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