Plains (Vlaktes)

In the Time of the First People, Ga and Gagen—Night and Darkness—had three daughters. This is the story of their second daughter: 'Kaun.

'Kaun or Plains, lived in a hut covered with mats woven from matjiesriet—slender reeds from marshes and streams. She was skilled with her hands, crafting sleeping mats, hut coverings, and baskets. Around her neck, she wore a string of enchanted calabashes small gourds filled with seeds, stones, and secrets. Their magic caused plants and fruits to grow in abundance wherever she went.

But the same magic that made things grow also made her dislike meat. Wild fruit and roots grew plentifully outside her hut, so she never had to go far. Like her sister before her, she grew idle. Her husband did everything: hunting, cooking, gathering food, caring for their child. Yet he never complained. One day, while he was away gathering food, an angry tree approached their hut. This was no ordinary tree—it was one of the ancient ones, from the people of the old world. It came to the child and demanded:

"The string your mother wears was made from the inner bark of my brother's trunk. That bare patch is causing his heartwood to rot. My brother may die.
I demand that piece of string back."

The child said nothing.
"Tomorrow," the tree warned, "I will return with the full council of forest elders, and we will take the string from 'Kaun's neck by force."
When the father returned, the child told him everything. He nodded, then hurried into the veld one last time, gathering as much food as he could, in case they have to hold out for a while.
The next morning, they came. A full wood-post of trees, tall and ancient, arrived with creaking limbs and rustling voices.
They demanded the string.
The man refused.
The trees roared in fury. Leaves thrashed. Branches cracked. Dust boiled around their roots. The forest was rising in revolt.
Nearby, perched quietly on a twig, sat !Kaggen—the trickster mantis, the watcher of stories. He can seen everything.
Now, he acted.
He turned the man—his own son—into a great fire, a blaze that roared with defiance across the veld.
He turned the child into a mirage—a flickering shimmer, forever drifting above the heat of the fire.
The trees, frightened by the fire's power, fled. The flames crackled and leaped into the sky. Since then, fire and its shimmer have criss-crossed the land together, warning all wood-folk to stay away from 'Kaun's calabash string.
The trees were bitter.

As they fled, they cried out: "We will never leave 'Kaun in peace! We will trample on her grave and drive our roots deep into her!"
'Kaun grew more tired with each passing day. She did nothing but sleep. A pain began to coil around her neck. The seeds that once rattled inside the calabashes began to grow. Slowly, they sent tiny roots into her flesh, down through her neck
and deep into her motionless body.
No one could stop it.'Kaun had fallen into a deep sleep.
She became the Plains.
And still she sleeps. Sleeps and sleeps.
Now, trees, bushes, and grasses grow all over her body. They have never honoured her grave. Their roots dig into her sleeping form, feeding on her body, curling around her bones.
But 'Kaun is not dead. She sleeps.
The bushes, trees, and grasses are trying with all their might to kill her—but to no avail.
As long as there is a world, there will be plains.
As long as there are plains, there will be grass, and bushes, and trees growing upon them.
And always, the seeds—like those once held in the calabashes—will fall into the soil and send their roots downward.
Into the body of the earth.
Into the neck of 'Kaun.