THE WISE WAGTAIL.
It hath been said that there are lands where a man takes but one woman to wife and is therewith content. But in Papua it is not so; this is therefore the tale of a man whose wives were five. Now it came to pass that on a day the man's throat was weary for lack of flesh meat, and he longed greatly for some. But the rains had not ceased, and the grass was yet green on the hunting ground, so he knew not how to gain that which his soul desired. Then in the night a thought was born, and he lay waiting for the dawn to break that he might do what he had planned.
In the morning he arose, and called one of his wives, and bade her go with him to the gardens to weed the taro. This did she, and knew not what was in her husband's heart. But as she weeded, the man came to her, carrying ripe taro, which he bade her roast in the ashes of their fire. Now taro thus cooked is the food of those who mourn for the dead, and the woman wondered that her husband waited not to eat until the food was cooked in the pot at home. But she held her peace, and roasted the taro, as he desired. And when it was cooked, she lifted a piece from the fire that she might scrape off the ashes and charred rind. As she did thus a wagtail flew to the tree in the shade of which she sat, and lighted on a bough over her head. And he sang,—
"Takivim ke gibui!
Takivim ke gibui!"
("Scrape the food to be eaten with you!")
The woman hearkened to the song, and was much afraid, and cried to her husband, "Dost hear, lord? The bird is singing that I am to be eaten."
"Nay, woman," lied the man; "he doth but speak of the taro." And then, being hungry, he called, "Is the food ready for eating?"
"It is ready," answered his wife.
When he heard, therefore, that the food was cooked, he rose up and, taking his wooden sword in his hand, he drew near to the woman and severed her head from her body. Then, sitting down, he ate of her flesh, and with it the taro she had scraped after roasting it. Thus were the words of the wagtail fulfilled which he sang on the bough of the tree.
Now the man, having eaten, would no longer work in the garden, and went home, saying to his wives that he was ill and for that cause he had returned while the sun was yet high in the heaven, but that the woman, who had set out with him, would sleep at the gardens that night. Then he bade them light a fire that he might warm himself and sleep. So well did he feign illness, that the women kept silence in the house and watched over him till morning.
But on the morrow, he hungered once more for flesh meat, and called to his second wife that she should go with him to the gardens. She arose like unto the other, and the other women sent greetings by her to the first wife who, they thought, was yet alive. And at the gardens the man did even as he had done on the day before. He brought taro to the woman, and bade her roast it that they might eat. "Shall I roast some for thine other wife, lord?" asked the woman.
"She will have food of her own," said the man. "Cook but for me and for thee."
Then the woman roasted the taro, and when it was cooked, she took a piece from the fire to scrape it. And as she did thus the wagtail which had warned the other woman, lighted on a bough of the tree over her head, and he sang,—
"Takivim ke gibui!
Takivim ke gibui!"
And this woman even as the other was afraid when she heard the song, and cried to her husband, "Dost hear, lord? The bird is singing that I am to be eaten."
"Nay, woman," lied the man again; "he doth but speak of the taro." And he called, "Is the food ready for eating?"
"It is ready," answered his wife.
Then came her husband, armed with his sword, and cut off her head and ate her flesh with the taro she had roasted. And after he had eaten, he returned home and told the same tale, and though the women wondered greatly wherefore the other two did not leave the gardens, they spake not, but cared for their husband and watched over him as he slept.
Then on the morrow, he called his third wife to go with him to the gardens, and there he served her as he had done the other. And in like manner did he with his fourth wife, and the one who was left was sore afraid, for she knew that her turn would come on the morrow. Now this woman had two children, a boy and a girl, and when she was alone with them in the house she told them that she feared she had only one more night to live, for all her husband's wives were dead now save herself. Then she said, "By this sign shall ye know that I am no more. If your father kills me my liver will travel until it reaches this house, and ye will hear it rustling in the leaf wall. Guard it carefully, for it will help you when you are in need."
The children wept bitterly at her words, but she bade them dry their tears ere their father should return, lest they should anger him. The next morning, she laid her face against the faces of her children, and bade them farewell, and set out with her husband to the gardens. And there it befell her as had befallen the other women. And also, her liver, even as she had said, went swiftly back to the house. The children sat waiting and fearing inside, and anon heard the low sound as of a lizard in the wall. They searched until they found what their mother had told them of, and laid the liver carefully in a wooden bowl.
Then the boy said to his sister, "Our father will soon be back. It were well for us to fly far away, or he will kill us too."
The little girl rose up and made haste to leave the house, but she carried carefully the bowl in which they had placed the liver. Then they both sped quickly on the path which led to the hills. They had not gone far when their father came home, and sought for them that he might stay his hunger for flesh meat, but he could not find them. Then was he very wroth, and set out along the path to look for them. In a little space he saw them as they mounted a hill in front. So he made haste and drew near to them. But the children, turning as they reached the top of the hill, espied him below, and holding the liver in their hands, cried, "O hill, fall upon the man who pursues us!" This did the hill, obeying the word of the children who held the liver in their hands. And the man was buried under much earth, and was like to be killed. Nevertheless, he strove valiantly until he had dug for himself a way of escape. But when he was standing on his feet once more the children were scaling another hill, higher than the first, and as they stood upon the top they cried, "O hill, fall upon the man who pursues us!" And the hill did as they had asked, and so the man had again to dig a way out before he could follow the children. But he was strong and in a little time he had come forth from the earth which covered him, and when he was free he ran quickly up the hill and was soon in sight of them once more. But this time they had climbed a great mountain, and standing on the top they called to it to fall upon the man and to let them escape. And the great mountain did even as they asked and fell mightily upon the man, and this time the earth which fell was so heavy that the man strove in vain, and perished miserably in the heart of the mountain.
The children, when they saw that their father no longer pursued them, were glad, and their hearts cooled. But alas, they were in a perilous land. It was now towards evening, and they saw no house in the forest where they were. As they were about to lie down under a tree that they might sleep till the dawn, the boy sprang up from where he sat, and cried, "See, sister, the boar, the boar!"
Now the children knew it not, but the den of a fierce boar was but the cast of a stone from the tree in whose shade they sat, and it was time for the beast to enter his den there to pass the night. But there was now no time for them to run, for he was already rushing towards them, and his tusks were bare, and his bristles stood upright. Yet was there time to climb, and the boy and girl in great fear clung to the branches of the tree while the evil beast, with fearsome roaring, clawed below at the trunk. Long did he strive to reach the children, and many times did their hearts tremble as he flung himself against the trunk of the tree. But at last there was respite. The boar, being wearied, towards midnight withdrew himself into his den to rest.
"Brother," whispered the little maid, "let us now climb down from the tree and fly for our lives." And had they thus done it might have been well with them. But the boy, fearing worse evils in the darkness, said, "Nay, little sister, but let us wait until the birds begin to stir, for then may we see whither we should go." So they tarried until the first bird did cry, and then with much care climbed softly down and stood for a moment that they might know which was their way. But suddenly forth from his den rushed the boar, and fell upon the children, and in a trice he tore their tender flesh and devoured it, strewing the ground with their bones. And so was it that their mother, who, being dead, had delivered them from the rage of their father, was yet unable to save them from the evil beast to whose land they had come.