“You must not go,” said his father and mother. “If you go, you will never come back to this country. We shall not see you again if you leave us. We know that those people will kill you. We shall never see you again if you go from here.” Then they cried bitterly, both of them.
But his father and mother could not stop Juiwaiyu; he would go. When he was ready to start, his mother said,—
“Your uncle lives at Shultsmauna, near Kamshumatu. Stop there. You must see your uncle, you must talk with him. His name is Jupka. He is very wise; he will help you. There will be thunder and a sprinkle of rain here when you touch your uncle’s house. I shall know then that you have got that far in safety.”
Juiwaiyu began to sing. He started, and rose through the air. He went very high, and cried—cried and sang as he travelled. Though he had made up his mind to go, he feared that his mother’s words might come true, that the people beyond Wahkalu might kill him. He looked far ahead, and saw smoke near the edge of the sky. “That may be smoke from my uncle’s house,” thought Juiwaiyu.
He moved toward the smoke; went on till he was straight above his uncle’s house. He went down to the roof then, and peeped in through the smoke-hole. The old man, who was lying with his back to the fire, saw him look in. Jupka stood up, looked again, grabbed his spear.
“Is that the way you look into my house? What do you want here?” cried Jupka, aiming his spear at the stranger.
“It is I, uncle,—I, Juiwaiyu.”
“Why did you not call me uncle when you looked first? Why did you not say who you were when you came? I might have killed you; I came very near killing you with my spear. Come down, come down; let me see you, my nephew.”
“I will,” said Juiwaiyu; “I have travelled far to-day, I am tired.”
He went down on the central pole.