The Old Lady of Ngerchokl

 The Old Lady of Ngerchokl

(A Legend from Palau)

The old woman stared at her reflection in the dark water and was frightened. A plumeria leaf fell soundlessly on the pool's surface, creating a ripple of waves that grew rounder and rounder and then—gone. The old woman sighed. "Like these ripples, my life will soon disappear. My husband has died and my family is gone except for one daughter. She is young and not ready to live alone.” The old woman whispered to her reflection,"I must dare the dark magic. I must begin my secret plan.”

She fingered the wide leaves of a breadfruit tree that shaded her as she sat, reluctant to begin. The rain forest's green quiet surrounded her like a protective shawl. "Do I dare attempt this magic?”

As if in answer, a fruit dove flew overhead, shyly warning, "Co-o-o, no-o-o-o, no-o-o-o.” The woman trembled. Just then a tropic bird shrilled loudly, its slender white body soaring high above, "Keer-keer, ye-e-es, yes!” Which cry should she heed?

Another sound answered her question. She smiled as she listened to bare feet slap, slap, slapping across the rock path. Her daughter was hurrying with two empty pots. "We are asked to fill these. The village needs water. I will help you, Mother.”

"Yes, we will fill them but not from this pool. Today we find the place where the water is cool and refreshing—like magic!” The old woman plucked a red hibiscus and tucked it behind her daughter's ear.

"No, Mother, not the pool of dark water and—" The young girl shivered. "It is whispered that the mists swirl with death.”

"My child, many things are said that are not true. We will walk quietly without disturbing one spirit or waking a rock. But we must hurry so the villagers have water before dark.”

At first the path meandered through sea vines tangled and twisted. It crossed through a swamp and became swallowed by mud stinking of rot. The mother and daughter followed a row of mangrove trees standing on stilted roots in the murky brine. Moss-shrouded branches creaked in the spooky silence. Not one friendly sound was heard, only the whining of mosquitoes, the warning clicks of geckos, and the clattering of hermit crabs slithering in the shadows.

The old woman felt a touch on her shoulder. “Mother, this path chills my heart. Finally the swamp ends, but now the jungle begins. Please, let's go home.”

“No, something waits that could change us forever.” With her walking stick the old woman whacked at the green wall of vines and bamboo. Brittle branches rattled as if a hundred tongues were scolding, “Go back, go back!”

The path became steep and rocky. Trees towered thick and lush, their outstretched branches tangled above like a giant weaving. Younger trees stooped sad and yellow under shrouds of vines, swaying and sighing. Giant spiders glowed like jewels on sticky webs. The old woman continued, but her steps became slower. She breathed harder, determined to keep fear out of her thoughts.

The path circled near a cliff. She stepped to the edge. Above her a giant bat swooped in large circles. Beyond the path’s next curve, mist swirled up through the branches.

Was she imagining or could she hear the sounds of water splashing? “Young one, listen.”

Her daughter’s eyes grew wide with fright. “What is it, Mother?”

“We are near.”

“This place smells of death. Mother, please, let's return home.”

The old woman pointed to a clearing. “Rest there. The bushes are full of blossoms. Gather an armful as an offering to the water spirits while I find a place to drink from the pool's edge.”

“No, Mother, your legs are trembling. You rest. I will fill our clay pots and bring water to you.”

“No! You must never touch the dark water. Never!”

“Mother, why do you speak with anger? I feel the dark spirits. They chill my blood. I will gather blossoms. Hurry, drink your fill so we can leave.”

The old woman gazed one last time at her daughter.

“Remember, never touch the water in this pool, never!” She touched her daughter's troubled face. “Pick blossoms until your arms are full, and your heart will feel brighter. Look for the place where the water sounds like laughter. I will wait for you there.”

The old woman hurried toward the water. Soon she stood at the pool’s edge.

Perhaps the legend is false. Perhaps there is no magic. If I dive into this pool I may never return. Is it possible to find the stones that restore youth forever, for always? If I dive into this pool, what is my fate? To never return? Or to return and remain young forever? Never or always, which will it be?

The old woman of Palau felt her heart turn cold. She shuddered. “My daughter! You will never see me old and ugly again!”

She dove into the darkness. An icy cold pierced her chest. Already her heart ached to return to warmth and light. Down she swam. The water grew heavy, close, suffocating. Her mind screamed, Turn around, go back, go back.

She struggled through water as dark and blinding as octopus ink. Something slithered against her legs. She wanted to scream, to breathe, to warn her daughter, Stay away from the pool, stay away.

Still she swam deeper. The water grew colder, heavier, crushing her on all sides, pressing tighter and tighter. Confusion swirled in her head. Foolish woman, believing foolish old tales. There are no magic stones, no enchanted pool, only darkness and death unless you turn around . .. turn around.

With the last of her strength she pulled one stroke deeper. Her fingers touched the bottom and scraped through the mud. Nothing! No magic stones. But then... yes, something cold and smooth. Her fingers curled around a stone and slowly, steadily her arm felt strong and young. Yes! The magic must be real.

Air! Her body screamed for air. She must breathe. Her lungs were burning. Breathe! Her thoughts were spinning. She was confused and could not see. Which way was the surface? A wall of black seemed to surround her. Was she swimming up toward light or down toward death? Her strength was ebbing; it was no use, young or old, she could not survive without air.

“My child, my child.” She closed her eyes and saw her child’s face, a young face so frightened and looking for her mother.

The blackness parted. She swam and kicked until she reached the surface. Sunlight warmed her face like the sweet kiss from a child. She breathed in gulpfuls of air.

“Here I am! I have returned. Come to the pool.” She swam to the rocky edge, reached toward her child, but stopped. Her daughter stared back.

“Dear lady, I don't know who you are.” The girl stared at her. Forgive me for disturbing you, but I am looking for my mother.”

“l am your mother.” The woman stood next to her daughter. “Look at me and see who I am!”

The girl shook her head.

The woman stared at the reflection in the pool. Two faces stared back, the face of her daughter, pale with fear, and the face of a beautiful young woman—her face!

“Please don’t taunt me, dear lady. Have you seen my mother? I am worried she is lost.”

“Dear child, I am your mother. I have become young and beautiful as I once was.”

“No! Go away.” The daughter stamped her feet in anger and spoke with courage. “You are a wicked spirit trying to trick me. Go away. I must search for my mother.”

“Wait. Listen, so you will understand. I have become young so you’ll never feel ashamed of this ugly old face.”

“Ashamed?! You are evil to say such words.”

“But my arms had become brittle as dry bamboo. They no longer could hold you with strength.”

“My mother's arms are plenty strong to give comfort.”

“But my body had grown shapeless and wrinkled as an old yam.”

“What do you know, foolish woman? My mother's lap is soft and safe. I will not be frightened by monsters like you.”

"But little one, your old mother’s hair was no longer thick and black.”

“My mother’s hair is gray like the dolphin. She smiles when I comb the tangles that her stiff arms cannot reach. Your arms are young. You do not need a daughter to comb and caress you.”

“My old voice had become scratchy and weak.”

“My mother’s voice may be old and sometimes cross but it is soft with love. Her heart is full of stories and songs. We laugh as we work, filling the air with singing.”

The daughter stamped her feet once again, slap-slap-slap—so hard that footprints were left in the rock. “Go away. Leave me alone. Somewhere my mother is waiting for me. She said I would hear her voice laughing. We must hurry back to the village. Whoever you are, go away and never return. Never!”

The woman of Palau looked again into the pool. She saw her youth and all its beauty but she also saw her foolishness. “What have I done?” Now she understood; she had lost all that she loved.

She stared at the water and said the rest of the words that had been whispered. Beware and be careful. If one re-enters the pool, the magic is destroyed. Eternal youth is lost forever. Re-enter the water and choose: death or old age. Death or old age!

The old lady cried, “Do I have the courage to make such a choice? What does it matter? To remain as I am means being dead to my daughter.”

The woman dove into the pool. Once again foam swirled around her. Down she swam until her fingers touched the stones. She felt her legs grow heavy and weak. Pain gnawed again inside her bones and cold stiffened her joints. The confidence and daring of youth became dim and then lost.

With the last of her strength she swam to the surface. She rested, holding onto a rock. She stared at her hand and wept. Tears of loss mixed with joy and relief, for once again her hand was wrinkled and old.

“Mother! Let me help you!” The girl rushed to her mother’s side. “You are trembling. Let me rub your arms. Rest your head on my lap while I untangle your hair.” The daughter plucked the red blossom behind her ear and tucked it into her mother’s hair. “I was afraid I had lost you forever.”

The love in her daughter's voice warmed the old woman's body. She looked at her child and was amazed. She could see her true self reflected in her daughter's eyes. And she could see more. She could see life’s ripples spreading toward adulthood, dimming with old age, and beginning again with the young. As if some magic had cleared her sight, she could see memories waiting to be made, laughter, tears, and young life ready to continue the circle.

The old woman reached for her daughter’s hand and slowly stood up. They began their journey home. Step by step the old woman of Palau felt strength from a deep joy that was always and forever, both old and young.

On the island of Babeldaob, in the village of Ngaraard, runs a river called Ngerchokl. This river winds through a valley in the volcanic hills until it tumbles down into a deep, dark pool. The pool is surrounded by tall breadfruit, coconut, and pandanus trees. On the lava rocks surrounding the pool, footprints of a little girl can be seen. People say they are the footprints of a faithful daughter who wanted only her own true mother, the old woman of Palau.

Sources:

Micronesian Legends

Nancy Bo Flood, Beret E. Strong, William Flood

2002

Pages: 59-64

How the Dugong Came To Be

How the Dugong Came To Be

(A Legend from Palau)

On the faraway island of Palau lived a young woman who carefully kept the ways of the island. She was gentle and kind, moving quietly from one task to another, watching, watching, especially when the children were at play near her home. She was married to a young man who would someday become chief if they both showed themselves to be worthy. They lived in a simple hut nestled beneath coconut palms and near the ocean. The constant pounding and crashing of surf against the black lava cliffs was a soothing, distant song. But they were not happy. They longed for the sweet sounds of children to fill their home.

As the young woman sat weaving in the shade of the tall, slender palms, her gaze would wander. She watched the fronds overhead swaying and tossing, as if playing with the teasing whispers of the sea wind. Maybe someday her own child would play next to her, laughing as the wind shook the fronds into clatter and dance. Maybe someday.

Each morning her husband climbed the sturdy limbs of a towering breadfruit tree. He tossed down the ripe green fruit. She laughed as she tried to catch the breadfruit, imagining their own child running in the sand, chasing after the tumbling fruit. Maybe, maybe someday.

In the afternoons when the sea crept low, she waded in the tide pools, catching crabs and searching for shells. She stopped to watch as waves washed over the glassy smooth surface, wrinkling the water and sending sparkles of sunshine into the air. It was then that tears would slide down her cheeks. She longed to hold a child in her arms and caress it as joyfully as the sun kissed the sea. Maybe, maybe someday.

And then it came to be. A child was conceived, began to grow, and soon moved within her.

But she was afraid. As the movements of the child grew stronger, the darkness that chilled her heart grew colder. Her husband laughed at her fears and chided: “Follow the ways of the island women. Follow each rule, and our child will be healthy.”

“But our child will not be safe.”

“Safe from what?"

She did not have an answer.

“Fallow each rule.” And he turned away from her. And so she did. In the evenings she no longer went down to the shore to gather crabs and shells and wash off the day's dust. She knew that at dusk the dark spirits are hungry for unborn babies. As darkness thickens, these spirits gather near the water's edge, waiting for foolish young women heavy with growing infants.

She did not eat the foods forbidden to women who are nourishing the child within them. Her husband too was careful not to quarrel or hunt fish in the lagoon at night. They both carefully kept the rules of their island.

The time for birth drew near. The young woman's heart now seemed divided like a half moon. One side glowed warm from the happiness of new life growing strong within her. One half felt dark and cold, heavy with foreboding and sadness. About what? Surely just the fear of birthing, the fears that all women share.

She wove new pandanus mats for her child, new mats to make a soft bed. She collected leaves, stripped, soaked, and pounded them. She selected the straightest and softest ones for weaving. Only one more moon cycle to wait. Her time to deliver was a few weeks away, when the moon would be ripening into fullness and light. “Wait, little one, wait. This dark phase of the moon must pass before you are born.” She knew that a child born during the moon’s darkness was a child filled with evil, doomed to cause chaos and destruction. Thus, doomed to die.

She sang over and over to her child as she wove. “Wait, little one, for the moon to shine, if only a sliver, if only a sliver. Wait, little one, for the brightness needed to assure your life.”

But the child would not wait.

That evening, as the blood-red washes of sunset soaked the horizon, her labor pains began.

“No! No!” she cried to her husband. “Run. Find the Old One. Find the woman with herbs that can stop this birthing. Hurry! Run, before it’s too late.”

Her husband did not answer. Tears clouded his eyes. He looked at the hut's dark opening that showed only the blackness of the night. “The meaning is clear,” he said. He turned away.

Her labor quickened. In the darkest hour of the night, the child was born. She cut the cord, washed any uncleanness away, and held her child, saying nothing, knowing that death would come soon. Once the villagers learned that a baby was born during this dark phase of the moon, the baby would be destroyed.

Already she could see that torches were being flamed. A stirring of voices shouting and calling whispered up from the village. She knew the older men were gathering, calling, and encouraging each other. Soon they would come, chanting out words of death, singing appeasement to the spirits.

She gazed at her baby. The child looked back at her. His eyes were wide and bright. They seemed to be filled with an understanding that these few minutes were precious.

She caressed his cheek with her hand. His little arms reached up to her. His tiny fist encircled her finger and grasped it tightly. She could feel his strength and eagerness for life.

“No. This child cannot die. There is no darkness, no evil within him.”

The chanting of the village men was growing louder, louder.

What could she do? Where could she run?

“Hide us. Hide us!” she pleaded with her husband.

“This island has oa place to hide,” was his reply.

Her husband was right. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide.

The voices of the men were loud, very loud. The drumming of their words and the slapping of their hands was near, very near.

Nowhere to hide. No way to plead.

She clasped her baby tightly to her chest. She stood in front of her home. It was no longer a place of safety. It was no longer her place, her home.

She could already see the angry faces of the men. But their eyes would not look at her. Their feet kept marching and their shouting voices rushed toward her like a wall of sea water about to curl and wash over her and the tiny life she held.

Sea water. Ocean... ocean. An enemy, a friend.

“I have no friends here. I have no home. I have only the ocean.”

She ran. More swiftly than she had ever run before, she fled down the path between the nodding trunks of the coconut palms, nodding, nodding. She raced past hibiscus bushes trembling in the wind, whispering, whispering. She ran faster, faster, until she could feel the knife edges of the volcanic rocks cutting her bare soles. She ran until she could hear the surf crashing against the cliff, just a little farther, a little faster. The men were close behind now, wailing, cursing. Hurry, yes, yes. Between gulps of air, she breathed out the words of her own death prayer. “Ocean mother, ocean mother, this child is born of light. No child is born of evil. No child needs to die. No more. No more.”

Would the ocean receive them? She must take the chance or the old ways would claim her child's life. In her heart she knew the old ways were wrong. Somehow the ocean would teach her people, a lesson to those still island-bound.

At the cliff's edge she stood holding her baby. She looked down at the swirling waters, the white froth of laughing foam. She looked back at the dark faces of her people. She saw their fists shaking at her, their arms reaching, grabbing.

She shouted back. “Never again, not another baby need die!” The young mother leaped.

The men crowded to the edge of the cliff. They looked down but saw no drowning woman or child. Instead they saw the silvery-gray back of an animal they had never seen before, an animal since named the dugong. She was slowly swimming away. Beside her was her infant, splashing and playing in the waves made by his mother.

Source:

Pacific Island legends: tales from Micronesia, Melanesia, Polynesia, and Australia

Nancy Bo Flood, Beret E. Strong, William Flood

1999

Pages: 33-38

The Spider God Teaches Natural Childbirth

The Spider God Teaches Natural Childbirth

(A Legend from Palau)

Palauans of today say that long, long ago, as the time of pregnancy became complete, the family and village began preparations for both a funeral and a birthing. Childbirth meant a bloody cutting, a slicing open of the woman’s abdomen. It was believed that a child must be cut out of the womb. Midwives were skilled in the knowledge of healing herbs and blood-clotting ointments. They also were skilled in the making of sharp knives from bamboo. Once the labour pains began and the woman moaned for help, a midwife would come with her bamboo knives.

Such it was for the women of Palau until one day, not so very long ago, the spider demigod, Mengidabrutkoel, fell in love with a human, a beautiful Palauan maiden.

Mengidabrutkoel was a magnificent spider, a wise spider. He spun a web between the long grey limbs of a breadfruit tree and there he caught many flies to eat. His long arching legs climbed quickly from one leaf to another. His body shimmered as he passed from shadow to sunshine. But today Mengidabrutkoel was not satisfied. He was hungry for a new taste. But what? This hunger kept him restless and so he left, looking for another tree that could offer a different taste.

The mountain apple! Tart and juicy fruit, so good after so many days of eating bugs. Mengidabrutkoel changed into a young man with long legs and hurried to a valley where mountain apple trees grew along a jungle stream.

Mengidabrutkoel, now a man and no longer a spider god, was climbing up the tallest tree to pick the ripest apple when he heard someone laughing. A group of young women were bathing in the stream. They were busy talking and hadn't noticed the intruder.

He watched as one of the maidens turned her head. Her eyes widened. But she did not scream or yell. She smiled. The young man felt warmth and tingling that he had never felt before. He stared at the beauty of her long hair, which cascaded like water down her back. Her dark eyes sparkled and showed no fear. Something about her invited the young man to stare back, offering and accepting friendship.

Every day for several months the two young people met at the mountain stream. And then they were married. Soon the woman conceived and her pregnancy became known. Only then did the spider god husband learn that childbirth meant death for most women. As the birthing time grew near, his despair deepened. He had never felt such pain.

The spider god left his wife. He walked and walked, not knowing or caring where he was going. When he stopped and looked up, he realized he was standing under an ancient tree, the breadfruit tree that once was his home. He climbed to the tallest branch, changed back to his spider form and called out to his mother. He told her the reason for his grief.

“Do not weep, my son,” replied his mother. “There is no reason for this cutting of the womb and killing of the mother. Listen to my directions. Follow them and your wife will not die. There is no need to slice open her belly. The child can be born between her legs. Listen and remember. When her labour pains begin, help her to bear them in silence. Let no one know that the child is coming. Let no one interfere. Keep the women and their knives away from her.” She smiled. “Fill your human web. Hold your child after the long struggle into this world . . . and hold your wife.”

And thus he did. The spider once again forsook his lofty home. He swung down from his web and ran back to the village. Only one thought possessed his mind. His wife. She was so full with a child when he had left. Was he already too late to save her life?

The hot sun was high above. The village was quiet. Children were sitting under shade trees weaving pandanus. Women were working in nearby taro patches, weeding and digging. The men and boys were paddling along the reef, throwing and pulling in fishing nets. Faster he ran, for as he neared his wife’s hut, he could hear her soft moans.

The spider god hurried to his wife and saw the pain and fear on her face. “Let us do what my mother instructed. She promises that you and the child will live.” The spider god carefully arranged the birthing mats and held his wife as the pains grew stronger and stronger. “Do not cry. Let your screams stay silent. We must not let the women know your birthing time has begun. I will not let their sharp knives touch you. You don't need to die. Our child shall have his mother and I shall have my wife.”

Not until the final moments of birth did his wife cry out, pleading for relief. Immediately the calls of the women were heard like echoes around the village. “Come. Hurry, run! Chant away dark spirits hungry for young life. Chase the spirits who wait as the cut is made. Hurry, soon a new one shall be pulled free.”

The spider god husband stood defiantly next to his wife. No one dared touch her without risking her own life. All fell silent. Anger filled the air; stares cut with hate like knives poised to fight. And then a new sound softened the stillness. A baby’s first cry.

Anger turned to confusion and then amazement. A child had been born. The child was fine and so was the mother.

The spider god beckoned to the women. “Come, the cord must be out.” And then he knelt beside his wife and watched as the cord binding child to mother was severed. He waited for the final birthing to finish. The women of his wife's clan took the cord and afterbirth to plant with a sapling tree to mark this place forever as the child’s home.

As the women left they murmured, “We have done as his mother goddess directed. We will use our bamboo knives to cut the cord. We have seen that a woman can give birth without them.”

Sources:

Micronesian Legends

Nancy Bo Flood, Beret E. Strong, William Flood

2002

Pages: 44-46

Two Lovers and How the Turtle Cycle was Discovered

Two Lovers and How the Turtle Cycle was Discovered

(A Legend from Palau)

A young man from Peleliu fell in love with a maiden from Ngerkebesang. She also loved him. But they lived on islands far apart, and their families did not approve of their love for each other.

Aerial view of Peleliu (Wikimedia Commons)

The two young people agreed that one night each month during the safe darkness of a new moon they would sail their outriggers to the Ngemelis, a tiny island located midway between their homes.

In the darkness of the moonless night, they talked and touched until the first blush of dawn. Quickly the young woman gathered her mat and her paddle to sail back home, but no matter how carefully she searched, she could not find her grass skirt. She had left it on the sandy beach, but all she could find was a few strands next to the footprint of a turtle. Finally, she made a new skirt from coconut fronds and hurried to her canoe. As she waved farewell to her lover he cried out to her. “I cannot wait a whole month; let us meet again soon.”

“When the moon is full.”

“Yes,” he shouted back. “I shall return to this very place when the moon is shining round and silver like a tuna’s stomach.”

On the appointed day, both lovers impatiently waited for the night so they could secretly begin their long paddle before the rising of the moon. First, the young man arrived and then the young woman. No sooner had she stepped onto the beach than her lover held her in his arms. But their embrace was suddenly ended as they both heard the sound of something else coming onto shore. They laughed with relief as they realized the large, dark figure was a turtle crawling toward them. But what they saw next surprised them even more. On the turtle’s front fin was entangled the maiden’s grass skirt, the very same skirt she lost the night of the new moon. As the two young people quietly watched, the mother turtle scraped a deep hole and laid egg after egg, each one round and white like a full moon. Nearly fifty eggs filled the sandy nest before the mother turtle covered them with sand, rested, and then slowly crawled back through the bubbling surf into the dark sea.

Thus the people of Palau learned during which season of the year to watch for turtles to return to the very beaches where they once hatched. When the moon is new, a turtle lays the first half of her eggs and then returns two weeks later when the moon is full to lay the second half. Up to a hundred eggs are carefully buried in the sand, where they stay warm and hidden. During the next full moon, the baby turtles hatch out. They pull with their tiny fins and crawl to the sea, following the “moon path,” the ribbon of light made by the full moon shining on the sea.

Source:

Micronesian Legends

Nancy Bo Flood, Beret E. Strong, William Flood

2002

Pages: 48-49

Turtle and Canoe

Turtle and Canoe

(A Tale from Palau)

“I shall prove it now.” Eledui grabbed his hunting spear and pulled it from the rafters. “I shall be the best!”

Branches of coconut palms clattered in the night wind. No moon or stars pierced the blackness that wrapped around the island like a warm blindfold. Without hesitation, Eledui hurried toward the beach. His feet could see as well as his eyes, sometimes better. Tonight they raced down the stone path to the shore where his outrigger was prepared for the hunt.

The sand was wet. The tide had slipped out, leaving behind wave-rows of shells and coral pieces. Piles of tangled seaweed smelled of yesterday’s fish.

Eledui laughed at the ghost crabs that scurried into their dark holes. “Don't worry. Children chase you, not great hunters like me. Tonight I will capture the Great Turtle, the Old One." He thrust his spear and boasted. “For it is I, Eledui from Ngerdemai. who hunts with more courage than anyone!"

Quickly Eledui dragged his canoe into the water, leaped aboard, and grabbed the paddle. He glanced back at his village. “The old men waste time waiting for an omen. I say, begin the hunt now!"

His fingers gripped the oar's slender throat. “They will see who knows best. The Old One will soon be mine!

He paddled quickly, forgetting to study the horizon for storm swells or look for strong currents. But when a fairy tern (a small seabird) swooped overhead, shrieking and scolding, he stopped his paddling.

The white bird circled and then dove so close that Eledui could see its black eyes staring at him. He started to laugh but only shuddered. The bird had disappeared. Or had he only imagined a bird? Now he remembered. In his hurry, he had forgotten to greet the land spirits, the providers of safety. He had even forgotten to give offerings to the sea spirits. Their powers could protect and assure his safe return or shatter his slender outrigger with a sudden storm. These spirits often changed into birds when travelling to earth with messages or warnings.

Bowing his head, he prayed. “Be pleased, not angered at my boldness. I give thanks for the courage in my bones and the strength in this canoe.” He scooped up a handful of salt water and threw it onto the outrigger's bow. “Forgive my haste, for my head is filled with thoughts of the hunt." Eledui raised his head and shouted out his prayer. “If the Spirits consent, I am ready."

Now he turned and faced the eastern horizon. Already a blood-red line split sea and sky. "I must hurry or I will lose the advantage of the morning sun. Its brightness will blind the turtle’s eyes. With the sun behind me, the Old One will see nothing. I can drift closer and closer . . . " Eledui smiled, "and drive my spear through his back!”

With great speed, Eledui paddled directly to the outer reef. There he drifted above the sea caves, the Old One's resting place.

The turtle's eyes were dark but clear. He was ancient and preferred the shadowy recesses of the coral caves. He rested a long time before the need for air forced him to surface. He needed air now.

A few strokes and the turtle glided upward like a bird winging across the sky. Shafts of morning light beamed through the turquoise water. As soon as his hawk-beak broke the surface, his nostrils flared open. The morning light blinded him. The old one floated with eyes half-closed and breathed in the salty air.

Eledui had been scanning the sea when he saw the messy domed back of the hawksbill. His heart began pounding. Yes, there he is! It must be the Old One. Only one turtle on the reef had a back so big, so wide. Yes, the Old One, and he shall be mine!

Before fear could cloud his determination, he pulled his paddle deeply through the water, let the outrigger drift closer and closer until he could see the pattern of squares on the turtle's back. Eledui drew back his spear, aimed, and threw. Blood spurted high into the air. Slowly a circle of red stained the water.

The Old One slid beneath the surface, but the spear’s shaft stuck out like a death mark. Eledui dove in and grabbed for the turtle. He must keep the turtle from diving deep below the surface. He must hold onto the shell, kicking to keep the turtle from diving deep into the sea but careful to stay away from his sharp fins. When the Old One grew weak from bleeding and struggling, then he could lash it to his outrigger, paddle back, and strut triumphantly through his village, holding his trophy high above his head. The children would crowd around pointing and shouting. Young women would stare from a distance. Stories would be told about his great strength and courage and the speed of his paddling.

His paddling . . . where had he dropped his paddle? Eledui glanced around him. Where was his boat? In his haste to spear the turtle, Eledui had forgotten to anchor his boat.

He strained to see some sign of his canoe. Now he was the one blinded by the sun's strong light. But yes, he could see its small silhouette already drifting away, caught in the current that ran like a river away from the reef toward the ocean. If he had any hope of catching his boat, he must swim to it now. The ocean was not a place to survive without canoe or paddle.

“Aigh!” The turtle was now quiet, almost as if dead. Eledui shifted his grip. Suddenly the hawksbill twisted and turned, struggling to break free, to dive down, down, down to the safety of a cave.

I will use the strength of this turtle. I will use his clawing to pull us both toward my boat." Eledui clenched his fists more tightly. His outrigger was his prize possession, but this turtle was his future. He must have both!

The Old One twisted his head, his gaping jaw reaching and snapping. But Eledui was quick. The turtle slapped the water with his front fins, trying to tear at Eledui’s hands. But the claws could not reach. The turtle rolled onto his back, trying to drown this hunter who had pierced his shell with pain that was burning like fire in every bone, muscle, and even his brain.

Eledui glanced again as his outrigger shrank smaller and smaller, drifting faster and faster away from the reef.

The Old Turtle's fins clawed across Eledui's chest, leaving bloody lines and ripped skin.

“No! I won't give up. I won‘t let go and return empty-handed. Never!" He swam harder, pushing the Old One in front of him away from the reef, toward the sea and drifting canoe. Waves splashed, choking him with water and salt. His eyes burned. The strength in his arms was nearly gone. No longer were his muscles powerful and strong. The weight of the Old One felt heavier and heavier. When he stared at the horizon, sometimes he saw the tiny silhouette of his outrigger but sometimes all he saw was the black tip of a distant wave.

The turtle lifted his head and sucked in a long breath of air. And then the Old One dipped his head under the surface and pushed hard with front fins and back. He would dive to the deepest cave even if he must take this hunter with him.

Eledui now saw the sadness in the turtle’s eyes and felt a shudder of death and sorrow. Around both hunter and turtle, the sea foamed red with blood. Eledui felt the shell's sharp edge slide from his fists. He lunged for the turtle but the Old One slipped beneath the sea.

“No! No!” he screamed. But the only ones to hear his cries were the waves and the empty horizon.

Source:

Pacific Island Legends: Tales from Micronesia, Melanesia, Polynesia and Australia.

Nancy Bo Flood, Beret E. Strong, William Flood

1991

Pages: 39-44

The Creation of Palau

The Creation of Palau

(A Legend from Palau)

In the long ago, before the time of people, the sea was empty. Empty. Spirits under the sea and spirits above the sea were lonely. They longed to share life.

Ucheleanged, the greatest of gods, felt their longing. “Now! The world is ready. Now!" Uchcleanged travelled across the ocean. “Here!" The great god pointed to the darkest part of the sea. From deep within this black unknown, a volcano erupted. Higher and higher the volcano rose, spewing out molten rock. Slowly it broke through the sea's surface, raining hot lava and forming a mountain. This mountain grew wider and taller until the mountain became an island. Although this mountain was bare, it was not barren.

On this mountain's peak, a strange event happened. The power of the sea touched the power of the sky. Afterwards, at that very place, sat a giant clam. The clam just sat. Its huge rippled jaws remained shut. Not moving. Not speaking. But growing.

Day after day, the clam continued to grow. Its shell spread long and far. Its sweet, soft middle bulged bigger and bigger, pregnant with life. But the clam could not give birth.

The sea spirits whispered their worries. They sent huge waves across the ocean, whipping them higher and higher. The great Clam rocked as the island trembled. Still, the birthing did not happen. The spirits screamed out their alarm, sending the sea crashing against the clam. The clam’s giant jaws still did not open.

The most powerful of the gods, Ucheleanged, pointed at the darkness beneath the sea. Winds swirled. Waves peaked, curled, and plummeted. Thunder roared. Typhoon winds smashed against the giant clam. Still, the birthing did not begin.

Ucheleanged again pointed to the darkness deep beneath the ocean. An enormous current coiled like a giant serpent. Faster and faster it coiled, gathering power to prepare for a mighty strike. Ucheleanged roared! A monstrous stream of water rolled up from the sea and then across the land. A wall of ocean crashed against the clam. The mother clam, Latmikaik, shuddered. And then her giant lips began to open.

The power in the water now tore again through the clam’s body. Her shell split fully apart. Her mouth now gaped open. All forms of life spewed out-out into the waters and onto the land. Terns and swifts flew up toward the heavens. They called to the others. “Come. Come out. Be born."

The rest followed. The ghost crabs hurried into dark shadows. Snakes and sea eels slithered to dry holes and wet. Fruit bats stretched black wings as they hung upside down on branches, warming themselves in the sunlight. Crocodiles snapped at slow-moving lobsters. Dugongs nudged shy babes toward quiet lagoon waters. Sharks dashed into deep sea caves. Clouds of colour divided into two groups of animals. Birds and butterflies flew upward. Reef fish and creatures of the tide pools crawled back to the sea. The ocean laughed with life. The earth fluttered with colour. But the clam mother, Latmikaik, was not finished.

This ancient sea goddess, clam mother, shuddered. Once again her jaws opened. One more animal, a human child, crawled out. This giant baby was perhaps female (Chuab) or perhaps male (Uab). The tale is told both ways. But always the story tells how this selfish child brought both disaster and creation to Angaur, the world's first island.

Angaur

This child's appetite was monstrous. Ravenously, the child ate and ate. The child cared about nothing else but eating. "More, more, more! Bring more food. Hurry! More, more, more."

The child quickly grew into a towering giant. As the giant grew, its appetite increased. Soon there was nothing left to eat. Nothing for the giant. Nothing for the people. Every breadfruit and coconut had been devoured. The sea waters were empty. Even the smallest reef fish had been netted and swallowed.

But the giant demanded. "Bring food! If you have nothing else, bring me your children. I am hungry. I must eat!”

At first, the people of Angaur whimpered in fear. But then as their children began disappearing one after another, they whispered. “The lagoon is empty. The jungle has no banana nor breadfruit. Every coconut is gone. We must save our children."

The people waited until the giant was sleeping. Quickly they stacked coconut stalks around the slumbering body and then lit the wood.

The giant woke confused and in pain. He jumped to his feet, but already the burning flames formed a blazing wall that allowed no escape, He stared at the people. For the first time, he saw their fear and anguish. For the first time, he understood how cruel and selfish he had been.

“It is right that I die! I have taken with thoughtless greed. Now I must give back." The giant spoke no more. His enormous body trembled. Slowly he toppled down, down, down. Flesh and bones shattered into hundreds of pieces, flying in all directions. Each piece became new land.

The giant’s flesh and bones became the many islands of Palau. Each place kept the characteristics of the part of the body from which it had come.

Map of Palau

Airai was formed from the bead. People from Airai are known for their wit and wisdom.

Ngaraard is where the stomach landed. Here the people are famous for their good cooking and great appetites.

Aimeliik is a part of the big island of Babeldaub, where the land is wet and moist. It rains every day. Aimeliik is where the giant’s penis (or the vagina of the giantess) landed. Water regularly flows at Aimeliik.

You might wonder about the people of Angaur. After the fire had burned to ashes, the people searched through the coals. There they found a part of the body. The giant's feet had stayed on Angaur. The brave people of Angaur to this day are known for their swiftness-and their courage!

Source:

Pacific Island Legends: Tales from Micronesia, Melanesia, Polynesia and Australia.

Nancy Bo Flood, Beret E. Strong, William Flood

1991

                                                               Pages: 28 - 32