last: “Where do you get your water from?”

And Timba made answer: “I get it from the great King of the Waters. He
commands the whole river and all the streams which run into it, even
the tiniest creeks. He is angry now, and that is why the river is
empty.”

Her sisters were still puzzled, for none of them had heard of any such
King.

In the meantime winter approached with its unclouded skies. The crops
were gathered in; the nights grew cold, and the air all day was fresh
and crisp. No rain would fall now for many months, and the King and all
his wise men knew that the river must remain empty till the spring.
They were in great trouble, for they did not know how they would keep
their cattle alive during the winter, and they even feared for
themselves.

Judge then of their amazement when they found one morning that the
river was full to overflowing as if in the height of the summer floods.
No rain had fallen in the whole of the country; the people could only
rejoice and wonder. That same day the beautiful Princess came running
up from the river laughing and singing, and called her sisters
together.

“What is it? Tell us the news,” said they, for they saw that something
exciting had happened.

“I am going to be married,” said Timba joyfully.

“But to whom? No suitor has been here for many months.”

“To the great King of the Waters,” said she with pride.

“Who is he?” cried her sisters, “and where does he live? It must be far
from here, for no one else has ever spoken of him.”

But Timba would not tell them. To all their questions she only nodded
her head mysteriously, and said, “I know.”

That evening as the sun went down she slipped out of the kraal and went
to the river-bank. The mealies were long since gathered, and the little
path was beaten down hard and firm as the floor of a hut, for no rain
had fallen this long while. She passed the Red Pool, now full from end
to end, and followed the course of the river for half an hour or more
till she came to a great white thorn-tree surrounded by a tangle of
creepers and flowering shrubs. There she stopped and pushed through the
overhanging branches till she reached the water’s edge. She stood
there, knee-deep among green lily leaves, and looked out on a wide
expanse of water. It was still and dark and very deep, and the current
was barely visible on its smooth surface. The banks enclosing it were
of black earth, and at the water’s edge grew great clumps of arum
lilies forming a thick belt of green. In summer the Black Pool was a
place of wonderful beauty; now there were no lilies, and scarcely a
blossom lingered on the bushes. A tiny crescent moon was sinking in the
west, and the reflection of its silver horns quivered in mid-stream.

As Timba waited and watched a tiny ripple broke towards the bank and
the head of a great serpent arose. He was velvety black, save for two
red circles round his glittering eyes, and his neck rose many feet out
of the water. He swam straight to the Princess, who did not scream and
run away but rose to greet him eagerly.

The serpent coiled himself beside her on the bank, and his eyes shone
with joy.

“Do not let us wait any longer,” said he. “Make all preparations for
our marriage. As mid-winter approaches I will cause the river to rise
twice in full flood. Then you will know I am waiting for you, so lose
no time.”

They sat and talked till the little moon sank down and all the stars
came out. Then the serpent rose up and swam away down stream, his head
held high and his huge length extending far behind it.

This was the King of the Waters, who ruled the whole length of the
great river, and it was he who had courted the Princess night and
morning as she came to fetch water. Timba watched him out of sight;
then she went home.

The next day she and all her companions began to get ready for the
marriage. Some of them wove mats out of the golden-coloured grasses,
fine and soft enough to roll up into a tiny space. There were small
mats to grind corn on, so that no meal should fall on the ground and be
wasted, and there were other little mats to cut up meat on. Then there
were long mats for sleeping on; these were made of bulrushes, and were
to be put away all day and brought out only at night. The girls also
took lengths of thin cloth, bought from far-away traders along the
coast in exchange for ivory and horn, and fringed them with strings of
many-coloured beads. These were cloaks for the bride, and were as
graceful and pretty garments as you could wish to see. Then there were
girdles to be made of coloured beads; and many necklaces and all sorts
of dainty ornaments fashioned with twisted wire. For Timba was a
Princess, and she was going to marry a King.

All this took much time. Timba was at work all day, for in winter the
sun sets early, and for some weeks she never went to the river at all,
nor did she see her strange lover once. But one morning towards the
shortest day a young man came running in from rabbit-hunting in the
hills shouting that the river was in full flood. Timba’s heart leapt,
for this was the first of the promised signs. She worked still harder
and hurried her maidens, for now only a few days could remain before
the appointed time.

At last all was ready, and she went down to walk by the river. The
flood had passed, and only a tiny sluggish stream trickled in the midst
of a wide stony water-course. The Princess walked slowly and looked up
the river to see if there were any signs of the second flood. Suddenly
she heard a whistling call from a clump of bushes.

“Ping! Ping! Ping!”

It was the call of her bridegroom, but he was nowhere to be seen. She
then looked up the river once more and noticed for the first time that
the stream was widening. Every moment it became fuller; great boulders
which a minute ago were high and dry were already half covered, and a
dull roar could be heard far away. The high reaches were already in
flood, and the King of the Waters was waiting for his bride.

Timba ran home and sought out her bridesmaids.

“Come quickly,” said she, “and bring everything we have made, but do
not let any one see us. The great King of the Waters is waiting for me
at the river.”

The bridesmaids ran hither and thither collecting all the pretty things
they had made, while the bride arrayed herself for the marriage. In the
Shangani country no one wears the kilt of black ox-skins. So Timba put
on a kilt of cotton cloth, striped in red and blue, which reached to
her knees, and a beautiful girdle of beads. Then she knotted on her
left shoulder a cloak of dark blue cloth heavily fringed in red and
white. The cloth was very thin and hung in folds about her graceful
form. Then she put the most beautiful bead necklaces about her neck,
and covered her arms with bracelets cunningly woven of shining brass
and copper wire. When all was done it would have been difficult to find
a prettier or more pleasing sight.

Then the girls met again and ran by hidden paths to the river without
speaking a word to any one. There the bridesmaids stopped and called to
one another in astonishment. For the river was in full flood and was
now over half-a-mile wide. Great trunks of trees swept past in wild
disorder, their branches tossing on the yellow waters; now and then a
dead buck floated by, and at every moment huge boulders swept past amid
a deafening roar. The girls hurried on to the Black Pool. There the
great thorn-tree still stood out, but the water had already reached its
lower branches. Overhead the sky was clear and cloudless, and the
parched veld, dotted with grey mimosa and leafless shrub, extended for
endless miles to the transparent horizon.

“Never have I seen such a flood,” said one; “surely the river is
bewitched.”

“There has been no rain these three months,” cried another; “where can
the waters have come from?”

“Go home quickly,” commanded the Princess. “Leave everything here and
say nothing about me at the kraal.”

The bridesmaids were no sooner out of sight than the Serpent King
raised his great flat head out of the water. As the Princess watched
him he grew taller and taller, till at length he stood upon his tail
and towered above her. His head reached to the top of the high trees,
and his body was like a black shining pillar. Then he fixed his bright
eyes upon her and said, “Never be afraid of me, no matter what I do.”

“I will never be afraid of you,” said the Princess.

“Are you quite sure?” said the serpent.

“Quite sure,” answered the Princess.

Then the serpent descended again and coiled himself beside her.

“And now,” said he, “what of the lobola? [15] I must send that to your
father, or our marriage is not complete.”

“There is plenty of room in the great cattle-kraal,” said Timba. “They
will understand when they see the oxen that my marriage-gift is come.”

“Wait here,” said the serpent; “I will return at moonrise.”

That night he sent the cattle, and at daybreak there was great
commotion in the city. The Princess had disappeared and the air was
full of strange bellowings, which came from the cattle-kraal in the
centre of the town. One hundred splendid oxen were discovered there,
finer than any one had ever seen before. No one had seen them enter,
and no herdsman was with them; for many a long day the mystery remained
unsolved.

In the meantime the Princess waited. Darkness fell early, and for a
long while only the stars could be seen in the clear sky. Then the long
line of the eastern plains grew clearer and sharper, and slowly the
wonderful winter moon arose.

At that very moment the King of the Waters raised his head from the
pool and darted towards his bride.

“The lobola is paid,” he cried. “Come, let us go.”

Then Timba rose and the serpent lifted her on his back. She put her
arms round his neck and they started to swim down the river under the
great white moon. They passed the silent kraals and the empty fields,
and then they came to wide silvery plains stretching as far as eye
could see. The river flowed without sound. And all the time the King of
the Waters never spoke nor turned his head.

As the dawn appeared they reached the borders of a forest. For many an
hour they had seen no kraal nor any human being, and here the bush was
so thick that no one could hope to get through it. The great serpent
took his bride to the bank and set her down.

“Now remember,” said he, “never be afraid.”

Then he disappeared without another word. All that day Timba waited
alone. As night approached she expected to see the King once more, but
no sign of him appeared. She shuddered as she heard the cries of the
wild beasts searching for their prey. First, just after sundown, came
the laughing cry of the jackal; then later the mournful howling of
wolves; and as the night went on she heard lions roaring close at hand.
Once she heard a tiger grunting a few paces away, and it was all she
could do not to scream aloud. But nothing hurt her, and at dawn all the
strange sounds ceased. The next day she spent alone, thinking with
terror of the approaching night. You can imagine her relief when, at
moonrise, her bridegroom appeared once more.

He took the Princess again on his back and once more they swam down the
river, the dark forest on either side. They journeyed thus in silence
for many hours. At dawn they were still in the heart of the forest. The
trees were the tallest Timba had ever seen; great festoons of creepers
hung from their boughs, while below was a tangle of ferns and many
strange plants. Then suddenly just as the sun rose they entered a
marvellous place. For the river opened out into a wide, still pool,
surrounded by walls of dazzling white. The banks were of shining white
sand and the cliffs above of glittering mica, and in every nook and
cranny grew the loveliest ferns. There were tree-ferns all along the
water’s edge, with wide shady fronds and trunks like those of an
Eastern palm. There were smaller ferns in endless variety, and at the
very edge of the pool grew the most beautiful maidenhair. A wide belt
of green lily-leaves stretched out from the shore, framing the centre
of the pool, which lay clear and placid as a mirror, reflecting the
dazzling blue of the winter sky. Timba had never seen such a sight
before. She longed to alight and rest among the ferns in the bright
sunshine, but the King swam forward to the centre of the pool. There
one could see far below to the white sanded bottom, for the water was
like crystal.

Here the serpent turned his head. “Follow me,” he said.

He glided under the water, and the Princess followed. When she opened
her eyes she found they were far below in the depths of the water. The
light was dim, and at first she could see nothing but the waving stems
of the water-lilies. Then she found they were standing before a group
of most beautiful huts. The King took her to the largest and bade her
enter. Strange to say, it was quite dry and very comfortable. In it she
found all the pretty things which she had brought with her sisters to
the river-bank, and all was in perfect order. She was very hungry and
wanted to ask for food, but she did not dare say anything. The great
serpent turned away and left her, saying: “I will return in the
evening. Shut the door, but leave a little hole in the side of the hut
for me to creep through. Food will appear whenever you desire it.”

And Timba found a delicious meal prepared in beautiful little pots. She
enjoyed it after her long night’s journey, but it was very dull and
lonely, and there was nothing to do. The day passed, and as night drew
on it became very dark and cold. Timba lit a fire in the hut and shut
the door, but remembered to leave a little opening as she had promised.
Then she lay down to rest, tired and puzzled at her bridegroom’s
strange conduct. She was just about to sleep when she heard a snake’s
scales rustling against the thatch without. For the first time she was
afraid as she heard him come. A moment later his head appeared at the
little hole. His eyes flamed in the light of the dying fire, as he
entered and glided towards her. First he touched her feet, then her
knees, and then passed right over her head, always in absolute silence.
Then he turned round and slipped out once more by the way he had come.

The Princess spent the next day alone, and at night lay down again. But
this time she could not think of sleep, and for hours she lay awake,
tending her fire and watching the dark hole in the wall. At midnight
she heard the rustling against the reeds outside. She began to tremble,
but lay quite still and did not speak. The serpent entered as before,
laid his head on her feet and her knees, and again glided over her and
left the hut without a word.

When he had gone the Princess breathed once more, and composed herself
to sleep; but as the next day advanced towards evening she became more
and more troubled.

“Must I spend the end of my days here?” thought she. “Must I always
live in this cold dark place, away from the sun? I shall soon die and
never see my sisters again, or run with them through the
mealie-fields.”

Then she began to think of her former life, and remembered the many
times she had met her lover among the tall lilies, and all the kindness
he had shown her.

“No,” she said; “I must not despair. He will do me no harm; I must keep
my promise and be brave.”

That night she lay in the hut by her wood fire and watched the hole in
the wall. Hour after hour she listened for the familiar rustling, but
no sound came. She could not sleep; her head ached and she was almost
sick with fear.

She threw her last bundle of sticks on the little fire. It was very
cold; in the world above the dawn must be at hand. The flames leapt up
for the last time, and at that very moment a faint sound could be heard
outside the hut. The King of the Waters was there. He entered, his huge
flat head erect and his eyes flaming. The Princess nearly screamed, but
clenched her hands to keep herself quiet. The serpent touched her feet,
then her knees, and last of all her head.

Timba closed her eyes and lay exhausted. All at once a light breeze
seemed to blow on her face, and she looked up again to see what it
might be. To her amazement she found she was again in the world above.
The door of the hut was open, and before her stretched the enchanted
pool, radiant and dazzling in the early morning sun. She turned to look
for the serpent, but he was gone. In his place stood a magnificent man
in the prime of life. He was very powerful, and so tall that his head
nearly touched the roof. Glossy leopard-skins hung from his broad
shoulders, and round his waist were jackal-skins fringed with tails of
the mountain-cat. On his arms and at his knees were bracelets of white
ox-tails, and in his hand he held a great staff beautifully carved. At
one end a man’s head was represented, and below it were tails of black
and white cat-skin. He was a very great Chief indeed; Timba had never
seen any one so handsome before. Only his eyes seemed familiar; they
were very bright and piercing.

The Princess gazed in wonder. Then the Chief smiled.

“Do not be astonished,” said he. “I am the serpent, the great King of
the Waters. Years ago I was deprived of human form by a wicked
magician. He belonged to a king who hated my father, but was never able
to harm him because he was too powerful. One day this wizard met me
walking alone by this river. By his black arts he turned me into a
serpent. My only kingdom should be in the waters, and I was never to
become a man again till I should find a bride without fear. At last I
met you; now I am a man once more. My father has long been dead and my
name is forgotten, so we must seek men and cattle and make a new
kingdom for ourselves. Take this staff; it will give you the power of a
magician. You have only to hold it firmly in your hand and you will
gain the victory over the most powerful enemy. We will rest here awhile
and then go forth together and make great conquests.”

Thus Timba obtained the reward of her courage, and became renowned and
much beloved. I will tell you in the next story how she and her husband
won their kingdom, and how at last she saw her home once more.








IX

THE SERPENT’S BRIDE

PART II


The King of the Waters and his bride rested by the White Pool for many
weeks, making plans for the future and talking much together. They
waited till the spring came, and then as the early summer advanced they
set forth on their travels. For there were no tribes near them for many
a day’s journey, and the King needed great numbers of men and women to
people his kingdom. It was no longer enough for him to command the wide
river and reign alone at the White Pool.

The wicked king whose magician had transformed him into a serpent was
long dead and his nation dispersed, so that there was no one left on
whom he might avenge himself. So the King and Queen journeyed for days
and days through the great forest, and then beyond through open flat
country, till, after many weeks, they came to a new kingdom and people
who did not know them. They travelled alone like ordinary folk, for
they did not wish to be noticed.

The first city they reached was small, but beautifully built on the
side of a hill. Here they entered and talked with the Chief.

“Whose kingdom is this?” asked the King of the Waters.

“This is the kingdom of Volha-Volha,” said the Induna. “He is a great
King and powerful.”

“Does he live near here?” asked the King.

“Volha-Volha lives two days’ journey from here,” said the Induna. “You
follow the path over the hill and across two valleys. Then you come to
our greatest city. But let me warn you; our King does not love
strangers.”

The King of the Waters smiled and thanked the Induna, and then turned
to his wife. Timba meanwhile had been talking with the women, and as
soon as they were alone she said: “There is something curious about
this city. The women seem sad and frightened; they would hardly speak
to me at all, and made excuses to get away. Did you notice how few
children there are? There is some mystery here.”

“We will go on to-morrow towards the King’s city,” said her husband.
“We shall discover what is amiss before long.”

The next morning they set out by the narrow path which led to the
King’s kraal. They left very early in the morning: it was cool and
bright, for autumn was at hand, and the crops were already ripe in the
valleys. They walked till mid-day, the King in front, spear in hand,
casting his bright eyes here and there, so as to be ready for any
enemy, and the Queen behind, holding the magic staff, her blue mantle
waving in the wind.

At noon they came upon a second city, much larger than the first. The
huts were neat and strong, and set in little circles surrounded by a
fence. Little paths ran from one group of huts to another, for there
were no wide roads at all, and a strong palisade encircled the whole
town. Many people were moving to and fro, and one could see they were
rich and prosperous, for the cattle-kraal was very large and
excellently built. The King and Queen decided to wait here and ask more
about the kingdom of Volha-Volha. They came to the chief entrance and
looked about them. Instantly every one began to move towards their
huts, more especially the women, as if they suspected strangers and
were anxious to avoid them.

“Why do the people look at us in this way?” said the Queen. “We are
alone and cannot harm them.”

At last a man came forward hurriedly, with every mark of fear, and led
them to the Induna. There they again asked if they were on the road to
Volha-Volha’s kraal.

“Yes, you are on the right road,” said the Induna briefly. Then he
added: “You have never seen our country?”

“We are strangers, my wife and I,” said the Serpent King. “Our home is
many days’ journey from here.”

The Induna asked many more questions, and when he was satisfied that
Timba and her husband really knew nothing of the country, he offered
them food and rest. But he did not seem to wish to talk, and the King
and Queen soon continued their journey, for they wanted to reach the
second valley before nightfall.

“It is strange,” said Timba. “In that city also I noticed but few
children, and they were all copper-coloured, none were black. Yet these
people are Shanganis like ourselves, and have dark skins.”

“We shall know soon,” said the King.

The afternoon was very hot; the morning freshness had gone, and there
was a heavy feeling in the air. The narrow path mounted up and up
towards a great red cliff, which crowned the hill and extended for more
than a mile. The King and Queen followed its windings till they reached
the foot of the crags. There the path turned and continued under the
precipitous wall.

Suddenly Timba cried out in horror.

“What do you see?” said the King.

“I saw white bones in the grass,” said Timba. “Look! There are still
more. What can they be? They are not like the bones of animals.”

The husband and wife peered among the tall dry grass and the great
boulders. Then they saw that all the ground at the foot of the cliffs
was covered with little white bones. They looked like splintered wood,
for they had lain there many months. Before long they understood the
horror of their discovery, for Timba suddenly saw a tiny skull under a
thorn-bush.

“Now I know!” she cried. “These are the bones of tiny children, and
that is why we saw so few in the cities. What can it all mean? Some
dreadful monster must dwell in this land.”

“We will soon find out,” said the King. “Let us move on quickly, for
there is thunder in the air.”

They hurried forward, the King erect and gloomy, Timba in fear and
sorrow, but grasping her staff firmly, for she felt it might soon be
needed. The clouds rose higher and higher, and lightning began to play
on the horizon like the flash of spears. They reached the top of the
pass, and saw a wide valley and, many miles away, a great city set on
the ridge of a hill. Farther away to the right the hill broke up into a
succession of kopjes [16] so steep and rough that it was impossible to
climb them. The storm drew nearer, and great drops of rain splashed on
the red dust.

“We cannot reach the city to-night,” said the King. “Let us seek
shelter near at hand.”

They hurried on down the mountain-side till they came to a gentle slope
on which stood a tiny kraal. It contained but three huts and a small
enclosure for cattle, but all was very strong and neat. On one side was
a kind of platform supported by poles, and on this stood six immense
baskets made of grass rope. These were waiting to be filled with grain
at the coming harvest; indeed some were already full, for a young woman
was anxiously arranging the cone-shaped lids while glancing every now
and then at the coming rain. As soon as she saw the strangers she ran
to a hut and crept in quickly, as if to avoid them. But Timba and the
King were not surprised; they understood by now that some terror ruled
the country, and that the people feared its coming at any moment. They
went straight forward and begged for shelter.

The young woman admitted them as if she dared not refuse. She was
nearly as tall as Timba herself, and very beautiful, though her skin
was as black as ebony. She was quite young, too, but very grave and
anxious, and started whenever the Queen spoke to her.

The storm was already upon them; the rain descended in torrents, and
soon the entire hillside was seamed with little noisy streams. There
was no question of going on till the next day, and presently the King
and Queen begged to stay the night at the kraal. The young woman, whose
name was Siapi, took them to her hut. Her husband, she said, was away
hunting and she was in charge of the kraal. When the evening meal was
over, she brought some sleeping-mats for her guests; they were very
strong and well woven, indeed all about the hut showed great neatness
and order, and was a credit to its mistress. Then she spread her own
mat on the floor, the door was closed, and presently all were asleep.

At midnight Timba woke suddenly to find the door ajar, and the cold
night wind blowing in. The fire in the centre of the hut was nearly
out, but there was enough glow from the dying embers to show that the
corner in which the young wife slept was empty. Timba was much puzzled,
and listened to hear if any one was moving about. Suddenly she heard a
baby’s cry, followed by quick hushing and many caresses. Then she
remembered again the ghastly red cliff and the frightened women she had
seen the day before. Without doubt the young wife had a baby and was
hiding it from some danger. Timba arose quickly, determined to know
all.

The clouds had not all dispersed, but the moon shone fitfully, and it
was easy to see anything near at hand. Timba looked all round the
little kraal, and presently, to her great surprise, she saw the young
mother standing on the grain store and lifting out of one of the big
baskets a beautiful little baby.

Timba ran towards her and poor Siapi screamed.

“Oh!” she cried, “do not betray me, do not tell them about my little
girl!”

“I will tell no one,” said Timba. “But why are you afraid? What is the
matter?”

“Do you not know then?” said the poor mother with wide-open eyes.

“How should I? We are strangers.”

“Every year Volha-Volha, our King, kills every baby born in this
country who is black. Only copper-coloured babies may live, for he is
determined his people shall be black no longer. The time approaches for
his spies to come and seize our little ones. Then his impis kill them
with assegais and knobkerries, and throw them over the great red cliff.
We have no helper or defender. Volha-Volha is all-powerful. Every year
he does bad deeds, but this is the most cruel of all. My little girl
was born three months ago; she is as black as can be. I hid her here,
for no spy climbs up to the grain stores; but if they find her I will
not live; we will die together.”

“Do not fear any more,” said the Queen. “I will help you.”

Then she stamped on the ground with her magic staff, and instantly
there appeared the kindest old woman you ever saw.

“Here,” said the Queen, “is a very wise Fairy. Give her your baby and
she will fly like the wind over hills and dales, and take her wherever
you wish, to a place where kings do not kill babies.”

Siapi looked up in wonder and delight. “Take her to my sister,” she
said; “she will care for her, and I shall have nothing more to fear.”

So the old Fairy took the baby, who cooed with delight in her arms. A
moment later they were gone.

“And now,” said Timba, “we will rest, and to-morrow we will tell the
King, my husband.”

The next day Siapi told the Serpent King of her sad lot and that of all
her people; how they lived in hourly terror of spies, and thus dreaded
the sight of any stranger; and how, no matter what they did,
Volha-Volha was too clever and too cruel to allow them to escape.

Then the King of the Waters burst into great wrath. “Such a man should
die,” cried he. “He shall pay with his own life for the tears of all
these mothers.”

That evening, as the sun went down, he called Timba and Siapi, and bade
them follow him to a lonely spot out of sight of the kraal. Then he
turned towards the Queen and said, “Hold your staff firmly while I
summon my armies.”

He looked towards the mountain and shouted in a terrific voice:


       “Vuka panzi, mabutu,
        Si bulale Volha-Volha.”

       “Rise, soldiers,
        Let us kill Volha-Volha;
        He has slain every black baby.
        Rise, impis, rise,
        The pot is boiling over.”


And instantly there sprang from the ground a splendid impi of a
thousand men with flashing spears. Three times did the King repeat the
charm, and each time fresh men appeared. Then he placed them in order,
and bade them march upon Volha-Volha’s city. He then told the Queen to
stay at the kraal with Siapi, and to hold the magic staff in her hand
day and night till he returned in triumph.

As darkness fell he and all his army disappeared like shadows down the
mountain-side. No one in all the country had seen them; they crossed
the valley and climbed the great hill with amazing swiftness. At
cock-crow they surrounded the city, and fell on it with a sudden shout
like thunder. Volha-Volha had no time to place his men in order, and
fled in panic to his rocky stronghold, calling on his magicians to
follow him. In an hour the King of the Waters held the whole of the
chief city; but he had by no means obtained all he wanted. For his
enemy was now hidden in the caves and inaccessible rocks which crowned
the hill. There he had stored grain sufficient for many months, and
with him were his magicians and the most wicked of his soldiers. They
had long feared attack, and their stronghold was well prepared.

Then followed a long, tedious fight, which lasted for many a day. Inch
by inch the King of the Waters advanced into the stronghold, and one by
one he killed all Volha-Volha’s men. The wicked magicians, driven
desperate, cast every spell they knew, but Timba sat with her staff in
her hand day and night and thwarted all their plans. At last the
Serpent King reached the inmost defence of all, and there among the
thorns Volha-Volha was discovered crouching at the back of a dark cave.
His magicians had all been killed, and he was powerless to do any more
evil.

“Die like a dog!” cried the warriors of the Serpent King. “Die, you who
have killed all the black children!”

And they assegaied him at once. His body was thrown over the cliffs and
his name wiped out.

Then the King of the Waters returned to his wife with great rejoicing,
and told her they were now rich and powerful beyond belief. He sent
orders to every city formerly held by Volha-Volha, bidding the
inhabitants come with him and live in a new country. They all rose up
with one accord and thus they journeyed, men, women and children, to
the land near the great river. Many thousands of cattle went with them,
and also large numbers of sheep and goats; such wealth had never been
seen before in the country.

Now, as soon as the news came that Volha-Volha was really dead and his
people free, the Queen sent a messenger to fetch the little baby girl
she had rescued. The messenger had far to go, and when he returned with
the little maiden the King’s new subjects were already beginning to
build their kraals. The baby was given to the happy mother alive and
well, but the messenger had gathered bad news as he travelled. For he
heard that the people who lived about the Red Pool were coming in armed
force to attack the King of the Waters. The river had been dry now for
nearly a year; the rains had begun, and still the water did not rise,
so that they feared starvation and ruin.

When the King of the Waters heard this he said to the Queen, “Come, let
us go to the White Pool and give them water.”

So they both rose up and left their people and travelled through the
forest till they came to the White Pool. It was now early summer, the
ferns were renewing themselves in tints of tenderest green, the white
sand and the glittering cliffs shone in the sun. But most beautiful of
all were the water-lilies. They covered the pool in thousands,
silvery-white and pale blue, with buds of delicate mauve. Above them
hovered myriads of shining flies with wings of rainbow gauze. The air
was warm and still, the water clear as could be. For the White Pool was
never empty, no matter how long the rains stayed away.

“Now,” said the King to Timba, “lift your staff and command the waters
to rise, and let us return to your people.”

So Timba lifted her staff, and she and the King turned towards the
upper streams. Everywhere they met little rivulets of water, which
seemed to spring from the ground as they advanced. Soon the river was
in full flood; and the King of the Waters and his bride swam together
till they came to the Black Pool. There the lilies stood in thousands,
creamy-white and glorious to behold, and there the King and Queen came
to shore.

“And now,” said the King, “we will visit your father and make peace.
And because of all I owe to you the river shall flow for ever, summer
and winter, and shall never be empty again.”

Then Timba and her husband went to the kraal and were received with
much rejoicing. And when the old father saw the wonderful power of the
King of the Waters, he said that he and all his people wished to live
under the protection of such a mighty Chief and thus be free of all
anxiety. So the two peoples became one, and the King and Queen of the
Waters lived in joy and honour all their lives long.








X

THE FAIRY BIRD

A SWAZI TALE


Ever so many years ago there lived a little boy and girl called Duma
and Dumasane. They were brother and sister and lived happily together
in a tiny kraal at the foot of a great mountain. Duma was four years
older than Dumasane, but both were born in summer in the midst of a
great storm, so they were called alike children of Duma, the thunder.
Their father and mother were poor, and had but one hut surrounded by a
fence, and possessed no herds nor cattle of any kind. Their only food
came from the fields which they worked themselves, and often at the end
of the day the father and mother would long for a good calabash of
thick milk. But they were too poor to buy even a goat, and could only
sigh and shake their heads over their misfortune.

One morning they all went forth to hoe their lands, for the sun was
growing warmer every day and the spring rains would soon arrive. “We
will try new ground,” said the father, “the old lands are getting worn
out, and there is plenty of good soil farther down the valley.”

He walked first along the narrow path, then came the mother, and then
Duma and Dumasane, each with their pick. Presently they reached a
beautiful piece of land, smooth and level and free from stones, and
soon all were hard at work turning the first sods. At sundown they went
home, well satisfied with their day’s work. You can imagine how puzzled
they were the next morning when they found all the sods turned back in
their old places, and the ground as smooth as if no one had set foot on
it.

They set to work once more, and again prepared a big piece of land for
sowing. But the following morning the same thing happened again: not a
sign remained of yesterday’s labour. They persevered for many days, but
every night their work was made of no avail.

“There must be some reason for this,” said the father at last. “I will
stay behind to-day, and see what happens.”

So when Duma and Dumasane and their mother went home the father slipped
behind a great rock, and watched the newly-turned lands. He had not
been there long when he saw the most beautiful bird come out of the
bushes and alight on the fresh sods. It was like no bird he had ever
seen, for its feathers were of every colour; its wings were of vivid
scarlet, its tail a metallic blue, and its head a bright gold, which
shaded into a bronze-green on its breast. It shone like a jewel in the
sun, and seemed to laugh with joy. It flew to the very stone behind
which the father lay hidden, and alighted on the highest point. Then it
flapped its wings and said in a high clear voice: “Chanchasa!
Chanchasa! Kilhisa!”

At that very moment every sod in the field turned over; you would have
said no one had ever been near the valley. The father kept very quiet
and waited till the bird was within arm’s reach. Then he caught it
suddenly.

“Now,” said he, “I have got you! You are clever enough to take my food,
so it is only fair you should now provide me with a meal.” And he
prepared to wring its neck.

“No, no! Spare me!” cried the bird. “If you will only give me my life I
will provide you with cream, fresh milk, and curds and whey all your
days.”

The father opened his eyes at this. “I can see you are a fairy bird,”
said he, “and if what you say is true I will keep you alive.”

He went straight home, holding the bird in his hand. At the kraal gate
he bade his wife send the children out while she prepared the evening
meal. He then shut the door of the hut and showed her the bird.

“Of what use is the bird to us?” said she.

“You will soon see,” said her husband. He took the sack of woven grass
through which they strained their beer, placed the bird in it, and hung
it in the middle of the hut. Then he took a great calabash and held it
up—for only a man may have anything to do with dairy work—and called on
the bird to fulfil its promise.

“Chanchasa! Chanchasa! Kilhisa!” called the bird in its high voice,
flapping its wings.

First the calabash was filled with cream, then with sweet milk, and
then with thick milk, as much as ever they could use in one day. The
wife was delighted, for the cream would keep their karosses in the most
beautiful condition, and the milk would make the children big and
strong.

“Do not let us tell any one about this bird,” said she, “he is far too
wonderful. He must live here, but we will say nothing about him, and
not let the children know how we get the milk and cream.”

That night they feasted well. The next day they went out to hoe their
lands with a light heart, and sang merry songs:


       “Now we have cream and milk,
        Fresh milk, and curds and whey;
        Now we go a-working
        Singing merrily every day.”


But Duma and Dumasane were much puzzled at the big basin of curds which
they had every night. Where did it come from? There was neither flock
nor herd within many miles, and yet there was cream, fresh milk, and
thick milk every day.

“I know,” said Dumasane to her brother one day. “They get it in the
evening when they sit alone in the hut and will not let us in.”

“Suppose we look through the thatch,” said Duma. “I know where there is
a chink.”

That evening they both watched; they saw the bird come out of his sack,
flap his wings, and fill each calabash to the brim. The next morning
their parents left them alone in the kraal, for they had far to go.
They started merrily enough, singing songs of rejoicing over their
wonderful prosperity:


       “Now we have cream and milk,
        Fresh milk, and curds and whey.”


The wife sang even louder than her husband, for now she was as rich as
any of her neighbours and her heart was full of pride. Little did they
think of the misfortune which awaited their return.

They came back at dusk, tired, but eager for their welcome meal. A most
dreadful sight met their eyes. The whole kraal was swimming in milk and
cream, and the sack was empty. The little boy and girl were crying at
the outer gate, and presently made confession.

“It is our fault,” they said. “We always wondered what you did in the
hut alone, and one day we looked through a chink and saw everything. So
we took the bird down this morning and told him to say ‘Chanchasa.’ But
the milk and cream came so fast that we thought we should be drowned,
and in our fright we let the bird go and he flew away.”

At this the parents were very, very angry. “You have brought starvation
upon us,” cried the mother. “We can no longer keep you; you must die.”

She carried them away there and then to a big ravine in the
mountain-side and threw them down a rocky precipice. The little girl
was nearly killed, but the boy was not so much hurt, for a tree broke
his fall and he was only bruised. He soon came to himself and found
they were in a deep narrow valley or creek, which penetrated into the
heart of the mountains. Great trees in full leaf almost shut out the
sun, and a clear stream ran down the bottom of the valley among tall
ferns and flowering bushes. Duma lay there two days; then he was able
to walk to the mouth of the creek and search for food. He found some
delicious berries and great elephant leaves, which he filled with water
and carried to his sister; and thus he fed her every day till she also
recovered.

“Now,” said he, for he was the elder, “we must seek a new home. Our
parents are wicked, and we dare not go back to them. Let us walk right
up this valley; perhaps we shall find a kraal among the mountains where
we can get food.”

Dumasane agreed, and they set forth up the creek, following the bed of
the stream and singing as they went:


       “We are the foolish children,
        Who lost the fairy bird
        Which gave our father cream,
        Fresh milk, and curds and whey.
                  Alack-a-day.”


The words went to a sad little tune, and the little girl wept bitterly
to think of the pleasant home she had lost. They mounted higher and
higher till they came to the top of the creek. There they saw a great
tree covered with black-berries. They stopped singing and ran to pick
them, but they had scarcely eaten one when all the berries turned into
a flock of tiny blackbirds, who flew out of the tree with shrill cries.
Among them, bright as a flower and gay as ever, was the fairy bird
himself.

Directly he saw the children he stopped and perched on a bough to talk
to them.

“I see you are in trouble,” said he, “because you gave me my liberty.”
Here he snapped a twig off the tree and gave it to them. “Take this,”
said he, “and go straight on till you come to a huge rock. Walk round
it, striking it with this stick, and say:


       ‘My father’s and mother’s cattle were killed.
        They say we have done great wrong,
        For we have lost the fairy bird
        Which gave us cream and milk,
        Fresh milk, and curds and whey.
              Stone, Stone, open in two,
              So that we can go in.
        Father and mother have cast us out,
        There is no milk, no curds and whey.
        We have done wrong, we have done wrong.
              Stone, Stone, open in two.
                  Vula, Etye.’


At the end, cry ‘Chanchasa! Chanchasa! Kilhisa!’ with every blow till
you come to the right spot. There a door will fly open, and you will
find a home in which you can live till you are grown up. Everything is
there which you can possibly want to eat, but remember one thing. Never
leave a morsel of fat on the fire, or evil will come of it.”

The children took the stick with sparkling eyes. Duma held it and
Dumasane followed him, her tears all forgotten. Soon they came in sight
of an immense rock standing by itself in the tall green grass, the
biggest they had ever seen. They walked round it, singing the appointed
song and striking it with the fairy stick. All at once a door flew
open, and they looked inside into a huge cave. It was more beautifully
furnished than any hut they had ever seen; a king might have lived in
it. There were finely plaited mats to sleep on, little wooden pillows
most daintily carved, and great fur rugs or karosses to keep the cold
away. There were beautiful bead necklaces and girdles for Dumasane, and
for each of them a skin cloak worked with beads, while for Duma there
was a bow and arrows, the bow strung with python-skin, a long curly
koodoo [17] horn to blow on, and the most perfect little assegais. And
all round the walls stood pots and calabashes in shining red and black,
containing cream, fresh milk and thick milk, and delicious porridge
already cooked. There were besides three great baskets, one full of
corn, another full of nuts, and the third full of maize. There was
abundance of food for months to come.

The two children both said at once: “This is the most lovely place we
have ever seen. Now we shall be quite happy.”

And there they lived for many years, till at last Duma had become a
fine young man and Dumasane the prettiest girl you can imagine. There
was always plenty to eat, for every day the calabashes and baskets were
filled as fast as Dumasane emptied them. They had no troubles and led a
free and happy life. Dumasane learnt to cook and keep house, and Duma
practised daily with bow and arrow till he became an expert huntsman.
Then one day they found that their stores of food were no longer being
replenished. The baskets were gradually growing empty.

“It is time we worked for ourselves,” said Dumasane to her brother. “I
will see to the house while you go out hunting and bring me some meat
to cook.”

“Very well,” he said. “But if I bring you meat remember not to leave
any fat on the fire, for the fairy bird said if we left any fat burning
harm would certainly come of it.”

The first day Dumasane was very careful, and the second day. But the
third day a little tiny piece of fat was left smouldering on the
flames. Duma went out to hunt and she was left alone. She set to work
to arrange the cave, and was just placing the cooking-pots in order
when she heard heavy footsteps coming along the path and two voices
saying “Hum, hoom! Hum, hoom!” in deep bass notes. Her heart was filled
with terror at the sound. Next minute the door flew open and there
stood an Inzimu and his wife. They were monsters dreadful to behold.
They stood upright, and had hands and feet like a human being, but
their flesh was covered with big lumps and they had long scanty red
hair all over their bodies. Their eyes were tiny and close-set, and
their mouths extended from ear to ear, and were filled with sharp,
pointed teeth set wide apart. Their hands had very short fat fingers,
and their feet resembled their hands exactly. The woman was even uglier
than the man, for while he had two horns growing out of his head she
had one in the middle of her forehead, and a long snout just like that
of a wolf. Each of them had a long tail like an elephant’s trunk, which
had the power of sucking up all they wanted.

Dumasane was terribly frightened when she saw them, for she knew they
were cannibals. The monsters walked straight into the cave, twinkling
their little eyes and grunting at every step.

“Take everything in the cave,” said Dumasane, “but leave me here.”

“No, no,” said they, “if we have you we shall be able to get all these
things as often as we want them, for you have magic power.”

And in spite of her entreaties they carried her away. In the afternoon
her brother returned and found everything gone, the cave empty and no
sign of his sister. He sat down in despair, for he thought she was
dead.

Suddenly, gorgeous in gold and scarlet, in flew the fairy bird holding
a stick in his mouth.

“Do not despair,” said he. “Take this stick and a big bag and go into
the bush. Wave the stick before you as you walk and every reptile and
every stinging insect you meet will instantly enter the bag. When it is
full come back here and hang the bag in the middle of the cave.”

Duma sallied forth bravely, bag in hand, and sang a fairy song as he
walked into the forest. Instantly every deadly thing within call came
and took its place in the sack. There were two great black mambas,
there were scorpions and big hairy spiders, fierce little black bees,
great yellow wasps and hornets, and clouds of poisonous mosquitoes,
newly hatched and venomous as could be. When the bag was quite full
Duma returned and hung it in the middle of the cave. Then he sat down
to await events.

Presently he heard the Inzimus singing “Hum, hoom! Hum, hoom!” and
trampling heavily. The door flew open and they walked in.

“Ah, we will take the boy,” said the Inzimu, “he will be useful to us.”

“Let us take the bag too,” said the wife. “No doubt it is full of good
things.”

So they took the bag and opened it to see what was inside. The animals
all came out at once and attacked them unmercifully. The snakes and
scorpions ran along the ground, the bees and mosquitoes circled round
their heads, joined by the wasps, and deafened them with their angry
cries. The two monsters fled screaming and ran away down the ravine,
stumbling over thorny bushes and great rocks. They did not stop till
they came to a deep pool in the river. There they plunged in to escape
from the stings and bites of the insects, but no sooner did they put
their heads out of the water than they were attacked again. In the end
they both were drowned and Duma was safe.

“Now,” said the fairy bird, “go straight to your father’s kraal, and
you will find your sister. These two Inzimus were your father and
mother. They were changed into monsters as a punishment for their
wicked conduct. Now they are dead, and you are both free.”

Duma went in haste to his old home, and on the threshold he met his
sister crying. He took her to the forest, and there they met the fairy
bird for the last time.

“I will change you both into royal birds,” said he. “In that way you
will both find a better home than I can give you, for you are now no
longer children.”

Then he flew away, flashing in the sun, and they never saw him again.
But they themselves became two beautiful green lorys, with scarlet and
black wings, and a great green crest on their heads edged with white.
They were almost as lovely as the fairy bird himself; no one but a King
had the right to own them. They lived in the trees on nuts and fruit,
and bathed in the clear river-pools morning and evening.

Now there was a great King who reigned over all that country. One day
his Queen sent out an Induna to cut wood in the forest. The Chief was
chopping at the foot of a tree when he heard human voices singing in
the higher branches. He stopped to listen. The voices sang:


       “We were once a boy and girl;
        We let our father’s bird go free
        Which gave us both cream and milk,
        Fresh milk, and curds and whey.
        Now we live alone in the trees.”


The Chief looked up and saw that the voices belonged to two beautiful
green lorys, and that no human beings were near. “Those are royal
birds,” said he; “some great witchcraft is at work here.”

He went straight to the King’s kraal and told the whole story.

“Such a thing is impossible,” said the Queen, “but we will go and see
for ourselves.”

So the Chief took the Queen and all the Princesses into the forest and
placed them at the foot of the tree. Then he started chopping once
more. Presently the birds began to sing, and the Queen was soon
convinced that these were enchanted creatures. She told the Chief to
catch them and bring them to her.

The Chief climbed up the tree and held his hands out under the broad
green leaves, waiting for the birds to come near. As soon as they were
within reach he seized both and brought them to the Queen.

But directly the Queen touched them they were changed, and became a
most beautiful young man and woman. They were taken to the King, who
heard all their adventures. “This is wonderful,” said he. “I will bring
you to your uncle, who is a great Chief and lives near here.”

So Duma and Dumasane found a beautiful home and many friends. The Queen
was especially fond of Dumasane, and married her to her own son, while
Duma married one of her daughters, and became a great Chief.








XI

THE COCK’S KRAAL

A SWAZI TALE


Once upon a time there lived a great Chief who ruled over many
thousands of men. The city in which he dwelt was so large that it would
have taken you many hours to walk round it, and no one had yet counted
the multitude of his cattle. But in spite of his great wealth he was of
so grasping a disposition that he never seemed to have enough, nor did
he care whether he gained his ends justly. You shall hear the story of
the misfortunes he incurred through this same passion of greed.

One day he sent out a party of men headed by his chief Induna to hunt
for otter-skins for the royal body-guard. This regiment was the finest
of his army, and he prided himself on its perfect equipment. To show
how highly he esteemed the men belonging to it, he allowed them to wear
otter-skins, the royal fur, and long waving head-dresses of ostrich
feathers. His bravest son was their commander; no soldiers equalled
them in all the land.

The hunting-party had good sport, travelling for many miles down the
river, and attacking the otters by night, when they assemble under the
great rocks. The nights were warm and pleasant, and day after day they
followed their quarry till they were far from home and found themselves
in a new country. Then in a few hours the weather changed. Clouds came
up and covered the hills; and then followed a cold misty rain. It grew
colder and colder, and they had no shelter and were drenched to the
bone. They tried to light a fire by rubbing two pieces of wood
together, but the wood was damp and no spark came. They tried
flint-stones, but the rain had spoilt their tinder. They then thought
of going to a neighbouring kraal and there obtaining fire, but the
country round was bare and empty, not a soul was to be seen. And the
rain continued to fall heavily.

At last they decided to mount a hill and see if any habitation could be
found. They ascended the highest point within reach, and far away, in
the middle of a great plain on the other side, they saw a single column
of smoke. They all set out at once in the new direction, and at the end
of some hours arrived at the gate of a big kraal. Many hundreds of huts
stood round the cattle-pen, and there were oxen in plenty and large
herds of goats and sheep, but not a single human being could they see.
The men walked round the whole city, but the only occupants of the huts
were fowls of every size and colour. They walked in and out of the
doors, and seemed busy and occupied on important affairs. The Induna
grew more and more puzzled. At last they reached the great entrance of
the cattle-kraal, and there a magnificent golden Cock stood on the
fence, whence he could survey the whole city. He did not move at their
approach, but surveyed them boldly with his bright yellow eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked in the tones of a man.

The Induna and his warriors were so surprised that they could not
answer for a moment.

“Do you seek shelter?” repeated the Cock. “If so, my people will help
you.”

“We thank you,” said the Induna; “we only want fire. We are far from
home, and have no means of warming ourselves or cooking food.”

“You shall have all you want,” said the Cock. “I am a man like
yourselves, but a wicked King who was stronger than I has bewitched me
and all my people. He was a cannibal, and actually asked for the hand
of my daughters in marriage for his sons. I refused to allow them to
have anything to do with such a wicked race, whereupon his magicians
changed me and all my subjects into cocks and hens.”

“Can you not win back your old form?” asked the Induna.

“Only if I overcome a more powerful Chief than myself, and that I shall
find difficult in my present shape,” said the Cock sadly.

Then he took the Induna and his men to two beautiful huts, gave them
food and drink of the best, and when they departed provided them with a
thin stick lighted in the fire, which would smoulder for many hours.
The hunting-party went back to their otter-skins, lighted a fire, and
presently returned home with their booty.

They related all their adventures to the King, and gave him a full
account of the enchanted Cock, his beautiful kraal, and his great
flocks and herds. The King’s greed awoke at once, and he cried, “What
fools serve me! Why did not you take the cattle and come back with them
at once? Could you not overcome a few cocks and hens?”

“Great King,” said the Induna, “there was no order to conquer. Why
should we steal from the Cock, who gave us all we wanted freely?”

“How could you possibly miss such a chance?” said the King. “I will see
to the matter myself at once.”

Then he ordered one of his regiments to start for the Cock’s kraal
forthwith, and waited at home for the expected spoil.

His men soon found the path, and after a few days’ travelling arrived
within sight of the enchanted city.

The golden Cock was at his usual post at the gate of the cattle-kraal.
As he saw the regiment approach in battle array he called all his sheep
and cattle, and sent them into the kraal. Then he flew to the chief hut
and called to all the fowls who lived in the city:

“Come out, come out! Here are warriors who have come to take your
cattle. Come out, come out, and defend your homes.”

The fowls flew in from their lands in hundreds and thousands, and stood
each at the door of his hut. Directly the regiment set foot in the city
each picked out his man and flew towards him, flapping his wings around
his enemy’s head. In a few minutes each bird had pecked out the eyes of
his opponent, and such was their strength and ferocity that but two or
three escaped alive out of the whole regiment.

The King was greatly incensed when he heard the news. His blood was up,
and he instantly sent forth his royal body-guard, the flower of his
army, under the command of his favourite son. They set out, clad in
rich otter-skins and crowned with long black feathers, each man a
perfect warrior.

Many long days passed. Every evening at sundown the King looked for the
victorious army driving before them great herds of lowing cattle,
themselves scarcely visible in the clouds of golden dust. But no one
came, and the days grew into weeks. At length one night at dusk a
wretched fugitive arrived, footsore and scarcely able to drag himself
along. His plumes were gone, a fragment of otter-skin was still about
his loins.

“Great King,” said he with many groans, “I am all that remains of the
royal body-guard.”

“Is my son also dead?” cried the King in horror.

“Great King, the Prince is dead and all our men; no one can stand
against the assault of the enchanted fowls. The golden Cock spared me
alone so that the fate of our warriors might be known. He bade me say
he is still ready for you.”

But the King owned himself beaten. “How can I fight any more?” he said.
“My body-guard is destroyed and my bravest son killed. Let the Cock
keep his city and his cattle.”

As the words fell from his lips the golden Cock and all his men
regained once more their rightful shape. They had conquered in fair
fight, and now ruled over a great land in happiness and peace.








XII

BABOON-SKINS

A SWAZI TALE


Now in this story there is neither Fairy nor Inzimu, nor does any one
win a kingdom by secret spells. Some little bags of python-skin are
indeed just mentioned, but you will see that they have no effect on any
one. The only magic used in this story is a woman’s wit and kindness of
heart, the oldest charms in the world.

Long years ago there lived a Chief who had many wives. Two of these
were more distinguished than the others, for each had a most beautiful
daughter. Indeed their families were exactly alike, for each had a son
and two daughters, one very pretty and the other plain. I cannot tell
you what became of the plain daughters. No doubt they each had a
history, but this tale concerns only the two beauties. The name of one
was Inkosesana, which means “the Young Lady.” Her mother was very proud
of her from the first, and expected her to marry a very great Chief,
and Inkosesana was as conceited as possible in consequence. The name of
the other was Lalhiwe, which only means “Thrown Away.” As you may
suppose from her name, she was a much quieter and more modest girl than
Inkosesana. But as time went on and both girls grew up to womanhood
suitors began to arrive, and each mother hoped for great things for her
daughter. The rivalry between the two families became more and more
bitter, till at last it was all they could do to keep the constant
quarrels from coming to the ear of the Chief.

One morning Lalhiwe’s mother awoke and went to see about the Kafir corn
for the day’s provisions. To her horror she found under the
grinding-stone the blood of some animal and several little bags of
python-skin filled with charms.

“Lalhiwe!” cried the mother, “come and look at these!”

Lalhiwe nearly fainted with fright. “It is witchcraft,” said she, “it
must be some wickedness devised by Inkosesana and her mother. They will
never rest till we are ruined. Those charms are meant to cast a spell
over us, so that we may fall ill and die.”

Lalhiwe then ran quickly to a neighbour who was a Wise Woman, and
begged her to come and give charms to counteract the evil influence of
her rivals. When all was done she sat down and said, “Dear mother, I am
tired of all this. What do I care about beauty? It has only brought us
endless quarrels and wretched jealousy. Give me some baboon-skins. They
are the ugliest disguise of all, and I will wrap myself up in them and
retire from life till Inkosesana is married. In that way we shall all
have peace.”

That very day she asked her brother to get two baboon-skins for her,
and to bring them with the heads and limbs still on them. As soon as
they were ready she made herself a complete disguise. She joined the
two skins at the shoulders and again at the heads. Then she slipped
them on so that the two baboons’ heads covered her face and hair before
and behind. Her bright eyes peeped through the two eye-holes, but her
face was completely hidden. All that was visible was the mask of a
grinning ape. The two skins hung from her shoulder to her knee, back
and front. One could still see that her limbs were pretty and well
turned, but her laughing face and ivory teeth were hidden completely,
and so were her graceful shoulders. In fact she looked like a girl
afflicted with some great deformity, who is obliged to hide herself
from the gaze of men.

As soon as her rival’s mother heard of her decision, she laughed
heartily and said, “This is the best news I have heard for many a long
day. What a fool that girl is, to be sure! She must be mad.”

All the women in the kraal were of the same opinion. They had never
heard of any one hiding a pretty face before, and could not believe
that Lalhiwe did it all to have peace and save her family from
calamity. In spite of all the remarks that were made she never
faltered, but wore her ugly baboon-skins every day, and never once
showed her face even to her girl friends. Great peace reigned in the
kraal after the first few days; there were no more quarrels, every one
was quite happy, and Inkosesana remained the undisputed beauty of the
country-side.

But one day, when Lalhiwe had worn the baboon-skins many months, there
was a great stir in the kraal. Two councillors had arrived from a very
mighty Chief, seeking not one bride but two for their master. Both must
be beautiful; the Chief was very rich, and would make a magnificent
marriage-gift to the father of a really lovely maiden. The two
councillors sat long in conversation with the head of the kraal, while
the women stood in little knots and talked excitedly. Presently they
were asked to come forward and the demand of the great Chief was made
known. The mother of Inkosesana at once advanced with an air of
triumph. “Here,” said she, “is the bride you are looking for,” and she
showed them Inkosesana, who did indeed look charming. She had thrown
aside her cloak and appeared decked in all her prettiest beads, which
set off her beautiful skin and graceful figure to full advantage. The
councillors both said at once: “This is the most beautiful girl we have
yet seen. We accept her with pleasure; our King could not wish for a
more lovely woman.” Then turning to the father they said, “Have you
another pretty daughter, so that we may see her?”

The father said nothing, but the mother of Inkosesana, mad with
gratified pride and longing to triumph yet further, called out, “Yes,
there is another daughter, but she is always wrapped in baboon-skins,
and is of no consequence at all.”

“Let us see her,” said the councillors, who felt curious at once.

Lalhiwe stepped forward very reluctantly, holding her skins tightly
round her. But nothing could take away from the grace of her pretty
limbs, and the councillors walked round her and longed to see her face.

“What are you hiding under those skins?” said they. “You have very
pretty limbs and you walk gracefully. What is wrong with you? We beg
you to show us your face.”

“No,” said Lalhiwe. “He who marries me must marry me for myself alone,
not for my beauty.”

“Are you deformed, then? Or are you very ugly?”

“I did not say so,” answered Lalhiwe quietly. “All I said was that he
who marries me must marry me for myself alone.”

“But why do you do this strange thing?”

“To please myself,” said Lalhiwe.

“You must be deformed,” said one councillor, hoping to make her angry.

“I did not say so,” answered the girl; and although the councillors did
all they could to provoke her and make her throw off her skins, she did
not get angry or speak rudely to them.

They confessed themselves beaten, and held a long consultation. Should
they take Lalhiwe as well as the beautiful Inkosesana and risk it? Both
of them admired her wit and her good temper, and at last they decided
to ask for her also, in the hope that all would be well. Before they
went back to their master they saw the brothers from the two families.
They told the brother of Inkosesana to make a big kraal to receive the
cattle in payment for his sister, as there was no doubt their master
would be delighted with her. To Lalhiwe’s brother they said nothing;
and he, fearing his sister would not be welcomed, made only a little
kraal, sufficient for some twenty cattle.

The councillors then returned to the King. He was pleased with the
reports they brought of Inkosesana, but when he heard the tale of the
second bride who wore baboon-skins, he was very angry indeed. “No
girl,” said he, “who had a pretty face would hide it. Without doubt she
is absolutely hideous; and remember, if that is the case, you pay the
penalty of death. To think that I should have sent such fools!”

The councillors were very sad, and awaited the coming of the brides
with much fear, for they could not be sure they had guessed rightly,
and the King always kept his word. As a precaution the King only sent
twenty cattle for each bride. “We can easily send more if both are
acceptable,” said he; “and if there is trouble (for I will not have an
ugly wife on any account), then we need not ask for a return of the
marriage-gift. These forty cattle will then be the due payment for
Inkosesana.”

At the appointed time the two brides said farewell to the kraal, and
set out on their long journey. They walked for many days, each attended
by her bridesmaids. At length they reached their future home and
appeared before the great Chief. He was pleased at once with
Inkosesana, but looked with puzzled eyes on Lalhiwe, who still remained
muffled in her baboon-skins. He admired her graceful bearing, and
longed the more to know her secret.

“I beg of you,” said he, “let me see your face.”

“No, great King,” said Lalhiwe in her usual quiet voice; “I show my
face to no one until the wedding morning.”

The two brides then retired with their maids, each to her own hut,
until the preparations for the wedding-feast were made. You can imagine
how eagerly they were discussed among the women of the kraal.
Inkosesana was much admired, but Lalhiwe found no supporters. “She must
certainly be hideous,” they said, “or she would show her face.”

When the great day arrived the brides each left her hut and went down
to the river to bathe. They went to separate pools, and neither saw the
other.

Lalhiwe descended with her maids to a deep pool under a great rock. The
sun just touched the top of the highest tree, tall white lilies grew on
the banks, and in every cranny and nook were great clusters of green
fern, fresh with dew. Lalhiwe slipped off her skins, rolled them in a
tight bundle and buried them deep in a great ant-bear hole. Then she
and her maidens bathed in the clear pool, laughing and chattering, till
it was time to array themselves for the great day. The bridesmaids
decked themselves out in all their most wonderful bead-work, but
Lalhiwe, as befitted a bride on her wedding-morning, wore the deep
black kilt of ox-skins which is the dress of married women only, and
for ornament just a girdle of white beads round her waist and an
assegai in her hand. But when she stood in the sun, surrounded by her
maids, they all cried, “Lalhiwe, you are more beautiful than ever! You
are far more lovely than Inkosesana!”

And indeed it was true. All these months Lalhiwe had been hidden from
the sun she had grown in beauty, her skin was as smooth and soft as
satin, and every movement was a joy to behold.

The bridesmaids placed her at their head, and all together they
ascended the path towards the kraal. They sang a song as they went, but
the song was sad. It was their farewell to a friend who would play with
them no more in the old home, and who had come to a strange life in a
distant land.

At the gate of the kraal they met Inkosesana, who proudly stepped
before them and was the first to meet the glances of the
wedding-guests. All clapped and greeted her with great approval, but
their eager eyes looked beyond her to the mysterious sister. When
Lalhiwe appeared in all her perfect grace, shouts of joy and surprise
were heard on all sides.

“She is lovely!” cried all the guests. “There is no one so beautiful in
all our land!”

When the two brides appeared before the King and danced in the great
cattle-kraal according to custom, he was struck dumb with amazement,
and never took his eyes from Lalhiwe. When the wedding was over he
called the two councillors and gave them each twenty beautiful oxen.
“You have shown yourselves wise and trusty councillors,” said he.
“Lalhiwe is beautiful beyond belief. Choose all my finest cattle, let
them all be young, and send them as a marriage-gift to her father’s
kraal. Let the first herd be the marriage-gift for Inkosesana, but let
Lalhiwe have such a dowry as has never been seen before in our land.”

The King’s commands were carried out. Great was the rejoicing and
wonder of Lalhiwe’s mother when the marvellous herd of cattle arrived.
She had never expected such honour to come upon her child. But her
rival hid herself in her hut, filled with bitter disappointment. She
sulked alone for months, nor did she ever recover her old position in
the kraal.








XIII

THE REWARD OF INDUSTRY

A ZULU TALE


At the foot of the great hills which lie on the borders of Swaziland a
river flows among wide grassy plains. Trees line its banks throughout
its course, and great herds of buck come down to the water to drink at
night. It is a rich and beautiful country, and there, long years ago,
lived a young Chief and his wife. They were very happy, and had
everything they wanted. Two lovely little girls were born to them, and
then, one sad day, the father died, and his wife was left all alone.
Her husband had no brother who would take her to his kraal and provide
for her, so she was thrown on her own resources, and had nothing but
what she could find herself. For a while she worked hard, and tilled
her lands with the help of the two little girls, but when autumn came
her crops were poor. There was not enough grain to last till the next
harvest.

So when the spring rains fell and the seed was set, she turned to her
children and said, “There will soon be no more corn for us to eat. We
must leave the kraal and go to grandmother. She will give us corn and
mealies to last till harvest-time.”

The little girls were delighted, for they loved a journey, and all set
forth along the path which led towards the mountains. It was very
narrow, so they went one behind another, the mother leading the way.

It was a beautiful spring morning. Great white clouds shone in the blue
sky, the grass was getting greener every day, and the plain was
carpeted with clusters of the most lovely flowers. First came whole
companies of scarlet lynx-ear, then followed great patches of a tiny
bright blue flower, and then again nothing but white blossoms, which
turned inky-black as they faded. The little girls laughed and
chattered, and sometimes sang a song of travel, for it was a holiday,
and they were happy.

Then they left the flat plains and began to ascend the course of a tiny
stream which came down from the hills. The path led in and out among
huge rocks and tall trees hung with creepers. Little ferns were
beginning to show their fronds, and here and there nodded a brilliant
scarlet daisy. The mother still walked first, and the bushes grew
thicker and thicker.

The path gave a sharp turn, and there, right before them, lay an
enormous snake. He was coiled in the very middle of the narrow road,
and his wicked head was poised ready to attack them. In truth, he was
an ogre in disguise, for he looked at the mother and said at once in a
deep voice, “Where are you going to?”

The poor mother fled shrieking into the thorny bush, but the snake was
much quicker than she. He threw himself round her in great folds, and
in a few minutes he had eaten her up. The two little girls ran on as
hard as ever they could and plunged in among the bushes till they came
to a great rock. There they hid themselves, shaking in every limb, and
not daring even to look for food.

Many hours passed by and the sun was getting low. The children were
faint with hunger, and began to cry bitterly at the thought of their
mother. Then they heard footsteps coming through the grass. They sat up
and listened; this was no snake. Presently an old woman came in sight
carrying a little pot of food on her head. She had a kind face, and
directly she saw the little girls she stopped and said, “Why do you
hide right under the rock, and why are you crying?”

“Our father and mother are both dead,” said the little girls, “and we
don’t know where our grandmother lives.”

“Wipe away your tears,” said the old woman. “I will be your
grandmother.”

Then she sat down and spoke kindly to them till they felt comforted and
happy. “Now,” said she, “I will provide for you. I will change both you
and myself into beautiful birds. We will live in the forest, and no one
shall have any power to harm us.”

And immediately all happened as the old woman said, for she was a great
and powerful Fairy and no old woman at all. And they flew far away into
a big forest where no man ever came. There they lived in perfect ease,
twittering gaily all day long, bathing in the clear streams, and flying
in and out among green ferns and many-coloured lilies.

But one day the Fairy said to the girls, “You are grown up now, and can
no longer live carelessly like birds. Now we must travel and seek our
fortune.”

So they left the forest and flew for many days till they came to a big
city, where a famous Chief ruled. There they stopped. The Fairy became
an old woman once more, and she changed the two girls back into their
original form. Only now they were women grown, and as pretty as they
could be.

The next morning she asked to see the King’s chief councillor. As soon
as she entered the hut she saluted him respectfully, saying:

“I see you, Chief.”

“I see you,” answered the Induna.

“I am come here to ask if I and my two grand-daughters may live here
under the protection of the great King.”

“Why do you want to come?” asked the Induna. “Have you no kindred to
whom you belong?”

“The girls have lost both father and mother by witchcraft,” said the
old Fairy. “I am their only living relation, and I want to find them a
home, for I am old.”

“They are beautiful girls,” said the Induna. “I will give you lands
which you may cultivate, and space within the city on which to build
your hut.”

The Induna then appointed men who should show them the land for their
hut and help them to set the framework. A Kafir hut, you know, is round
and thatched with grass, very like an old-fashioned bee-hive. Men set
the framework with strong supple boughs; then the women come and thatch
from top to bottom with their clever fingers. As soon as the King’s men
had gone, the old Fairy and the two girls set to work. It often takes
many days to complete a hut, but so well did they work that by sundown
the hut was finished, even to a beautiful little screen before the door
to keep off the wind. Not only had they been quicker than any women
before known, but the thatch was also finer than any in the whole city.
The marvel of their neighbours may be imagined. The next day they
cleared away the grass before the entrance and put up the neatest and
most beautiful fence in the whole country-side.

Then when their home was ready, they set out to hoe their lands. These
lay at some distance from the kraal, at the outermost border of the
lands already tilled.

“Now,” said the Fairy, “I am too old to wield a hoe, but you, my
daughters, are strong. Each of you must take your pick and work
straight ahead without looking behind you. I will follow behind, gather
the weeds, and clear everything up.”

It was early morning, and the mists had barely risen from the hills.
The wide veld lay before them, and stretched in long golden lines to
the sharp blue mountain peaks on the horizon. The girls did as they
were bid. They worked steadily till mid-day, singing gaily all the
while; nor did they once look behind them. When the sun was at its
height they stopped to rest. They were amazed to see the extent of
ground they had cleared, and could not believe it possible. The old
Fairy smiled and said, “We will come again to-morrow and do yet
better.”

They came the next day, and yet many days. Their lands grew and grew
till at length they had hoed more land than the King himself, who could
have as many workers as he wished. Their neighbours began to notice
them. “These girls are not only beautiful,” said they, “they are strong
and willing, and work like no one we have ever seen. Their lands are
better than those of the King himself.”

That year the rains came early. The golden hues of winter changed as
the young grass sprang up, and hundreds of flowers appeared to delight
the eye. Every one had good crops that summer, but the Fairy’s mealies
were taller and greener than those of any one in the King’s dominions.

It was not long before the King was told of these wonderful strangers.
“I must see for myself,” said the King. “No doubt it is not so
wonderful as they say. People talk so much.”

But when he walked out himself and saw the land hoed by the Fairy and
her maidens, he was astonished beyond belief; the field was far larger
even than he had heard, and the mealies taller than himself or any of
his men. The next day he commanded the old woman and her
grand-daughters to appear before him. An Induna brought them into the
King’s presence.

“How is it,” said the King, “that you have been able to hoe such
enormous lands? Your mealies and corn are better than mine, though I
can have hundreds of men to work for me.”

“King of Kings,” said the wise old Fairy, “I am the daughter of a very
mighty King, and these girls are my daughter’s children. A mighty King,
as you know, has great power, and can do more than other men.”

“I am indeed pleased,” said the King, “to see that your daughters are
such beautiful girls. I am too old to marry them myself, but I have two
fine young Princes who are just of an age to wed. I should not like
your daughters to marry any one else, for such maidens are the ones who
should marry great Chiefs. They are not only beautiful, but industrious
and strong beyond all other women.”

So the marriages were arranged, and the two maidens, who had lost both
father and mother, became the wives of the bravest and finest of all
the King’s sons. Many hundreds of cattle were given to the Fairy
grandmother in exchange for her daughters, and great were the
rejoicings throughout the whole city.

The Fairy stayed till she saw that both her adopted children were happy
and well-beloved. Then one day she divided her cattle between them,
kissed them farewell, and disappeared.








XIV

THE STORY OF SEMAI-MAI

A SWAZI TALE

PART I

SEMAI-MAI THE CANNIBAL KING


Among all the people of the Kafirs there was never a King more feared
and hated than Semai-mai. He was known for his bad deeds far and wide,
and was the terror of every tribe within many days’ journey of his
kingdom. It is true he was a splendid warrior and had never once
suffered defeat, but he was unjust and cruel beyond belief. His people
were numerous and powerful, for Semai-mai ruled over many great kraals,
and had thousands of warriors at his command. Though their Chief was
wicked they were a kind and just people, and often hated their lord’s
deeds. But what could they do? The first duty of every man is to be
loyal to his ruler, and as yet no one had dared to disobey. Semai-mai
was known far and wide as the “Wicked King,” and every day he grew in
iniquity.

You shall hear how at last he destroyed himself by his own lawlessness,
and lost his human form.

One day he called his greatest magicians together and said, “Make
strong potions and magic draughts for my army, so that they may be able
to conquer any enemy. I go to fight a great King who lives in a very
distant country.”

The potions were prepared and the impis called out; the wizards treated
every man with magic spells used only in time of war, and gave him the
wonderful drink which confers bravery and turns away the weapons of the
enemy. Then they told Semai-mai that all was ready. The impis stood in
line, each company in its place, every man complete with shield and
assegai, and magnificently adorned with the velvety-brown otter-skin or
the golden leopard. They waited in silence for their orders, but no
orders came.

Semai-mai sent word by his chief general that he intended to lead them
himself, but no mention was made of the enemy’s name, and their
destination remained secret. The next day he appeared, gloomier and
fiercer than ever before, and placed himself at the head of his
body-guard, who marched behind their Chief in silent terror.

He led them right up the mountains into a wide desolate valley. Two
pillars of rock guarded the entrance; within were huge red boulders
interspersed with trees. On either side rose tall cliffs, which glowed
in the mid-day sun. The men knew the valley well, and never willingly
entered it. A great and powerful Fairy was said to live there whom it
was well not to offend. Many men had entered it when hunting, and had
never returned or been seen again. At the gate of the valley strange
spirits answered if one spoke in the merest whisper; it was a place
better avoided by all right-thinking men, and every warrior had a
feeling of vague discomfort as he passed the mighty pillars and knew he
was on haunted ground.

Semai-mai went forward to a clear space among the great boulders, and
there ordered his regiments to stand in ranks before him.

He was an immense man, a head and shoulders above any warrior in his
army, deep in the chest, with an arm so strong he could fell an ox with
a blow of his knobkerrie. [18] He stood in the fierce sunlight, sullen
and magnificent, and surveyed his men. Then he spoke.

“You have not yet had your orders for this raid,” said he. “Now, hear
them! From henceforth I have resolved to live on human flesh. Those
that join me shall see glorious fighting and great conquests. As for
those that refuse, they shall die, and their carcases shall be embalmed
by my magicians. I shall expose them on these great rocks, and all men
shall see the wretches who dared to disobey their King.”

The whole army held their breath with amazement and horror. They had
never supposed that their King would thus dare to cast off all
restraint. No one spoke. The King looked around with gloomy fierceness.
Then, raising his spear and speaking in an immense voice, he shouted:

“Let those that love me stand on one side. Those that hate me may sit
down.”

More than half the men sat down. Semai-mai scowled yet more deeply, but
continued firm in his wicked purpose, though he saw it would cost him
more than half his army. He turned to his remaining followers and said:

“Our motto shall be henceforth, ‘We live on human flesh and belong to
the alligators.’ Kill these disobedient dogs, and set their bodies on
the rocks.”

His men at once fell on the rebels, who did not resist them. Each man
died where he sat, for the King was great, and his orders must be
obeyed. Then the wizards prepared strange potions and ointments, and
every body was embalmed, so that time should not destroy it, but that
it should remain a witness for ever. Last of all, the dead warriors
were taken and placed on every great rock and along the ledges in the
tall red cliffs. The sun blazed down on them; in the quivering air
every man could be seen, deep brown against the glowing rocks.

When all was done Semai-mai marshalled his forces, looked on the dead
with joy, and bade his men go forward. They ranged themselves in the
accustomed order, but as they filed up the mountain-path each man
noticed for the first time that his neighbour’s hair was brick-red.
They instantly feared witchcraft, and remembered the tales of the great
Fairy who ruled over the valley. But Semai-mai laughed at their fears,
and bade them show courage. He gave orders that they were to kill and
spare none, neither women nor children. Only cattle and sheep might be
brought away.

They travelled across the mountains till they came to a wide fertile
valley, in which was a great city. Semai-mai sent spies to view the
land. They reported that the people were peaceful and unsuspecting, and
that great success might be expected from an attack. They were ruled by
a King named Sobuso, who appeared to be much beloved. One strange thing
they had observed; all the women were beautiful, but the men were
absolutely hideous.

“Well, we shall kill them all, so it is of no consequence,” said
Semai-mai, and he bade an impi attack the very next day. The men crept
up to the city in the early dawn, rushed in at the gate, and began
killing all they could see. But to their amazement, no sooner had they
felled a man to the ground than he rose to his feet again. As fast as
they killed one man another came to life. Not only that, but they found
that they themselves were becoming as thin as reeds and as light as
dust; their blows carried no weight, and they were as ghosts beating
the air ineffectually.

Great fear came into their hearts, and they wavered and turned to fly.
“You cowards!” shouted Semai-mai, appearing at the gate. “Let me come
and kill.” He rushed forward and attacked the foremost of the enemy.
But as his assegai pierced the foe he found his own huge form shrinking
into nothing, his arm was weak and nerveless, and as his opponent rose
again to attack him, he fled shrieking, followed by all his men.

The enemy rushed after them, brandishing their assegais, and shouting
hoarse war-cries: “Shi-sha-she! Si-me-pe! Si-ko-mo! Si! Pe! The Cattle!
Where are they? The Cattle!”

With every hissing cry a man fell, and the mountain-side was strewn
with their bodies. On and on they fled, till all were killed but
Semai-mai. Only he still held out, and ran, panting but alive, to the
very gates of the great valley where the dead men sat in the sunshine.

There both he and his pursuers stopped, for before them stood a most
beautiful woman.

With one look of command she bade them all follow her, for this was the
Fairy of the valley. “I have been waiting for you,” said she. “Come and
see what this wicked King has done.”

Then she led them down among the great rocks, King Sobuso and all his
men, but Semai-mai she bound by invisible power on the top of a huge
boulder, where he must see all and could not move.

Slowly she led the warriors into the very centre of the great valley.
There she bade them look up. In the red glow of the setting sun they
saw the black forms of the men who refused to follow the cannibal King.
Each sat propped against his ledge of glowing stone; they looked still
as if they were sitting in council.

“Night will soon be here,” said the Fairy. “You shall see what I can
do.”

Then she bade the warriors sit down and wait, and began to brew a magic
potion. And Semai-mai sat too and waited on the rocks above, for he
could not stir hand or foot. Cold fear came into his soul as he saw the
fires lit in the valley below, and watched the wonderful woman at work.
She was still busy when night fell and the stars came out in the purple
sky. Then she got torches ready, sprinkled them with her wonderful
liquid, and lit them at the fire. She gave one to Sobuso, and then to
all his generals in turn. Lastly she took one herself, and signed to
the men to follow. They leapt from rock to rock throughout the valley,
carrying the torches along every ledge, till every man was visible. As
the magic fire approached him, each dead warrior sprang to life, and in
a few moments a living army filled the valley. Then the Fairy bade them
all descend to the open space below, and tell their story to Sobuso.
The chief Induna spoke, and all listened in silence.

“You did right,” said Sobuso at length. “Your wicked King is powerless
now. Come to me; I will give you wives and lands, for such men are
those I want.”

Great was the joy of every man when he heard these words, for Sobuso
was known as the best and wisest King in all the mountain country. They
were about to depart when the Fairy stopped them once more.

“And now,” said she, in a high clear voice, which echoed many times in
the darkness, “let Semai-mai, the cannibal King, descend and see his
men.”

And Semai-mai found his chains loosed, but a power he could not resist
drew him down till he stood in the very centre, in the full light of
the blazing fires. His former subjects closed in round him; at one end
stood Sobuso and his generals, at the other the Fairy of the valley.

“You see here,” said the Fairy, “Semai-mai, the wicked King. Because he
has done injustice all his life and rejoiced in cruelty, I judge him no
longer worthy to remain a man. He shall become a dog and live as a dog
lives. Only, as he was a great King and a brave warrior, I give him
magic powers and one powerful weapon. He shall have a long nail on one
foot, bright and sharp as a sword. And if he is a faithful dog and true
to his master he may one day become a man again. But if he continues
cruel and unjust a still greater curse shall fall on him.”

Even as she spoke the horror-stricken army saw their great Chief fall
forward and touch the ground with his hands. In the red firelight his
form changed, and in a minute a great brown dog stood in the place of
the superb Semai-mai. It looked round with a furtive air, and then
turned in silence. The men all sprang aside to let it through, and a
moment later it trotted into the darkness.








XV

THE STORY OF SEMAI-MAI

PART II

THE FAIRY DOG


All that night and the whole of the next day Semai-mai trotted steadily
up and down the mountain-paths. No man saw him, for he avoided every
valley which seemed to be inhabited. He was determined to get as far as
possible from the scene of his defeat, into a country where the name of
Semai-mai had never been heard. He travelled for three days, and had
then covered as much ground as a man would traverse in seven. He began
to feel safer and more himself again, and turned over the situation in
his mind. His shame and rage had at first been great, but he now saw
that all was not lost. It is true he was but a dog, but the wonderful
nail on his foot was all that the Fairy had promised. It was three feet
long and six inches broad, and cut far better than any axe or
hunting-knife he had ever possessed. Not only this, but he found that
he only had to express a wish for food and it instantly appeared. Most
excellent food it was, too; never had he tasted better. He also found
that he could call down a mist at any moment in which to hide himself
from an enemy, and he felt sure that time would show him yet greater
marvels. Life still held enjoyments, and with patience and care he
might regain much of his former power.

He cocked his ears, curled his bushy tail with an air of assurance, and
went forward, determined to find a home in the kraal of the nearest
Chief. Before long he came to the end of the mountain country. A great
plain lay before him, well wooded, and watered by a broad river. Not
many miles below was an immense kraal; the tiny brown huts could be
seen distinctly in the clear air, and the green mealie-fields which
surrounded the town. The cattle enclosure was very large; evidently the
Chief was rich.

“I will descend and see what sort of a King this is,” said Semai-mai,
and in an hour he was standing at the chief gate. Every one saw at once
that he was no ordinary dog, and before many days were over he was in
attendance on the King and was fed from his table. Now this was
unfortunate, for the King was a cannibal, and Semai-mai was encouraged
in his wicked tastes instead of learning to forget them. The King kept
all his prisoners-of-war and fattened them up, and when a great feast
arrived the best were killed and eaten with much rejoicing.

One day, a few months after Semai-mai’s arrival, the most lovely little
boy was brought to the kraal. He had been stolen by a band of robbers
while sleeping out in the fields, and they had carried him many days,
hoping he would be a dainty morsel acceptable to the King. But the boy
was so beautiful and his bearing so unusual that the King had him
examined by his magicians. They unanimously declared him to be of royal
blood, and as the King did not usually eat his equals, he said that the
young Prince should be kept alive and brought up with his own sons. He
also gave him Semai-mai, the fairy dog, as his servant, and treated him
with much kindness.

Semai-mai liked the little boy; he ran his errands, went out hunting
with him, chopped the wood for his fire, and slept in his hut at
nights. The little Prince loved him in return, and they ate together
from the King’s own dishes. By and by the Prince told him all he knew
about himself. He was the only son of his father, who was a big Chief,
and they lived up among the mountains. His mother would look for him
everywhere; she was directing her maidens in the fields when he was
carried away; some day she would be sure to come for him.

Semai-mai soon felt certain that the little boy came from some kingdom
near his own, and he also looked eagerly for the boy’s mother when any
woman arrived at the kraal, but no news ever came. Years went by. The
Prince was now a well-grown youth, and Semai-mai continued his faithful
friend. But while the Prince always avoided the cannibal repasts which
came at the great festivals, Semai-mai enjoyed them, for his heart was
unchanged.

One day an old woman came to the kraal to beg the King’s protection.
She was poorly dressed and footsore, and her eyes had a wild look. The
Prince and Semai-mai came to see her, more by habit than because they
now expected any one. But the instant the Prince heard her speak he
recognised his mother’s voice.

“Say nothing now,” was Semai-mai’s advice when he heard the news. “The
King will doubtless put her in a hut to be fattened with the other
prisoners, for she is old and useless. Watch your opportunity, and we
will all escape and live in wealth elsewhere.”

A few nights later the Prince went to the hut where his old mother was.
She nearly died of joy and surprise when she heard his name.

“Your father told me never to appear in his presence till I could bring
you with me,” said she. “For years I have wandered in search of you.
Your father had no other son; you were the pride of his heart and I his
favourite wife till I lost you in the mealie-fields. I had given up all
hopes of ever seeing home again, and believed you long since dead.”

“We will go home again and rule as before,” said the Prince, smiling
gaily. “I had forgotten the way to my father’s kingdom, but you will
show me. Say no word of our relationship; I must think over a plan of
escape.”

Every day a man came to look at the old Queen and see if she was
fattening well. Presently he announced to the King that the prisoners
were all in excellent condition, and a feast-day might be appointed
when it pleased the great Chief. The King then went to inspect the
prisoners himself, declared them to be ready, and chose a day for the
rejoicings.

Immediately every one in the kraal, man, woman, and child, went out to
collect wood at early dawn, for great fires would be needed. As soon as
the city was deserted the Prince and Semai-mai released the old Queen,
collected all the cattle they could find in the fields, and started
hot-foot for the mountains.

That evening the whole company returned and found the Prince and the
old woman gone. They tracked them by the footprints of the cattle, and
sent warriors after them. But as soon as they began to overtake the
fugitives—for the cattle were slow—Semai-mai threw a beautiful rainbow
mist all round himself and his friends, so that they could never be
seen. After many vain attempts the cannibals retired baffled, and gave
up the chase in despair. All along the road Semai-mai had only to bark
when food was wanted, and a plentiful meal instantly appeared. When
they had all had enough he barked again, and not a trace of the food
remained.

At the end of many days they came to the outskirts of the Prince’s own
country. But here Semai-mai said, “We will not make ourselves known as
yet; we will live alone.” For he was afraid the Prince might hear by
some unlucky chance who he really was, and his power would be gone.

So for a long while the three lived together in a fertile valley by the
side of a clear stream. Their cattle grew and increased till they
became a noble herd. The Prince was now a man, and both rich and
handsome. All went happily till one day he went out hunting and met a
party of very pretty girls. They came, they said, from a kingdom among
the mountains. The men of their people were ugly, but not a woman among
them was plain, and many were far prettier than themselves.

The Prince longed to see this kingdom, and remembered he was now of an
age to marry, and had besides many cattle and a beautiful home. So he
sat by his mother that evening and said, “It is time I looked for a
nice little wife. You want help in the house, and would like some one
to grind the corn and carry water and wood.” The mother was pleased at
the idea, but the dog sat still in sullen silence. Who might this wife
be? Hitherto he had ruled both the Prince and his mother, but this new
woman might spoil all.

The next day the Prince set out for the kingdom where all the men were
ugly and all the women beautiful; you can guess it was the kingdom of
Sobuso. Before long he had won the heart of a lovely girl, the daughter
of a great Chief, and niece of the King himself. All arrangements were
made for the wedding, and the Prince departed joyously for home, to
tell his mother of his success.

All was got into order for the bride, and the appointed number of
cattle were sent to her father, in accordance with custom. Every day
Semai-mai grew more and more gloomy. The Prince and his mother thought
little of it, and never once imagined that he disapproved of the
marriage. But now that Semai-mai knew that the bride came from Sobuso’s
kingdom, he determined to make an end of everything. As soon as he knew
that the wedding-party was in sight he killed both the Prince and his
mother with his long bright nail, and ate them right up.

Then he sat down in the sun before the door of the hut, looking very
big and important. The Princess came up to the gate with her attendant
maids, in all her bravest attire, and looked for the bridegroom and his
mother. She waited a long time, then ventured forward and looked all
round the kraal. Not a living thing could be seen save this huge brown
dog. Presently Semai-mai came up to them and said, “The Prince is
waiting in the big hut, let me show you in.”

The Princess and her maids followed him, much astonished to find a
talking dog. Semai-mai took them into the biggest hut and made them sit
round. Then he killed and ate them all in turn, beginning at the bride
and finishing with the youngest bridesmaid. When all was over he went
out and sat in the sun once more. Only now he was larger than any dog
that ever was seen, for after every meal he grew bigger and bigger.

Many weeks passed by, and the bridal party never returned to give news
of the wedding. The Princess’s father grew anxious, for no one
appeared, nor was there any message. At last he sent a party of men to
find out what had happened. Semai-mai saw them coming, and caught them
all in the big hut, just as he had caught the bridal party. He ate them
all but one, who slipped out by a lucky chance. Semai-mai was now
bigger than an elephant, and the man who escaped ran home and said the
enemy was an enormous dog, who was a cannibal.

The Chief cried out, “What fools and cowards serve me! I will go and
kill the monster myself.” So he took a shield and assegais and some
picked men and set out for the dog’s kraal. When he saw him and
realised how huge he was, his surprise was very great. For Semai-mai
was now taller and bigger than the largest hut, and could be seen from
the entrance of the valley. The Chief advanced bravely, and he and his
men let fly their assegais, but not one touched Semai-mai. He simply
shook himself, sprang on the Chief and ate him, and then killed nearly
all his men. Only a very few escaped, and they ran back to the kingdom
of Sobuso in wild terror, declaring that no one could hope to conquer
the fairy dog.

Semai-mai in the meantime gathered all his master’s cattle together and
set out for his former kingdom. Before many days were over he had
reached the great plain in which his people lived. But now he saw
nothing but a huge forest extending for many miles; not a single
habitation was to be seen where formerly great cities flourished. His
heart failed him for a moment; then he lifted his head and barked three
times.

Instantly the forest disappeared; then great cities rose in its place,
and thousands of warriors came out in warlike array to greet him.
Semai-mai had released his people from enchantment. But he himself
still remained an enormous dog; nor, in spite of his great powers, did
he find it possible to make any change.

For a long time no friend of the Princess or her father dared to
venture within reach of the fairy dog. But the dead Chief was a very
great man, and brother to Sobuso himself, so it was not long before the
story came to the latter’s ears. At first he could hardly believe it,
but when he found the tale was true, and his relatives had really been
destroyed by a cannibal dog, he determined to rid the country of such a
monster. So he called out all his army and bade his magicians treat
them with every charm they knew. Then he assembled them together.
“Whatever happens,” said he, “this dog must die. I myself will be the
first to attack him.”

It was not long before they found out Semai-mai’s new home. After a
journey of many weeks across the mountains they came in sight of the
three great cities. From the heights above they could see Semai-mai’s
hut in the middle of the city, close to the cattle-kraal. It was
impossible to mistake it, for it was four times as big as any hut they
had ever seen. Sobuso sent out spies, and then waited all day for their
report. At night they returned, but they brought bad news. “You have no
idea how mighty the enemy is,” said they. “No assegai is big enough to
kill him, and no man tall enough to throw it. We must return home and
make special weapons, or our cause is hopeless.”

Sobuso was much depressed. “Leave me alone,” he said. “I must think out
fresh plans.”

So he sat alone for many hours. Night came suddenly and quietly, and
every man was soon asleep. It was very very still, and the air was
warm. Only the frogs could be heard croaking far away along the
river-banks. Sobuso thought and thought, but could see no way out save
retreat. He remembered now his fight long ago with Semai-mai; if this
dog were no other than that famous Chief only magic could help him, for
no one had beaten Semai-mai by his own strength.

Before him lay the great plain and the dim outlines of his enemy’s
kraals, scarcely to be distinguished in the warm darkness. Then
suddenly, at the very outer edge of the world, appeared a line of
amethyst. The line widened and gradually moved forward. A wide circle
of faint blue mountains then came into view, beneath them great plains
of silvery green, and last of all the three cities, every hut distinct
and clear. The moon was rising behind the mountains. A moment later its
rays touched Sobuso himself. A strange shadow lay on the grass before
him. He turned quickly and saw before him a most extraordinary
creature.

It was a very old woman, leaning on an immense assegai, much taller
than herself. In her hand she held two calabashes. She had not a tooth
in her mouth, and her head was covered with long hair, so that you
could only see her eyes. She had no feet, only two long toes. She stood
with her back to the moon; Sobuso felt her gaze on him, but could
distinguish no features.

“Great King,” she cried, “you shall kill Semai-mai.”

“It is impossible; I have no assegai big enough.”

“King of Kings,” said the old woman, “take these two calabashes of
medicine and this assegai. They come to you from the Fairy of the
valley; Semai-mai shall now be rendered powerless for ever. In the
early morning, when all your men are still asleep, rise up and sprinkle
the contents of this first calabash on them. Stand so that the wind
blows from you towards them and carries the magic drops. Sprinkle it
then on yourself, and you and all your army will be invisible. Never
let this assegai go out of your hand. Go up to Semai-mai. He will not
see you, stab him with the assegai and then throw the contents of the
second calabash over him. You must cut off his big nail, and strike him
with it three times; he will then be powerless to harm you.”

A cloud came over the moon, and when it passed away Sobuso found the
old woman was gone. But the assegai and two calabashes were on the
ground, and he picked them up and went to a spot above his sleeping
men. He waited till a tiny breeze sprang up before daybreak. Then he
sprinkled them with the magic drops, and at dawn he set them in order
and all marched down to the gates of Semai-mai’s royal city. The sun
was fully up, and the huge dog could be seen moving about the kraal
like a big house. He had hundreds of wives and many thousands of
cattle, and he walked about, gloating over his possessions. Sobuso sent
in a few of his men to make sure that the potion had worked well. They
returned, saying that they had moved everywhere freely, and had even
gone up to the royal hut, but no one had paid them the least attention.

Sobuso and his men then entered the gate and marched straight up the
chief road. No one regarded them, so they were soon within reach of
Semai-mai. Sobuso took his assegai and aimed it right at the dog’s
head. He fell down stunned, with an immense thud. Sobuso rushed
forward, cut off the long nail at one blow, and threw the second
calabash over the monster. Then he struck him three times with the
shining nail.

Straightway the dog’s side opened and out came first the bridegroom,
then his mother, then the bride and her maids, and last of all Sobuso’s
brother and all his men. As each appeared in turn Semai-mai grew
smaller and smaller, till at last he was no bigger than an ordinary
dog.

There was great rejoicing, as you may imagine, and when all were united
they held a council as to what they should do with Semai-mai’s
possessions. Finally, they divided all his property and people into
three parts. One part went to the Prince, another to the Princess’s
father, and the third to Sobuso himself, who had rescued them from such
great peril.

As for Semai-mai, when all was over he revived and sprang to his feet
again. But the Fairy’s curse had been carried out. He was now just an
ordinary dog. He could not kill his enemy or speak like a man, nor had
he any magic power. No one would be in any danger from him again. He
ran far away to the cannibal King who first befriended him, and was fed
from his table for the rest of his life.








XVI

THE FAIRY FROG

A SWAZI TALE


Tombi-ende was the most beautiful girl in her father’s kingdom. She had
milk-white teeth and sparkling eyes, her figure was perfect and very
gracefully turned, and no one could lead the dance half so well as she.
Besides, you could not help noticing her the moment she appeared, for
she was taller than all her sisters, and carried her head like a true
Princess. Her parents looked on her daily with joy and pride. They
called her Tombi-ende, “the Tall Maiden,” and expected she would one
day be a mighty Queen.

But no one has an altogether happy lot. And though Tombi-ende was tall
and beautiful, and had the gayest and most wonderful handkerchiefs with
which to deck herself, and more beads and bracelets than any other girl
in the country-side, this only gave her the more trouble. For none of
her sisters were as pretty as she, or as much admired, and as time went
on they grew more and more jealous. At last they decided that
Tombi-ende must die, or no one would ever notice them at all.

So they made a plan to kill their sister as if by accident. One day
they all came to her and said, “Let us go and get red ochre [19] out of
the great pit; there is none left in the kraal at all.”

So every maiden shouldered her pick, and they walked together, singing
and laughing, for many miles. At last they reached a great red pit,
many feet deep, surrounded by tall grass on every side. There they
stopped; each girl leapt down in turn, dug out a lump of the precious
red earth, and then jumped up again. They all stood round the pit
waiting for one another. But directly Tombi-ende jumped down, every one
of those wicked girls seized her pick and threw earth upon her as fast
as she could, till poor Tombi-ende was buried alive. Then they ran
away, leaving her for dead, for the red earth is very heavy.

But Tombi-ende was not dead. The people who passed heard screams coming
from the pit, and sometimes a voice calling:


       “I am Tombi-ende,
        I am not dead,
        I am like one of yourselves.”


Two men turned out of the path and looked down into the great hole, but
all they could see was the red earth glistening in the sun, so they
turned away and walked on.

The wicked sisters meanwhile went back to their father’s kraal and told
all whom they met, “Tombi-ende is dead. She fell down into the red
ochre pit and was smothered.” But when the King came to question them
they grew confused, and could not tell their tale. So he chopped off
their heads there and then with a great battle-axe, and gave their
bodies to the vultures. And that would have been the end of them had
not a dear good old Fairy come along who knew that Tombi-ende was not
dead, and was sorry to see her sisters so severely punished. She went
to the bodies and sprinkled them with medicine from her magic calabash.
The sisters sat up at once, alive and well, rubbing their eyes. “Take
the girls away and keep them out of the King’s sight till Tombi-ende
returns,” said the Fairy, and every one was only too glad to obey her.

Tombi-ende lay in the red ochre pit for many hours, and thought no one
would ever rescue her. But at evening she heard a great croaking above
her. Looking up she saw an enormous frog blinking his little eyes at
the edge of the pit.

“Beautiful Princess,” said he, “what are you doing here?”

“Alas!” said Tombi-ende, “my sisters are jealous of me and hate me, and
they have left me here and thrown earth upon me, so that I cannot get
out.”

“I will help you,” said the frog. He jumped into the pit, opened his
big mouth and swallowed the Princess entirely. Then he jumped up again,
and landed safely on the path above, the Princess still inside him.

Forthwith the frog set out on his travels. He hopped all night,
carefully avoiding any kraals by the way, for a frog brings bad luck,
and is not welcome in human dwellings. Whenever he passed a bird he
sang:


       “Do not swallow me,
        I carry the Princess Tombi-ende,”


and no creature touched him. The next morning they narrowly escaped a
great danger, for they met a horrible ogress. She had heard that
Tombi-ende was still alive and defenceless, and had already been to the
red ochre pit and found it empty. Now she was searching for her
everywhere in savage haste, but luckily she paid no attention to a big
frog, and went her way without heeding its appearance.

At mid-day the frog stopped, opened his mouth, and let the Princess
walk out. Then he said, “Wait here and rest. By and by we will go on
again.” He also provided food; he merely croaked, and delicious
porridge appeared in a little brown pot, all ready for the Princess to
eat.

Tombi-ende ate and then slept under the bushes, for she was very tired.
Towards evening the frog swallowed her again, and they set forth once
more on their journey. They had decided not to go back to her father’s
kraal, for fear of her jealous sisters, but journeyed towards the home
of her grandmother, where she was sure of every welcome. They travelled
for days, resting in the heat, but never stopping all night long, and
one morning they arrived at the grandmother’s kraal.

The frog went up to the door of the chief hut and sang loudly:


       “I am carrying Tombi-ende,
        The Beautiful Princess,
        Whom they killed in the red pit.”


The old grandmother came out, saying, “Who is this speaking? Who knows
what has become of my darling Tombi-ende?”

“I know all about her,” said the frog. “Bring clean mats, spread them
before me, and you will see.”

All the women brought fine new mats and put them before the frog. When
all was ready the frog just said, “Woo-oo-oh!” and in a moment
Tombi-ende herself was before them, as tall and beautiful as ever.

Great was the joy of all, and no one could hear her tale often enough,
or her praises of the wonderful frog.

“What can we do for you as a reward for your kindness?” said the
grandmother to the frog. “Is there nothing we can give you?”

“I only ask you to kill two oxen and two bulls,” said the frog, “and
let us have a feast.”

So a great feast was held, and the frog sat by the Princess’s side and
had great honour. Next morning he had disappeared, and though the
Princess searched for him all round the kraal he could nowhere be
found.

The grandmother knew that Tombi-ende was now in no danger at home, so
she sent a message to her father to tell him of his daughter’s safety.
The King was much delighted, and at once despatched Tombi-ende’s
brother to fetch her home. He rested a few days at the kraal, for the
journey was long, and then they both set out on their return.

Now the rains had been short that year, and many streams were dry. The
sun was very hot, and after hours of walking the Princess and her
brother were very thirsty. Nowhere could they find the accustomed
springs, for the ground was harder than brick dried in an oven, and the
water-courses were dry. They went on and on till they were fainting
with the heat. Suddenly they met a stranger, an immensely big man, who
stood right across the path. Except for his size he was like other men,
and they did not at first distrust him.

“What do you want?” said he in a deep bass voice, which rumbled like
thunder.

“We are looking for water,” said the Prince; “all the springs are dried
up, and we are yet many days from home.”

“If I give you water,” said the giant, “what will you give me in
return?”

“Ask for anything in my father’s kingdom,” said the Prince.

“Give me this beautiful Princess,” said the giant, with a wicked smile.
“If not, you will die of thirst. All the springs are dry within three
days’ journey.”

The brother and sister were in dismay, but although the Prince hated
the idea of giving his sister to a stranger, they were both so helpless
that he could only consent.

The giant chuckled, and led the way to a great fig-tree by the side of
the dry water-course. He struck his stick upon the ground, and out of
the very roots of the tree sprang a fountain clear as the moon and cool
as the depths of the forest. They all drank eagerly and long, and it
was only after some minutes that the Princess lifted her head and
looked towards the giant. She shrieked long and loud, for the giant had
turned to a most terrible Inzimu, monstrous and misshapen, covered with
red hair, and glaring at her with his little wild eyes. His long tail
lay behind him on the grass, and his white pointed teeth showed between
his thick lips.

The Prince looked up at once, and he also saw in what great peril his
sister lay. The ogre was terribly strong, and no fighting could save
them. He simply glared at them, his eyes full of evil pleasure.

Suddenly the Princess heard a well-known croak, and right out of the
water sprang a great frog.

“There is my preserver,” said Tombi-ende. “Help us, frog! No one is so
clever and wise as you!”

The frog advanced right in front of the ogre, who looked at him with
disdain. He just opened his mouth and said “Boo-oh! Boo-oh!” In one
minute he had swallowed the ogre right up, tail and all, and then he
disappeared into the fountain. There he stayed till the ogre was
drowned. When he came out again the water had dried up, and the ogre
lay buried among the roots of the great fig-tree.

“Ah, frog, how can I thank you enough?” said the Princess. “This time
you must not disappear, you must come home with us.”

In three days they reached her father’s kraal. The King’s guard stood
in order to greet them, gloriously arrayed in otter-skins, with shields
and assegais. Her father stood at their head, and hailed them both with
joy.

“But what,” said her father, “is that horrible frog at your side? I
must have the wretch killed.”

“Do not kill him, father,” said Tombi-ende, “he saved my life twice.”

And at those very words the frog suddenly grew into a handsome man,
taller than Tombi-ende herself. He was in full war-like array, with
shield and assegai, and a great plume of white ostrich feathers on his
head. Any one could see at once that he was a Prince.

All greeted him with loud shouts; only Tombi-ende was not so very much
surprised.

“I am no frog,” said the Prince, “my father is a great Chief. The ogre
from whom I rescued the Princess overcame me by witchcraft in former
days, but now that I have won the love of a maiden I am once more free.
Give me the hand of your daughter in marriage, and one hundred cattle
shall be yours.”

A few days later Tombi-ende married the fairy frog, and all will
acknowledge that it was a reward he well deserved. As for the wicked
sisters, the King forgave them in his great joy, and Tombi-ende forgot
all her troubles in a new home.








XVII

NYA-NYA BULEMBU;
OR, THE MOSS-GREEN PRINCESS

A SWAZI TALE


There was once a little Princess named Kitila, the prettiest and nicest
child you could possibly find. She was her mother’s one delight, and
her father was a very great Chief indeed. But for all that many little
girls were far happier than she, for her father hated her mother and
did everything he could to show how much he despised her and her child.
He did not allow Kitila so much as one necklace of beads, and her
little skin cloak was shabby and poor. He had another daughter,
Mapindane, whose mother was his favourite Queen. He loved her dearly,
and delighted in her beauty and pretty ways, for she also was a
charming child. But so much did he dislike Kitila that he was quite
annoyed to see that she was pretty and likely to be admired. At last he
determined to humiliate her and her mother for ever by dressing her in
the skin of the Nya-nya Bulembu, so that every one might be frightened
of her and no Prince might ever love her.

Now the Nya-nya Bulembu is a strange beast who lives in the water. He
has long teeth and claws, and his skin is covered with bright green
moss. No one has anything to do with him who can help it, and his very
name means “the Despised One covered with Moss.” The King thus hoped
that his little girl would be taken for the monster himself, and would
be hated by all as much as he himself disliked her. You will see,
however, that he would have done much better to be kind to his little
daughter, for the Nya-nya Bulembu is a fairy beast, and it is not wise
to meddle with him.

One day the King called his Chief Councillors and his people together
and told them of his intentions. “The little Princess Kitila,” he said,
“is to be dressed in the skin of the Nya-nya Bulembu. Fetch me an
animal which is young, with regular teeth, long claws, and a perfect
skin well covered with green moss.”

The King also gave orders for plenty of green mealie-bread to be made
with which to entice the animal out of the water. A party of picked men
then went out together and came down to the river. They followed its
course till they came to a deep pool, where the water was quite black.
The huntsmen stood round in a ring and sang the song of the Nya-nya
Bulembu:


       “Nya-nya Bulembu, Nya-nya Bulembu,
        Come out of the water and eat me!
        The King has sent us for the great Nya-nya Bulembu!
        Come and let us see you!
        Laugh and show us your teeth!”


Out came a huge old monster, with only two or three teeth left, and no
moss on his skin at all.

“No,” said the huntsmen at once, “we don’t want you.”

They journeyed on again in a great storm of wind and rain. When it had
passed away, and the sun shone once more, they found themselves at a
second big pool, which was blue as the sky. Here they stopped and sang
the song of the Bulembu once more. Out came a vicious-looking creature,
with but little moss on his coat, and only one tooth three feet long.

“No, we don’t want you either,” said the huntsmen, and they travelled
on again till they came to a third pool, which was bright green. Round
it grew a most beautiful fringe of green moss, and the water itself was
vivid green, like the grass in spring.

Once more the huntsmen sang the magic song, and out came a nice green
Bulembu, beautifully covered with moss, and showing all his long white
teeth. They set big pieces of mealie-bread for him, and as he came out
to eat they caught him alive. Then they travelled like the wind to the
King’s kraal. As they drew near home they sang:


       “Have all your assegais ready!
        The Nya-nya Bulembu is coming!”


All the men in the kraal seized their assegais and hurried to the gate
by which the Bulembu must enter. They stood in line in front of the
entrance, and as the green monster rushed upon them he fell on their
spears and died. Then they took the body to the hut of the despised
Queen, and began to prepare the skin for use.

First they cut the body open, and to their great surprise out came the
most lovely bead-work. There were necklaces, bracelets, and girdles of
every colour and pattern, the most lovely little embroidered bags, and
the most beautifully woven mats. Nothing that a King’s daughter could
want was missing, and everything was of the finest workmanship. It
seemed as if the supply would never come to an end, for the more beads
they pulled out the more appeared, till there were enough to last the
Princess her life long. But the moment they began to remove the skin no
more appeared. They stripped the Bulembu most carefully, preserving the
nails and all the teeth, and when the skin was quite complete they
wrapped the little Princess in it. The instant it touched her it fitted
as if it were a part of her; indeed, she could not get it off again,
for it was the skin of a fairy beast, as the old King knew well. You
could no longer see that she was a little girl at all, she looked just
like a hideous green monster.

Kitila and her mother cried most bitterly at this undeserved disgrace,
but the Chief Councillor could only say, “It is the King’s order; we
must obey him.”

The two little Princesses were never allowed to play with the other
children. They sat by themselves every day in the middle of the huts
near the cattle-kraal, the one in her green skin with long white teeth,
the other in all the prettiest beads imaginable and a lovely little
cloak of leopard-skin, the finest the King could procure. The two
little girls were great friends, and as they played and ate their food
hundreds of little birds came every day and picked up the fragments.

Many years passed by, and the girls grew into womanhood. Mapindane was
now very lovely, and was a joy to behold as she sat in the sun, but
poor Kitila was still clothed in her hideous green skin, and looked the
same as ever. The feast of the first-fruits was now at hand. The King’s
wise men had been absent a month travelling to the coast to fetch water
from the great sea, for no other may be used for the potion which
cleanses the land from all evil. They set their calabashes in the sand
at low tide, and when they are filled by the magic power of the ocean
they return home joyfully. Every day they were expected, and when at
last they arrived the King gave orders that all preparations should be
made.

The day before the feast every one went out to gather the first-fruits
in the fields, and no one remained in the kraal but one old Queen to
watch over the two Princesses. The two girls sat in their usual place,
and the birds flew round them as they ate and picked up all they could.
Suddenly a flock of rock-pigeons swooped down upon them, and in a
moment they had seized the beautiful Princess and carried her away, but
the green monster they left alone.

The old Queen looked up and shrieked, “There goes the lovely Princess!
There goes the King’s favourite child!” She called out all the people
from the fields and sent them after the pigeons. But the birds rose
high into the air, and then headed straight for the North. They carried
Mapindane far far away to a new country, and placed her in the kraal of
a very great King. There she stayed till the King saw her, and made her
his wife, and there she lived in great happiness. But she could never
send a message home, for no one had even heard the name of her people,
or knew the way through the thick forests which lay between them.

So her father and mother never knew of her good fortune, and always
believed that the birds had eaten her. Poor Kitila in her green skin
was worse off than ever, for the bereaved Queen was very jealous and
angry, and as she was all-powerful, Kitila was no longer allowed to
live as a Princess, but was set to do all sorts of degrading work. At
last the King said to her, “You are no good at all; you must go and
scare birds. You are so ugly that every bird who sees you will fly away
at once.”

From that day the Princess was no longer called Kitila, but Nya-nya
Bulembu. She often said to her mother, “How hard my life is! Why was I
born to all this?”

But her mother always remembered the Bulembu’s magic gifts, and said,
“Do not despair; all will come right presently.”

And so it did; for the first time the Princess went to the fields she
met a Fairy in the shape of a very old man. He took pity on her, and
gave her a stick, saying, “When you come to the fields just wave this,
and call aloud. All the birds will fall down dead at once. When you go
bathing take the stick with you into the water; it will give you your
true shape again. But remember never to leave go of it, or your power
will depart.”

Kitila took the stick, and found it quite as powerful as the Fairy
declared. She had no trouble with the birds, but kept the crops in
safety as easily as possible. Every day in the hot, still afternoon,
when all creatures are asleep, she went down to the river. As her foot
touched the water the green skin floated away, and hundreds of pretty
girls came to play with her at her call.

She stood in the water and sang:


       “Nya-nya Bulembu, Nya-nya Bulembu,
        Here I am!
        I was dressed like a monster,
        But I am like any girl.
        To-day they fed me with the dogs.”


Then she called for food, and instantly a feast appeared, and she and
all the Fairies ate and laughed together. But when she came out of the
river her green skin reappeared, and she was once more Nya-nya Bulembu.

The other little boys and girls who were also scaring birds were
dreadfully afraid of the monster, and never went near her. They never
asked her to join them in the afternoons when they played together in
the water, but they often wondered what she looked like when she bathed
by herself in a lonely pool. One day they went down to see, but they
hid behind the trees, so that the Princess never knew. When a beautiful
girl appeared instead of the ugly monster, they were so astonished that
they ran straight home and told the whole story to the Princess’s
mother. The despised Queen was very pleased, but she told the children
not to say a word to any one. So the moss-green Princess continued to
scare the birds.

Some months later a great Prince came to visit the King. He was young
and handsome, but he was noted above all for his wisdom and good
judgment. His father had sent him to seek a bride; she was to be the
most beautiful woman he could find, and every one was anxious to see
the girl chosen by so wise a Prince. The young man travelled far and
wide, but found no maiden whom he could love. At last he came to the
kraal in which lived the moss-green Princess. He went straight to the
King and asked him if he had any daughters.

“Yes,” said the King, “but I have only one. You shall see her with
pleasure.”

“Let the Prince see the monster,” said Mapindane’s mother, with a
bitter laugh. So the Prince was taken to the fields where Kitila was
scaring birds. When he got there the little boys and girls who were at
work came to him and said, “Do you want to see Nya-nya Bulembu? She is
bathing just now, we will take you to the pool she always visits.”

They took the Prince, and placed him where he could see the moss-green
Princess enter the water without being seen by her. When he first saw
the green monster appear he held his breath with horror, and thought
some trick had been played upon him. But directly this hideous creature
touched the water the green skin fell away, and there stood the
loveliest maiden he had ever beheld. He instantly fell in love with
her, and vowed to make her his wife, no matter what spell might have
fallen on her. He watched her all the afternoon playing with the
Fairies in the cool green shadows, and longed to join them, but did not
dare. He heard Kitila sing the story of her life. Then he went straight
back to the kraal and asked to see the King.

“I will marry your monster,” he said.

The King was surprised beyond measure, but he consented, and all
preparations were made for the wedding. The wonderful presents the
green monster had brought years before were now gathered together and
made a royal outfit for the young Princess. The Prince returned to his
father, and sent a present of one hundred cows to the King, to show in
what consideration he held the bride, and also a fine head of cattle
for her mother.

Then he waited for the moss-green Princess to come to him, for in
Kafir-land the marriage always takes place in the bridegroom’s home.
All his people waited, too, in great expectation, for the Prince was
known to have chosen the most beautiful girl he could find. Their
horror was great when they saw a strange green monster arrive, with
long white teeth and claws, attended by four bridesmaids.

“What!” said they. “Is this the peerless beauty chosen by so wise a
Prince? How can he marry such a monster?”

The poor Princess sat at the door of the chief hut, trembling lest she
should be refused admittance, and the Prince repent of so bad a
bargain. But he kept faith with her in spite of her green skin, and
received her kindly. She was taken to a beautiful hut, and the next day
was fixed for the wedding.

Very early in the morning the Princess and her maids went down to a
deep pool in the river to bathe. The sun had barely risen, the air was
fresh and cool. Nya-nya Bulembu took the stick in her hand and stepped
into the water. As she touched it the green skin fell away, but instead
of floating on the water it flew straight up into the air, and was
carried many miles, till it fell down right at the door of her mother’s
hut. Then the despised Queen knew that all was well, and her daughter
happy at last.

The Princess came out of the water in her true form—no longer Nya-nya
Bulembu, but Kitila, the King’s daughter. She returned to the kraal
with her bridesmaids, all in their wedding array, and was met by the
women who were to be her friends in her new home, for they were to take
her to the Prince. Great was their joy and astonishment when they saw
so lovely a Princess. They declared that such beauty had never been
seen among them before, and praised the wisdom of the Prince who had
chosen her.

The marriage ceremony then took place, and the Princess lived among
them ever after in much happiness and honour. The fame of her beauty
was such that people came from South, East, and West to see so lovely a
woman.

But the old King was well punished, for while he often heard of the
happiness of Nya-nya Bulembu, he never saw his favourite daughter
again, and always believed her dead.








XVIII

THE ENCHANTED BUCK

A SWAZI TALE


Lungile sat in the sunshine watching her mother put the finishing
stitches in her sedwaba. It was a great occasion. The sedwaba, you
know, is the name of the full kilt of black ox-skins which no girl
wears till her bridal morning. It takes a long time to make. Lungile’s
father had prepared the skins many months ago. He had brayed them on
the inner side and dyed them inky-black with charcoal, till they looked
quite like velvet. And then Lungile’s mother, who sewed better than any
one for miles around, cut out the kilt so that it should fit tightly
round the waist but fall into cunning folds at the knee, and stitched
all the pieces together most beautifully. Now the kilt was ready and
Lungile might set out for the home of her betrothed as soon as ever she
pleased.

That evening she saw all the maids who were to accompany her to the
wedding, and arranged the day of departure. It was kept a dead secret;
Lungile’s father and mother would not expect to know, for every Kafir
bride loves to slip away in the early morning without farewells. Two
days later, at the first flush of day, Lungile and her maids set out on
their journey. It was early summer; the first rains were over and the
valleys and hills were covered with thousands of flowers, vivid scarlet
or blue like the sky, while here and there were great patches of
delicate yellow, the very hue of the English primrose. The air was
fresh and crystal-clear, and the girls laughed and sang songs of
travel. Lungile was full of joy, for her bridegroom was a Chief’s son,
and she had chosen him out of many wooers. For she was not only
beautiful; she was just as good and industrious as she was lovely, and
many suitors had asked her in marriage. She hoed all her father’s
lands, and the beer she made was the best for many miles, so that there
was no kraal where she would not have been welcome.

The girls journeyed together for some days, till at length they reached
the bridegroom’s lands, and went straight to his father’s kraal. His
mother greeted them with every kindness, and showed them a beautiful
hut in which they might live till all the preparations for the wedding
were made. They had been expected for some time, and now that they had
arrived every man and woman in the kraal was kept busy.

While the women ground corn or went out to gather wood, the bridegroom
and his father considered what oxen should be killed for the feast.

“We will take two of those the Chief Maginde sent as your sister’s
marriage-gift,” said the father. “They are the finest in the herd, but
you are my eldest son, and deserve the best we can do.” The first ox
was driven up and killed with much ceremony; the bride was delighted to
see what fine beasts her father-in-law was giving for her pleasure. All
the women in the kraal were now busy getting water and preparing the
fires; only Lungile and her maidens sat in their hut, thinking of the
wedding which was so soon approaching.

When all was ready for cooking and the guests already nearing the
kraal, the meat was cut into long strips and set on the fire to roast.
To the horror of the bridegroom’s mother, who was watching it, the meat
began to jump about on the fire. It simply would not keep quiet, and
after attempting to make it lie still twice, she became frightened.

“There must be witchcraft here,” said she, and called her husband to
see this strange thing. She left the strips of meat on the fire, but
when she returned with all the wedding party at her heels not a vestige
of the meat remained. All had disappeared, nobody knew where.

“The animal was undoubtedly bewitched,” said the father. Every one
looked at the bride’s hut; she was a stranger, and they already
expected all was not well with her.

“Bring the white bull,” said the father. “He is the finest we have;
perhaps if we kill him it may break the spell.”

The white bull was brought forward. He was the chief of all the cattle
the bridegroom’s father had received on his daughter’s marriage two
years before, and because of his colour he was held to be a harbinger
of peace and good fortune. He was snow-white from head to tail, save
for two long black horns of great beauty. All praised the Chief’s
kindness and generosity in giving him, and felt sure all would now be
well.

The young men soon killed the bull and the meat was cut up. This time
it was placed in large pots to boil. All stood by and watched; even the
bride had heard of the trouble and waited anxiously in her hut, for
witchcraft at her wedding was indeed a misfortune.

For a while all seemed quiet. Then the water began to boil in the pot
in which the bull’s head had been placed. Instantly there leaped out of
the pot a beautiful young man, with a bearing like that of a great
Chief. He ran away with incredible speed, and even as he ran changed
into a handsome buck with glancing horns. In a moment he was out of
sight.

The whole company broke up in horror. “Bring the bride here,” said the
Chief; “without doubt she is a witch, and has brought trouble on us
all.”

In a few minutes poor Lungile was brought out of her hut with her
attendant maids, trembling and weeping.

“Go back home,” shouted the Chief, “and never let us see your face
again. You are no wife for my son, nor would any decent family ever
receive you. I send you back to your father and demand my marriage-gift
of cattle; he may deal with you as he thinks fit.”

“I am innocent of all harm,” cried Lungile. “I have cast no spells and
wish no evil to any one. I will work hard and be a good daughter to
you.”

“Go, go back to your father,” said all the women together. “You have
brought witchcraft here, and are accursed.”

Then they drove her out quickly, nor did she attempt any more to prove
her innocence, but travelled home with her bridesmaids in bitter tears.

Her father and mother received her back, and were horrified when they
heard of her treatment. They did not for a moment believe their
daughter was a witch, and they were very sorry to send back the cattle;
but what could they do? The marriage-gift was returned, and Lungile
took her old place in the kraal again and worked as hard and as well as
ever. Only no more suitors came for her hand, for no one quite liked
the story of the white ox with the black horns. It looked as if the
kilt of black ox-skins might never be worn.

More than a whole year went by; Lungile gradually forgot her troubles
and her bridegroom that was to have been. She went out one day in
autumn; the air was cool, the sun shone brightly over the great plains.
She had been told to gather dried mealie-stalks from her father’s
lands, and sang gaily as she walked along the narrow path. Just as she
was about to turn off towards the fields a beautiful buck came in
sight. To her great surprise it did not run away, but circled round
her, running across the path and slipping in and out of the bushes. As
she watched it she seemed to recognise its form.

“Where have I seen this beautiful animal before?” said she, and thought
a minute. “Why, it is the very same buck that jumped out of the pot at
my wedding-feast!”

The recollection made her very sad for a moment, but she soon threw
back her head and laughed. “Now he shall really be killed,” said she;
“it is many days since we had meat. I will see if I can catch him as he
passes.”

The buck continued to dance around her, coming nearer and nearer, but
always just slipping out of her hands. They had now left her father’s
lands behind, and were drawing nearer and nearer to the mountains. Once
she touched the buck with her hands, but he jumped away. She followed
till they came to a stream which flowed down a green valley. There the
buck stooped to drink by a great bush covered with heart-shaped leaves,
on which still lingered a few scarlet blossoms. Lungile jumped forward
and seized him by the horns. He did not seem to mind, but shook his
head and made her follow him by a tiny path which ran up the valley,
following the course of the stream. Lungile found the buck was far
stronger than she thought. She could not turn him back, and kept
looking from left to right to see if any one was coming who would kill
her game for her.

But the valley was empty and wild. High waving grass surrounded her on
either side, extending to the foot of great rocky cliffs; before her
lay a long narrow valley, closed at the end by a great round mountain.
As they went on a huge forest came into view, which clothed the lower
slopes of the mountain. A blue shadow began to creep across the valley.
Lungile saw it, and thought, “No one is in sight, I shall hardly reach
home before dark. The buck is too strong for me; I must give him up.”

She let him go with a sigh, and hurried back so as to reach the plains
again before sundown. She had not gone far when she turned her head out
of curiosity to see if the buck were still in sight. To her intense
surprise he was following her, walking in a cloud of mist which shone
gloriously in the sun. She stood still, and in a few minutes the buck
was at her side.

“What do you want?” said Lungile.

The buck only looked at her with his great brown eyes, and said
nothing. Lungile spoke again. She was sorry for the buck, and felt sure
that he was in trouble.

This time the buck answered in a soft, low voice, “Follow me to the
forest yonder.”

“I will come,” said Lungile, and turned once more to the great mountain
and the forest at its foot.

Before long they reached the first great trees, and there at the very
entrance they saw a sight which made Lungile cry out in terror. A huge
ogre seated on a wolf was staring at them. Round his forehead he wore a
string of animals’ eyes, which made him look yet more horrible.

Lungile turned to run, but the buck said to her calmly, “Come, and you
will see what I can do,” and walked straight towards the ogre. The girl
followed, but shivered as she heard the ogre say to the buck, “Ha, you
will do splendidly for the wolf’s supper, and that fine young girl for
mine!”

Then he opened his huge mouth, stretched out his long arms, and darted
forward to catch the buck, who did not move. But the instant his arms
touched him the buck changed, and became a most beautiful young man.
The wolf, scared to death, ran trembling into the bush, and the ogre,
taken at a disadvantage, was strangled forthwith.

When he lay dead the young man took the crown of animals’ eyes from the
monster’s head and threw them on the ground. Instantly they became
living bucks. They all looked at the man with great affection, and
followed his every movement.

The young man then turned to Lungile and said, “Be kind to these
animals, and help them. Remember I also was a buck. Stay here a few
days, and do this for me. Gather spinach every morning, and sing this
fairy song:


      “‘Once my true love was a buck,
        Once my true love was a buck;
        Now he is changed into a fine, strong young man.
        Now, bucks—Oh, bucks,
        Change yourselves, and become young men.’”


“I will do so,” said Lungile, with love and admiration in her eyes.
“But tell me, are you not the white ox who was killed at the wedding
feast? And who are these bucks who are all to be transformed?”

“I am indeed that very white ox,” said the young man. “I am a great
Chief, and because my lands were better than the Chief Maginde’s, and I
had finer cattle and stronger people, he hated me. One day he bewitched
me, and turned me into a white ox, and all my people, he said, should
be bucks. None should be free till I could change my form and become
once more a man. Then he sent me as a marriage-gift to the father of
your betrothed, and so I came to be killed. Through me you lost your
first lover, but do not grieve. Now I am once more a great Chief, I can
give you all you want if you will be my bride.”

Lungile consented with great joy, for the fairy buck was handsomer and
more gallant than any youth she had ever beheld. She stayed in the
forest for many days. Every morning at sunrise she rose when the dew
was still heavy and sang the fairy song, gathering spinach up and down
the hillside. And every day more and more bucks came in from the
mountains, and assembled in the forest. They brought with them their
does and their little ones. In seven days many thousands had assembled.
Then one morning as she sang the magic song they all changed, and at
sunrise they were men, women, and children.

Thus the enchanted buck regained his people, and won a most kind and
beautiful bride. He took Lungile back to her father, gave a
marriage-gift such as no one had ever seen before, and then made her
his wife amid great rejoicing.








XIX

THE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

A SWAZI TALE


Once, ever so many years ago, there lived a very pretty maiden whose
name was Mulha, “the Fair One.” She dwelt with her father and mother
and two little sisters in a lonely kraal among the mountains. They
seldom saw any one, for the land around them was poor and very few
cared to settle there. Indeed Mulha’s mother grew all her crops in a
fertile valley some miles away, and was often obliged to be absent many
days.

As spring approached every year she took her hoe, left the kraal in
charge of Mulha, and went away to set the new corn. Now it happened
once that the father was away on a hunting expedition when the time of
sowing arrived, and not likely to be back for a long time. So the
mother had to leave all three children alone; but as Mulha was a big
girl and would soon be grown up, she did not fear for their safety. She
gave all three plenty of corn and many kinds of beans to cook for their
daily food.

When she had finished providing for them, she called them to a big pot
which lay on one side of the hut.

“Children,” she said, “never open this pot. You have plenty to eat and
will need nothing. Promise me faithfully to obey. If you are good I
will give you all a little feast when I return; we will kill a goat and
make beer, and each of you shall ask your little friends.”

The children promised to be good and not to touch the pot. Then the
mother bade them farewell and started on her journey. The girls were
quite happy for a few days. They cooked their food and kept house, and
the kraal had not looked so neat and tidy for a long time. Then they
grew weary of being alone, and the two younger children said to their
sister, “We are tired; our mother stays away too long.”

Mulha then got up and said, “Do you know what I am going to do?”

“No,” said they.

“I am going to open the big pot.”

“Oh no, you mustn’t,” said the other two; “we all promised faithfully
not to touch it.”

“I am going to see what is inside,” said Mulha with determination. She
went straight to the pot and opened it, but instead of the store of
food she expected to see out came a huge ogre, who instantly filled all
the hut. There was no room left for any one else, and the little girls
fled in terror. But the ogre called after them and spoke so nicely that
they soon came back.

“I will do you no harm,” said he; “you two elder girls must go out to
get water while I keep your youngest sister here to cook the food.”

But while they were away he killed the little girl, and put her into
the big pot to be cooked for dinner. When the two sisters returned they
found the pot already boiling, though they could see no fire.

“Come,” said the ogre, “and sit down. I have a nice little dish ready
for you. Your sister has not returned yet.”

But just at that moment a huge bee came in at the door and buzzed all
round their ears. Soon they distinguished words. “Do not eat anything,”
it said. “It is your own little sister who has been killed in your
absence.”

So they answered that they were not hungry and sat still. After that
Mulha made constant plans to escape with her sister, but the ogre
always knew of them at once and followed her everywhere. Once they
thought that they were quite safe and well away when the ogre suddenly
appeared right in their path and said, “Where are you going to?”

“Oh,” said they, “we are not going far; we are going to play by the
river a little while.”

They ran on a little farther, and though the ogre followed them
suspiciously the younger sister managed to slip away through the bushes
and swim down the river to the bottom of the valley. Thence she made
her way to the fields in which her mother was at work. There she
besought her to come and help Mulha, and rescue her from the horrible
Inzimu.

But the mother shook her head. “You are punished,” said she, “for your
disobedience. I can do nothing till the proper time comes; we must wait
for your father.”

In the meantime the ogre kept Mulha alive, for he did not like to eat
her, as Inzimus always have a stock of provision in reserve, and do not
use the last of the store. One day he left her in the hut while he went
out to search for fresh prey. She took the opportunity to escape, and
this time she was successful. She ran on and on by many winding paths,
keeping always to the trees which followed the water-courses, till at
last she had left her own valley behind and could run straight forward
to her mother’s lands. There at last she found both her mother and
sister, and very glad they were to see her.

She begged her mother to kill the ogre, but her mother only shook her
head once more and said, “What can we do? Your father is not back yet.”

But while they were still talking, their father came in sight, to their
great relief and joy. He was told the whole story of their troubles,
and in great anger and indignation he seized his shield and assegai and
started forth to find the monster and kill him.

The next day he returned with a sad face. “We cannot go home any more,”
said he to his wife. “We must build a new hut here. I threw my assegais
at the monster with all possible force and skill, but they simply fell
powerless on the ground. It is useless to think of revenging ourselves,
the monster is a magician.”

At this news the mother called the two girls and told them the Inzimu
was not dead, and it would no longer be safe for them to return home.
As he would be sure to search, especially for Mulha, who had last
escaped him, she had decided to send her right away.

“You shall go to your married sister. She is in a good position and
will look after you, and presently, no doubt, some one will want you
for his wife. But remember to go straight along the road, and on no
account to touch the manumbela [20] which grows by the way.”

Then Mulha put on all her prettiest beads and dressed herself in a
length of black stuff gaily striped with green and blue, which she
knotted round her waist. No girl in all Swaziland was prettier than
she, or walked with a freer air. Her mother watched her go with pride,
and had little doubt that she would soon marry a Chief’s son.

Now you would have expected Mulha to be very careful and obedient after
her last sad experience, and for a long time she travelled very
soberly. But the afternoon was very hot, for it was full summer, and
she gradually became very thirsty. There was no water near, and at a
turn of the path she came in sight of beautiful manumbela covered with
rich ripe berries. The manumbela is, you know, the Forbidden Fruit.

Mulha looked at it longingly, and at last she said, “Oh! I am going to
eat it!” and climbed straight up the tree.

Directly she got up and picked a berry a deep bass voice called out of
the trunk: “Dear good girl, give me some ripe fruit.”

The voice was so deep that the whole tree shook. Mulha gathered the
fruit and came down in a fright. Immediately the tree opened and out
came a big ogress, an Imbula, with an ugly snout like a wolf, and long
red hair all over her body. The ogress took the fruit and said, “You
are not safe travelling alone, a pretty girl like you. Give me all your
things and I will give you mine, then no one will know you.”

Mulha gave her the striped cottons, but did not want to part with all
her beautiful beads. However, the Imbula insisted on having them, and
promised to give all back when they approached the married sister’s
kraal. She then gave Mulha her own skin to wear as a disguise. To her
horror the poor girl found that the skin clung to her as tightly as if
it grew on her. Nothing would remove it. The Imbula, without her horrid
lumpy skin covered with red hair, looked like a pretty girl; her wolf’s
snout had disappeared, and she had the whitest and most even teeth that
ever were seen. It was she who was now Mulha, “the Fair One,” while the
real beauty had become a loathsome monster.

Just outside the sister’s kraal Mulha tried to make the ogress give her
back her dress and ornaments, but the monster absolutely refused. They
soon came to the gate; the Imbula went right in, asked for her sister,
and was welcomed by all and given great honour.

“What are we to do with your companion?” asked the married sister, with
a glance of disgust at Mulha.

“Oh, just put her anywhere,” said the Imbula. “She can feed quite well
with the dogs in some old hut.”

“Very well,” said the married sister. “She can live with the old woman
over there; no one will see her or be troubled by her.”

So the ogress passed as a beautiful Princess, and great attention was
paid her. She looked exactly like a very pretty girl, but she had one
great difficulty. All Imbulas have a tail, just like Inzimus, and this
tail she could not get rid of. She coiled it round her waist and hid it
under her girdle, but every day she feared discovery. However, no one
dreamt of such a possibility, and for a long time all went well.

Meanwhile the real beauty lived in the hut with the old woman. She was
deeply hurt at being treated thus by her own sister, but presently she
discovered that her skin gave her magic powers, so she began to use
them.

“Tell me,” she said to the old woman, “would you like to be made young
again?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the old woman.

“Very well, you shall,” said Mulha. And the next morning every one was
wondering what had happened to the old woman, for she once more looked
like a girl. But Mulha bound her to silence, for she was far too
indignant to let her sister have any hint of the truth. So the two
lived together quietly but in much comfort, for Mulha found that she
was able to obtain excellent food for them both by a mere command, and
they never touched the scraps which were thrown to them.

Now the real monster soon had ever so many lovers, for the fame of her
beauty spread far and wide. At last she announced her engagement to a
very wealthy and handsome Prince. Her behaviour, however, puzzled every
one very much. She would never allow him so much as to kiss her, and
declared that she was far too modest to allow him even to sit by her.
The real beauty knew quite well why this was, but every one else
thought it very strange.

Soon after the engagement was announced Mulha told the old woman that
she was going down to bathe. The married sister heard of this. She said
to herself, “I should much like to see this strange creature in the
water,” and followed the supposed monster to the river.

There she saw a most wonderful sight. Directly the misshapen being
touched the river her skin floated away, and she stood in the sparkling
water, the most beautiful maiden that ever was seen. Then she stretched
out her arms and sang:


       “Come, maidens, come,
        Come and play with me,
        Come and play in the water.”


And at once beautiful girls came from all sides and played and laughed
with her as their Princess. When Mulha had played long enough she got
out of the water. The skin fitted on her again as tightly as ever, and
she became a hateful beast once more.

The married sister went home certain that something was wrong, and
consulted an aged Princess noted for her wisdom. The next time that the
supposed monster bathed they went down to the river together and caught
her just before she left the water. She soon told them she was the true
Mulha, who had been overcome by an Imbula, but she did not wish to
change her condition.

“Why do you bother me? I have everything I want and do not care to be
troubled. You took the Imbula in as your sister; now you can keep her.”

“It is not right that men should be deceived by a monster,” said her
sister. “I will speak to the King about it.”

The two women laid the whole story before the King, who soon devised a
method of settling which was the beauty and which the beast.

“Dig a big hole in the middle of the kraal, and place in it all kinds
of food and plenty of fresh milk in a calabash. Then make every woman
in the kraal walk round the hole alone, and we shall soon see who is
the Imbula.”

All was done as the King commanded, and all the women in the kraal,
young and old, walked round the hole. At last it came to the turn of
the supposed Princess.

“There is no need for me to walk round the hole,” said she. “Every one
knows that I am a pretty girl. Besides, I am far too shy to show myself
off before everybody.”

She twisted and turned, and spoke in a tiny voice, just as she had done
whenever the Prince approached her. But the King would have none of it,
and commanded her to walk round the hole on pain of death.

So the Imbula was obliged to come, and started to walk round the hole.
But at the sight of the milk all her instincts awoke, and she forgot
everything. Her tail instantly uncoiled, and leapt down into the hole
to suck up the milk. No Inzimu, male or female, can control their tail
when milk is on the ground. This the King had counted on when he laid
the trap.

Directly the King saw that the real monster was discovered he sent his
men to kill her. When all was over, Mulha came out to see the last of
her rival. But she was now in her true form, and so radiantly beautiful
that the Prince who had been deceived by the Imbula fell in love with
her at once. The marriage was soon arranged. One hundred cows were paid
to Mulha’s father at the wedding. He thus became a rich man, and so
after many adventures all were made happy.








XX

THE WHITE DOVE


Once, long ago, there lived a Prince named Sanfu, who was a great
hunter. It was the sport he loved above all others, and every day
during the season he set out from home very early, and hunted till
dusk. He was young and handsome, and as yet he had no wife, but engaged
in adventures at every opportunity.

One day in mid-winter he collected his weapons, called his dogs, and
set out to hunt. He carried assegais, which he could use either as
spears or as darts, and knobkerries to knock down the smaller game. The
air was clear and bright, the country full of wild creatures, yet look
as he might he could find nothing. He hated to return home
empty-handed, so he hurried on from bush to bush till he came into a
strange country, which he had never before visited. He looked across
the valley and saw in the distance two great mountains, whose twin
peaks stood out against the cloudless sky in glorious tints of
ruddy-gold. The right-hand mountain was clothed in bush almost to the
summit, only the topmost crags being bare. There was no sign of man
anywhere; surely this forest at least must abound in game.

So Sanfu took up his assegais and kerries and set out to explore the
new land. He followed the course of a tiny stream, leaping from rock to
rock in the dim green light of the forest. The trees were so thick
overhead that the sun never came through, but below one could walk
freely on a carpet of long green moss. Every now and then a cave-rat
darted out at the Prince’s very feet, but his knobkerrie always missed
it; a few minutes later he would see a magnificent buck, with head
thrown back, standing in front of a thicket. But the moment he came
within striking distance his prey was gone. So he toiled on, always
disappointed, but always seeing something worth his pursuit, till at
length the trees grew thinner and farther apart. Gradually they
dwindled down to mere bushes, and Sanfu found himself on the high grass
slopes above the forest. He left the stream and made straight for the
pass between the two mountain peaks, determined to see what lay beyond.

The highest point once gained, he looked down into a beautiful wooded
valley with several fine streams, the very place for game. Sanfu
straightway began the descent, but at closer view he found that the
slopes were covered with huge boulders, and the grass was so high that
it would be impossible to see any game. He persevered for some time,
then he decided to turn back and try his luck once more in the forest.

But when he looked round to retrace his steps he found it was
impossible. For the twin peaks had suddenly become a precipitous wall
without break or opening, and the grassy slopes had turned to hard
granite cliffs without so much as a foot-hold. Sanfu looked once more
at the valley. Then he found that he was in a sort of basin surrounded
on every side by steep hills crowned with inaccessible rocks. Puzzled
and weary he went forward, hoping at least to find water and a place to
rest for the night. For it was now not far from sundown, the air was
growing cold, and it was useless to think of going much farther. But
the rocks only seemed to grow higher and higher; he could see no open
space, nor was there any sound of water. The whole valley was
absolutely silent.

Suddenly he heard footsteps behind him. He turned his head, and was
astonished to see a human being. It was an old old woman leaning on a
black wand, on the top of which perched two black birds.

“Tell me, old woman,” said the Prince, “am I near a kraal?”

But the old woman said nothing. He repeated the question. The old woman
only touched her ears and her mouth with one hand, and shook her head.
Then Sanfu knew that she was deaf and dumb. So he turned and continued
to thread his way in and out of the tall boulders, the old woman
following on behind. Presently he heard in the far distance the cooing
of a dove.

“Where there are doves,” thought the Prince, “there are trees and
perhaps water.”

He pursued his way, guided by the soft melancholy cry. Soon he could
distinguish words, for the dove was singing the lament that all the
doves have sung from the beginning of things:


       “Ku waffa baba
        Ku waffa mama
        Ku waffa imfo wetu
        Ku waffa dado wetu
        ’Ngi hlala etwe
        Inhleziwe s’ame’ tshon, tshon, tshon, tshon, tshon.”

       “My father is dead;
        My mother is dead;
        My brethren are dead;
        My sisters are dead;
        I sit here alone.
        My heart is sinking, sinking, sinking, sinking, sinking.”


“Not much farther now,” thought the Prince, as the singing grew
clearer, and a minute later he found himself in an open space. Here a
most curious sight met his eyes. No trees were to be seen, but on his
left hand there rose up an enormous black cliff. You can imagine how
strange it looked, for all the boulders and the crags above were red,
but this rock was jet black. Below on his right flowed a wide, black
river. It was deep and silent; not so much as a speck of foam appeared
on its waters.

At the base of the cliff were three huge caves, and in one of these,
right in the middle, sat a pure white dove of exquisite beauty. Two
ravens stood one on either side of her, and the moment they saw the
Prince they began to dance. They danced faster and faster till at last
they lay down exhausted at the feet of the White Dove. Then the
beautiful bird spoke.

“Welcome, Prince,” said she. “We are so glad to see you, we have been
waiting here for years.”

“Why are you glad to see me?” replied Sanfu, who knew at once that he
had met with a great adventure. “What can I possibly do for you?”

“You can do us the greatest imaginable service,” said the Dove. “Look
at this cave and repeat the following words three times:


       “River, river, wonderful river, mighty river,
        Loose your might and change us into human beings;
        You it was who bewitched us,
        Now change us again.”


The Prince obeyed, and a marvellous thing happened. The cave seemed to
open out, and suddenly the whole valley was filled with a burst of most
wonderful song. For within were thousands of beautiful birds of every
kind there is in the world. They flashed and shone in the
sunlight—golden orioles and many-coloured lorys, the emerald cuckoo and
all the exquisite finches. Then there were dainty little black
honey-suckers, whose lustre is like mother-of-pearl, and graceful doves
of every hue. And beyond all these were gorgeous birds from the great
forests of the far north such as Sanfu had never seen. He gazed in
wonder and delight for a long time. Then he turned to the White Dove
and said, “What do you want me to do now?”

“Repeat these words once more,” said the White Dove.

He repeated them again. To his astonishment the second cave opened out
and thousands of animals appeared—great herds of buck with beautiful
horns, both small and great, noble elephants and tall giraffes, and
lions and tigers with glossy skins. Their cries almost drowned the call
of the birds, but they appeared to live in peace and did one another no
harm.

“Do you see those animals?” said the Dove to the amazed Prince. “Those
are my father’s men.”

“Who then are the birds?” asked Sanfu.

“They are the beautiful women and the girls who live in his kingdom.”

“And the third cave? What does that contain?”

“Ah!” said the Dove. “That is the greatest wonder of all. But it cannot
be opened yet.”

“Is there nothing else I can do to help you?” said the Prince. “For you
appear to be under some terrible enchantment.”

“You can do everything,” cried the White Dove. “Do not leave this
valley. Stay here for one year and we shall be delivered.”

“That I cannot possibly do,” said the Prince, “for no one will know
what has become of me.”

“If you refuse,” said the Dove, with a determination you would never
have expected of her, “you yourself will be changed into an enormous
hairy spider and dwell in a house of dried leaves and moss. Every one
who sees you will run away, and you will live a life of loneliness and
misery.”

“You have no consideration for my mother’s tears,” replied Sanfu. “I am
the only son of my father. They will both think I am killed.”

“You shall be fully rewarded,” said the Dove; “if you do this for us
you will never regret it. But if you refuse you become a horrible
spider, and neither your mother nor your father will ever recognise you
again.”

“Very well,” said the Prince. “I promise to stay with you and help
you.”

“Give me your wand,” said the Dove to the Mute Woman. “The Prince must
be hungry.”

The old woman gave the wand, and as it left her hand she herself
disappeared. The Dove took it and threw it on the ground, but curiously
enough the two black birds perched on the top did not stir and were
thrown down with the staff.

Directly the wand touched the ground there appeared an excellent meal,
bowls of porridge and thick milk, and strips of meat served on a fine
mat, and to crown all a big calabash full of good beer. Sanfu was very
hungry and thirsty. He ate and drank well, and then lay down to sleep
under a rock.

He kept his word and never attempted to leave the valley. The Mute
Woman did not appear again, and the White Dove sat in front of the cave
and sang her former melancholy song. She never spoke at all, and might
have been nothing more than an ordinary bird. Every day food appeared,
and although it was winter and the nights bitterly cold, Sanfu never so
much as shivered in spite of having neither a roof to cover him nor
karosses in which to wrap himself.

“So far I have done well,” thought he, “but what shall I do when the
rains come and the heavy thunderstorms? I shall be washed away or
killed by the hail.”

Clouds began to appear every day, and the weather grew oppressively
hot. At last one evening a tremendous thunderstorm arose, and Sanfu
thought that his last hour had come. To his astonishment not a drop of
rain touched him, and the ground on which he slept remained quite dry.
After that he troubled himself no more, but passed his time as best he
could in solitude and weariness till the summer was past and the winter
once more appeared. At last the year was complete, and on the morning
of the happy day he went to the Dove.

“The year is over,” said he, “and now at last I can return to my
parents. How glad I am to think I can see home once more!”

“You cannot be more glad than I,” said the Dove, “for now I too shall
be free. Repeat the charm once more.”

Then the Prince repeated the words:


       “River, river, wonderful river, mighty river,
        Loose your might and change us into human beings;
        You it was who bewitched us,
        Now change us again”—


and the cave which had never opened before suddenly began to expand.
The whole of the rocky basin melted away and instead appeared open
country, well-wooded and full of good pasture. Great herds of cattle
roamed on the hills, and countless goats and sheep. The high,
inaccessible cliffs were gone, and instead appeared the twin mountain
peaks just as Sanfu had seen them a year ago.

“Now repeat the charm again,” said the Dove.

At the magic words the other two caves opened and the beautiful birds
flew out all over the meadows, while the animals came and ranged
themselves in ranks. The second time the words were repeated every
creature suddenly assumed the head and arms of human beings, and at the
third repetition they stood complete men and women. The animals became
magnificent warriors in serried ranks, at whose head stood a splendid
man in leopard-skins, their King. By his side marched two fine Princes,
and an old and wise magician with a long black wand. They were the two
ravens and the Mute Woman, as you have no doubt guessed already. But
the birds had changed to hundreds and thousands of beautiful girls,
laughing and singing. They came down the hillside running towards the
Prince, and at their head was the loveliest woman he had ever beheld.

“I am the White Dove,” said she. “See what you have done for me! Now
repeat the charm for the last time.”

And at the wonderful words the Black River and the Black Rock both
disappeared. In their place were seen ripe fields of mealies and Kafir
corn. Big orange-coloured pumpkins and shining green calabashes lay
among the corn, and there were well-grown patches of beans and
ground-nuts. All was ready for gathering, the joyous harvest was at
hand, and the men and women had only to reap.

Then every one greeted the Prince with cries of welcome.

“We owe you everything,” said the King. “I will give you a hundred fine
cattle, and goats and sheep without end.”

But Sanfu was silent and did not reply.

“You do not seem pleased,” said the King. “Is there anything else we
can give you? You have only to ask.”

“All I want,” answered Sanfu, looking at the White Dove, “is the
Princess. I want no cattle, for I am a rich man, and my father a very
great Chief. But I will give hundreds of oxen for the Princess if only
I may have her for my wife.”

The Princess looked at him with delight, but the King hesitated and
said he must confer with his chief men. He consulted with them day
after day for many weeks—not, I think, because he did not care for
Sanfu, but simply to show that he was a great King, and his daughter
not to be had for the mere asking.

At last, when poor Sanfu was worn out with anxiety, for he loved the
Princess dearly, the King said he was ready to receive him.

“The Princess is yours,” he said, “on condition that you stay here and
live in our country. Go home first, and bring what men you will as your
followers, but do not leave us altogether.”

The Prince willingly promised for the sake of the White Dove. He went
home, told all his adventures to his father and mother, and in the end
all his people rose up and came with him. The wedding of Sanfu the
hunter and the White Dove was celebrated with great festivities, and,
as you may well believe, was soon followed by many more between his men
and the beautiful girls who once were many-coloured birds.



                                THE END








NOTES


[1] Imbula—an ogre.

[2] Sakobulas—the Kafir name for the black birds just mentioned.

[3] Rooibekkie—Dutch for “red beak.”

[4] Mantsiane—the Kafir name for the rooibekkie.

[5] Assegais—small light spears, of which natives usually carry
several. An assegai can be thrown as a dart or used like a spear at
close quarters.

[6] Mealies—the name generally used in South Africa for Indian corn or
maize.

[7] This is the order in which Kafirs speak of the points of the
compass. The north is not mentioned in such expressions.

[8] Creek.—This word is used in the English-speaking districts of South
Africa to denote a narrow gorge in the mountains with a stream running
down the middle. As a rule they are thickly wooded and full of the most
lovely ferns. In the Cape Colony they are called “kloofs.”

[9] Impi—a regiment.

[10] Induna—a head man or leader under the command of a chief.

[11] Indaba—a conference or council.

[12] Karosses—rugs made of skins or of bark, beautifully sewn together.

[13] Thick milk. This is maas or mase, a preparation of sour milk.
Kafirs never drink fresh milk, but let it stand in special pots till
curds have formed.

[14] An Inzimu, or Imbula, answers most nearly to the ogre of European
fairy tales. He is semi-human, and prefers the flesh of man to any
other. An ogress is called Nzuluqumbi. Both have light-coloured skins
and red hair.

[15] Lobola—the marriage-gift presented by the bridegroom to the
bride’s father. This gift, consisting of cattle, gives him his legal
claim to his wife.

[16] Kopje—a small hill (pronounced “koppie”).

[17] Koodoo—a kind of antelope with fine horns.

[18] Knobkerrie—a staff about the length and thickness of a policeman’s
truncheon, with a round knob at the end. It can be thrown some distance
or wielded in the hand, and is a very useful weapon. Native policemen
under British rule always carry one.

[19] Red ochre is much prized among Kafirs as a dressing for the hair
and skin. It is said to protect them from the heat of the sun, and is
also thought very becoming.

[20] Manumbela—a bush with bright glossy leaves and silvery stem. The
fruit is bright red and grows closely round the stem in great
quantities, a little like the English holly. The berries are the size
of a small plum and are considered very good to eat.











*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75833 ***