by Jon C. Scott
“All right,” they said, “but make sure you get there on time, and be polite. We don’t want him coming after the rest of us.”
The old rabbit didn’t hurry—who would? As he hopped slowly along, he thought, There must be a way that I can stay alive and also keep the lion from being so angry that he’ll kill all my family.
The old hare thought out several plans, but they were all either impossible or impractical. Just as he’d run out of ideas, he passed an old, ruined well. When he looked cautiously over the crumbling bricks that surrounded it, he saw his reflection in the water far below him.
“Aha!” he exclaimed. And then he began to hop more quickly to his meeting with Bhasuraka.
He was late when he bounded into the sunny clearing. The lion was pacing and roaring very loudly and very angrily. “You are late. I’m going to eat you and then go after your relatives. That will teach the animals that they’d better not disobey the King of the Jungle.”
The old hare bowed and spoke meekly: “Oh Shining One, do not kill all the rabbits. It isn’t their fault. In fact, four of them were bringing me to you when another lion sprang from the grasses and ate them.”
Bhasuraka stopped roaring. “Another lion? In my kingdom?”
“Oh yes, mighty one. Just as he was about to eat me, I told him that he had to let me go, for I was going to the home of the great Shining One. I told him that you were King of the Jungle. He was very rude. He said that he was King of the Jungle and that you were an imposter. He said that he’d heard that you were stupid, a real fool. Then he said that you were a coward and that, if he ever saw you, he’d beat you up and drive you out of this land. He only let me go when I promised to tell you what he said. That’s why I was late getting here.”
Bhasuraka began roaring again. He was steaming. He paused long enough to growl at the old rabbit, “Take me to him, right away. I’ll teach him who the King of the Jungle is.”
“Certainly, oh Shining One,” the hare said, bowing low to the ground. “Follow me.” He turned and hopped off into the jungle. The lion crashed behind him through the undergrowth. Soon they came to the clearing with the old well in it.
“We must go quietly. I think he is sleeping in his lair,” the hare said softly, pointing to the well. The lion edged forward through the grass. His tail twitched as though he were stalking a deer—something he hadn’t had to do lately. He came to the broken wall of bricks and peered over the edge.
Far below him, another lion looked back. He’s as big and as handsome as I am, thought Bhasuraka. I must kill him. If the other creatures see him, they might make him King of the Jungle and bring their daily dinners to him and not to me. I’d be disgraced, and I’d have to start hunting again.
Bhasuraka lifted his head and roared loudly, challenging the lion at the bottom of the well to come and fight him. The other lion roared back just as loudly, perhaps even more loudly. But it didn’t move from the bottom of the well.
“So you’re a coward, are you?” roared the Shining One. “Then I’ll come into your lair and give you a thrashing you’ll never forget.” And with a mighty roar, Bhasuraka leapt down into the well.
There were no more roars, just a very big splash, and then the sounds of a few broken bricks falling from the walls. The old hare looked down the well. He couldn’t see two lions, not even one. All he could see was his reflection.
He began to hop slowly toward home. This has been quite a day, he thought to himself. He was looking forward to watching his grandchildren play.
How the TORTOISE Defeated the Willy Wagtail
AUSTRALIA :: Many of the stories of the Aboriginal people of Australia explain how various animals acquired their distinctive phys-ical characteristics. In this tale, the animals and birds learn that physical strength and ability are not the only things that make an individual a hero.
The stream was barely a trickle. Along its bank, the grasses had withered, and beyond them, the leaves of the eucalyptus and quandong trees had turned brown. Food was scarce, and, if the rains didn’t come soon, all of the birds and animals would be in danger of dying.
They gathered to discuss the problem and to search for solutions. But every idea that someone suggested was rejected. After several hours of discussion, argument and disagreement, they all sat silently, discouraged and despairing.
Then the tortoise spoke up: “I have an idea.”
Some of the group snickered, others groaned. They all thought that the tortoise was too old to have any good ideas. All he seemed to do was sleep in the sun. And even when he was awake, his eyelids were half closed, as if he were about to fall asleep.
“We must send somebody to look for a place where there’s enough food and water for all of us,” he told the group. “And we must do it soon, before we’re all so weak that we can’t travel anywhere.”
The others nodded their heads in agreement and began talking about who should go to look for a better place.
“Listen,” the tortoise said. “I suggest we ask the eagle-hawk to go. He’s the biggest and strongest of the birds, and he has better eyesight than anyone else.”
The eagle-hawk puffed out his chest when he heard the tortoise’s words. He was very proud of his abilities, and thought that if he were successful he’d be made king of the birds and maybe the animals, too.
So he agreed to search, flapped his mighty wings, and rose from the ground. “This shouldn’t take too long. I’ll see you before noon. Make sure you’re ready to travel when I get back.”
He flew over many mountains and through many valleys and saw only dry stream beds, withered grasses and brown-leafed trees. Finally, far in the distance, he spotted a patch of green. As he flew closer, he saw a valley with green trees, green grasses and a swiftly flowing stream.
He had just landed by the water when he heard a noise behind him. There stood a willy wagtail, a bird not even as big as his head. “What are you doing here in my land?” it asked in a small but harsh and angry voice. The wagtail waved its long tail feathers sideways, back and forth.
When the eagle-hawk told him about the plight of his friends and asked if he could bring them to this green valley, the little bird agreed. “Why don’t you look around the valley for places to live and then come back and wrestle with me?” said the wagtail. “I love to wrestle, but there’s no one for me to wrestle with.” The eagle-hawk agreed. Such a little bird—he’d flip him over a couple of times and then head back home.
Now if the eagle-hawk had spent more time in his life watching and listening instead of thinking about how wonderful he was, he’d have been wary of the wagtail. He’d have known that when a wagtail comes up to you, it usually means that bad news will follow. When the eagle-hawk was out of sight looking over the grasses and trees, the wagtail quickly dragged some sharp-pointed bones from under a bush and pushed them into the ground with the spiked ends up. He’d just finished when the eagle-hawk returned.
“Okay,” the bigger bird said, “let’s wrestle. Then I have to fly back to my friends.”
As he strutted proudly toward the wagtail, the little bird moved his tail back and forth. Then he fluttered into the air, darted quickly behind the eagle-hawk and drove his sharp beak into its back. Surprised, the large bird turned suddenly, tripped and fell onto sharp bones. He was stuck, and, try as he might, he couldn’t get free. The wagtail let the eagle-hawk struggle until he lay exhausted. Then the little bird pecked him to death.
Far away, beside the nearly dry stream, the other animals and birds waited for the eagle-hawk until the sun dropped behind the horizon. “Perhaps he had to fly farther than he expected,” the tortoise suggested. “He’s probably resting, and he’ll be home tomorrow.”
Of course, that didn’t happen. And the animals clamoured to send someone else. But who?
“I’ll go,” volunteered the kite-hawk, the second-largest bird in the group. He wanted to be heroic and respected; but as long as the eagle-hawk was around, no one noticed him. The other animals an
d birds agreed, and he took off. “I’ll probably have to fly farther than the eagle-hawk,” he called out. “But I’ll definitely be back in two days.”
He wasn’t. He discovered the green valley, and, like the eagle-hawk, he agreed to wrestle with the willy wagtail. And he, too, lost and was killed.
When he didn’t return, the group met to choose another searcher. The magpie volunteered. “I’m not as big or strong. I’m not as fast a flyer, and I can’t see as well as the other two. But I certainly am smarter. Something must have happened to them, but nothing will happen to me.”
The magpie left, telling them to expect him home in three days. When he arrived at the green valley, the wagtail challenged him to wrestle. The magpie figured that his cleverness would lead him to a quick victory.
It didn’t.
The other animals and birds waited for four days. Then the tortoise spoke up: “If the birds ran into trouble, perhaps we should send one of the four-legged people to search.”
The dingo announced that he was the biggest, fiercest and fastest runner of the animals and that he should go. They all agreed. He walked proudly away from the group, his head high. He was certain that the animals and birds would make him their king when he returned.
But when the dingo hadn’t returned in six days, nobody seemed very anxious to be the next volunteer. Finally the wombat, short and dumpy, said that he would go. The others were surprised, but they did admire how unselfish and brave he was. “I don’t know how long it will take me,” he told them as he set out.
They waited until as many days had passed as had passed in waiting for all the other animals together. When the wombat didn’t come back, the tortoise spoke up. “It was my idea to search for a better place, so I am responsible for the disappearance of the others. I will be the next one to try.”
Nobody said anything. Nobody tried to discourage him as he slowly left the group, his short legs pulling his body through the dust.
Many, many, many days later, the tortoise arrived at the green valley. His belly was sore and his back was scratched because, in those days, tortoises didn’t have shells to protect their bodies. As he moved slowly into the clearing where the other five had been killed by the wagtail, he noticed a large pile of bones pushed under a bush, and a little farther along, sharp-pointed bones sticking up from the ground.
Suddenly, he heard a shrill voice: “What are you doing in my land?”
The tortoise looked up and saw the willy wagtail, fanning his tail from side to side. He’d never seen a wagtail before, but he’d heard that they always brought bad news. Then he remembered the pile of bones and the spikes. He knew what had happened to the eagle-hawk, the kite-hawk, the magpie, the dingo and the wombat.
“I am looking for a place for my friends to live. We have no food and water where we are. If I may, I would like to bring them to this green valley, ” he said politely.
“Of course,” the bird said.
When the wagtail challenged the tortoise to a wrestling match, he thought to himself, This one’s so old and slow, it’s hardly worth the effort of killing him.
The tortoise agreed, but told the wagtail that he would need to get some food and water before he could wrestle. “Go ahead,” replied the bird, and the tortoise slowly left the clearing.
But he wasn’t looking for food. He moved as quickly as he could until he found a fallen tree. He split a piece off the trunk, hollowed out the inside and cut a half circle at one end. He’d made a coolamon, like the baskets that people used to carry food and water. But he didn’t gather food and water; he put it over his back and strapped it to him. Then he tore some strips from the tough bark from the tree and wove them into a square mat, which he used to cover his tender undersides.
The wagtail was pretty impatient when the tortoise walked slowly back into the clearing, so impatient, in fact, that he didn’t notice the coolamon or the bark mat.
“Let’s get going,” he said and darted toward the tortoise, backing him toward the spikes. Then he pushed his beak under the tortoise and flipped him on his back. The wagtail said, “That was even quicker than I thought it would be.”
He was just about to start pecking at his victim when the old animal started to rock on his back until his body flipped over, and he landed on his feet. He was unharmed; the coolamon had protected him from the bone spikes.
The bird flipped him on his back again, and the tortoise rocked himself onto his feet. This happened again and again, until the willy wagtail became very tired and very angry. He became so impatient that one time, after he’d flipped the tortoise, he jumped on his stomach, intending to pierce it with his sharp beak and end the wrestling match.
He pecked again and again, only to have his head jarred as his beak hit the tough bark of the mat that protected the tortoise’s underside. The wagtail’s head ached; his neck was sore. Finally, he fell exhausted on the tortoise’s stomach.
The tortoise began rocking back and forth, back and forth, until he rolled onto his stomach, with the wagtail underneath him. He pulled himself off the motionless bird and then butted it with his head until it was dead. Then he took off his coolamon and mat, turned and began the long journey back to his friends.
When the birds and animals arrived at the green valley many days later, the tortoise was the last of the group. As they entered the clearing where he’d defeated the willy wagtail, they all cheered for him. One of them stepped forward and spoke. “We all thought we were better than we are. The eagle-hawk and kite-hawk wanted to be king, so did the dingo. But you are the king. And a king should have something special to wear.”
Two of the bigger birds flew forward carrying the bark mat and placed it in front of him. Then two of the animals brought the coolamon. The others helped the tortoise strap them on.
“We want you and your descendents always to wear these garments. Everyone will be reminded of what you did for all of us.”
To this day, the tortoise still wears the coolamon on his back and the bark breastplate on his underside.
How GRETEL Made Things Get Better
GERMANY :: In 1812, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm published a book of German folktales they had collected from relatives and friends. One of the most popular of these tells about how a brother and sister save themselves from two powerful and evil women.
Things couldn’t possibly get worse—at least, that’s what Hansel and Gretel thought.
The previous autumn, their mother had died. Then, before the end of winter, their father had remarried.
“The children need a mother,” he’d told his friends.
At first, their stepmother seemed friendly. But soon, they realized that she wished they weren’t there.
Then a drought struck the land, and most of the crops failed.
But things did get worse. One night, after they had finished a small and very watery bowl of soup for supper, the stepmother sent them to their beds in the attic as usual. But as they lay there, they heard her speaking to their father in the bedroom below.
“We’ll just have to get rid of them. There’s only enough food for the two of us. Better that two should die of starvation instead of four. Tomorrow we will take them into the woods and lose them.”
Their father, who was frightened of his new wife, protested weakly; but she insisted, and he gave in.
“What shall we do? What shall we do?” Gretel whispered to her brother.
“Don’t worry,” Hansel replied in a soothing voice. “As soon as I hear them snoring, I’ll creep downstairs, go outside and gather some pebbles. Tomorrow, I’ll drop them beside the path, and when the moon comes up, we’ll follow them out of the forest and back home.”
The next morning, as the stepmother and her husband led the children away from the cottage, Hansel kept turning back to look at his home.
“What are you doing? Stop dawdling, you bad boy!” snapped the stepmother. Hansel said that he was waving at his cat, who was sitting on the roof. Really, he was turning his back
so that she wouldn’t see him drop the pebbles.
When the family arrived at a clearing in the woods, the stepmother told Hansel and Gretel, “You must stay here. We will come back later in the afternoon.”
She had a smile on her face; their father didn’t.
The hours passed, daylight disappeared, and a cold wind blew through the trees. When the moon came up, it shone so brightly that the children had little difficulty following the trail of pebbles. As the sun rose, Hansel exclaimed, “Gretel! I think I see our apple tree ahead!”
Their father, who was chopping wood, looked up when he heard Hansel. He dropped his axe, rushed to them and gathered them into his arms.
The stepmother wasn’t smiling. “You naughty children! Why did you wander away from the clearing? We looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find you.”
Hansel and Gretel said nothing.
For a while, things seemed to be getting a little better. Their father had been able to buy a sack of flour and had shot some wild pheasants. But a few weeks later, the food started to run low. One night, after the children had gone to bed hungry, they heard their stepmother whisper to their father, “We must get rid of the children tomorrow.”
Gretel asked Hansel anxiously what they would do, and again Hansel told her not to worry. He’d get more pebbles. But when he crept down the stairs that night, the door was locked. He didn’t tell Gretel the bad news.
The next day, just as they left their house, the stepmother gave the children half a slice each of very dry, stale bread. Hansel kept looking back at the house as he had before, and when the woman scolded him, he told her he was looking at the birds on the roof. She didn’t notice as he dropped bread crumbs onto the trail.
This time, their father and stepmother left them in a clearing that was very deep in the forest. Gretel didn’t worry—things certainly weren’t as bad as they seemed. Hansel had told her about the bread crumbs. He said that they’d be home the next morning. They shared Gretel’s stale bread.