Chapter II: Part 2

“But I will not be a care to you,” said the lad, drawing farther away. “I will bring you riches and happiness, far more than a calf could do!”

The man laughed again. “That is a likely tale!” said he. “Get away from here! When you show me that wealth and prosperity, then I’ll adopt you and make you my son, but not before.”

The boy crept to the door and there paused. “Master,” said he, “you have grown bitter through poverty; but your heart is not so hard and scornful as are your words. My name is Massang, and I will come again and bring wealth with me. Such is my promise—farewell!”

The man went back to his hut, pondering deeply and in his heart regretting the harsh words he had spoken to the boy, while Massang fled away into the fields.

For a long distance the lad traveled, seeing no one and meeting with no adventures. At last, however, as he was passing through a fair green meadow, he came upon a man sitting under a tree, and the color of this man’s clothing and of his face and hands was as green as the grass beneath his feet.

“What manner of man are you?” asked Massang, greatly wondering. The man put his head on one side and looked at him slyly out of small green eyes.

“I am a youth,” he said, “of good understanding as this world goes, and I was born as green as the green meadows.”

“Come with me,” said Massang, “and let us live together, for I have need of you.” So the Green Man arose and followed the boy without a word.

After awhile they came to a forest so deep and dark that they had great trouble in making their way through it. And in the very center of it they found a man sitting upon a log under a tree, and the clothing and skin of this man were as black as midnight.

“What manner of man are you?” said Massang to him. The man flashed his dark eyes upon him and said:

“I am a youth of good understanding as this world goes, and I was born as black as the black forests.”

“Then come with us,” said the boy, “and we will live together. I have work for you to do.” So the three traveled silently on, through the woods and out again into the open country.

When they had gone a great distance, they reached a region of rocks and sand, very bare and white in the sunshine. As they were traversing this land, they came upon a huge rock, at the foot of which was seated a man clad in linen, very white, and the color of his face and hands was as white as the sand about him.

“What manner of man are you?” asked Massang. The man turned and looked at him, and his eyes were as pale and colorless as his face.

“I am a youth,” said he, “of good understanding as this world goes, and I was born white—as white as the sand and crystal rocks about me.”

“Then,” said Massang, “we have need of you; come with us, and we four will live together.”

Not far from this place the four companions spied a little hill whereon stood a hut, strong and in good condition, but apparently quite deserted. Here they took up their abode and lived quietly for many days without any adventures. Every day three would go out to hunt and one would stay at home and prepare the midday meal, each taking this task in turn.

Now one morning, Massang, the Black Man and the White Man set forth to hunt, leaving the Green Man behind them, and at midday they returned, tired and hungry. To their dismay they found the ground in front of the hut much cut up by horses’ hoofs and the Green Man standing at the door, looking thoroughly puzzled and frightened.

“Alas!” he cried. “My comrades, we shall all have to go dinnerless to-day, for, while I was cooking the stew in the big pot over the fire, a band of horsemen came upon me and took all that we had in the house, even the pot itself. Come in and see for yourselves.”

The three entered and, finding no sign of food, were forced to prepare for themselves a meal from the result of the morning’s hunt, which was difficult enough with no pot to cook it in. There seemed no reason to doubt the Green Man’s story, for the marks of the horses’ hoofs were clear and plain in the soft ground before the door of the hut. But Massang examined these marks very carefully and then came back and spoke sternly to the Green Man:

“Comrade, you have dealt falsely with us. However it came about that you lost our dinner, I know not, but of this I am sure, no horsemen came to our door this day. You made those hoof marks yourself with a horseshoe. Tell us now the truth of the matter!” The Green Man gave Massang a sly, cunning look, but he said nothing.

The next day, having got another pot, Massang, the Green Man and the White Man set out to hunt, leaving the Black Man to watch the stew and get everything ready for the noon meal. When they returned, they found all as it had been the day before; dinner and everything to cook it in had vanished, the ground in front of the hut was cut up as with horses’ hoofs, and the Black Man was standing at the door empty-handed.

“They came again,” said he, “a band of many horsemen, and they took the pot of stew from the fire, and all else that I had prepared for you to eat. I was powerless to fight against them, they were so many.”

But Massang doubted his word, and after he had looked closely at the marks before the door, he said:

“My friend, these are marks you have made yourself with a horseshoe. What adventure has befallen you? Why should you hide it from us? I pray you, tell us the truth.”

The Black Man looked darkly and evilly upon Massang and answered never a word.

The third day the same thing happened. It was the White Man’s turn this time to stay at home and prepare the dinner, but he had no better success than his companions, and had only the same story to tell them when they returned.

“I am glad,” said Massang, when he had tried in vain to learn the truth from him, “that to-morrow it will be my turn to play at cook. Mayhap the same adventure will befall me, and then I shall learn why and how you three have deceived me.” The three said nothing, but they looked at each other understandingly.

The next morning, having secured a new pot from a near-by village, Massang sat down to prepare dinner while the others went forth to hunt. “There!” said he to himself as he set the pot of stew over the fire, “now may the adventure that befell my companions come also to me, and then I shall see whether or no I have more wit than they to meet it!”

For some time there was no sound within or without save the snapping of the fire, but scarcely had the stew begun to boil before Massang’s sharp ears caught a little sound of rustling outside the window. He sat quite still, looking and listening. In a few moments there appeared over the edge of the window sill the top of a small ladder, and a thin, sharp voice exclaimed from without:

“Alack-a-day! Alack-a-day! What a steep climb! But methinks I smell a savory stew cooking within!” Up the ladder, over the window sill and into the room climbed a little old woman not more than two feet high, all shriveled and bent, and carrying on her back a bundle no bigger than an apple.

“Ah!” said she, looking from Massang to the stew and back to Massang again. “I pray you, son, give a poor old woman a taste of your stew—just a taste, and then I will be gone and trouble you no more.”

Massang moved as if to give her what she asked, but catching sight of a very evil smile on her face, he paused.

“It may well be,” thought he to himself, “that this is a wicked witch, and if I give her a taste of my stew, she will carry off stew, pot and all, as she very likely did when each of my three companions was here before. I had best be careful.” Then, turning to the old woman, he said, “Good mother, right gladly will I give you a taste of my stew, but it is now much too thick, and I dare not leave it lest it burn. I pray you fetch me a small pail of water, that I may make it the more savory, and then you shall have as much as you desire.”

The old woman grunted, being ill pleased, but she took the pail which Massang handed her and immediately disappeared out of the window. But she left her little bundle behind her.

Now Massang had purposely given her a pail with a hole in it so that she would be a long time trying to fill it, and as soon as she had gone he went to her bundle and opened it. In it were a ball of catgut, an iron hammer and a pair of iron scissors. As he took these out they grew larger, and by this he knew for a certainty that she was a witch and determined to deal very carefully with her. He stowed away the three treasures in his pocket and put in their place a ball of ordinary cord, a wooden hammer, and a pair of wooden scissors. As soon as he had placed these in the bundle, they became as small as the others had been. Then he went back to his place beside the stew and sat watching it as if he had never moved. Before long the little witch woman flew in at the window, tossed down the useless, empty pail and stamped her foot in a terrible rage.

“Have a care!” she shouted, and her high cracked voice trembled with anger. “Have a care how you meddle with me! My body is small, but my power is great! Give me a taste of your stew at once, or it will be the worse for you!”

Massang looked at her quietly and did not move. “I am not afraid of your power,” said he. “So long as you taste not my food, you are no stronger than I.”

“Indeed!” said the old woman, stamping her foot again. “Do you think in your pride you can match your strength with mine? Well, so be it; let us see which has the greater power. I will put you to three tests, after which, if you do not cry aloud for mercy, you may put me to the same. Come now, do you agree, or does your courage already begin to fail you?”

“Not in the least!” said Massang, getting up. “Let us have the tests at once.”

The witch picked up her bundle, opened it and took out the ball of cord which she thought to be her magic catgut. “First I will bind you with this,” said she, “and if you succeed in freeing yourself, you can do the same to me; if not” (and here she laughed scornfully), “you shall be bound to me, soul and body, to be my slave forever.” Then she flew at Massang and tied his legs and arms securely with the cord; but as it was only ordinary cord, and Massang’s strength was great, he very soon broke loose from it. The old woman howled with rage, but he quickly seized her and tied her fast with her own magic catgut, and though she struggled long and hard, she could not work herself free.

“Enough!” cried she at length, panting and weary. “Loose me! You have won in this test, but it is only the first and the least; there are two more, and in these you will find yourself easily overcome.” Massang unwound the catgut from her, and she sprang up, trembling and gnashing her teeth in anger, while Massang was calm and quiet as if he were merely playing a little game.

“Tell me, Mother Witch,” said he, “are you the one who has visited our hut for three days past, and each time spirited away our dinner and the pot to cook it in?”

The little old woman broke into a cackling laugh. “Indeed, yes,” said she, “and your three fine companions had not wit enough to save their dinner! One taste of their food gave me power to carry away all that they had, and I tell you, it was very pity for their stupid heads which kept me from bearing them away also, to be my slaves and water carriers! A likely tale they made up when they were ashamed to own that a little old woman had got the better of them! Band of horsemen! Ha! Ha! And it was only little me! But come, the second test, and if you fail in that, young man, as you surely will, you will die; there will be no mercy for you!” With that, she snatched from her bundle the wooden mallet, not stopping to notice that it was not her own iron one. She flew savagely at Massang and began to beat upon his head with it, shouting:

“There, now! There, now! Cry for mercy before I hammer out your brains!” But the blows fell upon Massang’s head as lightly as the blows of a tiny stick, and he laughed aloud, bidding her hammer away,—it quite amused him!

At length, weary and breathless, she paused. “And now,” said Massang, “you must let me do the same to you!” Taking the witch’s iron hammer from his pocket, he brought it down upon her head with great force.

The old woman clapped her hands to her head, uttered a shriek, leaped into the air and flew out through the window. Just at that minute the Black Man, the Green Man and the White Man, having returned from the hunt, appeared in the doorway.

“Quick! Quick!” cried Massang, pushing past them. “Let us follow the little witch woman! She is wounded and will fly right to her lair. Come with me, quick, and follow her!” So the four dashed out of the hut and after the old witch as fast as they could go. She flew low in the sky like a great bird, and every now and then a drop of black blood fell to the ground from the wound in her head. At first she flew so fast that Massang, with the other three behind him, had great difficulty in keeping up with her, but after awhile she began to waver and fly unevenly. By this time the four found themselves running over a barren stretch of land, very rough and uneven, and they stumbled and fell more than once, but as the flight of the witch became ever slower, they managed to keep her in sight. At last they saw her fall to the ground and lie quite still, and running up to her, they found she was dead.

“An evil old witch,” said Massang, “yet I meant not to kill her—only to wound and drive her away.”

“She would have killed you quickly enough,” said the three, “and us too, if we had let her!”

Looking around them, they saw near by the mouth of a deep, dark cave.

“This must be her lair,” said Massang, “and no doubt it is filled with treasure; let us go down and see.” But apparently there was no way of getting down. The cave was so deep they could scarcely see the bottom of it, and the sides were steep and smooth as polished marble.

Massang, however, found that he still had in his pocket the ball of magic catgut. This he unwound and, finding it would reach to the bottom of the cave, bade his companions hold one end of it firmly while he climbed down upon it. Inside the cave the light was very dim, but as soon as his eyes became accustomed to it, he saw, lying in great heaps upon the floor, gold and silver, diamonds, rubies, emeralds and all manner of precious stones. He shouted joyfully up to his companions, who were leaning over the mouth of the cave. “Fetch bags,” said he, “big bags, and I will fill them with treasure; then you shall pull them up with the catgut, and afterwards we will divide the spoil and be all four rich and prosperous for the rest of our lives!”

The three men hurried back to the hut to get bags, and while they were gone, Massang roamed around the cave, which was large and full of dark corners heaped high with treasure. He had scarcely finished looking about when he heard the Green Man shouting to him from above. Then bags were thrown down, and he filled them to the brim with gleaming gold and precious stones. All the rest of the day until darkness covered them, they were busy, Massang filling bags and the three men hauling them up, emptying them and sending them down again to be refilled. At last Massang called up, saying it was too dark for him to see further, and the cave was pretty well cleared out, anyway. He fastened the catgut around his waist and bade his companions draw him up. But to his dismay he saw the Green Man leaning over the mouth of the cave, with an evil smile on his face and a knife in his hand.

“Now, Master Massang,” said the Green Man, and his voice sounded harsh and cruel, “if you think we are going to drag you up to share the spoil, you are much mistaken! There will be just so much more for us if you are not here! So farewell, and peace be to your bones. You will never be able to get out of this cave to tell tales on us!”

With that he cut the catgut and disappeared, and Massang could hear the three talking together and then moving away. All night long he could hear them coming and going. Evidently they were bearing away the treasure. When morning came, there was not a sound, and Massang knew that he was quite deserted. He sat down on the floor of the cave and buried his face in his hands, and his heart was very heavy. But after a while he got up and looked around, thinking that he would not despair until he had made sure there was no possible way of getting out of the cave. A careful search showed him there was nothing left to make use of but a handful of neglected gold and three cherry pits. These he picked up. “It is my last and only hope,” he thought, and aloud he said, “By all the power of good magic, I wish that I may find a way out of this cave to light and freedom.” Then he buried the cherry pits directly beneath the mouth of the cave. Scarcely had he done so when a great wave of drowsiness came over him and, lying down on the ground, in a few moments he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he awoke he found to his astonishment three young cherry trees standing tall and straight beside him, and the top of the tallest of these reached up to the mouth of the cave. He jumped up joyfully and stretched himself. In reality he had been asleep for several years, yet it seemed no more to him than so many hours. It was easy enough now to climb up the cherry tree and out of the cave, and glad indeed he was to be free again and out in the sunshine. He tramped eagerly along until he came to a hut where he bought food, paying for it with some of the gold which he had brought up in his pockets from the witch’s cave.

It were long to tell of all Massang’s wanderings after that. He traveled far and wide, ever searching for his false companions, until at last, after many weeks, he came upon three very elegant houses surrounded by beautiful grounds, and with every sign of prosperity and wealth about them. These houses, he soon learned, belonged to his wicked friends,—the Green Man, the Black Man and the White Man. At the time all three were away upon a hunting trip, so Massang procured a stout staff and took up his stand by a gateway through which they must pass on their way home.

He had not waited very long before he spied them in the distance, coming toward him. They walked gaily enough, never thinking of trouble, and did not even see him until they had got quite close to him. Massang stood directly in their path, his staff in his hands. The Green Man saw him first and, giving a cry of fear, fell at his feet. Then the other two saw him, and they also fell trembling before him. “It is Massang,” they cried, “or his ghost come for vengeance! Surely now we are doomed!”

“Get up!” said Massang sternly, touching them with his staff. “Get up! I am no ghost but Massang indeed, whom you left to die miserably in the witch’s cave. I had intended to slay you with this staff, for your falseness and cruelty—but you are too base and cowardly to touch!”

The three still lay trembling and grovelling upon the ground. “Alas! good Master,” cried the Black Man, “we have suffered enough already because of our evil deed. With all our wealth we have been wretchedly unhappy and have found neither peace by day nor sleep by night!”

“That is indeed true!” groaned the White Man. “We will give you all our wealth and become beggars, if you will but forgive us and let us go away unharmed.” And even the Green Man nodded his head in token of agreement. At this the heart of Massang was softened.

“Come!” said he. “Get up and we will talk it over.” And when they had risen to their feet, he said, “This much I will require of you; let each of you take half of his wealth and go with it to the bank of a certain river. There you will find a poor man who has nothing in all the world save only one cow. Give him the treasure that you have brought, and say to him, ‘Your son, Massang, sends you wealth and prosperity with his love.’ Do this faithfully, and I will freely forgive you.”

The men readily promised to do all that Massang had bidden them, and in a few days he saw for himself the three starting forth at the head of a great train of mules laden with wealth and treasure of every sort.

“And did they find the poor man with the one cow?” asked the Khan’s son. “Go on! You haven’t finished!”

“Yes, they found him,” said the Siddhi-kur, with a laugh. “And they poured out their wealth before him, and when Massang came shortly afterwards, you may be sure the old man received him and kept him as a well loved son.

“But you, O Prince, you have forgotten the words of the wise Nagarguna! You have broken silence on the homeward way, and so now you have no further power over me.” With a shout of joy, the Siddhi-kur leaped from the bag on the Prince’s back and sped away into the distance. Nor did the Khan’s son set eyes on him again until he had retraced his steps through all the dangers and hardships he had met before and stood once more under the mango tree in the cool grove beside the garden of ghost children.

Seeing him so persistent in his mission, the Siddhi-kur made no objections to being taken again, and allowed himself to be tied into the magic bag with the cord of a hundred threads and tossed once more on to the Prince’s back. After they had traveled a long time in silence and were both grown weary, he suggested again that some wonder tale be told, and receiving no answer from the Prince but a nod of agreement, he began at once.

TALE THREE

HOW SIX FRIENDS SOUGHT ADVENTURE

In a far country, many years ago, there lived six young men who were fast friends. One was a Magician’s son, one a Blacksmith’s son, the third a Doctor’s son, the fourth the son of a Woodcarver, the fifth the son of a Painter, and the sixth the son of a Prince. Now all these six lads intended to follow the lives and the work of their fathers, but before settling down, they all desired to seek some great adventure.

“Let us go forth together,” said they, “and travel into some strange country, and then perhaps something wonderful may befall us which will make us rich to the end of our days, or at least give us a goodly tale to tell our neighbors when we shall have returned and taken up our fathers’ work.”

So it was agreed among them, and on a certain day, very early in the morning, all six started out together. For several days they traveled, choosing always the least known road and going farther and farther from the country they knew into the unfamiliar lands beyond. Yet no adventure whatever befell them.

At last they came to a small, round pond into which six streams emptied, each coming from a different direction. Then said the Blacksmith’s son:

“Friends, here are six rivers, one for each of us. Suppose we separate, each choosing one stream and following it alone to its source. It may be that Dame Adventure is shy and will not meet us all together, whereas to each of us apart she will bring some rare happening.”

This saying pleased the other five, and they agreed at once. “Moreover,” said the Magician’s son, “let us each plant a small tree at the mouth of his chosen river, and I will weave a spell upon them all so that if aught evil befalls its planter, that tree will wither away.”

“Splendid!” said the Doctor’s son, “and let us agree to return to this spot at the end of a year and a day. And when we are met, if any one of us is absent and his tree withered, we will straightway follow his stream and try to rescue him from his danger.”

The other friends were greatly pleased at these suggestions, and each of the six set about at once choosing a tree and planting it at the mouth of one of the streams. When the trees were all planted, the young men took their stand beside their respective streams while the Magician’s son went around from one tree to another, weaving a magic spell about it so that it would wither and die if any ill came to the one who had planted it. Then, with many handshakes and words of faithfulness and affection, the six friends parted, each one disappearing up the bank of the river he had selected.

Now we shall follow the fortunes of the Prince’s son. The underbrush along the bank of his stream was thick and heavy, so that he must needs walk slowly and with difficulty. All day long he wandered on, finding no open space, and hearing nothing but the sound of the water babbling beside him. At length, however, the banks of the little river began to widen out, and toward sunset he found himself in an open meadow, with an old broken well in the middle of it and a dark forest beyond. He was tired and warm with the long hard walk through the underbrush, so when he had reached the well, he sat down beside it to rest and cool himself. He had not been there long before he saw approaching him a tall and exceedingly beautiful girl with a water pitcher on her shoulder. Her hair was very long and black, she was clothed in flowing white linen garments, and she moved across the field bare-footed, with a light, lithe step. And marvellous to behold, wherever her foot pressed the soft earth, a white flower sprang into bloom, marking her course across the meadow in a trail of beauty. While the Prince’s son was wondering at this and at the unusual loveliness of the girl, she drew up to the well and lowered her pitcher from her shoulder. He jumped up at once and, taking it from her hand, offered to draw the water for her. She said not a word, but when the pitcher was full, she set forth again across the meadow, leaving him to follow her and carry it. Over the field and into the woods they went, in the deepening twilight. The maiden moved with a sure step, quickly and easily among the trees, but the Prince’s son had great trouble in following her, often stumbling in the darkness and finding the pitcher of water ever heavier and harder to carry. At last it grew so dark in the woods that he could see nothing at all except the gleam of the girl’s white dress before him, and the water pitcher became so heavy that his shoulder well-nigh broke with the weight of it, but he struggled on, determined not to lose sight of his strange and beautiful guide.

Quite unexpectedly they came at length to a little log hut with a candle shining in the window. As they approached it, the door was opened by an old man, white-haired, shriveled and bent, with an old, wrinkled woman beside him.

“Come in, daughter,” said the aged man, motioning to the girl. “Have you brought the Prince’s son?”

“That I have, Father,” she replied, and her voice was as lovely as her beautiful face. The Prince’s son entered the little hut, wondering greatly, and the door was closed behind him.

Without a word of explanation, the aged couple made haste to set before him a simple, hearty supper, the girl having disappeared meanwhile into an inner room. When he had finished, as if in answer to his unspoken thought, the old man said:

“You are doubtless wondering, my son, about the lovely damsel who abides here with us, and whom you have followed this day to our humble door. But in truth, sir, it is little enough we can tell you ourselves. Whence she comes, we know not, though we have cherished and reared her as our own child. Several years ago we found her on our doorstep, a little laughing maid as fair as ever the sun looked on, and clothed in the softest, richest raiment. Right joyfully we took her in, and she dwelt with us happily day by day, yet never did she say a word by which we might know whose child she was. A king’s daughter she must be, or the child of some good spirit. Of late she has spoken much of a change to come in her life, of a Prince’s son, and of many other things which we have not understood, but our hearts have been sad within us, fearing lest the girl prophesied her marriage and separation from us who love her more than all else in the whole world.”

At this point the Prince’s son eagerly interrupted the old man, saying, “I pray you, Father, be no longer sad, but hear the great desire of my heart. I am indeed the son of a Prince, and the maiden is in my eyes the loveliest and most beautiful creature in the universe. Having once seen her, I have no further wish in life than to marry her and live peacefully with her here in this forest, in a house that I shall build for her with my own hands, near by this hut. Surely the fates have decreed that this shall be, for have I not traveled far this day in search of whatsoever Dame Fortune might have in store for me?”

“So be it,” said the other; “needs must you be the destined bridegroom, the son of a Prince, for had it been otherwise our daughter never would have led you through the dark forest to our lonely home. Let the blessing of an old man rest upon you.”

And so it came about that the Prince’s son married the beautiful maiden of the woods and lived with her in peace and happiness in a little log house hard by her foster-father’s hut. Days passed by, and weeks, and ever the two grew more loving and contented, and it seemed as if nothing could mar the even joy of their lives. But, alas, one day a great misfortune befell them!

It was warm and sultry, and the two had strolled hand in hand down to the bank of a rushing stream that ran through the forest. Now the water looked so very cool and refreshing that the maiden must needs sit on the mossy bank and dabble her feet and her hands in it. While she was doing so, a ring slipped from her finger and before she could rescue it, was borne down the current and out of sight. The poor girl cried out in dismay, then fell to weeping so bitterly that her husband was astonished.

“Nay, now,” said he soothingly, “truly a paltry ring is not worth so many tears. My dearest, when I go again to my father’s kingdom I will buy you a dozen rings more beautiful than that which you have lost! So dry your eyes and think no more about it.”

But the girl refused to be comforted. “That ring,” said she between her sobs, “is a magic one, and its loss will bring all manner of woe to us both.”

Nor was she mistaken in this. The ring was borne along by the swift stream for a long distance and was finally washed ashore near the pleasure gardens of a great Khan. There some one found it and, seeing that it was a strange ring, curiously wrought, took it at once to the Khan himself. The monarch looked long upon it, and then, calling his ministers about him, he said:

“This trinket has magic power about it. I believe that it belongs to a very beautiful woman, perhaps the daughter of some king. Take it, therefore, and wheresoever it leads you, follow. And if its owner indeed proves to be a lovely damsel, take her prisoner and bring her at once to me, that she may be head over my household.”

The chief minister bowed low, took the ring and called a goodly number of soldiers and servants to accompany him on his quest. As soon as he held the magic ring in his hand, he felt a strange power drawing him; and as he yielded to that power, it led him out of the pleasure gardens to the bank of the stream, and then up along the bank straight toward the log hut in the woods. And so, in a very short time, the Khan’s minister and all his soldiers and servants were standing before the door of the little house where the Prince’s son and his wife had been living so happily together, and were calling them to come out at once. They dared not disobey, and so the unhappy husband led forth the beautiful damsel, weeping as if her heart would break, and delivered her to the Khan’s minister. She was taken away at once, and the poor Prince’s son was left alone to grieve in his lonely little cabin. The old foster-father and mother were so stricken with sorrow that it seemed they would die, yet neither did they nor the Prince’s son dare to do anything against the commands of the great Khan.

Meanwhile the girl was led by the chief minister to the monarch’s palace. He was delighted with her beauty and charm and paid not the slightest heed to her tears or prayers to be allowed to return to her husband. She was made chief of the royal servants, must needs live in the palace within constant call of the Khan, and there seemed to be no possible hope of escape. Days passed by, and her sorrow and longing for her husband became ever greater instead of less, until she began to grow pale and thin, and those about her feared she would sicken and die. The Khan, too, noticed the change in her and tried every means in his power to cheer her, but all in vain. At last he grew angry.

“This husband of hers,” he cried, “is making the fairest of my servants sickly and plain. But if it is, indeed, longing for him that is eating the bloom off her cheeks, I will quickly remedy the matter!” And calling the court executioner, he whispered a few words in his ear. “There now!” said he later to the damsel, “when you know that your husband is dead and there is no use in wishing for him any longer, then perhaps you will forget him and learn to smile again.”

In vain did the poor girl plead with the monarch for her husband’s life! The more she wept and besought him, the more angry and determined he became.

So the executioner set out with a number of soldiers and, finding the log hut in the woods, dragged forth the Prince’s son with little gentleness and took him afar off to a meadow in which was a dry, deserted well. Down in this the poor lad was thrust, and a great rock was rolled over it. There in the darkness he laid him down to die, with no hope of rescue and no desire for life, anyway, if he could not live it with his dear and beautiful wife.

Now it happened that the very next day was that on which the six friends had agreed to meet by the little round pond with the six streams running into it. And true to their promise, the other five gathered together and there awaited the coming of the Prince’s son. The day passed slowly by and he did not appear, and then they noticed that the tree which he had planted was drooping and withering.

“Our friend is in danger or trouble,” said the Doctor’s son. “Let us lose no time in searching for him; even now we may be too late to save him.” The others were alarmed at the ill omen and were eager to start at once, but the Magician’s son detained them.

“One moment!” said he. “By my magic art I can learn exactly where our friend is, and then we can go straight to him.” Bidding the others sit down and wait, he drew a circle on the ground and, placing himself in the center of it, began to recite all manner of incantations and to draw figures and signs in the air. After a while he erased the circle and announced to his friends that he knew the exact whereabouts of the Prince’s son at that moment. “But we must hurry,” he said, “for he is in great danger and will surely die unless we rescue him.”

So the five set out at a smart pace and traveled all that night without pause or rest. By early morning they had reached the well wherein the Prince’s son was imprisoned.

“How shall we move away the rock?” said they in despair, seeing the huge boulder completely covering the mouth of the well.

“I will move it!” said the Blacksmith’s son, and taking the heavy iron hammer which he always carried in his belt, he fell to work upon the rock, knocking great chunks out of it until it was all broken to pieces.

When the mouth of the well had thus been opened, they hastily lowered the Doctor’s son, who found the son of the Prince lying there quite white and still and nigh unto death.

“It is well they chose me to fetch him up!” he muttered as he drew forth his bag of medicines. Taking a small flask of red fluid, he poured the contents of it down the throat of his unconscious friend, who soon began to stir and then to sit up.

With great difficulty the two were hauled up to the mouth of the well, and when they were once safely out of it, the friends all embraced with heartfelt joy and affection. Then the Prince’s son told the tale of his adventure and its sorry ending, and the other five were full of compassion for him and indignation against the wicked Khan.

“I have a plan!” suddenly spoke up the Wood-carver’s son. “By my art I can fashion a great wooden bird, large enough to carry a man, and I will fit it with wings, hinges and springs so that it will fly through the air.”

“And I,” cried the Painter’s son, catching the idea at once, “will paint and adorn it with marvellously beautiful colors, so that it will look like a Bird of Paradise.”

They were all much excited by this time and prayed the Wood-carver’s son to tell them more.

“Why, then,” said he, “the Prince’s son shall fly in my wonder bird to the palace of the Khan—”

“And when that wicked ruler sees the beauty and the color of it,” interrupted the Painter’s son, “he will go up to the roof to receive it, with all his royal household, and then—and then——”

“You can snatch up your wife and bear her away!” they all shouted at once to the Prince’s son, who was fairly trembling with joy and hope.

The Wood-carver’s son fell to work at once, and in no time at all had built a marvellous wooden bird, big and strong and powerful, with great broad wings that would carry it through the air at the touch of a spring. Then the Painter’s son got out his paints and adorned it with colors rich and fair, so that it shone with beauty like a true Bird of Paradise. The Prince’s son got into it as soon as it was ready, and, amid the shouts of his friends, pressed a spring and flew high up into the air. Then off he steered, straight for the Khan’s royal dwelling.

Great was the excitement at the palace when the big colored bird was seen flying overhead. Everybody rushed about, asking what it might mean, and the Khan was the most excited of them all.

“It is a Bird of Paradise!” he cried, “for see you not the gold upon its wings? It is, doubtless, bearing a messenger to me from the gods! In truth, we must meet him fittingly!” So he called together all his royal servants; choosing the wife of the Prince’s son because she was the fairest of all, he bade her go quickly to the roof and welcome the strange messenger as he alighted.

The damsel hastened to obey and stood waiting and marvelling as the great wooden monster drew near. Imagine her joy when it came whirring to a standstill, disclosing her own dear husband seated within it! In a flash he had caught her up and before the astonished Khan and his court could realize what was happening, the “Bird of Paradise” had left the palace roof far behind and was only a vanishing speck in the distance.

“And did they escape out of the country? And were the five faithful friends rewarded?” asked the Prince eagerly, as the Siddhi-kur ceased speaking.

“Indeed, yes!” said he, and he laughed merrily. “The Prince’s son and his lovely wife, and old foster-father and mother, and the five companions all left that country and went to live in a fair land, where they were all happy and prosperous to the end of their days!

“But see now, Prince, you have neglected again the command of Nagarguna, the wise master. You have opened your lips and broken silence on the homeward way, and so I am free again—as free as the wind in my mango tree beside the garden of ghost children!”

And with a shout the Siddhi-kur leaped from his bag and ran off, leaving the Khan’s son looking disconsolately after him.

“The name of the tale which I shall tell you now,” said the Siddhi-kur, “is ‘The Secret of the Khan’s Barber.’”

He was again upon the Prince’s back, being borne along toward the dwelling of the great master, Nagarguna. The Prince nodded his head in sign of agreement, but he determined this time that no word should pass his lips, no matter how interested he might become in the story. So, settling down comfortably in his sack, the Siddhi-kur began.

TALE FOUR

THE SECRET OF THE KHAN’S BARBER

Once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived in the East a mighty Khan. He had broad, fertile lands to rule over and many thousands of faithful subjects, but though he governed wisely and well, the country was filled with discontent, and for a very good reason. Never did the Khan permit himself to be seen by his people, and he even obliged his courtiers and advisers to address him from behind tapestries and never allowed any of them to look upon his face. And this was not the worst, by any means. Every once in so often a youth was chosen from among the people, and was taken to the palace, where he was dressed in gorgeous attire, and then led into the presence of the Khan. There he was bidden to act as barber and cut the monarch’s hair, and after he had done so he invariably disappeared and was never seen or heard of again. Of course, it was easy to guess that he had been put to death. Needless to say, the fathers and mothers of young men lived in constant dread and hated the Khan with their whole hearts, yet they had no power to withstand his orders.

Now it happened one day that the Khan’s messenger stopped at the house of a widow who had only one child,—a fine, handsome lad whom she loved better than life itself. It had fallen to the lot of this youth, Daibang by name, to be the Khan’s barber on the following day; but when the widow heard the news, instead of vainly weeping and complaining as others had done, she went at once to her kitchen, for she had devised a plan whereby her son might yet be saved. With great care she baked some little cakes of rice flour and milk, very light and fine and tempting to look upon, and into them she kneaded the great love that filled her heart for her son. Then calling him to her, she said:

“Daibang, on the morrow you must go to the palace to cut the Khan’s hair, and after that, what fate may befall you we may not know, but we can very well guess. Then do exactly as I bid you, and my heart tells me you will escape the hard lot that has come to so many others. Take with you these cakes which I have baked for you with loving care, and while you are performing your duty to the Khan, manage to eat one of them so that he will see you do it. He will then ask to taste one himself, and when he has eaten of it he will wish to know what it is made of. Tell him that your mother made these cakes, of rice flour and milk, and that she kneaded into them her love and prayers for you. After that I think he will not find it in his heart to take your life.”

Daibang accepted the cakes gratefully and kissed his mother, and when the time came for him to go to the palace, he set forth with a light heart and high courage. Having arrived there, he was taken at once by servants and clad in rich clothing, then led into the presence of the Khan. With comb and scissors of pure gold, he dressed and cut the monarch’s hair, and as he looked at him, he learned the Khan’s secret and why it was that he allowed no one to look upon him and live; and Daibang’s mind was filled with wonder. Nevertheless, he did not forget his mother’s commands and managed to eat one of her cakes while he was combing the royal hair.

“What are you eating?” asked the Khan, and Daibang spread out his mother’s cakes before him. They looked extremely good, and the monarch at once demanded one to eat. They tasted even better than they looked, and all the rest of the time Daibang was working over him the great Khan sat munching the cakes with evident enjoyment.

“Good youth,” said he, at length, “tell me what these are made of, for I must have my royal cook learn the art and bake me such goodly cakes daily. Never have I tasted anything better.”

“Sire,” replied Daibang, “these are very simple cakes; they are made of rice flour and milk—my mother baked them and kneaded into them her love and prayers for me, her only child.”

After that the Khan remained silent for a long time. When at last Daibang had finished his work and begged leave to retire, the Khan turned and, looking steadfastly at him, said:

“Young man, the love that your mother kneaded into those cakes has entered my very soul, and I cannot bring myself to give the order for your execution, as I have done these many times with lads like you. Nevertheless, you have learned my secret, and for that reason you should die, for I trust no man on earth, nor any woman either, to keep a secret entirely locked up in his own mind.”

Daibang bowed low, but said nothing. After a moment the Khan continued:

“In truth, lad, my love for you grows, and I am minded even to trust your word and let you live. Will you promise, by your mother’s love and by all else in this world that you consider holy, not to breathe to any man or any woman the secret concerning me that you have learned this day? And will you promise also to tell no one in what manner your life was spared?”

Solemnly and in all true faith Daibang knelt down and promised to keep steadfastly these two things, as long as he lived. With that he was dismissed, and servants were ordered to load him with presents and conduct him home.

Great was the wonder of the people in the village when they learned that Daibang had returned unharmed from the palace, after having acted as the Khan’s barber. They came in crowds to the widow’s cottage and demanded eagerly how it was that he had escaped, and what the Khan’s great secret was, anyway, that he should refuse at any time to be seen by his people, or to let those live who had once set eyes upon him. But to all their questions and wonderings Daibang said never a word. That night his mother, too, besought him to tell her just how he had fared and about the Khan’s secret, but he only said to her:

“Mother mine, ask me no more. Your cakes worked the loving magic you foretold, and I have escaped death, but I have given my word of honor that I will tell no human being—not even my dear and faithful mother—the secret I learned while I was cutting the Khan’s hair.”

So the days and weeks and months passed by, and still every once in so often a fine young man would be chosen from among the people and taken to the palace to trim the Khan’s hair, after which he would be put to death. Not one escaped as Daibang had done. And still the people came to the widow’s cottage and entreated Daibang to tell them the monarch’s secret. Now he was a tender-hearted and a willing youth, and he yearned most earnestly to break his promise, more especially when mothers and fathers besought him with tears and prayers to tell them how he had been spared, so that their sons might live also.

At length, so great was the strain of the secret on his mind and heart, that Daibang grew very ill. Doctors came to him from all parts of the country, and his mother nursed him with tender care, day and night, yet steadily he grew worse and worse.

“The lad will die,” the doctors said to his mother; “he will surely die unless he breathes forth the secret that is resting so heavily upon his mind.”

But Daibang remained faithful. “I have promised,” said he, “by my mother’s love and by all else that I call holy, to tell my secret to no living being, and I will die rather than break my word.” So the doctors all departed, saying there was nothing further they could do.