The story of the aged mother

Long, long ago there lived at the foot of the mountain a poor farmer and his aged,
widowed mother. They owned a bit of land which supplied them with food, and they were
humble, peaceful, and happy.

Shining was governed by a despotic leader who though a warrior, had a great and
cowardly shrinking from anything suggestive of failing health and strength. This caused
him to send out a cruel proclamation. The entire province was given strict orders to
immediately put to death all aged people. Those were barbarous days, and the custom of
abandoning old people to die was not uncommon. The poor farmer loved his aged mother
with tender reverence, and the order filled his heart with sorrow. But no one ever thought
twice about obeying the mandate of the governor, so with many deep and hopeless sighs,
the youth prepared for what at that time was considered the kindest mode of death.

Just at sundown, when his day’s work was ended, he took a quantity of unwhitened rice
which was the principal food for the poor, and he cooked, dried it, and tied it in a square
cloth, which he swung in a bundle around his neck along with a gourd filled with cool,
sweet water. Then he lifted his helpless old mother to his back and started on his painful
journey up the mountain. The road was long and steep; the narrow road was crossed and
re-crossed by many paths made by the hunters and woodcutters. In some place, they lost
and confues, but he gave no heed. One path or another, it mattered not. On he went,
climbing blindly upward -- ever upward towards the high bare summit of what is known as
Obatsuyama, the mountain of the “abandoning of the aged.”

The eyes of the old mother were not so dim but that they noted the reckless hastening
from one path to another, and her loving heart grew anxious. Her son did not know the
mountain’s many paths and his return might be one of danger, so she stretched forth her
hand and snapping the twigs from brushes as they passed, she quietly dropped a handful
every few steps of the way so that as they climbed, the narrow path behind them was
dotted at frequent intervals with tiny piles of twigs. At last the summit was reached. Weary
and heart sick, the youth gently released his burden and silently prepared a place of
comfort as his last duty to the loved one. Gathering fallen pine needles, he made a soft
cushion and tenderly lifted his old mother onto it. Hew rapped her padded coat more
closely about the stooping shoulders and with tearful eyes and an aching heart he said
farewell.

The trembling mother’s voice was full of unselfish love as she gave her last injunction. “Let
not thine eyes be blinded, my son.” She said. “The mountain road is full of
dangers. LOOK carefully and follow the path which holds the piles of twigs. They will guide
you to the familiar path farther down”. The son’s surprised eyes looked back over the path,
then at the poor old, shriveled hands all scratched and soiled by their work of love. His
heart broke within and bowing to the ground, he cried aloud: “oh, Honorable mother, your
kindness breaks my heart! I will not leave you. Together we will follow the path of twigs,
and together we will die!”

Once more he shouldered his burden (how light it seemed now) and hastened down the
path, through the shadows and the moonlight, to the little hut in the valley. Beneath the
kitchen floor was a walled closet for food, which was covered and hidden from view. There
the son hid his mother, supplying her with everything she needed, continually watching
and fearing she would be discovered. Time passed, and he was beginning to feel safe
when again the governor sent forth heralds bearing an unreasonable order, seemingly as
a boast of his power. His demand was that his subjects should present him with a rope of
ashes.

The entire province trembled with dread. The order must be obeyed yet who in all Shining
could make a rope of ashes? One night, in great distress, the son whispered the news to
his hidden mother. “Wait!” she said. “I will think. I will think” On the second day she told
him what to do. “Make rope of twisted straw,” she said. “Then stretch it upon a row of flat
stones and burn it on a windless night.” He called the people together and did as she said
and when the blaze died down, there upon the stones, with every twist and fiber showing
perfectly, lay a rope of ashes.

The governor was pleased at the wit of the youth and praised greatly, but he demanded to
know where he had obtained his wisdom. “Alas! Alas!” cried the farmer, “the truth must be
told!” and with deep bows he related his story. The governor listened and then meditated
in silence. Finally he lifted his head. “Shining needs more than strength of youth,” he said
gravely. “Ah, that I should have forgotten the well-known saying, “with the crown of snow,
there cometh wisdom!” That very hour the cruel law was abolished, and custom drifted
into as far a past that only legends remain.
 The Soul of the Great Bell by Lafcadio Hearn (1850-1904)
The water-clock marks the hour in the Tachung sz’, in the Tower of the Great Bell: now
the mallet is lifted to smite the lips of the metal monster—the vast lips inscribed with Buddhist texts from
the sacred Fa-hwa-King, from the chapters of the holy Ling-yen-King! Hear the great bell responding!—
how mighty her voice, though tongueless! KO-NGAI!
All the little dragons on the high-tilted eaves of the green roofs shiver to the tips of
their gilded tails under that deep wave of sound; all the porcelain gargoyles tremble on their
carven perches; all the hundred little bells of the pagodas quiver with desire to speak. KO-NGAI—all
the green-and-gold tiles of the temple are vibrating; the wooden goldfish above them
are writhing against the sky; the uplifted finger of Fo shakes high over the heads of the worshippers
through the blue fog of incense! KO-NGAI!—What a thunder tone was that!
All the lacquered goblins on the palace cornices wriggle their fire-coloured tongues! And after
each huge shock, how wondrous the multiple echo and the great golden moan, and, at last, the
sudden sibilant sobbing in the ears when the immense tone faints away in broken whispers of silver,
as though a woman should whisper, “Hiai!” Even so the great bell hath sounded every day for well-nigh
five hundred years—Ko-Ngai: first with stupendous clang, then with immeasurable moan of gold, then
with silver murmuring of “Hiai!” And there is not a child in all the many-coloured ways of the old Chinese
city who does not know the story of the great bell, who cannot tell you why the great bell says Ko-
Ngai and Hiai! Now this is the story of the great bell in the Tachung sz’, as the same is related in the Pe-
Hiao-Tou-Choue, written by the learned Yu-Pao-Tchen, of the City of Kwang-tchau-fu.
(1) Nearly five hundred years ago the Celestially August, the Son of Heaven, Yong-Lo, of the
“Illustrious” or Ming dynasty, commanded the worthy official Kouan-Yu that he should have a bell made
of such size that the sound thereof might be heard for one hundred li. And he further ordained that the
voice of the bell should be strengthened with brass, and deepened with gold, and sweetened with silver;
and that the face and the great lips of it should be graven with blessed sayings from the sacred books,
and that it should be suspended in the centre of the imperial capital to sound through all the many-
coloured ways of the City of Pe-King.
(2) Therefore the worthy mandarin Kouan-Yu assembled the master-moulders and the renowned
bellsmiths of the empire, and all men of great repute and cunning in foundry work; and they measured
the materials for the alloy, and treated them skilfully, and prepared the moulds, the fires, the
instruments, and the monstrous melting-pot for fusing the metal. And they laboured exceedingly, like
giants neglecting only rest and sleep and the comforts of life; toiling both night and day in obedience to
Kouan-Yu, and striving in all things to do the behest of the Son of Heaven.
(3) But when the metal had been cast, and the earthen mould separated from the glowing casting,
it was discovered that, despite their great labour and ceaseless care, the result was void of worth; for
the metals had rebelled one against the other—the gold had scorned alliance with the brass, the silver
would not mingle with the molten iron. Therefore the moulds had to be once more prepared, and the
fires rekindled, and the metal remelted, and all the work tediously and toilsomely repeated. The Son of
Heaven heard and was angry, but spake nothing.
(4) A second time the bell was cast, and the result was even worse. Still the metals obstinately
refused to blend one with the other; and there was no uniformity in the bell, and the sides of it were
cracked and fissured, and the lips of it were slagged and split asunder; so that all the labour had to be
repeated even a third time, to the great dismay of Kouan-Yu. And when the Son of Heaven heard these
things, he was angrier than before; and sent his messenger to Kouan-Yu with a letter, written upon
lemon-coloured silk and sealed with the seal of the dragon, containing these words:
(5) “From the Mighty Young-Lo, the Sublime Tait-Sung, the Celestial and August, whose reign is
called ‘Ming,’ to Kouan-Yu the Fuh-yin: Twice thou hast betrayed the trust we have deigned graciously
to place in thee; if thou fail a third time in fulfilling our command, thy head shall be severed from thy
neck. Tremble, and obey!”
(6) Now, Kouan-Yu had a daughter of dazzling loveliness whose name—Ko-Ngai—was ever in
the mouths of poets, and whose heart was even more beautiful than her face. Ko-Ngai loved her father
with such love that she had refused a hundred worthy suitors rather than make his home desolate by
her absence; and when she had seen the awful yellow missive, sealed with the Dragon-Seal, she
fainted away with fear for her father’s sake. And when her senses and her strength returned to her, she
could not rest or sleep for thinking of her parent’s danger, until she had secretly sold some of her jewels,
and with the money so obtained had hastened to an astrologer, and paid him a great price to advise
her by what means her father might be saved from the peril impending over him. So the astrologer
made observations of the heavens, and marked the aspect of the Silver Stream (which we call the Milky
Way), and examined the signs of the Zodiac—the Hwang-tao, or Yellow Road—and consulted the table
of the Five Hin, or Principles of the Universe, and the mystical books of the alchemists. And after a long
silence, he made answer to her, saying: “Gold and brass will never meet in wedlock, silver and iron
never will embrace, until the flesh of a maiden be melted in the crucible; until the blood of a virgin be
mixed with the metals in their fusion.” So Ko-Ngai returned home sorrowful at heart; but she kept secret
all that she had heard, and told no one what she had done.
(7) At last came the awful day when the third and last effort to cast the great bell was to be made;
and Ko-Ngai, together with her waiting-woman, accompanied her father to the foundry, and they took
their places upon a platform overlooking the toiling of the moulders and the lava of liquefied metal. All
the workmen wrought at their tasks in silence; there was no sound heard but the muttering of the fires.
And the muttering deepened into a roar like the roar of typhoons approaching, and the blood-red lake
of metal slowly brightened like the vermilion of a sunrise, and the vermilion was transmuted into a
radiant glow of gold, and the gold whitened blindingly, like the silver face of a full moon. Then the
workers ceased to feed the raving flame, and all fixed their eyes upon the eyes of Kouan-Yu; and
Kouan-Yu prepared to give the signal to cast.
(8) But ere ever he lifted his finger, a cry caused him to turn his head and all heard the voice of
Ko-Ngai sounding sharply sweet as a bird’s song above the great thunder of the fires—“For thy sake, O
my father!” And even as she cried, she leaped into the white flood of metal; and the lava of the furnace
roared to receive her, and spattered monstrous flakes of flame to the roof, and burst over the verge of
the earthen crater, and cast up a whirling fountain of many-coloured fires, and subsided quakingly, with
lightnings and with thunders and with mutterings.
(9) Then the father of Ko-Ngai, wild with his grief, would have leaped in after her, but that strong
men held him back and kept firm grasp upon him until he had fainted away, and they could bear him
like one dead to his home. And the serving-woman of Ko-Ngai, dizzy and speechless for pain, stood
before the furnace, still holding in her hands a shoe, a tiny, dainty shoe, with embroidery of pearls and
flowers—the shoe of her beautiful mistress that was. For she had sought to grasp Ko-Ngai by the foot
as she leaped, but had only been able to clutch the shoe, and the pretty shoe came off in her hand;
and she continued to stare at it like one gone mad.
(10) But in spite of all these things, the command of the Celestial and August had to be obeyed,
and the work of the moulders to be finished, hopeless as the result might be. Yet the glow of the metal
seemed purer and whiter than before; and there was no sign of the beautiful body that had been
entombed therein. So the ponderous casting was made; and lo! when the metal had become cool, it
was found that the bell was beautiful to look upon and perfect in form, and wonderful in colour above
all other bells. Nor was there any trace found of the body of Ko-Ngai; for it had been totally absorbed
by the precious alloy, and blended with the well-blended brass and gold, with the intermingling of the
silver and the iron. And when they sounded the bell, its tones were found to be deeper and mellower
and mightier than the tones of any other bell, reaching even beyond the distance of one hundred li, like
a pealing of summer thunder; and yet also like some vast voice uttering a name, a woman’s name, the
name of Ko-Ngai.
And still, between each mighty stroke there is a long low moaning heard; and ever the moaning
ends with a sound of sobbing and of complaining, as though a weeping woman should murmur, “Hiai!”
And still, when the people hear that great golden moan they keep silence, but when the sharp, sweet
shuddering comes in the air, and the sobbing of “Hiai!” then, indeed, do all the Chinese mothers in all
the many-coloured ways of Pe-King whisper to their little ones: “Listen! that is Ko-Ngai crying for her
shoe! That is Ko-Ngai calling for her shoe!”
 Makato and the Cowrie Shell
Thailand

Once upon a time there was a boy named Makato. He was an orphan, and had no
friends or family to take care of him. Because he had to make his own living he did all
kinds of odd jobs: chopping wood, feeding pigs, clearing and cleaning. He didn't mind
to work hard, and despite his small wages he was satisfied with his life.

He was only 4 when his mother passed away, but he remembered some stories she had
told about the kind-hearted king of Sukhotai. Ever since he was small he wanted to
meet this king. One day, when helping a friend to find food for elephants, he found so
many branches that the friend offered him a job to become the assistant of the King's
mahout. He worked hard cleaning elephants sheds and finding food. One fine morning
Makato's patience and hard work got rewarded: he was to accompany the King's
elephant an a parade. As the king mounted the beast, in his splendid, shiny costume, he
dropped a tiny cowrie shell. Makato picked it up and held it out to the king. who told
him to keep it.

At the time the people of Sukhotai used cowrie shells as money, and although one little
cowrie had little value, he wanted to use it wisely. He went to the market to buy seeds,
yet quickly realized he could not even buy the smallest bag of seeds, while he noticed a
lettuce seed stall.

"Lady, if I dip my finger into this pile of seeds, can I take those that stick to my finger
for one cowrie?", he asked. "Well why not", replied the sales lady, amused by his
suggestion. Makato carefully scraped the seeds from his finger and planted them,
watering the tiny sprouts daily, until the garden was covered in fresh, green lettuce.
Proud as he was, he offered to king his first produce.

"Where did you get these, my boy?" the king asked surprised, and Makato told him the
story. He king was impressed by so much intelligence and industry that he offered him
a fixed position at the palace.
 The Story of Chun Hyang
By 이명주 Myeongju Lee, Class 3-4
In Namwon, there was a girl named Chun Hyang was who was the prettiest girl in the
village. In the village lived a deputy delegate’s son, Mong Ryong. When Chun Hyang
was on a swing and Mong Ryong saw her, he fell in love at first sight. He called her
using his servant. But she said that he was impolite. At night, he visited her house.
Then he proposed to her that he loved her.
After a few days, he had the kwago, the old state examination during Chosun, and he
succeeded in the exam. So he had to leave for Seoul. Then, he met her to say good
bye. He promised that they would meet again.
One day, there was new local magistrate whose name was Byun Hak Do. He knew that
Chun Hyang was the prettiest girl and so he called her to his house. At that night he
ordered her to give her bed service to him, but she didn’t obey. He got upset. So he
arrested Chun Hyang and put her in a cell. The lord Byun called Chun Hyang and
ordered her to give her bed service again. And again she refused.
Suddenly, Mong Ryong who became a secret royal inspector appeared in front of them.
Mong Ryong arrested the lord and apologized to Chung Hyang for coming late. Finally,
the got married and lived happily forever.
 The story of the two brothers

There were once two loving brothers named Anpu and Bata. Anpu was the elder and he was married
and owned a farm. Bata came to live with Anpu and his wife and worked hard and cheerfully for them.
He ploughed or reaped, milked the cows, gathered wood and completed a dozen other tasks each
day. There was no-one to compare with him for strength and willingness and he was so wise in the
ways of animals that he could understand their language. Every morning when he drove the cattle to
pasture they would tell him where the lushest grass was to be found and he would take them there.
So the cattle became fat and the whole farm prospered because of Bata.
One morning Anpu said to his brother, ‘Yoke a team of oxen tomorrow and bring some sacks of seed
to the field; it is time to begin ploughing.’
Bata did as Anpu ordered and the two brothers spent the next few days ploughing the fields and
sowing barley and wheat. They were pleased with their work but when they came to the last field
there was not enough seed left so Anpu sent his brother back to the house to fetch some more. Bata
looked for his brother’s wife, who was in charge of the storeroom, and found her sitting in the sun
braiding her newly washed hair.
‘Get up and fetch me some seed,’ he said to her. ‘Anpu is waiting and I must hurry back.’ Anpu’s wife
teased out a tangle with her deft fingers and answered without looking up, ‘The storeroom’s open.
Fetch it yourself. Can’t you see I’m busy with my hair?’
Bata went off to find a large container and then measured out enough seed to finish the sowing. He
came out of the storeroom with a huge load slung across his shoulders, but his back was still straight
and his walk sprightly. Anpu’s wife watched him through a curtain of hair and murmured, ‘How much
are you carrying there?’ ‘The weight of three sacks of wheat and two of barley,’ answered Bata.
‘How strong you are!’ said Anpu’s wife admiringly. ‘Strong and handsome.’ She got up and stroked
the muscles of his arm. ‘Come into the house with me, just for an hour. I promise I will be good to
you, and Anpu will never know about it.’ Bata dropped his load and backed away. ‘What are you
saying ? Do you think I would betray the brother who raised me ? He’s like a father to me and you
should be like a mother. I won’t tell anyone about you, but never say such things to me again !’ He
picked up his load and strode off to the fields. Anpu’s wife was furious with Bata for rejecting her but
she was also frightened that he might after all tell someone what she had done. So she ripped her
own clothes, worked grease into her skin to make it look as if she was covered in bruises and lay
down on her own bed to wait. When the brothers had finished ploughing Bata went to drive the cattle
home but Anpu walked straight back to the house. He soon realised something was wrong. No fire
had been lit, no food had been cooked and his wife did not hurry to greet him as she usually did.
Instead Anpu found her lying on her bed, moaning and weeping. Her clothes were torn and she
seemed to be badly bruised. Anpu knelt by the bed and demanded to know what had happened.
‘When your brother came to fetch the seed, he saw me braiding my hair,’ she sobbed. ‘He tried to
kiss me and make love to me but I pushed him away. I told him that you were like a father to him and
that he should respect me as his mother. Then he was angry and beat me cruelly and said that he
would hurt me even more if I dared to tell you what had happened. O husband, kill him for me,
begged Anpu’s wife, or I shall never know a moment’s peace!’ Anpu believed his wife’s story and his
anger was as fierce as a leopard’s. He sharpened a spear and stood in the shadow behind the door
to the cattle byre, waiting to kill his brother. Bata returned with the cattle at dusk and drove them
towards the byre but the leading cow turned her head and lowed softly, ‘Your brother hides with his
spear behind the door. He means to kill you. Run while you can.’
Bata could not believe such a thing. He patted the cow on her rump and sent her into the byre, but
when the next cow gave him the same warning he stooped down and saw his brother’s feet behind
the door. Then Bata was afraid and he began to run. Anpu pursued him, spear in hand, and anger
gave him speed and strength. Swiftly as Bata ran, his brother began to gain on him. Dripping with
sweat and gasping for breath, Bata prayed to Ra, ‘O my good lord, who judges between the wicked
and the innocent, save me now!
Ra heard Bata’s plea and caused a river to flow between the two brothers. The river was wide and
deep and full of hungry crocodiles so Anpu dared not cross it. He was so furious that he struck his
own hand for failing to kill his brother. Bata paused on the far bank and shouted to Anpu, ‘Brother, Ra
delivers the wicked to the just, but we must be parted. Why have you tried to kill me without even
giving me a chance to explain?’ ‘Do you deny that you tried to seduce my wife?’ yelled Anpu, full of
rage and pain. ‘By Ra, it is a lie,’ declared Bata. ‘You have the story crooked. When I came back from
the fields it was your wife who tried to seduce me and I who refused her. You almost murdered your
brother for the sake of a worthless liar. By my own blood, I swear that this is the truth!’ In his distress,
Bata took a reed knife and wounded himself. When he saw the blood gush out, Anpu believed his
brother and was sick at heart. Bata sank to the ground, weak with loss of blood and Anpu longed to
help him, but he could not cross the river. ‘We must part,’ repeated Bata in a feeble voice. ‘I shall go
to the Valley of the Cedar to find healing. Remember me kindly and listen now. I shall hide my heart
in the cedar tree and if that tree is ever cut down I shall be in danger of death. If a jug of beer
suddenly ferments in your hand, you will know that the worst has happened. Then you must come to
the Valley of the Cedar and search for my heart, even if it takes you seven years. When you find it,
place the heart in a bowl of cool water and, though I seem dead, I will revive.’ Anpu promised to obey
his brother’s words and went sadly home. He killed his wife with the spear he had sharpened for Bata
and threw her body to the dogs.
Many days later Bata reached the Valley of the Cedar that lay in the desert hills close to the sea and
rested there till his wound was healed. He lived by hunting the desert game and slowly built himself a
fine house in the shadow of the great cedar tree that gave the valley its name. Among the branches
of the tree he hid his heart. He soon had everything he wanted; except a companion. One day the
Ennead were walking in the valley and came upon the house of Bata. The nine gods pitied his
loneliness and Ra ordered Khnum to make a wife for Bata on his potter’s wheel. When the gods had
breathed life into her she was the most beautiful woman ever created, but even the Ennead could not
give her a loving heart and when the Seven Hathors gathered to declare her fate they said with one
voice: ‘She will die by the knife!’
Nevertheless the Ennead were pleased with her beauty and they gave her to Bata. ‘Your brother has
killed his wicked wife,’ said Ra, and you are avenged. Now, virtuous Bata, here is a wife for you, to be
your companion in this lonely place.’ As soon as Bata saw her, he loved her and he knew that
whoever met her would desire her. ‘Stay in the house while I am out hunting,’ he warned his wife, ‘or
the sea itself may try to carry you off and there would be little I could do to save you.’
Bata’s wife nodded meekly but she soon grew bored with being shut up in the house and one day
while Bata was hunting she went outside for a walk. As she stood beneath the cedar tree, the sea
saw her and surged up the valley to embrace her. Bata’s wife screamed and turned to run but the sea
bellowed to the cedar tree, ‘Catch her for me!’ The cedar bowed down and its lowest branch caught in
her hair. Bata’s wife struggled free and fled into the house, leaving a single lock of her hair tangled in
the branch. The sea tore the lock from the cedar tree and carried it away to the very shores of Egypt,
where the Nile seized it. Caressed by the river, the beautiful hair floated to the place where the royal
washermen were laundering the clothes of Pharaoh. They dipped his fine linen tunics in the Nile, beat
them on the rocks and spread them out to dry but the scent of the lock of hair had filled the river and it
perfumed the clothes, too. When Pharaoh next put on a clean tunic he complained that it smelled of a
woman’s scent. The washermen protested that they had added no perfume but every day the clothes
of Pharaoh came out of the river smelling sweetly. One morning the overseer of the royal washermen
paced the riverbank, making sure that everything was done as it should be.
Suddenly his eye was caught by a shining lock of hair tangled in a clump of reeds. The overseer
waded into the river to fetch it and as soon as he touched it he knew that he had found the source of
the mysterious perfume. When the-lock was dry it was taken to Pharaoh and he and all his court were
sure that they had never seen hair of such a lustrous black, that felt so soft or smelled so sweetly.
‘Surely such hair must belong to a daughter of Ra,’ said the wise men of the court and Pharaoh
longed to make such a woman his queen.
‘Let envoys travel to every foreign land to search for her,’ suggested the wise men, ‘but we have
heard that the most beautiful of all women lives in the Valley of the Cedar, so send twenty envoys
there.’ Pharaoh was delighted with their advice and eagerly awaited the return of his messengers.
One by one the envoys came back from the foreign lands to say that their search had failed. Last of
all a single wounded envoy returned from the Valley of the Cedar. Bata had killed all the rest when he
had discovered their errand. The surviving messenger promised Pharaoh that Bata’s wife was the
woman he sought, so a great army was sent to fetch her. With the army travelled an old woman
whom Pharaoh had chosen for her cunning tongue. When they neared the Valley of the Cedar the old
woman went ahead of the army and persuaded Bata’s wife to let her into the house while he was
away hunting. The old woman took out a casket of precious jewellery that Pharaoh had sent as a gift
for Bata’s wife. There were golden anklets, bracelets of lapis-lazuli, amulets of silver and turquoise;
the old woman told Bata’s wife that Pharaoh loved her and waited to make her Queen of all Egypt.
Greedy for the jewels and bored with her life in the lonely valley, Bata’s wife agreed to go to Egypt but
she was afraid of her husband’s vengeance. Long before, Bata had told his beloved wife where his
heart was hidden and now she used the secret to destroy him. The Egyptian soldiers were
summoned and told to hack down the cedar tree. As it fell, Bata clutched his chest and died and his
wife decked herself in Pharaoh’s jewels and went with the soldiers. When Pharaoh saw her, his heart
leaped with joy and he made her his chief queen. At the very moment when Bata was killed, Anpu
saw the beer in his jug bubble and froth and he knew that something terrible had happened. He put
on his sandals, snatched up a staff and a spear and set out for the Valley of the Cedar. There he
found his younger brother stretched out on the ground. Bata’s limbs were stiff and cold and he no
longer breathed. Anpu carried his brother into the house and wept over him, but he did not yet
despair. Remembering Bata’s words, he began to search for his brother’s heart amongst the
branches of the fallen cedar.
For three years he searched in vain. By the beginning of the fourth year he was longing to be back in
Egypt and he said to himself, ‘If I don’t find the heart tomorrow, I shall go home.’ He spent all the next
day bent-backed amongst the fallen branches and, just as he was about to give up, his foot struck
against something. Anpu thought at first that it was only a withered cone but when he took it into the
house and lit a lamp he saw that he was holding his brother’s heart. Anpu put the heart in a bowl of
cool water, placed the bowl beside his brother’s body and settled down to wait. All through the night
his heart swelled as it absorbed the water and when it reached its true size, Bata’s body twitched and
his eyes flew open. He stared up at his brother, still too weak to speak. Anpu held the bowl to Bata’s
lips and he drank the remaining water and swallowed his heart. Then all his old strength returned to
him and Bata leaped up and embraced his brother.
They spent the day talking over the past and planning revenge on Bata’s cruel wife. ‘Tomorrow, I
shall transform myself into a fine bull of a size and colour that no-one has ever seen before,’ said
Bata. ‘Then you must ride on my back to Egypt. When Pharaoh hears about us, he will want me for
his own. Take the rewards he will offer you and go home. Then my revenge will begin.’
The next morning Bata changed himself into a huge golden bull with markings as blue as lapis and
Anpu mounted on his back. As they travelled through Egypt people flocked to see the marvellous bull
and when Pharaoh heard about it he gave thanks to the gods because he was sure that the bull must
be their messenger. Anpu rode his brother to the gates of the palace and Pharaoh rewarded him with
gold and silver, land and slaves. Bata was garlanded with flowers and allowed to wander wherever he
liked in the palace and its grounds. At first everyone was in awe of him but they soon learned to trust
his gentleness. In all his wanderings Bata was only looking for one person and at last he found her.
One morning the queen herself was in the palace kitchens, overseeing the preparation of sweetmeats
for Pharaoh. Bata came up behind her and touched the queen with the tip of his horns. ‘Look at me; I
am alive.’ The queen turned and stared at the bull in amazement. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘I
am Bata,’ said the bull. ‘I know that it was you who told Pharaoh’s soldiers to chop down the cedar
tree. You wanted me dead but I am alive.’ Then, as the queen stood trembling with horror, Bata
paced slowly out of the kitchen. In the cool of the evening, Pharaoh sat down to feast with his queen.
She wore her filmiest dress and her finest jewels and as she poured out his wine, Pharaoh thought
her more beautiful than ever.
‘Sovereign, my lord,’ murmured the queen, ‘will you swear by the gods to grant whatever I desire? Do
you love me enough for that?’ Pharaoh kissed her and promised that he would. The queen smiled. ‘I
desire to eat the liver of the great bull. He does nothing but wander about the palace all day, so why
not slaughter him?’
Then Pharaoh was angry and upset at her request but he had given his word and the queen refused
to change her mind. The very next morning Pharaoh proclaimed that the marvellous bull was to be
sacrificed to the gods. The royal slaughterers seized Bata, roped his legs, threw him to the ground
and cut his throat. As the bull died, his blood spattered the pillars on either side of the palace gate.
The body was cut up and offered on the altars of the gods but the liver was cooked and given to the
queen and she ate it with pleasure.
At dawn the next day the palace gatekeeper ran to Pharaoh’s bedchamber and said, ‘O, Sovereign,
my Lord. A great marvel has happened! Two beautiful persea trees have sprung up in the night in
front of the pillars before the great gate!’
Then Pharaoh rejoiced, sure that this was another sign of the favour of the gods; and no one knew
that the trees had sprung from Bata’s blood. A few days later Pharaoh and his queen rode in golden
chariots to the palace gate and made offerings to the marvellous persea trees. Then thrones were
brought and Pharaoh sat in the shade of one tree and his queen beneath the other while priestesses
sang and danced in honour of the gods.
Pharaoh sat smiling but amongst the rustling of leaves his queen heard a voice: ‘False one, you told
Pharaoh’s soldiers to cut down the cedar tree, you made Pharaoh slaughter the bull, but I am Bata, I
am alive!’ Then the queen was very much afraid. The next time she was alone with her husband the
queen used all her womanly arts to please him and made him promise to grant any wish she named.
‘Those two persea trees are useless standing at the gate,’ she said. ‘Have them chopped down and
made into furniture for me.’ Pharaoh was uneasy at the thought of cutting down the mysterious trees
but the queen sulked and wheedled until he agreed. The following morning she went with Pharaoh to
watch the royal carpenters cut down the persea trees. At the first axe stroke, a splinter of wood flew
up and entered the queen’s lips and the moment she swallowed it she became pregnant.
After many months the queen gave birth to a handsome boy but she did not know that her son was
Bata. Pharaoh loved the child and made him crown prince and as the years passed he grew up to be
strong and handsome and wise. If the queen found that her son was cold towards her and noticed a
growing resemblance to her murdered husband, she dared not speak.
In due time Pharaoh died and rejoined the gods and the crown prince succeeded him. No sooner was
the coronation over than the new Pharaoh summoned the queen his mother. In front of the whole
court Bata recounted the story of his strange life. He told of his flight from his brother’s house, of the
woman the gods had given him for a wife and how she had betrayed him.
‘Surely such a woman is worthy of death,’ said Bata and his courtiers agreed. The queen was led
away, weeping, to die by the knife as the Seven Hathors had foreseen. Then Bata sent for his
beloved brother and together they ruled Egypt for thirty years.