Lāmenlā and the shadow of delay

A folktale from Somdal

Long ago, when the sky still spoke to the trees and the wind carried the names of those not yet born, there lived in Somdal a girl named Lāmenlā.

Now, Lāmenlā was not just beautiful—no, her beauty was such that even the morning sun paused to peek through her window. Her hair fell like rain on bamboo, her eyes shimmered like wet paddy fields at dusk, and her laughter was as sweet as rice beer on a cold evening.

But ah! She had one habit the entire village knew too well: Lāmenlā was always late.

Every morning when the village stirred, the roosters crowed, and the women lifted their sickles, the call would go out:

“Oh Lāmenlā! Come, let us tend the field together!”

But Lāmenlā would say:

“You go ahead—I must feed the cats.”

When the sun climbed higher and girls went to the stream, laughter in their baskets, they would call:

“Oh Lāmenlā! Let’s fetch water while it’s still cool.”

But she would wave them off:

“I will catch up, I need to toss some bones to the dogs.”

And when the firewood needed gathering, voices would echo:

“Lāmenlā! The forest waits for no one!”

She’d answer, almost singing:

“You go. I haven’t finished sweeping the floor yet.”

And so, Lāmenlā walked alone. Always late, always hurrying behind others. And though her hands were busy, her footprints were never beside the others.

One morning, later than ever, as she hurried past the edge of the forest to reach the lower fields, something stirred in the underbrush. A great python—smooth, glistening, ancient—emerged, his eyes like polished amber.

The serpent spoke, not with a hiss, but with words—slow and deep:

“Why are you always so late, Lāmenlā? The others have sown half the field already.”

Startled, but not afraid, Lāmenlā bowed slightly and said:

“I had to feed the cats, the dogs, the pigs, and the chickens. I had to wash the clothes, clean the floor, and sweep the ashes. I try, but the day always runs ahead of me.””

The python listened. And instead of swallowing her whole as stories often go, he said:

“You carry too many burdens. Let me help.”

And from that day, the python came every morning. It helped her find firewood, carry water, and till the soil with its strong, winding body.

In time, Lāmenlā’s heart warmed, and strange though it may sound, she and the python fell in love.

In time, Lāmenlā bore children—not like you or me, but eggs, filled with life. She placed them gently in a wooden drum of warm sand, tucked near the granary kitchen, singing lullabies to them each night.

Then one day, her aging mother came to visit. Lāmenlā, ever the busy wife and mother, greeted her with love and care but said:

“Mother, I must go to the fields. Please rest. Eat. Sweep if you like. But I beg you—do not open the wooden drum near the granary. Promise me.”

The mother promised.

But as the sun climbed and silence filled the house, curiosity crept in like a snake through dry grass.

“What is in that drum that must not be opened?” she thought. A pot of gold? A secret gift?

She crept to the drum, lifted the lid—and gasped in horror.

Snakes! Dozens, no—hundreds—of small wriggling snakes, their eyes blinking, their bodies warm and alive.

Panicked, and thinking her daughter had been cursed, the old mother did what many might have done in fear—she boiled water and poured it into the drum, killing every last one of the serpentine children.

All but one.

One tiny snake slipped out, barely escaping death. Heart pounding, he raced through the thatch grass, across the yam patches, and down to the field where his mother bent over her crops.

From the hilltop above her, the little snake sang—not with lips, but with his whole soul:

“Oh awui, Vivi na taotao da tarui kasā da torthat tā ruyei…”

(Oh Mother, Grandma poured boiling water upon my siblings—none are left to cry.)

Lāmenlā froze.

The wind held its breath. Her heart shattered like a gourd dropped on stone.

She ran—not walked—back home, but the drum was silent. The sand inside, still warm, held no life.

Her mother wept, but tears could not undo boiled water.

And So...

What happened next, no one knows for sure.

Some say Lāmenlā wept until her tears turned to rain and the serpent husband disappeared into the hills, never to return. Others say she turned into a serpent herself and followed him underground.

And some whisper that if you walk alone in the forest fields of Somdal at twilight, you might still hear that song carried on the wind:

“Oh awui, Vivi na taotao da tarui kasā da torthat tā ruyei…”

And thus ends the tale of Lāmenlā, the beautiful, the late, the beloved of the python.