PART II

THE FAIRY DOG

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVI

THE FAIRY FROG

A SWAZI TALE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVII

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

A SWAZI TALE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stood in the water and sang:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will marry your monster,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVIII

THE ENCHANTED BUCK

A SWAZI TALE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want?” said Lungile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XIX

THE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

A SWAZI TALE

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” said they.

“I am going to open the big pot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, indeed,” said the old woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XX

THE WHITE DOVE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who then are the birds?” asked Sanfu.

“They are the beautiful women and the girls who live in his kingdom.”

“And the third cave? What does that contain?”

“Ah!” said the Dove. “That is the greatest wonder of all. But it cannot be opened yet.”

“Is there nothing else I can do to help you?” said the Prince. “For you appear to be under some terrible enchantment.”

“You can do everything,” cried the White Dove. “Do not leave this valley. Stay here for one year and we shall be delivered.”

“That I cannot possibly do,” said the Prince, “for no one will know what has become of me.”

“If you refuse,” said the Dove, with a determination you would never have expected of her, “you yourself will be changed into an enormous hairy spider and dwell in a house of dried leaves and moss. Every one who sees you will run away, and you will live a life of loneliness and misery.”

“You have no consideration for my mother’s tears,” replied Sanfu. “I am the only son of my father. They will both think I am killed.”

“You shall be fully rewarded,” said the Dove; “if you do this for us you will never regret it. But if you refuse you become a horrible spider, and neither your mother nor your father will ever recognise you again.”

“Very well,” said the Prince. “I promise to stay with you and help you.”

“Give me your wand,” said the Dove to the Mute Woman. “The Prince must be hungry.”

The old woman gave the wand, and as it left her hand she herself disappeared. The Dove took it and threw it on the ground, but curiously enough the two black birds perched on the top did not stir and were thrown down with the staff.

Directly the wand touched the ground there appeared an excellent meal, bowls of porridge and thick milk, and strips of meat served on a fine mat, and to crown all a big calabash full of good beer. Sanfu was very hungry and thirsty. He ate and drank well, and then lay down to sleep under a rock.

He kept his word and never attempted to leave the valley. The Mute Woman did not appear again, and the White Dove sat in front of the cave and sang her former melancholy song. She never spoke at all, and might have been nothing more than an ordinary bird. Every day food appeared, and although it was winter and the nights bitterly cold, Sanfu never so much as shivered in spite of having neither a roof to cover him nor karosses in which to wrap himself.

“So far I have done well,” thought he, “but what shall I do when the rains come and the heavy thunderstorms? I shall be washed away or killed by the hail.”

Clouds began to appear every day, and the weather grew oppressively hot. At last one evening a tremendous thunderstorm arose, and Sanfu thought that his last hour had come. To his astonishment not a drop of rain touched him, and the ground on which he slept remained quite dry. After that he troubled himself no more, but passed his time as best he could in solitude and weariness till the summer was past and the winter once more appeared. At last the year was complete, and on the morning of the happy day he went to the Dove.

“The year is over,” said he, “and now at last I can return to my parents. How glad I am to think I can see home once more!”

“You cannot be more glad than I,” said the Dove, “for now I too shall be free. Repeat the charm once more.”

Then the Prince repeated the words:

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

and the cave which had never opened before suddenly began to expand. The whole of the rocky basin melted away and instead appeared open country, well-wooded and full of good pasture. Great herds of cattle roamed on the hills, and countless goats and sheep. The high, inaccessible cliffs were gone, and instead appeared the twin mountain peaks just as Sanfu had seen them a year ago.

“Now repeat the charm again,” said the Dove.

At the magic words the other two caves opened and the beautiful birds flew out all over the meadows, while the animals came and ranged themselves in ranks. The second time the words were repeated every creature suddenly assumed the head and arms of human beings, and at the third repetition they stood complete men and women. The animals became magnificent warriors in serried ranks, at whose head stood a splendid man in leopard-skins, their King. By his side marched two fine Princes, and an old and wise magician with a long black wand. They were the two ravens and the Mute Woman, as you have no doubt guessed already. But the birds had changed to hundreds and thousands of beautiful girls, laughing and singing. They came down the hillside running towards the Prince, and at their head was the loveliest woman he had ever beheld.

“I am the White Dove,” said she. “See what you have done for me! Now repeat the charm for the last time.”

And at the wonderful words the Black River and the Black Rock both disappeared. In their place were seen ripe fields of mealies and Kafir corn. Big orange-coloured pumpkins and shining green calabashes lay among the corn, and there were well-grown patches of beans and ground-nuts. All was ready for gathering, the joyous harvest was at hand, and the men and women had only to reap.

Then every one greeted the Prince with cries of welcome.

“We owe you everything,” said the King. “I will give you a hundred fine cattle, and goats and sheep without end.”

But Sanfu was silent and did not reply.

“You do not seem pleased,” said the King. “Is there anything else we can give you? You have only to ask.”

“All I want,” answered Sanfu, looking at the White Dove, “is the Princess. I want no cattle, for I am a rich man, and my father a very great Chief. But I will give hundreds of oxen for the Princess if only I may have her for my wife.”

The Princess looked at him with delight, but the King hesitated and said he must confer with his chief men. He consulted with them day after day for many weeks—not, I think, because he did not care for Sanfu, but simply to show that he was a great King, and his daughter not to be had for the mere asking.

At last, when poor Sanfu was worn out with anxiety, for he loved the Princess dearly, the King said he was ready to receive him.

“The Princess is yours,” he said, “on condition that you stay here and live in our country. Go home first, and bring what men you will as your followers, but do not leave us altogether.”

The Prince willingly promised for the sake of the White Dove. He went home, told all his adventures to his father and mother, and in the end all his people rose up and came with him. The wedding of Sanfu the hunter and the White Dove was celebrated with great festivities, and, as you may well believe, was soon followed by many more between his men and the beautiful girls who once were many-coloured birds.

THE END

NOTES

[1] Imbula—an ogre.

[2] Sakobulas—the Kafir name for the black birds just mentioned.

[3] Rooibekkie—Dutch for “red beak.”

[4] Mantsiane—the Kafir name for the rooibekkie.

[5] Assegais—small light spears, of which natives usually carry several. An assegai can be thrown as a dart or used like a spear at close quarters.

[6] Mealies—the name generally used in South Africa for Indian corn or maize.

[7] This is the order in which Kafirs speak of the points of the compass. The north is not mentioned in such expressions.

[8] Creek.—This word is used in the English-speaking districts of South Africa to denote a narrow gorge in the mountains with a stream running down the middle. As a rule they are thickly wooded and full of the most lovely ferns. In the Cape Colony they are called “kloofs.”

[9] Impi—a regiment.

[10] Induna—a head man or leader under the command of a chief.

[11] Indaba—a conference or council.

[12] Karosses—rugs made of skins or of bark, beautifully sewn together.

[13] Thick milk. This is maas or mase, a preparation of sour milk. Kafirs never drink fresh milk, but let it stand in special pots till curds have formed.

[14] An Inzimu, or Imbula, answers most nearly to the ogre of European fairy tales. He is semi-human, and prefers the flesh of man to any other. An ogress is called Nzuluqumbi. Both have light-coloured skins and red hair.

[15] Lobola—the marriage-gift presented by the bridegroom to the bride’s father. This gift, consisting of cattle, gives him his legal claim to his wife.

[16] Kopje—a small hill (pronounced “koppie”).

[17] Koodoo—a kind of antelope with fine horns.

[18] Knobkerrie—a staff about the length and thickness of a policeman’s truncheon, with a round knob at the end. It can be thrown some distance or wielded in the hand, and is a very useful weapon. Native policemen under British rule always carry one.

[19] Red ochre is much prized among Kafirs as a dressing for the hair and skin. It is said to protect them from the heat of the sun, and is also thought very becoming.

[20] Manumbela—a bush with bright glossy leaves and silvery stem. The fruit is bright red and grows closely round the stem in great quantities, a little like the English holly. The berries are the size of a small plum and are considered very good to eat.