Girls, Goddesses and Giants: Tales of Heroines from Around the World Page 3

  It was so hot that plants were dying, rivers were drying, and people were desperate for relief from the heat of the two suns.

  So a young girl called Kopecho said that they should get rid of one of the suns. “One sun is enough,” she whispered, so the suns up high wouldn’t hear her. “Let’s get rid of the other one.”

  “How would we do that?” the rest of the Yupa tribe whispered back.

  “We could drop one sun down a hole deep enough to put out his light for ever.”

  “But who would do that? Who would risk the anger of the suns to trick and attack them?”

  Kopecho looked round, hoping someone else would volunteer. But no-one did. It was her plan, and they were all staring at her.

  She knew that whoever attacked the suns risked death, but also that everyone in her tribe would soon die in this endless burning daylight.

  So Kopecho tied her hair back and prepared a feast.

  She lit a fire to bake flat bread and to grill the largest fish she could catch in the shallow river, then she picked the juiciest fruit she could find in the shrinking forest.

  She dug a pit, so deep and dark that even the suns up high couldn’t see its bottom, if they bothered to look. But Kopecho had asked everyone in her tribe to dig that day, and hundreds of people were digging ditches, toilets, graves and foundations for huts, so that if the suns looked down they wouldn’t notice one young girl digging a deep pit.

  When she had dug as far down as she could, when her tools struck stone rather than earth, she climbed out of the pit, and covered it with thin sticks and broad leaves. Then she let her hair out and called the suns down to a feast.

  “Look what I have cooked for you, suns. I admire your heat and light, and your dance in the sky, so I have made you a feast.”

  The suns came down to earth, to join her in the feast.

  She fed them. She sang to them. She flattered them.

  Then she said, shyly, hiding her mouth behind her long black hair, “I love to watch you both dance in the sky. Would you please dance with me?”

  She stood up and whirled round, her long black hair spreading out like sun’s rays. She turned and twirled, she jumped and spun.

  The suns laughed and they both got up to dance with her.

  The suns liked to dance in curves and circles because they were used to dancing across the sky, but now the girl danced in a straight line, backing towards the pit, leading the suns along with her.

  Kopecho realised that she couldn’t let both the suns fall in the pit, because no day would be as bad as no night. So she grasped the hand of one sun and though his heat burnt her fingers, she smiled as she spun him away from the pit. Then she grasped the hand of the other sun, and she laughed as she spun him towards the pit.

  She leapt backwards, right over the pit, pulling the sun with her, and he landed heavily on the leaves and sticks.

  The sticks broke, the leaves fluttered down.

  And the sun dropped into the pit.

  The sun screamed as he fell.

  The other sun stopped dancing. The girl stood on the edge of the pit. They watched the sun’s light flicker as he fell down the deep dark hole.

  Then the sun hit the hard stone at the bottom and his light faded.

  But his light didn’t go out completely.

  The fall didn’t kill the sun, it just injured him. The fall didn’t put out his heat and his light, it just cooled the heat and dimmed the light.

  So he hauled himself out of the pit, crawled back into the sky, and tried to shine again. But he didn’t shine as bright, he shined colder and bluer and less often.

  He became the moon.

  He still danced with his brother, sun and moon circling in the sky.

  And the people were happy. They had a sun in daytime and a moon at night, and just enough light and heat, balanced by enough dark and cold, to live and grow and thrive.

  But the moon and his brother the sun were furious with Kopecho, who had tricked them with food and dance, and had broken their power.

  So one early morning when the sun was rising and the moon was still visible, they linked their rays, they picked Kopecho up, and they threw her into the river to drown.

  But as she tumbled through the air, Kopecho turned into a frog, and was able to live healthy and happy in the river.

  Then, over the years, because of her wisdom, her courage and her knowledge of the depths from digging down so deep, Kopecho became the Yupa goddess of the underworld, safe and hidden forever from both the sun and the moon.

  Mbango and the Whirlpool

  Cameroonian folktale

  Mbango’s mother died when she was a baby, so she was brought up by her mother’s sister. Her aunt had a daughter of her own, the same age as Mbango, but the aunt didn’t treat the two girls equally.

  She gave her own daughter all the best food and let her lie around in the sun. She fed Mbango the leftovers and made her do the hardest, nastiest, dirtiest jobs around their hut. If she wasn’t satisfied with the work Mbango did, she beat her with a stick.

  Mbango’s first job every morning was to go to the river to fill the family’s calabash with water for cooking and drinking.

  One day, Mbango slipped on the mud of the river bank and dropped the calabash into the water.

  The river swept the calabash away. Mbango knew her aunt would beat her if she went home without their only calabash, so she chased it, running along the riverbank, keeping pace with the calabash as the current pulled it along, hoping it would get tangled in weeds or come close enough to the bank for her to reach it.

  But it was swept onwards, far out in the speeding river, until Mbango saw a whirlpool ahead. The water was swirling so fast that the centre of the whirlpool was a sharp hole in the river.

  The calabash started to spin, sweeping in circles round the edge of the whirlpool, then being pulled nearer the centre. Mbango watched as the calabash was dragged towards the middle, then vanished down the hole and into the depths of the river.

  She was more scared of telling her aunt that she had lost their only calabash than she was of the whirlpool. So she closed her eyes, clasped her hands over her head and dived in.

  She dived right down to the river bed, and when she opened her eyes, she found that she was standing in a village of huts just like her own. She was standing upright, she wasn’t wet and she could breathe. But when she looked up, instead of the sky, she saw the whirlpool spinning above her.

  When she looked back down, she saw the calabash. It had landed on the river bed, and a little old lady had just picked it up.

  The little old lady was bent and hunched, with a wrinkled face, bright black eyes, and a wide grin showing how few teeth she had left. She was stroking the calabash.

  Mbango said to the old lady, “I’m sorry, but that’s my calabash and I dived down here to fetch it.”

  “That’s a shame,” said the little old lady. “I don’t have a calabash and this is a lovely one.”

  Mbango said, “I am truly sorry, but I do have to take it back to my own village, because if I go home without it, my aunt will beat me. Why don’t I offer you a fair exchange? I’ll do a day’s work for you, then you can give me the calabash back.”

  So the little old lady took Mbango to her home, a rickety hut at the edge of the village, with a couple of pigs snuffling outside. Mbango spent all day doing the jobs the little old lady was too hunched and weak to do. She fixed the roof and patched the walls, she mucked out the pigs, and cleaned the hut inside and out.

  When her hut was neat and tidy, the little old lady said, “I think it’s time you went back to your own world and took this calabash to your aunt.”

  Mbango sighed and nodded.

  “But before you go, I’d be very happy if you’d share a meal with me,” said the little old lady.

  So Mbango sat down at the little old lady’s table.

  Then, with her face shining, her eyes bright and her wide mouth grinning, the little old lady put a pla
te in front of Mbango. “Please eat. I hardly ever have guests, and I’d be so honoured if you’d eat with me.”

  Mbango looked down.

  At a plate of PIG DUNG.

  She looked up at the little old lady’s eager face and bright eyes.

  She looked back down at the plate of pig dung.

  Mbango thought, “I don’t want to be rude, I don’t want to disappoint or insult this nice old lady, but this is pig dung. I can’t eat pig dung.”

  She looked at the little old lady’s happy face and she thought, “I’ve done things that are almost as horrid for my aunt and I don’t even like her. But I do like this nice old lady and I don’t want to offend her.”

  So she put her hand out, she picked up the smallest piece of pig dung, and she lifted it to her lips…

  As she put it to her mouth, it turned into a handful of ndole, her favourite fish stew.

  Mbango ate everything on the plate and each piece of pig dung turned into wonderful tasty food.

  “This is the best meal I’ve ever had,” she said to the little old lady, who bounced up and down with happiness.

  Then the little old lady gave Mbango the calabash and said, “I have an extra gift for you too, to say thank you for being so helpful and so kind.” She held out three large eggs. “Break these eggs on the floor of the hut when you get home and they might change your life.”

  Mbango said, “Thank you,” then jumped out of the village, swam up towards the whirlpool, scrambled onto the river bank and ran home to her aunt’s hut.

  Her aunt picked up a stick and waved it at Mbango. “Where have you been, you lazy inconsiderate child?”

  Mbango explained, “I dropped the calabash in the river, then I chased it until it vanished into a whirlpool, so I dived in to get it back. And I found a village under the river, and met a little old lady, who gave me back the calabash and these three eggs, and told me to break the eggs on the floor.”

  She broke the first egg and out slithered silver chains.

  She broke the second egg and out dropped gold nuggets.

  She broke the third egg and out tumbled handfuls of diamonds.

  The aunt stared at the riches on the floor, then she prodded her own daughter with the stick. “Go and get us three of those eggs, girl. Go on, now.”

  So Mbango’s cousin grabbed the calabash and ran to the river. She threw the calabash into the water, she ran along the bank, she saw it vanish into the whirlpool, then she held her nose and jumped in after it.

  She found herself in the village, with the whirlpool spinning above. She saw the little old lady stroking the calabash and she yelled, “Oi! Give that back, it’s mine!”

  The little old lady handed her the calabash and said, “Before you go, I’d be honoured if you would join me for a meal.”

  “I suppose I’d better,” said Mbango’s cousin.

  So the little old lady sat her down and offered her a plate of…

  “PIG DUNG! You want me to eat pig dung? That’s disgusting, you horrible weird old woman. I’m not eating that!” The cousin stood up, knocking over the table and the plate. “Just give me my three eggs and I’ll be off.”

  The little old lady stared at her for a moment, then handed her three eggs. “I hope you enjoy them.”

  Mbango’s cousin left the village, swam out of the whirlpool, clambered out of the river, ran home and shouted, “I got three eggs!”

  She smashed the first egg and out slithered snakes.

  She threw the second egg against the wall, where it shattered and out dropped scorpions.

  She screamed and let go of the third egg, which cracked on the floor and out tumbled spiders.

  The snakes and scorpions and spiders chased the aunt and the cousin into the forest. They were never seen again, and that made Mbango’s life much happier than any of her new riches. Though she enjoyed the riches too!

  Hervor and the Cursed Sword

  Norse legend

  This is a story of a sword called Tyrfing.

  The sword was created when a man named Sigrlami sneaked up on two dwarves one night and blocked their way back to the safety of their cave. He threatened to keep them trapped on the surface of the earth until the sun came up and turned them to stone, unless they agreed to forge a perfect sword for him.

  The dwarves made Sigrlami a beautiful sword, but as they gave him the sword, they put a curse on it, saying that every time Tyrfing was drawn from its sheath, it must be sheathed in blood before it could be put back.

  But Sigrlami was a warrior and he didn’t think that was a curse.

  So his sword Tyrfing brought him great wealth and fame, because every time it was drawn, it had to spill blood.

  He passed Tyrfing on to his first-born son, who won fame, then passed Tyrfing on to his first-born son, who won fame, then passed Tyrfing on to his first-born son… As the sword was passed down from father to son, the curse got stronger and stronger, and the sword spilt more and more blood.

  Until the last of the line of first-born sons, Angantyr, carried Tyrfing into battle with his eleven brothers by his side, and much blood was spilled, including the life blood of all twelve brothers.

  Because the sword was cursed, and because Angantyr had no sons, the sword was buried with him. Twelve brothers and their swords were all buried together on a small island.

  Angantyr had no sons, but he did have a daughter. Hervor was a baby when her father and uncles died. As she grew up, she didn’t want to learn embroidery or baking or fancy ways to plait her hair. She wrestled with the local boys and learnt to fight with wooden sticks. She wanted to be a warrior and a pirate, battling and raiding, winning fame and fortune.

  So when Hervor was grown, she announced that she would be a Viking, like her father and uncles, like her grandfather and great-grandfather. She announced that she would lead a shipload of warriors, she would raid the sea and the coasts, and she would bring gold and fame back home.

  But no-one followed her. Why would they? She was a girl and she was unproven.

  Hervor needed to prove herself. She needed to show who she was and who she could be. She needed Tyrfing, her father’s famous sword.

  So she paid a boatman to take her to the island where her father’s body was buried. As they rowed nearer the island’s shore, the boatman said, “It’s almost dusk. The locals say the island is haunted at night. I’m not rowing any closer, and if you take my advice, girl, you won’t go ashore either.”

  Hervor shrugged. “If it’s haunted, it’s haunted by my family.”

  She leapt into the water and swam ashore.

  Then she started to walk to the middle of the small island. Though it was a clear night on the water, the island was covered in fog. Knee-high fog, clammy and clinging, heavy and hard to push aside. Hervor waded through the fog and with every step she took, the fog moaned and groaned and howled around her legs.

  She saw a high mound of earth ahead. It was the grave of her father and uncles. As she reached the mound, the earth burst into flames. She sprinted through the fire, her wet dress hissing round her.

  She reached the top of the mound, balanced on the crumbling edge of a black pit, then jumped down and landed hard on dusty ground.

  She stood up, surrounded by a circle of twelve tall pale men, each bloodied with wounds, all staring at her.

  They whispered insults at her for waking them and took slow dragging steps towards her.

  Hervor looked calmly around the circle. All the men had swords, but only one sword was glowing: the top of the blade of a gold-hilted, tightly sheathed sword glowed brightly in the hands of the tallest, bloodiest man.

  “Father,” she called out. “Angantyr. Father. I am your daughter Hervor and I have come to claim my sword.”

  The men stopped moving, but kept staring at her.

  The man with the glowing sword shook his head, and his head creaked and wobbled on his shoulders. “But you are a girl. You cannot have this sword, you are not strong enough or brave eno
ugh to carry a sword with a blood curse.”

  Hervor laughed. “I have swum ashore to a haunted island. I have waded through howling fog and run through grave-mound flames. I have leapt into a death pit and faced twelve bloodied ghosts. Am I not brave and strong, Father?”

  Her father simply said, “If you think you want Tyrfing, then come and take it.”

  Hervor stepped forward and jerked the sword out of his cold grip. “I have the sword now, I carry the responsibility of the blood curse. Now you can all lie down and go back to your long sleep.”

  The men lay down, and Hervor hauled herself out of the grave, walked through the cool, clear night to the shore, then swam out to the boat waiting a safe distance away.

  Hervor told the story of the grave and the sword to all who would listen, and men knew that the sword’s curse gave it power, so they followed her willingly. Hervor gathered a shipload of Vikings, she fought in many famous battles and led many successful raids. And her sword was never drawn from its sheath without being sheathed in blood. But Hervor didn’t think that was a curse, because with Tyrfing in her hand Hervor spilled the blood of enough men to became rich and respected.

  When Hervor grew old she gave Tyrfing to her sons. What happened to them is another story, but it’s not a peaceful or cheerful one, because the dwarf-made sword still carried its curse…

  Visiting Baba Yaga

  Russian folktale

  Once upon a time a little girl lived happily with her father, in a cottage on the edge of the forest. But when her father remarried and a new stepmother arrived, the little girl became less happy and more scared.

  In real life stepmothers are usually lovely, but this little girl had a good reason to be afraid of her stepmother.

  Her stepmother was the sister of Baba Yaga, and Baba Yaga was the most famous, the most feared, the most ferocious witch in the whole Russian forest.