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Persephone
Greek
Persephone is taken below the earth, and Demeter searches for her.
A myth for ages 4-5
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17In a meadow where daisies and buttercups grew,Lived Persephone, sprinkled with sunshine and dew.Her mama, Demeter, made wheat reach the sky.She sang to the barley, "Grow tall! Grow high!"
One morning she skipped where the long grasses swayed,And found a strange flower the Earth just made.She reached out her hands. She wanted to holdA hundred small blooms of the very brightest gold.
Then — crack! — went the meadow. A rumbling sound!A golden chariot rolled from under the ground.Hades, the king, took her down. Down they go —Down, down, down, to his quiet kingdom below.
Down there it was quiet; the halls were grey.No sunshine, no flowers, no place she could play.Persephone sat, and she sighed, and she criedFor her mama, her meadow, the sky open wide.
Demeter looked high, and Demeter looked low.She looked where the olives and barley grow."Where is Persephone?" Demeter cried."Down, down, down in the dark," the wind replied.
For nine days she searched, with her torches alight,"Where is Persephone?" — all day and all night.Demeter was too sad to eat or to sing.So the wheat fell asleep and forgot about spring.
Zeus looked at the fields and heard people cry."Hermes!" he called. "On your winged sandals, fly!"Whoosh! went his sandals, a flap of each wing."Zeus says, send her home!" Hermes told the king.
Hades said yes. But as she turned to go,He slipped her something tiny. Did she know?A pomegranate seed, so shiny and red.She nibbled it once, then she hurried ahead.
Uh-oh! That seed is a promise to keep.She'll visit the king while the fields are asleep.But when the first flowers peek from the ground,She hugs her Mama and spins round and round!
"Where is Persephone?" Demeter sighed."Up, up, up!" a little brown lark replied.Look! Down the hill, with flowers in her hair,Ran Persephone, laughing, as light as the air!
Hug, hug, hug! Then the golden wheat grew high.The flowers all opened to wave at the sky.Demeter sang, for the first time in days.The wheat swayed along in the sun's warm rays.
Part of the year, when her girl is away,Demeter is sad, and the fields turn gray.Some people say that is why we have snow.I like that story. I don't really know.
The meadow is still.The wind on the hillSays, "Sleep, little flower!Wait for your hour."
Down, down, down —the roots sleep deep.Demeter waits,and hums, and waits.Up, up, up —spring will peep.Sleep.
For grown-upsThis is the Greek story of Persephone.It comes from the Homeric Hymn to Demeter.The 6-7 and 8-10 books show where tellings differ.People say it explains winter.That is a later reading.Added here: the wind and the lark.Also Demeter's singing, and the winged sandals.Also Hades's "yes", and "Did she know?"Also calling the seed a "promise".
The end.
Persephone
Greek
Persephone is taken below the earth, and Demeter searches for her.
A myth for ages 6-7
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16I sing of Demeter, who bringsthe wheat up from the ground.I sing Persephone, her girl,whose laugh was the best sound.With sea-nymph friends she picked and playedin morning's golden light.She filled her arms with flowers,the red and blue and white.
Now Earth, by Zeus's wish, had growna hundred blooms on a stem.Its scent made the whole sky laugh.Each bloom shone like a gem.She reached to pick the flower. Crack!The ground split open wide.Out rose a golden chariot,and Hades lifted her inside.
"Father!" she cried. "Please, Father, help!"Her voice rang through the sky.But Zeus had promised her in secret,and Zeus did not reply.The Sun heard, and so did Hecatein her cave far away.Down, down the golden chariot rolledand left the light of day.
No wind, no sun, no bird, no beelived in the halls below.She sat beside the quiet kingand wished that she could go.He spoke so kindly, but she turnedher face toward the wall.She would not eat. She would not smile.She did not talk at all.
Far off, Demeter heard that cry.Her heart felt like a stone.She threw her veil away and ranacross the world, alone.For nine days, torches in her hands,she searched through east and west.She would not eat. She would not wash.She hardly stopped to rest.
The tenth dawn came. Hecate came,her torch still burning low."I heard a cry," she told Demeter,"but who it was, I don't know."The Sun looked down from his bright carand told her what he knew."Zeus gave her to the king below."Demeter's anger grew.
"No grain will grow," Demeter swore."No seed will sprout, no leaf,till I see my daughter's face again."And hunger came, and grief.The oxen pulled their ploughs in vain.The fields were bare. No bread.No gifts were left for gods. "Enough!"said Zeus, and shook his head.
So Hermes, swift on winged feet,flew down to the dark land."Persephone must go back up,"he said. "It's Zeus's command."King Hades nodded. "She may go,"he said, as soft as a sigh.He slipped her one red seed to eat,hidden from every eye.
She bit the seed. The red juice ran.She wore a worried frown.Whoever tastes the food belowmust one day come back down.Some tellings say that Hades tricked her.The old songs don't agree.But Hermes shook the golden reinsand set the horses free.
The horses ran. The golden wheelswent spinning round so fast.The rivers, hills, and shining seaswere blurs as they went past.Persephone leaned out to look.The wind blew in her hair.She watched the road for one dear face."Is she there? Is she there?"
Demeter, on the temple hill,saw gold wheels in the sun.She ran like wind, and her daughter leaptdown, and the two were one."My darling, did you eat down there?"Demeter asked. "I must know.""One seed," said Persephone. "Just one."Demeter did not let go.
Then Rhea came with Zeus's word."A part of every yearyour daughter rules the dark below.The rest, she will be here."Demeter smiled. The wheat leaped up.Leaves burst on every tree.The wind, the sun, the birds returned,and with them came the bee.
I sing of Demeter, who bringsthe wheat up from the ground.I sing Persephone, her girl,whose laugh is the best sound.The meadow wakes. The poppies nod.A nymph calls out, "Come, come!"Persephone runs off to play.Demeter starts to hum.
For grown-upsThis retells the Homeric Hymn to Demeter.In the Hymn she eats one seed, given in secret.Ovid's Metamorphoses has seven seeds. His Fasti has three.The Hymn gives her a third of the year below.Ovid says half.People say it explains the seasons.That reading is later than the Hymn.Even so, the Hymn ties her return to spring flowers.Added here: Hecate's words and the sea-nymph game.Also "Is she there?", the worried frown, and the bee.
The end.
Persephone
Greek
Persephone is taken below the earth, and Demeter searches for her.
A myth for ages 8-10
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17Sing now of Demeter, golden-crowned goddess of grain and the harvest.Sing of Persephone, daughter, who ran with the sea-nymphs, laughing,Out in a meadow of spring, the grass cool and wet on her ankles.She picked roses and crocus, violet, iris, hyacinth."Which is the loveliest?" she called to the nymphs. "Come and tell me!"Far away, Demeter was working, her barley gold in the sunlight.None of them, girls or grass, knew what the Earth was preparing.
Then, by the will of Zeus, to please the Host of the Many,Earth sent up from her body a flower, a snare, a wonder.Narcissus: a hundred blooms on a single stem, and its fragranceMade the wide heaven laugh, and the earth, and the salt swell of ocean."Oh!" cried Persephone. "Look!" And she ran, and she reached for the flower.Then the meadow beneath her opened. Out of the chasmHades came, with his deathless horses, the golden car glittering.He reached down and lifted her in. And she cried out for her father.
CHORUS: Who heard her cry? The mountain peaks rang, and the ocean deeps.CHORUS: Hecate heard in her cave. The Sun heard, wheeling above them.CHORUS: Who told the mother? No one. The mother was never asked.CHORUS: Zeus had promised the girl in secret. So it is sung.
Down through the dark rode the king, past roots and stones and riversOf silence, and daylight thinned out behind them like smoke from a candle.The girl sat stiff in the car, her fists full of crushed narcissus.She turned for one more look at the sun. It shrank to a coin,Then a spark, then nothing. And Hades, holding the reins, said nothing.Ahead, a gate. The horses knew it. They slowed, and the dark closed over.
But far away Demeter heard it, a faint, thin echo.Pain like a hand in her heart. She threw down her veil and hurried,Over land and sea, like a bird, with the wind in her mantle.Nine days, nine nights, with torches held high she roamed through the darkness.She would not touch ambrosia or nectar; she would not bathe or rest."Persephone!" Over hill and river she called, and no one answered.Then, on the tenth dawn, Hecate came, with her torch, and she told her:"I heard her cry, but I never saw who had taken her."
Both of them went to the Sun, who watches the world from his chariot."Helios," said Demeter, "you see all things. Tell me, who took her?"And the Sun, who pitied her, answered. He did not hide it."Zeus gave her to Hades, his brother, to be his wife in the darkness.Goddess, put off your grieving. He is no unworthy husband."But Demeter stood like a tree in the wind, her heart black with anger."Zeus gave her away," she said, "and he never told me."She turned her back on Olympus. She would not go home to the gods.
Down to the earth she came, and she made herself old and bent over,Wrapped in a plain dark mantle, and sat by a well at Eleusis.Under an olive tree, the king's four daughters found her,Brought her home to the palace, and she nursed their baby brother.But all the while she grieved. The oxen pulled the ploughs for no harvest.Barley was sown, and the barley lay still in the cold black furrows.A year of hunger came down. The people grew thin and weary.
Zeus, in his house on Olympus, looked down. No smoke from the altarsRose to the gods. No lamb was burned. The people were dying.He sent Iris first, with her rainbow, and then all of the godsWith gifts and honors and pleading. Demeter listened to no one."I will never set foot on Olympus," she told them. "Never.Never will grain grow up from the earth, till I see my daughter's face."Then, at last, Zeus called the swift one, the bearer of the gold wand:"Hermes, go down to the dark, and ask my brother to send her."
Swift as a thought, Hermes went down to the depths of the darkness.He found the king in his halls, with Persephone sitting beside him,Sad on the couch, turned away, and longing for her mother."Zeus commands," said Hermes, "that you send her up to the daylight."Hades the king, with a grim smile, answered, and spoke to her kindly:"Go, Persephone, go to your mother. Go with a gentle heart.Do not be sad. Down here you will rule all that lives, with honor."But as she rose, he slipped her a seed of the red pomegranate,Sweet as honey, and secretly given. She ate it.
CHORUS: One red seed on her tongue, sweet as honey. What has she swallowed?CHORUS: Did she know? Did he trick her? A choice, or was she forced?CHORUS: Ask the old poets: each tells it another way. So it is sung.CHORUS: She wanted only the sunlight. The seed has a claim on her.
Hades yoked his horses, and gladly she mounted the chariot.Hermes took up the reins and the whip, and they flew from the shadows,Over the sea and the rivers and mountains, and nothing could stop them.Wind in her hair, she leaned out over the rail, looking for daylight.And there at last, at the temple, stood one in a dark blue mantle.
Like a wild dancer, Demeter ran down the hill when she saw her.And the girl sprang down from the chariot, into her mother's arms.Long they held one another. Then Demeter asked her a question:"Child, did you taste any food in the dark? Tell me the truth, now.If you did not, you will stay with me always, up in the sunlight.If you did, you must go back, for a part of every year."Then Persephone told her all: the seed, and the way it was given.
Then Zeus sent Rhea, his mother, to call Demeter to Olympus."A third of the year below," said Rhea, "and two thirds with your daughter."Demeter nodded. And green leapt up from the furrows.Leaves and flowers covered the whole wide earth in a moment.
Then she taught the lords of Eleusis her rites, her holy Mysteries,Secret rites. They are secret still. Nobody told us what they were.When the first crocus opens, people remember the girl who came up,And the mother who waited. So it is sung, spring after spring.
For grown-upsThis retells the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, with some details from Ovid.In the Hymn she eats one seed, given in secret.Later she says she was forced.In Ovid's Metamorphoses she picks the fruit and eats seven seeds.In his Fasti, she eats three.The Hymn gives her a third of the year below. Ovid says half.People say the story explains the seasons. That is a later reading.The Hymn does tie her return to spring flowers.Added here: the sun shrinking to a coin, the gate, the flower question,the chorus questions, a remark on the secret rites, and a few small speeches.
The end.
Zhurong
Chinese
Zhurong is the fire spirit of summer, and he rides two dragons.
A myth for ages 4-5
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15The morning is cold and the sky is gray.A small red spark has come out to play.Zhurong leans close and puffs. Hooray!Crackle! Pop! Fire, Zhurong!
Zhurong whistles, and down they swoop,two big green dragons, loop-de-loop.Zhurong climbs up with a happy whoop!Crackle! Pop! Fire, two dragons, Zhurong!
Zhurong points south. Away they go,over the hills where the warm winds blow.Red flowers open, row by row.Crackle! Pop! Fire, two dragons, warm south, Zhurong!
It's noon! The sun is hot and high.The cicadas buzz as they whiz by.Zhurong grins. "Summer! Hot! Oh my!"Crackle! Pop! Fire, two dragons, warm south, hot sun, Zhurong!
The Flame Emperor sits there, red and grand.Zhurong bows and says, "I'll lend a hand."Off he flies at the Emperor's command.Crackle! Pop! Fire, two dragons, warm south, hot sun, Flame Emperor, Zhurong!
Long ago, wise Suiren spun a stick.Round and round and round, quick, quick, quick!Smoke! A spark! What a clever trick!Crackle! Pop! Fire, two dragons, warm south, hot sun, Flame Emperor, Suiren's stick, Zhurong!
Zhurong puffs. The supper pot sings.Steam curls up from the rice in rings.Zhurong smiles at the warmth it brings.Sizzle! Crackle! Pop! Fire, two dragons, warm south, hot sun, Flame Emperor, Suiren's stick, supper pot, Zhurong!
The sun slides down and the sky turns pink.Two sleepy dragons stop to drink.Zhurong waves as the fireflies blink.Hush, hush, hush, Zhurong.
The two dragons yawn and curl up tight.Zhurong pats each one and says, "Good night."The stars come out, so small and bright.Hush, hush, Zhurong.
Zhurong tucks the embers in,under soft gray ash.One small glow stays warmall night long.
Crackle...pop...one little sparkin the dark.
Hush.Warm.Sleep.
For grown-ups.Zhurong is a fire god of the south.The Shan Hai Jing gives him two dragons.Suiren is the sage who first made fire.The Book of Rites names Zhurong spirit of summer.It names the Flame Emperor as summer's ruler.Ours: the whistle, the puffing, and the bow.Ours too: the embers tucked in at night.
The end.
Zhurong
Chinese
Zhurong is the fire spirit of summer, and he rides two dragons.
A myth for ages 6-7
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14The Flame Emperor sits on his throne.Summer is his season.Zhurong stands beside him.The flame on his crown flickers."When may I begin?" he asks."In three days," says the Emperor.Zhurong's flame leaps up.He can hardly wait.
On summer's first morning,the king rides to the south edge of town.A red chariot. A red horse.A red banner. A red robe. Red jade.All the people come to welcome summer.Zhurong watches from the green hill.
Zhurong whistles, and two dragons come.One lands on his left. One lands on his right.Zhurong climbs up and holds on tight.The old Classic of Mountains and Seastells us what he looks like.A beast's body. A person's face.Two dragons to ride.
Long, long ago, no one had fire.Raw food smelled bad and hurt their stomachs.Then a wise man named Suirendrilled a stick into a block of wood.Round and round and round.Smoke! Then a spark! Then fire!The people cheered.
Many years later, King Ku had a Fire Keeper.His job was to look after the fires.He did it so wellthat his light seemed to warm the whole world."I will call you Zhurong," said the king.Some old tellers say the Fire Keeperand the fire god are one.
First month of summer.The earthworms wriggle up out of the ground.The wild melon vines start to grow.The bitter herbs open their flowers.Zhurong turns the heat up one.Now it is warm. Summer has begun.
Middle month of summer.Baby mantises hatch from their eggs.The shrike bird starts to call.The cicadas start to sing.The deer drop their antlers.Zhurong turns the heat up two.Now it is hot. The sky is blue.
Last month of summer.Warm winds begin to blow.The crickets move into the walls.Fireflies glow up out of the old grass.Zhurong turns the heat up three.Now it is hot as hot can be.
The earth is damp, and the air is muggy.Big rains fall now and then.Zhurong watches the water run to the rivers.The rivers run southeast, toward the sea."Why southeast?" he asks.An old story says why.
Long ago, a water god named Gonggongquarreled with a ruler named Zhuanxu."I will be the ruler!" shouted Gonggong."No, I will!" shouted Zhuanxu.Gonggong's face went red with rage.He hit Mount Buzhou,the pillar that held up the sky.Crack! The pillar broke.The sky tipped toward the northwest.The earth tipped toward the southeast.That is why the rivers run that way.
One night, Zhurong feels a cool wind.White dew settles on the grass.The cold cicadas sing.Summer is over.His two dragons curl up to sleep.Autumn has its own spirit now.Zhurong sits by the fire,and waits for next summer.
For grown-ups.The Shan Hai Jing gives Zhurong two dragons,a beast's body and a human face.The Liji names the Flame Emperor and Zhurong for summer.Other books call the emperor the Red Emperor.Suiren is the usual maker of fire.The Shiji says King Ku named his Fire Keeper Zhurong.Gonggong's story is in the Huainanzi, without Zhurong.A Tang book by Sima Zhen puts Zhurong in it.Ours: the talk with the Emperor, the whistle, the shouting.Ours too: Zhurong watching, his rain question,and the heat turned up.
The end.
Zhurong
Chinese
Zhurong is the fire spirit of summer, and he rides two dragons.
A myth for ages 8-10
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16The Classic of Mountains and Seas is a very old book.It lists mountains, rivers, beasts and gods, one after another.Here is its whole entry for the south."In the south, Zhurong.A beast's body. A human face.He rides two dragons."That is the whole entry.The storytellers filled in the rest.
Long before all this, there was no fire.People ate their food raw.It smelled bad and hurt their stomachs.Then a wise man named Suirenspun a stick against a block of wood.Round and round and round.Smoke curled up. A spark glowed.Fire! The people were glad.
Making fire was one job.Looking after it was another.Many years later, a king named Kuhad an officer whose whole job was the fire.The old books call him the Fire Regulator.He did the work so wellthat his light seemed to warm the whole world.So King Ku gave him a title: Zhurong.Some tellers say this officer and the fire god are one.
On the first day of summer, the king dresses in red.Red robe. Red jade. A red banner on a red chariot,pulled by a red horse.He rides to the south edge of townto welcome summer in.The Book of Rites says to do exactly this.It also says who rules summer: the Flame Emperor.And who is summer's spirit: Zhurong,for the first month, the middle month and the last.
The Book of Rites says one more thing about summer.In its first month, the sacrifice is made to the stove.Picture a kitchen. A cook lifts the lid from a pot of rice.Steam rises. The fire underneath is red and busy.For one month of the year, the calendar says:thank the fire.
Now the Classic says something new.Zhurong came down to live by the Jiang river,wide and slow.There he had a son, and the son was Gonggong.Fire for the father. Water for the son.
Gonggong grew up strong and proud.Then he quarreled with a ruler named Zhuanxu.Each one wanted to rule everything."I should be emperor," said Gonggong."No, I should," said Zhuanxu.Neither one would give way.Gonggong grew angrier. His voice grew louder.
Rage.Gonggong hit Mount Buzhou,the pillar that held up the sky.Crack!The pillar broke.The ropes that held the earth snapped.The sky began to tip.
The sky tipped toward the northwest.The sun, the moon and the stars slid that way,and they still do.The earth sank toward the southeast.The rivers poured that way,and they still do.Look at a map of China.The great rivers run east and southeast to the sea.
Now listen to a second telling.A writer named Sima Zhen set it down in the Tang age,many centuries later.In his book, Gonggong does not quarrel with Zhuanxu.Gonggong fights Zhurong.Fire against water.Put the two old books side by side.Now it is a father against his son.Gonggong loses.In his anger, he hits Mount Buzhou, and the sky tips.
The old books do not say how Zhurong felt.Did he stand and watch? Did he turn away?Picture him by his fire, late at night,with the stars out beyond the window.The books leave that part for you to fill in.
Summer ends the way the Book of Rites says it will.One night, a cool wind comes.White dew settles on the grass.The cold cicadas sing.Autumn takes over, with a spirit of its own.Zhurong's two dragons curl up on a cloud to sleep.And Zhurong waits for the next summer.
The storyteller stirs the fire.Sparks rise toward the stars."That is the story as I know it," the storyteller says."There are other tellings. Go and find them."
For grown-ups.The Shan Hai Jing gives Zhurong a beast's body and a human face.It gives him two dragons, and a son named Gonggong.Suiren is the usual maker of fire (Han Feizi).The Shiji says King Ku named his Fire Regulator Zhurong.The Liji names the Flame Emperor and Zhurong for all three summer months.It also has the red welcome and the stove sacrifice.Other books call the emperor the Red Emperor.Gonggong against Zhuanxu is from the Huainanzi. Zhurong is not in it.Another Huainanzi chapter names Gaoxin.Sima Zhen's Tang book puts Zhurong in the fight.Calling Gonggong a water god is later tradition.Ours: the storytellers, the father-and-son pairing of the two books,the spoken words, Zhurong by his fire, and the closing storyteller.
The end.
Amaterasu and the Cave
Japanese
The sun goddess hides in a cave, and the gods laugh her back out.
A myth for ages 4-5
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17Amaterasu, the sun so bright,filled the sky with warm gold light.She shone on fields of rice below,and helped the little green shoots grow.
Her brother Susanoo liked to play.He stomped through the rice fields every day.He broke the banks with a stomp and splash,and filled the ditches. Crash, crash, crash!
He made a mess in his sister's hall.She said, "He's young. It's nothing at all."Then he banged and clanged in the weaving room,and scared the weavers at the loom.
The sun was scared. She ran insidea rocky cave, so deep and wide.She rolled a rock across the door.And then the sun shone out no more.
Dark, dark, dark! No sun at all.No light for big. No light for small.The rice stopped growing. Birds went still.The night stayed on, on every hill.
The gods all met beside a stream."We need a plan. We need a scheme."A wise old god sat down to think.He thought so hard, he did not blink.
Cock-a-doodle! Roosters crowed.A mirror shone. The green jewels glowed.They hung them on a holy tree,right by the cave, where she could see.
Then Uzume jumped up on a tub.Stamp, stamp! Rub-a-dub-dub!She waved her leaves. She kicked her feet.She danced a silly, stompy beat.
The gods all laughed, "Ho, ho! Ha, ha!"They clapped and cheered, "Hurrah, hurrah!"Inside the cave, the sun asked, "Whyare you glad, with no sun in the sky?"
"Come out, come out!" called Uzume. "See!A shining goddess, as bright as can be!"The sun peeked out to look and stare.It was her own face shining there!
Then strong Tajikarao took her hand.He rolled the rock, just as they'd planned."Come out, come out!" Hooray, hooray!The sun came back, and it was day.
And Susanoo? He had to pay.The gods all sent him far away.They trimmed his beard and nails so neat,and off he went on muddy feet.
The rice grew green. The streams ran bright.The world was warm and full of light.Each morning now the roosters call,"Come out, come out!" to one and all.
Sleep now.In the morning, roosters call.Come out, come out!And up comes the sun.
For grown-ups.This myth is in Japan's two oldest books.The Kojiki was finished in 712.The Nihon Shoki was finished in 720.The cave is the Heavenly Rock Cave,Ame-no-Iwato.Susanoo's deeds are harsher in the books.We kept them mild: broken rice banks,a mess, and a scare in the weaving hall.In the Kojiki one weaver dies of the scare.Uzume's dance there is wild and rude.Ours is only silly.The roosters, mirror, jewels and tree are old.So are the tub, the laughing gods,the strong god and the trimmed beard.Moving the rock is a later legend.Ours: the rhymes, the call of come out,and the roosters at the end.The rock rolling away is from the later legend.Read it in English in Chamberlain (1882),Philippi (1968) or Heldt (2014).
The end.
Amaterasu and the Cave
Japanese
The sun goddess hides in a cave, and the gods laugh her back out.
A myth for ages 6-7
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17High up above the floating cloudswas Heaven's shining plain.The sun goddess, Amaterasu,looked down on fields of grain.Her weavers worked a sacred loominside her weaving hall.And all day long her golden lightwas warm on one and all.
Her brother Susanoo, the storm,came roaring in one day.He'd come to say goodbye, he said,but then he chose to stay.He tramped across her rice fields.He knocked the banks down flat.He filled the ditches up with mud,and laughed, "How about that!"
He made a mess inside the hallwhere she sat down to dine.His sister sighed, "He's young and wild.I'm sure he will be fine."Next, through the roof above the loom,he crashed in with a roar.The threads and shuttles flew aboutand tumbled to the floor.
The weavers gasped. The sun was scared.She turned around and fled.In Heaven's Rocky Cave she crept,and there she hid her head.She slid a boulder over the doorand shut herself inside.And then the world was dark and still.The light had gone to hide.
No sunrise came. The world was dark.There was no morning light.The rice stood still. The birds were hushed.It was night, and only night.The voices of the gods all buzzedlike summer flies, they say.And trouble rose in every place,for the world was dark all day.
Eight million gods came out to meetby Heaven's quiet stream."Who has a plan?" they asked. "Who canthink up a clever scheme?"Old Omoikane, wise and slow,sat down and thought, and sighed.At last he cried, "We'll make her wonderwhat's going on outside!"
They brought the roosters of the dawnand made them crow and crow.They fetched hard iron from the hillsand set a forge aglow.A goddess made a mirror, round,and polished it to shine.A god strung curving jewels, green,five hundred, all in a line.
They dug a sacred sakaki treefrom Mount Kagu, roots and all.They set it right outside the cave,before the boulder wall.The jewels went up on the top.The mirror hung below.Then lower still, white cloth and bluewere fluttering in a row.
The strongest god, Tajikarao,hid close beside the stone.Then Uzume stepped up to dancea dance that was her own.She turned a tub upside downand hopped up with a jump.She stamped until the hollow tubwent boom! went thump, thump, thump!
She wore a crown of leafy vineand a sash of mossy green.She waved bamboo leaves in her hands,the silliest dance they'd seen!The gods all laughed. They roared and howled.They slapped their knees with glee.They laughed until high Heaven shook,and shook each rock and tree.
Inside, the sun called through the rock,"With me away, it's night.So why does Uzume dance about,and why do you laugh with delight?"Then Uzume called, "We laugh becausea brighter god is here!"They held the mirror up. The sunpeeked out, and leaned in near.
She saw a shining, golden facelook back at her, so bright.She did not know it was her own.She stepped out for a closer sight.Then Tajikarao took her handand drew her gently out.He rolled the boulder far away.The gods gave one big shout.
A god stretched out a rope of strawacross the cave's dark door."Don't go back in," he told the sun."No hiding anymore!"And Susanoo? He had to pay.They trimmed his beard and nails.They sent him down from Heaven, blownaway on stormy gales.
Then golden light came pouring outon Heaven's shining plain.It warmed again the whole wide earth,the rivers, fields, and grain.And every morning, roosters crowto call the sun to rise.And up she comes, as bright as gold,to light the waking skies.
For grown-ups.The Kojiki (712) tells this story in Book One.Chamberlain's 1882 English calls it"The Door of the Heavenly Rock-Dwelling."The Nihon Shoki (720) tells it too, with variants.In the Kojiki a weaver dies of fright.In the Nihon Shoki the sun hurts herself.Susanoo's deeds are much harsher there.We made them a mess and a scare.The gods meet by the Tranquil River of Heaven.Omoikane plans. Ishikoridome makes the mirror.Tamanoya makes the string of curved jewels.Uzume's dance is wild and rude in the Kojiki.In the Nihon Shoki she holds a spear.The rope is a shimenawa. Shrines still hang them.Tajikarao takes her hand and draws her out.A later legend says he threw the rock door away.The gods fine Susanoo and send him away.Ours: the rhymes, the shout, the closing roosters.Read Philippi (1968) or Heldt (2014) as well.
The end.
Amaterasu and the Cave
Japanese
The sun goddess hides in a cave, and the gods laugh her back out.
A myth for ages 8-10
Swipe to turn the page →
18Unroll the painted scroll, and look: the goldof morning clouds, as in the tales of old.High over everything, on Heaven's plain,the sun, Amaterasu, watched the grain.In her sacred hall the weavers worked the loom,and sunlight fell through every quiet room.So says the Kojiki, from long ago,the oldest book of Japan that we know.
Her brother Susanoo, wild and loud,came climbing up to Heaven on a cloud.The mountains shook. The rivers roared below.He said he'd come to tell her he would go.They held a contest, and he said he'd won,and after that, his mischief had begun.
He broke the banks that kept her rice fields wet.He filled the ditches. He was not done yet.He made a mess where she would sit to eatthe first new rice, her sacred harvest treat.She only said, "He does not mean it ill.He wants more land. He's young. He'll learn. He will."But then he climbed upon the roof of the weaving hall,and broke right through, and landed in a sprawl.The shuttles flew. The threads were snarled and torn.The weavers cried out, frightened and forlorn.
Another book, the Nihon Shoki, saidthe shuttle hurt the sun herself instead.And now the sun was frightened, too, at last.She turned her back on him and hurried past.She found the Heavenly Rock Cave, deep in stone,and stepped inside, and sat there all alone.She pushed the great rock door to close it tight,and with her went the warmth, and with her, light.
Then darkness fell on Heaven, and below,the Land of Reed Plains lost its morning glow.No dawn came after night, no morning red.The rice stood waiting in its watery bed.The voices of the gods, the old book said,buzzed like the summer flies, and troubles spread.
The gods all met, eight hundred myriad strong,by Heaven's Tranquil River, all night long.They asked the god whose name means Holding-Thought,wise Omoikane, for the plan they sought.He did not say, "Break down the door." Instead,"Let's make her want to see outside," he said.
"First bring the long-voiced birds, the roosters, here,and set them crowing, loud and long and clear."The smith brought iron from the Metal Mountains,and sparks flew up around his forge like fountains.Ishikoridome made a mirror, round,and polished it till not a speck was found.Then Tamanoya, maker of the beads,strung curving jewels, five hundred, shaped like seeds.
They dug a sakaki up, roots and all,from Heaven's Mount Kagu, green and tall.The jewels went on its upper boughs, up high.The mirror hung in the middle, to catch the eye.And on the lowest, cloth of white and bluehung waiting, like a prayer, the whole night through.The gods held torches, and the flames leapt high,and Futotama held the tree up to the sky.
Then Koyane spoke the solemn words with care,words to the sun, a long and lovely prayer.Strong Tajikarao hid beside the door,as still as he had never stood before.And everyone was ready. Every faceturned to the dancer stepping into place.
Out stepped Uzume, the goddess who could makethe gloomiest god laugh till his belly'd ache.She tied her sleeves back with a mossy cord,and turned a tub face-down to be her board.She crowned her hair with vine. In either handshe shook bamboo leaves, bundled in a band.She stamped. The hollow tub boomed out like thunder,and on she danced, a whirl of joy and wonder.
She danced as if a spirit filled her through.She shook and spun the way the wild winds do.The gods all laughed together, loud and long.The Plain of High Heaven shook with it, like a gong.The roosters crowed. The torches flared and spun.Inside the cave there sat the puzzled sun.
She opened the rock door a little way."I hid," she called. "There should be no more day.So why does Uzume dance, and why do allthe gods of Heaven laugh, both great and small?"Then Uzume called back, above the applause,"We laugh, great sun, because we have good cause.A god more glorious than you is here!"And as she spoke, two gods brought the mirror near.
The sun looked out and saw a shining face,a goddess glowing gold in that dark place.She did not guess the shining face was hers.She leaned out farther, as a sleeper stirs.Then Tajikarao, hidden close at hand,reached out and took her own, as they had planned.He rolled the boulder back with all his might,and Heaven and the earth were filled with light.
Then Futotama stretched a rope of rice straw widebehind her: "You must not go back inside!"And shrines still hang such ropes of straw today,to mark the holy places, so they say.And Susanoo? The gods all made him paya thousand tables of gifts, and sent him away.They trimmed his beard and nails, and off he went,down to the earth, to learn what kindness meant.
So roll the painted scroll back up. Look: goldof morning clouds, the way the tales are told.Each dawn, when roosters crow, the sun comes outto see what all the laughing is about.
For grown-ups.Sources: the Kojiki (712), Book One,and the Nihon Shoki (720), Book One, the Age of the Gods.In Chamberlain's 1882 Kojiki these are Section 15, "The August Ravages",and Section 16, "The Door of the Heavenly Rock-Dwelling".Other English versions: Philippi (1968), Heldt (2014), and Aston's Nihongi (1896).The Plain of High Heaven is Takamagahara. The cave is Ame-no-Iwato.The Kojiki is harsher. Susanoo's last deed in the weaving hall is cruel,and a weaver dies of the shock.We kept only a mess and a scare.In the Nihon Shoki's main telling, the sun goddess hurts herself instead.Before all this, brother and sister swear an oath and make children from it.We kept only "a contest".The Kojiki says Uzume's dance bares her body. We kept the wildness, not that.In the Nihon Shoki main text she carries a spear wound with grass.There the sun opens a crack and Tajikarao leads her out by the hand.Neither book says he moved the rock. A later legend at Togakushi Shrinesays he threw the rock door down to earth, where it became Mount Togakushi.The mirror trick and Uzume's answer are told in the Kojiki.The mirror is the Yata no Kagami.Tradition says it is kept at Ise Shrine.The rope is a shimenawa. Shrines still use them to mark holy ground.After his fine, Susanoo goes down to Izumo and fights an eight-headed serpent.Ours: the scroll frame, the rhymes, the roosters at dawn, and the last line.
The end.
Anansi and the Sky God's Stories
Akan
Anansi pays the Sky God four clever catches for all the stories.
A folk tale for ages 4-5
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21We do not really mean.We do not really meanthat what we are going to say is true.Long ago, the stories were all in the sky.Nyame the Sky God kept them up high.
Anansi the spider was small and brown.He spun a thread and climbed up from town."Sky God," he said, "I would like to buyyour stories. What do they cost? Let me try."
Nyame said, "Big towns came. They could not pay.Can a small spider do better than they?Bring me Onini, the python so long.Bring me Osebo, the leopard so strong.Bring me the hornets, Mmoboro, that hum.Bring me the fairy, Mmoatia. Then come."
Anansi went home. "Aso, what shall I do?"His wife said, "Let me think it through.Cut a palm branch, and a creeper for string.The stream is the place. That's the first thing."
By the stream, Anansi argued alone:"It's longer!" "It's not!" in a loud, cross tone.Onini the python lifted his head."What is all this about?" the python said.
"My wife says this branch is longer than you.I say she is wrong." "Then measure me. Do!"Onini lay down by the branch, long and straight."Now stretch," said Anansi. "Stretch out! Now wait."
Round went the creeper, round and round,from tail to head, till the python was bound.Anansi climbed up to the Sky God's seatand laid the python at Nyame's feet."My hand has touched it. What remains, remains."
Aso said, "Now the hornets. Here's what to do.Fill a gourd with water. Take it with you."He found the hornets, high in a tree,and splashed them with water, one, two, three!
He splashed himself too. Then over his headhe held a plantain leaf. "It's raining!" he said."Come into my gourd. It's dry. Come in, do!""We thank you!" they hummed, and in they flew.Anansi shut the gourd and climbed to the seat,and laid the hornets at Nyame's feet."My hand has touched it. What remains, remains."
Aso said, "Dig a hole on the leopard's track.""Enough!" said Anansi. "I'll dig, and come back."He dug a pit where the leopard would go,and covered it over with branches, just so.
Next morning, Osebo was down in the ground."Help me!" he growled, with a sorry sound."Help you?" said Anansi. "You'd catch my children too!""Oh no!" said Osebo. "That isn't true!"
Anansi set two sticks down, one here, one there."Put one paw on each," said Anansi. "Take care."He wound his creeper round paw and stick,and he pulled out Osebo, all tied up, quick!He carried the leopard up to the seat,and laid him down at the Sky God's feet."My hand has touched it. What remains, remains."
Last was the fairy. Anansi found wood.He carved a doll as well as he could.He made it sticky with gum from a tree.Yams in its hand were for fairies to see.It sat by the odum tree, where fairies play.He tied on a string, and he hid away.
Mmoatia came. "May I eat some, please?"Anansi pulled the string from behind the trees.The doll's head nodded. So Mmoatia ate."Thank you!" she said. But the doll sat straight.
"Why don't you answer?" She slapped its cheek.Her hand stuck fast! She gave a squeak.She pushed with her other hand. That stuck too.She pushed with her tummy. What could she do?
Anansi tied her and climbed to the sky.Nyame called all of his elders nearby."Big kings could not pay. Anansi paid all!""Eee!" cheered the elders, the great and the small.
Nyame said, "Spider, these stories are for you.Take them down home, and tell them too."So now, when the stories are told,we call them Spider stories, new and old.
This is my story. Is it sweet or not?Take some away. Let some come back to me.
For grown-ups.This is a story of the Akan (Asante) people.The Akan live in Ghana. They still tell it.They call such tales Anansesem, spider stories.The first and last words are real Akan formulas.R. S. Rattray wrote this telling down in 1930.His book is Akan-Ashanti Folk-Tales, pages 54 to 58.In his telling, Anansi strikes the leopard.Here he ties him with the creeper instead.Rattray's Anansi also brings his old mother.The thread to the sky is our picture.A Ghanaian reader has not checked this book yet.
The end.
Anansi and the Sky God's Stories
Akan
Anansi pays the Sky God four clever catches for all the stories.
A folk tale for ages 6-7
Swipe to turn the page →
21We do not really mean, we do not really mean,that what we are going to say is true.Long ago, every story was kept in the sky.They belonged to Nyame, the Sky God on high.No one on earth had a story to say,not one for the night, not one for the day.
Kwaku Anansi, a spider, small and brown,spun a long thread and climbed up from his town."Sky God," he said, "I have come here to buyyour stories. Please tell me the price. I will try."
Nyame said, "Kokofu came, and Bekwai came too.They could not pay. So what can you do,you, a small spider, a masterless man?""Name the price," said Anansi. "I think that I can."
"The price is four," said the Sky God. "So go.Bring me Onini, the python, from the stream below.Bring me Osebo, the leopard. Then bringMmoboro, the hornets, that buzz and that sting.Bring Mmoatia, the fairy. Bring all four to me.""I will," said Anansi. "Just wait, and you'll see."
Anansi asked Aso, his wife, what to do."First, the python," said Aso. "Here's a plan for you.Go cut a palm branch, and creeper for rope.Take them down to the stream. That is our hope."
As he walked, he argued out loud, on his own:"It's longer!" "It's shorter!" "You lie!" in a cross tone.Onini the python looked up from his bed."What is all this about?" Onini said."My wife, Aso, says this branch is longer than you.I say she is wrong." "Then come measure me. Do!"
Onini lay down by the branch, very straight."Stretch," said Anansi. "A little more. Wait."Round went the creeper, round, round and round,from tail to head, till the python was bound.Anansi climbed up to the Sky God's seatand laid the python down at Nyame's feet."My hand has touched it. What remains, remains."
"Now the hornets," said Aso. "Here is what you do.Fill a gourd with water, and take it with you."Anansi found the hornets, high in a tree.He sprinkled them with water, one, two, three!
He poured the rest on himself, and over his headhe held a plantain leaf. "It's raining!" he said."Come into my gourd, and the rain won't beat you!""We thank you!" the hornets hummed, and in they flew.Anansi shut the gourd and climbed to the seat,and laid the hornets down at Nyame's feet."My hand has touched it. What remains, remains."
Aso said, "The leopard is next. Dig on his track.""Enough," said Anansi. "I'll dig it and come back."He dug a pit where the leopard would go,and covered it over with branches, just so.
Next morning, Osebo was down in the ground."Help me!" he growled, with a sorry sound."If I help you, you'll catch my children too.""Oh, I could not do such a thing! Not true!"
Anansi cut two sticks, and set one here, one there."Put a paw on each stick," said Anansi. "With care."He wound the creeper round each paw and each stick,and lifted Osebo out, tied up, quick, quick!Anansi climbed up to the Sky God's seatand laid the leopard down at Nyame's feet."My hand has touched it. What remains, remains."
For the fairy, he carved a doll out of wood,a little flat-faced doll, as well as he could.He covered it with sticky gum from a tree.Mashed yam in its hand was for fairies to see.He tied a string round its waist. Then he laidthe doll by the odum tree, where fairies played.
A fairy came by. "Akua, may I eat some, please?"Anansi pulled the string, from behind the trees.The doll's head nodded. So Mmoatia ate."Thank you," she said. But the doll just sat straight.
"When I thank her, she says nothing," Mmoatia cried."Then slap her cheek," her sister replied.She slapped it. Pa! And her hand stuck fast.She slapped with the other. Stuck! So at lastshe pushed with her tummy. And that stuck too.Then Anansi came out and tied her. "Got you!"
He carried the fairy up to the seat,and laid her down at the Sky God's feet.Then Nyame called his elders, one and all."Great kings could not pay. This spider is small,but he has paid all the price that I set.Sing his praise!" "Eee!" they shouted, the loudest yet.
"Kwaku Anansi," said Nyame, "from today,my stories are yours. Take them down, and away!No more Sky God's stories. From now, they will becalled Spider stories, for you and for me."
This is my story, which I have told.If it be sweet, or if it be not sweet,take some elsewhere, and let some come back to me.
For grown-ups.This story belongs to the Akan (Asante) people of Ghana.Akan tellers still tell it aloud, after dark.They call such tales Anansesem, which means spider stories.The first and last words are real Akan formulas.R. S. Rattray wrote this telling down in 1930.It is in Akan-Ashanti Folk-Tales, pages 54 to 58.The towns, the four prizes and Aso's plans are his.So are "My hand has touched it" and "Eee!"In Rattray, Anansi strikes the leopard with a knife.Here he ties him with the creeper instead.Rattray's Anansi also brings his old mother along.Barker and Sinclair (1917) tell it with three tasks.The thread to the sky is our picture.A Ghanaian reader has not checked this book yet.
The end.
Anansi and the Sky God's Stories
Akan
Anansi pays the Sky God four clever catches for all the stories.
A folk tale for ages 8-10
Swipe to turn the page →
21We do not really mean, we do not really mean,that what we are going to say is true.So an Akan storyteller begins, after dark,when the families gather to sit by the fire's spark.And this is the story of how, long ago,the Sky God's stories came down to us below.
Once, all of the stories were Nyame's alone.The Sky God kept them, every one, as his own.Then Kwaku Anansi, the spider, climbed highon a thread of his own, to the court in the sky."Sky God," he said, "I have come here to buyyour stories." "To buy them?" said Nyame. "Then try."
"Great towns have come here. Kokofu came,and Bekwai, and Asumengya, and it ended the same.They could not pay. And you think that you can,you, a small spider, a masterless man?"
"They cannot be bought," said Nyame, "for anything at all,but four creatures. Bring them, the great and the small.Bring Onini, the python, who lies by the stream.Bring Osebo, the leopard, whose yellow eyes gleam.Bring Mmoatia, the fairy, who plays under trees.Bring Mmoboro, the hornets, who hang in the breeze.""I will bring them," said Anansi, "and, what is more,I'll add my old mother, Nsia, to the four."
Anansi went home, and told his mother the news.Then he asked his wife, Aso, which way he should choose."First, the python," said Aso. "Cut a branch of a palm,and a long string creeper," she said, very calm."Take them both to the stream." And as he went along,he argued out loud: "It is longer!" "You're wrong!"
"It's longer than he is!" "It's not!" "It is, though!"Onini the python looked out from below."What's it all about?" asked the python, and lifted his head."My wife says this branch is the longer," Anansi said."Longer than you are. I say that is not true.""Then bring it," said Onini. "Come, measure me. Do!"
He laid the palm branch down the length of the snake."Stretch yourself out!" And he stretched, for pride's sake.Nwenene, nwenene! went the creeper, up to the head,and the python was tied. "Got you!" Anansi said.He climbed with the python to the Sky God's seatand laid the python down at Nyame's feet."My hand has touched it. What remains, remains."
Back home, he said, "Aso, the hornets. What now?""Fill a gourd up with water, and go. You know how."In the bush he found hornets that hung from a tree,and he sprinkled them with water, one, two, three.
He poured what was left on himself, and he spreada broad plantain leaf like a roof on his head."The rain has come! Hornets, come into my gourd, all of you,so the rain will not beat you!" "We thank you!" They flew.He stopped up the gourd, and he climbed to the seat,and laid the hornets down at Nyame's feet."My hand has touched it. What remains, remains."
Back home, he said, "Osebo remains." "Dig a hole," Aso said.Anansi said, "That's enough. I have got it in my head."He found the leopard's tracks, and he dug a pit deep,and covered it over, and went home to sleep.
At first light, he went back. In the pit, down below,lay Osebo, the leopard. Anansi looked down at his foe."Little father's child, little mother's child! If I help you out,you will catch my children tomorrow, no doubt.""Oh! I could not do such a thing!" the leopard cried.So Anansi cut two sticks, and set them side by side.
"Put a paw on this stick, and a paw on that one."The leopard obeyed. He had nowhere to run.Anansi wound creeper round paw and round stick.He drew the leopard up, tied, with one tug, quick.He climbed with Osebo to the Sky God's seatand laid the leopard down at Nyame's feet."My hand has touched it. What remains, remains."
For the fairy, he carved an Akua Ba from wood,a flat-faced dark doll, as well as he could.He covered her body with sticky gum from a tree.He pounded eto, mashed yam, for the fairies to see.He put some in her hand, and some in a basin of brass.He tied a string round her waist, and set her down on the grass,at the foot of the odum tree, where the fairies play.Anansi held the end of the string, and he hid away.
"Akua," said a fairy, "may I eat a little, please?"Anansi tugged the string, from his place in the trees.The doll's head nodded. So the fairy ate.She thanked the doll. But the doll just sat straight.
"When I thank her, she does not answer," the fairy cried."Then slap her cheek," her sister replied.Pa! went her hand, and her hand stuck fast."My hand is stuck!" "Then slap with the other." At lastboth hands were stuck. "Push her with your stomach!" That stuck too.Then Anansi came out and tied her, and said, "Got you!"
Then he said to his mother, Ya Nsia, "Rise, and let's go."He took her and the fairy up from the world below."Sky God, here is the fairy, and my mother as well."Then Nyame called his chiefs and elders, and said, "Hear me tell.Great kings came here, but none of them could pay.Kwaku Anansi has paid the whole price today.Here are the hornets, the fairy, the leopard, the python, all four.He brought his mother as well, though I did not ask for more."
"Sing his praise!" "Eee!" cried the elders, all as one."Kwaku Anansi," said Nyame, "the price is done.From today and forever, my stories go to you,with kose, kose, kose, which means my blessing, too.No more Sky God's stories. From now, they will becalled Spider stories, by you and by me."
This is my story, which I have related.If it be sweet, or if it be not sweet,take some elsewhere, and let some come back to me.
For grown-ups.This is a tale of the Akan (Asante) people of Ghana, still told aloud.Akan tellers call all such tales Anansesem, spider stories.Rattray notes they are also called Nyankonsem, words of the Sky God.R. S. Rattray printed this telling in Twi and English in 1930.The book is Akan-Ashanti Folk-Tales; the tale is on pages 54 to 58.The opening and closing words are teller's formulas he recorded.He says that these tales were told only after dark.The towns, the four prizes, Aso's plans and Ya Nsia are his.So are "My hand has touched it," "nwenene," "Pa!" and "kose."In Rattray, Anansi strikes the leopard with a knife.Here he ties him instead, and we left out a jibe about drink.Barker and Sinclair (1917) tell a Gold Coast version with three tasks.The thread to the sky is our picture, not Rattray's.A Ghanaian reader has not checked this book yet.
The end.
The Conference of the Birds
Persian
Birds fly to find a king, and thirty find themselves.
A fable for ages 4-5
Swipe to turn the page →
16Long ago, in a land of sun,the birds were playing, every one.But they had no king to show the way.They sang and quarreled all the day.
A hoopoe came with a crest on his head."I know a king," the hoopoe said."The Simorgh lives on a mountain far.Let's find her, birds, wherever you are!"
"I love my rose," the nightingale sighed."I love my pond," the duck replied."The road is long," the peacock said."I'd rather stay home," and he shook his head.
"Come," said the hoopoe. "Do not stay.The Simorgh waits so far away.Follow the hoopoe, fly, fly, fly!We'll fly together, you and I."
So off they flew in a great wide cloud,a thousand wings, both soft and loud.They crossed the hills, they crossed the sand,over river and rock and land.
But soon the sky grew dark and gray.The birds were lost. They lost their way."Which way, which way?" the small birds cried.The hoopoe flew on at their side.
The hoopoe led them under the sky."Follow the hoopoe, fly, fly, fly!"They flew through night till the early dawn,and every little bird gave a yawn.
Some birds were tired. Some went home.Some wished to rest, and not to roam.But thirty birds kept flying still.They flew past valley, stream and hill.
Their wings were tired, their feet were sore.They could not fly a mile more."Follow the hoopoe, fly, fly, fly!The mountain is waiting in the sky."
At last they came to a mountain tall.There were thirty birds, and that was all.The hoopoe smiled and said, "We're here!The Simorgh's house is very near."
"Si" means thirty, and "morgh" means bird."Simorgh" means thirty birds. Have you heard?They looked for a king with a golden crown.They saw a still lake, and they looked down.
"Look!" said the hoopoe. "Thirty are we!We are the Simorgh. Look and see!"They laughed in the lake's soft glow.The king was them. Now they know.
So home to their land the birds all flew,and sang as they always used to do.The king in each was found at last.Hush now, little birds. The day is past.
For grown-ups.This is The Conference of the Birds.It is a Persian poem by Attar of Nishapur.He wrote it about 1177.The hoopoe guides the birds to the Simorgh.They cross seven valleys.Many turn back, and only thirty arrive."Si" is thirty and "morgh" is bird.They find the Simorgh is a mirror of themselves.In the poem, many birds die on the way.We left that out.Read Dick Davis and Afkham Darbandi (1984).Ours: the rhymes and the refrain.
The end.
The Conference of the Birds
Persian
Birds fly to find a king, and thirty find themselves.
A fable for ages 6-7
Swipe to turn the page →
18In Persia, long ago, the birdsall met in one big tree."We need a king," they sang and cried."But who is it to be?"
Then up spoke the hoopoe, wise and old,whose crest stood like a crown."The Simorgh is the king we need,far past the farthest town."
The nightingale said, "I love my rose.I cannot leave her side."The duck said, "I will not leave my pond.""Nor I," the partridge cried.
The hoopoe said, "The road is long.Seven valleys wait for you.Fly on, fly on, my friends, fly on.I'll show you what to do."
So thousands of birds rose in the airand darkened all the sky.Fly on, fly on, they sang, and wentpast mountains wide and high.
The first was the Valley of the Quest.The sun was hot and high.Some tired birds turned and flew back home."Fly on, fly on," came the hoopoe's cry.
They crossed the Valley of Love, and Knowing,and the Valley of Letting Go.Then Oneness, Wonder, and the last,through wind and rain and snow.
The wind was strong. The way was hard.Their wings were weak and thin."Fly on, fly on," the hoopoe said."The Simorgh will let us in."
The flock grew small. Some turned for hometo find a cozy nest.Just thirty birds were flying on,all tired, but doing their best.
At last they reached a mountain peakthat glowed in morning light."Fly on, fly on," the hoopoe sang."The Simorgh is in sight!"
They looked for a giant, kingly bird.They saw no king at all.Just a lake as clear as glass,beneath the mountain wall.
"Si" means thirty. "Morgh" means bird.So "Simorgh" means thirty birds, you see.They leaned to look, and thirty birdslooked back, as still as can be.
"We are the Simorgh!" cried the birds."The king was always near.It lives in every heart. It livesin all of us, right here!"
They laughed and sang beside the lake.The hoopoe bowed his head."Fly on, fly on," he sang to all,"and home," he gently said.
Home to the one big tree they flew,those thirty birds, so long away."We need no king," they sang that night,"for the king is here to stay."
For grown-ups.This is from The Conference of the Birds.It is a Persian poem by Attar of Nishapur.Attar wrote it about 1177, in what is now Iran.The hoopoe guides the birds across seven valleys.They are looking for the Simorgh, their king."Si" is thirty and "morgh" is bird in Persian.So the name is a pun: thirty birds.In the poem many birds die on the road.We say some turned home.We name six valleys and skip the last.Read Dick Davis and Afkham Darbandi (Penguin, 1984).Ours: the rhymes and the refrain.
The end.
The Conference of the Birds
Persian
Birds fly to find a king, and thirty find themselves.
A fable for ages 8-10
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20In Nishapur, a town in Persia, old,the poet Attar wrote the tale I'm told.It tells of birds who flew to find a king,and all the things a long, hard road can bring.
The birds all gathered in a noisy crowd,each worried, each one chirping, each one loud."Without a king we have no one to lead.A king would know the way, and what we need."They argued till the sun was in the west,and no one could agree on what was best.
Then up flew the hoopoe, bright in his crest,the wisest bird, and he knew what was best."There is a king," he said, "so far away,the Simorgh, on a mountain, bright as day."
But one by one the birds began to saywhy they could not go, and wished to stay.The nightingale sighed, "I cannot leave my rose.I sing to her all night, as everyone knows."The duck said, "I would miss my pond and shore.I do not wish to leave them anymore."
The peacock said, "I'd like a garden fair,with fountains, and with wonderful, sweet air."The hoopoe answered, patient, kind and wise:"Your rose and pond are small beside this prize.A rose will fade, a pond will dry one day,but the king will stay with those who find the way."
So thousands rose together in the sky,a rushing cloud of feathers, wings held high.The hoopoe led them over hill and plain,through sun, and dust, and wind, and sudden rain.They sang as one, a thousand voices strong,to keep their spirits up the whole way long.
They flew by night when stars were bright and clear,and slept in trees when dawn was drawing near.The hoopoe knew the way by sun and stone,and never let a tired bird fly alone.They shared their water, and they shared their seeds,and helped each other past the thorns and weeds.
The first was the Valley of the Quest, they say,where birds must truly want to find the way.The second was the Valley of Love, whose fireis a burning in the heart, a sweet desire.The third was Knowing, where each bird must seehow much there is to learn, how wide, how free.
The fourth was Letting Go, where birds put downtheir need for gold, and fame, and silken crown.The fifth was Oneness, where the many seemas part of one great whole, like a dream.
The sixth was Wonder, where a bird is stilledand with amazement all its heart is filled.The seventh was the quietest of all,where birds forget themselves, both big and small.
The way was long, and wings grew thin and slow.Some birds turned back, too weary now to go.The thirst was great, the sun was fierce and bright,and flocks grew small by day and small by night."Fly on," called the hoopoe, "do not fear.The Simorgh is not far, the end is near."
A small bird asked, "Are we too weak to go?How can we find a king we do not know?"The hoopoe said, "A journey is a gift.Each step you take will make your spirit lift.The road itself will teach us what we need,if we have hearts that listen, and take heed."
At last they reached the mountain's topmost crest.Just thirty birds were left, in need of rest.Their feathers were worn thin, their wings were sore,but still they flew, and they could fly once more.
They looked for a golden throne, a giant bird,the mightiest king the world had ever heard.They found a quiet lake, as clear as glass,where all the sky and clouds could slowly pass.And in the water, shining, calm and deep,they saw a sight that made their hearts leap.
In Persian, "si" means thirty, "morgh" means bird."Simorgh" means "thirty birds." Have you heard?The pun came true as thirty birds looked down.They saw thirty faces, shining like a crown.Then every bird looked up and knew it too:the king they sought was all of them, and true.
"We are the Simorgh!" thirty voices cried."The king was never far, but here inside."The hoopoe smiled, for he had always knownthe king they sought was something of their own.They laughed, and every bird began to sing,for they had found the greatest, truest thing.
So ends the tale the poet Attar told,in Nishapur, a Persian town of old.The birds who flew to find a king, we find,had found the king in each one's heart and mind.
For grown-ups.This tale is from The Conference of the Birds, by Attar of Nishapur.Attar was a Sufi poet, and he wrote it about 1177.The poem is a spiritual journey told as a bird story.The hoopoe guides the birds across seven valleys to the Simorgh.Attar's valleys are Quest, Love, Knowledge, Detachment, Unity, Wonderment, and Poverty and Annihilation.We call the last one "where birds forget themselves."In Persian, "si" is thirty and "morgh" is bird.The pun is the heart of the ending.In Attar's poem, many birds die on the road.We say they turned back or grew too tired.Tellings differ on the ending: some say a mirror, we use a lake.The excuses are Attar's idea, but the lines we give them are ours.Read Dick Davis and Afkham Darbandi's translation (Penguin, 1984).Ours: the rhymes and the poet's frame.
The end.
Little Hanuman and the Sun
Indian
Baby Hanuman leaps for the red sun, sure it is a ripe fruit.
A epic for ages 4-5
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17Baby Hanuman woke at first light.His mother was gone, out of sight.She went to the woods for fruit to eat.His tummy rumbled. He kicked his feet.
Up came the sun, so round and red."A fruit! A big ripe fruit!" he said."I want that fruit. I'll take a bite!"He wiggled his tail with pure delight.
The wind was his father, strong and kind.The baby jumped, and the wind came behind.Whoosh went the wind, up, up, so high!Up went the baby into the sky.
The sun grew hot as he came near.The wind blew cool. "I'm here, I'm here."The kind sun did not burn his toes.It only tickled his little nose.
Then Indra came, the king of the sky,on a big white elephant, flying by."Another fruit!" the baby cried.He reached for it with his arms out wide.
Indra threw his thunderbolt. Bang!Through all the sky the thunder rang.It hit the baby on the chin.Down he fell, with a wobbly spin.
Down to a mountaintop he fell.The wind flew fast. "I've got you. Rest well."The baby slept, so soft and deep.The wind held him and hummed him to sleep.
The wind was so sad, he went away.He took the baby to a cave to stay.No breeze. The leaves hung still on trees.The flags hung flat. No birds. No bees.Without the wind, all things grew weak,too tired to play, too tired to speak.
All the gods came to the cave that day.Brahma, the maker, led the way.He touched the baby, soft and slow.The baby woke and said, "Hello!"
Whoosh went the wind! It blew once more.The leaves all danced. The birds could soar.The gods gave gifts to the little one.A bit of light came from the sun.
Then Indra came near, and he gently said,"My bolt will not hurt your chin or head."Hanu means jaw. Say it with me:Hanuman, strong as strong can be!
His mother came back with fruit to share.She hugged her baby and stroked his hair.Whoosh went the wind, all night long,singing the baby a soft wind song.
The moon came up.The leaves went hush.Hanuman yawned.
Night-night.Little son of the wind,sleep tight.
For grown-ups.This story comes from Hindu tradition.It is told in Valmiki's Ramayana,in the Uttara Kanda (sargas 35 and 36).There the sage Agastya tells it to Rama.Baby Hanuman thinks the red rising sun is fruit.His father Vayu, the wind god, keeps him cool.The sun does not burn him.He reaches for Indra's white elephant too.Indra's thunderbolt strikes his jaw.Hanu means jaw in Sanskrit.Vayu hides in a cave and stops the air.Brahma wakes the child.The gods give gifts. The wind comes back.We left out Rahu, the eclipse demon.The words, the whoosh and the hug are ours.
The end.
Little Hanuman and the Sun
Indian
Baby Hanuman leaps for the red sun, sure it is a ripe fruit.
A epic for ages 6-7
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16Long ago, at the edge of the day,a baby monkey woke where he lay.His mother, Anjana, kind and good,had gone to gather fruit in the wood.His father was Vayu, the god of the air,who blows on the mountains and ruffles your hair.The baby was hungry. He wriggled and cried.Then a light came up on the eastern side.
Up rose the sun, so round and so red,as red as hibiscus in a garden bed."A fruit!" said the baby. "A fruit in the sky!The biggest, the ripest! I'll pick it. I'll try!"He crouched on the hill and he swished his tail.And off he went sailing, a kite in a gale.
Son of the wind, he flew and he flew,up past the birds, through the morning blue.And Vayu came after, as fast as he could,blowing cool air, as a father would.The sun saw him coming and held back its heat."This child," thought the sun, "has great work to complete."
Now Rahu, the shadow, was out that day.In eclipses he swallows the sun, people say.He came for the sun, but a baby was there,who grabbed at him too! Rahu fled through the air.He ran off to Indra, the king of the sky."A child has taken my sun!" was his cry.
So Indra rode out on his elephant white,Airavata, big as a hill and as bright.The baby saw them and clapped: "Hooray!Another big fruit! Come here and play!"
Indra was startled. He threw, with a crack,his thunderbolt, then wished he could call it back.It struck the small baby, right on the jaw.He fell to a mountain. And Vayu saw.He swooped like a storm and caught him in flight.He held his son close, and he held him tight.
Son of the wind, so little and still!Vayu carried him into a cave in a hill.He hid in the cave, and he would not blow.No breeze anywhere, high or low.
The leaves on the trees hung still as stone.The flags hung flat, and no smoke was blown.The birds could not fly. The ships could not sail.Without any air, all the creatures grew pale.
So all of the gods went to Brahma for aid."Vayu is hiding! The world is afraid!"Brahma, the maker, came down from on high.He stroked the small baby, who opened one eye!He opened the other. He sat up. He smiled.And Brahma laughed, holding the wide-awake child.
Then Vayu blew gladly. The breezes ran free.They tickled the rivers and rustled each tree.The gods said, "This baby is special and strong.Let's give him our blessings to keep all life long."The Sun gave a share of his own shining light,and promised, "I'll teach you from morning till night."
Then Indra said, "Hanu means jaw. So todayI name you Hanuman, a name that will stay.And never again will my thunderbolt harmyour head or your tail, your hand or your arm."
The water god, Varuna, blessed him that day,and god after god had a blessing to say.Son of the wind, he went home to his mother,who kissed one small cheek, and then kissed the other.
When he was grown, for his friend Rama's sake,he leapt the whole sea. What a leap to make!But that is a tale for another night.For now, little monkey, sleep well, sleep tight.
For grown-ups.This is a story from Hindu tradition.Valmiki's Ramayana tells it in the Uttara Kanda,sargas 35 and 36 (numbers differ by edition).The sage Agastya tells it to Rama, then king.In the Kishkindha Kanda (sarga 66), Jambavan tells it too.He tells it to remind Hanuman of his strength,just before the great leap across the sea.In Valmiki the sun is red as a hibiscus flower.Vayu follows with cool breezes.The sun does not burn him.Rahu, the eclipse demon, complains to Indra.Hanuman reaches for Indra's elephant, Airavata.The thunderbolt breaks his jaw (hanu).He falls on a mountain.Vayu takes him into a cave and stops the air.Brahma revives him, and the gods give blessings.Indra gives the name.Surya gives a share of his light,and promises to teach him.The kite, the cheeks and the bedtime close are ours.
The end.
Little Hanuman and the Sun
Indian
Baby Hanuman leaps for the red sun, sure it is a ripe fruit.
A epic for ages 8-10
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17When Rama was king, an old sage came to call.Agastya sat down with him in the palace hall.Rama asked him, "My friend Hanuman is so strong.Where does that strength come from? Has he had it all along?"Agastya smiled, for he knew the tale through."Then listen," he said, "and I'll tell it to you."
Anjana, his mother, was gentle and wise,and Vayu, his father, was the wind of the skies.One morning she slipped out to gather some food.He woke up alone, in a hungry mood.He cried, as all babies will cry. In the eastthe sun climbed up, round as a fruit for a feast.
The sun was as red as a hibiscus in bloom."A fruit!" thought the baby. "It's mine. Here I zoom!"He sprang from the hillside, his tail flying free,and rose past the treetops, past mountains and sea.
Then Vayu, his father, came rushing behind.He blew him cool breezes, the soft, gentle kind.So the heat did not hurt him. And Surya, the sun,held back his own fire from the little one.He thought, "This small child has great work to do,so I will not burn him," and let the child through.
That same day, the shadow called Rahu came by.In eclipses he swallows the sun in the sky.He came for the sun, but a baby was there,who grabbed at him! Rahu fled off through the air.He ran off to Indra, the king of the sky."You gave me the sun for my food! Tell me whyyou have handed it now to somebody new!"So Indra rode out, to see if it was true.
He rode on Airavata, white as the snow,and Rahu ran first, to show him where to go.The baby saw Rahu and bounced up to play.Rahu yelled, "Indra! Help!" and scuttled away.Then the baby saw something bigger and white."Another fruit! Huge!" And he leapt with delight.
Indra, alarmed, threw his thunderbolt fast.It struck the child's jaw as he went hurtling past.He fell to a mountain and lay very still,his left jaw broken, alone on the hill.And Vayu, his father, saw all from the sky.His heart filled with anger. He let out a cry.
He lifted his son, and he took him insidea cave in the mountain, and there he would hide.And all of the wind that he kept in his care,he held in, and held in. The world had no air.
No leaf moved. The rivers lay flat. Not a sailfilled out on the sea. Every face had turned pale.The people and animals lay on the ground,as stiff as dry logs, and they made not a sound.The gods felt it too, so they went to the onewho made all the worlds: "Brahma, what's to be done?"
Said Brahma, "The wind god is grieving, and so,to the cave of the wind god together we'll go."There Vayu rose, holding his son to his chest,and laid him in Brahma's own lap to rest.Brahma raised Vayu, who bowed to the floor.He touched the child's face, and he breathed as before,the way a dry crop lifts its head in a shower.He opened his eyes like a morning flower.
Said Brahma, "Now bless him, you gods, one and all.When he's grown, he will come to your aid when you call."Then Indra spoke first. "Since my thunderbolt struckhis hanu, his jaw, let his name bring him luck.Call him Hanuman! And let it be knownmy bolt cannot harm him, not even when grown."
The Sun gave one hundredth part of his own light,and promised to teach him from morning till night.Then Varuna, Yama and Shiva came near."No water, no sickness, no weapon to fear!"And Brahma said, "He shall have life that is long,and no weapon of mine shall do this child wrong."
Then Vayu stood up, and he let the wind free.It ran through the forest. It rippled the sea.The creatures stood up. They could breathe! They could sing!The land looked as fresh as the first day of spring.And Vayu brought Hanuman back to his mother,who kissed one small cheek, and then kissed the other.
"That," said Agastya, "is how he grew strong,and why he has carried such power all along."And Rama remembered, there in his hall,the day Hanuman leapt the great sea for them all.But that is a story for another night.Tonight, there's the baby who leapt for the light.
For grown-ups.This is a story from Hindu tradition. Our source is Valmiki's Ramayana.It is in the Uttara Kanda, sargas 35 and 36 in common editions.Numbers differ between editions and translations.The frame is real: the sage Agastya tells it to Rama,after Rama is back in Ayodhya.Rama asks why so strong a hero once held back.Agastya also tells of a curse we left out.Sages, teased by the boy, made him forget his powers for a long time.In the Kishkindha Kanda (sarga 66), Jambavan reminds him with this same story.That is just before the leap to Lanka, our one look ahead.From Valmiki: the sun red as a hibiscus, and Vayu's cooling breeze.Also Surya holding back his heat.Also Rahu's complaint, the reach for Airavata, and the broken left jaw.Also the cave, and the breath of every creature held still.Also the child reviving like a crop given water.Brahma revives the child. Indra gives the name and safety from the thunderbolt.Surya gives a hundredth of his radiance and promises teaching.Varuna, Yama, Kubera, Shiva and Vishvakarma promise protection.Brahma gives long life.Later retellings vary. Some say Indra struck to save the sun.Ours: the rhymes, the words of the gods, and the cheek kisses.English translations: Hari Prasad Shastri (1952 to 1959); Manmatha Nath Dutt (1891 to 1894);Robert P. Goldman and Sally J. Sutherland Goldman, Uttarakanda (Princeton, 2017).
The end.
Hou Yi and the Ten Suns
Chinese
Ten suns fly out at once, and the archer Hou Yi must save the fields.
A myth for ages 4-5
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15Far in the east, by a warm blue sea,there grew a tall and shining tree.Ten sun-birds slept on its branches bright,ten little suns of gold and light.
Their mother bathed them, splish, splash, splish,and gave each one a goodnight wish.Each day, one bird flew up so highto carry the sun across the sky.
One bird a day, and that was right.The rice grew green. The days were bright.The children played by pond and stream.At night, the bird flew home to dream.
But one fine day, the ten said, "Whee!Let's all fly out! It's fun, you'll see!"Up flew the ten, in one bright crowd."Too hot!" the people cried out loud.
The rice went brown. The ponds went dry.The frogs went hop, hop, hop, goodbye.The ground got cracked. The leaves got curled.Too many suns for one small world.
An archer came, the brave Hou Yi."Ten suns?" he said. "Leave them to me."He took his bow, so long and red,and white, white arrows. Off he sped.
He climbed a hill. He drew the string.Twang! went the bow. Ping! Ping! Ping!A sun-bird's light went soft and small.A golden feather began to fall.
Now nine were left. Twang! Eight. Then seven.Gold feathers drifted down from heaven.Twang! Six. Twang! Five. Twang! Four. Then three.They landed soft on grass and tree.
Twang! Two were left. Twang! One. Then, stop!"That's it," said Hou Yi. "Leave one up top."He grinned. "One sun will grow our rice.One sun is warm. One sun is nice."
Now one sun rises every day.The rain comes back. The children play.The rice grows green, the frogs come back,and ducks go waddle, quack, quack, quack.
The last sun yawns.It sinks down low.Hou Yi lays downhis long red bow.
The moon comes up,so round and white.The sun-bird sleeps.Goodnight, goodnight.
For grown-ups.Hou Yi is the great archer of Chinese myth.The Huainanzi (about 139 BCE) tells of ten suns.In King Yao's time, ten suns rose at once.They burned the crops. People had no food.Yao sent Yi, and Yi shot at the suns.A Han note on a poem says nine fell.It says the crows in those suns died.It says their feathers fell.We tell only the falling feathers.An older book names their mother, Xihe.It says each sun is carried by a crow.It says Di Jun gave Yi a red bowand white arrows.Ours: why the suns flew out, and the frogs.Yi and Chang'e and the moon is another story.
The end.
Hou Yi and the Ten Suns
Chinese
Ten suns fly out at once, and the archer Hou Yi must save the fields.
A myth for ages 6-7
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15Far in the east, past the edge of the sea,a hot spring bubbled in a valley deep.A giant tree called Fusang grew there,where ten small suns would sleep.Nine slept low on the lower boughs,and one slept on the top.Each sun was a bird with golden wingsthat woke with a happy hop.
Their mother was Xihe, kind and wise.Their father, Di Jun, was a god on high.Xihe bathed her suns in a sweet warm lake,then fluffed them warm and dry."Take turns," Xihe told them every day,"and go out one by one.Ride out at dawn, come home at dusk.Each day needs just one sun."
So every morning, one by one,a single sun-bird flew.It crossed the sky from east to westand lit the whole day through.Down below, the rice grew green,and children ran and played.When it was hot, they found a treeand sat down in the shade.
But one bright day, the ten suns cried,"Why fly out one by one?Let's all go up together now!Together is more fun!"So up they rose, all ten at once,ten suns in one blue sky.They spun and tumbled, laughed and played,and climbed up high, so high.
The ground grew hot as a cooking pan.The ponds began to shrink.The rice turned brown, the leaves curled up,and there was none to drink.The farmers looked at their burnt-up fields.There was nothing left to eat.The children hid in the shade all day,away from the burning heat.
King Yao looked up at the ten bright suns."Who will help us?" he cried.Then up stepped the archer, Hou Yi."Leave it to me," he replied.Di Jun sent down a bright red bowand arrows white as snow."Help the people of the land,"he said. "Now, archer, go."
Hou Yi climbed up a tall, tall hill.He called up to the sky,"Please, suns, go home and take your turns!"The ten suns just giggled, "Why?""Ten suns are burning up the rice.The people need the shade."The suns spun round and round instead.Up in the sky they stayed.
He drew his bow. He let it fly.Twang! sang the bright red string.A sun went dim, and down there fellone gold feather from its wing.Twang! went the bow, and twang, and twang.The feathers fell, one by one.The people counted, "Two! Three! Four!"for every fading sun.
Twang, five! Twang, six! Twang, seven, eight!Gold feathers drifted down.They floated soft on fields and pondsand on the roofs in town.Two suns were left. Twang! Number nine!Now there was only one.Hou Yi reached back for one more arrow,but now his quiver had none.
Some tellers say that good King Yaohad hidden one from view."We need one sun," the old king said."One sun will see us through."Hou Yi looked up at the last bright sun.He put his bow away.And that one sun still rises now,one sun for every day.
The rain came back. The ponds filled up.The rice grew tall with grain.The people danced in the cool, wet fieldsand sang out in the rain."Hooray for Hou Yi!" the people cheered,"and for our good King Yao!"The farmers led their oxen outand hitched them to the plow.
So when you see the sun come up,remember Hou Yi's bow.Nine suns came down as feathersa long, long time ago.And Hou Yi has one more tale,of his wife and the moon so bright.But that's for when the moon comes up.So wave to the one sun. Good night.
For grown-ups.Hou Yi, or Yi, is the archer of Chinese myth.The Huainanzi, chapter 8 (about 139 BCE), tells it.In Yao's time ten suns came out together.They scorched the grain and killed the plants.The people had nothing to eat.Yao sent Yi, who shot at the ten suns.The people were glad and made Yao Son of Heaven.The Classic of Mountains and Seas is older in parts.It says Xihe, wife of Di Jun, bore ten suns.She bathes them, and each is carried by a crow.Nine wait on the low branches of the Fusang tree.One waits on the top branch.It says Di Jun gave Yi a red bowand white arrows.The Heavenly Questions asks where the crows shed their feathers.Wang Yi's Han note says Yi hit nine suns.In his note nine crows died. One sun was kept.We let them fall as feathers.King Yao hiding an arrow is a later folk telling.Ours: Xihe's words, the giggling suns, the counting.Yi's story with Chang'e and the moonis in the Huainanzi too.
The end.
Hou Yi and the Ten Suns
Chinese
Ten suns fly out at once, and the archer Hou Yi must save the fields.
A myth for ages 8-10
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15Beyond the Eastern Sea, the oldest stories tell,a valley full of steaming water bubbled like a well.They called the valley Tanggu, and above it stood a tree,the giant Fusang, rooted in the water by the sea.Nine suns rested on its lower branches every night,and one sat on the top, to wait for morning light.
Whose suns? The Classic of Mountains and Seas has this reply:their mother was Xihe, wife of Di Jun, a god on high.She bathed her suns in a sweet deep pool, the old lines say,and each sun was carried by a crow upon its way.Han painters put a black crow in the middle of the sun,and some gave it three legs. You can count them, one by one.
The suns took turns. As one came home, the next would fly,so only one bright sun at once went sailing through the sky."One sun arrives, one sun goes out," the old book writes,and so the world had warm, bright days and cool, dark nights.The farmers planted millet in the yellow earth below,and rain and sun took turns as well, and helped the crops to grow.
Then, in the days of good King Yao, the Huainanzi tells,ten suns came out together, and they dried the village wells.Why did they all fly out at once? The old book does not say.Perhaps they longed to fly as one, a family at play.But ten suns in one sky is far too much for any land,and soon the fields were baking, and the rivers turned to sand.
"They burned the grain," the old book says, "and killed the grass and trees,and people had nothing to eat." Picture days like these.The ponds shrank into cracked brown mud. The wells ran dry and low.Farmers sat in the last thin shade, with nowhere else to go.The same old lines name monsters too, a boar of giant size,a river-long snake, and Great Wind, a storm-bird in the skies.
King Yao sent for an archer, Yi, whose arrows never strayed.Later he was called Hou Yi, Lord Yi. He was not afraid.Elsewhere, Di Jun gives Yi a red bow and arrows white,"to help the lands below." It does not say whom he should fight.Di Jun was the suns' father. Did he know what Yi would do?The book is silent. Readers have to guess. What would you?
So Hou Yi climbed a mountain, where the heat came down like rain.He looked across the burning fields, the cracked and empty plain.He drew a white arrow back until it touched his ear,and let it go. The bowstring sang, so high and sharp and clear.An old poem of questions asks, and answers none at all:"Where did Yi shoot the suns? Where did the crows' feathers fall?"
Twang! One sun went dim. Twang! Again! Nine times the bowstring sang,and people in the burning fields looked up each time it rang.Inside each dimming sun, a crow fell still, and like soft snowits golden feathers drifted down on roofs and fields below.So Wang Yi, a Han scholar, explains that puzzling line:of all the ten bright suns, the archer's arrows hit just nine.
Hou Yi reached back for arrow ten. His hand found only air.Later tellers say King Yao had hidden it with care."Leave one," the old king told him, "or the millet cannot grow."So Hou Yi smiled and nodded, and set down his long red bow.Wang Chong, a Han doubter, did not believe the tale one bit:an arrow flies a hundred steps. How could the sun be hit?
With one sun left, the sky grew mild. The clouds came rolling back.The rain fell on the millet fields, on every dusty track.The same lines send Hou Yi to face six monsters, far and near.He beat them all, the book says, and the land was safe and clear."The people all rejoiced," it says. They chose Yao for their king,the Son of Heaven, and the fields grew green again that spring.
Some scholars link the ten suns to the Shang kings' ten-day week:each day bore one of ten names, as the oracle bones speak.Or think of drought, when one sun feels like ten and wells run dry,and people long for someone strong enough to fix the sky.Hou Yi's tale goes on from here, with the moon, and with his wife,and a medicine, the books say, that gave unending life.
That's a tale for moonlight. At dusk the last sun sinks to rest,the one sun Hou Yi spared, still riding from the east to west.At dawn it leaves the Fusang tree and flies the sky alone.Count it when it rises. One sun, and it is all our own.
For grown-ups.Hou Yi, often just Yi, is the archer who shoots the suns.Huainanzi chapter 8 (Benjing xun, about 139 BCE) has the core:in Yao's time ten suns rose together and scorched the grain.Yao sent Yi against six monsters, and Yi shot at the ten suns.The people rejoiced and made Yao Son of Heaven.The Shanhaijing (Classic of Mountains and Seas) is older in parts.In it Xihe, wife of Di Jun, bore ten suns and bathes them.Above Tanggu stands Fusang, nine suns low and one on top.Each sun is carried by a crow.It also says Di Jun gave Yi a red bow and white arrows,to help the lands below.The Chuci poem Tianwen (Heavenly Questions) asks the two questions we quote.Wang Yi's Han commentary says Yi hit nine suns.In it nine crows died and dropped their feathers, and one sun was kept.We say they fell still and their feathers drifted down.Wang Chong's Lunheng (about 80 CE) has Yao shoot the suns himself.He calls the tale false, since an arrow flies only about a hundred paces.King Yao hiding an arrow is a later folk telling.The ten-day week link is a scholars' guess.The crow with three legs is found in Han art.Huainanzi chapter 6 has Yi's medicine of no death.His wife Heng'e, later Chang'e, takes it and flies to the moon.The Zuozhuan's Hou Yi, an archer lord of Youqiong, is often kept apart.Ours: the couplets, why the suns flew out, and the closing count.
The end.
Māui Slows the Sun
Polynesian
Māui ropes the racing Sun so his mother's kapa cloth can dry.
A myth for ages 4-5
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15Hina made kapa, soft and white.She laid it out in the morning light.But the Sun ran fast across the sky,and the kapa was wet. It would not dry.
Zip went the Sun, and the day was done."Too fast!" said Hina. "Slow down, Sun!"Māui said, "I have a plan.I'll catch that Sun. I know I can!"
Māui called his brothers near."Bring coconut husks! Bring them here!"They twisted coconut threads all night,and tied each rope up strong and tight.
Twist, twist, twist! The ropes grew long.The brothers sang a rope-pull song:"Pull, pull, pull! Now tie the knot!Pull, pull, pull with all we've got!"
Up Haleakalā they climbed at night.Grandma's fire was warm and bright."The Sun eats bananas here," she said."Hide by my tree till the sky turns red."
They waited, quiet as a mouse.The mountain was the Sun's big house.The sky turned pink, and then turned gold."Here comes the Sun!" said Māui. "Hold!"
Up came the Sun, all bright and round,with long sun-legs that touched the ground.Swish! went the ropes. Each leg was caught.The Sun tugged hard. The ropes held taut.Pull, pull, pull!
Pull, pull, pull!Māui held on, and his brothers too."Let me go! I've got work to do!""Not yet," said Māui. "Promise, Sun,to go slow till Mother's work is done."
The Sun thought hard. "Well, that's all right.In summer I'll stay long and bright.""Hooray!" cried the brothers. They let go,and off went the Sun, slow, slow, slow.
Now Hina's kapa had time to dryin the long, warm light of the summer sky.She stamped it with patterns, black and red."Thank you, my Māui," Hina said.
At last the Sun went down to rest.Its long legs glowed far in the west.Māui yawned. He closed his eyes.The first stars twinkled in the skies.
Soft kapa,warm and dry.Slow Sun,goodbye.
For grown-ups.This is a Polynesian myth.It is told here the Hawaiian way.Māui (MAH-oo-ee) is a Pacific demigod.Hina (HEE-nah) is his mother.Kapa (KAH-pah) is Hawaiian bark cloth.Haleakalā means "house of the sun".It is a mountain on Maui.In Hawaiian tellings, his grandmother helps.In the Māori telling, his brothers help.We put both in.Old tellings break some sun-legs.Here Māui only holds on.Sources: Westervelt 1910, Beckwith 1940, Grey 1855.
The end.
Māui Slows the Sun
Polynesian
Māui ropes the racing Sun so his mother's kapa cloth can dry.
A myth for ages 6-7
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15In old Hawaiʻi, Hina madekapa from soft tree bark.She laid it out at break of dayto dry before the dark.But the Sun ran over the skyas fast as it could run."Slow down, Sun!" cried Hina. "Please!My kapa is still not done."
Each night she gathered up her cloth,still damp and cold with dew.Her son Māui watched her sigh.He knew what he must do."The Sun is fast," said Māui, "butI am clever and strong.I'll catch it with a rope, and thenI'll make the days grow long."
Māui called his brothers in.They sat down by the sea.They split the husks of coconutsand pulled the fibers free.They rolled the fibers on their legsand twisted strand by strand.They braided ropes both long and strongand coiled them on the sand.
Some say his sister gave her hair,and that rope was very strong.Sixteen ropes lay coiled and ready,and every one was long."Slow down, Sun," the brothers sang,and Māui sang it too."Tomorrow, Sun, you'll meet our ropes.We'll see what you will do."
That night they climbed Haleakalā,the mountain tall and steep.Its name means House of the Sun,where the Sun was said to sleep.Their grandmother had a firebeneath a wiliwili tree.She cooked bananas for the Sun."Each dawn it eats with me."
"Hide here, and wait," the old one said,"until the first light shows.Its legs will climb over the rim.Then catch it as it goes."The brothers hid behind the rocks.The night was cold and still.Māui laid out sixteen loopsalong the rocky hill.
The sky went pink, the sky went gold.The first sun-leg came near.It stepped into Māui's loop."Pull, brothers! Hold it here!"Leg after leg came climbing up.Loop after loop went taut.Soon all sixteen were tied up tight.The Sun pulled hard and fought.
"Let go of me!" the Sun cried out."I have to cross the sky!""Not yet," said Māui, holding tight."Please listen. This is why:My mother's kapa never dries.You run too fast each day.Slow down, Sun, and walk with care,and then go on your way."
The Sun was proud. It huffed and puffed,but Māui would not bend.At last the Sun said, "Very well.Let's make a deal, my friend.In summer I will walk so slowlyyour days are long and bright.In winter I will hurry hometo a long and starry night."
Māui untied the sixteen ropes,and off the Sun went, slow.It walked across the sky that daywith a warm, unhurried glow.Now Hina's kapa, spread out wide,dried in the long, warm sun."Thank you, Māui," Hina said."My kapa is all done!"
That's why, the old tellers say,the summer days are long.And Māui's story travels onin chant and dance and song.The Māori tell it, far away,and other islands too.Each island tells it in its way,and each is old and true.
So in old Hawaiʻi, Hina laidher soft kapa out each day.It dried before the dark came down,and the Sun went on its way.Some summer days are very long.The Sun goes slowly by.Think of Māui and his ropes,and wave up at the sky.
For grown-ups.This is a Polynesian myth, told the Hawaiian way.Māui (MAH-oo-ee) is a Pacific demigod.Hina (HEE-nah) is his mother.Kapa (KAH-pah) is bark cloth.On other islands it is called tapa.Haleakalā means "house of the sun".It is a mountain on the island of Maui.Westervelt (1910) gives the grandmother, her bananas and the ropes.Beckwith (1940) gives the wiliwili tree.One telling, from the Society Islands,makes a rope from his sister's hair.The Māori telling (Grey, 1855) has the brothers help.There Māui also beats the Sun. We left that out.Old Hawaiian tellings break some sun-legs.Here he only holds on.
The end.
Māui Slows the Sun
Polynesian
Māui ropes the racing Sun so his mother's kapa cloth can dry.
A myth for ages 8-10
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15From Hawaiʻi down to Aotearoa's shore,the island people tell of Māui's deeds.He hooked up islands from the ocean floor,and found the fire that every household needs.But this is one the Hawaiian tellers told:the day that Māui caught the racing Sun.He climbed a mountain high, and there took hold,and slowed it, so his mother's work was done.
His mother, Hina, beat the wauke barkon a wooden anvil, smooth and long.From the gray of morning to the fall of dark,her beater kept a steady, thumping song.The bark spread out and thinned into a sheet,which she would stamp with patterns, black and red.But kapa needs long hours of sun and heat,and the Sun raced by too quickly overhead.
It leapt out of the sea and raced the sky,and plunged into the western waves by noon.The kapa, still half wet, would never dry,and Hina folded damp cloth by the moon."Too fast," sighed Hina. "Every single daymy kapa stays wet when the light has fled."Māui, her youngest son, heard her dismay,and lay awake with a plan inside his head.
In some tellings, Māui works alone.In ours, as with the Māori, brothers lend a hand.They stripped the husks of coconuts full-grown,and rolled the fibers, strand on twisted strand.Their mother gave them fifteen strands as well,each one twisted tight with patient care.So fifteen ropes lay coiled when evening fell,too heavy for a single man to bear.
By night they climbed Haleakalā's long side,the mountain called the House of the Sun.There, the old ones say, the Sun would hideto sleep, and climb out when the dark was done.Their grandmother, half blind, lived up the hill.Her home was by a wiliwili tree.Each dawn the Sun would stop and eat its fillof roasted bananas, warm as they could be.
"Hide by my tree, and wait," the old one said."The Sun has sixteen legs, long and strong.They'll climb the rim before the sky turns red.Loop each one fast, the moment it comes along."She handed them a sixteenth, final rope,and a magic stone to make an axe-head too.The brothers lay down low along the slope,and waited in the cold the whole night through.
The east turned gray, then rose, then burning gold.Over the crater's rim, a bright leg crept.Māui flung his loop and shouted, "Hold!"The rope snapped tight, and up his brothers leapt.Leg after leg came climbing into view."Hold fast!" cried Māui, as each loop pulled tight.When all sixteen were caught, the brothers drewthe ropes around the rocks with all their might.
The Sun was caught. It thrashed and blazed and roared."Who dares to hold me? Let me go! I'm late!"Māui held tight to every burning cord."First, you will listen to me. You can wait.""I'm Māui," came the answer, "Hina's son.Her kapa never dries. You race right past.Walk slowly now, until her work is done.Hold fast, my brothers! Hold it till the last!"
The Sun looked down. Its anger burned away."You're small," it said, "but you are brave and wise.I'll walk more slowly through the summer day,and give the kapa time, until it dries.But when the winter comes, I'll hurry by,and nights will stretch out long, and cool, and deep.""Then go," said Māui, "but remember why.A promise is a thing the Sun must keep."
Māui and his brothers loosed each rope,and the Sun climbed slowly up into the light.It strolled across the sky above the slope,and took the whole long day to reach the night.Down in the valley, Hina's kapa dried.She stamped it with her patterns, black and red.She smoothed the sheets and folded them with prideand laid the softest one on Māui's bed.
The Māori tell it in another way.The brothers' ropes are flax. They catch the Sun.Then, with a magic jawbone, the tellers say,Māui strikes it, and it slows its run.From island on to island, details change:the helpers, and the ropes, and how it ends.But no one finds the other tellings strange.They pass the tale along like gifts to friends.
Why tell this tale? The old ones had their reasons.They watched the Sun, as you and I do still.It walks both slow and fast across the seasons,and lingers long in summer on the hill.The island people tell it to this day,from mother down to child, from shore to shore.And Māui holds the Sun, and makes it staya little longer than it stayed before.
For grown-ups.This is a Polynesian myth, told mainly the way it is told in Hawaiʻi.Māui (MAH-oo-ee) is a demigod whose stories are told across the Pacific.Hina (HEE-nah) is his mother. Kapa (KAH-pah) is Hawaiian bark cloth.On other islands the same cloth is called tapa.Haleakalā (hah-leh-ah-kah-LAH) means "house of the sun".It is a mountain on the island of Maui.W. D. Westervelt, Legends of Ma-ui (1910): the grandmother, her bananas,fifteen strands and one more rope, sixteen sun-legs.Martha Beckwith, Hawaiian Mythology (1940): the grandmother at the wiliwili tree,and long days in summer, short ones in winter.Pukui, Elbert and Mookini, Place Names of Hawaii (1974): the name Haleakalā.George Grey, Polynesian Mythology (1855): the Māori telling, with flax ropes and a jawbone.In Māori the Sun is Tama-nui-te-rā.A telling from the Society Islands makes a rope from his sister's hair.Ours: the brothers join the Hawaiian scene, and no sun-legs are broken.
The end.
Noah
Bible
Noah builds a big boat, saves the animals and sees a rainbow.
A Bible story for ages 4-5
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17Noah loved the lambs and hens.He fed them every day.He cleaned their little pensand piled up golden hay.
A quiet voice spoke in the night:"A great, great rain will fall.So build a boat, and build it tight,for every beast, both big and small."
Bang, bang, bang! The hammers ring.Saw, saw, saw! The sawdust falls.Noah's family helps him bringmore boards to build the walls.
The boat is big. The boat is wide.Noah brushes pitch. The smell is strong.It has three floors to climb inside,and it is long, long, long.
Two bears come lumbering down the lane,two foxes, sleek and red.Two ducks who hope for rain,two sheep, each with a woolly head.Two by two.
Two bees zoom in with a buzz and hum,two ants who start to climb.Two doves float in, and the last ones come:two snails. They take their time.Two by two.
The great door shuts. A raindrop: plink!Then pitter-patter, pour!The sleepy sheep look up and blinkand listen at the door.
Noah carries hay and grainfrom deck to deck all day.He strokes the shaggy lion's maneand fills each water tray.
The waters lift the boat up high.It rocks, and rocks, and sways.Noah looks out at sea and skyfor many, many days.
A soft wind sweeps the water down.The flood slips out of sight.The boat bumps on a mountain crown.Noah wakes to golden light.
A raven flies off, black as night,and flaps and flaps away.Then Noah sends a dove, so white.She flutters back that day.
He waits a week. He sets her free.At dusk she brings a leaf, just one,a green leaf from an olive tree.The flood is nearly done!
The great door opens. Out they go,the lambs, the bears, the bees.They stomp on grass. Soft breezes blow.A rainbow bends above the trees.Two by two.
A voice said, "Look! My rainbow's lightis hanging in the skies.It is my promise. Hold it tight:the waters will not rise."
For grown-upsThis is Noah's story from Genesis 6 to 9.It is in the Hebrew Bible.Christians and Muslims keep it too.This telling is gentle on purpose.The Bible says the flood ended the old world.The raven and the dove are in the text.So are the olive leaf and the rainbow.Added here: the lambs and hens, the lion's mane,the sleepy sheep, and the snails.The 6-7 and 8-10 books say more.
The end.
Noah
Bible
Noah builds a big boat, saves the animals and sees a rainbow.
A Bible story for ages 6-7
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15A long time back, the stories say,the streets rang loud with fights all day.But Noah, up before the sun,fed hungry strangers, everyone.
One night God said, "Now, Noah, hear:a great flood is coming near.Build a boat that's strong and wide,and bring your family inside."
A cubit is a forearm long.The ark was big. The ark was strong.It was three hundred cubits long, fifty wide.It was thirty high, with three floors inside.Noah brushed black pitch on wall and floorand cut a window and a door.Though he was six hundred years old,he did just as he was told.
He stacked up barley, figs, and hayto feed them all, day after day.Then in they came, from field and sky;pair after pair went marching by.Two elephants came, grand and gray.Two mice scooted out of the way.Two lambs, two bears, two doves, two hares,climbed up the ramp and up the stairs.
Then Noah led them in, young and old,and did just as he was told.The great door shut. It latched up tight.They waited in the window's light.
Day after day the rain fell down.It filled the valleys, deep and brown.Noah felt the ark lift and swayas it floated far away.The water rose past field and hill,past mountaintops, and all was still.Then, after forty days, it ceased,and quiet settled on each beast.
The big boards creaked. The small mice squeaked.Inside, no drop of water leaked.Each day, he walked from stall to stallwith food and water for them all.He sang the lambs a lullabyand watched the rain go streaming by.At night the ark rocked to and fro.He heard the snoring, soft and low.
God remembered Noah. A breezebegan to stir the waiting seas.The water sank, a little each day,and slowly, slowly drained away.Then, bump! The ark sat still at laston Ararat. The worst was past.Soon mountaintops, like islands, grew,and Noah saw the sky was blue.
Noah sent a raven out to fly;it circled, croaked, and crossed the sky.Then he sent a dove. She foundno place to rest on solid ground.
She flew back, weary, to his hand.No spot was dry enough to land.He waited seven days; once morehe sent her through the open door.At dusk she came back with a leaf,fresh olive green. What sweet relief!He waited seven more, then senther out again. And off she went.
The third time, off she flew to stay.The land was dry! Hooray, hooray!He took the cover off the arkand saw the ground, all brown and dark.Then God said, "Noah, you can go.Bring everyone out, row by row."The door swung wide. The sun was gold,and Noah went, just as he was told.
Then Noah built an altar highand sent his thanks up to the sky.And God said, "Noah, hear me say:no flood will wash the world away.I'll hang my bow in the clouds to showthis promise, so that you will know."The rainbow shines. The rain is done.God's promise glows for everyone.
For grown-upsThis retells Genesis 6:9 to 9:17 from the Hebrew Bible.The refrain is the Bible's own.Noah "did all that he was told" (6:22, 7:5).The sizes are the Bible's: 300 cubits by 50 by 30.There are three decks.A cubit is about 45 centimetres, a forearm's length.The rain lasts 40 days. The high water lasts about 150.Older flood stories come from Mesopotamia.They are Atrahasis and Gilgamesh.The 8-10 book says more about them.Jews, Christians and Muslims all keep Noah's story.The word for the daylight opening (6:16) is unclear.It may be a window,a skylight or a gap under the roof.Added here: the fights in the streets, the cubit rhyme.Also added: the creaking boards, the raven's croak,the lullaby, and the mice.
The end.
Noah
Bible
Noah builds a big boat, saves the animals and sees a rainbow.
A Bible story for ages 8-10
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16This story is older than the book that holds it.People told it around fires before anyone wrote it down.The Hebrew Bible tells it in Genesis, chapters six to nine.It begins with a world that has gone wrong.The earth was spoiled; the earth was filled with violence.One man, Noah, still walked with God.Among his neighbours he was blameless, and honest to the bone.A voice spoke to him. Noah had three sons, Shem, Ham and Japheth.Each of the sons had a wife, so there were eight of them.
Then the voice told Noah what was coming:a flood would end the old world, so a new one could begin."Make yourself an ark of gopher wood," the voice said.Nobody today knows for certain which tree that was."Make rooms inside it, and cover it with pitch inside and out."Noah ran his hand along a rough plank and tried to picture it finished."Make it three hundred cubits long, fifty wide and thirty high."A cubit is the length from your elbow to your fingertips.So the ark was longer than a soccer field.It was taller than most houses.
Noah built it, and his sons built it beside him.The Bible does not say how many years it took.Inside were three decks: a bottom, a second and a third.Between them were small rooms, and the Hebrew word for them means nests.High on the wall was an opening for daylight,set within a cubit of the roof.In the side of the ark was one wide door.Black pitch shone on every seam.The boat smelled of tar and new wood.
Then the voice told Noah who must come aboard:two of every living kind, a male and a female.Of the clean animals, seven pairs; of all the rest, one pair.Birds too, and every creature that crawls on the ground."Store up every kind of food, enough for you and for them."Noah carried sacks of grain up the ramp until his shoulders ached.Noah did all that he was told.The Bible says so twice, in nearly the same words.Seven days later the rain was due, and the animals walked in.Hooves thumped on the planks, and wings brushed the door frame.
The last animal went in, and Noah stood in the doorway.The text says God shut the door behind them.It was the seventeenth day of the second month,in the six hundredth year of Noah's life.The springs of the great deep burst open.The windows of the sky were opened.Water came up from below, and water came down from above.Rain fell on the earth for forty days and forty nights.The floor tilted under Noah's feet.The animals cried out as the ark began to float.
The water rose, and the ark rose with it.It climbed above the fields, and then above the hills.It covered the mountains and stood fifteen cubits above the highest.For a hundred and fifty days the water ruled the earth.The book says everything that breathed on dry land was gone.Only the ark was left, and everything inside it was alive.Day after day Noah climbed up to the daylight and looked out.He saw grey water on every side, and not one shore.
Here the Bible goes quiet.It says nothing about the inside of the ark.Storytellers have always filled the quiet, so we will too.Think of the smell of hay and wet wool.Think of the sharp smell of the lion.Think of the boat rocking.Think of the rain drumming on the roof.Think of Noah walking the dark decks, feeding every animal.Think of eight people learning how to wait.
Then God remembered Noah.And God remembered every wild animaland every kind of cattle with him in the ark.
God sent a wind over the earth, and the water began to sink.The springs of the deep were stopped.The windows of the sky were shut.On the seventeenth day of the seventh month the ark came to reston the mountains of Ararat, with a long scrape and a shudder.Slowly, for months, the water fell.On the first day of the tenth month the mountaintops showed.Noah climbed up to the opening and looked out.The peaks were small as islands in the grey water.
Forty days later Noah opened the window he had made,and he let a raven fly out.The raven flew to and fro until the earth was dry.Then he sent out a dove, to see if the water had gone.The dove found no place to rest her feet.She came back to the ark, tired, with wet wings.Noah put out his hand and took her; he drew her in to him.There was still no dry ground, so he held her and waited.
He waited seven days and sent the dove out again.In the evening she came back.In her beak was a fresh olive leaf.It was green and damp in his fingers.So Noah knew that the water had gone down from the earth.Somewhere below, a tree stood in the open air.He waited seven more days and sent her out a third time.This time the dove did not come back.
In Noah's six hundred and first year the water dried from the earth.On the first day of the first monthNoah took the cover off the ark.He looked out at the ground, drying in the sun.The air smelled of wet earth.On the twenty-seventh day of the second month the earth was fully dry.A year and ten days had passed since the rain began.Then the voice said, "Come out of the ark, you and your family.Bring out all the animals too."So they came out, family by family, and creature by creature.Noah stepped out first, and the earth held his weight.
The first thing Noah did was build an altar and give thanks.The smoke rose, and the voice spoke."Never again will I strike down every living thing, as I have done.Never again will a flood destroy the earth.""While the earth lasts, planting and harvest will not stop,nor cold and heat, nor summer and winter, nor day and night.""I set my bow in the clouds as the sign of my promise,to the earth and to every living creature.""When I see the bow, I will remember."When rain ends and colors appear, you see the old promise to Noah's world.
For grown-upsThis retells Genesis 6:9 to 9:17 from the Hebrew Bible.Many scholars see two older strands woven together here, often called J and P.That would explain why the animals come two by two and also in sevens.It might also explain forty days of rainand a hundred and fifty of high water.Older flood stories come from Mesopotamia.Atrahasis was composed around 1700 BCE.In it the gods send the flood because humans are too noisy.In Gilgamesh, tablet 11, the survivor frees a dove, a swallow and a raven.The Bible gives a moral reason for the flood instead.The Hebrew word for ark, teva, is also the word for baby Moses' basket.The word for the daylight opening in 6:16, tzohar, is uncertain.Translators say window, skylight or gap under the roof.Ararat is a region in the north, Urartu, not one peak.Jewish readers argue over the phrase "righteous in his generation."Was Noah good only for his time, or good in any age?Christian writers read the flood as a sign of baptism (1 Peter 3).In the Quran, Nuh warns his people for many years.There the ark comes to rest on a mountain called al-Judi (11:44).A cubit is about 45 centimetres.Added here: the page inside the ark, and the boat's smells and sounds.
The end.
Nuwa
Chinese
Nuwa melts five colors of stone to mend a hole in the sky.
A myth for ages 4-5
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15Nuwa sat by the river, long ago.She patted the yellow clay, soft and slow.Pat, pat, pat! Two arms, two feet!A little person, small and sweet.
Crack! A hole in the sky. Rain comes through.The river rises. What can we do?Down by the water, the little ones cry.Nuwa hears them. Nuwa will try.
Clack, clack, clack! Stones go in her sack.Blue and yellow, red, white, and black.Five kinds of stone in a great big heap.Nuwa works. She will not sleep.
Nuwa lights a fire, big and bright.Bloop, bloop, bloop, all through the night.The hard stones melt. They drip and flow.Five colors swirl and start to glow.
Nuwa climbs up, up, so high.The glow goes into the crack in the sky.Pat, pat, pat! The hole gets small.Smaller, smaller, none at all.
The sky sways left. The sky sways right.It needs four posts to hold it tight.Thump, thump! Four turtle legs stand tall.They hold the sky so it won't fall.
The water is rising, drip and drop.Nuwa needs a way to make it stop.She burns the reeds. Whoosh! Flames leap!Soft gray ash falls in a heap.
Pile, pile, pile the ash up high.The flood sinks down. The ground gets dry.The river slides home to its bed."Thank you, Nuwa," the little ones said.
The rain is gone. The sky is clear.The sun comes out, and the people cheer.They run through the grass. They jump and play.The sky is mended. Hooray, hooray!
Nuwa sits by the quiet stream.She lifts a pipe of bamboo.Hoo... hoo... hoooo.One soft note drifts over the water.
The moon comes up.The little ones yawn.Mothers tuck them in.The sky stays mended all night.
Stars in the mended sky.Nuwa smiles.Goodnight.
For grown-ups.Nuwa (Nüwa) mends the sky in Chinese myth.The Huainanzi says she melted five-coloured stones.She patched the sky with them.The hole is how later tellers picture it.The text says the sky's four poles fell.She cut a turtle's legsto stand them up again.She also piled reed ash to stop a flood.We left out the black dragon for small ears.The text says she killed it.The clay people come from a later Han saying.Sima Zhen says she made the sheng,a bamboo mouth organ.Ours: the five colours we picked, the sounds,and the little ones' thank you.
The end.
Nuwa
Chinese
Nuwa melts five colors of stone to mend a hole in the sky.
A myth for ages 6-7
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15Who shaped the first people out of clay?Nuwa did, one by one, all day.When her arms grew tired, what did she do?She dipped a rope in mud and swung it through.What flew off the rope, drop by drop?Splat! The mud landed with a plop.What grew from each splat on the ground?A person, who stood up and looked around.
What went wrong in the days of old?The four sky-posts fell, the old books told.Without its posts, what could the sky not do?Cover the earth. The rain came through.What else broke loose, as the old books say?Fire, and flood, and beasts that hunt and prey.Who heard the people cry out in the night?Nuwa did. She came to set things right.
What did she gather, and where did she go?Stones from the hills and the river below.Which five colors? Did the old book say?It did not, so we choose today.Blue and yellow, red, white, and black.She carried them, clack, clack, clack, on her back.How big was the heap? Taller than a hill.She stacked it up, and she was stacking still.
What could melt a rock? A furnace fire.She fed it wood, and it climbed higher.Who stirred the pot while the red sparks flew?Nuwa, until the stones melted through.Did she stop to rest? Did she stop to eat?Not once, till the work was complete.What did the stones look like when they were done?Like glowing honey. They shone like the sun.
How did she get to a place so high?The books don't say. What would you try?What did she do with the glowing paste?She filled the hole. There was no time to waste.How did she smooth it, from side to side?Pat, pat, pat, with her hands open wide.And when she looked up, what did she see?A patch of colors where the hole used to be.
Was that enough? Not so, not so.The sky was still wobbling to and fro.How many posts did the sky need? Four.One for each corner, and not one more.Where did she find posts tall enough?The legs of a turtle, giant and tough.Where did she set them, so the sky would stay?At the world's four corners, far away.
Who else scared the farmers down below?A black dragon, with a growl, slow and low.Did she stop him? The old book said:She killed the dragon. He was dead.
What grows by the river, tall and thin?Reeds! And Nuwa gathered them in.What did she do with the reeds she found?She burned them down to ash on the ground.Where did she pile it, row on row?In a long, soft bank to stop the flow.Did the flood sink? Did the river go down?It did. And the fields came up, wet and brown.
Did the four posts stand? Did the sky stay true?It did. And the sky was a deep, clear blue.And what of the flood, the fire, the beast?All gone. The people sat down to a feast.And who walked out when the rain went by?The people, who looked up at the sky.Who was safe now, the old and the small?Everyone. The mending covered all.
Why does the sky lean northwest, they say?Gonggong butted a mountain one day.He was so furious. What did he do?He hit a sky-pillar and cracked it through.Which way do the rivers all flow?Southeast, to where the land is low.Is that part of her story? Not quite.That is Gonggong's tale, for another night.
What did she make when the work was done?A ring of bamboo pipes, to play in the sun.What did it sound like? Nobody knows.Maybe wind in bamboo, when it blows.Who came to listen when the day was through?People from every farm came too.And what did the people do, while she played?They sat in the grass, in the evening shade.
Next time you look up at the blue,think of the woman who mended it for you.And when the wind makes the river reeds hum,listen. Hum back. Maybe she will come.
For grown-ups.The Huainanzi (about 139 BCE) tells the mending.It has the stones, the turtle's legs,the black dragon and the reed ash.It says the four poles fell.The sky no longer covered the earth.The hole in the sky is a later picture.It does not say which five colours.The Liezi puts Nuwa first, then Gonggong's rage.Sima Zhen (Tang age) puts Gonggong first and Nuwa after.He also says she had a human headand a snake's body.He says she made the sheng, a bamboo mouth organ.The clay people are a Han saying,from the second century.In it the rope people are poor,and the clay people are rich.We left out that sting.The drops of mud are a later retelling.The text says she killed the dragon.So do we.Ours: the questions, the splat, the clack, the honey,the feast, the humming reeds, the pipe.
The end.
Nuwa
Chinese
Nuwa melts five colors of stone to mend a hole in the sky.
A myth for ages 8-10
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14Picture a carver in the Han age, two thousand years ago.His chisel taps on a flat stone slab.Two figures appear side by side.Their tails twist together like a rope.The woman is Nuwa. The man is Fuxi.Each has a person's head and a snake's long body.She often holds a compass. He often holds a carpenter's square.Some scholars think they stand for the round sky and the square earth.
Many tellers start with clay, though the clay story is the later one.A saying from the second century CE tells it.When heaven and earth were new, there were no people.Nuwa shaped yellow earth into people, one by one.The work was heavy, and she could not keep up.So she dragged a rope through the mud, and lifted it.Tellers add that the drops became people too.Then the saying adds a sting.Rich people, it says, are the ones she shaped by hand.Poor people are the ones from the rope.Ask who would tell it that way, and why.
Now the older story, the mending of the sky.The Huainanzi tells it in its sixth chapter.That book was presented to a Han emperor in 139 BCE.It begins with a world coming apart."In far-off days the four poles fell and the nine lands split.""The sky no longer covered all. The earth no longer carried all.""Fire blazed and would not die. Water spread wide and would not stop.""Fierce beasts ate the good people. Hawks snatched the old and the weak."
"Then Nuwa smelted five-coloured stones to mend the blue sky."The old text does not say which five colours.Later Chinese thought liked blue-green, yellow, red, white and black.So that is what we picture.Look at the verb, smelted.It is the word for refining metal.Han people knew furnaces well.Perhaps that is where the picture came from.
"She cut off the great turtle's legs to stand up the four poles."Why four? The old texts say the earth has four far edges.Picture a flat earth with a post at each corner,holding up a round lid.The turtle is a creature of the sea, and of long life.It makes a strange post. The tellers did not mind.A Han writer named Wang Chong did mind.In his book Lunheng, he calls such stories empty talk.A turtle's legs, he argues, would rot.A sky is no roof to prop.
"She killed the black dragon, to save Jizhou."Jizhou is one of the nine old lands, the one in the middle.The word for save also means to help someone across a river.The dragon is only one line. The book tells no story about it.Who was it? Why black? Why was it a danger?The book does not say.Old dragons often meant water and rain.So some readers link this dragon to the floods. That is a guess.
"She piled up reed ash to stop the flooding water."Reeds grow thick along many Chinese rivers.Burn them, and the ash is light and gray.How could ash hold back a flood? In a story, it can.Another flood hero comes to mind, Yu the Great.His father Gun built dams, and the dams failed.Yu dug channels instead, and led the water to the sea.Two ways to face a flood: block it, or lead it.
"The blue sky was mended. The four poles stood straight.""The flood dried up. The land of Jizhou lay level.""The cunning creatures died. The good people lived."Picture the morning after.The sky is blue again.The water has sunk, and the mud dries hard in the sun.Count how much she fixed: a sky, four poles, a flood, a danger.The text says nothing about her making something new.It is a story about repair.Why did people keep telling it?Perhaps because most of us have broken something,and hoped that someone could mend it.
Now the books start to disagree.The Liezi, an old book of sayings, puts the mending first.Only later, it says, did Gonggong fight Zhuanxu for the throne.In his rage he butted Mount Buzhou, and a pillar of the sky cracked.That is why the sky tips northwest, and why the rivers run southeast.Sima Zhen, a Tang writer, tells it the other way round.For him Gonggong breaks the sky first, in a war with Zhurong.Then Nuwa comes to mend it.You may have met Gonggong in the Zhurong book.
Sima Zhen says more about her.He lists her among the first rulers, after Fuxi.He says she had a human head and a snake's body,as the carvings show.He says she invented nothing grand. She made one thing only, the sheng.The sheng is a mouth organ, a ring of bamboo pipes.Blow, and many pipes sound together, like wind along a river bank.It is still played in China today.
Look up tonight, away from the town lights.Does the sky look patched? Can you find a seam?Nobody has.The old tellers would say that is how well she did it.
For grown-ups.Nuwa (Nüwa) mends the sky.In a Han saying she also makes people.Huainanzi chapter 6 (Lanming xun, about 139 BCE) has the stones,the turtle, the dragon and the reed ash.It does not name the five colours or say how she reached the sky.The Liezi (Tangwen) has the mending before Gonggong's rage.Sima Zhen (Tang age) has it after.Sima Zhen also says she had a human head and a snake's body,that she ruled after Fuxi, and that she made the sheng.The Fengsu tongyi (second century CE) has the clay people and the rope people.The dripping mud is how tellers retell the rope.Wang Chong's Lunheng (first century CE) calls the mending a false story.The compass and square, and "round sky, square earth", are scholars' guesses.Calling the black dragon a flood spirit is also a guess.Ours: the quote and gloss form, the verb,and the closing question about the seam.
The end.
Pandora and the Jar
Greek
Pandora lifts the lid of a great jar. Troubles fly out. Hope stays.
A myth for ages 4-5
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15Long ago, the people played.No one was sick or sad or afraid.They worked one day, then rested long,and filled the fields with happy song.
Prometheus, kind and clever, cameand stole a spark of the gods' flame.King Zeus was cross. He made a plan:"I'll pay them back, as fast as I can!"
Hephaestus mixed wet earth by hand.He shaped a girl, and watched her stand.He gave her a voice. She blinked her eyes.She looked around in big surprise.
Athena taught her how to spin.The goddesses all gathered in.They put spring flowers in her hair,and hung gold necklaces there.
Each god gave a gift, so theynamed her Pandora, "All-Gifts," that day.Then Hermes took her by the handand led her down to people's land.
Prometheus said, "Take care, take care!Send gifts from Zeus right back up there."His brother, Epimetheus, forgot.He let her in. Oh, he should not!
A great big jar stood by the wall.Its lid was heavy. It was tall.Pandora wondered, "What's in there?"She pushed the lid up in the air.
Out flew troubles, gray and small:sniffles, grumbles, aches, and all.They buzzed away and out the door.The world was not as it was before.
Quick! Pandora shut the lid.One small thing stayed in. It hid.Hope stayed inside, warm and bright,like a tiny bedtime light.
Hope stayed inside. It's with us still.It's there when we are sad or ill.It whispers, "Try. You'll see, you'll see.Tomorrow comes. Hold on to me."
Was it Pandora's fault? Oh, no.Zeus planned it all, long, long ago.Now when a trouble comes your way,a hug can chase the gray away.
Hush now. Hope stayed inside the jar,and Hope stays right where you are.Goodnight, Pandora. Goodnight, dear.Hope stayed inside, and Hope is here.
For grown-ups.This follows Hesiod, Works and Days 42-105.Zeus sends Pandora as a price for stolen fire.Hephaestus makes her from earth and water.Gods give her gifts, so she is All-Gifts.Hermes takes her to Epimetheus, Prometheus's brother.Prometheus warned him never to take Zeus's gifts.Hesiod does not say why she lifts the lid.Troubles and sickness fly out. Hope stays in.The box came later, from Erasmus in 1508.Hesiod blames her. This book does not.Ours: the hugs, and Hope as a little light.
The end.
Pandora and the Jar
Greek
Pandora lifts the lid of a great jar. Troubles fly out. Hope stays.
A myth for ages 6-7
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15My name is Pandora. Sit,and hear my story through.A poet, Hesiod, told it first.He blamed me. Was that true?You'll hear of fire, and gods, and gifts,and of a jar with a lid.You'll hear what flew, and what stayed in,and what the great Zeus did.
Before me, people lived at ease.No sickness came their way.They had no aches and no hard work.No troubles spoiled a single day.Prometheus stole the gods' bright fire.He hid one little sparkinside a hollow fennel stalk.He brought it through the dark.King Zeus was angry. Then he laughed."I have a plan," he said."They took my fire. I'll send a giftto pay them back instead."
Zeus called Hephaestus, the smith god."Make me a girl," he said.The smith god mixed the earth and waterand shaped me, foot to head.The earth was cool and soft and wet.He gave me breath and voice.I opened up my eyes and blinked.I did not have a choice.
Athena showed me how to weave,and dressed me, sash and gown.The Hours brought me spring's first flowersand wove them in a crown.Then Aphrodite gave me grace.The Graces gave me gold.And Hermes gave me tricky wordsand fibs, so I've been told.
The gods who live on Olympusall gave me gifts that day.So I was named Pandora. Thatmeans All-Gifts, so they say.Then Hermes took me by the hand.We flew down, fast and far.He brought me to a quiet housethat held a giant jar.
Inside lived Epimetheus.He was a friendly man.His name means Afterthought. He thinkswhen it's too late to plan.Prometheus had warned him, "Nevertake any gift from Zeus."He smiled, forgot, and took me in.Soon, all the troubles would get loose.
The jar stood taller than my head.Its lid was round and wide.No one had told me not to look.I wondered what's inside.I put my hands upon the lid.I lifted it up high.And whoosh! Out flew a cloud of things,like moths into the sky.
Out flew the coughs, the chills, the aches.Out flew hard work and tears.They flitted off without a soundand slipped right past our ears.I gasped and pushed the lid back on.My heart beat fast and hard.One thing stayed in, just by the rim,as if it stood on guard.
That one small thing was Hope. It stayedwhen all the rest had flown.It did not fly. It nestled, safe,in a home that's all its own.The poet says the lid came downbecause Zeus wished it so.So Hope stays with us, near and warm,wherever we may go.
Old Hesiod blamed me for it all.But think, and you will see.Zeus planned the trick, the gifts, the price,before they fashioned me.I did not know what lay inside.I'd only just been made.I'm sorry that the troubles flew.I'm glad that Hope has stayed.
Some days you may feel sick or sad.Some days go very wrong.Then Hope sits close and hums to youa small and steady song.And people help each other, too,with hugs, and bread, and fire.That fire came from Prometheus.It warms us when we tire.
Now you have heard my story through:the fire, the gifts, the jar.The troubles flew, but Hope stayed in.It's here, right where you are.Was Hesiod fair to blame me? NowI leave that up to you.Good night. My name's Pandora. Hopewill stay the whole night through.
For grown-ups.This follows Hesiod, Works and Days, lines 42 to 105.Theogony 570-612 tells the making, with no name or jar.Zeus calls her the price for stolen fire.Hephaestus mixes earth and water.Athena, the Graces, Persuasion and the Hours adorn her.Hermes gives her lies and wily words; we say fibs.Hesiod gives no reason why she opens the jar.In Hesiod, no one forbids it.Hesiod does not say where the jar came from.Hope stays under the rim, by the will of Zeus.Readers argue: is Hope kept for us, or from us?The box comes from Erasmus, in 1508.Hesiod blames her. This book does not.Ours: Pandora telling it, the moths, and Hope's hum.
The end.
Pandora and the Jar
Greek
Pandora lifts the lid of a great jar. Troubles fly out. Hope stays.
A myth for ages 8-10
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16Some twenty-seven hundred years ago,a farmer-poet watched his barley grow.His name was Hesiod. He made a songto teach his brother, Perses, right from wrong.He named it Works and Days. He tells there, too,how troubles first came down to me and you.I'll follow him, but where I disagree,I'll tell you so, and you can judge with me.
In those first days, he says, our human racelived free of toil. Of sickness, not a trace.The gods kept hidden what we need to live.Zeus hid the fire, and would not share or give.Then Prometheus, whose name means Forethought, cameand stole it back for us, a spark of flame.He hid it in a fennel stalk, then downhe brought it to the hearths of every town.
Zeus, who gathers clouds, was filled with ire."I'll give them something bad, the price for fire.They'll hug it close and love it, glad and proud."Then the father of gods and men laughed out loud.He told Hephaestus, "Mix some earth and water,and shape a maiden, fair as a god's own daughter."The smith god knelt and worked with all his might,and gave her shape, and voice, and breath, and sight.
Athena taught her weaving at the loom.The Seasons crowned her hair with springtime bloom.The Graces and Persuasion brought her gold,bright necklaces, just as the poem told.And Hermes, as Zeus ordered, filled her mindwith lies and wily words of every kind.And Aphrodite gave her grace and charm.Is she to blame for gifts that could bring harm?
Since all the gods had given gifts, they say,they named her Pandora, All-Gifts, on that day.Then Hermes, herald of the gods, came down.He brought her, in her gold and flowered crown.She met Epimetheus, Afterthought. He'd heardhis brother, Forethought, give a warning word."Take no gift from Zeus. Send it back," he'd said.But Epimetheus took her in instead.
Now, there was a pithos, a great jar of clay,as tall as a grown-up, for storing grain away.Hesiod won't say who filled it, where, or why.No god in Hesiod tells her, "Don't you pry."Remember, she was new. She'd just been made.She'd seen no trouble yet, and wasn't afraid.She put her hands upon the heavy lid.She lifted it. That's all, he says, she did.
Out poured the troubles into the open air:the aches, the fevers, toil, and grief, and care.Before that day, the earth had none of these.Now land and sea were full of each disease.By day and night, he says, the sicknesses roam.They come in silence into every home.Zeus took their voices, so they make no sound.And so they come unheard, the whole year round.
But one thing did not fly out with the rest.It waited, still, a small and patient guest.The Greek word is Elpis. In English, Hope.It stayed inside to help us all to cope.He says it stayed in an unbreakable housebeneath the jar's rim, quiet as a mouse.She put the lid back on, as Zeus had willed,and Hope stayed in the jar the troubles filled.
So what does it mean that Hope stayed in the jar?Some say it means Hope stays right where we are.It stays at home with us when days are bad.It's why we try again when we are sad.Others say Hope was kept from us, shut tight.The Greek can be read both ways. Who is right?This book picks the first reading. Hope stays near,a light we carry with us through the year.
Now Hesiod blames Pandora. In his song,the woman made by Zeus is where things went wrong.He calls her "a lovely evil." Now, look twice.Who planned it all? Zeus, who set fire's price.She did not ask for any gift she wore.She did not know what that great jar held in store.And when the troubles flew, she closed the lid,and kept Hope with us. That is what she did.
Some later tellings changed the tale around.In one, the jar held good things, safe and sound.A man looked in. They flew to gods above.Just Hope stayed in, the thing that people love.Five hundred years ago, a scholar's penmade the jar a box, and box it's been since then.That's why most people say "Pandora's box."But Hesiod's pithos had a lid, not locks.
Why did the Greeks tell this? To understandwhy farming's hard, why sickness walks the land.Why must we work? Why do we hurt and age?This was one answer, on an old poet's page.And Hesiod told Perses what to do:"Work hard, be just, deal fairly, and be true."And still, whatever troubles fly about,Hope stayed with us. It never did get out.
So that's the song that Hesiod once made:the price for fire, and how that price was paid.He blamed Pandora. Now you know the rest.Weigh it yourself, and judge what you think best.The troubles fly. The barley still must grow.And Hope stays with us, like a hearth's warm glow.Tell Perses, tell your brother, tell a friend:Hope stayed with us. It stays right to the end.
For grown-ups.This follows Hesiod, Works and Days, lines 42 to 105, from about 700 BC.Theogony, lines 570 to 612, tells her making, with no name and no jar.There Hesiod calls her a kalon kakon, a beautiful evil.In Works and Days, Zeus calls her the price for fire.Hephaestus mixes earth and water; Athena, the Graces, Persuasion and the Seasons adorn her.Hermes gives her lies and wily words, and names her Pandora.Pandora can mean all-gifted or all-giving.A cup in the British Museum names her Anesidora, she who sends up gifts.Prometheus told Epimetheus to send back any gift from Zeus.Hesiod gives no reason for opening the jar, and no ban on it.Elpis, hope or expectation, stays under the rim by the will of Zeus.Readers disagree whether Hope is kept for us or kept from us.In Babrius, fable 58, a man opens a jar of good things; Hope stays.Erasmus, in his Adagia of 1508, wrote pyxis, a box, for pithos.Later writers, such as Apollodorus, give Pandora and Epimetheus a daughter, Pyrrha.Hesiod blames her, and women with her. This book does not.Ours: the storyteller's voice, the closing words to Perses, and the hearth.
The end.
Prometheus
Greek
Prometheus steals fire for cold people and is chained for it.
A myth for ages 4-5
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15Long ago, the wind could freezepeople's fingers, nose, and knees.The gods kept fire, warm and bright.People shivered through the night.
Prometheus heard their teeth go clack."I'll get them fire and bring it back!"He cut a stalk of fennel, thinand hollow, to keep the fire in.
Tiptoe, tiptoe, up the hill.An owl called once, then all was still.Tiptoe, tiptoe, through the trees.Leaves went hush-hush in the breeze.
The gods' fire crackled, red and gold.He touched his stalk. The spark took hold.The spark hopped in and bowed its headand snuggled down as if in bed.
Tiptoe, tiptoe, through the dark.The stalk held one small, glowing spark.Tiptoe, tiptoe, down he creptto the valley, where people slept.
He lit a twig. The people woke.They felt the warmth. They smelled the smoke.Now they could bake a loaf of bread."Come sit by the fire," someone said.
King Zeus looked down. He saw the glowof fires in the valley, row on row.Rumble, grumble! Thunder crashed.Zeus was cross. His lightning flashed.
Zeus took Prometheus far awayto a high, gray rock, and made him stay.The chain was heavy, cold, and tight.The wind went howling through the night.
Stars came out. Far down belowhe saw the little fires glow."They are warm," he said. "That is good.I'd do it again, if I could."
Long, long after, a strong man came.The hero Heracles was his name.He broke the chains and set him free.Prometheus stretched each stiff, sore knee.
Now we warm our hands, and eathot, toasty bread. What a treat!Light a candle. Softly say,"Thank you, Prometheus, for today."
The fire sleeps.The embers glow.Tiptoe, tiptoe,off we go.
For grown-ups.This follows Hesiod.Source: Theogony 565-567.Prometheus hides a spark in a fennel stalk.Zeus had kept fire from people.Hesiod has Zeus chain him.Heracles frees him, with Zeus's consent.Left out: the ox trick, Pandora, the jar.Clay people are a later telling.Ours: the tiptoe chant and the sleeping valley.
The end.
Prometheus
Greek
Prometheus steals fire for cold people and is chained for it.
A myth for ages 6-7
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15Prometheus had a clever mindand always liked to plan ahead.He was the thoughtful, helping kind."Think first," was what Prometheus said.The Titan looked down one still night.The people huddled in the cold.They had no fire for warmth or light.The gods kept theirs, bright as gold.Think ahead.
Now Zeus, the king, ruled from the sky.He said, "The fire is mine to keep."So people looked up with a sighand shivered, and could hardly sleep.Prometheus said, "This is wrong.The children's hands are numb all day."He thought, and thought, the whole night long,and then he found a clever way.Think ahead.
He cut a fennel stalk, long, dry,as hollow as a bird's thin bone.Inside, a spark could safely lieand travel, glowing, on its own.But fire belonged to Zeus, he knew.Was it all right to take a spark?He looked at children, tired and blue,and chose to tiptoe in the dark.Think ahead.
He climbed all night on steady feetuntil he reached the gods' bright hall.He felt the fire's roaring heatand crept along the shadowed wall.He touched his stalk against the flame.A spark slipped in and glowed inside.No one had seen him. No one came.He tucked it in his cloak to hide.Think ahead.
Down the dark mountain he crept back,the little coal warm in its stalk.The path was long, the path was black,He held his breath and did not talk.At dawn he reached the sleeping townand lit a twig. It crackled bright.The people woke, came running downto feel the warmth, to see the light.Think ahead.
Now bread could bake, and bronze could melt,and night was not so dark and long.The people knew how warm it feltto sit together, sing a song.In time they learned to count and write,to sail the sea and plant the grain.They built brick houses, snug and tight,to keep out cold and wind and rain.
But Zeus looked down and saw the glowof tiny campfires, spark by spark."I know who did this. Yes, I know!"Storm clouds gathered, thick and dark."You stole from me!" Zeus roared. Thunder shook.Lightning flashed white across the night.Prometheus gave one steady look.He did not run. He did not fight.Think ahead.
Zeus chained him on a crag of stone,where winds blew sharp and bitter cold.He heard the wind's long, lonely moanas years and seasons slowly rolled.An eagle came at break of dayand tore at him. He cried in pain.But he would never, ever sayhis gift to people was in vain.
Long years went by. The snow fell deep.In every house there burned a flame.The children, warm, were fast asleep,as grown-ups sighed and said his name.Up on his rock, the cold winds blew.He counted stars, one, two, and three."I'm chained," he thought. "But this is true:they're warm, and that is enough for me."Think ahead.
Strong Heracles came strolling nearand saw the eagle in the sky.He raised his bow. The string rang clear.The eagle fell. It would not fly.He broke the chains. Prometheus stoodand stretched his arms. He felt the sun."Thank you," he said. "I knew you would."At last his long, long wait was done.Think ahead.
Was he right to take the spark?Or should he leave it where it lay?He lit our world, once cold and dark,but Zeus said, "No." What do you say?The people kept the fire aliveand carried it from land to land.It warmed their winters, helped them survive,and passed from hand to waiting hand.Think ahead.
So when you see a candle's light,think of the Titan in the dark.Prometheus thought ahead one night,and climbed to bring the world a spark.And when you strike a match, or bake,remember who it was that dared.He took a spark for people's sakeand, though it cost him, still he shared.Think ahead.
For grown-ups.This follows Hesiod's Theogony and Works and Days.Prometheus steals fire in a hollow fennel stalk.Zeus had kept it from people, after the ox trick.Zeus chains him and an eagle torments him.Heracles shoots the eagle, with Zeus's consent.Counting, writing, brick houses and ships come from Aeschylus.His play Prometheus Bound is the source.Clay people are a later telling.Left out: the ox trick, Pandora, the jar.Added: the question and the tiptoe climb.
The end.
Prometheus
Greek
Prometheus steals fire for cold people and is chained for it.
A myth for ages 8-10
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16Come closer. Do not mind the iron ringI wear. It is a link of my old chain.The wind up here is sharp against the rock.Each dawn, when the sky turns pale, I lookup for the eagle, out of habit.My name is Prometheus. It means Forethought.I am a Titan. Long ago I stolea fire from the gods and gave it to the world.Sit down. I will tell you how it came about,and you can judge for yourself if it was worth it.
My father was Iapetus, a Titan.My mother, Clymene, was Ocean's daughter.I had a brother, Epimetheus, whose namemeans Afterthought. He always thought too late.When Zeus and the Titans fought, the sky rang outand the ground shook under us like a drum.I told my kin to use their cunning, not their strength.They would not listen. So I left, and stoodwith Zeus, and Zeus won. Remember that, my friend.I gave him help, and he forgot it fast.
Then came the day at Mekone, where godsand mortals met to settle who got which share.They brought a great ox, and I carved it up.I hid the best of the meat inside the hide,and wrapped the bare bones in shining fat."Zeus, choose," I said. And Zeus saw through it,but took the fat. Then the fat slid off.There lay the bones, and his face went dark.That is why people burn the bones for the godsat altars, and keep the meat for themselves.It was a joke, and it cost us everything.
Zeus did not forget the trick, or forgive it.He took the fire away from mortal people.No more bright flames in the hearth, no more hot bread,no pot to boil, no forge to soften iron.The nights were long. The little children shook,and old men sat in the dark and shivered.And Zeus had worse in mind. I knew it then:he meant to end the whole race of mankind.He would make some new, more quiet kind instead.Not one of the gods spoke up. Not one but me.
So I went up the mountain in the dark.I cut a stalk of fennel, dry and light,as hollow as a flute. I hid it in my cloak.In the gods' high halls the fire burned, wide awake.I held the stalk against it, and a sparkjumped in. I felt it purr along the wood.It shone, a tiny far-seen gleam. No god saw.I turned and went down quickly, carryingthe whole bright future in a plant's thin stem.
I gave them fire, and fire taught them the rest.They learned to bake their bread and melt their copper.They learned to count, to line up numbers in a row,and to mark down words, so memory could last.They learned to build with brick and beam, to sailon linen wings across the open water.They learned which green leaves bring a fever down.They learned to read the stars, and know the hour.I gave them all of this, and hope as well,a blind hope, that kept them from counting their last day.
Zeus found the fire, and he answered with a gift.He had the smith-god Hephaestus shape a womanout of earth and water, and the gods gave gifts.Athena taught her weaving, Aphrodite grace,and Hermes gave her cunning, coaxing words.They named her Pandora, which means All-Gifted.I warned my brother Epimetheus,"Take nothing from Zeus." He took her anyway.In his house stood a great jar with a heavy lid.
And one day she lifted off the lid.Out flew the troubles with a rush of wings.Hard work, sickness, old age, and sorrow flew,and a thousand worries I could never count.Before that day, people had never known them.Only Hope stayed in the jar, under the lip,and the lid came down before she could fly out.Some say Hope was the one good thing kept safe.Some say it was one more trouble, locked away.The poet does not say which. I do not know.
That was the gift of Zeus. Mine was the chain.Zeus had me carried to the edge of the world.Hephaestus, who had no heart for the work,bound me with iron to a mountain crag.He whispered, "I am sorry, friend." He was.Then the gods left. The silence was enormous.No one came by but the wind and the sea.I counted waves. I counted every star.
Then Zeus sent the eagle. Every dayit came and fed on my liver, and I cried out.Every night what it had taken grew back whole,so that the morning could begin again.I will not tell you more. It hurt. It hurt.The tellers cannot agree how long it lasted,and I stopped counting. Years went by like clouds.Hermes came once, to ask me for a secretthat Zeus was frightened of. I said, "I will not."I did not say I was sorry. I am not.
People ask whether I would do it again.The fire made them warm, and it made them proud.It also built the forges, and the forgesmade the weapons people turn on each other.Look at what you have made with what I gave.You cook, you carve, you write, you sail, you heal.You have used it, too, to burn and break.A gift is not a thing that stays a gift.It turns into whatever hands it finds.I knew that. Still I chose the people.
Then one day a man came climbing up the crag,strong as a bull, a lion's skin on his shoulders.His name was Heracles. He was the son of Zeus.He saw the eagle circling overheadand drew his bow. The string sang out once.The eagle fell. It never came again.He broke my chains. I stood. My legs were stiff.Zeus did not stop him. He allowed it, sincea son who frees a Titan wins more glory.
So here I am, still Forethought, still a Titan,and the wind comes down the mountain just the same.But when a match is struck, or a candle lit,that is my fire, and it is also yours.Hold your hands out to a stove, and feel it.It warms the room, and it can burn the hand.Be careful with it. Think ahead. Be kind.That is the whole of what Forethought can teach.Think of me when the light is in your window.
For grown-ups.This retells Hesiod's Theogony (507-616)and Works and Days (42-105).It adds the play Prometheus Bound, credited to Aeschylus.Form: loose blank verse.Lines are unrhymed, with about five beats.They run 9 to 12 syllables. The stress is not strict.Hesiod has the ox trick at Mekone.There Zeus sees the trick and takes the fat anyway.He has the fennel stalk, Pandora, the jar, the bonds and the eagle.He has Heracles shoot the eagle, with Zeus's consent.Hesiod makes Pandora from earth and water.Clay is a later telling.Hesiod names Clymene, a daughter of Ocean, as his mother.Aeschylus names Themis, who is also Earth.Hesiod binds him with chains and a shaft through him.Aeschylus has a crag.Numbers, letters, ships and medicine come from Aeschylus.So do Prometheus siding with Zeus, and Zeus planning to end mankind.So does Hermes asking for the secret.The iron ring is a later tradition.Hesiod blames Pandora. This version does not.Added here: the first-person voice, the ring, and the closing speech on fire.
The end.
Rostam and Rakhsh
Persian
Rostam finds his horse Rakhsh and rides to rescue a blinded king.
A epic for ages 4-5
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17Zal and Rudaba lived in a hall,and they were waiting for a baby small.But the baby was big, so big, so strong,and Rudaba was tired the whole day long.
Zal felt worried. What could he do?He had a feather, gold and blue.He burned it in the fire's light.The Simurgh came, a wondrous sight.
The Simurgh said, "Do not fear.I will tell you how, my dear."Rudaba rested, safe and deep.Then a baby boy gave a peep.
They named him Rostam. What a boy!His mother and father cried for joy.He grew so strong, he stopped, a child,one angry elephant, big and wild.
Rostam was big, and so were his needs.He needed a horse for noble deeds.He pressed his hand on each horse's back.Down they sank! Their legs went slack.
Then came a herd from Kabul way.A golden foal ran last that day.With rose-red spots and a flowing mane,he galloped through wind and through rain.
Rostam threw a rope up high.It caught the foal as he ran by.He pressed his hand on the foal's back, too.It stood up tall, and strong, and true.
Rakhsh was his name. And Rakhsh could run!Rostam and Rakhsh had so much fun.They raced the hills from dawn to night.Rostam and Rakhsh, a pair so bright.
The king was lost in a far-off land.The White Div held him in his hand.The king was sad and could not see."I'll help him," said Rostam. "Come with me!"
Rostam and Rakhsh lay down to sleep.A lion came with a sneaky creep.Rakhsh stamped and kicked, and the lion fled.Rostam woke up and scratched his head.
The desert was hot. The sand was dry.Rostam was thirsty, ready to cry.Then a sheep led them to a sparkling spring,and they drank, and the birds began to sing.
A dragon lay across their way.Rakhsh woke Rostam with a neigh.Rostam and Rakhsh were brave and wise,and the dragon fell, to their surprise.
Then a witch in disguise tried a trick,but Rostam saw, and he was quick.He beat the White Div, big and mean.The king could see! What a scene!
Home they rode, on the road so far.Rostam and Rakhsh, a shining star.A rose-red horse and a hero strong,and all of Persia sang their song.
For grown-ups.This is from the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings.Ferdowsi finished that poem in 1010.The Simurgh helps at Rostam's birth.Rostam finds Rakhsh in a herd from Kabul.Then he rides to free a blinded king.The poem tells this as seven trials.Ours: the rhymes, and we keep it gentle.Read it in Dick Davis's English (2006).
The end.
Rostam and Rakhsh
Persian
Rostam finds his horse Rakhsh and rides to rescue a blinded king.
A epic for ages 6-7
Swipe to turn the page →
17In Persia, long ago,there lived a hero great.Rostam and Rakhsh would ride the landand meet each twist of fate.
His father, Zal, had white hairand a heart both kind and true.The Simurgh bird had raised him onceon a mountain high and blue.
His mother, Rudaba, grew weak,for the baby was so great.Zal burned the Simurgh's feather. Thenshe came, and did not wait.
She showed the healers what to dowith herbs and rest and care.Rudaba rested. Soon a boywas born, with a voice to fill the air.
They named the baby Rostam. Hegrew bigger every day.He ate as much as five grown menand loved to run and play.A wild white elephant ran looseand filled the town with fright.Rostam took his grandfather's maceand stopped it with his might.
But no horse in the land could beara hero big as he.He pressed each back, and down they sankas low as low could be.
Then horses came from Kabul's hills.And last, a foal ran by.All gold, with rosy spots of red,he gleamed against the sky.
He threw his rope and caught the foal.The mother mare ran near.He pressed his hand upon its back.The foal stood without fear.
It did not sink. It did not bend.It stood up strong and tall."I choose you, Rakhsh," said Rostam. "Come,the best of horses all!"Rostam and Rakhsh grew up as friends.They rode from dawn to night.They crossed the hills and rivers wide,and Rakhsh was fast and bright.
King Kavus marched to Mazandaran,a far and magic land.The White Div caught him, took his sight,and held him in his hand."We'll save the king!" said Rostam. "Come,my Rakhsh, we cannot stay."Rostam and Rakhsh rode out to faceseven trials on the way.
First, while Rostam slept, a lion came,but Rakhsh knew what to do.He stamped and fought until it fled,and then the dawn broke through.Next, the desert, hot and dry.They had no drink to share.Then a sheep came by and led the wayto a spring of water there.
Then Rakhsh woke Rostam with a cry:a dragon blocked their way!They fought it, and with Rakhsh's helpthey won the fight that day.A witch looked like a lovely girlwho sang beside a well.But Rostam saw her trick, and soonhe quickly broke her spell.
He met a warrior named Oladwho showed which road to go.Rostam beat Arzhang, an evil Div,then found the cave below.In the dark cave the White Div rose,the biggest Div of all.But Rostam won the greatest fight,and the White Div had to fall.
A healing drop gave back the sightof the king, and joy came to the land.Rostam and Rakhsh, the hero and his horse,rode home, a happy band.
For grown-ups.This story is from the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings.Ferdowsi finished the poem in 1010.Rostam is the son of Zal and Rudaba.The Simurgh helps at his birth.He tames the foal Rakhsh from a herd of Kabul.He frees King Kay Kavus in seven trials.The Div's blood cures the king's eyes.The poem has many more tales of Rostam.We left out the sadder tales.Ours: the rhymes, and a gentle telling.Read it in Dick Davis (2006) or the Warners (1905-25).
The end.
Rostam and Rakhsh
Persian
Rostam finds his horse Rakhsh and rides to rescue a blinded king.
A epic for ages 8-10
Swipe to turn the page →
20Ferdowsi wrote the Shahnameh, a vastold book of kings, to keep the tales that last.Inside it lives a hero, tall and bold,whose deeds are still repeated, young and old.
His father, Zal, was born with hair like snow,and left on Alborz, long and long ago.A giant bird, the Simurgh, raised him there.She taught him all she knew, with love and care.She gave him, as he left, a feather bright:"Burn this if you need me, day or night."
Zal wed a princess, kind Rudaba, whocame from Kabul, and she was brave and true.But when their baby came, it was so greatthat Rudaba lay weak, too ill to wait.Zal took the feather and he lit a flame.The Simurgh saw the sign, and swiftly came.
The Simurgh told the healers what to do.They gave Rudaba wine to sleep right through.The baby came, a boy so big and strongthat all the city sang the whole day long.They healed her with some herbs and feather bright.She woke up smiling in the morning light.
They named him Rostam. Soon he ate like five.No other child was half so much alive.One day a white elephant, wild and tall,ran through the town and frightened one and all.But Rostam, with his grandfather Sam's mace,stopped it with one blow, right in its place.
As Rostam grew, he needed a horse to ride,but none could bear his weight. He tried and tried.He pressed his hand on each strong horse's back,and each one sank, its knees gone weak and slack.
A herd of horses came from Kabul's land.A foal ran last. Rostam raised his hand.The foal's coat shone like roses scattered wideon saffron gold. Rostam could not look aside.He threw his rope. The mother mare charged nearto guard her foal with all her love and fear.
He pressed his hand on the young foal's back.It did not bend, it did not sink or crack."You are my horse," said Rostam. "You are bright,and brave, and swift." They were friends from that night.His name was Rakhsh, the finest horse of all.He answered Rostam's voice and Rostam's call.
King Kay Kavus led warriors, proud and bold,to Mazandaran, a land of Divs of old.The White Div, king of Divs, defeated himand took his eyes' light. The world went dim.The king, now blind and captive, sent a call.It reached the hero Rostam in his hall.The road he chose was short but hard to ride,with seven trials waiting on each side.
The first trial came when Rostam was asleep.A lion crept up close with a stealthy creep.But Rakhsh woke up and stamped upon the ground.The lion ran, and fled without a sound.He saw the tracks and told his horse, "Well done!You saved me, Rakhsh. You are the bravest one."
The second trial was a desert vast.The days of burning heat went slowly past.Both Rostam and his horse were faint with thirst.He prayed for water, for the heat was worst.A sheep came by, and Rostam followed itto a cool spring. They drank and rested a bit.
The third trial came at night, as Rostam slept.A dragon crossed the road. But Rakhsh had keptgood watch, and woke him twice with a loud neigh.At last the dragon showed its face that day.Then Rostam fought, and Rakhsh stood by his side.The dragon was beaten, and could not hide.
The fourth trial was a lovely, smiling girl,who sat and sang beside a stream's soft swirl.She set a feast of wine and bread and meat.She sang a song that sounded very sweet.But Rostam looked, and saw her real face:a witch, who turned and vanished from that place.
A warrior called Olad blocked the way.Rostam defeated him, and made him saywhere the dark caves of Mazandaran lay.Olad agreed to guide them through the day.
The sixth trial came beside the city wall.There Rostam fought Arzhang, a Div so tall.He won, as Persian stories long have told,then found King Kavus, captive in his hold.The king said, in the White Div's cave there laythe cure for his blind eyes. Rostam rode away.
The seventh trial was the greatest foe:the White Div, in his cave, so dark and low.The White Div rose, and he was huge and strong.They fought a fight both fierce and very long.At last the Div fell down. A healing dropwas put on Kavus's eyes: the pain would stop.
So Rostam rode home with the king set free,and Rakhsh beside him, proud as he could be.Ferdowsi's Shahnameh still keeps their tale,a book of kings where heroes never fail.And so they ride in Persian stories still,the hero and the horse, on every hill.
For grown-ups.This tale is from the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings.Ferdowsi finished it in 1010 CE, after some thirty years of work.The poem names Zal, the Simurgh, Rudaba and Rostam.The Simurgh tells how to save mother and child at Rostam's birth.Rostam is a giant child who stops a white elephant with his grandfather's mace.He tames the foal Rakhsh from a herd brought from Kabul.When Kay Kavus is blinded, Rostam rides to free him.The poem tells the journey as seven trials.The White Div's heart blood cures the king's eyes.The poem has more tales of Rostam, some of them sad.We left them out, and we softened the fights.Tellings differ on the order and details of the trials.Read it in English in Dick Davis (2006) or the Warners (1905-25).
The end.
The Simurgh and Zal
Persian
A great wise bird raises a lost white-haired baby on a mountain.
A epic for ages 4-5
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16Sam was a hero, brave and strong.He wished for a baby all year long.At last a baby boy was born,as sweet as a rose on a summer morn.
He was healthy and strong, with a rosy face.But his hair was white, with no dark trace.Sam felt afraid of what folks would say.So he told his helper, "Take him away."
Up Mount Alborz, where the eagles fly,they laid the baby down to cry.Wind blew cold on the rock and stone.The little baby cried alone.
High on the peak lived the Simurgh bird.She heard the baby. Her feathers stirred.Big as a cloud, with feathers of gold,and a heart that was warm in the cold.
Down she swooped on her wings spread wide."Hush, little one," the Simurgh sighed.She held him soft in her feathers, then flewup to her nest in the sky so blue.
The nest was warm, and her chicks were there.They scooted over to make room to spare.She fed him and kept him snug and dry."Hush, little one," was her lullaby.
He grew up tall, and he learned to talk.He learned to climb, and he learned to walk.She taught him the stars, and where to go.She taught him to be kind, high and low.
Far, far away, Sam woke in the night.He dreamed of his boy on the mountain height.He felt so sorry. He sat up straight."I was wrong," he said. "I must not wait!"
Sam rode and he climbed to the mountain high.He gazed at the peak and the sky.Then up on a rock, in the morning light,stood a tall young man with hair so white.
The Simurgh smiled, but her eyes were wet."Go home," she said. "But do not forget.Hush, little one. Do not cry.I will be near you, in the sky."
She gave him a feather, gold and bright."Burn it if you need me, day or night."Sam hugged his son. "I am sorry," he said.And Zal said yes, and he nodded his head.
They rode away. Zal waved goodbyeto the Simurgh, a speck in the big sky.Zal grew up strong, and he found a bride.He kept the feather safe by his side.
One day he burned it. The Simurgh came.She helped the mother. Rostam got his name.Hush, little one. Sleep, little one.The Simurgh is near, till the night is done.
For grown-ups.This is from the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings.Ferdowsi finished that poem in 1010.Sam, a champion, fears his white-haired baby.He leaves the boy on Mount Alborz.The Simurgh raises Zal with her chicks.Later Sam dreams, repents, and climbs the mountain.Zal goes home with a feather to burn.He burns it when his own baby is born.That baby is Rostam, the great hero.Ours: the rhymes and the lullaby.Read it in Dick Davis's English (2006).
The end.
The Simurgh and Zal
Persian
A great wise bird raises a lost white-haired baby on a mountain.
A epic for ages 6-7
Swipe to turn the page →
19In Persia long ago there liveda hero brave and strong.His name was Sam. He longed for a sonand waited for him long.
At last a baby boy was born,as healthy as could be.But oh! His hair was white as snow,for all the world to see.
Sam was afraid. He thought, "It isa sign of something wrong."He did not stop to ask the wise.He was not brave for long.
He sent a servant up the slopeof Mount Alborz, so high.They set the baby on the rocks,and the mountain heard him cry.
High on the mountain lived a bird,the Simurgh, wise and old.Her wings were wide, her feathers redand green and shining gold.
A great wing shadowed all the rocks.Down swept the Simurgh from the sky.She left her nest and flew to him,for she had heard him cry.
She lifted him up carefullyand flew above the snow.She did not harm the little boy.She took him home to grow.
He played with all her little chicksand shared their snug warm bed.She taught him how to speak and think,and wisdom filled his head.
She taught him all the names of starsand all the ways of rain.She taught him to be brave and kindand ease another's pain.
One night, in Sistan, Sam awokeand sat up with a start."My son is living! I was wrong!"he cried, with an aching heart.
He rode for days to Alborz, thenhe climbed the stony way.He saw a young man on the peakwith white hair, bright as day.
Sam fell upon his knees and wept."My son, forgive me, please."And Zal looked at the stranger manas deep and calm as seas.
The Simurgh said, "Go home, my dear."Zal wept. She heard him cry."Take this, my feather. Burn it ifyou need me. I will fly."
So Zal went home with Sam, and grewinto a wise young prince.He kept the feather safe. And allhis people loved him since.
Years later, when his baby's birthgrew hard, he lit a flame.He burned the feather, and the birdflew in. And help soon came.
That baby was Rostam, a hero,brave, strong, and widely known.In Persia, people tell this taleas if it were their own.
For grown-ups.This story is from the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings.Ferdowsi finished the poem in 1010.Sam fears his white-haired baby is a demon's child.He leaves him on Mount Alborz.The Simurgh rears him among her chicks.Later Sam dreams of his son and repents.He climbs the mountain, and Zal goes home.The Simurgh gives him a feather to burn in need.He burns it when his wife Rudaba cannot give birth.Their son is Rostam, the great hero.Ours: the rhymes and the ring ending.Read it in Dick Davis (2006) or the Warners (1905-25).
The end.
The Simurgh and Zal
Persian
A great wise bird raises a lost white-haired baby on a mountain.
A epic for ages 8-10
Swipe to turn the page →
19Ferdowsi wrote the Shahnameh, a vastold book of kings, to keep the tales that last.Inside it lives a tale the Persians knew,about a baby lost, who lived and grew.Our tale begins with Sam, a hero grand,who longed for a son to hold in his hand.
At last a baby boy was born to Sam.He was as healthy as a little lamb.But when the women looked, they gasped in fright,for all his baby hair was snowy white.They dared not tell the hero what they knew,for he was proud, and fear is catching, too.
Sam saw the white hair, and he turned away."A demon's child," he feared. "That's what they'll say."Ashamed, he gave an order, hard and sad:to take the child away, the poor small lad.A servant climbed the slopes with heavy tread,and left the baby there, and bowed his head.
The Alborz mountains, cold and white and tall,a mighty range that towers over all.Above the clouds, where snow and eagles fly,the baby lay and could not help but cry.The wind blew cold across the rock and stone.The tiny baby lay there all alone.
But higher still, upon the topmost height,there nested a great bird of wondrous might.The Simurgh, ancient, wise, with wings of gold,had seen ten thousand winters, hot and cold.Her chicks were small and hungry in the nest.She heard the baby cry and could not rest.
She did not hunt him, and she did not scare.She swooped to him and lifted him with care.She carried him above the cold and snowto where her warm and feathery nest hung low.Her chicks moved over, making room to spare.And so the baby had a family there.
She fed him well, and sheltered him from storm.She hushed him when he woke, and kept him warm.He played and tumbled with her chicks all day,and learned to climb and speak in his own way.The Simurgh taught him wisdom, year by year:the stars, the healing herbs, and how to hear.
Meanwhile, in Sistan, people liked to talk.Some travelers had seen, on a mountain walk,a youth with long hair of silver white.He lived among the birds on Alborz's height.The tale of such a youth flew far and wideuntil it reached the ears of Sam, who sighed.
That night, Sam dreamed his son was still alive,and tall and strong, and ready to survive.He woke up shaking, full of shame and grief."What have I done?" he cried. "Beyond belief,a bird has shown more love than I have shown!I must go find my son, my own, my own."
He rode for days and climbed the stony height.And there, against the sky, he saw a sight.A young man, tall and strong, stood on the peak.His snowy hair blew free. Sam could not speak.He knelt and wept. "Forgive me, son," he said.And Zal, who held no anger, bowed his head.
The Simurgh saw them from her nest above,and knew that Zal must go to those who love.He wept and said, "I never want to part."She said, "You are a prince. I know your heart.Take this, my feather. Keep it very near.Burn it if danger comes, and I'll appear."
He hugged her, and he held her feather tight.She watched them go until they left her sight.And Sam, who had been wrong, was glad at last,and promised to be kinder than his past.In Sistan, crowds came out to welcome him,and Zal grew wise and just, and strong of limb.
He loved a princess, Rudaba, and they wed.She was the kingdom's loveliest, it's said.But when their baby came, the birth was slow.Rudaba grew so weak. No one could knowwhat help to give. Zal rushed from the room.He burned the feather, bright against the gloom.
The Simurgh came, a rush of wing and light.She told the healers what to do that night."Give her some wine, and let her gently sleep.Then make one careful cut, not long, not deep.Lift out the baby, and then heal the placewith herbs, and stroke it with my feather's trace."
The healers did exactly as she said.The wound was healed. Rudaba rose from bed.The baby was a boy, so large and strongthat everybody laughed and sang a song.They called him Rostam, and he grew up tall,the greatest hero, bravest of them all.
So close the book of kings, but keep the tale:a baby lost, who lived, and grew up hale.A bird once raised a boy upon a hill,and Persians tell it, and they tell it still.
For grown-ups.This tale is from the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings.Ferdowsi finished it in 1010 CE, after some thirty years of work.The poem names Sam, Zal, the Simurgh, Rudaba and Rostam.Sam fears his white-haired baby is a demon's child.He leaves him on Mount Alborz, where the Simurgh nests.She rears him among her chicks.Later Sam dreams, repents, and climbs the mountain.Zal goes home, and the Simurgh gives him a feather to burn.He burns it when Rudaba cannot give birth.The Simurgh tells them how to save mother and child.The child is Rostam, the greatest hero of the poem.The poem has a second burning, when Rostam is wounded.We left that out, and how Zal and Rudaba met.Tellings differ on how many feathers she gave.Ours: the rhymes and the book frame.Read it in English in Dick Davis (2006) or the Warners (1905-25).
The end.
Thor
Norse
Thor's hammer is stolen, so he dresses as a bride to get it back.
A myth for ages 4-5
Swipe to turn the page →
16Thor woke up and scratched his head."Where is my hammer?" Thor said.His beard went shake, his hair went shake."Where is my hammer? For goodness' sake!"
"Loki!" Thor boomed. "Come quick! Come quick!Somebody's played a rotten trick!"Loki said, "Thor, I'll look up high,but I will need some wings to fly."
Freyja lent her feather coat."Put it on, and watch you float!Fly up high, and don't be slow.Find the hammer. Off you go!"
Loki flapped, and off he flew.Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh! The cold wind blew.There sat Thrym on a grassy mound,braiding a gold leash for his hound.
"I hid your hammer. It's down deep,eight miles down, where the worms sleep.Bring me Freyja to be my wife,or you won't get it back in your life."
Loki told Freyja. She stamped and cried.Her necklace burst, and the beads flew wide."I won't wed a giant!" Freyja said."Find another bride instead!"
"I know!" said Heimdall. "Here's a way:Thor can be the bride today!""Me?" grumbled Thor. "In a dress?No, no, no! I'd look a mess!"Loki said, "Quick! Or giants win!Put on the veil, right up to your chin!"Thor sighed. They tied the veil on tight."There," said Loki. "You look just right!"
"I'll be your maid," said Loki. "Let's ride!"Loki's grin was a mile wide.Two goats pulled the cart: rumble, bump!Down the road they went, thump, thump, thump!
At the feast the bride sat down to eat.She ate a whole ox, a heap of meat!Eight big salmon came next. She ateevery last one off the plate.
Then three whole barrels of mead went down.Thrym looked at his bride with a frown."What a hungry bride!" Thrym cried."Eight nights, no food," sly Loki lied.
Thrym peeked under. Two eyes burned bright!He jumped back, shouting, "What a fright!""Eight nights, no sleep," sly Loki said."That's why her eyes are burning red.""Lay the hammer in her lap," Thrym cried."Bless the wedding! Bless the bride!"Thor sat still. His heart said, "Ha!""There's my hammer! Hurrah, hurrah!"
Thor flung off the veil. "Here I am!"He swung his hammer. BONK! BAM!That was the end of Thrym's whole plan.And all the giants ran and ran.
Home they went, and the sun went down.Thor wore his hammer, not a gown.That night Thor tucked it by his head."Where is my hammer? Right here," he said.
For grown-ups.This is Thrymskvida, from the Poetic Edda.Þrymr (THRIM-ur) is the giant.Mjölnir (MYOL-neer) is the hammer.Freyja (FRAY-ya) is the goddess he wants.Heimdallr (HAME-dall-ur) plans the disguise.Ásgarðr (OWS-gar-thur) is the gods' home.Jötunheimr (YOH-tun-hay-mur) is giant land.Left out: Thor kills Thrym and his kin.Here the giants run away.The worms are ours.
The end.
Thor
Norse
Thor's hammer is stolen, so he dresses as a bride to get it back.
A myth for ages 6-7
Swipe to turn the page →
16I'm Loki. Sit, and hear me out.Thor once wore a wedding dress!It's true. I'll tell you all aboutthe tricks I played. I must confess.One morning Thor woke up in bedand reached for his hammer. Nothing there.He checked beneath his sleepy head,then roared and shook his beard and hair.
His hammer, Mjolnir, kept giants outof Asgard, where the gods reside.Thor stamped and gave a thunder-shout:"Loki! My hammer's gone!" he cried."I'll find it," I said. "Wait and see.A coat of feathers is what I need."So off we went, both Thor and me,to Freyja's door. We came to plead.
Freyja said, "It's yours to take.I'd lend it, though it were pure gold.Fly, find the hammer, for Thor's sake!"I flapped, and felt the feathers hold.The wings whirred loud. Away I flewand left the gods' high halls behind.Jotunheim rose into view,with Thor's lost hammer on my mind.
King Thrym sat on a grassy mound.He braided leashes and trimmed a mane."Why come alone?" He glanced around."How are the gods? Speak to me plain.""Where's Thor's hammer? Was it you?"Thrym grinned. "I buried it down deep.Eight miles down. You can't dig throughthat much earth. The price is steep."
"Send Freyja here to be my bride,and Thor shall have it back," he said.I flew home fast. Thor stood outsidethe gate and watched me, overhead.Thor asked, "What news?" I said, "It's Thrym.He'll give it back for just one price:Freyja must wed him." Thor was grim.We asked her once. We didn't ask twice.
"Marry a giant? No!" she said.She stamped so hard the whole hall shook.Her necklace burst. The beads all fled.I'd never seen so fierce a look.The gods all met to find a way.Wise Heimdall, who sees far ahead,declared, "We'll send a bride today.It will be Thor, in a veil, instead!"
Thor grumbled, "No! I'd look a fright!I'll be laughed at by one and all.""But giants," I said, "will win the fight,and move in Asgard, hall by hall!"They wrapped him in a bridal gownand hung the necklace on his chest.Keys jingled as he walked up and down.He scowled. At last, he was fully dressed.
On top he wore a neat white veil."I feel like a fool," Thor said.As his maid, I held up the trail."Don't worry," I said. "Hold up your head."Two goats pulled our cart, so fastthe mountains cracked, the earth burned.Sparks flew up as we thundered past,and flames sprang up wherever we turned.
King Thrym called out, "Spread straw! Make room!My bride is here! Bring ale and meat!I have gold cattle. I'm the groom!Now I lack nothing. Let us eat!"The feast began. The bride sat down.She ate a whole ox. Then she ateeight salmon. Thrym began to frown.She cleaned up every dainty plate.
Then three whole casks of mead she took.Thrym stared. "I never saw a brideeat so much!" I gave him a look."For eight nights she's not eaten," I lied.Thrym leaned in close to give a kiss.He lifted the veil. Two eyes of flame!He sprang back down the hall. "What's this?Her eyes are fire! What's her game?"
I told him, "She has lost her sleep.She longed for you eight nights straight.Those flames are love that burns so deep.Come, Thrym, why must you make her wait?"Then Thrym roared, "Bring the hammer here!Lay it in her lap, to bless the bride.Var hears each vow. Let her draw nearand make us one. I burst with pride!"
They set the hammer in her lap.Thor's heart laughed. Off came the veil.He grabbed it up. Snap went the trap!Thrym saw, and his face went pale.Thor swung. Down fell Thrym on the floor,and all his giant kin fell, too.The hall went still. Then, with a roar,Big Thor laughed out loud. Wouldn't you?
Thor took his hammer home that night,and every giant stayed away.And I? I laughed till morning light.Now close your eyes. That ends the day.
For grown-ups.This is Thrymskvida, a poem in the Poetic Edda.Old Norse: Þrymskviða, Þórr, Mjölnir, Þrymr.Also Freyja, Heimdallr, Ásgarðr, Jötunheimr.Said: THRIM-ur, MYOL-neer, HAME-dall-ur.Also OWS-gar-thur and YOH-tun-hay-mur.Loki tells it here. The poem has no narrator.In the poem the hammer is eight miles down.Freyja's necklace Brísingamen bursts.Var is a goddess who hears oaths.The poem names her at the wedding.Left out: Thor kills Thrym and all his kin.He also kills Thrym's sister, who asks for rings.Here we only say the giants fell.Ours: Loki's voice, the jokes and the rhymes.Thor's goat cart is in the poem, and in Hymiskvida.The Prose Edda tells more goat stories.
The end.
Thor
Norse
Thor's hammer is stolen, so he dresses as a bride to get it back.
A myth for ages 8-10
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17Hear me, hearers, how a hammer was stolen,long ago in the lands of the north.Thor awoke in a thundering temperand missed his hammer, the mighty Mjolnir.His beard bristled, his brow grew black,and Earth's own son fumbled, empty-handed.Thor thrust out his fingers, found only air,and flung off the furs in a fury.
Thor turned to Loki, the trickster, Laufey's son."Loki, listen, what no one has learnedon earth or in heaven: the hammer is stolen!"Mjolnir kept the mountain giants from Asgard.Short was its shaft, and shattering its stroke,a trick of Loki's, a later tale says.Now it was gone, and the gods were in danger.
Fast to Freyja's fair hall they hurried.Thor asked Freyja for her feather-coat,so Loki might look for the lost hammer."Gladly," said Freyja, "I'd give it, though gold,or lend it, though it were lustrous silver."Loki laced on the feathers, and they lifted him lightly.The wings whirred as he whisked out of Asgard,Jotunheim waiting, the giants' grey country.
On a mound sat Thrym, the master of giants,plaiting gold leashes for his great grey hounds.He trimmed the manes of his mighty horses.Loki landed lightly beside him."How goes it with the gods, with the glad elves?Why have you come to our country alone?""Ill goes it with the gods, ill with the elves."Loki asked of the hammer: "Hidden by Thrym?"
Thrym answered, thrilled with his own cunning:"Hidden eight miles under the earth is the hammer.Bring me Freyja as bride, or the bargain is broken."Loki lifted his wings and left the land of giants,hurried home through the high cold air.Thor was waiting, watching the sky.
Thor met him in the middle of the courtyard."Was your errand worth the wing-work? Tell me!Stand to say it: sitting, stories falter,and lying down, a loose tongue lies."So Loki stood and spoke, steady and sly:"Thrym has your hammer, thick-headed Thrym.Hand over Freyja, and he will hand back your hammer."Thor said nothing. He thought, then he thundered: "To Freyja!"
They went to Freyja, fair Njord's daughter."Bind on bridal linen," bluntly said Thor."We will journey to Jotunheim together."Freyja flew into fury, fierce and furious.Every hall of the Aesir heaved and trembled,and the necklace Brisingamen burst from her neck."You'd call me man-crazy, mad for men,if I journeyed with you to the giants' country."
The gods gathered together to talk of a plan.Heimdall, whitest of the gods, was wise:wise as the Vanir, he watched what was coming."Let us dress Thor in the dazzling linen,and drape him in the dear necklace, Brisingamen.Let keys jingle, let jewels glitter,and a headdress hang, handsome and neat."So spoke Heimdall, and the hall heard him out.
Thor thundered, "They'd think me thoroughly unmanly!""Silence, Thor," said Loki. "Say no such words.Soon the giants will settle in Asgard,unless Thor hunts for the hammer."They bound Thor in bridal linen,hung the great necklace, glittering, on his breast.Keys jingled at his belt, and cloth hung to his knees.Loki laughed, "I will be your lady-in-waiting."
So they hurried to Jotunheim, the home of the giants.The goats were driven home, and hurried to the harness.Mountains broke, and the burning earth blazed,as Odin's own son urged on the goats.Thrym, the giant-king, cried to his guests:"Stand up, giants, strew straw on the benches!They bring me Freyja, fair Njord's daughter,to be my bride in the bargain I made."
"Golden-horned cattle graze in my yard,black oxen, bold, a boast to the giant.Treasure and trinkets and tall-heaped gold:only Freyja I lacked, and she lingers here."Evening came early, and ale was carried in.Thor ate an ox, and eight whole salmon,all the dainties, dished up for the women.Three casks of mead the thirsty bride drained.
"Brides bite lightly; this bride bites broader,and never a maiden mopped up more mead."The maid beside her answered, mild and ready."Freyja has fasted, full eight nights long,so eager was she to arrive in Jotunheim."Thrym stooped to the bride, to steal a kiss.He lifted the veil, and leapt the length of the hall:"Why are Freyja's eyes so fierce? They burn like fire!"
Loki, laughing inwardly, lied once more."For eight nights Freyja has found no sleep,so keen was she to come to Jotunheim."In came the giant's sister, seeking a gift."Rings I ask, the red rings you wear,if you want my wooing and my welcome."Thrym called for the hammer, to hallow the bride:"Lay it in her lap, and lead us in our vows."
Her lap held the hammer, laid there to bless her.Thor's heart laughed hard when he held his hammer.First he felled Thrym, then flattened his kinsmen.The giant's sister, who sought for rings,for her wedding gift won a hammer-blow.So Odin's son had his own again.Hear then, hearers, how the hammer came home:laid in the lap of the bride, bold Thor.
For grown-ups.Names in Old Norse, with the way to say them:Þórr (THOR), Þrymr (THRIM-ur), Mjölnir (MYOL-neer).Freyja (FRAY-ya), Heimdallr (HAME-dall-ur).Ásgarðr (OWS-gar-thur), Jötunheimr (YOH-tun-hay-mur).Thrymskvida is a poem in the Poetic Edda.The manuscript is from about 1270.Its lines are fornyrdislag: four beats, two half-lines, joined by alliteration.Our lines copy that sound in English. They are not a translation.Thorr's names in it include Vingthorr and Hlorridi.Earth's son, Odin's son, Laufey's son and Njord's daughter are the poem's own kennings.Heimdall is the "whitest of the gods", wise as the Vanir.Loki helps Thor here. He is not the villain of this poem.Thor asks Freyja for her coat. The poem calls it a feather-coat.In Snorri's book, a coat of hers is a falcon-coat.Some translators write eight leagues, not eight miles, for the depth.Prose Edda, not this poem: Loki's trick left the shaft short.Thor's goats are in this poem too, and in Hymiskvida.The Prose Edda names them and tells more goat stories.Argr, "unmanly", was a grave insult. That is why Thor objects.Var is a goddess of oaths. The poem names her at the wedding.The poem has Thor kill Thrym, his kin and the giant's sister.In the 4-5 and 6-7 books we softened that.There the giants run away or fall.Ours: "thick-headed Thrym" and "thrilled with his own cunning".
The end.
Zahhak and Kaveh the Blacksmith
Persian
A brave smith lifts his leather apron as a banner against a bad king.
A epic for ages 4-5
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15Long ago in a land far away,a king named Zahhak ruled all day.He had a crown and a golden chair,but he was mean, and he did not care.
A sneaky spirit came that day,with a clever trick to play.He dressed as a cook and baked a treat.The king said, "Mmm! What a feast to eat!"
"Ask for a prize," the king said, "any prize!""Kiss your shoulders," said the cook, with twinkling eyes.The cook kissed each, then vanished in the air.Two snakes grew up on his shoulders there.
The snakes went hiss, and the snakes went snap.The king grew cross, and he lost his nap.He took and took from every town.The people frowned. They all felt down.
A smith named Kaveh hammered all day.The king's men took his children away.Kaveh was sad, and then he said,"No more! No more!" and shook his head.
He took his apron, old and brown,and held it up for all the town.He tied it to a pole so tall,and held it high for one and all.
The people cheered and came along,a big, brave crowd, all singing a song.They followed Kaveh, who held it high,the apron waving in the sky.
Fereydun lived up in the hills,a kind young man with strength and skills.He saw the apron, and he said,"I'll help you, friends. I'll go ahead."
They marched to the palace, a big, loud crowd.The apron waved, and they were proud.The king was not there. The gates stood wide.Fereydun and Kaveh walked inside.
The doors swung open, one by one.The children ran out in the sun.They hugged their friends. They cheered, "At last!The days of the bad king are past!"
The king ran off, but not for long.Fereydun found him, kind but strong.He took him to a mountain highand left him in a cave nearby.
The apron became a flag so bright,with jewels that sparkled in the light.Kaveh held it high, and all could seea brave smith helped his land be free.
For grown-ups.This is from the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings.Ferdowsi finished that poem in 1010.The devil Iblis tricks King Zahhak.Two snakes grow from his shoulders.Kaveh the blacksmith raises his leather apron.It becomes the banner of the revolt.Fereydun leads them and binds the king.The apron becomes the flag of Persia.The poem is darker than our book.We tell the bad king, the smith, the banner.Read it in Dick Davis's English (2006).
The end.
Zahhak and Kaveh the Blacksmith
Persian
A brave smith lifts his leather apron as a banner against a bad king.
A epic for ages 6-7
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18In Persia, long ago,a king sat on a throne.His name was Zahhak. He was rich,but cold as winter stone.
A spirit named Ahriman came,a trickster, sly and sleek.He dressed up as a cook and said,"A feast for you this week."
The king ate up the feast and cried,"Ask me for any prize!"The cook said, "Let me kiss your shoulders."The king just shut his eyes.
The cook kissed one shoulder, then the next,and vanished in the air.Two snakes grew up where he had kissed.They hissed and hissed right there.
The snakes were loud, the snakes were wild.The king grew mean and grim.He took the people's food and gold,and no one answered him.
In town there lived a smith named Kaveh,who hammered iron all day.The king's men came and took his sons.He said, "I will not obey!"
He had no flag. He took his apron,the leather one he wore.He tied it to a long, tall poleand lifted it up once more.
It flapped against the open sky.The people saw it fly.They gathered round the smith, who stoodand held his apron high.
Up in the hills lived Fereydun,a young man strong and kind.He saw the apron on its poleand left his home behind.
His mace was shaped like a bull's head.It looked so strong and grand.He said, "I'll lead you to the kingand help you save the land."
They marched all day, they marched all night.The crowd grew large and loud.The smith went first and held it high.The people sang out proud.
The king had fled! The gates stood wide.The prisoners walked free.They blinked and smiled up at the sun.How glad they were to see!
Soon Fereydun found the kingand bound him, safe and sound.He locked him in a mountain cave,deep, deep under the ground.
The apron, plain and brown, was dressedwith jewels, red and gold.It was the flag of Persia then,for kings, as it is told.
In Persia, long ago,a smith stood all alone.He held his apron high, and soKing Zahhak lost his throne.
For grown-ups.This is from the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings.Ferdowsi finished that poem in 1010.The devil Iblis tricks King Zahhak.The poem also calls him Ahriman; our story uses that name.Two snakes grow from his shoulders.Kaveh the blacksmith raises his leather apron on a spear.Fereydun leads the people.He binds Zahhak in a cave.The banner is later called the Derafsh Kaviani.The poem is darker than our book.We tell the bad king, the smith, the banner.Read it in Dick Davis's English (2006).
The end.
Zahhak and Kaveh the Blacksmith
Persian
A brave smith lifts his leather apron as a banner against a bad king.
A epic for ages 8-10
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16The Persian Book of Kings has many a tale,but this one tells how one bad king would fail.His name was Zahhak. He was young and proud,and loved to hear his name said clear and loud.He wanted power, wealth and fame, and more.A smiling stranger knocked upon his door.The stranger was Ahriman, lord of lies,who hides his tricks in friendly-seeming guise.
Ahriman dressed up as a cook that dayand cooked a feast that took his breath away.The king ate every bite and cried, "More, more!You are the finest cook I've seen before.""Ask for a prize," the king said, "any prize."The cook looked up with gleaming, secret eyes."I want no gold," he said. "My one request:to kiss your shoulders, since you are the best."
The king agreed. The cook bent down and kissedeach shoulder. Then he vanished in a mist.Then from each shoulder, in a wriggling heap,two snakes came out as if they woke from sleep.The king cried out and tried to pull them free.They only hissed. He could not make them flee.They hissed all day and hissed all through the night,and filled the whole of the palace with fright.
So Zahhak grew more bitter every year,and ruled by making people live in fear.He took their grain, their gold, their cattle, too,and no one dared to tell him what to do.A thousand years went by, so stories say,and still the king's hard hand would not give way.The people hid their sorrow and their tears,and wished for better kings in better years.
Kaveh the blacksmith lived in a small town.His hammer rang from sunup till sundown.He had good sons, whom he loved with all his heart.The king's men took them, and it tore him apart.Then Kaveh marched straight to the palace gateand told the king, "Enough! This cannot wait."
He had no flag, no soldiers, and no gold,but he was brave, and he was tough and bold.He took the leather apron from his waist,and on a spear he tied it, quick, in haste."This is my banner!" Kaveh shouted. "See!Come, all who want to be brave and free!"He held it high above the busy street,and people stopped and stared, and heard their hearts beat.
First one, then ten, then hundreds came along,until the street was full of a mighty throng.They had been quiet for so many years,but now the banner chased away their fears."We need a leader," Kaveh said. "A manwho's strong and fair, to help us make a plan."They looked toward the mountains, high and blue,where Fereydun lived, brave and kind and true.
Young Fereydun had been raised in the hills,away from spies, and learned his strength and skills.A wondrous cow had nursed him as a child,and so he grew up strong, and wise, and mild.He heard the crowd and saw the apron fly."I'll help," he said. "I'll hold my head up high."They made him a mace with a bull's head on top,and promised that the cruelty would stop.
They set out for the palace, side by side,with thousands trailing, marching, far and wide.The drums were beating and the banner flew;the sky was wide and clear, a perfect blue.But when they reached the palace and the wall,they found the gates were open, one and all.Zahhak had gone far off to distant lands;the palace sat in silence, empty hands.
They threw the doors of every prison wide,and led the frightened prisoners outside.They blinked and smiled and looked up at the sun,and felt, at last, the cruel days were done.The people hugged and laughed and danced about.Their joy rang through the city with a shout.And Kaveh, with the banner, standing tall,felt proud, because he'd answered duty's call.
But Zahhak soon came back to claim his throne,and found that he was facing it alone.Fereydun met the king, and brought him down,and stripped him of his power and his crown.Instead of harm, he bound the king up tight.In chains, he led him through the long dark nightto Mount Damavand, a great peak, white and high.He shut him in a cave beneath the sky.
Then Kaveh's apron, which was plain and brown,was hung with jewels and won great renown.The kings of Persia kept it, as they say,and flew it high on every festival day.They called it Derafsh Kaviani, the namethat carries Kaveh's courage and his fame.A blacksmith's apron, raised by one man's hand,can lift a frightened people, make them stand.
The Persian Book of Kings still tells this taleof Zahhak, and the power that must fail.When one brave smith holds up an apron high,the people stand beneath a Persian sky.
For grown-ups.This tale is from the Shahnameh, the Book of Kings.Ferdowsi finished it in 1010 CE, after some thirty years of work.The devil Iblis tricks King Zahhak, and two snakes grow from his shoulders.The poem also calls him Ahriman; our story uses that name.In the poem the snakes' hunger costs families their children.Kaveh loses his sons that way.We have softened that for young readers.Kaveh raises his leather apron on a spear, and the people follow.Fereydun, raised in the Alborz hills, leads them.He binds Zahhak in a cave under Mount Damavand.Tellings differ on the banner's cloth and on who chained the king.The apron later becomes the royal standard, the Derafsh Kaviani.Ours: the rhymes and the book frame.Read it in English in Dick Davis (2006) or the Warners (1905-25).
The end.