The Hornet

There lived two brothers. They had only one yoke of oxen. When they divided their property, they decided: "We won’t divide the oxen, as one ox is of no use to either of us. Let’s leave them together. When it’s time to plow or turn the mill, we’ll take turns using them." And so they agreed.

Spring came, and the elder brother took the oxen to plow his land. He plowed and sowed his fields, while the younger brother sat idle, waiting for his turn and expecting his brother to hand over the oxen. Time passed, and the younger brother fell behind with his sowing, but the elder brother showed no intention of giving up the oxen. It didn’t seem like he had much plowing left; it seemed he should have finished long ago, but no—he kept delaying, holding onto the oxen, refusing to give them up.

Why was this so? Here’s why: if there were no nose between the eyes, the eyes would devour each other. So it was with the brothers: once they divided their property, they no longer thought of each other; worse still, if you have no enemy, share with your brother, and an enemy will appear. The elder brother had a thought stuck in his mind: he wanted to claim both oxen for himself.

Finally, when the younger brother had lost all hope of plowing his field in time, when all his patience had run out, he said to his brother:
"I’m ruined, brother, if you don’t give me the oxen right now. You’ve already done enough work, and if it’s God’s will and your fate, you’ll have enough from what you’ve plowed and sown. But if I delay even a little longer, my whole family will starve."
"And what do I care if your family starves? We didn’t agree on that when we divided our property. If I lend you the oxen, it’s my choice; if I don’t, that’s also my choice. I haven’t finished my work yet, and if I give you the oxen, the whole village will laugh at me."
"I’m not asking you for a favor; these oxen weren’t divided, and if you’ve taken care of yourself, I want to take care of myself too."
"I knew you’d come up with something. Maybe you’ll even make me feed your family, as if that was agreed upon during the division? Where has it ever been seen that after dividing property, something remains shared? When we divided, the oxen became mine, and if they weren’t mine, would you have lent them to me in the spring? These oxen are mine, and whether I give them to you or not is entirely up to me."
"No, that’s not true! These oxen are as much yours as they are mine," swore the younger brother.
But when cunning and baseness have taken root in a person’s heart and mind, can an oath move them? There were no witnesses during their division.
"Fine," said the younger brother, "if you’ve taken the oxen from me by your kind of justice, let them serve you by that same justice."

If a person doesn’t believe in an oath, a curse won’t sway them either.
"So be it," said the elder brother. Time passed.
One day, the younger brother decided to hold a celebration—a sapurshao. He invited relatives and friends, near and far, young and old: "Come, wish me happiness in my poverty." He also invited his two-faced brother, but the elder brother wasn’t much concerned with his sibling’s happiness—he refused and went to the field to work with his ill-gotten oxen.

The elder brother went out to the field, led the oxen, but before he could finish even one row, a hornet appeared out of nowhere. It flew in and began stinging the oxen. The oxen went wild, bolting this way and that, not knowing where they were going. They raised their tails, lowered their heads, and raced back and forth across the field.
The elder brother struggled for a long time to control the frenzied oxen, but he couldn’t overcome them. How could he, when foam was already dripping from their mouths and their eyes were bloodshot? The oxen exhausted him completely, knocked him down, hooked him with the sharp plowshare, and dragged him. The oxen ran, pulling the elder brother on the plow like a fish on a hook. They ran through fields and forests, leaped over fences and ditches—and killed the unfortunate man. In their frenzied, terrifying state, they burst straight into the younger brother’s yard.

All the guests were terrified, jumping up from their seats and running in all directions, trying to escape the oxen. Only the younger brother didn’t run. When he saw his unfortunate brother, he jumped up, rushed to the enraged animals, and grabbed them. The oxen, drenched in sweat, suddenly calmed down, trembling and stopping. It seemed the hornet had just left them.

What was to be done? The younger brother buried his deceitful brother with honor and proper brotherly grief. Not only did he inherit the oxen, but all of the elder brother’s property came into his full possession.

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The Hornet

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