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