Byri’s Magic

- Y.Madhuri

“We must leave, Mother,” Lootha pleaded. “Let us escape tonight. The King’s men will be here.”

“No, son,” Byri was calm as the quiet morning lake. “If I do magic for the King’s joy, there will be

drought. If I don’t, the King will bring it upon us. There is no escape for me.”

“There is, mother, there is. It’s the sensible thing to do. They will kill you! The King’s men will kill you!”

“That is just what they might do,” Byri nodded. “But, you must understand Lootha, that I cannot leave

the village. If the King’s men do not find me here, they will burn the village. They will take our corn and

they will kill our people. You see son, I must keep them safe.”

“We can all go mother,” Lootha begged. “With your magic you can kill the King’s men and... and...” He

stopped midway.

Byri’s eyes flashed, “Magic isn’t for killing, Lootha. Magic is for doing good. You are going and I am

staying. Before you go, I will give you the clear water. Put it down in the right place and it will give you a

rich land.”

“How will I find that rich land?” said Lootha. “I don’t have your magic.”

“The birds will guide you,” said Byri and rose to gather the things she needed.

Byri was the wise woman and the magic woman of the village.

All morning, she gathered sticks and herbs and water and sap. All afternoon, she pounded and pasted,

she rubbed and scrubbed and she dropped them all in the big pot. She muttered and chanted while she

stirred the pot through the evening.

She caught the hot steam off the pot in her bare hands and kept pouring it in a small pot. After the sun

slipped down, when the stars began to twinkle and the owls began to flap their wings, and the monkeys

chattered and the birds chittered the end of the day, she was done. Her hands were blistered red and

she must be hurting but she was smiling.

She dipped her hand in the small pot and out she drew, instead of the steam, a gauzy cloth of blue and

laid it on the ground. On this, she tilted the big pot. Clear water, sparkling like the stars above, poured

into the cloth.

Pulling the corners together, she tied them in a careful knot. When she lifted the pack, Lootha wasn’t

surprised that the magic water stayed within. Not a drop leaked.

That very night, Lootha and the villagers bid goodbye to Byri and made their way away, far away from

the village.

They walked far and long, they walked until their legs ached. All the while, Lootha thought of his

mother. He looked up at the sky every few minutes. The birds Byri had promised were nowhere. He,

Lootha, needed them to lead him to their new land.

On the third day, the villagers were tired. They were losing heart. The sun blazed. Their skin burnt, their

tongues were parched, they hadn’t eaten for a day now.

“Fool’s run,” said one. “That’s all this is. Why did we leave the village behind? It didn’t give us riches, but

it filled our bellies each day!”

Lootha almost gave up. His mother! He had left his mother behind! Was she alive? Had the King’s men

got her?

“Birds!” a woman shouted.

Lootha’s head shot up. Six green birds flew so high, they were like drops of green in the clouds. Lower

and lower they dropped until they were right above them, hovering in the air.

The signal! This was their land!

Lootha looked down at the ground in dismay. Cracked and barren as if a hundred years had gone by

without a drop of water. This couldn’t be their home! The trees were rough and dry. Not a leaf sprung

from them. Not a blade of grass stood on the ground.

Out of nowhere three monkeys came scampering and climbed a tree. A slow smile lit up Lootha’s face.

He set the gauze pack down with its clear magic water.

“You are mad, Lootha,” the villagers grumbled. “This is not the place.”

“You don’t have your mother’s magic. You will kill us all.”

Lootha took no notice. He untied the knots and spread the cloth as carefully as his mother had tied it.

More monkeys came scampering. And more birds, red and black, black and red.

Right in front of their eyes, the cracks in the dry ground began smoothing in.

“Look, look at the birds!” they cried.

One moment the black birds were flying ahead of the red ones. The next moment they turned right

around and faced the red ones, except the red birds weren’t red any more.

They were a deep purple. They squawked and they flew high up in the air and poof, they were gone.

“Here, here, the tree isn’t dead,” shouted a villager.

A single leaf sprung out of a tree. And another, and another. Clumps of grass rose from the ground.

A cock crowed. Dogs barked.

“Berries!” cried the men.

They ran around filling their bellies with blue berries. They collected more in their baskets.

Down below, the ground turned soft and wet as if the first splash of rain had fallen. The smell of fresh

earth soaked in the first rains filled them all.

The clear water in Byri’s magic cloth was spreading. The cloth itself shimmered and disappeared.

That little patch of clear water grew and grew until it became a stream and then a river. It flowed over

the mountain and through the valley until formed a giant lake.

The villagers dug the ground in the valley and sowed the seeds. They dug a small pond away from the

river and built their huts around it and they called their village Byri.

Dark clouds hung low in the sky, bringing rains. Soon, they had a good crop and they forgot about their

old village. Out of nowhere, deer appeared at the lake to slake their thirst. Crocodiles slipped in.

One day, an elephant came, swaying on her feet. Her skin hung in folds. She must have smelt the water,

for she came at a stumbling trot on weak legs.

After she had a long drink, “Where do you come from?” asked Bodi, the first of the crocodiles.

“I am Srona, the personal elephant of the King,” said the elephant with pride.

“Hah!” said Duma, the second crocodile. “What a tall tale! You look as if not a string of hay has gone into

your belly for a month. You look more like the pauper of the kingdom, not the King’s elephant.”

“What happened?” asked Bodi.

Srona hung her head. “It began when the King asked the magic woman to do magic for his joy.”

“What did she do? What did this witch do? What magic did she do?” asked Duma.

“Take her name with respect, crocodile!” snapped Srona. “Byri was magic woman of the highest kind.”

“Was?” said Bodi.

“She didn’t,” said Srona in a small voice, ignoring Bodi’s question. “She didn’t do a moment’s magic.”

“Pah! She doesn’t know her magic then,” said Duma.

“If you see the magic she knows, your jaw will snap,” Srona rumbled.

“What happened then?” asked Bodi.

“She sent the villagers away. She sent her son away.”

“Why did she do that?” said Duma. “They should have fought the King.”

“A few farmers can’t fight a King’s army,” said Srona. “All they had were sickles and hoes. He would

slaughter them with his sharp swords. And well...”

“What is it?” asked Bodi.

“He would have let us loose to trample the village,” Srona hung her head.

“And you would trample a village just like that?” asked Duma. “You don’t even eat humans!”

“It’s the drums,” said Srona, head low in misery. “The King’s men beat the drums to drive us mad and we

rush away from them and... and...”

“What happened to Byri?” asked Bodi.

“The King rode on me to the village. He ordered Byri to come to court. She refused.” Srona fell silent.

“So that’s how it ended!” said Bodi. “The King killed her!”

Srona nodded. “And he ordered the death of her village, wherever they are!” She started turning away.

“Wait!” said Bodi. “What happened to the son and the villagers?”

“Dead, I suppose. Who could survive the drought! If they aren’t dead, the King will find them.” Srona

took a long drink before she spoke again, “Before she died, Byri said to me.”

‘Fear not drums, mighty Srona

Dip your trunks in clear water

Drums be music to you

A favour to Byri you will do.’

The crocodiles remained silent.

“When she died, drought hit the entire kingdom. The King let us loose with a few men to find our own

food. He said we emptied his granary!” Srona sniffled. “Now, I must tell my herd that I found water.”

The next morning, dust rose in the distance. The villagers shaded their eyes and watched.

“They are here!” whispered Lootha.

The elephants made straight for the lake deep in the valley where there was water enough for them.

Not far behind the elephants were the King’s men. They came to the village Byri, they saw the tall corn

fields and they saw the lake.

Most of all, they saw the villagers of Byri. They recognised one another. The villagers stood with sickles

and hoes to fight them off. The King’s men were weak without food and they were few. They knew they

couldn’t fight the villagers.

So, they beat their drums, they clanged the tin plates and they blew the trumpets to let the elephants

loose on the village. For those were the King’s orders, to kill every man, woman of the village.

The elephants turned around from the lake.

The villagers were scared, but this time, they were going to stand and defend their village. They were far

from the King’s army. This was a land to keep and to share, not to lose it all.

They stood tall and brave, waiting for the elephants to rush at them.

A strange thing happened.

The elephants formed a chain, tail to snout to tail to snout. They walked around the village. They

surrounded it and the small pond in the centre of the village. There they stood without moving. The

elephants had drunk the clear waters. Byri’s words came true. The drums had no power over them.

The King’s men stood helpless. They understood what Byri had said in her last breath.

Live under no yoke nor worry

Live in peace with Byri

Where elephants’ trumpet blows

Where clear water flows.

The drums and the tin plates and the trumpets fell from their hands. The King’s men dropped to their

knees in front of Lootha and begged forgiveness.

“My mother!” Lootha whispered.

They told him what had happened. Lootha looked away. The men feared his wrath. Lootha looked at the

elephants and at the lake. He looked at his villagers and at the King’s men.

“What is done is done,” he said. “I forgive you my mother’s death. You can live here in peace.”

So it was that the village of Byri lived in peace amid the hills, far from the King and his armies, with the

King’s elephants guarding them forever after.