In every large tree there lives a Nāt, and it is a custom very
strictly adhered to that before any tree can be touched the permission
of the spirit must be asked and obtained.
Now a woodman cut down a tree one day without giving the Nāt who
resided in it the slightest warning, a proceeding which infuriated the
spirit exceedingly, and he determined to be revenged; so, taking upon
himself without delay the exact form and likeness of the woodman, he
gathered up a bundle of sticks and went in advance of him to his home,
in the brief warm gloom that precedes the fall of night. When he
reached the hut, that was as bare as a hermit's cell, thatched with
dunni leaves, and situated in one of the deepest recesses of the dense
sylvan growth, he placed the wood outside and went within. An oil lamp
stood on the wooden ledge of the entrance and threw a faint light on all
around. The wife of the woodcutter was busy boiling the evening rice, a
baby slept in its box-like cradle slung from a beam in the roof; a
little boy of five or six sat cutting plaintain leaves.
The Nāt greeted the woman; she answered him cheerily. Then he
squatted down on a piece of matting.
The rice being ready, the wife put it out on the plaintain leaves,
giving one to her supposed husband, one to the boy, and keeping the
other for herself. They ate together, and when they had finished drank
some water from the chatty standing near. Then they sat and smoked, and
talked together of the many little trifling events which went to make up
their world. The woman cleared away the remains of their meal, and took
out some betel chews and commenced to roll them, while the child slept
behind the purdah. About half an hour passed away thus, when lo! on the
stillness broke the voice of the woodman calling to his wife that he was
coming, saying that he had been delayed.
The woman heard in bewildered astonishment, then turned to the Nāt,
who apparently had not heeded the call, and asked him if she dreamt.
Then rising, she peered out into the gloom, just faintly relieved by the
rays of a young moon, and beheld the form of a woodcutter coming between
the trees, identically the same in figure and face as her husband who
was there beside her. The new-comer called her by her name again,
bidding her prepare something for him to eat, as he was tired and
hungry.
He threw the wood down that he carried, and entered, but staggered back
on seeing his counterpart squatting, quite at home, on the ground. The
woman looked from one to the other, and knew not what to do or think.
There was silence for a few moments. Then he who had come last asked,
when he had sufficiently recovered himself to speak--
"Who is this man who bears so strange a likeness to me?"
"I am the husband of this woman," answered the Nāt calmly, not even
removing his green-leaf cigar from between his lips.
"That cannot be," exclaimed the other indignantly, "because I am he."
The Nāt shook his head, and went on smoking.
The woodcutter, mad with anger and astonishment, turned excitedly to his
wife, and cried--
"Do you not know me, I, your husband, who left you only this morning? Do
you not know me, or do you forget so soon, that you accept a stranger in
my place?"
The woman looked from one to the other, and examined each carefully, and
was more puzzled than ever.
"Oh, wife, do you not know me, do you not know me?" moaned the woodman
in a grief-stricken voice.