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For most of human history, our accumulated wisdom was carried in a single, spellbinding chain of transmission: the folktale. Passed from voice to voice, generation to generation, these stories were – and remain – an instruction manual to the world.
The World Story Bank gathers the folktales and traditional stories of humanity — from all points of the compass — and returns them, alive, to the world. Each episode is a single tale, told simply, named with the tradition it comes from.
An initiative of the Scheherazade Foundation, the World Story Bank exists to gather this fragile and ancient wisdom, to protect it, and to rewild it back into modern culture. The project was launched in London in 2024, and celebrated its first anniversary in 2025 at an event hosted by Queen Camilla at Clarence House.
Listening and retelling keeps the stories alive.
https://www.sf.charity/world-story-bank
BUYING A DREAM
From the Ainu culture of northern Japan
Once there was a village that was ruled over by six different chiefs.
The oldest chief dominated the other five, who lived in fear of his wrath – so much so that the whole village was under his control.
One day, the old chief invited the other five to a feast. He brewed a bucket of rice beer, slaughtered some deer for roasting, and gathered the other chiefs around.
When they had all eaten and drunk as much as they could, the old chief turned to them.
‘Tomorrow I want you to return here and feast with me again,’ he said.
The other chiefs were very happy to hear this.
‘But on one condition,’ the old chief continued. ‘You must each tell me the dream that you have tonight.’
The other chiefs nodded, if slightly confused.
‘Whoever has the best dream,’ the old chief went on, ‘I will then buy it from them at a high price.’
And with that, he sent them away.
The other chiefs staggered home with thoughts of the riches they might win the next day simply from having a dream. And all slept soundly in their beds that night.
The following evening, they gathered once more at the home of the old chief.
One by one, they were ordered to tell the dream they had had the night before. Four of them recounted what they remembered, but each dream was as dull and uninspiring as the next, and certainly not worth buying at all.
Finally, it was the turn of the fifth and youngest of the chiefs.
‘Well?’ said the old chief expectantly. ‘Come on, spit it out! It could hardly be any worse than this pathetic lot.’
And he swept an arm in the direction of the other chiefs, who hung their heads in shame and disappointment that they would not receive any riches for their dreams.
Now the youngest chief was the only one among them who didn’t crave the wealth or power of the old chief, and in fact had forgotten all about the previous night’s command that they return to retell their dreams.
Suddenly put on the spot, he opened his mouth… but no words came out – because he couldn’t for the life of him remember what he had dreamt the night before.
The old chief flew into one of his famous rages. He ordered that a hole be dug in front of the door of his house, and there he had the young chief buried up to his neck.
‘That will teach you to disobey me,’ the old chief said. ‘Let’s see if spending the night in this hole jogs your memory and helps you remember your dream.’
Although the truth was he didn’t care about the other chiefs’ dreams now. In fact, he rather hoped that the young chief would be dead by morning.
Soon it was dark, and the young chief was all alone, stuck in his hole.
At that moment, however a kamuy – a spirit – appeared before him.
‘I am the Kamuy of the Privy,’ he told the young chief.
‘You are a good man and I am happy with you, for you always keep the privy clean, not even allowing grass to grow near it.'
The young chief could hardly believe what was happening.
‘I am going to release you from your imprisonment,’ the kamuy said.
And so the young chief suddenly found himself free from the hole, and in that very instant he remembered the dream he had had the night before.
He had dreamt that he had been led up the bank of a stream into the woods. There he had entered a house where the walls were decorated with the finest bear skins. The house belonged to a beautiful kamuy, and she had welcomed him and comforted him, given him delicious foods and dressed him in the finest array before sending him away with instructions on how to trick and defeat the wicked old chief.
‘Do you remember now?’ asked the Kamuy of the Privy.
‘It was I who caused you to forget the dream, and thereby saved you from having to tell it to the old chief.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’
And, just as in the dream, he led the young chief up the bank of a stream, into the woods and to the door of the house whose walls were decorated with fabulous skins.
There, the kamuy that the young chief had seen in his dream welcomed him. And she was even more beautiful than he remembered.
‘I am the Badger-Kamuy,’ she told him.
After she had fed and comforted him, and dressed him in wondrous clothes – everything that the young chief had seen in his dream – she gave him his instructions.
‘You must now return to the village,’ she said. ‘Soon it will be morning and the old chief will be awake.
‘You will go to him and tell him that the Kamuy of Doorways was pleased that you were buried very close to him, and as a reward he released you and dressed you in these fine garments.’
So the young chief did as he was told, and very soon he was standing in front of the old chief, who was amazed that he was no longer in the hole where he had placed him, but even more amazed by his magnificent appearance.
‘How did this happen?’ he demanded.
The young chief told him what the beautiful Badger-Kamuy had instructed him to say.
‘The Kamuy of Doorways did this?’ exclaimed the old chief.
He was deeply envious that such spectacular clothes should be gracing the young chief and not himself. Surely if he pleased the Kamuy of Doorways in the same way he would be given even more magnificent garments. For was he not the most important chief in the village?
So he immediately ordered that a fresh hole be dug outside his front door, this time a little bit closer to the door itself just to make sure he would please the kamuy.
‘No one is to dig me out!’ he ordered. ‘I will spend all day and all night here. And in the morning you shall see me dressed in the finest clothes you have ever seen!’
Before too long, the old chief was buried up to his neck and left alone, just as he had commanded.
But the next day, when the villagers woke up and went out to see him, they found that he was dead: old age had finally caught up with the chief and killed him, helped by his spending the night in a cold, damp hole in the ground.
When they realised what had happened, the Badger-Kamuy appeared before them and explained everything. Everyone agreed that the young chief should now become the new head of the village.
The Badger-Kamuy took the young chief as her husband, and they – and everyone in the village – lived happily ever after.