Chapter VII: Part II: The Fairy Dog (2)

“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.