Sagas from the Far East; or, Kalmouk and Mongolian Traditionary Tales
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Title: Sagas from the Far East; or, Kalmouk and Mongolian Traditionary Tales
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAGAS FROM THE FAR EAST; OR, KALMOUK AND MONGOLIAN TRADITIONARY TALES ***
SAGAS FROM THE FAR EAST;
Or,
Kalmouk and Mongolian
Traditionary Tales.
With Historical Preface and Explanatory Notes.
By the Author of "Patrañas," "Household Stories from the Land of
Hofer," &c.
London:
Griffith and Farran,
Successors to Newbery and Harris,
Corner of St. Paul's Churchyard.
MDCCCLXXIII.
"It singularly happens that the Sagas of the ancient Indians are
preserved to us in much fuller measure than their authentic
history, which is scanty enough. Moreover to them their Sagas
served as actual statements of facts, so that we can neither form
a right conception of their mind, nor arrive at any knowledge of
their history, without studying their Sagas."
Lassen, "Pref. to Ind. Alterthumskunde," p. vii.
"The Mongol is candid and credulous as an infant, and
passionately loves to listen to marvellous myths and tales."
Huc, "Travels in China and Tibet," vol. ii. ch. xii.
PREFACE.
The origin and migrations of myths have of late been the subject
of so much sifting and study, the elaborate results of which are
already before the world, that there is no need in this place
to offer more than a few condensed remarks in allusion to the
particular collections now, I believe, for the first time put into
English. Translations of some chapters of the "Adventures of the
Well-and-wise-walking Khan" have been made by Benj. Bergmann, Riga,
1804; by Golstunski, St. Petersburg, 1864; and by H. Osterley,
in 1867. Of "Ardschi-Bordschi," by Emil Schlaginweit; by Benfey,
in "Ausland," Nos. 34-36, and the whole of both by Professor Jülg,
1865-68; of these I have availed myself in preparing the following
pages; I know of no other translation into any European language
except one into Russ by Galsan Gombojew, published at S. Petersburg
in 1865-68 [1].
The first thirteen chapters of the "Well-and-wise-walking Khan" are a
Kalmouk (1) collection, all the rest Mongolian; and though traceable to
Indian sources, they yet have received an entire transformation in the
course of their adoption by their new country. In giving them another
new home, some further alterations, though of a different nature, have
been necessary. However much one may regret them such transformations
are inevitable. It seems a law of nature that history should to a
certain extent write itself. We know the age of a tree by its knots
and rings; and we trace the age of a building by its alterations and
repairs--and that equally well whether these be made in a style later
prevailing, utterly different from that of the original design, or in
the most careful imitation of the same; for the age of the workman's
hand cannot choose but write itself on whatever he chisels.
It is just the same with these myths. They cannot remain as if
stereotyped from the first; the hand that passes them on must mould
them anew in the process. You might say, they have been already
altered enough during their wanderings, give them to us now at least
as the Mongolians left them. But it is not possible, most of them
are too coarse to meet an eye trained by Christianity and modern
cultivation. The habit of mind in which they are framed is in places
as foreign as the idiom in which they are written; I have, however,
made it an undeviating rule to let such alterations be as few and as
slight as the case admitted, and that they should go no farther than
was necessary to make them readable, or occasionally give them point.
As I have said these stories have an 'Indian' source, it becomes
incumbent to spend a few lines on defining the use and reach of the
word [2].
The words >'Indoc and Indik`h occur for the first time among writers
of classical antiquity in the fragments that have come down to us
of the writings of Hecatæus, B.C. 500. Herodotus also uses the same;
from these they descended to us through the Romans. They both received
it through Persian means and used it in the most comprehensive sense,
though the Persian use of their equivalent at the time seems to have
been more limited. It is probable, however, that later the Persian
use became further extended; and through the Arabians, who also
adopted it from them, it became the Muhammedan designation of the
whole country. When they, in 713, conquered the country watered by
the lower course of the Indus, namely, Sinde, they confirmed the use
of this more extended application of the Persian word Hind, reserving
Sind, the local form of the same word--apparently without perceiving
it was the same--to this particular province.
The later Persian designation is Hindustan--the country of the
Hindu--and this is generally adopted in India itself to denote the
whole country, though many Europeans have restricted it to the Northern
half, in contradistinction from the Dekhan, or country south of the
Vindha-range (2), often excluding even Bengal.
The original native names are different. In the epic mythology occur,
Gambudvîpa, the island of the gambu-tree (Eugenia Jambolana), for
the central or known world of which India was part, and Sudarsana,
"of beautiful appearance," to denote both the tree and the "island"
named from it. The Buddhist cosmography uses Gampudvîpa for India
Proper. Within this the Brahmanical portion, lying to the south of
the Himâlajas, is designated as Bhârata or Bhâratavarsha. In the
great epic poem called the Mahâ Bhârata, the name is derived from
Bhârata, son of Dusjanta, the first known ruler of the country, and
several dynasties are called after him Bhâratides, though it is more
probable his name rather accrued to him from that of the country,
the word being derived from bhri, "to bring forth" or "nourish,"
hence, "the fruitful," "life-nourishing" land. Bhârata is also called
(Rig-Ved. i. 96, 3) "the nourisher," sustentator.
The native historical name is undoubtedly "Ârjâvata," the district of
the Ârja--"the venerable men"--or more literally, "worthy to be sought
after," keepers of the sacred laws, the people of honourable ancestry;
calling themselves so in contradistinction to the Mlêk'ha, barbarous
despisers of the sacred laws (Manu, i. 22; x. 45), also Ârja-bhûmi,
land of the Ârja. The Manu defines rigidly the original boundaries
of this sacred country; it lies between the Himâlaja and Vindhja
mountains, and stretches from the eastern to the western seas. Though
Ptolemy (Geog. vii. I) calls the people of the west coast, south of
the Vindhja, Âriaka, this was a later extension of the original term.
What gives the word a great historical importance is the circumstance
which must not be passed over here, that the original native name of
the inhabitants of Iran was either the same or similarly derived. Airja
in Zend stood both for "honourable" and for the name of the Iranian,
people. Concerning the Medes we have the testimony of Herodotus
that they originally called themselves >'Arioi, and we owe him the
information also that the original Persian name was >Artaio`i, a word
which has the same root as Ârja, or at least can have no very different
meaning. They do not seem ever to have actually called themselves Ârja,
although the word existed in their ancient tongue with the sense of
"noble," "honourable."
The earliest Indian Sagas speak of the Arja as already established in
Central India, and give no help to the discovery of when or how they
settled there. Like most other peoples of the old world, they believed
themselves aborigines, and they placed the Creation and the origin of
species in the very land where they found themselves living, nor do
their myths bear a trace of allusion to any earlier dwelling-place or
country outside their Bhâratavarsha (4). It is true, that the sanctity
they ascribe to the north country, and the mysterious allusions to the
sacred mountain-country of Meerû, the dwelling of the gods in the far,
far north, over the Himâlajas, is calculated to mislead for a moment
with the suggestion that they point to a possible immigration from
that north, but a closer observation shows that that very sacred regard
more probably arose from the very fact of its being an unknown country;
while the effect of the majestic and inaccessible heights, with their
glorious colouring and their peculiar natural productions, was enough
to suggest them the seat of a superior and divine race of beings.
The fact that Sanskrit, the ancient tongue of the Aryan Indians,
is so closely allied to the languages of so many western nations,
establishes with certainty the identity of origin of these people, and
lays on us the burden of deciding whether the Aryan Indians migrated to
India as the allied peoples migrated to their countries from a common
aboriginal home, or whether that aboriginal home was India, and all the
allied peoples migrated from it, the Indians alone remaining at home.
Reason points to the adoption of the former of these two solutions. In
the first place, it is altogether unlikely that in the case of a great
migration all should have migrated rigidly in one direction. It is
only natural to expect they should have poured themselves out every
way, and to look for the original home in a locality which should have
formed a central base of operations. The very feuds which would in many
cases lead to such outpourings would necessitate the striking out in
ever new directions. Then, there is nothing in the manners, ideas,
speech--in the names of articles of primary importance to support
life, in which at least we might expect to find such a trace--of the
other peoples to connect them in any way with India. Had they ever
been at home there, some remnants of local influence would have been
retained; but we find none. Besides this, we have, on the other hand,
very satisfactory evidence of at least the later journeyings of the
Indian family. Their warlike and conquering entrance into the Dekhan
and crossing of the Vindhja range is matter of positive history. Some
help for ascertaining their earlier route may be found in the necessity
established by the laws and limits of possibility. Encumbered with
flocks and herds, and unassisted by appliances of transport, we cannot
believe them to have traversed the steep peaks of the Himâlajas. The
road through eastern Caboolistan and the valley of the Pangkora, or
that leading from the Gilgit by way of Attok, or over the table-land
of Deotsu through Cashmere, are all known to us as most difficult
of access, and do not appear at any period to have been willingly
adopted. But the western passes of Hindukutsch, skirting round the
steep Himâlajas--the way trod by the armies of Alexander and other
warlike hosts, no less than by the more peaceful trains of merchants,
with whom it was doubtless traditional--affords a highly probable
line of march for the first great immigration.
We are reminded here of the fact already alluded to, of the common
origin of the earliest name of both Indians and Persians, leading us to
suppose they long inhabited one country in common. For this supposition
we find further support in other similarities: e. g. between the older
Sanskrit of the Vêda and the oldest poems of the Iranian tongue; also
between the teaching, mythology, the sagas, and the spoken language
of the two peoples. On the other hand, we find also the most diverse
uses given to similar expressions, pointing to a period of absolute
separation between them, and at a remote date: e.g. the Indian word
for the Supreme Being is dêva; in Zend, daêva, as also dêv in modern
Persian, stands for the Evil Principle. Again, in Zend dagju means a
province (and its use implies orderly division of government and the
tranquil exercise of authority); but in the Brahmanical code dasju
is used for a turbulent horde, who set law and authority at defiance.
Such transpositions seem the result of some fierce variance, leading
to division and hatred between peoples long united.
Proceeding now to trace the original wandering farther on, we find
some help from Iranian traditions. The Zendavesta distinctly tells
of a so-called Aîrjanem Vaêgo as a sacred country, the seat of
creation, and place it in the farthest east of the highest Iranian
table-land, the district of the source of the Oxus and Jaxartes; by
the death-bringing Ahriman it was stricken with cold and barrenness
(3), and only saw the sun thenceforth for two months of the year. The
particularity with which it is described would point to the fact
that the locality treated of was a distant one, with which the race
had a traditional acquaintance; while at the same time it cannot be
adopted too precisely in every detail, because details may be altered
by a poetical imagination--merits may be exaggerated by regret for
absence, and defects magnified by vexation, or invented in proof of
the effects of a predicated curse.
If we may conclude that we have rightly traced up the Indians and
Persians to a common home between the easternmost Iranian highlands
and the Caspian Sea, it follows from the linguistic analogies of
the so-called Indo-European peoples that this same home was also
theirs at a time when they were not yet broken up into distinct
families. This common local origin gives at once the reason for the
analogies in the grammatical structure of their languages, and no
less of their mythical traditions, which are far too widely spread,
and have entered too radically into the universal teaching of both,
to be supposed for a moment to have been borrowed by either from the
other within the historical period, or at all since their separation.
It remains only to say a few words on the scope and object of the
work, and the profit that may be derived from its perusal. I know
there are many who think that mere amusement is profit enough to
expect from a tale, and that to look for the extraction of any more
serious result is tedious. But I will give my young readers--or at
least a large proportion of them--credit for possessing sufficient
love of improvement to prefer that class of amusement which furthers
their desire for information and edification.
The collections of myths with which I have heretofore presented them
have all had either a Christian origin, or at least have passed through
a Christian mould, and have thus almost unconsciously subserved the
purpose of illustrating some phase of Christian teaching, which is
specially distinguished by keeping in view, not spasmodically and
arbitrarily, as in the best of other systems, but uniformly, in
its sublimest reach and in its humblest detail, the belief that an
eternal purpose and consequence pervades the whole length and breadth
of human existence.
Whether the story of "Juanita the Bald" was originally drawn by a
Christian desirous of inculcating the sacred principles of the new
covenant, or adapted to the purpose by such an one from the myth
of OEdipus and Antigone; whether that of "St. Peter's Three Loaves"
was really a traditional incident of our Lord's wanderings on earth
too insignificant to find place in the pages of Holy Writ, or adapted
from the myth of Baucis and Philemon; or whether all were adaptations
according to the special convictions of various narrators of great
primeval traditions, mattered very little, as each had an intrinsic
purpose and an interest of its own quite distinct from that accruing
to it through ascertaining its place in the history of the world's
beliefs. In telling them, it needed not to point a moral, for the
moral--i.e. some more or less remote application of the sacred and
civilizing teaching of the Gospel--was of the very essence of each.
With the Tales given in the following pages, however, it is quite
different. They come direct from the far East, and in most of them
nothing further has been aimed at than the amusement of the weary
hours of disoccupation, whether forced or voluntary, of a people
indisposed by climate, natural temperament, or want of cultivation
from finding recreation in the healthy exercise of mental effort.
To me it seems that before we can take pleasure in giving our time to
the perusal of such stories, we must invest them with, or discover
in them some sort of purpose. Nor is this so far to seek, perhaps,
as might appear at first sight.
Some, it must be observed, belong to the class which deals with the
deeds of heroes--fabling forth the grand all-time lesson of the
vigorous struggle of good with evil; the nobility of unflinching
self-sacrifice and of devotion to an exalted cause, setting the
model for the lowly sister of charity as much as for the victorious
leader of armies, and each all the while typical of Him who gave
Himself to be the servant of all, and the ransom of all. A German
writer rises so inspired from their study that he bursts forth into
this pæan:--"Eine Fülle der Göttergeschichte thut sich hier auf, und
nirgends lässt sich der eigenthümliche Naturcharacter in Fortbildung
des Mythus vollständiger erkennen, als an diesen Alterthümern. Götter
und vergötterte Menschen ragen hier, wie an den Wänden der Tempel
von Thebe hoch über das gewöhnliche Menschengestalt. Alles hat einen
riesenhaften Aufschwung zur himmlischen Welt [3]." Subsidiarily to
these conceptions of them, stories of this class have the further
merit of being one chief means of conveying the scanty data we possess
concerning the early history of the people of whose literature they
form part (5).
Others again may be placed in a useful light by endeavouring to trace
in them the journeyings they have made in their transmigration. Benfey,
a modern German writer who has employed much time and study "in tracing
the Mährchen in their ever-varying forms," while pointing out as many
others have also done (6), that the great bulk of our household tales
have come to us from the East, and have been spread over Europe in
various ways, points out that this was done for the South in great
measure through the agency of the Turks; but for the North it was by
the Mongolians during their two centuries of ascendancy in Eastern
Europe; the Slaves received them from them, and communicated them to
the German peoples (7).
If therefore you find some tales in one collection bearing a close
resemblance with those you have read in another, you should make it
a matter of interest to observe what is individual in the character
of each, and to trace the points both of diversity and analogy in
the mode of expression in which they are clothed, and which will be
found just as marked as the difference in costume of the respective
peoples who have told them each after their own fashion.
All of them have at least the merit of being, in the main, pictures
of life, however overwrought with the fantastic or supernatural
element, not ideal embodiments of the perfect motives by which people
ought to be actuated, but genre pictures of the modes in which they
commonly do act. As such they cannot fail to contain the means of
edification, though we are left to look for and discover and apply it
for ourselves. To take one instance. The Christian hagiographer could
never have written of a hero he was celebrating, as we find it said of
Vikramâditja, that as part of his preparation for the battle of life
"while learning wisdom with the wise, and the use of arms from men of
valour," "of the robber bands he acquired the art of stealing, and of
fraudulent dealers, to lie." If he had been illustrating the actual
biography of a Christian hero, it is a detail which could not have
entered, and if drawing an ideal picture, it would have been entirely
at variance with the system he was illustrating. Circumstances like
this which fail to serve as subject for imitation, must be turned to
account in exercising the powers of judgment, as well in distinguishing
what to avoid from what to admire, as in taking note of these very
variances between Christian and the best non-christian morality.
* * * The author feels bound to apologize for any inaccuracies
which may have crept into these pages owing to being abroad while
preparing them for the press.
CONTENTS.
THE SAGA OF THE WELL-AND-WISE-WALKING KHAN.
Page
Dedication 1
Tales
I.--The Woman who sought her Husband in the Palace of
Erlik-Khan 10
II.--The Gold-spitting Prince 17
III.--How the Schimnu-Khan was slain 36
IV.--The Pig's-head Soothsayer 54
V.--How the Serpent-gods were propitiated 71
VI.--The Turbulent Subject 82
VII.--The White Bird and his Wife 89
VIII.--How Ânanda the Woodcarver and Ânanda the Painter strove
together 97
IX.--Five to One 105
X.--The Biting Corpse 115
XI.--The Prayer making suddenly Rich 120
XII.--"Child-intellect" and "Bright-intellect" 130
XIII.--The Fortunes of Shrikantha 135
XIV.--The Avaricious Brother 146
XV.--The Use of Magic Language 157
XVI.--The Wife who loved Butter 165
XVII.--The Simple Husband and the Prudent Wife 173
XVIII.--How Shanggasba buried his Father 178
XIX.--The Perfidious Friend 192
XX.--Bhîxu Life 198
XXI.--How the Widow saved her Son's Life 206
XXII.--The White Serpent-king 213
XXIII.--What became of the Red-coloured Dog 221
Conclusion of the Adventures of the
Well-and-Wise-Walking Khan 229
THE SAGA OF ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI AND VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE.
Historical Notice of Vikramâditja 230
The Boy-King 252
The False Friend 253
The Pretended Son 257
Ardschi-Bordschi discovers Vikramâditja's Throne 262
The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja's Birth 266
The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja's Youth 273
Schalû the Wolf-boy 277
Vikramâditja and Schalû conquer the Schimnus 284
The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja's Deeds 291
Vikramâditja acquires another Kingdom ib.
Vikramâditja makes the Silent speak 294
Who invented Woman? 298
The Voice-charmer 304
The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning the Seventy-one
Parrots and their Adviser 309
How Naran Gerel swore falsely and yet told the Truth 315
Notes 325
THE SAGA OF THE WELL-AND-WISE-WALKING KHAN.
DEDICATION.
O thou most perfect Master and Teacher of Wisdom and Goodness! Teacher,
second only to the incomparable Shâkjamuni (1)! Thou accomplished
Nâgârg'una (2)! Thou who wast intimately acquainted with the Most-pure
Tripîtaka (3), and didst evolve from it thy wise madhjamika (4),
containing the excellent paramârtha (5)! Before thee I prostrate
myself! Hail! Nâgârg'una O!
It is even the wonderful and astounding history of the deeds of the
Well-and-wise-walking Khan, which he performed under the help and
direction of this same Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, that I propose
to relate in the form of the following series of narratives.
In the kingdom of Magadha (6) there once lived seven brothers who
were magicians. At the distance of a mile from their abode lived
two brothers, sons of a Khan. The elder of these went to the seven
magicians, saying, "Teach me to understand your art," and abode with
them seven years. But though they were always setting him to learn
difficult tasks, yet they never taught him the true key to their mystic
knowledge. His brother, however, coming to visit him one day, by merely
looking through a crack in the door of the apartment where the seven
brothers were at work acquired perfectly the whole krijâvidja (7).
After this they both went home together, the elder because he
perceived he would never learn any thing of the magicians, and the
younger because he had learnt every thing they had to impart.
As they went along the younger brother said, "Now that we know
all their art the seven magicians will probably seek to do us some
mischief. Go thou, therefore, to our stable, which we left empty, and
thou shalt find there a splendid steed. Put a rein on him and lead
him forth to sell him, only take care thou go not in the direction
of the dwelling of the seven magicians; and, having sold him, bring
back the price thou shalt have received."
When he had made an end of speaking he transformed himself into a
horse, and went and placed himself in the stable against his brother
arrived.
But the elder brother, knowing the magicians had taught him nothing,
stood in no fear of them. Therefore he did not according to the
words of his brother; but saying within himself, "As my brother is
so clever that he could conjure this fine horse into the stable, let
him conjure thither another if he wants it sold. This one I will ride
myself." Accordingly he saddled and mounted the horse. All his efforts
to guide him were vain, however, and in spite of his best endeavours
the horse, impelled by the power of the magic of them from whom the
art had been learnt, carried him straight to the door of the magicians'
dwelling. Once there he was equally unable to induce him to stir away;
the horse persistently stood still before the magicians' door. When
he found he could not in any way command the horse, he determined to
sell it to these same magicians, and he offered it to them, asking
a great price for it.
The magicians at once recognized that it was a magic horse, and they
said, among themselves, "If our art is to become thus common, and
every body can produce a magic horse, no one will come to our market
for wonders. We had best buy the horse up and destroy it." Accordingly
they paid the high price required and took possession of the horse
and shut it up in a dark stall. When the time came to slaughter it,
one held it down by the tail, another by the head, other four by the
four legs, so that it should in nowise break away, while the seventh
bared his arm ready to strike it with death.
When the Khan's son, who was transformed into the horse, had learnt
what was the intention of the magicians, he said, "Would that any sort
of a living being would appear into which I might transform myself."
Hardly had he formed the wish when a little fish was seen swimming down
the stream: into this the Khan transformed himself. The seven magicians
knew what had occurred, and immediately transformed themselves into
seven larger fish and pursued it. When they were very close to the
little fish, with their gullets wide open, the Khan said, within
himself, "Would that any sort of living being would appear into
which I might transform myself." Immediately a dove was seen flying
in the heavens, and the Khan transformed himself into the dove. The
seven magicians, seeing what was done, transformed themselves into
seven hawks, pursuing the dove over hill and dale. Once again they
were near overtaking him, when the dove took refuge in the Land Bede
(8). Southward in Bede was a shining mountain and a cave within it
called "Giver of Rest." Hither the dove took refuge, even in the very
bosom of the Great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una.
The seven hawks came thither also, fast flying behind the dove; but,
arrived at the entrance of Nâgârg'una's cave, they showed themselves
once more as men, clothed in cotton garments.
Then spoke the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, "Wherefore,
O dove, flutterest thou so full of terror, and what are these seven
hawks to thee?"
So the Khan's son told the Master all that had happened between
himself, his brother, and the seven magicians; and he added these
words, "Even now there stand before the entrance of this cave seven
men clothed in cotton garments. These men will come in unto the Master
and pray for the boon of the ârâmela he holds in his hand. Meantime,
I will transform myself into the large bead of the ârâmela, and when
the Master would reach the chaplet to the seven men, I pray him that,
putting one end of it in his mouth, he bite in twain the string of
the same, whereby all the beads shall be set free."
The Master benevolently did even as he had been prayed. Moreover,
when all the beads fell showering on the ground, behold they were
all turned into little worms, and the seven men clothed in cotton
garments transformed themselves into seven fowls, who pecked up the
worms. But when the Master dropped the large bead out of his mouth on
to the ground it was transformed into the form of a man having a staff
in his hand. With this staff the Khan's son killed the seven fowls,
but the moment they were dead they bore the forms of men's corpses.
Then spoke the Master. "This is evil of thee. Behold, while I gave
thee protection for thy one life, thou hast taken the lives of these
men, even of these seven. In this hast thou done evil."
But the Khan's son answered, "To protect my life there was no
other means save to take the life of these seven, who had vowed to
kill me. Nevertheless, to testify my thanks to the Master for his
protection, and to take this sin from off my head, behold I am ready
to devote myself to whatever painful and difficult enterprise the
Master will be pleased to lay upon me."
"Then," said the Master, "if this is so, betake thyself to the cool
grove, even to the cîtavana (9), where is the Siddhî-kür (10). From
his waist upwards he is of gold, from his waist downwards of emerald;
his head is of mother-of-pearl, decked with a shining crown. Thus
is he made. Him if thou bring unto me from his Mango-tree (11), thou
shalt have testified thy gratitude for my protection and shalt have
taken this sin that thou hast committed from off thy head; for so
shall I be able, when I have the Siddhî-kür in subjection under me,
to bring forth gold in abundance, to give lives of a thousand years'
duration to the men of Gambudvîpa (12), and to perform all manner of
wonderful works."
"Behold, I am ready to do even as according to thy word," answered
the Khan's son. "Tell me only the way I have to take and the manner
and device whereby I must proceed."
Then spoke the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, again, saying,--
"When thou shalt have wandered forth hence for the distance of about
an hundred miles, thou shalt come to a dark and fearsome ravine where
lie the bodies of the giant-dead. At thy approach they shall all rise
up and surround thee. But thou call out to them, 'Ye giant-dead,
hala hala svâhâ (13)!' scattering abroad at the same time these
barley-corns, consecrated by the power of magic art, and pass on thy
way without fear.
About another hundred miles' space farther hence thou shalt come
to a smooth mead by the side of a river where lie the bodies of
the pigmy-dead. At thy approach they shall all rise up and surround
thee. But thou cry out to them, 'Ye pigmy-dead, hulu hulu svâhâ!' and,
strewing thine offering of barley-corns, again pass on thy way
without fear.
At a hundred miles' space farther along thou shalt come to a garden
of flowers having a grove of trees and a fountain in the midst; here
lie the bodies of the child-dead. At thy approach they shall rise
up and running together surround thee. But thou cry out to them, 'Ye
child-dead, rira phad!' and, strewing thine offering of barley-corns,
again pass on thy way without fear.
Out of the midst of these the Siddhî-kür will rise and will run away
from before thee till he reaches his mango-tree, climbing up to the
summit thereof. Then thou swing on high the axe which I will give thee,
even the axe White Moon (14), and make as though thou wouldst hew
down the tree in very truth. Rather than let thee hew the mango-tree
he will come down. Then seize him and bind him in this sack of many
colours, in which is place for to stow away an hundred, enclose the
mouth thereof tight with this cord, twisted of an hundred threads of
different colours, make thy meal off this cake which never grows less,
place the sack upon thy shoulder, and bring him hither to me. Only
beware that by the way thou open not thy lips to speak!
"And now, hitherto hast thou been called the Khan's son, but now,
since thou hast found thy way even to the cave 'Giver of Rest,' thou
shalt be called no more the Khan's son, but 'the Well-and-wise-walking
Khan.' Go now thy way."
When the Master, Nâgârg'una, had given him this new name, he further
provided him with all the provisions for the undertaking which he
had promised him, and, pointing out the way, dismissed him in peace.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had overcome all the alarms and
difficulties of the way, and come in sight of the Siddhî-kür, he set
out swiftly to pursue him; but the Siddhî-kür was swifter than he,
and, reaching the mango-tree, clambered up to the summit. Then said
the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, "Behold, I come in the name of the
great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una. My axe is the axe 'White Moon,'
my provision for the journey is the cake which never diminishes,
my prison is the sack of many colours, in which is place to stow
away an hundred, my cord is the cord twisted of an hundred threads of
different colours, I myself am called the Well-and-wise-walking Khan;
I command thee, therefore, Siddhî-kür, that thou come down hither to
me, otherwise with my axe 'White Moon' will I fell the mango-tree."
At these words the Siddhî-kür cried, in answer, "Fell not the
mango-tree. Rather will I come down to thee." With that he came
down, and the Khan, taking him, put him in his sack of many colours,
in which was place to stow away an hundred, then he made the mouth
fast with the cord twisted of an hundred threads of various colours,
made his meal off his cake which never diminished, and proceeded on
his way to take him to the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una.
As they journeyed on thus day after day, and had grown weary, thus
spoke the Siddhî-kür, "Long is the journey, and both of us are weary,
tell thou now a story to enliven it."
But, remembering the words of Nâgârg'una, "Beware thou open not thy
lips to speak," he answered him never a word.
Then said the Siddhî-kür again, "If thou wilt not tell a story to
lighten the journey, at least listen to one from me, and to this
thou canst give assent without opening thy lips, if only thou nod
thy head backwards towards me. At this sign I will tell a tale." So
the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards the
Siddhî-kür, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale:--
TALE I.
THE WOMAN WHO SOUGHT HER HUSBAND IN THE PALACE OF ERLIK KHAN.
Long ages ago there reigned a young Khan whose father had died early
and left him in possession of the kingdom. He was a youth comely to
look upon, and dazzling in the glory of his might. To him had been
given for his chief wife the daughter of a Khan of the South. But the
young Khan loved not this wife. At a mile's distance from his palace
there lived in her father's house a well-grown, beautiful maiden, of
whom he had made his second wife; as she was not a Khan's daughter
he feared to take her home to his palace, lest he should displease
his mother, but he came often to visit her, and as they loved each
other very much, she asked no more.
One night, when the moon was brightly shining, some one knocked at
the window, the maiden knew it was the Khan's manner of knocking,
so she opened to him,--but with trembling, for he had never been wont
to come at that hour; yet by the light of the moonbeam she saw that
it was indeed himself, only instead of his usual garments, he was
habited in shining apparel, which she could hardly look upon for its
brightness, and he, himself, too, looked more exceeding beautiful
than usual. When he had partaken of her rice-brandy and cakes,
he rose and stood upon the doorstep, saying, "Come, sweet wife,
come out together with me;" and when she had gone a little way with
him, he said, "Come, sweet wife, come a little farther with me." And
when she had gone a little farther with him, he said again, "Come,
sweet wife, come yet a little farther." So she went yet a little
farther till they had reached nearly to the gates of the palace, and
from within the courts of the palace there came a noise of shouting
and playing on instruments. Then inquired she, "To what end is this
shouting and this music?" And he replied, "It is the noise of the
sacrifice for the rites of the burial of the Khan (1)." "And why
do they celebrate the rites of the burial of the Khan?" she asked,
now beginning to fear in earnest. "Because I am dead, sweet wife, and
am even now on my way to the deva's kingdom. But thou listen to me,
and do according to my word, and all shall be well for thee and for
our son. Behold, even now, within the palace, my mother and my chief
wife strive together concerning a jewel which is lost. But I have
purposely hid the jewel under a god's image in the apartment. Thou,
therefore, pass the night in this elephant-stable of the palace
hard by, and there shall our son be born; and in the morning, the
elephant-tamers finding thee shall bring thee to my mother and my
chief wife. But thou, take the jewel and give it to the chief wife
and send her away to her own people. Then shall my mother have joy
in thee alone and in the child, and you two together shall direct
the Government till he be come to man's estate." Thus spoke the Khan.
While he spoke these words, the wife was so stricken with fear and
grief that she fell to the ground senseless, nor knew that he bore
her into the elephant-stable, and went up to the deva's kingdom.
In the night their son was born; and in the morning, the
elephant-tamers coming in, said, "Here is a woman and a babe lying
in the elephant-stable; this must not be, who knows but that it
might bring evil to the elephants (2)?" so they raised her up,
with her infant, and took her to the Khan's mother. Then she told
the Khan's mother all that had befallen her, and as the jewel was
found in the place the Khan had told her, it was taken for proof
of her truth. Accordingly, the jewel was given to the chief wife,
and she was dismissed to her own people; and as the Khan had left no
other child, the boy born in the elephant-stable was declared heir,
and his mother and the Khan's mother directed the Government together
till he should come to man's estate.
Thus the lowly maiden was established in the palace as the Khan
had promised. Moreover, every month, on the fifteenth of the month,
the Khan came in the night to visit her, disappearing again with the
morning light. When she told this to the Khan's mother, she would not
believe her, because he was invisible to all eyes but hers. And when
she protested that she spoke only words of truth, the Khan's mother
said, "If it be very truth, then obtain of him that his mother may
see him also."
On the fifteenth of the month, when he came again, she said therefore
to him, "That thou shouldst come thus to see me every month, on the
fifteenth of the month, is good; but that thou shouldst go away and
leave me all alone again, this is sad, very sad. Why canst thou not
come back and stay with us altogether, without going away any more?"
And he made answer: "Of a truth there would be one way, but it is
difficult and terrible, and it is not given to woman to endure so
much fear and pain."
But she replied, "If there were but any means to have thee back,
always by my side, I would find strength to endure any terror or pain,
even to the tearing out of the bones from the midst of my flesh."
"This is the means that must be taken then," said the Khan: "Next
month, on the fifteenth of the month, thou must rise when the moon's
light is at the full, and go forth abroad a mile's distance towards
the regions of the South. There shalt thou meet with an ancient man of
iron, standing on the watch, who, when he shall have drank much molten
metal, shall yet cry, 'Yet am I thirsty.' To him give rice-brandy and
pass on. Farther on thou shalt find two he-goats fighting together
mightily, to them give barm-cakes to eat and pass on. Farther along
thou shalt find a band of armed men who shall bar thy way; to them
distribute meat and pass on. Farther on thou shalt come to a frightful
massive black building round which runs a moat filled with human
blood, and from its portal waves a man's skin for a banner. At its
door stand on guard two terrible erliks (3), servants of Erlik Khan
(4); to each, offer an offering of blood and pass within the building.
"In the very midst of the building thou shalt find a Mandala (5)
formed by eight awful sorcerers, and at the feet of each will lie
a heart which will cry to thee, 'Take me! take me!' In the midst of
all will be a ninth heart which must cry 'Take me not!'
"If thou fortified by thy love shall be neither rendered afraid by
the aspect of the place, nor terrified by the might of the sorcerers,
nor confounded by the wailing of the voices, but shalt take up and
bear away that ninth heart, neither looking backwards nor tarrying
by the way, then shall it be granted us to live for evermore on
earth together."
Thus he spoke; and the morning light breaking, she saw him no
more. The wife, however, laid up all his words in her heart; and on
the fifteenth of the next month, when the moon shone, she went forth
all alone without seeking help or counsel from any one, content to
rely on her husband's words. Nor letting her heart be cast down by
fear or pain, she distributed to each of those she met by the way
the portion he had appointed. At last she reached the Mandala of
sorcerers, and, regardless of the conflicting cries by which she
was assailed, boldly carried off the ninth heart, though it said,
"Take me not!" No sooner had she turned back with her prize than the
eight sorcerers ran calling after her, "A thief has been in here,
and has stolen the heart! Guards! Up, and seize her!" But the Erliks
before the door answered, "Us she propitiated with a blood-offering;
we arrest her not. See you to it." So the word was passed on to the
company of armed men who had barred her passage; but they answered,
"Us hath she propitiated with a meat-offering; we arrest her not. See
you to it." Then the word was passed on to the two he-goats. But the
he-goats answered, "Us hath she propitiated with a barm-cake-offering;
we arrest her not. See you to it." Finally, the word was passed on
to the ancient man of iron; but he answered, "Me hath she propitiated
with a brandy-offering; I arrest her not."
Thus with fearless tread she continued all the way to the palace. On
opening the door of his apartment, the Khan himself came forward to
meet her in his beauty and might, and in tenfold glory, never to go
away from her again any more, and they fell into each other's arms
in a loving embrace.
"Scarcely could a man have held out as bravely as did this
woman!" exclaimed the Khan.
And as he uttered these words, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his
health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with
the cry "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through
the air, swift, out of sight.
Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the first chapter,
concerning the Woman who brought back her Husband from the palace
of Erlik-Khan.
TALE II.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had missed the end
and object of his journey, he forthwith set out again, without loss of
time, or so much as returning to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una,
but taking only a meal of his cake which never diminished; thus,
with similar toils and fears as the first time, he came again at
last to the cool grove where lay the child-dead, and among them the
Siddhî-kür. And the Siddhî-kür rose up before him, and clambered up
the mango-tree. And when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had summoned
him with proud sounding words to come down, threatening that otherwise
he would hew down the tree with his axe "White Moon," the Siddhî-kür
came down, rather than that he should destroy the mango-tree. Then
he bound him again in his bag of many colours, in which was place
to stow away an hundred, and bound the mouth thereof with the cord
woven of an hundred threads of different tints, and bore him along
to offer to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una.
But at the end of many days' journey, the Siddhî-kür said,--
"Now, in truth, is the length of this journey like to weary us even to
death, as we go along thus without speaking. Wherefore, O Prince! let
me entreat thee beguile the way by telling a tale."
But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, remembering the words of his
Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, which he spoke, saying, "See thou open
not thy lips to speak by the way," remained silent, and answered him
never a word. Then the Siddhî-kür, when he found that he could not be
brought to answer him, spake again in this wise: "If thou wilt not
tell a tale, then, at least, give some token by which I may know if
thou willest that I should tell one, and if thou speak not, at least
nod thine head backwards towards me; then will I tell a tale."
So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards
the Siddhî-kür, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,--
THE GOLD-SPITTING PRINCE.
Long ages ago there was a far-off country where a mighty Khan
ruled. Near the source of the chief river of this country was a pool,
where lived two Serpent-gods (1), who had command of the water; and
as they could shut off the water of the river when they pleased, and
prevent it from overflowing and fertilizing the country, the people
were obliged to obey their behest, be it what it might. Now, the
tribute they exacted of the country was that of a full grown man, to
be chosen by lot, every year; and on whoso the lot fell, he had to go,
without redemption, whatever his condition in life. Thus it happened
one year that the lot fell on the Khan himself. In all the kingdom
there was no one of equal rank who could be received instead of him,
unless it had been his only son. When his son would have gone in his
stead, he answered him, "What is it to me if the Serpents devour
me, so that thou, my son, reignest in peace?" But the son said,
"Never shall it be that thou, my Khan and father, shouldst suffer
this cruel death, while I remain at home. The thought be far from
me. Neither will the land receive harm by my death; is not my mother
yet alive? and other sons may be born to thee, who shall reign over
the land." So he went to offer himself as food to the Serpent-gods.
As he went along, the people followed him for a long stretch of the
way, bewailing him; and then they turned them back. But one there
was who turned not back: it was a poor man's son whom the Prince had
all his life had for his friend; he continued following him. Then the
Prince turned and said to him, "Walk thou according to the counsels of
thy father and thy mother, and be prosperous and happy on the earth. To
defend this noble, princely country, and to fulfil the royal word of
the Khan, my father, I go forth to be food to the Serpent-gods."
But the poor man's son refused to forsake him. "Thou hast loaded
me with goodness and favours," he said, as he wept; "if I may not
go instead of thee, at least I will go with thee." And he continued
following the Prince.
When they got near the pool, they heard a low, rumbling, horrible
sound: it was the two Serpent-gods talking together, and talking about
them, for they were on the look-out to see who would be sent to them
this year for the tribute. The old gold-yellow Serpent was telling
the young emerald-green Serpent how the Prince had come instead of
his father, and how the poor man, who had no need to come at all,
had insisted on accompanying him.
"And these people are so devoted in giving their lives for one
another," said the young emerald-green Serpent, "and have not the
courage to come out and fight us, and make an end of paying this
tribute at all."
"They don't know the one only way to fight us," answered the
gold-yellow old Serpent; "and as all the modes they have tried have
always failed, they imagine it cannot be done, and they try no more."
"And what is the one only way by which they could prevail against
us?" inquired the young emerald-green Serpent.
"They have only to cut off our heads with a blow of a stout
staff," replied the old gold-yellow Serpent, "for so has Shêsa,
the Serpent-dæmon, appointed."
"But these men carry shining swords that look sharp and fearful,"
urged the young emerald-green Serpent.
"That is it!" rejoined the other: "their swords avail nothing against
us, and so they never think that a mere staff should kill us. Also,
if after cutting off our heads they were to eat them, they would be
able to spit as much gold and precious stones as ever they liked. But
they know nothing of all this," chuckled the old gold-yellow Serpent.
Meantime, the Prince had not lost a word of all that the two Serpents
had said to each other, for his mother had taught him the speech
of all manner of creatures. So when he first heard the noise of the
Serpents talking together, he had stood still, and listened to their
words. Now, therefore, he told it all again to his follower, and they
cut two stout staves in the wood, and then drew near, and cut off the
heads of the Serpents with the staves--each of them one; and when
they had cut them off, the Prince ate the head of the gold-yellow
Serpent, and, see! he could spit out as much gold money as ever he
liked; and his follower ate the head of the emerald-green Serpent,
and he could spit out emeralds as many as ever he pleased.
Then spoke the poor man's son: "Now that we have killed the Serpents,
and restored the due course of the water to our native country,
let us return home and live at peace."
But the Khan's son answered, "Not so, for if we went back to our own
land, the people would only mock us, saying, 'The dead return not to
the living!' and we should find no place among them. It is better we
betake ourselves to another country afar off, which knows us not."
So they journeyed on through a mountain pass.
At the foot of the mountains they came to the habitation of a beautiful
woman and her daughter, selling strong drink to travellers. Here they
stopped, and would have refreshed themselves, but the women asked
them what means they had to pay them withal, for they saw they looked
soiled with travel. "We will pay whatever you desire," replied the
Prince; and he began to spit out gold coin upon the table. When the
women saw that he spat out as much gold coin as ever he would, they
took them inside, and gave them as much drink as they could take,
making them pay in gold, and at many times the worth of the drink,
for they no longer knew what they did; only when they had made them
quite intoxicated, and they could not get any thing more from them,
in despite of all sense of gratitude or hospitality, they turned them
out to pass the night on the road.
When they woke in the morning, they journeyed farther till they came
to a broad river; on its banks was a palm-grove, and a band of boys
were gathered together under it quarrelling.
"Boys! what are you disputing about?" inquired the Prince.
"We found a cap on this palm-tree," answered one of the boys, "and
we are disputing whose it shall be, because we all want it."
"And what use would the cap be to you? What is it good for?" asked
the Prince.
"Why, that whichever of us gets it has only to put it on," replied the
boy, "and he immediately becomes invisible to gods, men, and dæmons."
"I will settle the dispute for you," rejoined the Prince. "You all of
you get you to the far end of this palm-grove, and start back running,
all fair, together. Whichever wins the race shall be reckoned to have
won the cap. Give it to me to hold the while."
The boys said, "It is well spoken;" and giving the cap to the Prince,
they set off to go to the other end of the grove. But they were no
sooner well on their way, than the Prince put on the cap, and then
joining hands with his companion, both became invisible to gods, men,
and dæmons; so that when the boys came back at full speed, though
they were both yet standing in the same place, none of them could
see them. After wandering about to look for them in vain, they at
last gave it up in despair, and went away crying with disappointment.
The Prince and his follower continued their journey by the side of
the stream till they came to a broad road, and here at the cross-way
was a crowd of dæmons assembled, who were all chattering aloud,
and disputing vehemently.
"Dæmons! What are you quarrelling about?" asked the Prince.
"We found this pair of boots here," answered the dæmons, "and whoever
puts these boots on has only to wish that he might be in a particular
place, and immediately arrives there; and we cannot agree which of
us is to have the boots."
"I will settle the dispute for you," replied the Prince. "You all go
up to the end of this road, and run back hither all of you together,
and whichever of you wins the race, he shall be reckoned to have won
the boots. Give them to me to hold the while."
So the dæmons answered, "It is well spoken;" and giving the boots
to the Prince, they set off to go to the far end of the road. But
by the time they got back the Prince had put on the invisible cap,
and joining hands with his companion had become invisible to gods,
men, and dæmons, so that for all their looking there was no trace of
them to be found. Thus they had to give up the lucky boots, and went
their way howling for disappointment.
As soon as they were gone the Prince and his follower began to examine
the boots, and to ponder what they should do with their treasure.
"A great gift and a valuable," said the latter, "hath been given
thee, O Prince, by the favour of fortune, and thy wisdom in acquiring
it. Wish now to reach a prosperous place to be happy; but for me I
shall not know where thou art gone, and I shall see thy face no more."
But the Prince said, "Nay, but wheresoever I go, thou shalt go
too. Here is one boot for me, and the other for thee, and when we have
both put them on we will wish to be in the place where at this moment
there is no Khan, and we will then see what is further to be done."
So the Prince put on the right boot, and his follower the left boot,
and they laid them down to sleep, and both wished that they might
come to a land where there was no Khan.
When they woke in the morning they found themselves lying in
the hollow of an ancient tree, in the outskirts of a great city,
overshadowing the place where the election of the Khan was wont
to be made. As soon as day broke the people began to assemble,
and many ceremonies were performed. At last the people said,
"Let us take one of the Baling-cakes out of the straw sacrifice,
and throw it up into the air, and on to whosoever's head it falls
he shall be our Khan. So they took the Baling-cake out of the straw
sacrifice, and it fell into the hollow tree. And the people said,
"We must choose some other mode of divination, for the Baling-cake
has failed. Shall a hollow tree reign over us?"
But others said, "Let us see what there may be inside the hollow tree."
Thus when they came to look into the tree they found the Prince and
his follower. So they drew them out and said, "These shall rule over
us." But others said, "How shall we know which of these two is the
Khan?" While others again cried, "These men are but strangers and
vagabonds. How then shall they reign over us?"
But to the Prince and his follower they said, "Whence are ye? and
how came ye in the hollow tree?"
Then the Prince began spitting gold coin, and his follower precious
emeralds. And while the people were busied in gathering the gold
and the emeralds they installed themselves in the palace, and made
themselves Khan and Chief Minister, and all the people paid them
homage.
When they had learned the ways of the kingdom and established
themselves well in it, the new Khan said to his Minister that he
must employ himself to find a wife worthy of the Khan. To whom the
Minister made answer,--
"Behold, beautiful among women is the daughter of the last Khan. Shall
not she be the Khan's wife?"
The Khan found his word good, and desired that she should be brought to
him; when he found she was fair to see, he took her into the palace,
and she became his wife. But she was with him as one whose thoughts
were fixed on another.
Now on the outskirts of the city was a noble palace, well kept and
furnished, and surrounded with delicious gardens; but no one lodged
there. Only the Minister took note that every third day the Khan's
wife went out softly and unattended, and betook herself to this palace.
"Now," thought the Minister to himself, "wherefore goes the Khan's
wife every third day to this palace, softly and unattended? I must
see this thing."
So he put on the cap which they had of the boys in the palm-grove,
and followed the Khan's wife as he saw her go the palace, and having
found a ladder he entered by a window as she came up the stairs. Then
he followed her into a sumptuous apartment all fitted with carpets
and soft cushions, and a table spread with delicious viands and
cooling drinks. The Khan's wife, however, reclined her on none of
these cushions, but went out by a private door for a little space,
and when she returned she was decked as never she had been when
she went before the Khan. The room was filled with perfume as she
approached, her hair was powdered with glittering jewels, and her
attire was all of broidered silk, while her throat, and arms, and
ankles were wreathed with pearls. The Minister hardly knew her again;
and with his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons,
he approached quite near to look at her, while she, having no suspicion
of his presence, continued busy with preparations as for some coming
event. On a vast circle of porphyry she lighted a fire of sandal wood,
over which she scattered a quantity of odoriferous powders, uttering
words the while which it was beyond the power of the Minister to
understand. While she was thus occupied, there came a most beautiful
bird with many-coloured wings swiftly flying through the open window,
and when he had soared round three times in the soft vapour of the
sweet-scented gums the Princess had been burning, there appeared a bird
no longer, but Cuklaketu, the beautiful son of the gods, surpassing
all words in his beauty. The transformation was no sooner effected,
than they embraced each other, and reclining together on the silken
couches, feasted on the banquet that was laid out.
After a time, Cuklaketu rose to take leave, but before he went, he
said, "Now you are married to the husband heaven has appointed you,
tell me how it is with him."
At these words the Minister, jealous for his master, grew very
attentive that he might learn what opinion the Khan's wife had of his
master and what love she had for him. But she answered prudently,
"How it will be with him I know not yet, for he is still young;
I cannot as yet know any thing of either his merits or defects."
And with that they parted; Cuklaketu flying away in the form of
a beautiful bird with many-coloured wings as he had come, and the
Khan's wife exchanging her glittering apparel for the mantle in which
she came from the Khan's palace.
The next time that she went out to this palace, the Minister put
on his cap and followed her again and witnessed the same scene,
only when Cuklaketu was about to take leave this time, he said,
"To-morrow, I shall come and see what your husband is like." And
when she asked him, "By what token shall I know you?" he answered,
"I will come under the form of a swallow, and will perch upon his
throne." With that they parted; but the Minister went and stood before
the Khan and told him all that he had seen.
"But thou, O Khan," proceeded the Minister, "Cause thou a great fire
to be kept burning before the throne; and I, standing there with the
cap rendering me invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, on my head, will
be on the look out for the swallow, and when he appears, I will seize
him by the feathers of his tail and dash him into the fire; then must
thou, O Khan, slay him, and hew him in pieces with thy sword."
And so it was, for the next morning early, while the Khan and his
Consort were seated with all their Court in due order of rank,
there came a swallow, all smirk and sprightly, fluttering around
them, and at last it perched on the Khan's throne. The Princess
watched his every movement with delighted eyes, but the Minister,
who waited there wearing his cap which made him invisible to gods,
men, and dæmons, no sooner saw him perch on the throne, than he seized
him by the feathers of his tail and flung him on the fire. The swallow
succeeded in fluttering out of the fire, but as the Khan had drawn his
sword to slay him and hew him in pieces, the Princess caught his arm
and held it tight, so that the swallow just managed to fly away with
his singed wings through the open window. Meantime, the Princess was
so overcome with fear and excitement that she fainted away into the
arms of the attendants, who were struck with wonder that she should
care so much about an injury done to a little bird.
As soon as the day came round for her to go to the palace in the
outskirts of the city, again the Minister did not fail to follow
closely on her steps. He observed that she prepared every thing
with greater attention than before and decked herself out with more
costly robes and more glittering gems. But when the minutes passed by
and the beautiful bird still appeared not, her fear waxed stronger
and stronger, and she stood gazing, without taking her eyes off the
sky. At last, and only when it was already late, Cuklaketu came flying
painfully and feebly, and when he had exchanged his bird disguise for
the human form, the traces of the treatment the Minister had given
him were plainly visible in many frightful blisters and scars.
When the Princess saw him in this evil plight, she lifted up her
voice, and wept aloud. But the Prince comforted her with his great
steadfastness under the infliction, only he was obliged to tell her
that both his human body and his bird feathers being thus marred, it
would be impossible for him to come and visit her more. "But," he said,
"the Khan, thy husband, has proved himself to exceed me in his might,
therefore he has won thee from me." So after much leave-taking, they
parted; and Cuklaketu flew away as well as his damaged wings would
carry him.
It was observed that after this the Princess grew much more attached
to her husband, and the Khan rejoiced in the sagacity and faithfulness
of his Minister.
Nor was this the only use the Minister made of his cap, which made him
invisible to gods, men, and dæmons. He was enabled by its means to see
many things that were not rightly conducted, to correct many evils,
punish many offenders who thought to escape justice, and learn many
useful arts.
One day as he was walking with this cap upon his head, he came to a
temple where, the door being closed, a servant of the temple, thinking
himself alone, began disporting himself after the following manner:
First, he took out from under a statue of Buddha a large roll of paper,
on which was painted a donkey. Having spread it out flat on the floor
of the temple, he danced round it five times; and immediately on
completing the fifth turn, he became transformed into a donkey like
the one that was painted on the paper. In this form he pranced about
for some time, and brayed till he was tired, then he got on to the
paper again, on his hind legs, and danced round five times as before,
and immediately he appeared again in his natural form. When at last he
grew tired of the amusement he rolled up his paper, and replaced it
under the image of Buddha, whence he had taken it. He had no sooner
done so than the Minister, under cover of his cap, which made him
invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, possessed himself of the paper
which had such mysterious properties, and betook himself with it to
the dwelling of the beautiful woman and her daughter who sold strong
drink to travellers, who had treated his master and him so shamefully
at the outset of their travels.
When they saw him approach, for he now no longer wore the invisible
cap, they began to fear he had come to bring them retribution, and
they asked him with the best grace they could assume what was his
pleasure. But he, to win their confidence, that he might the better
carry out his scheme, replied,--
"To reward you for your handsome treatment of me and my companion,
therefore am I come." And at the same time he gave them a handful of
gold coin.
And they, recollecting what profit they had derived from his companion
before, and deeming it likely there might be means for turning the
present visit to similar good account, asked him what were his means
for being able to be so lavish of the precious metal.
"Oh, that is easily told," replied the Minister. "It is true I have not
the faculty of spitting gold coin out of my mouth like my companion,
as you doubtless remember, but I have another way, equally efficacious,
of coming into possession of all the money I can possibly desire."
"And what may that way be?" inquired mother and daughter together in
their eagerness.
"I have only to spread out this roll of paper on the ground," and he
showed them the roll that he had taken from under the image of Buddha
in the temple, "and dance five times round it, and immediately I find
myself in possession of as much gold as I can carry."
"What a treasure to possess is that same roll of paper," cried the
women, and they exchanged looks expressing the determination each
had immediately conceived, of possessing themselves of it.
"But now," proceeded the Minister, not appearing to heed their mutual
signs, though inwardly rejoicing that they had shown themselves so
ready to fall into his snare," but now pour me out to drink, for I
am weary with the journey, and thirsty, and your drink I remember
is excellent."
The women, on their part, were equally rejoiced that he had given them
the opportunity of plying him, and did not wait to be asked twice. The
Minister continued to drink, and the women to pour out drink to him,
till he was in a state of complete unconsciousness.
They no sooner found him arrived at this helpless condition than they
took possession of the mysterious roll, and forthwith spreading it
out on the ground, proceeded to dance round it five times after the
manner prescribed.
When the Minister came to himself, therefore, he found his scheme
had fully taken effect, and the woman and her daughter were standing
heavy and chapfallen in the form of two asses. The Minister put a
bridle in their mouth, and led them off to the Khan, saying,--
"These, O Khan, are the women who sell strong drink to travellers,
and who entreated us so shamefully at the time when having slain
the dragons we went forth on our travels. I have transformed them
by my art into two asses. Now, therefore, shall there not be given
them burdens of wood, and burdens of stone to carry, heavy burdens,
so that they may be punished for their naughtiness?"
And the Khan gave orders that it should be done as he had said. But
when at the end of five years, they were well weighed down with the
heavy burdens, and the Khan saw them wearied and trembling, and human
tears running down from their eyes, he called the Minister to him,
and said,--
"Take these women, and do them no more harm, for their punishment
is enough."
So the Minister fetched the paper, and having spread it out on the
ground, placed the women on it, making them stand on their hind legs,
and led them round it five several times till they resumed their
natural form. But with the treatment they had undergone, both were
now so bowed, and shrunk, and withered, that no one could know them
for the beautiful women they had been.
"As well might he have left them under the form of asses, as restore
their own shape in such evil plight," here exclaimed the Khan.
And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,--
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.
Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
second chapter, concerning the deeds of the Gold-spitting Prince and
his Minister.
TALE III.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that once again he had
missed the end and object of his labour, he set out anew without
loss of time and without hesitation, and journeyed through toil and
terror till he came to the cool grove where rested the bodies of the
dead. The Siddhî-kür at his approach ran away before his face, and
clambered up the mango-tree; but when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan
had threatened to fell it, the Siddhî-kür came down to him rather
than that he should destroy the precious mango-tree. Then he bound
him in his bag and laded him on to his shoulder, and bore him away
to offer to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una.
But after they had journeyed many days and spoken nothing, the
Siddhî-kür said, "See, we are like to die of weariness if we go
on journeying thus day by day without conversing. Tell now thou,
therefore, a tale to relieve the weariness of the way."
The Well-and-wise-walking Khan, however, mindful of the word of his
Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, saying, "See thou speak never a word
by the way," answered him nothing, neither spake at all.
Then said the Siddhî-kür, "If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least
give me some token by which I may know that thou willest I should
tell one, and without speaking, nod thy head backwards towards me,
and I will tell a tale."
So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards, and the
Siddhî-kür told this tale saying,--
HOW THE SCHIMNU-KHAN WAS SLAIN.
Long ages ago there lived on the banks of a mighty river a man who
had no wife, and no family, and no possessions, but only one cow; and
when he mourned because he had no children, and his cow had no calf,
and that he had no milk and no butter to live upon, his cow one day
gave birth, not to a calf, but to a monster, which seemed only to be
sent to mock him in his misery and distress; for while it had the head,
and horns, and long tail of a bull, it had the body of a man. Never was
such an ugly monster seen, and when the poor man considered it he said,
"What shall I now do with this monster? It is not good for him to live;
I will fetch my bow and arrows, and will make an end of him." But
when he had strung his bow and fixed his arrow, Massang of the bull's
head, seeing what he was going to do, cried out, "Master, slay me not;
and doubt not but that your clemency shall have its reward."
At these words the poor man was moved to clemency, and he put up his
arrows again, and let Massang live, but he turned away his face from
beholding him. When Massang saw that his master could not look upon
him, he turned him and fled into the woods, and wandered on till he
came to a place where was a black-coloured man sitting at the foot
of a tree. Seeing him, Massang said, "Who and whence art thou?"
And the black-coloured man made answer, "I am a full-grown man of
good understanding, born of the dark woods."
And Massang said, "Whither goest thou? I will go with thee and be
thy companion."
And the black-coloured man got up, and they wandered on together
till they came to a place in the open meadow, where they saw a
green-coloured man sitting on the grass. Seeing him, Massang said,
"Who and whence art thou?"
And the green-coloured man replied, "I am a full-grown man of good
understanding, born of the green meadows; take me with you too,
and I will be your companion."
And he wandered on with the other two, Massang and the black-coloured
man, till they came to a place where was a white-coloured man sitting
on a crystal rock. Seeing him, Massang said, "Who and whence art thou?"
And the white-coloured man replied, "I am a full-grown man of good
understanding, born of the crystal rock; take me with you, and let
me be your companion."
And he wandered on with the other three, Massang, and the
black-coloured man, and the green-coloured man, till they came to a
stream flowing between barren sandy banks; and farther along was a
grass-clad hill with a little dwelling on the top. Of this dwelling
they took possession, and inside it they found provisions of every
kind; and in the yard cattle and all that was required to maintain
life. Here, therefore, they dwelt; three of them going out every day
to hunt, and one staying at home to keep guard over the place.
Now the first day, Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the
white-coloured man and the green-coloured man; the black-coloured
man being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to
prepare the dinner. He had made the butter, and sat with the milk
simmering, cooking the meat (1), when he heard a rustling sound as of
one approaching stealthily. Looking round to discover who came there,
he saw a little old woman not more than a span high, carrying a bundle
no bigger than an apple on her back, coming up a ladder she had set
ready for herself, without asking leave or making any sort of ceremony.
"Lackaday!" cried the little old woman, speaking to herself,
"methinks I see a youngster cooking good food." But to him she said
in a commanding tone, "Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk
and meat to taste."
Though she was so small, she wore such a weird, uncanny air that the
black-coloured man, though he had boasted of being a full-grown man
of good understanding, durst not say her "Nay;" though he contented
himself with keeping to the letter of her behest, and only gave her
the smallest possible morsel of the food he had prepared, only just
enough, as she had said, "to taste." But lo and behold! no sooner had
she put the morsel to her lips than the whole portion disappeared,
meat, milk, pot and all; and, more marvellous still, the little old
wife had disappeared with them.
Ashamed at finding himself thus overmatched by such a little old
wench, he reasoned with himself that he must invent something to
tell his companions which should have a more imposing sound than
the sorry story of what had actually occurred. Turning over all his
belongings to help himself to an idea, he found two horse's-hoofs,
and with these he made the marks as of many horsemen all round the
dwelling, and then shot his own arrow into the middle of the yard.
He had hardly finished these preparations when his companions came
home from the hunt.
"Where is our meal?" inquired they. "Where is the butter you were to
have made, and the meat you were to have cooked?"
"Scarcely had I made all ready," replied the black-coloured man,
"than a hundred strange men, on a hundred wild horses, came tearing
through the place; and what could I do to withstand a hundred? Thus
they have taken all the butter, and milk, and meat, and me they beat
and bound, so that I have had enough to do to set myself free, and
scarcely can I move from the effect of their blows. Go out now and
see for yourselves."
So they went out; and when they saw the marks of the horses'-hoofs
all round the dwelling, and the arrow shot into the middle of the
courtyard, they said, "He hath spoken true things."
The next day Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the
black-coloured man and the white-coloured man. The green-coloured man
being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the
dinner; and it was no sooner ready than the little old wife came in,
as she had done the day before, and played the same game.
"This is doubtless how it fell out with the black-coloured man,"
said he to himself, as soon as she was gone; "but neither can I own
that I was matched by such a little old wife, nor yet can I tell the
same story about the horsemen. I know what I will do: I will fetch
up a yoke of oxen, and make them tramp about the place, and when the
others come home, I will say some men came by with a herd of cattle,
and, overpowering me, carried off the victuals." All this he did;
and when his companions came home, and saw for themselves the marks
the oxen had made in tramping up the soil, they said, "He hath spoken
true things."
The day after, Massang went hunting, and took with him the
black-coloured man and the green-coloured man. The white-coloured
man being left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare
the dinner. Nor was it long before the same little old woman who had
visited his companions made her appearance; and soon she had made an
end of all the provisions. "This is doubtless how it fell out with
the green-coloured man yesterday, and the black-coloured man the
day before," said the white-coloured man to himself; "but neither
can I own any more than they that I was overmatched by such a little
old wife, nor yet can I tell the same story as they." So he fetched
a mule in from the field, and made it trot all round the dwelling,
that when his companions came in he might tell them that a party of
merchants had been by, with a file of mules carrying their packs of
merchandize, who had held him bound, and eaten up the provisions.
All this he did; and when his companions came home, and saw for
themselves the marks of the mule-hoofs all round the dwelling, they
said, "He hath spoken true things."
The next day it was Massang's turn to stay at home, nor did he neglect
the duty which fell upon him of cooking the food against the return
of the rest. As he sat thus occupied, up came the little old woman,
as on all the other days.
"Lackaday!" she exclaimed, as she set eyes on him. "Methinks I
see a youngster cooking good food!" And to him she cried, in her
imperious tone, "Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk and
meat to taste."
When Massang saw her, he said within himself, "Surely now this is she
who hath appeared to the other three; and when they said that strangers
had broken in, and overpowered them, and stolen the food, was it not
that she is a witch-woman and enchanted it away. She only asks to taste
it; but if I do her bidding, who knows what may follow?" So he observed
her, that he might discover what way there was of over-matching her;
thus he espied her bundle, and bethought him it contained the means
of her witcheries. To possess himself of it he had first to devise
the means of getting her to go an errand, and leave it behind her.
"Belike you could help me to some fresh water, good wife," he said,
in a simple, coaxing tone; and she, thinking to serve her purpose by
keeping on good terms with him, replied,--
"That can I; but give me wherewithal to fetch it."
To keep her longer absent, he gave her a pail with a hole in it,
with which she went out. Looking after her, he saw that she made
her way straight up to the clouds, and squeezed one into her pail,
but no sooner was it poured in, than it ran out again. Meantime, he
possessed himself of her bundle, and turned it over; withal it was
not so big as an apple, it contained many things: a hank of catgut,
which he exchanged for a hank of hempen cord; an iron hammer, which
he exchanged for a wooden mallet; and a pair of iron pincers, which
he exchanged for wooden ones.
He had hardly tied up the bundle again, when the old woman came back,
very angry with the trick that had been played upon her with the
leaking pail, and exclaiming, "How shall water be brought in a pail
where there is a hole?" Then she added further, and in a yet angrier
key, "If thou wilt not give me to taste of thy food, beware! for then
all that thou hast becomes mine." And when she found that he heeded
her not, but went on with what he was doing, just as if she had not
spoken, she cried out, furiously,--
"If we are not to be on good terms, we must e'en match our strength;
if we are not to have peace, we must have war; if I may not eat with
you, I will fight you."
"That I am ready for," answered Massang, as one sure of an easy
victory.
"Not so confident!" replied the old one. "Though I am small and thou
so big, yet have I overcome mightier ones than thou."
"In what shall we match our strength?" said Massang, not heeding
her banter.
"We will have three trials," replied the old one; "the cord proof,
the hammer proof, and the pincers proof. And first the cord proof. I
will first bind thee, and if thou canst burst my bonds, well; then
thou shalt also bind me."
Then Massang saw that he had done well to possess himself of her
instruments, but he gave assent to her mode of proof, and let her
bind him as tight as ever she would; but as she had only the hempen
cord to bind him with, which he had put in her bundle in place of
the catgut, he broke it easily with his strength, and set himself
free again. Then he bound her with the catgut, so that she was not
able by any means to unloose herself.
"True, herein thou hast conquered," she owned, as she lay bound and
unable to move, "but now we will have the pincers proof." And as he
had promised to wage three trials with her, he set her free.
Then with her pincers she took him by the breast; but, as he had
changed her iron pincers for the wooden ones, he hardly felt the
pinch, and she did him no harm. But when, with her iron pincers, he
seized her, she writhed and struggled so that he pulled out a piece
of flesh as big as an earthen pot, and she cried out in great pain.--
"Of a truth thou art a formidable fellow, but now we will have the
hammer proof," and she made Massang lie down; but when she would
have given him a powerful blow on the chest with her iron hammer,
the handle of the wooden mallet Massang had given her in its stead
broke short off, and she was not able to hurt him. But Massang made
her iron hammer glowing hot in the fire, and belaboured her both on
the head and body so that she was glad to escape at the top of her
speed and howling wildly.
As she flew past, Massang's three companions came in from hunting
and said, "Surely now you have had a trial to endure." And Massang
answered,--
"Of a truth you are miserable fellows all, and moreover have
spoken that which is not true. Was it like men to let yourselves
be overmatched by a little old wife? But now I have tamed her, let
be. Let us go and seek for her corpse; maybe we shall find treasure
in the place where she lays it."
When they heard him speak of treasure they willingly went out after
him, and, following the track of blood which had fallen from the
witch-woman's wounds as she went along, they came to a place where
was an awful cleft in a mighty rock, and peeping through they saw, far
below, the bloody body of the old witch-woman, lying on a heap of gold
and jewels and shining adamant armour and countless precious things.
Then Massang said, "Shall you three go down and hand me up the spoil
by means of a rope of which I will hold the end, or shall I go down
and hand it up to you?"
But they three all made answer together, "This woman is manifestly
none other but a Schimnu (2). We dare not go near her. Go you down."
So Massang let himself down by the rope, and sent up the spoil by the
same means to his companions, who when they had possession of it said
thus to one another,--
"If we draw Massang up again, we cannot deny in verity that the spoil
is his, as he has won it in every way, but if we leave him down below
it becomes ours." So they left him below, and when he looked that
they should have hauled him up they gave never a sign or sound. When
he saw that, he said thus to himself, "My three companions have left
me here that they may enjoy the spoil alone. For me nothing is left
but to die!"
But as it grieved him so to die in his health and strength, he cast
about him to see whether in all that cave which had been so full
of valuables there was not something stored that was good for food,
yet found he nothing save three cherry-stones.
So he took the cherry-stones and planted them in the earth, saying,
"If I be truly Massang, may these be three full-grown cherry-trees by
the time I wake; but if not, then let me die the death." And with that
he laid him down to sleep with the body of the Schimnu for a pillow.
Being thus defiled by contact with the corpse, he slept for many
years. When at last he woke, he found that three cherry-trees had
sprung up from the seeds he planted and now reached to the top of
the rock. Rejoicing greatly therefore, he climbed up by their means
and reached the earth.
First he bent his steps to his late dwelling, to look for his
companions, but it was deserted, and no one lived therein. So, taking
his iron bow and his arrows, he journeyed farther.
Presently he came to a place where there were three fine houses,
with gardens and fields and cattle and all that could be desired by
the heart of man. These were the houses which his three companions
had built for themselves out of the spoil of the cave. And when he
would have gone in, their wives said--for they had taken to them wives
also--"Thy companions are not here; they are gone out hunting." So he
took up his iron bow and his arrows again, and went on to seek them,
and as he went by the way he saw them coming towards him with the
game they had taken with their bows. Then he strung his iron bow and
would have shot at them; but they, falling down before him, cried out,
"Slay us not. Only let us live, and behold our houses, and our wives,
and our cattle, and all that we have is in thine hand, to do with it
as it seemeth good to thee."
Then he put up his arrows again, and said to them only these words,
"In truth, friends, ye dealt evilly with me in that ye left me to
perish in the cave."
But they, owning their fault, again begged him that he would stay with
them and let their house be his house, and they entreated him. But
he would not stay with them, saying,--
"A promise is upon me, which I made when my master would have killed
me and I entreated him to spare my life, for I said to him that I
would repay his clemency to him if he spared me. Now, therefore,
let me go that I may seek him out."
Then, when they heard those words, they let him go, and he journeyed
on farther to find out his master.
One day of his journey, as he was wearied with walking, he sat down
towards evening by the side of a well, and as he sat an enchantingly
beautiful maiden came towards the well as if to draw water, and as
she came along he saw with astonishment that at every footstep as she
lifted up her feet a fragrant flower sprang up out of the ground (3),
one after another wherever she touched the ground. Massang stretched
out his hand to offer to draw water for her, but she stopped not at
the fountain but passed on, and Massang, in awe at her beauty and
power, durst not speak to her, but rose up and followed behind her
the whole way she went.
On went the maiden, and ever on followed Massang, over burning plain
and through fearful forest, past the sources of mighty rivers and over
the snow-clad peaks of the everlasting mountains (4), till they reached
the dwelling of the gods and the footstool of dread Churmusta (5).
Then spoke Churmusta,--
"That thou art come hither is good. Every day now we have to sustain
the fight with the black Schimnu; to-morrow thou shalt be spectator
of the fray, and the next day thou shall take part in it."
The next day Massang stood at the foot of Churmusta's throne, and
the gods waited around in silence. Massang saw a great herd as of
black oxen, as it were early in the morning, driven with terror to
the east side by a herd as of white oxen; and again he saw as it
were late in the evening, the herd as of white oxen driven to the
west side by the herd as of black oxen.
Then spoke the great Churmusta,--
"Behold the white oxen are the gods. The black oxen are the
Schimnus. To-morrow, when thou seest the herd as of black oxen driving
back the white, then string thine iron bow, and search out for thy
mark a black ox, bearing a white star on his forehead. Then send
thine arrow through the white star, for he is the Schimnu-Khan.
Thus spoke the dread Churmusta.
The next day Massang stood ready with his bow, and did even as
Churmusta had commanded. With an arrow from his iron bow he pierced
through the white star on the forehead of the black ox, and sent him
away roaring and bellowing with pain.
Then spake the dread Churmusta,--
"Bravely hast thou dealt, and well hast thou deserved of me. Therefore
thou shalt have thy portion with me, and dwell with me for ever."
But Massang answered,--
"Nay, for though I tarried at thy behest to do thy bidding, a promise
is upon me which I made when my master would have taken my life. For
I said, 'Spare me now, and be assured I will repay thy clemency.'"
Then Churmusta commended him, and bid him do even as he had
said. Furthermore he gave him a talisman to preserve him by the way,
and gave him this counsel,--
"Journeying, thou shalt be overcome by sleep, and having through
sleeping forgotten the way, thou shalt arrive at the gate
of the Schimnu-Khan. Then beware that thou think not to save
thyself by flight. Knock, rather, boldly at the door, saying,
'I am a physician.' When they hear that they will bring thee to the
Schimnu-Khan that thou mayest try thine art in drawing out the arrow
from his forehead. Then place thyself as though thou wouldst remove it,
but rather with a firm grasp drive it farther in, so that it enter
his brain, first offering up with thine hand seven barley-corns to
heaven; and after this manner thou shalt kill the Schimnu-Khan."
Thus commanded the dread Churmusta.
Then Massang came down from the footstool of Churmusta and the
dwelling of the gods, and went forth to seek out his master. But
growing weary with the length of the day, and lying down to sleep,
when he woke he had forgotten the direction he had to take, so he
pursued the path which lay before him, and it led him to the portal
of the Schimnu palace.
When he saw it was the Schimnu palace, he would have made good his
escape from its precincts, but remembering the words of Churmusta, he
knocked boldly at the door. Then the Schimnus flocked round him, and
told him he must die unless he could do some service whereby his life
might be redeemed; and Massang made answer, "I am a physician." Hearing
that, they took him in to the Schimnu-Khan, that he might pluck the
arrow out of his forehead.
Massang stood before the Schimnu-Khan; but when he should have
pulled out the arrow, he only pulled it out a little way, and the
Schimnu-Khan said,--
"Thus far is the pang diminished."
Then, however, first casting seven barley-corns on high towards heaven,
he plunged it in again even to the centre of his brain, so that he
fell down at his feet dead. And as the seven barley-corns reached
the heavens, there came down by their track an iron chain with a
thundering clang which the dread Churmusta sent down to Massang,
and Massang climbed up by the chain to the dwelling of the gods. But
there stood by the throne of the Schimnu-Khan a female Schimnu, out
of whose mouth came forth forked flames of fire, and when she saw
Massang ascending to heaven by the chain, she raised an iron hammer
high in air to strike it, and cleave it in two. But when she struck
it, there issued seven bright sparks, which floated up to heaven,
and remained fixed in the sky; and men called them the constellation
of the Pleiades.
"Thus, for all his promise, and after all his sacrifices, Massang
never went back to repay his master's clemency!" exclaimed the Khan.
And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips!" And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift, out of sight.
Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
third chapter, showing how the Schimnu-Khan was slain.
TALE IV.
Then, when he saw he had again missed the end and object of his
journey, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan again set out as at the first,
till with toil and terror he reached the cool grove where lay the
dead. At his approach the Siddhî-kür clambered up into the mango-tree,
but rather than let the tree be destroyed he came down at the word
of the Khan threatening to fell it. Then the Khan bound him in his
bag and bore him away to offer to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una.
But when they had proceeded many days the Siddhî-kür said, "Tell, now,
a tale, seeing the way is long and weary, and we are like to die of
weariness if we go on thus speaking never a word between us." But the
Khan, mindful of the monition of his Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una,
answered him nothing. Then said the Siddhî-kür, "If thou wilt not
tell a tale, at least give me the token by which I may know that thou
willest I should tell one."
So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards
him, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,--
THE PIG'S HEAD SOOTHSAYER.
Long ages ago a man and his wife were living on the borders of a
flourishing kingdom. The wife was a good housewife, who occupied
herself with looking after the land and the herds; but the husband
was a dull, idle man, who did nothing but eat, drink, and sleep from
morning to night and from night to morning. One day, when his wife
could no longer endure to see him going on thus indolently, she cried
out to him, "Leave off thus idling thyself; get up and gird thyself
like a man, and seek employment. Behold, thy father's inheritance
is well nigh spent; the time is come that thou find the means to eke
it out."
And when he weakly asked her in return, "Wherein shall I seek to eke
it out?" she answered him, "How should I be able to tell this thing,
but at least get thee up and make some endeavour; get thee up and
look round the place and see what thou canst find," and with that
she went out to her work in the field.
When she had repeated these words many days, he at last went out one
day, and, not taking the trouble to bethink him what he should do,
he did just what his wife had said, and went to look round the place
to see what he could find. As he wandered about, he came to a spot on
which a tribe of cattle-herds had lately been encamped (1), and a fox,
a dog, and a bird were there fighting about something. Approaching
to see for what they contended, they all escaped in fear, and he was
left in possession of their booty, which was a sheep's paunch full
of butter (2). This he brought home and laid up in store. When his
wife came home and asked him whence it was, he told her he had found
it left on the camping-place of a family of herdsmen who had passed
that way seeking pasturage.
"Well it is to be a man!" exclaimed his wife. "I may toil all day
without making so much; but you go but out one day of your whole life
for one moment of time, and straightway you find all this wealth."
When the man heard these words, he took courage and thought he should
be fit to find better fortune still; so he said to his wife, "Give
me now only a good horse and clothes meet, and a dog, and a bow and
arrows, and you shall see what I can do."
The woman was glad to hear him show so much resolution, so she made
haste and gave him all the things that he required, and added a thick
felt cloak to keep out the rain, and a cap for his head, and helped
him to get on his horse, and slung his bow over his shoulder.
Thus he rode out over many a broad plain, but without purpose or
knowledge of whither he went, nor did he fall in with any living
creature whatever for many days. At last, riding over a vast steppe,
he espied at some distance a fox.
"Ha!" he exclaimed, "there is one of my friends of last time. To be
sure, there is no sheep's paunch of butter this time, but if I could
only kill him his skin would make a nice warm cap."
As he had never learnt to draw a bow, his arrows were of no service,
so he set his horse trotting after the fox; but the fox got away faster
than he could follow, and took refuge in the hole of a marmot (3).
"Now I have you!" he cried, and, dismounting from his horse, he took
off all his clothes to have freer use of his limbs and bound them on
his saddle; the dog he tied to the bridle of the horse, and stopped
the mouth of the hole with his cap; then he took a great stone and
endeavoured with heavy blows on the earth to crush the fox.
But the fox, taking fright at the noise, rushed out with such impetus
that it carried off the cap on its head. The dog, seeing it run,
gave chase, and the horse was forced to follow the dog, as they were
both tied together; so off he galloped, carrying on his saddle every
thing the man had in the world, and leaving him stretched on the
ground without a thread of covering.
Getting up, he wandered on to the banks of a river which formed
the boundary of the kingdom of a rich and powerful Khan. Going into
this Khan's stable, he laid himself down under the straw and covered
himself completely, so that no one could see him. Here he was warmed
and well rested.
As he lay there the Khan's beautiful daughter came out to take the
air, and before she went in again she dropped the Khan's talisman and
passed on without perceiving her loss. Though the bauble was precious
in itself for the jewels which adorned it, and precious also to the
Khan for its powers in preserving his life (4), and worthy therefore
to claim a reward, the man was too indolent to get up out of the
straw to pick it up, so he let it lie.
After sunset the Khan's herds came in from grazing, and the cow-wench,
when she had shut them into the stable, swept up the yard without
heeding the talisman, which thus got thrown on to a dung-heap. This
the man saw, but still bestirred him not to recover it.
The next day there was great stir and noise in the place; the Khan
sent out messengers into every district far and near to say that
the Khan's beautiful daughter had lost his talisman, and promising
rewards to whoso should restore it.
After this too, he ordered the great trumpet, which was only blown on
occasion of promulgating the laws of the kingdom, to be sounded and
proclamation to be made, calling on all the wise men and soothsayers
of the kingdom to exercise their cunning art, and divine the place
where the talisman should lay concealed.
All this the man heard as he lay under the straw, but yet he bestirred
him not. Early in the morning, however, men came to litter the
place for the kine with fresh straw; and these men, finding him,
bid him turn out. Now that it became a necessity to stir himself,
he bethought him of the talisman; and when the men asked him whence
he was, he answered "I am a soothsayer come to divine the place where
lies the Khan's talisman."
Hearing that, they told him to come along to the Khan. "But I have no
clothes," replied the man. So they went and told the Khan, saying,
"Here is a soothsayer lying in the straw of the stable, who is come
to divine where the Khan's talisman lies hid, but he cannot appear
before the Khan because he has no clothes."
"Take this apparel to him," said the Khan, "and bring him hither
to me."
When he came before the Khan, the Khan asked him what he required to
perform his divination.
"Let there be given me," answered the man, "a pig's head, a piece
of silk stuff woven of five colours, (5) and a large Baling (6);
these are the things which I require for the divination."
All these things being given him, he set up the pig's head on a
pedestal of wood, and adorned it with the silk stuff woven of five
colours, and put the Baling-cake in its mouth. Then he sat down over
against it, as if sunk in earnest contemplation. Then on the day which
had been named in the Khan's proclamation for the day of divination,
which was the third day, all the people being assembled, assuming the
air of a diviner of dreams, he wrapped himself in a long mantle, and
made as though he was questioning the pig's head. As all the people
passed, he seemed to gain the answer from the pig's head,--
"The talisman is not with this one," and "The talisman is not with
that one," so that he had many people on his side glad to be thus
pronounced free from all charge of harbouring the Khan's talisman.
At last he made a sign that this kind of divination was ended; and
pronounced that the Khan's talisman was not in possession of any man.
"And now," said he, "let us try the divination of the earth." With
that, he set out to make a circuit of the Khan's dwelling. Stepping on
and on from place to place, he continued to seem consulting the pig's
head, till he came to the place in the yard where the dung-heap was;
and here, assuming an imposing attitude, he turned round, and said
mysteriously, "Here somewhere must be found the Khan's talisman." But
when he had turned the heap over, and brought the talisman itself to
light, the people knew not how to contain themselves for wonderment,
and went about crying,--
"The Pig's head diviner hath divined wonderful things! The Pig's head
diviner hath divined wonderful things!"
But the Khan called to him, and said,--
"Tell me how I shall reward thee for that thou hast restored my
talisman to me."
But he, who did not exert himself to think of any thing but just of
what was most present to his mind, answered,--
"Let there be given me, O Khan, the raiment, and the horse, the fox,
the dog, and the bow and arrows which I have lost."
When the Khan heard him ask for nothing save his horse and dog,
and raiment, and a fox, and bows and arrows, he said,--
"Of a truth this is a singular soothsayer. Nevertheless, let there
be given him over and above the things that he hath required of us
two elephants laden with meal and butter."
So they gave him all the things he had required and two elephants
laden with meal and butter to boot. Thus they brought him back unto
his own home.
Seeing him yet afar, his wife came out to meet him, carrying
brandy. She opened her eyes when she saw the two elephants laden
with butter and meal; but knowing that he loved to be left at ease,
forbore to question him that night. The next morning she made him
tell her the whole story before they got up; but when she heard what
little demands he had made after rendering the Khan so great a service
as restoring his talisman, she exclaimed,--
"If a man would be called a man, he ought to know better how to use
his opportunities."
And with that she sat to work to write a letter in her husband's name
to the Khan.
The letter was conceived in these words:--
"During the brief moment that thy life-talisman was in my hands, I
well recognized that thou hast a bodily infirmity. It was in order
that I might conjure it from thee that I required at thy hands the
dog and the fox. What reward the Khan is pleased to bestow, this
shall be according to the mind of the Khan."
This letter she took with her own hands to the Khan.
When the Khan had read the letter, he was pleased to think the
soothsayer had undertaken to free him of a malady against which he
could never have made provision himself, as he had no knowledge of
its existence; so he ordered two elephant's-loads of treasure to
be given to the woman, who went back to her husband, and they had
therewith enough to live in ease and plenty.
Now this Khan had had six brethren, and it happened that once they had
gone out to divert themselves, and in a thick wood they saw a most
beautiful maiden playing with a he-goat, whom they stood looking at
till they were tired of standing, for of looking at one so beautiful
they could never be weary.
At last one of them said to her,--
"Whence comest thou, beautiful maiden?"
And she answered him,--
"By following after this he-goat, thus I came hither."
"Will you come with us seven brethren, and be our wife," rejoined
the brother, who had spoken first; and when she willingly agreed they
took her home with them.
But they both were evil Râkshasas (7), who had only come out to find
men whose lives to devour; the male Manggus (8), had taken the form
of a he-goat, and the female Manggus that of a beautiful maiden,
the better to deceive.
When therefore the seven took her home and the goat with her, the
two Manggus had ample scope to carry out their design, and every
year they devoured the life of one of the brothers, till now there
was only the Khan left, and they began to consume the life of him also.
When the ministers saw that all the brothers were dead, and only the
Khan left, they held a council, and they said, "Behold, all the other
Khans are dead, notwithstanding all the means we have at our command,
and despite the arts of all the physicians of this country." Now
there remains no other means for us but to send for the Pig's head
soothsayer who found the Khan's talisman, and get him to restore
the Khan to health." This counsel was found good, and they all said,
"Let us send for the Pig's head soothsayer."
Four men were sent off on horseback to call the Pig's head soothsayer,
who laid all the case before him.
When he heard it he was greatly embarrassed, and knew not what to
answer, but his vacancy passed, with them, for his being immersed in
deep contemplation, and they reverenced him the more. Meantime his
wife bid them put up their horses and stay the night.
In the night-time she asked of him what the men had come about,
and he told her all his embarrassment.
"True, last time you exerted yourself a little and had good luck," she
replied, "but now that you have been sitting here doing nothing, and
looking so stupid all this time, whether you will cut as good a figure,
who shall say? But go you must, seeing the Khan has sent for you."
The next morning he said to the messengers, "In the visions of the
night I have learned even how I may help the Khan, and presently I
will come with you."
Then he enveloped himself in a mantle, laid his hair over the crown
of his head, took a large string of beads in his left hand, bound the
silk stuff woven of five colours round his right arm, and carrying
the pigs' head set out with them.
When he arrived with this strange aspect at the Khan's dwelling
both the Manggus were much alarmed. They thought he must be some
cunning soothsayer who knew all about them; they had heard, too,
of his success in finding the Khan's talisman.
But the man continuing to support his character of soothsayer, ordered
a Baling as big as a man to be brought to the head of the Khan's bed,
and placed the pig's head on top of it, and then sat himself down
over against it, murmuring words of incantation (9).
The Manggus, thinking all these preparations showed that he was a
cunning soothsayer, went away to take counsel together, and the Khan
being thus delivered for the time from their evil arts, his pains
began to yield and he fell into a tranquil sleep. Seeing this his
attendants thought favourably of the cure, and trusting therefore
the more in the soothsayer's powers they left him in entire charge
of the patient. Being thus freed from observation he ventured to
leave his position of apparent absorption in contemplation, and to
take a stolen glance at the Khan. When he saw him in such a deep
sleep a great fear took him, thinking he must be very bad indeed,
and he did all he could to wake him, crying aloud,--
"O great Khan! O mighty Khan!"
Finding that the Khan remained speechless he thought he must be dead,
and resolved that his best part was to run away. This was not so easy,
for the first open door he found to take refuge in was that of the
Treasury, and the guard called out "Stop thief!" and when from thence
he tried to bestow himself in the store-chamber, the guard sang out
"Stop thief!" At last he went into the stable, to hide himself there,
but close by the door-way stood the he-goat, whom he feared to pass,
lest he should goad him with his horns. However, summoning up all
his courage, he got behind him, and sprang on his back, and gave
him three blows on his head; but instantly, even as the blue smoke
column is carried in a straight direction by the wind, so sped the
he-goat straight off to the Khanin leaving his rider stretched upon
the ground. As soon as he had got up again he ran after the he-goat,
to see whither he went so fast; following him, he came to the door
of the Khanin's apartment, and heard the he-goat talking to her
within. The two Manggus spoke thus:--
"The Pig's head soothsayer is a soothsayer indeed," said the he-goat;
"he divined that I was in the stable, and he came there after me,
and sprang upon my back, giving me three mighty blows, by which I
know the weight of his arm. The best thing we can do is to make good
our escape."
The Khanin made answer, "I, also, am of the same mind. I saw when
he first came in that he recognized us for what we are. We have had
good fortune hitherto, but it has forsaken us now; it were better
we got away. I know what he will do; in a day or two, when he has
cured the Khan by not letting us approach him to devour his life,
he will assemble together all the men of the place with their arms,
and all the women, telling them to bring each a faggot of wood for
burning. When all are assembled he will say, 'Let that he-goat be
brought to me,' so they will bind thee and take thee before him. Then
will he say to thee, 'Lay aside thine assumed form,' and it will be
impossible for thee not to obey. When he has shown thee thus in thine
own shape they will all fall upon thee, and put thee to death with
swords and arrows, and burn thee in the fire. And afterwards with me
will he deal after the same manner. Now, therefore, to-morrow or the
next day we will be beforehand with him, and will go where we shall
be safe from his designs."
When the man heard all this, he left off from following the goat,
and went back with good courage, to take up his place again over
against the pig's head by the side of the Khan's couch.
In the morning the Khan woke, refreshed with his slumber; and when
they inquired how he felt, the Khan replied that the soothsayer's
power had diminished the force of the malady.
"If this be even so," here interposed the soothsayer, "and if the Khan
has confidence in the word of his servant, command now thy ministers
that they call together all thy subjects--the men with their arms,
and the women each with a faggot of wood for burning." Then the Khan
ordered that it should be done according to his word. When they were
all assembled, the pretended soothsayer, having set up his pig's
head, commanded further that they should bring the he-goat out of
the stable before him; and when they had bound him and brought him,
that they should put his saddle on him. Then he sprang on to his back,
and gave him three blows with all his strength, and dismounted. Then
with all the power of voice he could command, he cried out to him,
"Lay aside thine assumed form!"
At these words the he-goat was changed before the eyes of all present
into a horrible Manggus, deformed and hideous to behold. With swords
and sticks, lances and stones, the whole people fell upon him, and
disabled him, and then burnt him with fire till he was dead.
Then said the soothsayer, "Now, bring hither the Khanin." So they
went and dragged down the Khanin to the place where he stood, with
yelling and cries of contempt.
With one hand on the pig's head, as if taking his authority from it,
the soothsayer cried out to her, in a commanding voice,--
"Resume thine own form!"
Then she too became a frightful Manggus, and they put her to death
like the other.
The soothsayer now rode back to the Khan's palace, all the people
making obeisance to him as he went along--some crying, "Hail!" some
strewing the way with barley, and some bringing him rich offerings. It
took him nearly the space of a day to make his way through such
a throng.
When at last he arrived, the Khan received him with a grateful welcome,
and asked him what present he desired of him. The soothsayer answered,
with his usual simplicity, "In our part of the country we have none
of those pieces of wood which I see you put here into the noses of
the oxen: let there be given me a quantity of them to take back with
me." The Khan then ordered there should be given him three sacks of
the pieces of wood for the oxen, and seven elephants laden with meal
and butter to boot.
When he arrived home, his wife came out to meet him with brandy, and
when she saw the seven elephants with their loads, she extolled him
highly; but when she came to learn how great was the deliverance he
had rendered to the Khan, she was indignant that he had not asked for
higher reward, and determined to go the next day herself to the Khan.
The next day she went accordingly, disguised, and sent in a letter
of the following purport to the Khan:--
"Although I, the Pig's head soothsayer, brought the Khan round from
his malady, yet some remains of it still hang about him. It was in
order to remove these that I asked for the pieces of wood for the
oxen; what guerdon has been earned by this further service it is for
the Khan to decide."
Such a letter she sent in to the Khan.
"The man has spoken the truth," said the Khan, on reading the
letter. "For his reward, let him and his wife, his parents and friends,
all come over hither and dwell with me."
When they arrived, the Khan said, "When one has to show his gratitude,
and dismisses him to whom he is indebted with presents, that does not
make an end of the matter. That I was not put to death by the Manggus
is thy doing; that the kingdom was not given over to destruction was
thy doing; that the ministers were not eaten up by the Manggus was thy
doing: it is meet, therefore, that we share between us the inheritance,
even between us two, and reign in perfect equality." With such words
he gave him half his authority over the kingdom, and to all his family
he gave rich fortunes and appointments of state. And thus his wife
became Khanin; so that while he could indulge himself in the same
idle life as before, she also enjoyed rest from her household and
pastoral cares (10).
"Though the woman despised her husband's understanding," exclaimed
the Khan, "yet was it always his doings which brought them wealth
after all!"
And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips. "And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.
TALE V.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed
the end and object of his journey, without hesitation or loss of
time he once more betook himself to the cool grove, and summoned the
Siddhî-kür to come with him, threatening to hew down the mango-tree.
But as he bore him along, bound in his bag of many colours, in which
was place to stow away an hundred, the Siddhî-kür spoke thus, saying,
"Tell thou now a tale to beguile the weariness of the way." But
the Well-and-wise-walking Khan answered him nothing. Then said the
Siddhî-kür again, "If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give the
token that I may know thou willest I should tell one."
So the Khan nodded his head backwards and the Siddhî-kür told this
tale, saying,--
HOW THE SERPENT-GODS WERE PROPITIATED.
Long ages ago there reigned over a flourishing province, a Khan named
Kun-snang (1). He had a son named "Sunshine" by his first wife who
afterwards died. He also had a second son named "Moonshine," by his
second wife. Now the second wife thought within herself, "If Sunshine
is allowed to live, there is no chance of Moonshine ever coming to the
throne. Some means must be found of putting Sunshine out of the way."
With this object in view she threw herself down upon her couch and
tossed to and fro as though in an agony of pain. All the night through
also instead of sleeping, she tossed about and writhed with pain. Then
the Khan spake to her, saying, "My beautiful one! what is it that
pains thee, and with what manner of ailment art thou stricken?" And
she made answer,--
"Even when I was at home I suffered oftwhiles after the same manner,
but now is it much more violent; all remedies have I exhausted previous
times, there remains only one when the pain is of this degree, and
that means is not available."
"Say not that it is not available," answered the Khan, "for all
means are available to me. Speak but what it is that is required, and
whatever it be shall be done, even to the renouncing of my kingdom. For
there is nothing that I would not give in exchange for thy life."
But for a long time she made as though she would not tell him, then
finally yielding to his repeated inquiries, she said, "If there were
given me the heart of a Prince, stewed in sesame-oil (2), I should
recover: it matters not whether the heart of Sunshine or of Moonshine,
but that Moonshine being my own son, his heart would not pass through
my throat. This means, O Khan, is manifestly not available, for how
should it be done to take the life of Prince Sunshine? Therefore say
no more, and let me die."
But the Khan answered, "Of a truth it would grieve me to take the
life of Prince Sunshine. Nevertheless, if there be no other means of
saving thy life, the thing must be done. I have not to consider 'Shall
the life of the Prince be spared or not?' but, 'Which shall be spared,
the life of the Prince, or the life of the Khanin?' And in this strait
who could doubt, but that it is the life of the Khanin that must be
spared by me? Therefore, be of good cheer, beautiful one, for that
the heart of Prince Sunshine shall be given thee cooked in sesame-oil."
This, he said, intending in his own mind to have the heart of a kid
of the goats prepared for her in sesame-oil, saying, "Behold, here
is the heart of Prince Sunshine," but to send away the Prince into a
far country that she might not know he was not dead. Only when she was
restored to health again, then he purposed to fetch back his son. But
Moonshine being in his mother's apartments overheard this promise which
the Khan had given, and he ran and told his brother all that the Khan,
his father, had said, saying, "When the Khan rises he will give the
order to put thee to death; how shall this thing be averted?" and he
wept sore, for he loved his brother Sunshine even as his own life.
Then Sunshine answered, saying, "Seeing this is so, remain thou with
our parents, loving and honouring them, and being loved by them. For
me, it is clear the time is come that I must get me away to a far
country. Farewell, my brother!"
But Moonshine answered, "Nay, brother, for if thou goest, I
also go with thee. How should I live alone here, without thee,
my brother?" Therefore they rose quickly before the Khan could
get up, and going privately to a priest in a temple hard by, that
no one else might hear of their design and betray it to the Khan,
they begged of him a good provision of baling-cakes (3), to support
life by the way; and he gave them a good provision, even a bag-full,
and they set out on their journey while it was yet night. It was the
fifteenth of the month, while the moon shed abroad her light, and they
journeyed towards the East, not knowing whither they went. But after
they had journeyed many days over mountain and plain, and come to a
land where was no water, but a muddy river the water whereof could
not be drunk, and where was no habitation of man, Moonshine fell down
fainting by the way. Sunshine therefore ran to the top of a high hill
to see if he could discern any stream of water, but found none. When
he came back Moonshine was dead! Then he fell down on the ground,
and wept a long space upon his body, and at nightfall he buried it
with solicitude under a heap of stones, crying, "Ah! my brother,
how shall I live without thee, my brother?" And he prayed that at
Moonshine's next re-birth (4) they might again live together.
Journeying farther on, he came to a pass between two steep rocks,
and in one of them was a red door. Going up to the door, he found an
ancient Hermit living in a cave within, who addressed him, saying,
"Whence art thou, O youth, who seemest oppressed with recent
grief?" And Sunshine told him all that had befallen him. Without
again speaking the Hermit put into the folds of his girdle a bottle
containing a life-restoring cordial, and going to the spot where
Moonshine lay buried, restored him to life. Then said he to the two
princes, "Live now with me, and be as my two sons." So they lived
with him, and were unto him as his two sons.
The desert where this Hermit lived belonged to the kingdom of a Khan
dazzling in his glory and resistless in might. Now it was about the
season when the Khan and his subjects went every year to direct the
flowing of water over the country for fructifying the grain-seeds;
but it was the custom every year at this season first, in order to
make the Serpent-gods (5) who lived at the water-head propitious,
to sacrifice to them a youth of a certain age; and on this occasion
it fell to the lot of a youth born in the Tiger-year (6). When the
Khan had caused search to be made through all the people no youth was
found among them all born in the Tiger-year. At last certain herdsmen
came before him, saying, "While we were out tending our cattle, behold
we saw in a cave nigh to a pass between two steep rocks a Hermit who
has with him two sons, and one of them born in the Tiger-year."
When the Khan had listened to their word he immediately sent three
envoys to fetch the Hermit's son for the sacrifice (7).
When the three envoys of the Khan had come and stood knocking before
the red door of the Hermit's cave, the Hermit cried out to them,
asking what they wanted of him. Then answered the chief of them,
"Because thou hast a son living with thee born in the Tiger-year, and
the Khan hath need of him for the sacrifice; therefore are we come,
even that we may bring him to the Khan."
When the Hermit had heard their embassage, he answered them, "How
should a Hermit have a son with him out here in the desert?" But he
took Sunshine, who was the youth born in the Tiger-year, and motioned
him into a farther hole of the cave where was a great vessel of
pottery; into this vessel he made him creep, then fastening the
mouth of the vessel with earth, he made it to appear like to a jar of
rice-brandy (8). Meantime, however, the Khan's envoys had broken down
the door, and began searching through every recess of the cave. Finding
nothing, they were filled with fury, and in their anger beat the
Hermit on whose account they had come a bootless errand. But when
Sunshine heard the men ill-treating the Hermit who had been to him
as a father, he could not refrain himself, and called out from within
the brandy-jar, "Unhand my father!" Then the envoys immediately left
off beating his father, but they turned and seized him and carried
him off to the Khan, while the Hermit was left weeping with great
grief at the loss of his adopted son, even as one like to die.
As the envoys dragged Sunshine along before the palace, the Khan's
daughter was looking out of window, and when she heard that the
handsome youth was destined for the Serpent-sacrifice, she was filled
with compassion. She went therefore to the men who had the charge to
throw him into the water, saying, "See how comely he is! He is worthy
to be saved, throw him not into the water. Or else if you will throw
him in, throw me in also with him." Then the men went and showed the
Khan her words; whereupon the king was wroth, and said, "She is not
worthy to be called the Khan's daughter; let them therefore be both
sewn up into one bullock's skin, and so cast into the water." The
men therefore did according to the Khan's bidding, and sewing them
both up in one bullock-hide together, cast them into the water to
the Serpent-gods.
Then began Sunshine to say, "That they should throw me to the
Serpent-gods, because I was the only youth to be found who was born
in the Tiger-year, was not so bad; but that this beautiful maiden,
who hath deigned to lift her eyes on me, and to love me, should be
so sacrificed also, this is unbearable!"
And the Khan's daughter in like manner cried, "That I who am only
a woman should be thrown to the Serpent-gods, is not so bad; but
that this noble and beautiful youth should be so sacrificed also,
this is unbearable!"
When the Serpent-gods heard these laments, and saw how the prince and
the maiden vied with each other in generosity, they sent and fetched
them both out of the water, and gave them freedom. Also as soon as
they were set free, they let the water gently flow over the whole
country, just as the people desired for their rice irrigation.
Meantime, Sunshine said to the Khan's daughter, "Princess, let us each
now return home. Go thou to thy father's palace, while I go back to the
Hermitage, and visit my adopted father, who is like to die of grief
for the loss of me. After I have fulfilled this filial duty, I will
return to thee, and we will live for ever after for each other alone."
The princess then praised his filial love, and bid him go console his
father, only begging him to come to her right soon, for she should
have no joy till he came back.
Sunshine went therefore to the Hermit, whom he found so worn with
grief, that he was but just in time to save him from dying; so having
first washed him with milk and water, he consoled him with many words
of kindness.
The princess, too, went home to the palace, where all were so
astonished at her deliverance that at first she could hardly obtain
admission. When they had made sure it was herself in very truth,
the people all came round her, and congratulated her with joy,
for never had any one before been delivered from the sacrifice to
the Serpent-gods.
Then said the Khan, "That the Khan's daughter should be spared by
the Serpent-gods was to be expected. They have the youth born in the
Tiger-year for their sacrifice."
But the princess answered, "Neither has he fallen sacrifice. Him also
they let free; and indeed was it in great part out of regard for his
abnegation and distress over my suffering that we were both let free."
Then answered the Khan, "In that case is our debt great unto this
youth. Let him be sought after, and besought that he come to visit
us in our palace."
So they went again to the cave in the rocky pass, and fetched Sunshine;
and when he came near, the Khan went out to meet him, and caused
costly seats to be brought, and made him sit down thereon beside him.
Then he said to him, "That thou hast delivered this country from the
fear of drought, is matter for which we owe thee our highest gratitude;
but that thou and this my daughter also have escaped from death is
a marvellous wonder. Tell me now, art thou in very truth the son of
the Hermit?"
"No," replied Sunshine, "I am the son of a mighty Khan; but my
step-mother, seeking to make a difference between me and this my
brother standing beside me, who was her own born son, and to put me
to death, we fled away both together; and thus fleeing we came to
the Hermit, and were taken in by his hospitality."
When the Khan had heard his words, he promised him his daughter
in marriage, and her sister, to be wife to Moonshine. Moreover, he
endowed them with immeasurable riches, and gave them an escort of
four detachments of fighting-men to accompany them home. When they
had arrived near the capital of the kingdom, they sent an embassage
before them to the Khan, saying,--
"We, thy two sons, Sunshine and Moonshine, are returned to thee."
The Khan and the Khanin, who had for many years past quite lost
their reason out of grief for the loss of their children, and held no
more converse with men, were at once restored to sense and animation
at this news, and sent out a large troop of horsemen to meet them,
and conduct them to their palace. Thus the two princes returned in
honour to their home.
When they came in, the Khan was full of joy and glory, sitting on his
throne; but the Khanin, full of remorse and shame at the thought of
the crime she had meditated, fell down dead before their face.
"That wretched woman got the end that she deserved!" exclaimed
the Khan.
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips," said the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, "To escape out of
this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.
Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
fifth chapter, showing how the Serpent-gods were appeased.
TALE VI.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed
the end and object of his journey, he proceeded once more by the same
manner and means to the cool grove. And, having bound the Siddhî-kür
in his bag, bore him on his shoulder to present to his Master and
Teacher Nâgârg'una.
But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he
would not answer begged for the token of his assent that he should
tell one, which when the Khan had given he told this tale, saying,--
THE TURBULENT SUBJECT.
Long ages ago there lived in a district called Brschiss (1) a haughty,
turbulent man. As he feared no man and obeyed no laws, the Khan of
that country sent to him, saying, "Since thou wilt obey no laws,
thou canst not remain in my country. Get thee gone hence, or else
submit to the laws!"
But the turbulent man chose rather to go forth in exile than submit
to the laws. So he went wandering forth till he came to a vast plain
covered with feather-grass, and a palm-tree standing in the midst,
with a dead horse lying beneath it. Under the shade of the palm-tree
(2) he sat down, saying, "The head of this horse will be useful
for food when my provisions are exhausted." So he bound it into his
waist-scarf and climbed up into the palm-tree to pass the night.
He had scarcely composed himself to sleep when there was a great noise
of shouting and yelling, which woke him up; and behold there came
thither towards the palm-tree, from the southern side of the steppe,
a herd of dæmons, having ox-hide caps on their heads, and riding on
horses covered with ox-hides. Nor had they long settled themselves
before another herd of dæmons came trooping towards the palm-tree
from the northern side of the steppe, and these wore paper caps and
rode on horses wearing paper coverings.
All these dæmons now danced and feasted together with great howling
and shouting. The man looked down upon them from the tree-top full
of terror, but also full of envy at their enjoyment. As he leant
over to watch them, the horse's head tumbled out of his girdle right
into their midst and scattered them in dire alarm in every direction,
not one of them daring to look up to see whence it came. It was not
till the morning light broke, however, that the man ventured to come
down. When he did so, he said, "Last night there was much feasting
and drinking going on here, surely there must be something left from
such a banquet." Searching through the long feather-grass all about,
he discovered a gold goblet full of brandy (3), from which he drank
long draughts, but it continued always full. At last he turned it
down upon the ground, and immediately all manner of meats and cakes
appeared. "This goblet is indeed larder and cellar!" said the man,
and taking it with him he went on his way.
Farther on he met a man brandishing a thick stick as he walked.
"What is your stick good for that you brandish it so proudly?" asked
the turbulent man.
"My stick is so much good that when I say to it, 'Fly, that man has
stolen somewhat of me, fly after him and kill him and bring me back
my goods,' it instantly flies at the man and brings my things back."
"Yours is a good stick, but see my goblet; whatsoever you desire of
meat or drink this same goblet provides for the wishing. Will you
exchange your stick against my goblet?"
"That will I gladly," rejoined the traveller.
But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to
the stick, "Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and kill
him and bring me back my goblet! "Before the words had left his lips
the stick flew through the air, killed the man, and brought back the
goblet. Thus he had both the stick and the goblet.
Farther on he saw a man coming who carried an iron hammer.
"What is your hammer good for?" inquired he as they met.
"My hammer is so good," replied the traveller, "that when I strike
it nine times on the ground immediately there rises up an iron tower
nine storeys high."
"Yours is a good hammer," replied the turbulent man, "but look at my
goblet; whatever you desire of meat or drink this same goblet provides
for the wishing. Will you change your hammer against my goblet?"
"That will I gladly," replied the wayfarer.
But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to
the stick, "Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and
kill him and bring me back the goblet." The command was executed as
soon as spoken, and the turbulent man thus became possessed of the
hammer as well as the stick and the goblet.
Farther on he saw a man carrying a goat's leather bag.
"What is your bag good for?" inquired he as they met.
"My bag is so good that I have but to shake it and there comes a
shower of rain, but if I shake it hard then it rains in torrents."
"Yours is a good bag," replied the turbulent man, "but see my goblet;
whatsoever you desire of meat or drink it provides you for the
wishing. Will you exchange your bag against my goblet?"
"That will I gladly," answered the traveller.
But no sooner had the turbulent man possession of the bag than he
sent his stick as before to recover the goblet also.
Provided with all these magic articles, he had no fear in returning
to his own country in spite of the prohibition of the Khan. Arrived
there about midnight, he established himself behind the Khan's
palace, and, striking the earth nine times with his iron hammer,
there immediately appeared an iron fortress nine storeys high,
towering far above the palace.
In the morning the Khan said, "Last night I heard 'knock, knock,
knock,' several times. What will it have been?" So the Khanin rose and
looked out and answered him, saying, "Behold, a great iron fortress,
nine storeys high, stands right over against the palace."
"This is some work of that turbulent rebel, I would wager!" replied
the Khan, full of wrath. "And he has brought it to that pass that
we must now measure our strength to the uttermost." Then he rose and
called together all his subjects, and bid them each bring their share
of fuel to a great fire which he kindled all round the iron fortress;
all the smiths, too, he summoned to bring their bellows and blow it,
and thus it was turned into a fearful furnace.
Meantime the turbulent man sat quite unconcerned in the ninth storey
with his mother and his son, occupied with discussing the viands
which the golden goblet provided. When the fire began to reach the
eighth storey, the man's mother caught a little alarm, saying, "Evil
will befall us if this fire which the Khan has kindled round us be
left unchecked." But he answered, "Mother! fear nothing; I have the
means of settling that." Then he drew out his goat's-leather bag,
went with it up to the highest turret of the fortress, and shook it
till the rain flowed and pretty well extinguished the fire; but he
also went on shaking it till the rain fell in such torrents that
presently the whole neighbourhood was inundated, and not only the
embers of the fire but the smiths' bellows were washed away, and
the people and the Khan himself had much ado to escape with their
lives. At last the gushing waters had worked a deep moat round the
fortress, in which the turbulent man dwelt henceforth secure, and
the Khan durst admonish him no more.
"Thus the power of magic prevailed over sovereign might and majesty,"
exclaimed the Khan; and as he uttered these words the Siddhî-kür said,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.
Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the sixth chapter,
of how it fell out with the Turbulent Subject.
TALE VII.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed
the end and object of his labour, he proceeded again by the same
manner and means to the cool grove, and having bound the Siddhî-kür
in his bag, bore him on his shoulder to present to his Master and
Teacher Nâgârg'una.
But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale; and when he
would not answer, craved the token of his assent that he should tell
one, which when the Khan had given, he told this tale, saying,--
THE WHITE BIRD AND HIS WIFE.
Long ages ago, there lived in a land called Fair-flower-garden,
a man, who had three daughters, who minded his herds of goats (1),
the three alternately.
One day, when it was the turn of the eldest sister to go with them,
she fell asleep during the mid-day heat, and when she awoke, she
found that one of the goats was missing. While she wandered about
seeking it, she came to a place where was a great red door. When she
had opened this, she found behind it, a little farther on, a great
gold door. And when she had opened this, she found farther on another
door all of shining mother-o'-pearl. She opened this, and beyond it
again there was an emerald door, which gave entrance to a splendid
palace full of gold and precious stones, dazzling to behold. Yet in
all the whole palace there was no living thing save one white bird
perched upon a costly table in a cage.
The bird espying the maiden, said to her, "Maiden, how camest thou
hither?" And she replied, "One of my father's goats has escaped
from the flock, and as I dare not go home without it, I have been
seeking it every where; thus came I hither." Then the White Bird said,
"If thou wilt consent to be my wife (2), I will not only tell thee
where the goat is, but restore it to thee. If, however, thou refuse
to render me this service, the goat is lost to thy father's flock
for ever." But the maiden answered, "How can I be thy wife, seeing
thou art a bird? Therefore is my father's goat lost to his flock for
ever." And she went away weeping for sorrow.
The next day, when the second daughter took her turn with the herds,
another goat escaped from the flock; and when she went to seek it, she
also came to the strange palace and the white bird; but neither could
she enter into his idea of her becoming his wife; and she therefore
came home, sorrowing over the loss to the herd under her care.
The day following, the youngest daughter went forth with the goats,
and a goat also strayed from her. But she, when she had come to the
palace, and the white bird asked her to become his wife, with the
promise of restoring her goat in case of her consent, answered him, "As
a rule, creatures of the male gender keep their promises; therefore,
O bird! I accept thy conditions." Thus she agreed to become his wife.
One day there was to be a great gathering, lasting thirteen days, in
a temple in the neighbourhood. And when all the people were assembled
together, it was found that it was just this woman, the wife of the
white bird, who was more comely than all the other women. And among
the men there was a mighty rider, mounted on a dappled grey horse,
who was so far superior to all the rest, that when he had trotted
thrice round the assembly and ridden away again, they could not cease
talking of his grace and comeliness, and his mastery of his steed.
When the wife came back home again to the palace in the rock, the
white bird said to her, "Among all the men and women at the festival,
who was regarded to have given the proofs of superiority?" And she
answered, "Among the men, it was one riding on a dappled grey horse;
and among the women, it was I." Thus it happened every day of the
festival, neither was there any, of men or women, that could compete
with these two.
On the twelfth day, when the woman that was married to the white
bird went again to the festival, she had for her next neighbour an
ancient woman, who asked her how it had befallen the other days of
the feast; and she told her, saying, "Among all the women none has
overmatched me; but among the men, there is none to compare with the
mighty rider on the dappled grey horse. If I could but have such a
man for my husband, there would be nothing left to wish for all the
days of my life!" Then said the ancient woman, "And why shouldst
thou not have such a man for thy husband?" But she began to weep,
and said, "Because I have already promised to be the wife of a white
bird." "That is just right!" answered the ancient woman. "Behold,
to-morrow is the thirteenth day of the assembly; but come not thou to
the feast, only make as though thou wert going: hide thyself behind the
emerald door. When thou seemest to be gone, the white bird will leave
his perch, and assuming his man's form, will go into the stable, and
saddle his dappled grey steed, and ride to the festival as usual. Then
come thou out of thy hiding-place, and burn his perch, and cage, and
feathers; so will he have henceforth to wear his natural form." Thus
the ancient woman instructed the wife of the white bird.
The next day the woman did all that she had been told, even according
to the words of the ancient woman. But as she longed exceedingly to see
her husband return, she placed herself behind a pillar where she could
see him coming a long way. At last, as the sun began to sink quite red
towards the horizon, she saw him coming on his dapple-grey horse. "How
is this?" he exclaimed, as he espied her. "You got back sooner than I,
then?" And she answered, "Yes, I got home the first." Then inquired he
further, "Where is my perch and cage?" And she made answer, "Those have
I burned in the fire, in order that thou mightest henceforth appear
only in thy natural form." Then he exclaimed, "Knowest thou what thou
hast done? In that cage had I left not my feathers only, but also my
soul (3)!" And when she heard that, she wept sore, and besought him,
saying, "Is there no means of restoration? Behold there is nothing
that I could not endure to recover thy soul." And the man answered,
"There is one only remedy. The gods and dæmons will come to-night to
fetch me, because my soul is gone from me; but I can keep them in
perpetual contest for seven days and seven nights. Thou, meantime,
take this stick, and with it hew and hew on at the mother-o'-pearl
door without stopping or resting day or night. By the close of the
seventh night thou shalt have hewn through the door, and I shall be
free from the gods and dæmons; but, bear in mind, that if thou cease
from hewing for one single instant, or if weariness overtake thee for
one moment, then the gods and dæmons will carry me away with them--away
from thee." Thus he spoke. Then the woman went and fetched little
motes of the feather-grass, and fixed her eyelids open with them,
that she might not be overtaken by slumber; and with the stick that
her husband had given her she set to work, when night fell, to hew
and hew on at the mother-o'-pearl door. Thus she hewed on and on,
nor wearied, seven days and seven nights: only the seventh night,
the motes of grass having fallen out of one of her eyes so that she
could not keep the lid from closing once, in that instant the gods
and dæmons prevailed against her husband, and carried him off.
Inconsolable, she set forth to wander after him, crying, "Ah! my
beloved husband. My husband of the bird form!" Notwithstanding that
she had not slept or left off toiling for seven days and seven nights,
she set out, without stopping to take rest, searching for him every
where in earth and heaven (4).
At last, as she continued walking and crying out, she heard his voice
answering her from the top of a mountain. And when she had toiled up to
the top of the mountain, crying aloud after him, she heard him answer
her from the bottom of a stream. When she came down again to the banks
of the stream, still calling loudly upon him, there she found him by
a sacred Obö, raised to the gods by the wayside (5). He sat there with
a great bundle of old boots upon his back, as many as he could carry.
When they had met, he said to her, "This meeting with thee once
more rejoices my heart. The gods and dæmons have made me their
water-carrier; and in toiling up and down from the river to their
mountain (6) so many times, I have worn out all these pairs of boots."
But she answered, "Tell me, O beloved, what can I do to deliver thee
from this bondage?"
And he answered, "There is only this remedy, O faithful one. Even
that thou return now home, and build another cage like to the one
that was burned, and that having built it, thou woo my soul back
into it. Which when thou hast done, I myself must come back thither,
nor can gods or dæmons withhold me."
So she went back home, and built a cage like to the one that was
burned, and wooed the soul of her husband back into it; and thus
was her husband delivered from the power of the gods and dæmons,
and came back to her to live with her always.
"In truth that was a glorious woman for a wife!" exclaimed the Khan.
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips," replied the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, "To escape out of
this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.
Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
seventh chapter, of how it befell the White Bird and his Wife.
TALE VIII.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the
end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again as heretofore
to the cool grove, and having taken captive the Siddhî-kür bore him
along to present to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. But by the way
the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not speak,
craved of him the token that he willed he should tell one; which,
when he had given, he told this tale, saying,--
HOW ÂNANDA THE WOOD-CARVER AND ÂNANDA THE PAINTER STROVE AGAINST
EACH OTHER.
Long ages ago there lived in a kingdom which was called Kun-smon
(1), a Khan named Kun-snang (2). When this Khan departed this life
his son named Chamut Ssakiktschi (3) succeeded to the throne.
In the same kingdom lived a painter named Ânanda (4), and a wood-carver
also named Ânanda. These men were friends of each other apparently,
but jealousy reigned in their hearts.
One day, now, it befell that Ânanda the painter, whom to distinguish
from the other, we will call by his Tibetian name of Kun-dgah instead
of by his Sanskrit name of Ânanda, appeared before the Khan, and spoke
in this wise: "O Khan, thy father, born anew into the kingdom of the
gods, called me thither unto him, and straightway hearing his behest,
I obeyed it." As he spoke he handed to "All-protecting" the Khan,
a forged strip of writing which was conceived after this manner:--
"To my son Chotolo (5) Ssakiktschi!
"When I last parted from thee, I took my flight out of the lower life,
and was born again into the kingdom of the gods (6). Here I have my
abode in plenitude, yea, superabundance of all that I require. Only
one thing is wanting. In order to complete a temple I am building,
I find not one to adorn it cunning in his art like unto Ânanda our
wood-carver. Wherefore, I charge thee, son Chotolo-Ssakiktschi, call
unto thee Ânanda the wood-carver, and send him up hither to me. The
way and means of his coming shall be explained unto thee by Kun-dgah
the painter."
Such was the letter that Kun-dgah the painter, with crafty art,
delivered to Kun-tschong (7), the Khan. Which when the Khan had read
he said to him--"That the Khan, my father, is in truth born anew into
the gods' kingdom is very good."
And forthwith he sent for Ânanda the wood-carver, and spoke thus to
him: "My father, the Khan, is new born into the gods' kingdom, and is
there building a temple. For this purpose he has need of a wood-carver;
but can find none cunning in his art like unto thee. Now, therefore,
he has written unto me to send thee straightway above unto him." With
these words he handed the strip of writing into his hands.
But the Wood-carver when he had read it thought within himself,
"This is indeed contrary to all rule and precedent. Do I not scent
here some craft of Kun-dgah the painter? Nevertheless, shall I not
find a means to provide against his mischievous intent?" Then he
raised his voice, and spoke thus aloud to the Khan:--
"Tell me, O Khan, how shall I a poor Wood-carver attain to the gods'
kingdom?"
"In this," replied the Khan, "shall the Painter instruct thee."
And while the Wood-carver said within himself, "Have I not smelt
thee out, thou crafty one?" the Khan sent and fetched the Painter
into his presence. Then having commanded him to declare the way and
manner of the journey into the gods' kingdom, the Painter answered
in this wise,--
"When thou hast collected all the materials and instruments
appertaining to thy calling, and hast gathered them at thy feet, thou
shalt order a pile of beams of wood well steeped in spirit distilled
from sesame grain to be heaped around thee. Then to the accompaniment
of every solemn-sounding instrument kindle the pile, and rise to the
gods' kingdom borne on obedient clouds of smoke as on a swift charger."
The Wood-carver durst not refuse the behest of the Khan; but obtained
an interval of seven days in order to collect the materials and
instruments of his calling, but also to consider and find out a
means of avenging the astuteness of the Painter. Then he went home,
and told his wife all that had befallen him.
His wife, without hesitating, proposed to him a means of evading while
seeming to fulfil the decree. In a field belonging to him at a short
distance from his house, she caused a large flat stone to be placed,
on which the sacrifice was to be consummated. But under it by night
she had an underground passage made, communicating with the house.
When the eighth day had arrived the Khan rose and said, "This is
the day that the Wood-carver is to go up to my father into the gods'
kingdom."
And all the people were assembled round the pile of wood steeped in
spirit distilled from sesame grain, in the Wood-carver's field. It
was a pile of the height of a man, well heaped up, and in its midst
stood the Wood-carver calm and impassible, while all kinds of musical
instruments sent up their solemn-sounding tones.
When the smoke of the spirit-steeped wood began to rise in concealing
density, the Wood-carver pushed aside the stone with his feet, and
returned to his home by the underground way his wife had had made
for him.
But the Painter, never doubting but that he must have fallen a prey
to the flames, rubbed his hands and pointing with his finger in joy
and triumph to the curling smoke, cried out to the people,--
"Behold the spirit of our brother Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending on
the obedient clouds as on a swift charger to the kingdom of the gods!"
And all the people followed the point of his finger with their eyes
and believing his words, they cried out,--
"Behold the spirit of Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending to adorn the
temple of the gods' kingdom."
And now for the space of a whole month the Wood-carver remained closely
at home letting himself be seen by no one save his wife only. Daily
he washed himself over with milk, and sat in the shade out of the
coloured light of the sun. At the end of the month his wife brought him
a garment of white gauze, with which he covered himself; and he wrote,
he also, a feigned letter, and went up with it to "All-protecting"
the Khan.
As soon as the Khan saw him he cried out,--
"How art thou returned from the gods' kingdom? And how didst thou
leave my father 'All-knowing' the Khan?"
Then Ânanda the wood-carver handed to him the forged letter which he
had prepared, and he caused it to be read aloud before the people in
these words:--
"To my son, Chotolo-Ssakiktschi.
"That thou occupiest thyself without wearying in leading thy people in
the way of prosperity and happiness is well. As regards the erection of
the temple up here, concerning which I wrote thee in my former letter,
Ânanda the wood-carver hath well executed the part we committed to him,
and we charge thee that thou recompense him richly for his labour. But
in order to the entire completion of the same, we stand in need of a
painter to adorn with cunning art the sculpture he hath executed. When
this cometh into thy hands, therefore, send straightway for Kun-dgah
the painter, for there is none other like to him, and let him come
up to us forthwith; according to the same way and manner that thou
heretofore sendedst unto us Ânanda the wood-carver, shall he come."
When the Khan had heard the letter, he rejoiced greatly, and said,
"These are in truth the words of my father, 'All-knowing' the
Khan." And he loaded Ânanda the wood-carver with rich rewards, but
sent and called unto him Kun-dgah the painter.
Kun-dgah the painter came with all haste into the presence of the Khan,
who caused the letter of his father to be read out to him; and he as
he heard it was seized with great fear and trembling; but when he saw
Ânanda the wood-carver standing whole before him, all white from the
milk-washing and clad in the costly garment of gauze as if the light
of the gods' kingdom yet clove to him, he said within himself,--
"Surely the fire hath not burnt him, as I see him before mine eyes,
so neither shall it burn me; and if I refuse to go a worse death will
be allotted me, while if I accept the charge I shall receive rich
rewards like unto Ânanda," So he consented to have his painter's
gear in readiness in seven days, and to go up to the gods' kingdom
by means of the pile burnt with fire.
When the seven days were passed, all the people assembled in the
field of Kun-dgah the painter, and the Khan came in his robes of
state surrounded by the officers of his palace, and the ministers of
the kingdom. The pile was well heaped up of beams of wood steeped in
spirit distilled from sesame grain; in the midst they placed Kun-dgah
the painter, and with the melody of every solemn-sounding instrument
they set fire to the pile. Kun-dgah fortified himself for the torture
by the expectation that soon he would begin to rise on the clouds of
smoke; but when he found that, instead of this, his body sank to the
ground with unendurable pain, he shouted out to the people to come
and release him. But the device whereby he had intended to drown the
cries of the Wood-carver prevailed against him. No one could hear
his voice for the noise of the resounding instruments; and thus he
perished miserably in the flames.
"Truly that bad man was rewarded according to his deserts!" exclaimed
the Prince.
And as he let these words escape him thoughtlessly, the Siddhî-kür
replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Prince hath
opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is
good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.
TALE IX.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed
the end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again to the cool
grove, and having in the same manner as heretofore taken captive
the Siddhî-kür, bore him along to present to his Master and Teacher
Nâgârg'una.
But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he
would not speak craved the token that he willed he should tell one,
which when the Prince had given he told this tale, saying,--
FIVE TO ONE.
Long ages ago there lived among the subjects of a great kingdom
six youths who were all boon companions. One was a smith's son, and
one was a wood-carver's son; one was a painter's son, and one was a
doctor's son; one was an accountant's son, and one was a rich man's
son, who had no trade or profession, but plenty of money.
These six determined on taking a journey to find the opportunity of
establishing themselves in life; so they all six set out together,
having taken leave of their friends, and the rich man's son providing
the cost.
When they had journeyed on a long way together without any thing
particular befalling them, as they were beginning to weary of carrying
on the same sort of life day by day, they came to a place where the
waters of six streams met, flowing thither from various directions,
and they said, "All these days we have journeyed together, and none of
us have met with the opportunity of settling or making a living. Let
us now each go forth alone, each one following back the course of one
of these rivers to its source, and see what befalls us then." So each
planted a tree at the head of the stream he chose, and they agreed that
all should meet again at the same spot, and if any failed to appear,
and his tree had withered away, it should be taken as a token that
evil had befallen him, and that then his companions should follow
his river, and search for him and deliver him.
Having come to this agreement, each one went his way.
The rich man's son followed the wanderings of his stream without
falling in with any one till he had reached the very source of the
river-head; here was a meadow skirting a forest, and on the border of
the forest a dwelling. Towards this dwelling the youth directed his
steps. There lived here an ancient man along with his ancient wife,
who when they saw the youth opening the gate cried out to him,--
"Young man! wherefore comest thou hither, and whence comest thou?"
"I come from a far country," answered the youth, "and I am journeying
to find the occasion of settling myself in life; and thus journeying,
my steps have brought me hither."
When the ancient man and his wife saw that he was a comely youth and
well-spoken, they said, "If this is indeed so, it is well that thy
steps have brought thee hither, for we have here a beautiful daughter,
charming in form and delightful in conversation; take her and become
our son."
As they said these words the daughter appeared on the threshold of
the dwelling, and when the youth saw her he said within himself,
"This is no common child of earth, but one of the daughters of the
heavenly gods (1). What better can befall me than that I should marry
her and live here the rest of my days in her company?"
The maiden, too, said to him, "It is well, O youth, that thy steps
have brought thee hither." Thus they began conversing together, and
the youth established himself on the spot and lived with his wife in
peace and happiness.
This dwelling, however, was within the dominions of a mighty Khan. One
day, as his minions were disporting themselves in the river, they
found a ring all set with curious jewels, in cunning workmanship,
which the rich youth's wife had dropped while bathing, and the stream
had carried it along to where the Khan's minions were. As the ring
was wonderful to behold, they brought it to the Khan.
The eyes of the Khan, who was a man of understanding, no sooner
lighted on the ring than he turned and said to his attendants,--
"Somewhere on the borders of this stream, and higher up its course,
lives a most beautiful woman, more beautiful than all the wives of
the Khan; go fetch her and bring her to me."
The Khan's attendants set out on their mission, and visited all the
dwellers on the banks of the stream, but they found no woman exceeding
in beauty all the wives of the Khan till they came to the wife of
the rich youth. When they saw her, they had no doubt it must be she
that the Khan had meant. Saying, therefore, "The Khan hath sent for
thee," they carried her off to the palace; but the rich youth followed
mourning, as near as he could approach.
When the Khan saw her, he said, "This is of a truth no child of earth;
she must be the daughter of the heavenly gods. Beside of her all my
other wives are but as dogs and swine," and he took her and placed her
far above them all. But she only wept, and could think of nothing but
the rich youth. When the Khan saw how she wept and thought only of the
rich youth, he said to his courtiers, "Rid me of this fellow." And so,
to please the Khan, they treacherously invited him to a lone place
on the bank of the river, as if to join in some game; but when they
had got him there they thrust him into a hole in the ground, and then
rolled a piece of rock on the top of it, and so put him to death.
In the meantime, the day came round on which the six companions
had agreed to come together at the spot where the six streams met;
and there the five others arrived in due course, but the rich youth
came not; and when they looked at the tree he had planted by the
side of his stream, behold, it had withered away. In accordance with
their promise, therefore, they all set out to follow the course of his
stream and to search him out. But when they had wandered on a long way
and found no trace of him, the accountant's son sat down to reckon,
and by his reckoning he discovered that he must have gone so far into
such a kingdom, and that he must lie buried under a rock. Following
the course of his reckoning, the five soon came upon the spot where
the rich youth lay buried under the rock. But when they saw how big
the rock was, they said, "Who shall suffice to remove the rock and
uncover the body of our companion?"
"That will I!" cried the smith's son, and, taking his hammer, he
broke the rock in pieces and brought to light the body of the rich
youth. When his companions saw him they were filled with compassion
and cried aloud, "Who shall give back to us our friend, the companion
of our youth?"
"That will I!" cried the doctor's son, and he mixed a potion which,
when he had given it to the corpse to drink, gave him power to rise
up as if no harm had ever befallen him.
When they saw him all well again, and free to speak, they every one
came round him, assailing him with manifold questions upon how he
had fallen into this evil plight, and upon all that had happened to
him since they parted. But when he had told them all his story from
beginning to end, they all agreed his wife must have been a wonderful
maiden indeed, and they cried out, "Who shall be able to restore his
wife to our brother?"
"That will I!" cried the wood-carver's son. "And I!" cried the
painter's son.
So the wood-carver's son set to work, and of the log of a tree he
hewed out a Garuda-bird (2), and fashioned it with springs, so that
when a man sat in it he could direct it this way or that whithersoever
he listed to go; and the painter's son adorned it with every pleasant
colour. Thus together they perfected a most beautiful bird.
The rich youth lost no time in placing himself inside the beautiful
garuda-bird, and, touching the spring, flew straight away right over
the royal palace.
The king was in the royal gardens, with all his court about him, and
quickly espied the garuda-bird, and esteemed himself fortunate that
the beautiful garuda-bird, the king of birds, the bearer of Vishnu,
should have deigned to visit his residence; and because he reckoned
no one else was worthy of the office, he appointed the most beautiful
of his wives to go up and offer it food.
Accordingly, the wife of the rich youth herself went up on to the
roof of the palace with food to the royal bird. But the rich youth,
when he saw her approach, opened the door of the wooden garuda and
showed himself to her. Nor did she know how to contain herself for
delight when she found he was therein.
"Never had I dared hope that these eyes should light on thee again,
joy of my heart!" she exclaimed. "How madest thou then the garuda-bird
obedient to thy word to bring thee hither?"
But he, full only of the joy of finding her again, and that she still
loved him as before, could only reply,--
"Though thou reignest now in a palace as the Khan's wife in splendour
and wealth, if thine heart yet belongeth to me thine husband, come
up into the garuda-bird, and we will fly away out of the power of
the Khan for ever."
To which she made answer, "Truly, though I reign now in the palace as
the Khan's wife in splendour and wealth, yet is my heart and my joy
with thee alone, my husband. Of what have my thoughts been filled
all through these days of absence, but of thee only, and for whom
else do I live?"
With that she mounted into the wooden garuda-bird into the arms of
her husband, and full of joy they flew away together.
But the Khan and his court, when they saw what had happened, were
dismayed.
"Because I sent my most beautiful wife to carry food to the
garuda-bird, behold she is taken from me," cried the Khan, and he
threw himself on the ground as if he would have died of grief.
But the rich youth directed the flight of the wooden garuda-bird,
so that it regained the place where his five companions awaited him.
"Have your affairs succeeded?" inquired they, as he descended.
"That they have abundantly," answered the rich youth.
While he spoke, his wife had also descended out of the wooden
garuda-bird, whom when his five companions saw, they were all as madly
smitten in love with her as the Khan himself had been, and they all
began to reason with one another about it.
But the rich youth said, "True it is to you, my dear and faithful
companions, I owe it that by means of what you have done for me,
I have been delivered from the power of cruel death, and still more
that there has been restored to me my wife, who is yet dearer far to
me. For this, my gratitude will not be withheld; but what shall all
this be to me if you now talk of tearing her from mine arms again?"
Upon which the accountant's son stood forward and said, "It is to me
thou owest all. What could these have done for thee without the aid
of my reckoning? They wandered hither and thither and found not the
place of thy burial, until I had reckoned the thing, and told them
whither to go. To me thou owest thy salvation, so give me thy wife
for my guerdon."
But the smith's son stood forward and said, "It is to me thou owest
all. What could all these have done for thee without the aid of mine
arm? It was very well that they should come and find the spot where
thou wert held bound by the rock; but all they could do was to stand
gazing at it. Only the might of my arm shattered it. It is to me thou
owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon."
Then the doctor's son stood forward and said, "It is to me thou owest
all. What could all these have done without the aid of my knowledge? It
was well that they should find thee, and deliver thee from under the
rock; but what would it have availed had not my potion restored thee to
life? It is to me thou owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon."
"Nay!" interposed the wood-carver's son, "nay, but it is to my craft
thou owest all. The woman had never been rescued from the power of the
Khan but by means of my wooden garuda-bird. Behold, are we six unarmed
men able to have laid siege to the Khan's palace? And as no man is
suffered to pass within its portal, never had she been reached, but
by means of my bird. So it is I clearly who have most claim to her."
"Not so!" cried the painter's son. "It is to my art the whole is
due. What would the garuda-bird have availed had I not painted it
divinely? Unless adorned by my art never had the Khan sent his most
beautiful wife to offer it food. To me is due the deliverance, and
to me the prize, therefore."
Thus they all strove together; and as they could not agree which should
have her, and she would go with none of them but only the rich youth,
her husband, they all seized her to gain possession of her, till in
the end she was torn in pieces.
"Then if each one had given her up to the other he would have been no
worse off," cried the Prince. And as he let these words escape him, the
Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking
Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this
world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.
Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the ninth chapter,
of the story of Five to One.
TALE X.
When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that the Siddhî-kür had
once more escaped, he went forth yet another time to the cool grove,
and sought him out as before; and having been solicited by him to give
the sign of consent to his telling a tale, the Siddhî-kür commenced
after the following manner:--
THE BITING CORPSE.
Long ages ago, there lived two brothers who had married two
sisters. Nevertheless, from some cause, the hearts of the two
brothers were estranged from each other. Moreover, the elder brother
was exceeding miserly and morose of disposition. The elder brother
also had amassed great riches; but he gave no portion of them unto
his younger brother. One day the elder brother made preparations
for a great feast, and invited to it all the inhabitants of the
neighbourhood. The younger brother said privately to his wife on this
occasion, "Although my brother has never behaved as a brother unto
us, yet surely now that he is going to have such a great gathering
of neighbours and acquaintances, it beseemeth not that he should fail
to invite also his own flesh and blood."
Nevertheless he invited him not. The next day, however, he said again
to his wife, "Though he invited us not yesterday, yet surely this
second day of the feast he will not fail to send and call us."
Nevertheless he invited him not. Yet the third day likewise he expected
that he should have sent and called him; but he invited him not the
third day either. When he saw that he invited him not the third day
either, he grew angry, and said within himself, "Since he has not
invited me, I will even go and steal my portion of the feast."
As soon as it was dark, therefore--when all the people of his brother's
house, having well drunk of the brandy he had provided, were deeply
sunk in slumber,--the younger brother glided stealthily into his
brother's house, and hid himself in the store-chamber. But it was so,
that the elder brother, having himself well drank of the brandy, and
being overcome with sound slumbers (1), his wife supported him along,
and then put herself to sleep with him in the store-chamber. After a
while, however, she rose up again, chose of the best meat and dainties,
cooked them with great care, and went out, taking with her what she
had prepared. When the brother saw this, he was astonished, and,
abandoning for the moment his intention of possessing himself of a
share of the good things, went out, that he might follow his brother's
wife. Behind the house was a steep rock, and on the other side of the
rock a dismal, dreary burying-place. Hither it was that she betook
herself. In the midst of a patch of grass in this burying-place was
a piece of paved floor; on this lay the body of a man, withered and
dried--it was the body of her former husband (2); to him, therefore,
she brought all these good dishes. After kissing and hugging him,
and calling upon him by name, she opened his mouth, and tried to
put the food into it. Then, see! suddenly the dead man's mouth was
jerked to again, breaking the copper spoon in two. And when she had
opened it again, trying once more to feed him, it closed again as
violently as before, this time snapping off the tip of the woman's
nose. After this, she gathered her dishes together, and went home,
and went to bed again. Presently she made as though she had woke up,
with a lamentable cry, and accused her husband of having bitten off
her nose in his sleep. The man declared he had never done any such
thing; but as the woman had to account for the damage to her nose,
she felt bound to go on asseverating that he had done it. The dispute
grew more and more violent between them, and the woman in the morning
took the case before the Khan, accusing her husband of having bitten
off the tip of her nose. As all the neighbours bore witness that
the nose was quite right on the previous night, and the tip was now
certainly bitten off, the Khan had no alternative but to decide in
favour of the woman; and the husband was accordingly condemned to
the stake for the wilful and malicious injury.
Before many hours it reached the ears of the younger brother that
his elder brother had been condemned to the stake; and when he had
heard the whole matter, in spite of his former ill-treatment of him,
he ran forthwith before the Khan, and gave information of how the
woman had really come by the injury, and how that his brother had no
fault in the matter.
Then said the Khan, "That thou shouldst seek to save the life of
thy brother is well; but this story that thou hast brought before
us, who shall believe? Do dead men gnash their teeth and bite the
living? Therefore in that thou hast brought false testimony against the
woman, behold, thou also hast fallen into the jaws of punishment." And
he gave sentence that all that he possessed should be confiscated,
and that he should be a beggar at the gate of his enemies (3), with
his head shorn (4). "Let it be permitted to me to speak again," said
the younger brother, "and I will prove to the Khan the truth of what
I have advanced." And the Khan having given him permission to speak,
he said, "Let the Khan now send to the burying-place on the other side
of the rock, and there in the mouth of the corpse shall be found the
tip of this woman's nose." Then the Khan sent, and found it was even
as he had said. So he ordered both brothers to be set at liberty,
and the woman to be tied to the stake.
"It were well if a Khan had always such good proof to guide his
judgments," exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.
And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened
his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good,"
he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.
TALE XI.
Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again, and
fetched the Siddhî-kür. And as he brought him along, the Siddhî-kür
told this tale:--
THE PRAYER MAKING SUDDENLY RICH.
Long ages ago, there was situated in the midst of a mighty kingdom
a god's temple, exactly one day's journey distant from every part
of the kingdom. Here was a statue of the Chongschim Bodhisattva (1)
wrought in clay. Hard by this temple was the lowly dwelling of an
ancient couple with their only daughter. At the mouth of a stream
which watered the place, was a village where lived a poor man. One
day this man went up as far as the source of the stream to sell his
fruit, which he carried in a basket. On his way home he passed the
night under shelter of the temple. As he lay there on the ground,
he overheard, through the open door of the lowly dwelling, the aged
couple reasoning thus with one another: "Now that we are both old and
well-stricken in years, it were well that we married our only daughter
to some good man," said the father. "Thy words are words of truth,"
replied the mother. "Behold, all that we have in this world is our
daughter and our store of jewels. Have we not all our lives through
offered sacrifice at the shrine of the Chongschim Bodhisattva? have we
not promoted his worship, and spread his renown? shall he not therefore
direct us aright in our doings? To-morrow, which is the eighth day
of the new moon, therefore, we will offer him sacrifice, and inquire
of him what we shall do with our daughter Suvarnadharî (2): whether
we shall devote her to the secular or religious condition of life."
When the man had heard this, he determined what to do. Having found a
way into the temple, he made a hole in the Buddha-image, and placed
himself inside it. Early in the morning, the old man and his wife
came, with their daughter, and offered their sacrifice. Then said the
father, "Divine Chongschim Bodhisattva! let it now be made known to
us, whether is better, that we choose for our daughter the secular
or religious condition of life? And if it be the secular, then show
us to whom we shall give her for a husband."
When he had spoken these words the poor man inside the Buddha-image
crept up near the mouth of the same, and spoke thus in solemn tones:--
"For your daughter the secular state is preferable. Give her for wife
to the man who shall knock at your gate early in the morning."
At these words both the man and his wife fell into great joy,
exclaiming, "Chutuktu (3) hath spoken! Chutuktu hath spoken!"
Having watched well from the earliest dawn that no one should call
before him, the man now knocked at the gate of the old couple. When
the father saw a stranger standing before the door, he cried, "Here
in very truth is he whom Buddha hath sent!" So they entreated him to
come in with great joy; prepared a great feast to entertain him, and,
having given him their daughter in marriage, sent them away with all
their store of gold and precious stones.
As the man drew near his home he said within himself, "I have got all
these things out of the old people, through craft and treachery. Now I
must hide the maiden and the treasure, and invent a new story." Then
he shut up the maiden and the treasure in a wooden box, and buried
it in the sand of the steppe (4).
When he came home he said to all his friends and neighbours, "With
all the labour of my life riches have not been my portion. I must
now undertake certain practices of devotion to appease the dæmons
of hunger; give me alms to enable me to fulfil them." So the people
gave him alms. Then said he the next day, "Now go I to offer up
'the Prayer which makes suddenly rich.'" And again they gave him alms.
While he was thus engaged it befell that a Khan's son went out hunting
with two companions, with their bows and arrows, having with them a
tiger as a pastime to amuse them while journeying. They rode across
the steppe, just over the track which the poor man had followed; and
seeing there the sand heaped up the Prince's attention fell on it,
and he shot an arrow right into the midst of the heap. But the arrow,
instead of striking into the sand, fell down, because it had glanced
against the top of the box.
Then said the Khan's son, "Let us draw near and see how this befell."
So they drew near; and when the servants had dug away the sand they
found the wooden box which the man had buried. The Khan's son then
ordered the servants to open the box; and when they had opened it
they found the maiden and the jewels.
Then said the Khan's son, "Who art thou, beautiful maiden?"
And the maiden answered, "I am the daughter of a serpent-god."
Then said the Khan's son, "Come out of the box, and I will take thee
to be my wife."
But the maiden answered, "I come not out of the box except some other
be put into the same."
To which the Prince replied, "That shall be done," and he commanded
that they put the tiger into the box; but the maiden and the jewels
he took with him.
Meantime the poor man had completed the prayers and the ceremonies
'to make suddenly rich,' and he said, "Now will I go and fetch the
maiden and the treasure." With that he traced his way back over the
steppe to the place where he had buried the box, and dug it out of
the sand, not perceiving that the Prince's servants had taken it up
and buried it again. Then, lading it on to his shoulder, he brought
the same into his inner apartment. But to his wife he said, "To-night
is the last of the ceremony 'for making suddenly rich.' I must shut
myself up in my inner apartment to perform it, and go through it all
alone. What noise soever thou mayst hear, therefore, beware, on thy
peril, that thou open not the door, neither approach it."
This he said, being minded to rid himself of the maiden, who might have
betrayed the real means by which he became possessed of the treasure,
by killing her and hiding her body under the earth.
Then having taken off all his clothes, that they might not be soiled
with the blood he was about to spill, and prepared himself thus to
put the woman to death, he lifted up the lid of the box, saying,
"Maiden, fear nothing!" But on the instant the tiger sprang out upon
him and threw him to the ground. In vain he cried aloud with piteous
cries. All the time that his bare flesh was delivered over to the
teeth and claws of the unpitying tiger his wife and children were
laughing, and saying, "How is our father diligent in offering up
'the Prayer which makes suddenly rich!'"
But when, the next morning, he came not out, all the neighbours came
and opened the door of the inner apartment, and they found only his
bones which the tiger had well cleaned; but having so well satisfied
its appetite, it walked out through their midst without hurting any
of them.
In process of time, however, the maiden whom the Khan's son had
taken to his palace had lived happily with him, and they had a
family of three children; and she was blameless and honoured before
all. Nevertheless, envious people spread the gossip that she had come
no one knew whence; and when they brought the matter before the king's
council it was said, "How shall a Khan's son whose mother was found
in a box under the sand reign over us? And what will be thought of
a Khan's son who has no uncles?"
These things reached the ears of the Khanin, and, fearing lest they
should take her sons from her and put them to death that they might not
reign, she resolved to take them with her and go home to her parents.
On the fifteenth of the month, while the light of the moon shone
abroad, she took her three sons and set out on her way.
When it was about midday she had arrived nigh to the habitation of
her parents; but at a place where formerly all had been waste she
found many labourers at work ploughing the land, directing them was
a noble youth of comely presence. When the youth saw the Khan's wife
coming over the field he asked her whence she came; answering, she
told him she had journeyed from afar to see her parents, who lived by
the temple of Chongschim Bodhisattva on the other side of the mountain.
"And you are their daughter?" pursued the young man.
"Even so; and out of filial regard am I come to visit them," answered
the Khanin.
"Then you are my sister," returned the youth, "for I am their son; and
they have always told me I had an elder sister who was gone afar off."
Then he invited her to partake of his midday meal, and after
they had dined they set out together to find the lowly dwelling
of their parents. But when they had come round to the other side
of the mountain in the place where the lowly habitation had stood,
behold there was now a whole congeries of palaces, each finer than the
residence of the husband of the Khanin! All over they were hung with
floating streamers of gay-coloured silks. The temple of the Chongschim
Bodhisattva itself had been rebuilt with greater magnificence than
before, and was resplendent with gold, and diamonds, and streamers
of silk, and furnished with mellow-toned bells whose sound chimed
far out into the waste.
"To whom does all this magnificence belong?" inquired the Khanin.
"It all belongs to us," replied the youth. "Our parents, too, are
well and happy; come and see them."
As they drew near their parents came out to meet them, looking hale and
hearty and riding on horses. Behind them came a train of attendants
leading horses for the Khanin and her brother. They all returned to
the palace where the parents dwelt, all being furnished with elegance
and luxury. When they had talked over all the events that had befallen
each since they parted, they went to rest on soft couches.
When the Khanin saw the magnificence in which her parents were living
she bethought her that it would be well to invite the Khan to come
and visit them. Accordingly she sent a splendid train of attendants
to ask him to betake himself thither. Soon after, the Khan arrived,
together with his ministers, and they were all of them struck with
the condition of pomp and state in which the Khanin was living,
far exceeding that of the Khan himself, the ministers owned, saying,
"The report we heard, saying that the Khanin had no relations but the
poor and unknown, was manifestly false;" and the Khan was all desire
that she should return home. To this request she gave her cordial
assent, only, as her parents were now well-stricken in years, and it
was not likely she should have the opportunity of seeing them more,
she desired to spend a few days more by their side. It was agreed,
therefore, that the Khan and his ministers should return home, and
that after three days the Khanin also should come and join him.
Having taken affectionate leave of the Khan and seen him depart,
she betook herself to rest on her soft couch.
When she woke in the morning, behold, all the magnificence of the
place was departed! There were no stately palaces; the temple of
the Chongschim Bodhisattva was the same unpretending structure it
had always been of old, only a little more worn down by time and
weather; the lowly habitation of her parents was a shapeless ruin,
and she was lying on the bare ground in one corner of it, with a
heap of broken stones for a pillow. Her parents were dead long ago,
and as for a brother there was no trace of one.
Then she understood that the devas had sent the transformation to
satisfy the Khan and his ministers, and, that done, every thing had
returned to its natural condition.
Grateful for the result, she now returned home, where the Khan received
her with greater fondness than before. The ministers were satisfied
as to the honour of the throne, all the gossips were put to silence
from that day forward, and her three sons were brought up and trained
that they might reign in state after the Khan their father.
"Truly, that was a woman favoured by fortune beyond
expectation!" exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words
escape him the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the
Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry,
"To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air,
swift out of sight.
Thus far of the adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the
eleventh chapter, concerning "The Prayer making suddenly Rich."
TALE XII.
Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and
fetched the Siddhî-kür; and as he brought him along the Siddhî-kür
told this tale:--
"CHILD-INTELLECT" AND "BRIGHT-INTELLECT."
Long ages ago there lived a Khan who was called Küwôn-ojôtu
(1). He reigned over a country so fruitful that it was surnamed
"Flower-clad." All round its borders grew mango-trees and groves of
sandalwood (2), and vines and fruit-trees, and within there was of
corn of every kind no lack, and copious streams of water, and a mighty
river called "The Golden," with flourishing cities all along its banks.
Among the subjects of this Khan was one named Gegên-uchâtu (3),
renowned for his wit and understanding. For him the Khan sent
one day, and spoke to him, saying, "Men call thee 'him of bright
understanding.' Now let us see whether the name becomes thee. To this
end let us see if thou hast the wit to steal the Khan's talisman,
defying the jealous care of the Khan and all his guards. If thou
succeedest I will recompense thee with presents making glad the
heart; but if not, then I will pronounce thee unworthily named, and
in consequence will lay waste thy dwelling and put out both thine
eyes." Although the man ventured to prefer the remark, "Stealing have
I never learned," yet the Khan maintained the sentence that he had
set forth.
In the night of the fifteenth of the month, therefore, the man made
himself ready to try the venture.
But the king, to make more sure, bound the talisman fast to a marble
pillar of his bed-chamber, against which he lay, and leaving the
door open the better to hear the approach of the thief, surrounded
the same with a strong watch of guards.
Gegên-uchâtu now took good provision of rice-brandy, and going in to
talk as if for pastime with the Khan's guards and servants, gave to
every one of them abundantly to drink thereof, and then went his way.
At the end of an hour he returned, when the rice-brandy had done its
work. The guards before the gate were fast asleep on their horses;
these he carried off their horses and set them astride on a ruined
wall. In the kitchen were the cooks waiting to strike a light to
light the fire: over the head of the one nearest the fire he drew a
cap woven of grass (4), and in the sleeve of the other he put three
stones. Then going softly on into the Khan's apartment, without
waking him, he put over his head and face a dried bladder as hard
as a stone; and the guards that slept around him he tied their hair
together. Then he took down the talisman from the marble pillar to
which it was bound and made off with it. Instantly, the Khan rose
and raised the cry, "A thief has been in here!" But the guards could
not move because their hair was tied together, and cries of "Don't
pull my hair!" drowned the Khan's cries of "Stop thief!" As it was
yet dark the Khan cried, yet more loudly, "Kindle me a light!" And
he cried, further, "Not only is my talisman stolen, but my head is
enclosed in a wall of stone! Bring me light that I may see what it
is made of." When the cook, in his hurry to obey the Khan, began to
blow the fire, the flame caught the cap woven of grass and blazed up
and burnt his head off; and when his fellow raised his arm to help
him put out the fire the three stones, falling from his sleeve, hit
his head and made the blood flow, giving him too much to attend to
for him to be able to pursue the thief. Then the Khan called through
the window to the outer guards, who ought to have been on horseback
before the gate, to stop the thief; and they, waking up at his voice,
began vainly spurring at the ruined wall on which Gegên-uchâtu had set
them astride, and which, of course, brought them no nearer the subject
of their pursuit, who thus made good his escape with the talisman,
no man hindering him, all the way to his own dwelling.
The next day he came and stood before the Khan. The Khan sat on his
throne full of wrath and moody thoughts.
"Let not the Khan be angry," spoke the man of bright understanding,
"here is the talisman, which I sought not to retain for myself,
but only to take possession of according to the word of the Khan."
The Khan, however, answered him, saying, "The talisman is at thy
disposition, nor do I wish to have it back from thee. Nevertheless,
thy dealings this night, in that thou didst draw a stone-like bladder
over the head of the Khan, were evil, for the fear came therefrom upon
me lest thou hadst even pulled off my head; therefore my sentence
upon thee is that thou be taken hence to the place of execution and
be beheaded by the headsman."
Hearing this sentence, Gegên-uchâtu said, within himself, "In this
sentence that he hath passed the Khan hath not acted according to
the dictates of justice." Therefore he took the Khan's talisman in
his hand and dashed it against a stone, and, behold, doing so, the
blood poured out of the nose of the Khan until he died!
"That was a Khan not fit to reign!" exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking
Khan.
And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied,
"Forgetting his health the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his
lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he
sped him through the air, swift out of sight.
TALE XIII.
Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and
fetched the Siddhî-kür, and as he brought him along the Siddhî-kür
told him, according to the former manner, this tale, saying,--
THE FORTUNES OF SHRIKANTHA.
Long ages ago there was a Brahman's son whose name was Shrikantha
(1). This man sold all his inheritance for three pieces of
cloth-stuff. Lading the three pieces of cloth-stuff on to the back of
an ass, he went his way into a far country to trade with the same (2).
As he went along he met a party of boys who had caught a mouse and
were tormenting it. Having tied a string about its neck, they were
dragging it through the water. The Brahman's son could not bear to
see this proceeding and chid the boys, but they refused to listen to
his words. When he found that they would pay no heed to his words,
he bought the mouse of them for one of his pieces of stuff, and
delivered it thus out of their hands.
When he had gone a little farther he met another party of boys who
had caught a young ape (3) and were tormenting it. Because it did not
understand the game they were playing, they hit it with their fists,
and when it implored them to play in a rational manner and not be so
hasty and revengeful, they but hit it again. At the sight the Brahman
was moved with compassion and chid the boys, and when they would not
listen to him he bought it of them for another of his pieces of stuff,
and set it at liberty.
Farther along, in the neighbourhood of a city, he met another party of
boys who had caught a young bear and were tormenting it, riding upon
it like a horse and otherwise teasing it; and when by his chiding he
could not induce them to desist, he bought it of them for his last
piece of stuff, and set it at liberty.
By this means he was left entirely without merchandize to trade
with, and he thought within himself, as he drove his donkey along,
what he should do; and he found in his mind no better remedy than to
steal something out of the palace of the Khan wherewith to commence
trading. Having thus resolved, he tied his donkey fast in the thick
jungle and made his way with precaution into the store-chambers of
the Khan's palace. Here he possessed himself of a good provision of
pieces of silk-stuff, and was well nigh to have escaped with the same
when the Khan's wife, espying him, raised the cry, "This fellow hath
stolen somewhat from the Khan's store-chamber!"
At the cry the people all ran out and stopped Shrikantha and brought
him to the Khan. As he was found with the stuffs he had stolen still
upon him, there was no doubt concerning his guilt, so the Khan ordered
a great coffer to be brought, and that he should be put inside it,
and, with the lid nailed down, be cast into the water.
The force of the current, however, carried the coffer into the midst
of the branches of an overhanging tree on an island, where it remained
fixed; nevertheless, as the lid was tightly nailed down, it soon became
difficult to breathe inside the box. Just as Shrikantha was near to
die for want of air, suddenly a little chink appeared, through which
plenty of air could enter. It was the mouse he had delivered from
its tormentors who had brought him this timely aid (4). "Wait a bit,"
said the mouse, as soon as he could get his mouth through the aperture,
"I will go fetch the ape to bring better help."
The ape came immediately on being summoned, and tore away at the box
with all his strength till he had made a hole big enough for the man to
have crept out; but as the box was surrounded by the water he was still
a prisoner. "Stop a bit!" cried the ape, when he saw this dilemma;
"I will go and call the bear."
The bear came immediately on being summoned, and dragged the coffer
on to the bank of the island, where Shrikantha alighted, and all
three animals waited on him, bringing him fruits and roots to eat.
While he was living here water-bound, but abundantly supplied by
the mouse, the ape, and the bear with fruits to sustain life, he one
day saw shining in a shallow part of the water a brilliant jewel as
big as a pigeon's egg. The ape soon fetched it at his command, and
when he saw how big and lustrous it was he resolved that it must be a
talisman. To put its powers to the test, he wished himself removed to
terra firma. Nor had he sooner uttered the wish than he found himself
in the midst of a fertile plain. Having thus succeeded so well, he next
wished that he might find on waking in the morning a flourishing city
in the plain, and a shining palace in its midst for his residence,
with plenty of horses in the stable, and provisions of all kinds in
abundance in the store-chamber; shady groves were to surround it,
with streams of water meandering through them.
When he woke in the morning he found all prepared even as he had
wished. Here, therefore, he lived in peace and prosperity, free
from care.
Before many months had passed there came by that way a caravan of
merchants travelling home who had passed over the spot on their
outward-bound journey.
"How is this!" exclaimed the leader of the caravan. "Here, where a
few months ago grew nothing but grass; here is there now sprung up a
city in all this magnificence!" So they came and inquired concerning
it of the Brahman's son.
Then Shrikantha told them the whole story of how it had come to pass,
and moreover showed them the talisman. Then said the leader of the
caravan, "Behold! we will give thee all our camels and horses and
mules, together with all our merchandize and our stores, only give
us thou the talisman in exchange." So he gave them the talisman in
exchange, and they went on their way. But the Brahman's son went to
sleep in his palace, on his soft couch with silken pillows.
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