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Àjàpá was accustomed to the forest; indeed, many of his tricks would not have been possible without the roots and the trunks of his home. But as they said, recklessness in one's goings-about would inevitably lead one somewhere, even if that somewhere was not where one wanted to be.
Àjàpá the Tortoise arrived in Gillitie Wood.
He looked around and saw the fairies at their tasks, and the chickcharneys engaged in industry with their clever hands. Being inclined to see the potential benefit in his surroundings, Àjàpá took note of the magic around him, and was assiduous in looking for a way to turn it to his advantage.
It was in the afternoon that, creeping through the brush, he came upon two dogs by the edge of a wide pool. The one was blue as a deep sea and red as a glowing ember, black as the night rain and silver as jewelry; he was laughing enough to show his many, many teeth. The other was an old wolf in a towering tree, but when he moved, the tree moved as though it was part of his body. Àjàpá was entranced. What sort of things could he do with a body made of trees? Already, his mind was racing.
As the two dogs went their separate ways, Àjàpá followed the old wolf. He put every foot down with great care, avoiding the twigs that might snap or the rocks that might shift and clatter, and only when the wind changed did the wolf stop and turn, fixing Àjàpá with a piercing golden stare.
Àjàpá blinked at the wolf. He was not a predator himself, but he knew how to deal with Ekùn the leopard back home. "Excuse me," he said.
The old wolf narrowed his eyes, and Àjàpá made sure to tilt his shell so that the wolf could see the patterns where it had broken apart.
"I was on my way through your forest, and I couldn't help but admire your lovely limbs," he said. "So strong! So fine! Surely one like you, who has become almost like a king in your grandeur, would not neglect to help someone less fortunate?"
The wolf bared his teeth, and Àjàpá knew he was thinking of eating him. However, Àjàpá had his shell, and it was true: there was no disappearing trick better than a dense forest in which to hide.
But the flattery did its trick, as it did even in those too proud to admit that flattery pleased them. "What is it?" the wolf asked. His voice was as rough as hewn stone.
"Only that, in the forests I call my home, such a skill as you have would be of immeasurable value," Àjàpá said. "How did you acquire it?"
"It was a gift from Coyote, who is king in this wood," the wolf sneered. "And he has only given his cousins such gifts."
With that, the wolf turned his back on Àjàpá.
Àjàpá resolved to find Coyote.
But first, there was work to do.
Àjàpá walked through the forest until he saw a horned creature much like a horse, with a beautiful silver mane. Immediately, he climbed up a long and contrived to fall from it and land on his back, and then he let up an anguished cry. As he expected, the silver creature came to see what the commotion was about.
"Help me, help me!" Àjàpá called. The unicorn came over, and sniffed at him delicately.
"Well, what sort of a predicament are you in?" it asked.
Àjàpá gave it his most solemn, doleful look. "Ah, if I were myself, it would be no problem," he said. "I once had a long, beautiful tail just the color of your mane. With it, I could have swept myself back onto my feet with no trouble. But I was attacked before I came into your wood, and they plucked out every one of my hairs, one by one."
The unicorn put out one gleaming hoof, and tipped Àjàpá onto his feet again. "Well, it will grow back soon," it said helpfully.
Àjàpá bent his distinguished head low to the ground, to appear both grateful and mournful. "Oh, no," he said. "Among my people, once our hairs have been plucked out, they never grow back. This is why they are so rare and coveted. But if only I could replace them somehow, I would be forever in debt to my fortune."
The unicorn turned and looked at its own gleaming mane, its own tail. Àjàpá was sure to look downcast. He could imagine the unicorn thinking through the situation, as surely its fine hairs would grow back.
"Well," the unicorn said, at length. "I could give you my own..."
Àjàpá bowed and kissed the ground before the unicorn's hooves, and was effusive with his gratitude.
In this way, Àjàpá collected black fur and blue feathers as well as a skein of red thread, and he wove himself a costume so he would appear to be a dog of many colors. And then he went to find Coyote, to secure a gift as fine as the old wolf's.
He came upon Coyote when the latter was hunting, and tried to put a spring in his usually ponderous step. "Hello!" he called out. "A cousin! I have come a long way to visit you; I am Àjàpá, the leopard-hunting dog of Yorùbáland. Ah, I have heard many stories of the hospitality of Gillitie Wood!"
Coyote saw him and sprung up in joy. "A cousin!" he exclaimed. "Why, wherever I go, I have cousins! Come, hunt with me, and tell me tales of Yorùbáland."
So Àjàpá, eager to ingratiate himself, ran as fast as his legs would carry him alongside Coyote, and spun out a number of fantastical tales. After some time, when Coyote had snapped up six or seven small beasts of the forest, he turned to Àjàpá.
"Why don't you hunt, cousin? Are the creatures of the Wood not palatable to you?"
In truth, Àjàpá was hungry from his efforts and would have gladly eaten a roast bird or even a lizard, but he knew his hunting skills were not great, and he did not want to be revealed. "It is such a pleasure to run with you, Coyote," he said. "But it is the custom of my people not to hunt in another's territory. Our fast from meat is how we repay their certain generosity." It was, he felt, a clever enough lie.
"Oh," said Coyote. "Well, then there is other fun my cousins and I have! Here, sing with me!" And he tossed back his head and called Ay, yi-ay-ayyy! to the heavens.
Àjàpá coughed politely before tilting back his head and letting out a song. And of course his singing was masterful; many of his schemes had in the past been carried simply on the beauty of his song. But when he looked down again, he was certain that Coyote was suspecting him of not being canine in the least.
"My apologies, cousin," Àjàpá said. "This fast has had an effect on my throat; indeed, whenever I travel, I am filled with the desire to serenade all I see. Ah, if you came upon me in Yorùbáland, I would be able to howl properly!–yes! And I would invite you on a splendid hunt. And of course I do not wish you to think I am only a poor shade of a cousin." Really, he was chafing to come up with a way to ask Coyote for a boon such as the old wolf had had.
"Oh," said Coyote. "Well, there is one thing you can do to show me how much of a cousin you are. Behold how easily I toss aside my skin!" And with that his skin became the sky above, and his bones and teeth shook with laughter.
"Oh, yes, of course!" Àjàpá said. "I can do so as well!" And he tossed aside the costume he had made.
At once, Àjàpá was revealed as a tortoise and Coyote leapt and tossed him onto his back with a flick of his bony nose. "A cousin indeed!" he crowed. "I am glad you came to Gillitie Wood, friend! There are so few people who will really play with me. Please come back any time! Perhaps I will give you a boon one day!"
And with that Coyote bounded off, and left Àjàpá to consider how his ruse had failed.
A-k´ọni-ká-bàj´ẹ ò ṣe ti`ẹ b´ẹ`ẹ.
He-who-coaches-one-into-ruin does not manage his own affairs the same way.
("Yorùbá Proverbs", collected by Oyekan Owomoyela, #3671)