THE CHILDREN WHO LIVED IN A TREE HOUSE

This is based on a folktale of the Wakamba people of eastern

Kenya. They are known today for their dancing and music, but this story comes from much earlier times.

The school stood in the dry dusty plain within sight of Mount Kenya with rocks and thorn trees and the occasional baobab. “They call it ‘the tree with its roots in the sky’ because it seems to have been planted upside-down,” their teacher told them. “That’s boring,” said a boy who should have had better manners.

“It’s only a tree.” “Look at the way its branches spread out. Imagine having a home right at the top!” “Sounds weird!” “More than weird. Bewitched ...” There were once three children who lived in a tree. Their father was a clever man, a skilled hunter, but his wife died. “How do I make sure my children are safe while I am away?” he asked himself. Not far away, in the plain, stood a wide-trunked baobab tree. “That looks good. I could build a home for them in the branches.” Because the trunk was too smooth to climb, he carved wooden spikes and hammered them in to make a ladder. Then he hauled up pieces of wood, tied them together with creepers and made a fine little house. With more creepers he fashioned a rope-ladder. He tied this to a branch, knocked out all the spikes and then he knew it was ready. His two sons and his daughter were thrilled with their new home. Animal skins made a soft sleeping place. Rough wooden stools to sit on. Calabashes to store food and water. Magnificent! “I shall go hunting each day for food and I shall be back with you each evening. While I am away, you must pull up the rope-ladder and never let it down for anyone except me.” “But the leaves and branches make it difficult to see,” said the eldest boy. “How can we be sure it is you?” “I shall sing a special song to you. Musili-musilope, Let down the rope! Always listen for that.” So the children lived happily and safely. They listened to the birds and watched the world around them, sheltered from the sun by the branches and protected by the smooth trunk of the baobab. In the evening, their father brought home buffalo or antelope meat and gourds of fresh water. He would sing out Musili-musilope, Let down the rope! ... and his children would know it was safe to let down the ladder. However, in a cave among the rocks towards the mountain lived a witch. She had watched all that was going on and had heard the hunter’s little song. And the children looked good to eat. So one day when he was far away, she crept to the ground underneath the tree and sang, in her high squeaky voice, Musili-musilope, Let down the rope! “You’re not our father!” shouted the children. “Go away! You’re a witch.” One of the boys grabbed a log and threw it down hard. It hit the witch on the head and she ran away, hurt and furiously angry. “It’s my voice,” she realised. “I must change it.” So she magicked her spells, drank horrible mixtures and stung her tongue with a scorpion. Then she went back to the baobab tree and sang, in a very different deep manly voice, Musili-musilope, Let down the rope! The children believed it was their father and they let down the ladder. Oh, how they screamed when her old wicked face appeared at the door of their tree house. It made no difference. She tucked them under one scrawny arm, climbed down, and took them to her cave where they were guarded by a fierce baboon that was her slave. The father came home from hunting and found the tree house empty. He called and searched in vain. So he went to the village where he had once lived, taking with him a fine leopard skin from his hunting. There he visited a shrunken old man who also knew some magic, but only used it to do good. “Please take this skin as a present,” he said to the old man, “and tell me where my children are.” A while later, a voice that seemed to come out of the smoke from the fire said, “At the end of the path which goes north to the mountain three children are working in a field beside a cave, and a witch stands watching them.” Taking his bow and his best arrows, the father walked to the north and as dusk fell, he found the cave. Softly, he called, Musili-musilope, Always have hope! The children screamed, the baboon panicked, the witch ran out of her cave – and the hunter shot three arrows through her heart. As she lay dying, she said, “Cut off my little finger and throw it in the fire.” So he did. Out of the flames came all the people the witch had ever harmed. They thanked the man who had saved them, rejoiced with the children, and took care that no harm ever came to the little house in the baobab tree. And the children of that school in Kenya never thought of baobab trees as boring after that.