THERE was once a woman who had an only son, and they lived in great
contentment in a little house by the side of the lake and at the foot of
a mountain. If you go to Guiana, you may see both lake and mountain to
this day.
In all that land there was no lad so straight, so tall, so graceful as
Aura, and, what is better still, he was kind and gentle. At the close of
the day when he came from his fishing, he and his mother would sit in
the cool of the evening, watching the glory of the sunset and listening
to the music of the silver cascade which fell from the mountain into the
lake. Often the forest animals would come and play about before their
house. The lively little agouti would sport with the black jaguar and
the great armadillo would let the coral snake coil on his shell, while
birds of wondrous beauty flashed through the leaves of the trees like
living fire. Great butterflies with silky white and green wings
fluttered about the flowers showing their beauty, and from them the old
mother learned the way to weave bright designs into the hammocks that
she made of silk grass. At such times, before the sun dropped into its
purple bed of cloud, and before the million glowworms lit their lights,
the queen ant would sing:
“From forest and hill
We come at your will.
Call, Aura, call!”
All went very well until one day Aura, going to the lake, found his
basket net broken and torn, and taking it from the water saw with
surprise that the fish which had been in it were eaten. Such a thing had
never happened before, for in forest and hill he knew no enemy. As he
stood in wonderment, the torn basket in his hand, he heard a voice
behind him say:
“From forest and hill
We come at your will.
Call, Aura, call!”
Looking around he saw a woodpecker, and the bright beady eyes of the
bird were looking at him. Thereupon, Aura told the woodpecker to watch
well, and setting a new basket net in the water he went a little way
into the forest to gather wild fruits. Not far had he gone when he heard
the watching woodpecker call, “Toc, Toc!” Swiftly he ran, but though he
sped like a deer he was too late, for the second basket net was
destroyed even more completely than the first and again the fish were
devoured.
A third net was set, and this time he called upon the cuckoo to watch
while he gathered his fruits. Very soon he heard the “Pon, pon!” of his
new watcher and Aura lost no time in running to the lakeside. There in
the water and close to the basket net was the flat, mud-coloured head of
a swamp alligator with its dull and heavy-lidded eyes. Quick as
lightning, Aura fitted an arrow to his bow and let fly, and the shaft
struck the reptile between the eyes. A moment later the beast
disappeared into the water.
The basket net had been partly broken by the alligator, but Aura mended
it and again entered the forest. But before long he heard the cuckoo
call, and much louder this time, so he ran like the wind, fitting an
arrow to his bow as he went. On the lake-bank stood a beautiful Indian
maiden in a gown that looked like silver, and she was weeping bitterly.
At that Aura’s heart was touched with pity, for he could see no living
thing unhappy and remain happy himself. Gently he took her by the hand
and asked her to tell him her name.
“Anu-Anaitu,” she said, and smiled through her tears like the sun after
a summer rain.
“From where do you come?” was his next question.
“Far, far away, where the great owl lives,” she made reply, and pointed
in the direction of the dark forest.
“And who is your father?” he asked, and at that there was a ripple of
water rings on the lake and Aura thought he saw the nose of the
alligator.
But she made no answer to his question. Instead, she covered her face
with her hands and bent her head, so that her hair fell about her like a
cloud.
Seeing her strange grief Aura said no more, but led her to his mother
who received her kindly, and for many months the three of them dwelt
together very happily. Yet whenever Anaitu thought of her father, she
wept bitterly.
At last there came a day when Aura asked the maiden to be his wife and
told her that if she would give him her hand, the two of them would make
a journey to her own land so that she might say farewell to her people,
telling them that she had made her home in a land of peace and
brightness with those who loved her. Hearing that, little Anaitu wept
with terror, telling Aura of the fearful journey that would be theirs,
through a place where were great bats and gray hairy spiders and
centipedes, and harmful and fearful things.
“Then stay with my mother and I shall go alone,” said Aura, seeing her
fear. “And I will seek out your father and tell him that all is well
with you.”
“That is worse still,” cried the maiden, “for there is an evil spirit in
my land and my father is bewitched. Seeing you, he will destroy you and
your mother and me as well, once he learns where we are.”
Greatly puzzled with all this, Aura went to see a wise old hermit who
lived at the end of the lake, and to him he told his troubles and fears.
After much thought, the hermit told Aura that he would make his journey
in safety if he feared not and carried himself like a man. “And,” said
he, “if it should come to pass that you are offered the choice of
things, see to it that you choose the simplest.”
More than that the wise man would not say, so Aura went home and
straightway prepared his canoe, persuaded Anaitu to go with him, and
presently they set off.
The way was fearful enough, as the maiden had said, for much of it was
through dark forests and between high river banks where the tree roots
reached out black and twisted like evil serpents. Again, they had to
pass through swamps where alligators slept and strange yellow beasts
with heads large as houses lay hidden. And for many long hours they
wound in and out of tangled jungles where the sun never shone and in the
depths of which were strange things that roared so that the very trees
trembled.
After many days they came to a smooth stretch of sand, and then the
maiden told him that they had arrived in the land of her father.
“And now I must leave you,” she said, “but my mother will come and offer
you one of three things. See to it, dear Aura, that you choose wisely,
for all depends upon your choice.” At that she waved him a farewell and
went up the bank and so passed from his sight.
Before long there came down the bank a wrinkled old woman with sorrowful
eyes, and she bore three gourds. Setting them down by the side of the
canoe, she bade Aura choose one. On the top of one gourd was a cover of
gold, on the second a cover of silver, and on the third a cover of clay.
Lifting the covers, Aura saw in the first fresh blood. In the gourd with
the silver top he saw flesh, and in the third, a piece of cassava bread.
Aura bore in mind the words of the old hermit and quickly chose the
gourd that held the bread.
“You have done well,” said the old woman. “This is a land where men
believe in gold alone, and much blood is spilled because of it. Far
better is it that men should choose that which is in the earth. Now
having so chosen, I will lead you to my husband, whose name is
Kaikoutji. But here cruelty reigns everywhere and he may tear you to
pieces.”
Aura had no mind to do otherwise than go through with his task and so
told the old woman. Whereupon she led him to the top of the bank, where
he again saw his Anaitu, and the maiden and her mother hid Aura in a
forest near the house, while they went in to prepare Kaikoutji for the
visit. Hearing that the young man who loved his daughter was near, the
old man fell into a most marvellous rage and so great was his anger that
he rushed out and bent trees as though they were reeds and bit rocks as
a man bites a crust of bread. So there was much trouble before he was
persuaded to see the gentle Aura. Even then, Anaitu begged Aura to
return, but he threw his arms around her and was gone before she could
say a word.
Strange things happened as he ran to the house. Great branches broke and
fell without hands touching them and stones leaped from the earth and
whizzed close to his ears, but he hastened on and entered into a hall.
Kaikoutji was not there; but as Aura looked round, he came in running.
The bewitched old man was strangely decked out with bones and teeth
which dangled at the ends of strings fastened to his arms and legs and
his head was covered with a great calabash painted green, in the front
of which were two holes pierced, through which he looked. For a moment
Kaikoutji stood, then giving a terrible howl he began to leap about,
waving his arms and rattling the dangling bones and teeth—a very
painful sight to Aura. The howling the man made was terrible. After much
of this he stopped, turning the holes of his calabash on Aura.
“What can you do?” he yelled. “What can you do? Can you bend trees? Can
you bite rocks? Can you leap like this?” Again he commenced to dance up
and down, each leap being higher than the one before it, so that at last
his calabash struck the roof.
When he had quieted down again, Aura said:
“I cannot leap. I cannot bend trees and I cannot bite rocks as you do.
But I can work with my hands and make whatever you wish made.”
Hearing that, Kaikoutji whirled about and gave three mighty leaps,
rattling his bones and dangling teeth furiously.
“Make me a magic stool,” he shouted. “And carve it of wood, with the
head of a jaguar at one end and my head carved at the other. And see to
it that you have it finished by sunrise, or else you die.” Then he gave
a yell, whirled about and rushed from the hall.
Aura saw that the task would be hard, even if he did what he had been
set to do in the quiet of his own home. But without having seen the face
of Kaikoutji he wondered greatly how he would complete his work. For all
that he took his knife, selected a block of wood and went to work, and
he worked with such a will that by midnight he had it all finished but
the rough place at the end where was to appear the likeness of
Kaikoutji. So he went to the old wife who had brought him the gourds and
begged her to describe the features of her husband. But that she refused
to do, saying that if she did so, Kaikoutji, who knew everything, being
an enchanted man, would kill them all. An hour passed and everything was
the same, Aura’s work unfinished, his will as strong as ever. Then to
him came the gentle maiden who took him by the hand and led him into
another chamber where the old man sat in a corner asleep, his green
calabash over his head. In another corner of the room was a hammock and
into that Aura crept, thinking that if he kept quiet and remained
hidden, by some chance the calabash might fall off and the face of the
man be seen. But after looking long and seeing no move on the part of
the sleeping man, he grew weak and weary.
Out of the corner near him came a small voice which said:
“From forest and hill
We come at your will.
Call, Aura, call!”
and looking that way he saw a mouse. At that the heart of Aura was glad,
the more as he saw the mouse run to the sleeping man and begin to nibble
at his hand. For a moment it looked as if Kaikoutji would take off his
calabash, for he was plainly annoyed. But instead, by chance, he set his
hand on the mouse, caught it, and flung it to the end of the room.
Again a voice was heard and this time Aura saw a spider dropping from
the ceiling, and as it dropped it said:
“From forest and hill
We come at your will.
Call, Aura, call!”
Over to the sleeper ran the spider, but matters were no better than
before, for Kaikoutji dropped his hand, caught the spider, and threw it
after the mouse.
No sooner had Kaikoutji fallen asleep again than there came into the
room ants by hundreds and thousands, and leading them was the queen ant
who sang:
“From forest and hill
We come at your will.
Call, Aura, call!”
Like little soldiers they marched on the sleeper, swarming over his
hands, his body, his legs. Under the calabash they went, a half hundred
of them. That was too much even for Kaikoutji, and he leaped to his
feet, dashed the calabash to the earth, and fell to brushing off the
ants in lively manner. But the calabash was broken to pieces by the
force of the fall, and for the rest of that night he slept with his face
exposed.
From his hiding place it did not take long for Aura to learn his ugly
features. Nor did it escape his notice that between the eyes was an
arrow mark, and by that he knew that Kaikoutji was also the alligator he
had shot in the lake. When he was sure that the old man was asleep, he
slipped out quietly and went to his work, and with such spirit he
wrought that before sunrise he had carved the face on the end of the
stool. Better still, so exact was his work, that all who saw it knew the
face of Kaikoutji the terrible. But when the old man saw it and noted
the arrow mark between the eyes, he leaped higher than he had ever
leaped before, having no calabash to hinder him, and declared that the
task had been too easy and that another must be done.
“Build me,” he said, “a house of feathers before sundown, and see to it
that there is no bird in the forest from which there is not a feather
taken.” Then, giving strict orders that no one should enter the part of
the forest in which Aura was put, he leaped up and down several times,
screaming horribly, after which he hastened away.
When all was quiet, Aura lifted his head and sang:
“From forest and hill
Oh, come. ’Tis my will.
I call. I call.”
Then there was a great rushing sound and from everywhere came birds: sea
birds and land birds, river birds and lake birds, birds that flew, ran,
and waded. There were sober brown birds, and birds more glorious than
the rainbow. There was a cloud of humming-birds, glittering like
powdered gold, and there were proud ostriches. Chakars dropped from the
sky singing, and blood-red flamingoes raced with golden-crested wrens.
There were songbirds, and silent birds, and birds whose cry was like the
sound of a golden bell. There were storks, hawks, vultures, condors,
swans, lapwings, and mocking-birds.
Not a moment did they lose. In and out and round about they went,
weaving wonderfully, their busy beaks at work, and before an hour had
passed there stood the most wonderful house of feathers that the eye of
man ever saw. In the light of the sun it shone green-gold, violet,
purple, brown, white, and scarlet. And when the last feather was woven
the condor called, and the beating of so many wings, as the birds left,
made the very air throb. When all was again silent it seemed to Aura
that the work had been done in the twinkling of an eye.
The minute the sun touched the edge of the world Kaikoutji came howling
and leaping. When he saw the feather house he stood for a moment with
open mouth. So angry he was at the sight that his tongue was dry and
parched and he could say nothing. But the glory of what he saw dazzled
and blinded him, and with a howl he turned and plunged into the depths
of the forest and was seen no more. Some say that he was drowned in the
Lake of Pitch.
But Aura and Anaitu lived in the house of feathers and from that day to
this the people of that land have been kind and gentle and have
forgotten the evil days when cruelty reigned everywhere. Also, they know
now that there are things more glorious than gold.
[Illustration]