THE HORNBILL'S FEATHER.

A Zemi Folktale collected by Ursula Graham

A number of women once went down to the river to fish, and one of them who was a little ahead of the others found a spot where a hornbill had been killed by some bird of prey, and its feathers were scattered all over the ground. There was one very fine tail- feather, and she quickly damped it and made it dirty so that it looked the shabbiest of the lot. When the others came up she cried to them: "Come, all of you, and take the feathers home for your children. When you have had your pick I will take what is left over."

The others all chose the feathers they wanted, but the tail- feather looked so dirty that nobody took it and the woman carried it home carefully and gave it to her brother's son, whose name was Ngoi, and he cleaned and smoothed it and made it as good as new. It was a magnificent feather, and as wide as the length of two fingers. When he had cleaned the feather he put it on, and all the girls thought they had never seen anything more handsome.

Now there was a young wife in another village; she and Ngoi had been lovers when she lived with her parents in his village, but she had married someone else. Just at this time her parents performed the feast of merit called Hekwi-ki, and they sent to call her and her husband to the celebrations.

When the day came the girl's husband said to her: "Get out new clothes from the jappa. Everybody else is putting on their best clothes, and we shall feel ashamed if we look shabby."

"Why should we put on new clothes?" said the girl. "When I lived there, there was not a single boy I liked: who then should I please by putting on new clothes?" Her husband said nothing more, and they went in their old clothes.

On the way she said: "Don't accept zu from anyone else; it is my father's house, and I will bring you everything you want," and her husband agreed.

When they reached the house Ngoi was standing by the door, splendidly dressed and wearing his hornbill's feather, and as soon as she saw him the girl went straight in to her parents, put down the zu she had brought to help them out with the feast, and asked them for new clothes. They took out good new clothes and gave them to her, and she put them on and went out to serve zu to the guests. Both her husband and Ngoi were sitting there, but she was always pouring zu for Ngoi and never gave any to her husband at all. The husband sat and watched this for some time, and he began to be sore at heart. He whispered to a friend from the same village who was sitting next to him: "I have dropped my tobacco. Take a bamboo torch and creep about looking for it, and when you come near Ngoi, set fire to the feather in his hair."

The friend did as he asked, and when he passed behind Ngoi he brushed the father with the torch and set light to it.

"Oh!" cried Ngoi, in rage and distress. "I loved that more than any other thing!" So saying, he took the ruined feather and stripped off the ash and swallowed it.

While his friend was searching for the tobacco the girl's husband had sat still, but when the feather was burnt he flung down his cup of zu and hurried away, singing as he went: "I shall not drag my wife away, I shall not fight because of her; let her do as she pleases, and be the wife of whichever one of us she likes. I am going to my own village."

His brother-in-law came out of the village after him, and sang in reply: "Be not angry, be not displeased, speak not angry words; all the necklaces, all the mithan you gave, you will have again."

NOTE.

The song from this story must be sung (and then only) at the building of a big house for the feasts of merit called Hekwi-ki and Krreo-dung. It may not be sung at other times.

On these occasions two men who know the song will come from a distance towards the house, singing as they come, until they reach the porch. They must sing the first two or three words alone and then the others, who may be forty or fifty strong, may join in. With the next line the two soloists must lead again, and so on. When the song is finished they go off again and return singing something else, and they go on doing this as long as they like.

Before this particular song can be sung two others must be sung, and unless there is someone who knows how to sing them the ceremony cannot be performed. If there is no one suitable in the village, someone must be fetched from another village.

THE BIRTH OF THE SPIRITS - Zemi folktale

First of all Bangklawong fell from heaven. There was no earth, only water, and on top of it was a wild taro leaf, onto which he fell. He said to himself: "If I am to be king, then my feet will not touch the water," but as he came down one foot touched the leaf and the other the water and he knew he would not be king for long.

He asked everything and everybody whether they could make land, but none of them could. At last he asked the King Worm, and the King Worm said he could.

"If I do, will you give me what I ask?" he said.

"What do you want?" asked Bangklawong.

"Every day a thousand shall die, and I shall eat their bodies," said the King Worm.

"If that happens, there will be no one left," said Bangklawong.

"Every day a thousand more will be born to take their places," answered the King Worm.

"Very well," said Bangklawong. "Then I will give you what you ask."

The King Worm went down to the bottom of the water and made worm casts until he had made all the earth, and the crow patted it flat and smooth, but by the time he came to do the hills he was too tired to flatten them properly, and that is why the plains are smooth and the hills are steep and full of cliffs. Then Tingwong told Bangklawong in a dream:

"If you do not want to live alone, then cut off two of your fingers, and one will become your wife and the other your sister."

So Bangklawong cut two of his fingers, and one became his wife and the other his sister. The sister was a very hard worker, and so quick and skilled that when she went to fetch wood or water she was back so soon that Bangklawong never had any privacy in which to enjoy his wife. At last he took a basketful of katsing seeds and spilled them in the grass, and told his sister that if she did not pick them all up even to the last one, he would take his dao and kill her, and he stuck his dao in the ground beside her and went back to his house.

The sister picked up the seeds so quickly that she returned, saying: "I have brought them all," when Bangklawong was having connection with his wife, and the sight so affected her that she cried out that she was going to lay an egg. Bangklawong told her to go to Tallaurok, at the source of the Barak, taking with her a dao, a plantain-tree and a huluk [a gibbon], and lay her eggs there. She went to Tallaurok, and there, by a cliff where there was a waterfall, she laid eight eggs, and then planted the plantain- trees, put the dao by it, and went away, leaving the huluk in the tree to keep watch.

Out of the first egg to hatch came Katsingpeo, and although his eyes were not yet open it seemed so bright outside that he was frightened and ducked down again inside his shell. The next to hatch was Tsiuperai, and he was not frightened, but stood up straight up and cried: "I am the first and the greatest!"

Hearing this, Katsingpeo came out again and said: "No, I hatched first, but I was frightened and hid again. I am the first and the greatest."

"No!" said Tsiuperai. "You were frightened and hid, whereas I stood straight up. I am the greatest."

Presently the other eggs hatched out, all except one. Tsiuperai said: "Our mother must have left us something." He felt about until he found the plantain-tree and its fruit. "Then there must be something else," he said, and felt about until he found the dao, and with that he cut down the tree and took the fruit. He gave the plantains out, one to each, but the huluk (gibbon) put its hand out each time and took the fruit.

"Now have you each had one?" he asked, but they one and all said they had not.

"I gave one to each," said Tsiuperai. "I will give them out again, and I will catch hold of each hand as I find it, and whoever it belongs to must say who he is." He began to give out the fruit again, and the first hand he found he caught and held, and called out: "Whose is this?" It was the huluk's hand, and all the spirits answered: "Not mine."

"Very well," said Tsiuperai. "Since it is none of ours, I'll cut it." He slashed at it with the dao, and the blood spurted up into his face and all at once his eyes opened and he could see. Then he took the blood and smeared it on the eyes of Katsingpeo and of all the others, and their eyes too opened.

They waited there a long time for the last egg to hatch, but it did not. "It must be addled," they said. "If it were good it would have hatched out long ago," and they rolled it down the bank into the river and went away to find their mother.

As they went along Tsiuperai and Katsingpeo did nothing but argue and quarrel as to which of them was the greater, and at last they agreed to throw pebbles across the Barak, and he whose stone reached the other side would be the greatest. Katsingpeo and all the others threw their stones, and they fell into the water before reaching the far side, but Tsiuperai picked up a beetle by mistake and threw that, and it zoomed off right across the river.

"There!" he said. "My stone has reached the far side, and I am the first and the greatest."

They went on their way, but Katsingpeo continued to argue, and presently, when they reached a smooth, grassy place, they agreed to throw stems of 'hpi' grass along the ground, and he whose shot went farthest should be the greatest. All the others threw without their stems going very far, but Tsiuperai, in hunting about for one to throw, took hold of a snake and threw that, and it shot off away beyond the others.

"There!" said Tsiuperai. "My stick has gone the farthest, and I am the first and the greatest."

Next they came to their mother's house, and changing themselves into crows, they perched in a nearby tree. Their mother came out and saw them, but when she counted them there were only seven.

"These cannot be my children," she thought. "For I laid eight eggs." And she went in again.

The seven spirits looked at her, and Tsiuperai said: "That must be our mother. Let us call out 'Mother' to her and see what happens."

"No, no!" cried all the others. "If we call out 'Mother' to her and she is not our mother, we shall feel ashamed."

While they perched there arguing about this, their mother came out several times and looked at them, and at last Tsiuperai said:

"Whatever you others do or don't do, I am going to call out 'Mother'." Then he called out to her: "Mother, we are your children."

"You cannot be my children," she answered. "For there are only seven of you, and I laid eight eggs."

"There were eight eggs," they said. "But the last one never hatched, so we thought it must be addled and pushed it down the bank into the river."

"Alas, my youngest child!" she cried. "Fools that you are, he would have been wiser and stronger and greater than any of you."

Then she asked them which was the eldest.

"I am," said Katsingpeo. "I hatched the first, and I am the foremost and the greatest."

"No, I am!" said Tsiuperai, and the two of them began quarrelling.

"I will show you which is the first and greatest," said their mother. "All of you stand here, and I will press out the milk from my breasts, and he to whom it goes first is the first and foremost."

They did as she told them, and she pressed out the milk from her breasts. First it went towards Katsingpeo, but turning from him, went straight to Tsiuperai's mouth, and after him back to Katsingpeo, and after him to all the others in order.

As for the egg which went into the Barak, it hatched, and out of it came the python.