381: Japanese folklore: Lend Me Your Ears

This week, on Myths and Legends, we're in Japanese folklore with two stories of the power of well-stories.

We'll see a trick for dealing with water zombie neighbors, and how, if you find yourself shouting awkward phrases at birds, you might want to try to get out of the house a little bit more.

The creature is the reason why you shouldn't turn into a boar to eat your children.

This is Myths and Legends, episode 381.

Lend me your ears.

This is the podcast where we tell stories from mythology and folklore.

Some are incredibly popular stories you might think you know, but with surprising origins.

Others are tales that might be new to you, but are definitely worth a listen.

Like we said at the top of the episode, we're back in Japanese folklore with two folktales.

They are more than fairy tales though, because the first one does require a little bit of historical background.

In the early imperial days of Japan, the emperor didn't have an heir.

Oops.

That was actually kind of a funny problem because, at a certain point, there were so many people with claims to the imperial throne, they actually had to spin off two separate clans from the families in question, which I'm sure seemed like a great idea until those clans went to war over who got to be emperor.

In the tale of the Hike, one clan, the Minamoto clan, won out of the Taira clan, also known as the Hika, culminating in the utter defeat of the latter in a a famous naval battle where the six-year-old Tyra claimant was present and also killed when his grandmother grabbed him and leapt overboard to avoid his capture.

We'll get started in the first story: hundreds of years after the war at a graveyard.

The cemetery was empty.

No bodies, no ashes.

This wasn't a mistake.

It was by design.

It was to stop the screaming, the cries in the watery darkness.

The final pleas of terror from men who, even though they had prepared their whole lives for a meeting with death, now thought it might be better to reschedule.

The fishermen saw the Onibee hovering over the bay or dancing on the waves.

Demon fires, thousands of them.

They knew the dead were restless.

They had died in defeat, following their child emperor and dropping overboard.

Off into the water, looking up at the moonlight, warped by the waves, feeling the panic in their minds as their last air left them.

A strange place.

The bay was home to not just the demon lights, not just the crabs that looked like the samurai that died on that day, but on windy and stormy nights, anyone who cared to visit the bay could hear the final cries of a doomed army.

Soon, soon, people began to take the long way around Akamagaseki.

It was a haunted place.

The people who lived there, of course, had no connection to the ghost lights.

The millers and the blacksmiths and the tavern also the money become more and more sparse with each passing year, until they banded together.

Something had to be done.

But what could be done about an army that had already been defeated?

About ghosts and oni that were no longer content to cry out, according to those who made it out of the water, grabbed at the ankles of swimmers, or scraped at the boats of fishermen.

It would not be long until the living added to their number.

A cemetery.

That was the solution they came up with.

Though, no doubt, the bones swayed ragged in the currents.

The years and the fish having taken everything that made them, the people could still be honored.

They had lost, yes, but a cemetery will be built to honor the Hike.

It was an imperfect peace, most tend to be.

There were sightings of oni fires now and then, and voices that whispered from the forest, but after having the first few intrepid fishermen and swimmers brave the bay, the Hikai were, while not at rest, in something of a fitful sleep.

The monks and priests performed the services, and things calmed down.

History no longer reaching up from beyond to grasp the living and pull them down, the stories passed in the legend, in the song, which was how Hoichi knew them.

Hoachi had been playing the biwa forever.

In his earliest memories he was plucking the strings as he listened to his father and uncle talk after dinner.

The boy, born blind, didn't need his eyes to feel the strings or hear the melodies he was able to coax from them, and soon his skills surpassed all of his teachers.

To be a professional musician, even in those times, was a lot like it is today.

The top few might achieve super superstardom, a small percentage might make enough to live off of, and the rest, well, the rest played taverns and street corners.

Hoaichi, luckily, made a friend, a local priest of the Amadaji, a certain branch of Buddhism.

He heard Hoaichi play one night, and after the priest finished sniffling and wiping his eyes, he asked where Hoaichi was staying.

When Hoaichi gestured to the alleyway surrounding him, the priest practically yanked his arm off, saying that the man could stay in the temple, just for the night.

The priest and his accolade enjoyed the music, though, and news of his talent spread a little bit and drew a few pilgrims.

He never really achieved any sort of fame there, but it was enough for him to stay at the temple and have the occasional performance.

It was something of a writer's residency there, where, unencumbered by things like having to make a living, Hoichi could focus on writing his magnum opus.

Inspired by the events of the nearby bay, he told the story of the Hikai, one we've touched on here and there, but I've never told in its entirety.

It's an extremely long epic poem, but at the end, the child emperor's grandmother took hold of him and jumped in the water, gripping the struggling boy until they both stopped moving, rather than allow him to be captured by the rival claimant's forces.

For the few who heard it, it was life-changing.

It's said that even the Oni of the Forest, the Goblins, heard the story of Emperor Entoku and his doomed Taira clan and wept.

Finally, it was finished, and, singing it out for a group enraptured enraptured in stunned silence, Hoichi, though he couldn't witness their faces, could see every one of them.

He heard their laughter and their sobs, their gasps and their relief.

Hoichi, the artist, was complete.

You sleep here, Hoichi heard from the forest.

Hoichi turned his head to face the man.

It was a quiet night at the temple.

The priest and his acolyte were off-seeing to their duties, and he was sitting out plucking the strings of his Biwa.

He said, Yes, he was sleeping for free in the temple.

Times were hard for everyone.

He was just glad to make people feel something, to take them away from their struggles and maybe show them something about themselves and their fellow person.

To make the world a little brighter, a little less cold.

There was a silence, and then

my master, times are not hard for him, the stranger said.

Huaichi placed his Biwa on the ground and dropped to his face.

He was so sorry to be so impudent in the presence of his lord.

The man laughed, saying that he knew Huaichi couldn't see him, and he didn't announce himself.

There was nothing to fear.

Definitely not that he would execute Huaichi for his impudence, as is your right, in this time period, yes, the samurai agreed.

Huaichi asked how he could serve his lord.

He heard the samurai's feet walk on the soft garden grass.

The musician, Huichi, told a beautiful story, a tragic one.

His master wanted to hear that story.

In return, Huaichi would be paid well, and, well, the samurai didn't have to tell the musician.

It never hurt to have a friend like his master.

Huaichi said he would do as his lord commanded.

He would be glad to.

He scooped up his biwa and, hearing the sounds of the samurai in front of him, followed the path into the forest.

It was amazing.

Huaichi couldn't stop beaming.

The priest was very happy for his friend.

He was surprised when he and the acolyte returned and Huaichi was gone.

Huaichi described how the man walked through the woods, but he heard the sword clanking at his side and the armor shuffling over the leaves in the wind.

Guiding him, the samurai held his wrist, and the man's grip was as cold and as strong as iron.

They walked faster than Huaichi usually plodded along, but soon they arrived before a gate, because the samurai shouted for them to open up, and Huaichi heard the unbarring on the other side.

A garden offered fragrant scents, and, soon, Huichi felt the warmth and the expectation of a room full of people, not a feeling he was used to.

A call went up for the lord, the true lord, the daimyo, and a shuffling of screens screens and footsteps peppering the boards hid the whispers until the room was silent.

Hoichi felt the samurai's hand once again, and Huichi's feet felt the stone steps, on the last of which he was advised to leave his sandals.

Polished planks beneath his feet, and the sound of rustling silks in front of him, another voice addressed him, the matron in charge of the household.

She requested his song.

It was the song of the Hike,

the one that made even goblins weep.

Huaichi turned to face her.

It was a long story.

Quick note, it really is.

I posted a link to my print version.

It was a story told over many nights.

Was there a part in particular they wanted to hear?

It was the battle, the final battle.

Hoichi nodded, of course.

He plucked his Biwa, ensuring it was in tune, and began to play.

According to the story, Hoichi was a one-man special effects crew with that Biwa, and when he told the story, he made the strings sound out with the straining of oars and the rushing of ships, the whirr and hiss of arrows, the shouting of men, the clash of steel, and the plunging of the slain into the water.

The people couldn't believe it.

And when he finished that segment, cried out that there was nothing like this in their home province.

This man was the greatest musician in all of the empire.

Huaichi blushed.

He said he was just happy to serve his lord with his song.

The matron of the house told Huaichi that he was to be honored.

The daimyo daimyo was only here for another week, and they requested Hoichi's presence each night for the next six nights to hear the whole story.

Hoichi nodded, but absolutely.

His heart began to beat faster.

He had to hide his shaking hands.

This was it.

It was happening.

If a daimyo thought he was the best in the empire, then he would surely tell others.

Hoichi would travel to his home province and perform for his friends, perhaps even the shogun.

Another thing, the matron said.

They hoped they could count on Hoichi's discretion here.

The daimyo was traveling in private, and no one in Akamagaseki knew he was there.

She asked that he please not tell anyone of these performances.

So, you know, don't don't say anything, please, Hoichi told the priest.

The priest said, of course not, of course not.

He was just happy his friend was getting the recognition he deserved.

Just remember the priest when he was playing for the shogun.

Hoichi laughed, of course.

Hoichi snapped his fingers.

Oh, he wanted to do something.

It wasn't much, but he dug into his pack, but they paid him for his performance.

The priest laughed as Hoichi held out the coins.

No, no, please, it was a kind

he stopped talking.

Hm.

What?

They gave you this coin?

The Daimyu's people?

The priest asked.

Hoichi nodded.

Yeah, why?

Never mind.

It's it's too much, please.

I did it as a kindness.

We'll just wait until you're massively rich and we can build a new temple or something someday.

The priest folded the money back into his friend's palm.

We'll see the next performance, but that will be right after this.

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Follow him, was all the priest told the accolade.

The priest had been called away to do another blessing, but the acolyte had stayed back, tucked into his quarters, waiting for the call.

It was the third night, and Hoichi always left while everyone was engaged doing other things, waiting for the door to slide shut.

The acolyte immediately scooped up his lantern, wrapped his cloak, and slipped out after Hoiichi.

The man disappeared into the forest, arm outstretched, and he moved quickly.

The acolyte's lantern went out before he reached the village, and long after he completely lost sight of Huaichi and the samurai.

How had they moved so fast on such a difficult road?

Not wanting to fail in his one duty that evening, the acolyte went door to door, among the people Huaichi was known to visit and play for.

But they hadn't seen him that night or all week, even, what with him staying up all night and sleeping during the day.

At the glowing window of the last house in the village, the acolyte had to admit failure.

There was always tomo He stopped.

That noise.

A Abiwa was close.

How?

How could it possibly be close, though?

They were on the edge of the village.

There wasn't a manor big enough to house a daimyo and his retinue and keep it all secret.

All that was out here was the cemetery.

The acolyte froze.

The cemetery where they honored the Hikke.

Huaichi was only visible because of the onibi, the demon fires dancing around him.

He was sitting in the rain before the child emperor and Tokuteno's monument, playing his music.

It took two strong servants to drag Hoichi back from the graveyard.

Despite his shouts of curses at them and apologies to his audience, who fled at the first appearance of the acolyte, when the priest returned that night, Finding Hoichi still soaked and raging, the acolyte told him everything.

The priest's instincts about the coin had been right.

It was too old, too weathered, like it had been soaking in salt water for generations.

It was like that because the audience Hoichi played for, they were the subjects of his song.

The Hike,

the defeated emperor, and his ghosts.

Hoichi said it was impossible.

He wouldn't believe it.

This was his big break.

They're demons, ghosts.

What happens when they want to take you with them when they return home?

The priest paced.

He Huaichi could go back, he could.

And there was a way of seeing whether or not the priest and the acolyte were right.

A rustling, and the acolyte returned with what the priest commanded, a paintbrush and ink.

The plan was to do nothing.

The priest had been called away, again,

but before he left, he had the acolyte prepare Huaichi.

It did seem a little too good to be true, which was the only reason Huaichi had let them trace the words to a sutra with their cold ink all over his body that evening.

He was to sit there, completely still, from head to toe, painted in the sutra.

If they weren't ghosts, they would be able to see him, and after a brief embarrassment of being seen in body paint wearing, essentially, sutra underwear, he could get dressed and leave.

If, by chance, they couldn't see him, then the priest's fears were confirmed.

And the pair had saved his life.

All he had to do was sit there completely silently until the ghost left.

So, it was a win-win.

His skin prickled in the chill of the evening as, sitting there cross-legged, Hoichi heard the footsteps approaching.

It was the samurai, calling out.

Hoi Chi, Hoichi didn't move.

All right,

here we go.

Hoichi!

The voice was more commanding, more impatient.

A sigh, and the samurai's armor clanked as he emerged onto the grass, and soon his feet found the wood underneath Huaichi.

Still, nothing.

A chill ran up Huaichi's spine as he could feel the samurai's presence not a meter away, and the samurai was still calling his name.

Huichi had been playing for ghosts this entire time.

For the restless dead, he willed himself to stay as still and as quiet as he could.

His Biwa is here, but where is he?

The samurai said.

I can't disobey my lord.

That would mean my own life.

But all that remains of the Bewa player is his ears

The samurai mused to himself conveniently.

Then Huaichi's eyes widened.

His ears The accolade had drawn everywhere, everywhere but his ears.

He could imagine what the ghost saw, the ears floating out there in the night next to his Biwa.

It would give him away.

From the ghost's perspective, yeah,

he did see the ears, which might be very confusing to you or me, but remember, he was a ghost.

A lot of his friends had turned into angry crabs, and others into, essentially, ghost water zombies that tried to pull people into the bay.

Weird stuff happened.

Worse than weird stuff, though, was disobeying his emperor.

He couldn't go back empty-handed, so you know what?

He would just take the ears as proof.

According to a quick search, it only takes about 8 pounds of pressure to tear a human ear off.

And while the ghost samurai might have thought the ears lingered in the air with an annoying persistence, they didn't put up that much of a fight.

They bled, though, which was weird, but so was being a ghost with crab friends.

friends.

Too bad about that Biwa player being annihilated randomly except for his floating ears.

They all liked him.

Oh well.

He shoved the ears in his pack and went home.

The priest shrieked when he saw Hoichi, sitting there nearly catatonic, meditating like a monk with dry blood all down his sides.

The priest took Hoichi into his arms and begged his forgiveness.

He knew instantly what happened.

It was all his fault.

Well, it was his acolyte's fault, but he trusted trusted the acolyte.

At the sound of the priest, Hoichi, after holding it in all night, burst out sobbing.

The priest paid for the doctor to see Hoichi, who healed him as well as he could anyway.

He was a doctor, not a wizard.

And Hoichi continued the only thing that he knew, and the only thing that he loved, playing the Biwa.

Except this time, the crowds began to grow.

The doctor and the priest told people about the player that even the ghosts had to hear, and they came to listen to his songs.

His strange adventure, as the story calls it, spread far and wide, and soon many nobles and people of great importance were traveling to Akamagaseki to hear not just the story of the Hike, but of the curious epilogue that had transpired.

Hoichi became a rich man, but from the time of his adventure on,

he was known only by the name Miminashi Hoichi, or Hoichi the Earless.

This, as far as I can tell, is a fairly famous story in Japanese folklore.

And I like that it's a legend about a legend.

I also like that, as far as I can tell, the ghosts, the ure, didn't mean him any ill will.

The main translation I used was from the late 1800s, so words like ghosts and demons might carry a more negative connotation than might have been intended in the original folktales.

The title for one of the more original versions wasn't focused on Hoichi, but called secret biwa music that caused the yure to lament, with yure meaning something like a faint spirit, someone who died in a powerful emotional state.

enabling them to interact with the world they left.

I like to think that the ear thing was a misunderstanding, and that these spirits just wanted to listen to Hoichi's music, to process their own story, and move on.

Speaking of sacrifice for something you love, we'll jump right into the second story today about a very, very, very, very, very lonely farmer.

Alright, there you go.

The farmer smiled at the crane.

Then he frowned.

Talking to birds now, this was a fun new stop on his journey of loneliness.

Sure, he scooped the bird up from the ground, pulled the hunter's arrow free, and washed the wound out of kindness.

Mainly for kindness, but if he was being honest, it was also mainly for the company.

And when you delight in the company of a shrieking, wounded bird, you know things aren't going too well, socially speaking.

Also romantically, the farmer's mother used to pester him about getting married.

The thing no one tells you about adulthood is that it is really hard to make friends.

For the protagonist, it was doubly so for dating in his mid-30s, in a time when people were matched up in their teens.

So yeah.

He took really good care of the bird because even its shrieks were better than the oppressive, all-consuming quiet of his daily life.

And to be clear, there is nothing wrong with being single or living alone, just that this farmer would have preferred otherwise.

Taking the crane outside and setting it down on the grass, the farmer could barely tell it had been hit.

He stitched up the side and cleaned the blood from the feathers, so now it was a brilliant white.

Be careful to avoid hunters the farmer smiled and then frowned again.

The crane seemed to look at him with judgment, but maybe the farmer was putting that on himself, seeing as he was even awkward when saying goodbye to a bird.

Also, be careful to avoid hunters.

Really?

That's what he was going to say?

As if the bird didn't know that and wasn't already doing that literally all the time.

Great, real great, farmer.

His self-talk wasn't any better than his regular talk.

The crane flapped away without a word, because it was a crane, and the farmer went to bed.

Went to bed because he had to be up before dawn to tend to the cows and the chickens, to work the fields so he could sell enough to buy enough rice to survive.

Survive to farm to sell enough to buy enough rice to survive until either he or the farm gave out.

Walking home from the market that evening, with enough rice to feed himself that night, he froze.

His house.

A lantern flickered, a clanging inside.

He laughed.

A robber.

In his house.

Times must be tough all around if someone was robbing him.

Bummer.

He didn't have anything to steal.

At least if he worked the fields for the day, he could be assured of something.

This poor guy broke into his house and risked life and limb for what?

A well-seasoned pan?

And his father's, well, now his, heavily patched clothes?

Time to go break the bad news.

He slid open the door and the robber, well, was not as shocked as he was, mainly because it wasn't a robber.

It was his wife.

Hi.

I'm your wife, the woman said with a smile, gesturing for him to sit.

Dinner was almost ready.

Now the farmer might have pointed out that he didn't remember getting married and that marriage requires consent, one hopes.

But when a charming and frankly stunning woman tells you that you're married, you don't tell her that that's not how that works, especially when the most pleasant house guest you've had in a while was a shrieking crane.

He enjoyed dinner and the conversation with her, trying to avoid thinking about waking up because this was obviously a dream.

Then she took his hand.

Well, time for bed.

He pulled away.

Look, he didn't know what was going on, and while he was enjoying spending time with her, he should be real before things go any farther.

He was poor, like really poor.

His parents had left him this farm, but it barely produced enough for him, let alone a wife.

Oh, I know, the woman said.

She pointed to the bag in the corner.

One overflowing with rice, and she said she could get more.

She didn't care that he struggled with money.

It was obvious he had a kind heart.

Now, were they going to go to bed or not?

The farmer swallowed hard.

Um, yes, please.

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You work too hard, the wife said to the husband.

The farmer, kissing her goodbye and taking his lunch to the fields, said he had to.

They had to survive.

She wanted to help.

Beyond the rice that seemed to never run out, there were things that she could do.

What if they could be together more?

He said that sounded phenomenal, but he didn't see how.

That being said, he didn't see how he was married to her or that bag of rice never seemed to dip, so,

well, what did she have in mind?

It was a risky proposition, at least to him, to spend an entire month building a weaving room for his wife just off the farmhouse.

But she assured him that it would change both of their lives forever.

He agreed.

He trusted her.

His life had been immeasurably brighter since she showed up.

Okay, he would build the weaving room.

And he did.

I guess his parents taught him how to do that sort of stuff.

If I had to build a weaving room for Carissa and wasn't allowed to hire contractors or something, well, that room would be a very dangerous place and extremely not up to code.

A few weeks later, though, and the wife was constructing a loom inside.

All right.

She would see him in seven days.

Seven days, the man said.

That

what?

She nodded, seven days.

Yeah.

Quality takes time.

He could understand that, but okay.

He would bring her dinner?

Absolutely not.

She grew serious.

When the door slid shut, he was not to open it under any circumstances.

She would emerge when she was finished.

He nodded, sure.

He would do whatever she wanted, but she would be okay?

She would be fine.

Saying goodbye, she slid the door shut.

The farmer farmed, if only to occupy his time.

His wife wouldn't talk to him through the walls, and all hours of the day and night, he heard the loom working.

He counted the days, and at almost exactly 168 hours, the door slid open.

Anyone else would have marveled at the exquisite cloth his wife was holding.

And he would have, but the farmer could only panic, rushing to his wife's side.

She was so pale and thin.

Had she not eaten for a week?

Was she sick?

Handing him the cloth, she told him to go into town.

Sell it.

He no longer needed to live by the work of his hands.

They could live by hers.

The farmer took the cloth to the market in town, and, well, it was a bidding war.

He made more from that one bolt of cloth than he made in an entire year farming.

When he returned home, his wife was happy and said, see,

all he had to do was trust her.

It wasn't a few more days before the husband heard the door to the weaving room slide open.

Um, where was she going?

She said she was going back to work.

But why?

She didn't need to.

Smiling, she said they didn't know what the future held.

They didn't know where tomorrow would take them.

She wanted to work while she was able, and she was able.

Seeing that she couldn't be convinced, the door slid shut.

Another week, another seven days of the sound of the loom coming through the walls.

Then the farmer realized something.

She didn't take food, of course.

Apparently she could power through that, but

no thread?

How was she weaving her wonderful cloth without thread?

He had so many questions.

And he had respected her wishes, but what other husband would take orders from his wife?

All but slapping himself to stop that line of thinking, he decided to take a walk, cool off, do anything else.

That, unfortunately, only gave the questions time to ferment in his mind, and by the time he returned home, he had to know.

All this time, he hadn't asked who she was or why the rice never went down.

Now, though, he had to know who was she?

How was she making that cloth without thread?

One quick peek, that was all.

He snuck over to the door and, pressing a fingertip into the crack, he wiggled it open just a bit.

Noiselessly, it slid until he had a few inches, and

a crane

a crane sat at the loom, working with its wings and talons, and, when it needed a new bit of thread, it buried its beak into its side and, with a jolt that showed it was obviously in pain, pulled a feather loose.

No, the husband cried out, then realized what he did.

He shoved his hands over his mouth, and, turning, the crane's head dipped down into its body, and his wife's head and hair arose.

She pulled the gown close to herself and, once again thin and pale, asked what he was doing in there.

What am I doing?

What are you doing?

Are you the crane?

The one that I saved?

And why?

Why are you plucking your own feathers?

Why was she making herself sick to complete the cloth?

She looked at him with a smile.

She was doing it for him.

For them.

She had been doing it for them so that they would have a future.

No, you can't.

Becoming serious, she said,

sacrifice.

Putting another person's needs above even your own, that was love.

She loved him.

He said he wouldn't allow it.

It didn't need to be like that.

She could live without sacrifice.

They could live without sacrifice.

The cloth fluttered to the ground.

She said she could see it now.

All this time, he had been alone not because he was poor or because of bad matches, but because, well, he couldn't not think about himself.

Even helping her was a way of satisfying his own desires to know what was happening, to keep her around, so he wouldn't be alone.

He was about to correct her, but she was right.

She walked from the room and, as she did, pressed the cloth into his hands.

I leave you this to remember me by.

I leave not only because you have seen my true form, but because I have seen yours, she said, and, leaping, folded into herself until the crane emerged.

The farmer, her former husband, watched her for as long as he was able before turning and going inside.

Alone.

This was one that became abruptly sad.

In many versions of the story, the bird leaves, indeed, because he discovered her true form.

And that's a common ending in a lot of the Japanese stories of these types.

I found one interpretation that focused more on sacrifice, and honestly, I like that one a lot more.

Especially when the wife didn't want to seem to hide the other supernatural elements, and the husband was accepting of who she was, only concerned about the sacrificial nature of her gift.

With those in mind, that seemed like the more fitting ending.

Next week, we're back in the story of the Monkey King, and Monkey takes a new job, as a demon.

So it's basically the same as the- So it's basically the same as the old job.

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Check out mythpodcast.com slash membership for more info on the membership.

The creature of this time is the Totoima from Papua New Guinea.

So, do not eat your children.

Probably don't need to say that.

Hopefully don't need to say that.

Not only is it terrible in cannibalism and a taboo and really all those things, but it rarely ever achieves the ends people hope it does.

People or primordial gods or boar monsters.

According to the stories, the Totoima, a boar during the day and a human man at night, took a wife.

Not sure if this means he wooed and married a consenting woman or literally took a wife.

It could go either way with people who eat their kids.

Anyway, the sources aren't clear if these human and boar sides were at war with one another or if after fathering children, the human was in full control of the boar, as it hunted down and ate the children during the days.

Regardless, that, tragically, is what happened.

Anytime the mother would give birth to a child, the boar would hunt down and eat it.

Well, apparently the boar wasn't expecting twins.

Yes, during the day, the mother hid the girl away and allowed the boy to be eaten, or tried to stop the boy from being eaten, but knew it was futile.

Whatever the case, the girl grew up in secret, away from her father.

Now, I was hopeful.

Hopeful that the girl would grow up to be something of a warrior who would avenge her murdered siblings when the hunter boar became the hunted and all that.

That was not what happened, though.

You see, the girl was kept as payment, because shamans were expensive, especially when it came to bringing people back to life.

Or rather, bringing one person back to life.

Her son.

the other twin, the one inside his father.

The mother, daughter, and the shaman provoked the boar into a charge.

And then an explosion, when, reformed in the boar's stomach, the boar's son and the twin sister's brother, now an adult, burst forth from the boar's chest like the alien from that movie whose name I can't remember right now.

The shaman took his payment, in the form of a marriage to the beautiful adult daughter, and everyone enjoyed a pork dinner.

No joke.

Apparently they all ate the pig dad, and whoever ate his joints multiplied miraculously.

The meat gave them boar strength, which, apparently, passes on to this day.

That's it for this time.

Myths and Legends is by Jason and Carissa Wiser.

Our theme song is by Broke for Free, and the Creature of the Week music is by Steve Combs.

There are links to even more of the music we used in the show notes.

Thank you so much for listening, and we'll see you next time.

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