A History of the World in 100 Tales E-Book

Sharon Jacksties

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 498

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

However diverse our origins, our histories can always be explored through the tales we tell. Stories are our worldwide language, making sense of our experiences and conveying them to others. They are the messengers between our inner and outer worlds – the bridge between individuals and societies. Within these pages you will see how these traditional story forms have developed over time, evolving with and, in turn, shaping cultural change. Journeying across five continents, you will also travel through time with our earliest creation myths, folk tales, legends and urban myths as your steadfast companions. Some have been polished by countless voices for thousands of years, and all have passed from ear to ear and page to page in a testament to the richness of many cultures, and a single, shared humanity.

Leseprobe

First published 2024

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Sharon Jacksties, 2024

The right of Sharon Jacksties to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 80399 610 3

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

Typesetting and origination by The History Press.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

WITH THANKS TO

Tim Bates, Ina Bulzan, Sally Pomme Clayton, Jem Dick, Debbie Felber, Alida Gersie, Lesley Hughes, Csilla Laszadi, Karolina Mackiewicz, Dr Roger Middleton, Elaine Mendoza, Stephen Moss, June Peters, David Trevis, Dr Daniel Weinbren and all the countless storytellers who have inspired me over the decades.

DEDICATION

For Alida, who once took me on a journey to the moon with Eland, there and back again. For all those who know that when a story ceases to be told, somewhere in the great firmament, a star stops shining.

CONTENTS

Foreword by Alida Gersie

Introduction

A Story for Starting: The Diamond of Truth

Chapter 1 – Africa

How Sun Reached the Sky – South Africa

How the Dead Caused Rain – Madagascar

Why the Sun Ate the Stars

From a Buffalo to a Lion – Mali

The Epic of Isis and Osiris – Egypt

The Music of the Night – Nigeria

Ananse and the Three Calabashes – Ghana

The Hare and the Baobab Tree – Senegal?

Spider Brings Fire – Kenya

The Blacksmith and the Clever Madman – Uganda

Do You Believe in Witches? – Democratic Republic of the Congo/Central African Republic

The Stolen Baby – Morocco

The Trickster Tortoise – Cameroon

The Hungry Ghoul – Libya

The Blind Hunter – Zambia

Why Crocodile and Fox Never Meet – Somalia

Who has Earned their Weight in Gold? – Togo

An Unequal Contest – Sudan

Lion, King of the Beasts – Central African Republic

The Man Who Came Back – Eswatini (Swaziland)

Chapter 2 – The Americas and Caribbean

Quetzalcoatl, the Beloved and Defiled – Mexico

The Men with Fog in their Eyes – Mayan, Guatemala

Sedna – Inuit, Canada

Coyote Brings the Seasons – Zuni, North America

First Man Meets First Woman – Amazon Rainforest

The Girl Who Danced with the Sun – Mayan, Honduras

Skeleton Woman – Inuit, Canada

The Story Stone – North America

The Potato Farmer and the Star Maiden – Peru

Beautiful Brother – North America

How the Birds Got their Colours – Guyana

Trapped in the Ice – Quebec/Newfoundland, Canada

Johnny Appleseed – Massachusetts, North America

Momo – North America? Internet

No Mouth Woman – Jamaica

Jorge Plays for the Giants – Brazil

Unholy Meat – Otomi tribe, Mexico

Monkey See, Monkey Do – Sint Maarten/Saint Martin, Caribbean

The Devil’s Dulcimer – Appalachia, North America

The Old Couple and the Volcano – Chile

The Old Woman and the Soup – White River Sioux, North America

Chapter 3 – Asia

How the World was Made – China

The First Sacrifice – Iran (Zoroastrian, Ancient Persia)

From the Dark Comes Light – Japan

Gilgamesh, Demi-God, Tyrant, Hero, Mortal – Iraq (Ancient Mesopotamia/Sumeria)

The Tale of Draupadi in The Mahabharata – India

Koblandy, Warrior, Suitor, Protector of His People – Kazakhstan

A Hero Humbled – Iran (Ancient Persia)

Why the Roma Keep Moving – Roma (Gypsy)

The Parsee’s Arrival in India – Zoroastrian/Indian

The Tears of a Giant – Philippines

Watermelon – Armenia

The Shadow of Shame – Korea

The Magic Pomegranate Seed – Yemen

The Champion Poets – Vietnam

Mohammed and Another Mountain – Kurdistan

Hodja and the Sparrow – Turkey

The Powerful Prawn – Myanmar

The Good Wish – Pakistan

Don’t Complain About the Rain – Sumatra

Chapter 4 – Europe

Sun and Moon Give Birth to Earth – Lithuania

Hare Here on Earth – Roma (Gypsy)

Sun Boat, Sun Chariot – Scandinavia and Denmark

Divine Retribution or Natural Forces? – Crete

Dido and Aeneas – Ancient Rome

Gudrun’s Dreams – Iceland

Who is Blameless? – France

The Ill-Fated Princess – Germany

The Jewel Prince – Hasidic Tradition, Ukraine

Twelve Swan Brothers – Sweden

The Snake and the King’s Dream – Russia

The Faery Flag of Dunvegan – Isle of Skye, Scotland

The Woman Who Had Two – England

Rich Mother, Poor Mother – Greece

Stone Soup – Traveller Community, Scotland

The Shoemaker and the Water Nymph – Poland

Half a Chicken – Spain

The Stone Spirit – Romania

The First Mirror – Ireland

Chapter 5 – Oceania

Making the World in a Shell – Nauru, Micronesia

Rainbow Serpent Finds Companions – Australia

Matariki – The Little Eyes (The Pleiades) – Aotearoa (New Zealand)

Rainbow Serpent – Murinbata Tribe, Northern Territory, Australia

Disobeying Nakaa, Lord of Plenty – Kiribati (formerly the Gilbert Islands), Micronesia

Divine Pig, Monster and Benefactor – Papua New Guinea, Melanesia

The Heroine’s Journey – Hawaii, Polynesia

Maui Trickster, Hero, Helper – Polynesia

The Epic of Seia, the Beautiful – Samoa, Polynesia

Fiery Passion – Hawaii, Polynesia

Daughter of the Ocean – Aotearoa (New Zealand)

The Dancer and the Whirlwinds – Australia

Snake Daughter – Solomon Islands, Melanesia

Whale Rider – Aotearoa (New Zealand)

The Ghost in the Image – Banks Islands, Melanesia

Rich Brother, Poor Brother – Papua New Guinea, Melanesia

Why Tasmania is an Island – Tasmania

Stealing the Sky Maiden – Northern Vanuatu, Melanesia

Eel Lover Spurned – Tahiti, French Polynesia

Eel Lover Welcomed – Maui, Polynesia

Why Termites Became Stars – Australia

To Make an Ending: Three of the Same?

Bibliography

FOREWORD

I love the first word in the title of this book. The modest, indefinite article ‘a’. Through its delicate, easily missed presence, that simple ‘a’ denies the umbrella term ‘history’ its potential irrefutable status. This ‘History in 100 Tales’ is, in the optimum sense of that term, a common history, as in a history familiar to many people. The 100 tales are myths, epics, legends and folk tales. Wonderfully retold. Some tales have for the first time made the transition from an oral to a printed tale. Others have oral, written or visual roots. But all share one key feature: they have been told around a table, in a sacred or ceremonial place, on a stage, by a fire, or in a car on the road. In these pages they clamber for attention and inspire a longing to get to know them more intimately. Then to tell them so that they can continue their stimulating journey in our cultural universe.

The literary critic Maria Tatar notes that folklore, including the study of tales, is a discipline without boundaries. It requires, she says, the palaeontologist’s love of the archaic, the historian’s appetite for fact, the psychologist’s curiosity about causes, and the anthropologist’s passion for understanding cultural differences. I add the philosopher’s commitment to clarity and meaning, as well as the artist’s gift of newness. The tales you are about to read sparkle with these six nouns: love, appetite, curiosity, passion, commitment and newness. They do so individually and collectively.

As I travelled through the book, I was reminded that not only the tales themselves, but also the names of a country or continent are tied to context, place and time in all their corners. People listening to one of the tales may think that their country actually belongs to another continent than to the one suggested here, or know their land or peoples by a different name. To illustrate: Irish citizens call Ireland ‘Eire’. While in China many people refer to Europe as The Far West. Subject to where we are on the globe your East may be my West and my down-under your up-there. The evocation of thoughts such as these is yet another of the book’s intriguing gifts.

The 100 stories entail a wide array of marvellous and harsh facts and fictions. For example, the acquisition of great wealth by a king or queen frequently involves tough labour by disenfranchised adults, children or a maltreated beast. Then, as now, ‘fair trade’ and ‘kindness for all’ remain an important aspiration. That said, taken together, the tales inspire hope and a desire to realise more equal, peaceful times. In every story, people’s dreams, visions, knowledge and culture are deeply intertwined.

The historian and broadcaster Zeinab Badawi says in her recent book, An African History of Africa, that she likes to tell history through personalities because history is best understood if it is seared into the imagination. Several stories in this collection will undoubtedly do this, and thereby generate an ongoing dialogue with the past. Especially because the story’s historical, factual background and its relationship to actual people, events or places was and will remain a matter of both controversy and significance.

Thanks to these exciting characteristics, the tales in this book will undoubtedly elicit multiple uses – at home, in workshops, in schools or university and on stage. It is a big-hearted gift to the story of life.

Alida Gersie Phd

SOURCES

Tatar, M., The Hard Facts of the Grimms’ Fairy Tales, Princeton: Princeton University Press, p. xix, 1987.

Gersie, A., King, N., Storymaking in Education and Therapy, London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 1990.

Day, M., ‘Africa’s Secret History’, The Independent, April 27, 2024.

INTRODUCTION

As a traditional oral storyteller for thirty-five years, with an eclectic repertoire of tales from all over the world, I sometimes refer to the inside of my head as ‘the soup of stories’. Sustaining, delicious, with multiple ingredients, recipes that are followed conscientiously or that are tweaked and added to – who does not like a good soup? The soup is mostly served as live performances in all kinds of spaces, whether formally in designated public performance venues or informally in community settings such as youth clubs and care homes.

However, sometimes these servings find their way into book-shaped receptacles, emerging as anthologies of folk tales or myths. Just as with a performance consisting of a sequence of selected tales, a written journey through these chosen stories is one in which each member of the collection sheds light on its fellows, as well as being worth reading in its own right. In my occasional efforts to tame those internal soupy tidal surges into recipes, I have written several anthologies for The History Press, the more recent having a wider remit than their predecessors.

By its title alone, A History of the World in 100 Tales implies perceptions of human time across a vast span – while referring to all possible physical places on the planet. These invoke a huge mouthful of traditional narratives to savour and swallow. ‘How on Earth are you going to do that?’, many horrified, wondrous and all-stages-in-between colleagues and friends have asked. How indeed? Several possible structures were considered within the recently developed trope of describing 100 examples of something significant through the perspective of a timeline. Perhaps my earliest inspiration was Neil MacGregor’s A History of the World in 100 Objects, whose radio broadcasts I listened to several times, and whose book I distributed to as many of my friends as I could afford to favour. Is it too obvious to say that given the countless thousands of traditional stories in the world, it is almost impossible to choose those that are most representative of time and place? However, without that almost incantatory formula of 100, I would be swimming or sinking in the soup of stories for the rest of my lifespan. When it comes to the choosing, I am reminded of that Korean story in which the lazy listener has confined all the stories he has heard into a sack rather than tell them. The stories rebel until he sees reason and lets them out by sharing them. I beg forgiveness of all those stories I have heard and not been able to share here in written form for reasons of time and space, forces to which mortals are subject, but which stories easily transcend.

So how to approach this ambitious title? Conversations with historians, anthropologists, cultural attachés and storytellers revealed pitfalls and provided suggestions. My first obstacle was that I am not a historian, although being an outsider perhaps helps me to see how very subjective interpretations of the past are, and how these change, according to scientific discoveries and to the social attitudes that interpret them. However, historians are themselves not necessarily didactic about perspectives. During a conversation with social historian Dr Daniel Weinbren, we discussed his assertion that, ‘history is about a relationship between the past and the present that is always shifting’.

Perhaps more controversially, he went on to say that this interpretation through time is one of the ways we ‘make ourselves feel more “composed”, comfortable or integrated’.

While thinking about individual and collective biases towards interpreting scientific facts and physical archaeological finds, I came across an article in which even the expression ‘through time’, or the term ‘timeline’, are not necessarily relevant or applicable in some cultures. In an interview for Emergence magazine with Tyson Yunkaporta entitled ‘Deep Time Diligence’, he attempts to explain his culture’s approach to time by describing aspects of his language, Wik-Mungkan, which is one of the few intact indigenous languages spoken in Australia today:

So there’s no abstract nouns at all in Wik-Mungkan, which is the language I speak, so it’s really tricky. But the thing about time is that there’s not a discrete word for just ‘time’, you know? Time is always the same as place … If you are asking like, you know, what time something’s gonna happen, you use the word for place and you say, ‘What place?’ So, it’s not confusing when you’re speaking the language, but it’s confusing when you try to explain it to other people – because they haven’t got any frame of reference for you, you haven’t got any frame of reference for them, and it’s all just a muddle.

So here I am with a title in which the very terms, whether relating to time or place, are so open to question. Working within my cultural linear perception of time and my perspective of the world geography as represented by five continents, I have been playing with another construct, more closely related to my practice as a storyteller. This consists of different kinds of stories, running in my mind along a timeline with the earliest being creation myths that describe how the world was made, all the way through to urban legends of which internet legends are the latest example. This model, with its various story forms of creation myths, pantheonic myths, epics, legends, wonder tales, folk tales and urban legends may be useful for categorising what are known as ‘Indo-European’ traditional narratives, but which do not necessarily apply to other continents. I can go to somewhere near where I live and within a 2-mile radius see the places whose story history comprises examples of creation myth, epic, wonder tale, folk tale and urban legend. Where these genres of story can be found, I have replicated this continuum, believing it to be a timeline of story development relevant to some places and cultures.

However, I could stand elsewhere in the world and the same would not be true. Cultures have developed differently and so have their respective stories, this variety being reflected also in what they represent and how they are understood in their places of origin. One man’s myth, therefore, could be another man’s reality. I have benefitted from the advice to consider the difference between people’s connections to real and imagined events. I can be sure in my own mind about the distinction between them, but I can’t guarantee that everyone would agree with me. Being raised in a place where the Abrahamic faiths are the most common, I have noticed that the stories written in sacred texts can be a source of conflict between those who believe that they are factual, those who think their truths are symbolic, and those who think that they are entirely fictitious – that is one of the reasons why I have not included any examples here.

How then can I justify using stories that have religious importance to other cultures? There are certainly hundreds if not thousands of years’ worth of precedents in the rewriting and retelling of different versions of Hindu religious stories, and many Hindus believe that Hinduism celebrates a plurality of perspectives. I feel less uncertain, therefore, about my doing so here, and being blessed with Hindu Indian adoptive family, feel that I can be immersed in their traditional literature without a uniquely European perspective. I may never know if I am offending people from very different cultures by misrepresenting their traditional oral literature in this book, either in the way I present it, or by the act of including it in this context. If I do offend, I hope that I may be forgiven.

These thoughts are leading to the consideration of a salient topic of our times, and one that is particularly pertinent to this place, England, from where I am writing. The topic is cultural appropriation, which has been one of huge importance among oral traditional storytellers and among whom opinions vary. They vary also among indigenous storytellers from other places, some not wanting their stories told by representatives of a colonial power and some believing that the world needs their stories and that these should be shared. I know storytellers who can be vehement on the subject, proposing that traditional stories, originating from and/or representing their respective cultures, should not be told by others; they are something to be protected. Another, from the same part of the world, has asked me to retell the stories he has shared with me because they have a message for the whole world. I have also been told only to tell stories from my own culture by a person who mistakenly assumed that our backgrounds were culturally similar. However, as one who is entitled to five passports spanning three continents, I wouldn’t know where to start! I write this to reveal a bias that inclined me to write this book.

I have never noticed or been told that people from different countries have objected to my telling a story that comes from their culture of origin, but acknowledge it is a possibility. My own experience is to the contrary, when people have expressed their appreciation at my knowing something about their part of the world represented by a story from that place. Many years ago, when living in London, I worked in settings providing services for refugees who, finding themselves facing discrimination, were pleased that their cultures were being honoured by my telling stories from their homelands. The most poignant example of this kind of approbation was when I was invited to tell stories to a group of African women. I chose a story that is accompanied by a song in the Sotho language, taught to me by a European storyteller, who hadn’t visited Lesotho. As soon as I started, one of the women began to cry. When I asked the reason for her tears, she replied that it was because she was so happy to hear her own language again after so many years. I asked her to sing the song with me so that I could correct my pronunciation and we did so holding hands. The story is reproduced here, entitled ‘Hare’s Lucky Day’, and, because of my place of birth and some of the culture that has shaped me, it also carries for me a metaphor for the rapine aspects of colonialism.

Colonialism is fuelled by racism, but some are eloquent about the danger of equating all cultural appropriation with racism. Whilst formerly known for controversial opinions in relation to other matters, the African-American poet and critic Amiri Baraka has said:

If the Beatles tell me that they learned everything they know from the blues singer Blind Willie Johnson, I want to know why Blind Willie is still running an elevator in Jackson, Mississippi. It’s that kind of inequality that is abusive, not the actual appropriation of culture because that’s normal.

As Kenan Malik reflects in The Guardian, ‘Conflating racism and cultural appropriation does little to challenge racism but much to rob culture of subtlety and depth.’

Closer to home, the traveller people of Scotland and Ireland have a rich store of traditional stories, perhaps better preserved because they are a people who have fiercely maintained their identity, surviving persecution for centuries. One such was consulted by a friend and colleague about how he would feel if she were to retell a story for which he was her source. This was his reply:

The tales are okay to share, traditionally we do so within a tradition that grounds itself in three ways.

1.   If a tale comes to you, you have the responsibility to carry it forwards, even just once – as for a tale to die on anyone’s lips, is a terrible thing.

2.   No matter the situation, they are told as truthful, for they carry a truth within them.

3.   Honour when you can by letting people know where it came from. The tales are free to grow, in the ways they wish to grow, while always being honoured as the heart of the teller holds it – and please do not worry about speaking it rather than reading it. We don’t ‘settle’ our stories and they can come through us in all the ways they want to. Thanks again for your message and I hope the tales travel far in you. x

I am grateful to Alida Gersie for mentioning the inconsistencies in the ways in which tribes, peoples, cultures, nations and countries have been named as sources. Whilst trying to implement changes to address this valid observation, I found that some stories were impossible to trace back along their original routes to the original source, so I have decided to omit some of my favourite stories from this collection, as not even the storytellers who were my original oral source, knew from which continent they originated.

There is also the phenomenon of the same stories being prevalent all over the world; it is the garments in which the storyteller clothes them to appear in public that differ. Some of my sources are from old books, written in English and products of Britain’s colonial history. Since then times and names have changed, with many countries regaining their independence. These stories, however, are no respecters of the borders that colonialism imposed, and the history and information around these developments is extensive and varied. As a result, in consultation with the publisher, I would welcome any relevant information or updates that can be supplied by readers, for inclusion in any future reprints.

I remember the first time I ever told a traditional story in a storytelling club. It is rewritten here as ‘The Magic Pomegranate Seed’ from Yemen. Rumour has it that the club’s host, who was to become a huge influence on my becoming a storyteller, travelled next day to Scotland to meet a renowned storyteller from the travelling community. Excited at having heard this story the night before and eager to repeat it, he told it to his companion, who snorted derisively, ‘Pomegranate seed from Yemen, nonsense! [or some less printable expression involving the human anatomy, as I too knew this individual]. It’s a Scottish traveller story about a pear seed ...!’ I heard this rumour many years later but it highlighted an unconscious reason for my love of traditional stories – the ways in which they encapsulate so many of the concerns and values that are shared across cultures, speaking of our common humanity.

Story, as it turns out, was crucial to our evolution – more so than opposable thumbs. Opposable thumbs let us hang on; story told us what to hang on to.

Lisa Cron, Wired for Story

In what is for me an ambitious venture, I am comforted by Rosalyn Poignant’s words, ‘There are as many valid versions of a myth as there are storytellers to recount it, and very often the interest lies in the difference.’

A STORY FOR STARTING:THE DIAMOND OF TRUTH

When Time was no longer new, Lord Brahma, who could create anything, found his brother, Lord Vishnu, weeping on Earth’s tallest mountain. In his hands was a gleaming lump that Lord Brahma instantly recognised as coming from the largest diamond he had ever made. Its innumerable facets mirrored all that was happening in the world below, which is why it was called ‘the Diamond of Truth’. Somehow it had fallen from heaven and broken on the summit of Earth’s highest mountain. Pieces from that mighty shattering had rolled down slopes and been carried away by the rivers that ran in all directions.

‘Dear brother Vishnu, are you weeping because my diamond has been broken and your purpose is to maintain all that exists? Do not weep, for I, creator, can easily make you another diamond!’

‘No, dear brother Brahma, I am weeping because people have found many pieces of the Diamond of Truth.’

‘Are you weeping then, for those pieces that have not yet been found?’

‘No brother, I weep for the people because each one of them believes that they have the whole diamond, and is holding the whole truth.’

‘We are vessels of speech, we are the repositories whichharbour secrets many centuries old. The art of eloquencehas no secrets for us; without us the names of kings wouldvanish into oblivion, we are the memory of mankind.’

Djeli Mamadou Kouyate, as quoted in Sundiata: An Epic of Old Mali, Djibril Tamsir Niane.

HOW SUN REACHED THE SKY

|XAM (SAN) PEOPLE, SOUTH AFRICA

This is among the oldest of the world’s surviving stories, written by colonialists in the mid-nineteenth century from an oral storytelling in a language that is now extinct.

Old Man Sun stayed by himself in his own shelter, mostly sleeping. Light seeped out of his armpit, but it shone for him alone. If he lifted his arm, a shaft of sunlight cut through the darkness and when he lowered it all would become gloomy again. Any heat was also for him alone. That is why the women couldn’t dry the ant eggs properly for people to eat and they went hungry, especially the children.

At last, their grandmother told them to creep up on Old Man Sun without waking him. They were to take him by surprise and hurl him up into the sky. That way his light would be shared with the people, the people who did not know what it was not to share, the people who lived in such a way that nobody went without. The children had seen how their fathers hunted. They knew how to wait patiently without being noticed. They knew how to creep up silently and when it was the right moment to spring.

All together they had the strength to throw Old Man Sun so high that he reached the sky. As he hurtled upwards, he rolled over and over and as he did so, Sun lost his man shape and became round. When he was as high as he could go, the children told him the story of his journey. They had listened to their grandfathers telling stories, and they knew how to tell Sun his own story. They told him of how he would shed heat on his journey as well as light, how he would chase away the darkness when he had rested, how he would catch up with Moon on his way across the sky and slice pieces off him with his knife. Sun knew what to do because the children had listened to their grandparents. What had happened was for their children, for our children, for everybody’s children.

HOW THE DEAD CAUSED RAIN

MADAGASCAR

The creator, Ndriananahary, and the world were one. When he had separated the sky from the earth, he wanted to see what possibilities there were below, so he sent his son down to Earth to see what kind of life forms should be placed there.

God’s son found Earth so hot and dry that to survive the baking temperatures he buried himself in the ground. Deeper and deeper he dug to find somewhere cooler. When he did not return to his father in the sky, God became worried and sent his servants, the humans, to find him. How the people suffered as they spread across the inhospitable world, looking for God’s son. Nobody was able to find him. Despairing at the failure of their efforts, some of them went back to heaven from time to time, to ask what they should do next about his missing son.

However, none of these emissaries ever returned to Earth and those who left to go back into the sky died as they left Earth behind. They became the first of the dead. They must have told God about the suffering of his servants, because he created rain as a token of his gratitude for their efforts. With the gift of rain, life on Earth became much more tolerable. As none of the messengers ever returned, people didn’t know whether to continue the search or not, but as they haven’t been told otherwise, they continue to search for God’s son. The dead still take messages to reassure Him that the search continues, and the dead never return to the living.

WHY THE SUN ATE THE STARS

Long ago, Sun and Moon were married. They had many children, which are the Stars. There they were at their camp, sharing a meal. They do not eat what we eat; Sun and Moon eat fire, and it is that which gives them their brilliance. They had an unexpected visitor, a chief of great beauty and wealth who brought them many gifts. During the visit Moon had eyes only for their guest, she felt so attracted to him. Before he left, he gave Moon a sign that only she saw, and, that night, she slipped away and joined him at a distance from her camp.

When Sun discovered her absence, he was furious and demanded of the Stars whether any of them had helped their mother escape. The Stars were terrified of him and spread out across the sky to run away. Sun was so angry that he devoured those he could catch, and those who witnessed that are still frightened and disappear when his light approaches. Nobody speaks of, or remembers, the Stars their father swallowed. Sun spent his time chasing Moon and Moon often hid from him, changing her hiding place whenever she could. If Sun ever caught up with her, he would take bites out of her too, so she got smaller and smaller and would have to hide away until those wounds had healed and her body had grown back.

Most of all, Moon loves her children and spends as much time as she can with them as long as Sun is not chasing her out of the sky. This has been happening for so long that the Stars also have their own children. Moon would go to their weddings wearing the most exquisite veil, the same one she wore to her own. When they all need to leave the sky because of Sun’s appearance, just one of her children remains, always the same Star, which can be seen in the morning and the evening. That Star is there as a lookout, to warn his mother of his father’s approach.

Some people say that this cycle will end when Sun catches Moon and buries her in a ditch on Earth, where he will keep her prisoner. Then he will swallow up all of his children too. Others say that eventually the cycle will end of itself and only then will order on Earth be restored.

FROM A BUFFALO TO A LION

MALI

In the forests of Africa, the buffalo is the most powerful and dangerous of animals. On the savannah it is the lion. This is a fragment of an epic that describes the beginnings of one of Mali’s greatest rulers, Sundiata Keita, who established an empire in the year 1235 (Gregorian calendar) or 632 (Islamic calendar).

A great king is one who is beloved by his people. Such a one was seated outside the palace in the shade of a silk cottonwood tree, when a stranger approached. From his garb, covered in cowrie shells, all could see that this was a great hunter. Had not the king himself descended from royalty who were also master hunters? As was the custom, the stranger presented the king with a portion of the doe he had just killed, saying that she had guided him to his palace. At this sign of respect, the king’s griot, keeper of traditions, reciter of royal lineages, teller of stories, invited the hunter to sit with them. As the griot could also discern that he had skills of another nature, he was also asked whether he would care to practise his special powers of soothsaying.

The hunter emptied his pouch of cowrie shells and on casting them made the following prediction: this was a turning point of the kingdom’s destiny, which could become the greatest that the whole of Africa had ever known, that is, if the king followed the prophecy. First, he would have to sacrifice a red bull, the sign for this destinic journey to begin. Afterwards, two other hunters would arrive with the ugliest woman ever seen at any royal court. Despite her hideousness, the king must marry her as she would bear him a son who would raise his people and his nation up, so that griots would be singing of its greatness for centuries to come.

Soon after the sacrifice, all passed as had been prophesied. The two hunters arrived with a young woman, so grotesque that she concealed her face. But nothing could hide her solid shapeless body, the massive limbs, the huge hump on the back of her neck. As she abased herself in the dust as a mark of respect before the king, it seemed she was more at ease on all four limbs than on two. Stranger even than this woman was the story the hunters had to tell.

Far away, in the land of Do, a magical buffalo was on the rampage. She had killed or wounded more than 200 people and destroyed crops and villages, and no hunter’s weapon could pierce her hide. Nevertheless, these two had determined to kill the beast. On their way to her most recent area of destruction, they came upon a hideous old woman crying for help. After they had fed the starving crone until she was satisfied, she told them that many had passed her by, but as they were the only ones who had stopped, so she would reward them. She explained that she was the spirit of that buffalo, a destructive form that she had assumed in order to revenge herself against her brother, King of Do, who had stolen her inheritance. This ‘Buffalo Princess’ then told them how to kill the beast when all others had failed. Pointing three times with her staff to help aim their fatal arrow, they were also to break the egg she gave them when the wounded beast pursued them. This would become a swamp into which the enraged buffalo would be trapped, allowing them to kill her. But, after their success, there was one condition that they had to fulfil.

As a reward, the King of Do would offer them their pick of the loveliest maidens, but they must refuse them all and ask for the ugliest – the one who was so hideous that she sat apart from the others, easy to distinguish because of the hump on her back. This one would be the spirit, or double, of the Buffalo Princess, reborn into that maiden’s body. Whoever succeeded in having marital relations with her would be the father of a son of destiny, a lion among kings, who would bring Mali to a greatness impossible to imagine. After hearing these marvels and remembering the first hunter’s prophesy, the king married Sogolon, ugliest of all, the double of the Buffalo Princess.

The king’s first wife was jealous of this newcomer, but how easy it was to insult and ridicule this hideous interloper! Sogolon had to endure this treatment from the queen and from the rest of the court, who emulated her example. When her first son was born, the bullying intensified, as he too was monstrous-looking and backward with it. He never smiled, his head was too large for his body, and at the age of 7 he still wasn’t walking. Sogolon’s mistreatment came to a head when she asked the first wife for some baobab leaves to cook with. Traditionally these were brought to the women by their sons, who would climb the trees with agility. Seizing another opportunity to add insult to injury, the queen told Sogolon to send her son to pick some.

For the first time, Sogolon lost her temper with her child and struck him. Upon his asking her what was the matter, all her grievance came pouring out. The boy told her to instruct the royal smith to make him an iron staff. When she reached the smithy, it was already waiting, fashioned by a master smith who, like many who practised this semi-divine craft, was also a soothsayer. He knew that he too had a part to play in this prophesy and had forged it in readiness for this moment of reckoning. It took six to carry it to the prince, where they dropped it with a great clamour. How the onlookers marvelled when they heard the proclamation:

The waters of the Niger can efface the stain from the body, but they cannot wipe out an insult. Arise, young lion, roar, and may the bush know that from henceforth it has a master.

The child who had never walked, heaved himself upright by means of the metal staff and took his first step. It was a giant step that took him to a young baobab tree. Using the staff, he uprooted it and brought the entire tree to his mother, who sang out a song of praise.

The prophecy made to the king more than eight years ago now showed signs of being a promise. Not long after, the king died, nominating this son of a Buffalo Princess as his heir. Still young, and with a maligned mother, he was easily usurped and he and his mother went into exile when the king’s first wife placed her own son on the throne. Too long to relate here are the stories of how that throne was regained by its rightful heir. By the time he had been escorted back from exile, the people were long disillusioned with those who had seized power. A warm welcome awaited him and his mother, and this ostracised and ridiculed child soon became a lion among men, a lion among kings, whose roar still echoes down the ages.

THE EPIC OF ISIS AND OSIRIS

EGYPT

There is no guarantee of brotherly love between siblings. Between the gods and goddesses, pride, anger and revenge are as common as among people, but with greater power to harm. Set, trickster god of chaos, war and destruction, droughts, storms and earthquakes, was not beloved of humans due to his violent nature. How he envied his brother Osiris, who was revered rather than feared, worshipped because of all the gifts he had given to humanity, and the knowledge he had shared. How the god Set would have preferred the title of this story to be ‘The Epic of Set and Osiris’, or, as a compromise, ‘The Epic of Set and his Nephew Horus’, because … but, dear reader, you can see how he is taking over this story just as he sought to take control of both Upper and Lower Egypt.

Among the gods and goddesses, siblings could marry each other and Osiris and Isis were both brother and sister as well as husband and wife. Their brother Set was married to their sister Nephthys, but theirs was a less happy union. At that time the deities were also pharaohs who mingled with and ruled the Egyptian people. Having shared all he could with them, Osiris left Egypt to spread his teachings in distant lands. His loyal and ingenious consort Isis ruled in his stead, keeping a watchful eye on Set, who she didn’t trust. This did not stop Set from plotting to seize power, but he knew that he would have to do so by cunning and not by force. Slowly, secretly, he corrupted enough supporters to play their part when his trap was ready, and he was prepared to play a long waiting game.

After an absence of many years, Osiris returned to Egypt and a great celebration was prepared. How they feasted, how they sang praise songs, what quantities of beer they drank, with perhaps the exception of Set and Nephthys, who wanted to keep a clear head for their secret and separate plans.

At last, when the guests had retired, Nephthys anointed herself in her sister’s perfume and crept into Osiris’ chamber. There he lay between sleeping and waking, not too drunk to be able to make love, but not sober enough to be fully aware of what was happening. Neither of them knew that Set too was already there, hiding in the dark for the moment that he had been waiting for. Nephthys was there because she had decided to seduce Osiris so that she could conceive a child. She knew that Set was infertile and could never make her pregnant. Some said that it was Osiris himself who had caused his infertility to prevent any offspring who might resemble their father. Did Osiris know that this was not his wife when they made love? Set certainly knew, and yet another reason to hate his brother was born, just as he would hate the child who was conceived and would be Set’s nephew but not his son. Nephthys did not know that Set had witnessed her infidelity and hoped that, somehow, she could pass her son off as his.

When she had slipped away, Osiris fell into a deep sleep, which was what Set had been waiting for. So gently that anyone who did not know better could have taken it for tenderness, Set began to measure Osiris – length, width, depth and then, possessed of his brother’s exact dimensions, he too melted away. The next day he gave precise instructions for an exquisite chest to be built, matching his brother perfectly in size. The object was beautifully and extravagantly decorated and everybody marvelled at it when it appeared at the next feast. How Set was praised when he announced the evening’s entertainment: everybody was to lie in it to see how well it fitted, and it would be given to the one who fitted it most closely. Of course, everyone was eager to try, and, of course, it only fitted the one who had been measured for it. Osiris was the last to try it. The lid was slammed shut and the chest surrounded by Set’s henchmen, weapons drawn.

Isis hurled herself at the coffer that had now become a coffin, but, before she could reach it, it had been borne away by the conspirators and cast into the Nile. Then began her tireless journey to find her beloved Osiris and to restore him to life. Too long a story to relate here how she was at last successful in her quest to find him – and how his corpse had then been dismembered and scattered by Set. Too long a story to tell how Isis, with her persistence, found her beloved’s remains all over Egypt and had the courage and cunning to trick the first of the gods, Ra, into giving her the secret of creating life.

With Osiris now living in the world beyond this one, she nevertheless managed to conceive his son, but he too was not safe from Set’s vengeance. If Set had not rejected his wife, Nephthys may not have joined her sister in her quest to hide and protect Isis and Osiris’s son, so that Horus could grow up in safety. But the sisters made a formidable pair and after many trials and dangers, the young Horus confronted his wicked uncle. Isis helped her son to use Set’s methods of trickery against him, when force alone would not prevail. His successes in outwitting as well as fighting Set at last convinced the gods and goddesses that Horus was a rightful challenger, and he was permitted to depose his uncle to become ruler of all Egypt.

THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT

NIGERIA

The people lived in a clearing in the forest. In the daytime they went among the trees with their bows and arrows to hunt the wild animals, but in the night-time they surrounded their village with fences made of thorns, because that was when the animals came out of the forest to hunt them.

On this morning, one of the villagers did not go off with the hunting party because he had found a stick. If you live in a forest, sticks are to be found everywhere, but this was clearly a special stick because it was completely hollow and completely straight. He wanted to examine it at his leisure. After handling, sniffing and tasting it, he noticed that it made a curious sound he hadn’t heard before. There were some round marks along its bark, where twigs had broken off, and, taking his knife, he whittled through these until there were holes along its length. Now a range of sounds could be heard if he placed his fingers over some of the holes. He had invented the first flute, but he didn’t know what to play because music hadn’t been discovered yet.

So the man listened. He heard the wind among the leaves and played wind music with the flute. He heard running water in the stream, so he played water music with the flute. He heard the song of the birds, so he played bird music with the flute. High up in a tree, the King of the Birds heard him and called out to his subjects, ‘Hey, all you birds! Listen there is a man down there who can speak bird language!’

At that, he and all the birds of the forest flew down into the clearing and sat on the ground in front of the man to hear him play bird language. There they still were when the hunting party came back from the forest. They set arrows to their bowstrings and shot all the birds dead.

For the next few days there was plenty of meat to eat and feathers with which to adorn themselves. When everything had been eaten, the villagers went to the man and told him to blow down his magic stick to make the birds come again. Somehow he knew that he did not want to do this and he refused. The villagers then got very angry with him and threatened him with punishment if he didn’t do what they wanted. Although he felt frightened, the man knew that this would be a wrong thing to do and still he said ‘no’.

After a long meeting, the villagers decided that his punishment would be to leave him outside the fence of thorns at night, so the wild animals would eat him. And that is what happened. At first, he was frightened as he had never been outside the village at night, but as nothing happened, he grew bored until he remembered his flute. But when he put it to his lips, he didn’t know what to play because the sounds of the night were so different from the sounds of the day. So he listened. Then he began to play the music of the night.

Gradually lights began to appear out of the darkness – red, yellow, orange, green. Still playing, he noticed that as the lights approached, they were moving in pairs. He played on, and could now see that the lights were the gleaming eyes of the wild animals. Silently lion and leopard and jackal, and even the snake that slithers, had come to listen to their music, the music of the night. When the dawn came, they slipped back into the forest and the man went to sleep in the early sunlight.

The villagers drew back the fence of thorns and hurried outside to look for his bones. How surprised they were to see him sleeping peacefully. How they marvelled when they saw the tracks of lion and leopard and jackal and even the snake that slithers, all around him in the dust. Feeling their gaze upon him, he awoke. When he stood up, he knew that he would not return to those who had tried to harm him. He also knew that with his flute he would be safe wherever he went through the forest, and so he started his journey. This took him to other villages where he taught those who welcomed him how to make their own flutes. That is how music spread through the world.

ANANSE AND THE THREE CALABASHES

GHANA

Ananse is a trickster character who sometimes manages to achieve the impossible and at other times gets put in his place when he overreaches himself.

Ananse is a spider, Ananse is a man

Ananse is West African and Caribbean

Ananse he leave Ghana on banana boat

When the people see him they all give a shout:

‘Ananse! magic spider man, Ananse! he do what he can.’

Traditional children’s song

Nyame, sky god, rolled back the clouds to see what people, those creatures of which the gods were most proud, were up to. Dismay gave way to anger as he saw all the bad behaviour below. Deceit, theft, fighting, murder and worse were all happening wherever he looked. He thought to wipe out the human race with a deluge, but decided instead to give them another chance. What these so-called intelligent beings needed to do was to start using the brains they had been given. He would encourage them to do this by setting a test for them for which the winner would be well rewarded. A thunderous voice echoed over the Earth so that none could avoid hearing it, and people learned that whoever would be the first to accomplish Nyame’s task would receive both fame and fortune.

Next day Nyame rolled back the clouds again, anticipating a long queue of contenders. His anger returned when he saw nobody waiting; people were too stupid even to try. He was about to disappear into thunder when he heard a tiny voice calling out that he was ready to do the task. But who was it? Nyame could barely make out Ananse, Spider Man, who had come to take on the challenge. Perhaps because Nyame was still so angry, the task was especially difficult: it was to get an entire tribe to cross the great river with just one grain of corn in only three days. Nyame did not believe that this little Spider Man could do it, but Ananse insisted he could. A shaft of sunlight appeared, Ananse lifted one of his many hands and the sky god blew down a single grain of corn, golden in the sun’s rays, golden in his grasp.

Ananse went singing and dancing through the bush until he came to a village where the children were waiting to greet the stranger. They were told that he was God’s messenger and to take him to their chief immediately. How honoured the chief felt to have a visit from God’s messenger. He ordered a great celebration. The feasting and dancing went on until late and when it was time to sleep, Ananse showed the chief God’s grain of corn, explaining that it too had to go to sleep, but because it was so special, it should not be put to bed with all the other grains of corn – and did the chief have any chickens? The chief was rather put out that anybody should think he had no chickens – and led Ananse to the hen house himself. There he watched as Ananse tucked the straw lovingly around God’s grain of corn for the night, then everyone went to sleep.

In the morning Ananse went to collect the grain, but couldn’t find it. He remonstrated with the chief about God’s favourite grain of corn being lost. The chief began to sweat, he didn’t want to offend Nyame, he didn’t want to be punished. He wondered if one of his chickens had eaten it and suggested that Ananse take all the chickens in exchange. Ananse pretended to be rather put out at this, and proudly said that he was no thief and would only take the guilty chicken. The chief looked at the dozens of hens in despair. How would he know which of them it was? At last, Ananse pointed out the fattest one and the chief tried to catch her. If you have ever tried to catch a particular chicken in a full hen house, you can imagine what his robes looked like by the time he finished. So it was that Ananse left that village with a chicken under one of his many arms instead of a grain of corn.

News travels fast through the bush, and by the time he reached the next village he was already expected. Much passed as it had done before, and when it was time to sleep, Ananse explained that because God’s favourite chicken was so special, she couldn’t sleep with ordinary chickens, so did he have any cows? The chief was rather offended as he was famous for his great herd and eagerly showed Ananse his corral. There the hen was tucked into the dust for the night. In the morning only some crushed feathers remained, and the chief was distraught at the thought of his cattle trampling God’s favourite chicken to death. All the cows were offered to Ananse in recompense, who, in turn, was offended at being taken for a thief. They agreed that he would only take the guilty cow, so he left with the fattest.

Journeying onward, he met a funeral procession. All the mourners were exceptionally thin and all were weeping at the death of a child.

Ananse explained that he was on his way to meet Nyame and that he could take the corpse straight to the sky god so that the child would reach heaven sooner. At first the parents were shocked at this suggestion – give up the body of their dear child to a stranger even if he was God’s messenger? Then Ananse said that he could see that they had experienced a period of famine and had walked far. He promised to give them the cow for the funeral feast in exchange. Wouldn’t God prefer one person to die of hunger than many? Thus persuaded, the parents handed over the body of their son, wrapped in a cloth.

The feast was ready and waiting for Ananse at the next village. There he explained to the chief that he was carrying God’s favourite son, who was already asleep. Because the body was covered, the chief did not see that he was dead. Ananse asked whether the chief had any children as, being special, this child should be put to rest with the most important children of the village. Proud of his many wives, and his many, many children, the chief immediately showed him to his children’s large sleeping hut. There the corpse was gently laid down and the celebrations began.

At last, when all had gone to their beds, the corpse, which by now had been dead for some time, began to smell. The rotten odour awoke some of the chief’s children, who began to complain and search for its source, which was soon identified as coming from the stranger. By now all the children were awake and saying that if the newcomer was too young to attend to his own hygiene, he should still be sleeping with his mother. They tried to rouse him to send him outside but, of course, the child didn’t stir. Angry at being ignored, they shook him roughly and when he still didn’t respond, somebody struck him. Once the first blow has been struck, others easily follow. In the morning all the children ran out of the sleeping hut except for one.

When Ananse and the chief went to collect God’s favourite son, they couldn’t rouse him. Gently the chief pulled back the cloth and was appalled to see the bruised and broken body. Weeping, he asked Ananse to intercede for him and his children with Nyame.

After some thought Ananse announced that the only remedy would be for the chief, his family, and the rest of the tribe to come with him across the great river to his appointed meeting with the sky god, and ask for forgiveness in person. The order was given and the whole tribe took to their canoes. When they ran out of boats, people travelled on hastily felled tree trunks, using branches as paddles. So it was that on the appointed day, Nyame rolled back the clouds to see an entire tribe crossing the great river with Ananse in the leading canoe. Nyame was delighted that there was at least one creature on Earth that could use his intelligence. He immediately restored life to the dead child, who was soon reunited with his parents.

The sky god fashioned a rope out of clouds for Ananse to ascend and claim his reward. When he reached the heavens, he was invited to pull out two calabashes from beneath Nyame’s throne. The first was very light; it contained Ananse’s fame. The second, full of gold, was so heavy that Ananse could barely drag it out. As he was struggling with it, he noticed a third calabash, and, pushing his luck as usual, he asked Nyame if he could have that one too. Still delighted with this little Spider Man, Nyame roared with laughter and told him he could take it, but to make sure he didn’t unplug it until he reached the ground.

Maybe it is still hard to descend a cloud rope with three calabashes even if you have eight hands, or maybe Nyame’s gales of delighted laughter made a gust that knocked him off balance, but Ananse dropped the third calabash. As it turned over and over in its fall, the plug came out and its contents were scattered all over the world. It contained the most precious treasure of all and that was stories! They were swept to every corner of every country, which is why, from that day to this day, stories are found everywhere on God’s Earth. Ananse took his gold home, but didn’t share it with his wife. And as for his fame, well don’t we still tell his stories today?

THE HARE AND THE BAOBAB TREE

SENEGAL?

I only know this story from the oral tradition, so am not certain about its origin. However, I came across a written version inspired by hearing an oral Senegalese folk tale that has many similarities in the details. The hare is an animal also attributed with great cleverness or wisdom throughout southern Africa, which also abounds in baobab trees. These are revered for their medicinal properties, their sustaining fruits and the great reservoirs of water they contain. They are an anchor for ecosystems, sustaining many life forms in challenging habitats.