Episode 47 – Sister of Bones – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 47 Show Notes

Source: West African Folklore

This week on MYTH, we’re headed back to western Africa for a rather unique tale. You’ll learn that there’s no shame in needing a little help, that the right music can make a crocodile cry, and that the undead are weird. Then, in Gods and Monsters, we’ll meet the deadly vampire disguised as summer fun. This is the Myths Your Teacher Hated podcast, where I tell the stories of cultures from around the world in all of their original, bloody, uncensored glory. Modern tellings of these stories have become dry and dusty, but I’ll be trying to breathe new life into them. This is Episode 47, “Sister of Bones”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
Today’s story comes once again from the fantastic African folktale anthology “The Girl Who Married a Lion”, by Alexander McCall Smith. It’s a fun, creepy story to take us into the Halloween season (which, for me, begins after Labor Day and runs all the way through September and October), and it’s one you probably haven’t heard before so settle in and let’s get spoopy.
There once lived a family in a village in a very dry place. They had two daughters, although they frankly wished that they’d had more girls; there was a hell of a lot of work for the women to do each day. There was cooking to be done in the morning, then maize to pound into flour and a yard to sweep in the afternoon, and other people’s children to look after all through the day.
The hardest work by far, though, was gathering water. Sure, during the short rainy season each year, there was a spring near the village with enough good, clear water for everyone to drink their fill, but during the rest of the year, when it was hot and arid, the spring would dry up. Once that happened, the only place to get water was at the river, which was far, far away from the village. People would have to leave with the sunrise in order to be back by noon with water, which would all be used by the next morning, requiring a new trip each and every day.
Carrying the calabashes full of water back from the river was hot, exhausting work. The sun would glare angrily down at them from the cloudless sky, and a wind as hot and dry as an oven would sweep across the plains from the hills to bake their skin. It was a lonely trek, as well; often, the only companions a body would have on this daunting trek would be the lizards scuttling through the dust and the cicadas screaming in the bush. It was nearly enough to drive you mad.
For years, it had been the duty of the elder sister to fetch water from the river. Her little sister was not nearly as strong or reliable as she was (even if it had somehow still been her job when she was the same age and size as her sister was now, but such is the way of younger siblings). Any time she brought the issue up, her parents would tell her that her sister’s arms were much too thin, and her legs too unsuited to walking such a long distance, especially with such a burden to bear. They said that the full calabash would feel twice as heavy if her younger sister carried it, and so the elder sister continued to be the one to fetch the water day in and day out. The younger sister did the at-home chores, such as plucking chickens for supper and other things which didn’t require a lot of upper body strength or endurance.
Although the elder sister might not have believed it, her parents were not unaware that this arrangement was unfair. They weren’t showing favoritism – really. They were actually quite worried about their daughter’s near total lack of strength. They had asked many people for advice, and had even gone to a witch doctor for help. He had examined the girl, pinched her thin arms, and given them a paste to rub on them. It was supposed to help her arms grow thicker and stronger, but by the time they ran out of the paste, the girl’s arms were no bigger or stronger. They didn’t know what else to do. “I guess she will just always be weak,” said the mother to the father. “We’ll just have to accept it, I guess.”
The younger daughter overheard them talking and was saddened by the news. She hated not being able to keep up with the other girls, and she especially hated being a burden on her sister. She had wished and hoped that the paste would make her strong so she could help out more, but it had been no use. She sighed and resigned herself to being weak forever. At least there was still plenty of work to be done at home, so she could still make herself useful.
The elder daughter had grown used to her daily trek during the dry season, and she soon fell into a routine, always fetching water from the same place. There was a small pool there, formed by a bend in the river, and her feet (along with many others) had worn a path straight down to the water’s edge. It was also the place that many of the local animals came to drink, and each morning, she could tell by the footprints left in the dust just who had been there before her that day.
She knew the paw prints of the leopard (who always drank at night) from the marks of the shy daiker (a type of antelope), who only came to the pool with the first light of dawn. Each day, without fail, she would walk the long, dusty trail to the pool, and dip her calabashes in until they were full of cold, clear water. Then, she would swallow a few mouthfuls herself to slake her thirst before heading back along the even hotter and drier path home in the late morning sun.
On one particular day, the sun had been extraordinarily fierce, and the elder sister arrived at the pool drained and exhausted from her trek. She felt as if all of the strength had been leeched out of her limbs by that godawful sun, but she still had a job to do and a long way to go until she could rest. With a deep, exhausted sigh, she leaned down to dip the calabashes into the pool. As she did so, however, she felt the world go sideways. Darkness gathered at the edges of her vision, and the land around her went wobbly. She tried to stand up again and back away from the pool, but that just made the spinning worse. The poor girl lost her footing and tumbled weakly into the pool.
The current dragged her out of the pool and into the river almost immediately. She fought desperately against the icy claws of the water, but it was no use. She had never learned how to swim, given that the river was the only body of water around big enough to swim in, and it was too far away and too dangerous for such idle diversions. Besides, she was still completely exhausted under the surge of panic, and she just didn’t have the strength she needed. She tried to scream, but could only utter a spluttering gasp as the river water surged down her throat. Only the monkeys in the trees along the water’s edge were there to watch as she vanished beneath the surface and drowned. They stared for a moment at the ripples that marked where she had been, but they soon went back to whatever it was that monkeys did and forgot her.
That evening, as the sun began to set, her family knew that something terrible must have happened to the girl. It had never taken her this long to return before. Unfortunately, night was falling and her father knew that it was far too dangerous to go searching for her in the darkness. There were lions in them thar hills! That would end with both of them lost.
It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but her father forced himself to wait until morning to go searching for his beloved daughter. As soon as the sun crested the horizon, he gathered all of the men in the village and went out looking for his little girl. Her trail was clear and easy, her footprints stark in the dust along the path out of the village. They followed them all the way to the little pool, where they vanished at the water’s edge. No prints led back away from the water. With a loud cry of deep anguish and sorrow, her father called off the search. He knew now that his daughter was dead.
The entire village mourned the girl’s loss. She had been a charming, happy young woman, and everyone had loved her. It was a double whammy for the younger daughter, though. With her sister gone, she had no choice but to try and make the journey to the river on her own. There was no one else who had the time. She lay awake long into the night, staring at the empty mat where her sister should have been sleeping and wept silently at her loss.
She woke in the morning before the sun rose, having tossed and turned the whole night through. Her eyes felt raw from crying and lack of sleep, but she rose anyway. She had a job to do, no matter how shitty she felt. She set out along the dusty trail in pre-dawn dimness, and watched the sun rise slowly as she walked. She tried to distract herself as she traveled, but her mind kept fixating on two things: her sister’s death and the question of whether she would be able to carry the calabashes home again.
It took her until late in the morning to reach the river, and until late afternoon to make her way back to the village. It was only by taking frequent rest stop on her long, hot, dusty way back that she managed at all. By the end of the long journey, the poor girl was wrung out and exhausted, certain she’d never be able to summon the strength to walk ever again. Of course, life didn’t give a fuck if she was tired: she’d only brought enough water back for one day, so she’d have to set out again tomorrow to make the same back-breaking trip again. And again. And again. She’d have to go every day until the rains came again.
The next morning, she set out again, returning later in the day than before. And again the day after that, returning as the sun was beginning to set. And again on the third day, returning just after sunset. She didn’t know how she would make the trip again the next day, but just the same, she rose before the sun and set out. She walked and walked and walked and, eventually, found herself on the riverbank again.
Exhausted, the young girl collapsed on the riverbank, dropping the empty calabashes beside her. She gasped like a fish until she could catch her breath, then rested a bit longer. Looking out over the deceptively gentle-looking waters, she began to sing a song she had composed on her long journeys the last few days. It was a song for and about her lost sister, telling how she had come to the river and been lost, and how she was missed by her family.
The river was home to many crocodiles. The humans were adept at avoiding these huge predators, but other animals were not so lucky. It was often easy pickings, so the crocodiles would often come here and sun themselves on the sandy banks or lie in wait just below the water, hoping for a tasty dumbass to lumber into jaw’s reach. They heard the girl’s song from her resting place on the bank, and they were moved by the raw emotion in it. One and all, they swam quietly closer to better hear her mournful singing. They felt for her loss and wept for her (crocodile tears, but real in this case).
Soon, the song finished up, and she fell silent. The young girl didn’t move, though, still trying to gather the strength she’d need for the awful trip back under her heavy burden of life-giving water. The crocodiles swam to the middle of the river to confer, unbeknownst to the girl. They had been here the day the elder sister had drowned, and they knew where her body lay. The girl’s song had mourned for the loss of her sister, and for the difficulty of moving on without having her body to lay to rest and grieve over. They could do something for her. They could retrieve her sister’s bones for her.
The crocodiles dove down into the muck and fished out the bones buried there in the mud. They brought them one by one to a flat rock on the other side of the river, assembling them piece by piece into the skeleton of the dead girl. When it was complete and laid out on the rock, they carried the whole thing across the water and pushed it ashore near the younger sister.
This next bit is not explained at fucking all, but somehow, the crocodiles were able to call back the girl’s spirit and infuse it into the assembled bones. The bone girl sat up, stretched, and looked over at her amazed, terrified younger sister. She smiled at her good-hearted little sister to try and reassure her (although the effect was a little ghastly). “My dear, sweet sister! I’m so sorry to have brought you tears.” Her voice was changed by death and decay, but still the younger sister knew it immediately. Tears brimming in her eyes, she rushed across the space between them to embrace her undead sister. “Don’t worry, sis. I’ll carry the water back to the village for you. I am still the stronger of us, I think.”
She lifted the calabashes up effortlessly, bearing them easily as she walked alongside her relieved sister. As they approached the village, however, she pulled up short, forcing the younger sister to stop as well. “I have missed you, my sister, and I am glad to be able to help you, but my life belongs to the crocodiles now, and they do not want me to leave the river behind. I’m sorry, but I have to go back. You can carry the water from here easily enough though.” She handed over the calabashes, then hugged her sister tight. “I love you, sis.”
The next morning, before the sun rose, the younger sister awoke as usual and set out for the river. Her heart was lighter than it had been in days, and her steps easier. When she reached the river, sure enough, she found her sister waiting there for her. The elder sister would fill the calabashes in the river and then carry them as she walked beside her little sister most of the way home. As they walked, they would laugh and sing and tell each other stories of what had happened in the river or in the village (depending on who was talking).
The little girl was happy again, and everyone in the village was amazed at how strong she had turned out to be when she needed to. In a dark part of their hearts, they had all expected the young girl to drop dead on one of her arduous treks and they had thought it would be a mercy. They had thought her too weak to bear the heavy burden, and the village couldn’t afford dead weight.
The girl tried to share her happiness with her parents. She told them that she did not fetch the water alone every day: she was helped each day by her sister, who had come back. They didn’t want to hear it. “Your sister is dead, my daughter. Your daydreams and fantasies won’t change that. Let her go and let us move on.” “She’s not gone, though. I can prove it! Come with me to the river tomorrow, and I’ll show you!”
They were irritated by her nagging, but she was insistent and they finally agreed to go with her just to get her to shut the fuck up about her sister magically coming back already. It was making it that much harder to bear their grief. They figured that, if they could show her that it was just a delusion, she could let this childish fantasy go. They were shocked, therefore, when they walked up to the river and saw the skeletal girl sitting on the rocks exactly as their daughter had said she would be. There were tears and hugs all around and, in gratitude to the crocodiles for giving them back their lost daughter, they set out some meat on the rocks for the crocodiles. They gulped the gift down with big, toothy smiles, then swam out to the middle of the river to watch the blissful family reunion. And the crocodiles were happy.
I haven’t been able to find this particular story anywhere but this one collection of tales, so I am grateful to have stumbled across this fantastic anthology. There are dozens of amazing stories collected here, so if you like these stories from Zimbabwe and Botswana, I highly recommend checking it out. I don’t know if there is a moral to this story per se, but I also don’t know if it really needs one. I think it’s the kind of story that just needs to be accepted for what it is, nothing more and nothing less. With one of the happier endings we’ve had in this podcast, it’s time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about the personalities and history of one of the gods or monsters from this week’s pantheon that was not discussed in the main story. This week’s monster is the bloodthirsty firefly known as the adze.
In the folklore of the Ewe people of Togo and Ghana, there are stories of a shapeshifting insect vampire. Most stories say that the adze hunts in the form of a tiny insect, usually a firefly although some stories say the adze can turn into others as well. Like most vampires, the adze feed on the blood of the living, though the adze is known for having a special fondness for the blood of children and infants. Most of the time, they can survive without killing any of their victims. In times where the adze has been thwarted from feeding for long enough, however, it will go mad with bloodlust. In such cases, multiple victims will die in rapid succession, and even those victims who survive will become infected with a deadly disease, which is usually fatal.
Their natural form is that of a corpse candle or will-o-the wisp, though they are more commonly hidden inside a host, often disguised as a human. In human form, the adze is no less bloodthirsty, and has been known to attack and kill people, devouring raw organs with special delight. In human form, the adze can possess human hosts, usually unwillingly (although there are stories of warlocks and sorcerers willingly offering themselves up as hosts in exchange for power). Once bonded with the adze, the host becomes a shapeshifter, able to change forms at will. The stories claim that, once captured, the adze host loses access to the shapeshifting magic and will be trapped in human form.
Once trapped in their human body, the adze is vulnerable to death by any means that will kill a garden-variety human (because they are one), but they are extremely difficult to kill in any other form, so they are extremely wary of being caught. They usually wander the night in their firefly forms, slipping into homes through tiny cracks and crevices to drain their victims of their blood and spreading their horrible illness. Many believe that stories of the adze are an attempt to explain the deadly spread of malaria through villages, which are spread by mosquitoes. This might also explain why the stories say that the only protections from the adze are leaving no tiny openings for them to enter, which is nigh impossible without mosquito netting, or to leave out bowls of coconut water and palm oil, which the adze is supposedly able to feed off of in a pinch (though it won’t totally satiate the vampire and won’t prevent the eventual bloodlust and feeding frenzy). So if you find yourself traveling in western Africa, make sure you bring your netting to keep you safe from the deadly, blood-sucking vampire firefly that wanders the night.
That’s it for this episode of Myths Your Teacher Hated. Keep up with new episodes on our Facebook page, on iTunes, on Stitcher, on TuneIn, and on Spotify, or you can follow us on Twitter as @HardcoreMyth and on Instagram as Myths Your Teacher Hated Pod. You can also find news and episodes on our website at myths your teacher hated dot com. If you like what you’ve heard, I’d appreciate a review on iTunes. These reviews really help increase the show’s standing and let more people know it exists. If you have any questions, any gods or monsters you’d want to learn about, or any ideas for future stories that you’d like to hear, feel free to drop me a line. I’m trying to pull as much material from as many different cultures as possible, but there are all sorts of stories I’ve never heard, so suggestions are appreciated. The theme music is by Tiny Cheese Puff, whom you can find on fiverr.com.
Next time, we’re headed to the Great White North for a brand-new (to us, anyway) trickster spirit. You’ll see why you should never listen to smooth talkers, that whales can live without a lot of things you’d think they’d need, and that even ravens get hangry. Then, in Gods and Monsters, we’ll meet the cannibal cross between a centaur and a werewolf. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.