First-prize Story JEWELS

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1025, 16 July 1930, Page 16

First-prize Story JEWELS

Under the rugged cliffs where green ferns and shrubs leaned down from the brown earth, Danokai dwelt. Dario - kai was tall and strong and handsome, not quite of the world of men, and not quite of the world of gods, whereas Viwa, the wonderful maiden who also dwelt under the cliffs, was all of that latter world. She had come to Danokai out of the sea one night, for, she told him, her home was very dull and lustreless compared with the world where Danokai dwelt. Danokai himself could see that, comparing the dark water which lapped on the brown shingle with his own world of sunshine and shadow; but always he cherished the fear that some day Viwa would return to the sea, and be lost to him for ever. Sometimes Viwa would fly with the sea-birds which haunted her home: sometimes she wove beautiful things from the moonshine that fell on the beach, but always she remembered to return and meet Danokai under the shadow of the ferns and trees. There came a time, however, when Viwa forgot to come. Frequently, now, Danokai had to keep his tryst alone, and when, with his heart full of anxiety, he asked Viwa why, she only laughed, and in the music of hexlaugh ter Danokai temporarily forgot all else. One day when she was absent from tho trysting place, Danokai turned for aid to a white sea-gull which knew and loved him. “Only guide me to Viwa,” he pleaded. “That is all I ask.” And the seagull obeyed. On, on, until at last they came to a cave set deep in the cliffside. With a bright Hash of wiixgs, the seagull wheeled high and was gone. Danokai went forward. There in the shadows sat Viwa, singing to herself. Before her-was a great heap of shining objects, into which she continually plunged her hands, laughing as they trickled through her lingers in a scintillating stream. For a moment Danokai was struck dumb by their beauty, then rage and jealousy once more overwhelmed him. Striding forward he llung Viwa aside, and bent over tho heap. “So this is what has kept you from me!” he exclaimed bitterly. “You have allowed your love for me to be usurped by these—mere baubles of men!” He thrust his hands again and again into the jewels, flinging them out into the silent sea. As they touched the water they seemed to dissolve, and the sun that shone down caught on a thousand coloured lights which gleamed and purled on the waves. The green of emeralds, the soft cream of pearls, the red of fiery rubies, and the blue of sapphires, all were there, and still are today. With a great cry Viwa sprang past Danokai and plunged, too, into the sea. "My jewels! My beautiful jewels!” she cried. And suddenly Danokai realised what he had done. Standing near the water, he called upon the gods, in his grief, to give him back his Viwa. The gods heard, and they were merciful, and presently Danokai no longer stood on the beach. The sea lapped on a beautiful silver substance that men have christened sand, and through the water came the voice of Viwa, crying: “I forgive, Danokai. I forgive and love you!” Today, if you stand by the seu, you will hear it still, the jewelled waves sobbing out their eternal song of love and forgiveness on the silver breast of Danokai. —Red Star (Jean Mclndoc). Second-prize Story THE WIND AND THE IRISES Many, many years ago there was a wonderful garden. Trees nodded mysterious messages to one another, little breezes swirled round the tree trunks, humming, birds filled the air with music and twittering, and evening breezes wafted the perfume of a myriad flowers to a slim crescent moon. And when night let fall her dark curtain, and the stars were lit. blue-eyed dryads would come, laughing and on tip-toe, to play the night through. Slim they were, and tall, with soft gold hair tossing on fair shoulders. When they danced, drowsy birds would watch through half-closed eyes, and the flowers would sway gently. A loyal, adoring troop of elves followed the maidens with reed pipe and faery violin. Clad in green were they, from the tops of their gay little pointed hats to the tips of tiny toes. And when they played, the trees would listen and nod gently, while the woodland folk came and sat round in a circle, listening with rapt attention. Then, when the merry-making was at its height, would come the wind, taking long strides, his long, darkblue cloak billowing out behind him as he walked, his great dark eyes smiling and tender. He would watch till they finished their dance, and call to them then in his husky voice, and they would run to him, pulling him down with soft fingers, pulling off his cloak, smoothing his tossed hair, dragging off his heavy boots. They would sooth his brow with fluttering fingers and at last lull him to sleep with little, crooned lullabies. Before dawn tinged the east a rosy hue, they would waken him, and send him, smiling, on his way. And they would go back to their haunts, gathering dew-drops as they went.

On one of these mornings, however, one of the elves, lagging, heard strange voices. A little cold shiver ran down his back, for he recognised the voices as those of the goblins, their enemies.

“Aha.” chuckled one. in a throaty whisper, “tonight we’ll chase those elves and maidens. Won’t we make them slave for us.”

The elf slipped away unseen, and then stood, frightened. “What can I do?” lie shivered. “The wind isn’t coming tonight. I can’t tell the others; they’ll only be scared. I’ll have to look for the wind, that’s ’all.” And he slipped away. All that day the goblins planned, and the dryads and elves—excepting one—slept. And when night came they brushed their hair, and stepped forth. The elves had just tuned up their instrumnets, when, from afar, they spied their advancing enemies. With little screams of terror they turned to flee, but they were surrounded.

They had given up hope, and were huddled together, when they heard a singing overhead. The wind hung low, his cloak outheld. “Jump in, my children! Quickly! Fear not!” he sang. * “1 am here! Here is your brother! Come!”

With little cries of relief they clung to the cloak, and he floated away with them. Any many miles away from the garden he murmured gently over them, and then allowed them to flutter to the ground. Next day butterflies found a patch of new flowers, with spear-like leaves guarding them. And the wind called them irises.

—Maid of the Pines (Beryl Cranston.)