The Legend of Sticky Hair

A Jataka Tale

Re-written and illustrated by

Aus Ellott

    

Page 1

     A long time ago in India, on the banks of the Ganges River, a grand palace stood in the ember rays of a beautiful sunset.  A pair of otters played near the shore.  An Indian family drifted home from the market with fresh food for dinner.  A Sarus crane waded in the water and sang one last song to the fading day.

     Suddenly, a different sound filled the warm evening air.  It was the cry of a newborn child.  A baby prince had been born to the great King and Queen of Banaras.

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     The Queen named their new son Vajra, which means, like a diamon.”  She loved holding his small body in her arms and looking into his sparkling eyes.

     The custom of the land brought many wise men to see the baby prince.  From the entire kingdom, elders made their way to the palace.  One day the wisest of all of them arrived. The sage sat quietly with the child and read his fortune on the soles of his feet.

     “This child will come to be know as the Prince of Five Weapons!” He proclaimed.  ”He will be a great king known for his courage and compassion.”

                 

 

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          The king thought about the wise man’s words.  He decided that since his son was going to be a king, then he needed to help to support his journey. A weapon’s master named Dorje lived far away on a cliff near the great mountain slopes.  He had once been a general in the royal army. If anyone could teach the prince the skills of the five weapons he needed, it would be him.

          On Vajra’s eighth birthday he was loaded onto a sacred white elephant.  His mother and grandmother climbed onto a gray one behind.  A parade was held.  Red banners waved in the air. Songbirds flew through the sky.  Local villagers waved and smiled as they passed by. The elephants swayed as they stepped on the long road to the teacher’s home.

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          Master Dorje was famous throughout the kingdom for his skill in four weapon forms.  He was fast as the wind with the bow, strong as a tree with his staff, fluid as water with the sword, and a weathered master of the martial arts.

          Now the warrior’s home sat on a cliff overlooking a large ravine. A narrow bridge spanned both sides.  Far below, a river snaked its way toward the sea.

          Here the prince met his first test.  He would have to cross the bridge alone. On the other side Master Dorje watched him carefully. Fear makes you clumsy.  To cross the bridge he would have to move past his fear to get to the other side.

          Vajra hugged his grandmother and then his mother. He bowed and made his way to the edge. The bridge swayed softly in the wind, the boards creaked, and a wave of fear threatened to wash over him.  But Vajra kept his eyes on the other side where his new teacher stood. Step by trembling step, he inched forward gently.  When he finally made it to the other side his mother almost fainted with relief.

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Every day the prince would spend many hours with his teacher. Some days his fingers hurt from hours of shooting the bow. His hands grew blisters. His arms grew sore. Master Dorje was a tough teacher, but he was also kind and patient. They spent many days walking through the forest and learning from the world around them. Sometimes they sat and didn’t move at all.

For twelve years Vajra studied with his teacher. Each year he became a better warrior. His hands grew calloused. His arms became strong. Day by day he came to master each of the four forms. Finally the time had come when Master Dorje had nothing else to teach him.

On a warm night after meditation he pulled the prince aside. “I want you to have this,” he said, placing a woven headband into his hands. “The time has come for you to find your fifth weapon.” He pointed toward the majestic peaks crowding the horizon. “Travel over those mountains. When you know your true strength, you will be ready to be a great king.”

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          The next day the prince packed everything he had on his horse.  He brought his bow and arrows, his spear, and his sword. Then, after saying goodbye to his beloved teacher, he crossed the narrow bridge again.  This time he was not afraid.

          His journey was long and hard.  The prince became very thankful for his horse, who was now his only friend.  They traveled far north into the high mountains. They braved the cold winds and steep trails.  Many days and many nights passed as the two companions journeyed into this new and strange land.

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          The trail finally led them out of the mountains and into a green valley.  Soon they came to a small and broken village.  The buildings looked abandoned.  Birds nested in the crumbling houses where people had lived.  A once majestic temple was now old and slowly falling apart. The prince began to wonder why anyone would leave such a beautiful place behind.

          But just as he was crossing the bridge, two villagers ran to meet him.

“Please, please, you must help us!” An old lady cried out, reaching toward him. A younger man stood hesitant behind her.

          “What is it that bothers you?” The prince asked.  For he could see the fear in their eyes.

          “A m-m-monster!” The man stammered. “H-he haunts this village.  At night he comes and then during the day he goes back to his cave in the forest.”

          “Oh, how I miss sleeping.” The woman sighed shaking her head. “I am so very tired.”

          “Does this monster have a name?” The prince asked.

          The man almost whispered his response. “They call him Sss-Sticky Hair.”

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          Vajra knew that if he was going to be king he would first have to learn how to protect his people.  It didn’t matter to him that he was far from his homeland.  People are people no matter where you go.

          He rode into the forest until it grew too thick for his horse. He tied the reins to a fallen tree and continued on foot. The forest grew darker the deeper he went.  The leaves grew high and covered the sky. Strange sounds erupted from the trees. In one brief moment, the prince saw the orange sleek shape of a large Bengal tiger prowling in the distance. When it disappeared into the bushes, the prince gripped his spear tighter and kept moving.

 

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Slowly the forest grew totally silent. The birds stopped singing. Monkeys no longer played in the trees. What was once a noisy forest, had become a somber swamp. Only snakes and crocodiles seemed comfortable here. When the prince pushed a giant dangling vine aside, he was almost relieved to see a cave below.

The cave opened like a mouth of jagged teeth. A large tree grew above it. Its roots dangled down like spider legs. The prince quickly noticed that from within the darkness there were two pinholes of yellow light, watching him back.

“Sticky Hair!” the prince called. “Come forth and speak with me.”

At first there was only silence. Then a moment later, a deep voice growled, “Who dares to wake me from my sleep?”

“It is I, Vajra, Prince of Banaras. Are you the one known as Sticky Hair?”
“Don’t say that name!” boomed the voice. “Be gone or become my supper!”

“I cannot leave,” replied the prince, “for I cannot watch others suffer at the hands of a tyrant.”

“So be it….” The voice barked. “Tonight’s feast begins with you!”

 

 

 

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           As Sticky Hair stepped into the light, Vajra was able to see him for the first time. His hair hung in a long mesh covering his entire body.  Sticks and moss were interwoven into the strands. The weight of his hair swayed heavily with each movement.

Then, with surprising speed, he began to run straight for the prince. The prince knew the time for talking was over.  Now was the time to act. He drew the first of his great weapons: his bow.  Arrow by arrow quickly found their mark.  But as each one hit the tangled mass of hair, instead of stopping him, they only stuck solid to his very sticky hair.

          The prince grabbed his second weapon.  With a graceful throw, his spear shot through the air.  Sticky Hair was hit with the force of a heavy thunk.  Yet, once again, his hair kept the dangerous point of the spear safely away.

          Sticky Hair was now close and the prince was down to his third weapon. With great force, he swung his mighty sword.  It was like hitting a tree. It stuck hard. He pulled with all his strength, but could not set it free.

          With only his fists—the last of his fighting skills, he met Sticky Hair bravely.  With a quick upward kick he made contact with Sticky Hair’s head.  Then, using the strength of his now stuck foot and hand, he swung his fist into the other side. It didn’t accomplish much, just enough to tilt the glasses that once covered both of Sticky Hair’s eyes.

         The prince was stuck, each of his four limbs embedded in the coat of sticky hair, like a puppet on strings.