WONDER TALES FROM TIBET

                                   by
                         ELEANORE MYERS JEWETT

                            Illustrations by
                              MAURICE DAY


                                 BOSTON
                        LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY
                                  1922








                         DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER








PREFACE


The Siddhi-kur is a strange and mysterious creature! He is so old that
we cannot even guess at his age, and he has traveled so many leagues
from the land that originally produced him that we really do not know
how much of him is as he was, and how much of him has been changed by
time and place. Dusky little boys and girls in faraway India, long,
long ago, were the first to listen to the stories that gathered around
the figure of the Siddhi-kur, tales of wonder and magic which always
ended with the hint of another, even better one to follow. Then from
India, still in the unknown long ago, wandering tribes, or perhaps
occasional single travelers, carried the stories into the highlands of
Tibet. There they grew and flourished, till the Siddhi-kur in his mango
tree, with his clever wit and quaint sense of humor, and the ever
persevering Khan’s Son, became as familiar to Kalmuck and Mongolian
children as St. George and his dragon are to us. Some European
travelers, hearing the tales from the people and realizing their
unusual qualities, their picturesqueness, their fun and adventure,
collected them and brought them home. They were first published in 1866
by a German scholar, Bernhardt Jülg, and it is from his pamphlet,
“Kalmükische Märchen,” and an English translation of the same (“Sagas
from the Far East,” by R. H. Busk, 1873), that I have drawn the
following stories, changing and adapting them freely to suit Occidental
ethics and taste.

I was first moved to put them into book form because of the interest
they aroused in a certain small group of boys and girls to whom I told
them, one hot, happy summer not so very long ago. The element of
repetition, the distinctly human characters, the atmosphere of another
land and strange people, and the romance of quest—these things give to
the Wonder Tales from Tibet the appeal to the childhood of all times
and all races, which is their reason for having lived so long and
traveled so far, and reason, too, for believing they will hold the
interest of our modern American girls and boys.


    Eleanore Myers Jewett.








CONTENTS


                                                   PAGE
    Preface                                         vii
    The Clever Prince and the Stupid Brother          1
    The White Bird’s Wife                            27
    The Promise of Massang                           50
    How Six Friends Sought Adventure                 76
    The Secret of the Khan’s Barber                  97
    The Prince with the Golden Mouth                112
    The Strange Adventure of Schalu’s Wife          133
    The Fortunes of Shrikantha                      146
    Sunshine and Moonshine                          164








ILLUSTRATIONS


    The two friends felt themselves picked up and whizzed
      through the air                                      Frontispiece

                                                                   PAGE
    In and out among the shallows and deep pools they flashed         6
    She noticed a richly carved table in the corner, with a
      gold cage upon it                                              33
    Up the ladder and into the room climbed a little old woman       59
    Quite unexpectedly they came at length to a little log hut       81
    In a flash he had caught her up and had left the palace roof
      far behind                                                     94
    Together they dragged the chest ashore and set Shrikantha free  152
    He found a great red door set deep into the face of the rock    169








WONDER TALES FROM TIBET

THE CLEVER PRINCE AND THE STUPID BROTHER


Long years ago there lived in the Far East a Prince and his Brother,
sons of the Great Khan. The Prince was a wise and clever youth, but his
Brother was stupid and ignorant beyond belief. The Khan tried in vain
to have this lazy fellow educated and finally, when all else had
failed, sent him to school to seven learned magicians who lived in a
cave on the outskirts of his realm. There was nothing in the way of
magic, either white or black, good or evil, which these seven wise men
did not know, but because they had wicked, cruel hearts, they left the
good alone and practised their art only for selfish and evil purposes.
They took the stupid Brother because the Khan bade them do so, and they
promised to teach him all the art of magic, but inwardly they resolved
that he should learn none of it and merely be their tool and helper.
And so it was. For seven years the stupid Brother worked with the
magicians, and in all that time he learned not one thing, so that at
the end he knew no more than at the beginning. His brother, the Prince,
thinking that all might not be well, went one day to the cave and stood
all day long at the door, watching his Brother and the seven wise men
at work. And so very quick and clever he was that at the end of the day
he had mastered no small bit of the art of magic himself. Seeing,
however, how things stood with his Brother, and that it was useless for
him to remain longer, he bade him come away, and the two straightway
set off together toward their home.

The mind of the Prince was full of the wonderful secrets of magic which
he had just learned, and he was eager to try his power and skill at the
game; so at length, as they neared the palace,—“Brother,” said he, “go
you to the old stable behind the hill, and there you will find a
splendid steed as white as milk. I pray you, lead him gently to market,
sell him, and bring the money to me, but remember this: on no account
let him take you near the cave of the seven magicians!”

“Willingly,” said the stupid Brother, and off he set for the stable. He
was too slow and dull to be really surprised at seeing a fine white
horse standing unhitched in an open stall where there had been no
horses before; he only thought what a great pity it would be to sell
the animal as the Prince had bidden him. Far better would he like to
keep it for himself. At any rate, he would take a ride first and
perhaps go to the cave and show his new possession to his friends, the
wise men. Scarcely had he formed this thought in his mind and leaped
upon the steed’s back, when the animal dashed off, swift as the wind,
down the road which led to the cave of the wizards. Too late did the
stupid Brother remember the Prince’s warning to avoid that place of all
others; he could not turn the horse to right or left, or slacken his
speed until at length he stopped of his own accord right in front of
the door of the cave. The lad got down and tried to turn the horse’s
head and lead him home; he coaxed and scolded and even beat and kicked
the poor beast, but all to no avail. Then, looking up, he spied the
seven magicians standing in a row and smiling at him.

“It is useless,” said one, “you will never get that horse beyond our
gate, so you might as well sell him to us.”

“Very well,” said the stupid Brother sulkily, giving a final kick. “How
much will you give me for him?”

Now the magicians knew that this was no ordinary horse, but in reality
the Prince, who had changed himself thus in order to test his skill in
magic.

By their charms and spells they had drawn him straight to their cave,
for they were not at all pleased to find he had learned the secret of
their magic, and now they were minded to destroy him if they could. So
they bargained with the stupid Brother for the horse, paid him a good
price and sent him away, never dreaming that he was in reality leaving
the Prince behind him.

“Alas!” thought the poor Prince, “now is my last hour come! By all the
hidden powers of magic, I wish that some living creature would come by
into which I could transform myself and so escape!”

Before the cave of the magicians flowed a brook, and the Prince had no
sooner formed this wish in his heart than a tiny fish came swimming by.
Quick as a flash, the great white steed disappeared, for the Prince had
changed himself into the little minnow and was swimming rapidly away.
The magicians saw their prey disappearing and immediately transformed
themselves into seven larger fish and gave chase. In and out among the
shallows and deep pools they flashed, the little fish and the seven
great ones after it, on and on, and ever the great fish gained upon the
little one, until the foremost of the seven could almost seize it in
his mouth.

“Alack-a-day!” sighed the Prince, “now indeed is my last hour come! By
all the power of magic spells, I wish that some living creature would
come by into which I could transform myself and so escape!”

He had scarcely uttered this wish to himself when a white bird flew low
over the brook, and in a flash the minnow was gone, and the Prince was
flying swiftly over the fields in the form of a white dove. But he was
none too quick, for the seven magicians had become seven great hawks
and were circling over him. The Prince sped on like the wind over hills
and valleys, on and on until at length, quite out of breath and spent,
he came to a tall shining mountain. In the heart of this mountain was a
cave wherein dwelt a hermit, a wise and good man, whose name was
Nagarguna. To this refuge the Prince now sped, and the hawks were
almost upon him when he flew against the rough wooden door of the cave
and beat his wings wildly upon it. Nagarguna opened it, the dove flew
in and fell exhausted upon the floor.

“What is the matter, little creature?” said the hermit, picking up the
white bird and holding him gently in his hands.

“I am pursued!” gasped the Prince, “my life is in great danger. I pray
you, good master, hear me, and do what I bid you, that my life may be
saved!” He paused to take a breath, and in that moment there came a
knocking at the door of the cave which had swung to after the Prince
had entered.

“Even now,” continued the Prince, “there stand seven men without,
clothed in white. Before you open the door to them, let me change
myself into the largest bead in that chaplet which you wear around your
neck. When they come in, they will ask you for it. Give them the beads,
but before you do so, break the string on which they are strung so that
they will fall to the ground. If you do this, I can do the rest by my
power of magic.”

Meanwhile the knocking upon the door grew louder and louder, and so,
hastily promising to do as the Prince had said, Nagarguna opened it.
Without stood seven men with white hair and long white cotton robes.
Very old and wise they looked, but their eyes were wicked.

“What would you, sirs?” said Nagarguna. They stepped into the cave and,
looking sharply around, spied the chaplet of beads about the hermit’s
neck. The white dove, of course, had vanished by this time.

“I pray you,” said the foremost of the seven men, “let us have the
chaplet that hangs about your neck. We have long heard the fame of you,
have come from afar to see you, and would greatly like to carry away a
token from you.”

“Gladly will I give it to you,” said the hermit, but in slipping the
chaplet from his neck he managed to break the string, and the beads
went clattering to the floor, all but the largest one, which still
clung to the string. And all the little beads became worms and wriggled
upon the ground, and the seven magicians changed themselves into seven
large fowls and began pecking at the worms until they were all eaten
up. Then, at length, the largest bead fell, and scarcely had it touched
the earth before it became a youth, the Prince himself, who stood
straight, tall and fair, with a staff in his hands. With this he slew
the seven fowls quickly, one by one, and cast them out of the cave,
where they became the dead bodies of the seven wicked magicians. Then
he turned back, weary and exhausted, into the cave, but Nagarguna
looked upon him coldly and with displeasure.

“You have done evil, my son,” said he, “for you have taken life, even
the lives of seven men; and it will not easily be forgiven you.”

The Prince bowed his head humbly before Nagarguna. “Truly,” said he, “I
did not wish the death of these men, but they wickedly sought my life.
Only to defend myself from a like fate did I lift my hand to slay
another.”

“Even so,” replied Nagarguna, “and well I know your heart is not evil,
and that only because you knew of no better way to defend yourself did
you resort to barbarous killing. But by knowledge, my son, are all good
things accomplished, all wrong ones avoided. Had your knowledge been
perfect, you would not have found it necessary to take the life of any
living creature, even in self-defense.”

“Then, Father,” said the Prince, “let me stay with you and learn true
wisdom. I am sorry for this wrong, done in ignorance, and any task, no
matter how hard, which you want me to perform, I will do faithfully to
show my true repentance.”

“Well said!” And Nagarguna smiled upon the Prince. “If you keep this
spirit of humility within you, when the time has come for you to rule
this land, you will be a wise and good king, and your people will be
happy and prosperous beneath your sway. Come, now, I will tell you a
task worthy a brave man’s strength and skill, and when you shall have
accomplished it, you shall dwell with me and learn wisdom until it is
time for you to be king over your people.”

The Prince and the hermit forthwith sat down side by side upon the
rough floor of the cave (for it was quite bare of furnishings) and
Nagarguna told of the great work which the Prince was to do.

“There is,” said he, “in a very far country a creature called the
Siddhi-kur. Very strange he is, being gold from his waist up, emerald
from his waist down, with a head that looks like mother-of-pearl and a
shining crown upon it. The Siddhi-kur is a creature of magic—good
magic—and the land wherein he is shall be blessed with knowledge,
wealth and long life. Now, if you can capture the Siddhi-kur and bring
him to me, we will place him in a cool grove here upon this shining
mountain, and then our people in the valley, your people and my people,
will be mightily blessed above all others. They shall have gold in
abundance, and what is far better, they shall have a great store of
wisdom and knowledge, and long life in which to use it.”

“That is indeed a noble task,” said the Prince, “and with great joy
will I undertake it. Only tell me how I may reach the Siddhi-kur and
how he may be captured.”

“Mark well my words,” replied the hermit, “and I will tell you all.”

For an hour or more they talked, and Nagarguna told the Prince how he
should go to find the Siddhi-kur, of all the dangers he would meet by
the way and how he should overcome them. And the Prince plied him with
many questions and put away carefully in his mind all the directions
and warnings that were given him. At length the master arose and, going
into a dark recess of the cave, brought forth an axe, a sack, a cord
and a basket. These he spread out before the Prince.

“In this basket,” said he, handing it to the lad, “are the magic barley
corns which you will use as I have directed you, and also a cake which
grows not less, no matter how much you eat of it. The cake will keep
you from hunger as the barley corns will keep you from fear.” Then,
picking up the axe, the sack and the cord, he continued, “When at
length you have found the Siddhi-kur, do not fail to tell him that this
is the magic axe ‘White Moon,’ that this sack is the marvellous sack of
many colors, in which, though it appears so small, there is space to
stow away a hundred creatures, and that, finally, this is the cord of a
hundred threads, each one different in hue, and each strong enough to
bind and hold the mightiest ox. When you have shown him all these
things, he will yield himself quietly to you. Arise then, my son, and
start upon your way, and peace and good fortune attend you!”

The Prince arose, his heart high with courage, and slinging the sack,
cord and axe over his shoulder, the basket on his arm, he turned to bid
Nagarguna farewell.

“One thing more,” said the hermit, “and this is more important than all
else that I have told you. When once you have got the Siddhi-kur upon
your back and are returning to me, remember, open not your lips nor say
one word for any cause whatever until you have reached the door of my
cave and have given the Siddhi-kur into my keeping!”

Promising to remember this above all else, the Prince bade good-by to
Nagarguna, receiving his blessing again, and set forth with a quick
step and a light heart upon his great adventure.








THE PRINCE AND THE SIDDHI-KUR


Northward went the Prince, northward in a straight line as the crow
flies, though the way was hard and rough, and many times he could find
no shelter from storm and night. At length, when he had traveled a
hundred miles, he came to a valley, deep and dark and mysterious. This,
he knew, was the spot where Nagarguna had warned him he would meet with
his first adventure. Gripping his sack, axe, cord and basket with a
firm hand, he climbed down the rocky sides, though it grew ever darker
and darker as he descended. The loose stones slipped from beneath his
feet, and a great roaring sound filled his ears as he neared the
bottom, where a muddy river rushed along. At last he reached the bank
of this stream and stood there, wondering at the noise and rush of it
and at the strange half-darkness that surrounded him. Suddenly the
noise grew greater, and from the stream, the banks of the ravine, and
seemingly from the air itself appeared great ghostly forms, very tall
and fierce, and they rushed upon the Prince as though to kill him.

“These are the ghosts of giants who lived long ages ago,” thought the
lad, remembering Nagarguna’s words. “I must not fear them!” And
covering his eyes with his sleeve, he scattered a few grains of the
magic barley corn in the air and waited, listening. The strange,
ghostly sounds grew less, and even the roar and rush of the torrent
seemed to become more distant. For some little time the Prince waited,
with his sleeve across his eyes, and when the noise had grown quite
faint and indistinct, he looked around him. No longer was he standing
at the bottom of the dark valley with the muddy river rushing beside
him! To his astonishment, he found himself, instead, on the top of a
hill on the opposite side of it; the sunlight was bright and warm upon
him, and an open meadow land sloped gently away before him. Casting one
look down into the depths, at the muddy, horrible stream far below, he
turned his back upon it with a sigh of relief.

“There is one adventure safely passed!” said he to himself, and trudged
onward.

Again there was a long journey, and sometimes the way was rough and
hard, and sometimes it was pleasant and easy. But northward still it
lay in a straight line, and the Prince was weary enough when he had
gone another hundred miles and had come to the second stage of his
adventure.

He had reached a broad meadow full of tall lank grass, with a little
stream winding through the center of it. On the bank of this quiet
meadow brook he stood and gazed around, wondering, for the sunlight, so
bright a moment ago, seemed to be fading. The soft babbling of the
water grew suddenly loud and harsh, the air dark and murky, and there
darted from the tall, rank grass on every side a throng of strange,
ghostly figures. Very small they were and dim and vague, but their
faces were ugly, and they swarmed around the Prince in countless
numbers, as if they would cover and overwhelm him. He bent his head and
gasped for breath, muttering to himself, “These must be they of whom
Nagarguna told me, the ghosts of wicked dwarfs who lived and died long
years ago!” He covered his eyes with his sleeve and cast the magic
barley corn in the air, then waited, listening. The noise of the stream
died down, and the sound of the rushing, ghostly forms ceased; and when
the Prince looked about him again, he found himself on the other side
of the little winding stream, with the sunlight pouring down upon him
and the tall grass waving at his feet.

“There is my second adventure safely passed!” thought he, and turning
his back upon the meadow and brook, he journeyed on.

Northward he traveled still, and if the way had been hard before, it
was ten times harder now. Over rugged crags the Prince scrambled,
across bare deserts where there was no water and no rest for his
burning feet,—only sand, sand, sand and a tiresome wind. On and on he
went until at last another hundred miles had been left behind him, and
he saw lying just ahead a beautiful garden. As the Prince entered it,
he thought that never before had he seen anything half so lovely.
Strange, brilliant flowers grew in rich profusion on all sides, filling
the air with a soft, sweet fragrance. Birds with bright plumage flashed
by, and the sound of their incessant sweet singing mingled with the
splash of water in an unseen fountain. The Prince loitered along the
path delighted, drinking in eagerly all the beauty of sight and sound
and scent. At length, turning a corner, he came upon the fountain
sparkling in the sun. Crystal clear it was and very beautiful, and
beside it was a marble bench looking cool and restful. The Prince sank
down upon it, for he felt suddenly very weary, but scarcely had he
seated himself before the sunlight disappeared and a strange half
darkness covered him. The sound of the splashing water grew louder, but
it was very pleasant to hear, and mingled with it was a whispering and
pattering as of small voices and tiny feet, and a brushing as of
garments against the bushes. He looked around him and then stood up the
better to see. From behind every flower and bush danced forth a little
form, shimmery and indistinct but beautiful beyond belief.

“Oh, you lovely, lovely creatures!” exclaimed the Prince aloud. “But I
must not look at you, for truly you must be they of whom the master
told me,—the ghosts of little children who lived and died long years
ago and were forgotten!”

Slowly and reluctantly the Prince, covering his eyes with his sleeve,
cast the magic barley corns in the air and waited. The little silken
sounds ceased, the splash of the water grew softer, and when he looked
about him again he found himself standing on the other side of the
fountain, with the garden behind him and a cool shady grove in front of
him. And by a tree at the entrance to the grove, looking at him, stood
the Siddhi-kur!

The Prince knew him at once by the shining gold and the emerald green
of his body, by his head which looked like mother-of-pearl, and by the
fair gold crown upon it. As he was looking at him, the Siddhi-kur
turned and fled, and the Prince ran after him. Deep into the grove they
sped, this way and that, and a long chase they had of it, until at last
the Siddhi-kur reached the middle of the grove where stood his favorite
mango tree, and before the Prince could touch him, he had climbed up to
the very top of it, and there he sat, looking down and laughing.

The Prince waited only to catch his breath, and then, seizing his axe,
he raised it high above his shoulder, exclaiming, “Oh, Siddhi-kur, come
down! Nagarguna, the hermit, has need of you! Come down, I pray you, or
with my magic axe, ‘White Moon,’ I will fell your mango tree!”

“Nay, do not so!” cried the Siddhi-kur, gazing in terror at the
uplifted axe. “Do not cut down my mango tree with the terrible ‘White
Moon’; much rather would I descend to you!”

“Come, then, quickly!” said the Prince, laying aside his axe and
picking up the sack and cord. On seeing these, the Siddhi-kur hastily
climbed down from the tree and stood beside the Prince, trembling.

“See, now,” continued the lad, holding the sack wide open. “Resistance
is useless, for here I have the magic sack of many colors, in which,
though it looks so small, is space to stow away a hundred creatures.
You shall ride in it upon my back, and the neck of it shall be tied
around your neck with this magic cord of a hundred threads, each of a
different kind, and each strong enough to bind an ox. Be content, then,
come with me, and you shall dwell happily in a cool grove on the
shining mountain, beside the good Nagarguna.”

The Siddhi-kur sighed deeply. “Resistance is indeed vain!” said he,
“since you have the axe, the sack and the cord. So take me on your back
and let us be about our way, for he who cannot mend his fortunes should
make the best of them.”

The Prince was overjoyed that his adventure should be thus accomplished
so easily, and without more ado he settled the Siddhi-kur comfortably
in the sack, tied the mouth of it with the cord of a hundred threads,
balanced it upon his back, and picking up the axe, “White Moon,”
started on his homeward journey. Very proud he felt, and very well
satisfied. He ate of the magic cake which grew not less, and being much
refreshed, he walked bravely along, though the way was twice as hard as
it had been before, owing to the heavy burden on his back.

After they had proceeded a long way in silence, the Siddhi-kur spoke:

“Of a truth,” said he, “the way is long and I grow weary. I pray you,
Prince, tell me now a tale, that the hours may seem the shorter to us
both.”

But the Prince, remembering how Nagarguna had bade him above all else
not to open his lips on the homeward way, merely shook his head and
said nothing.

“Oh,” said the Siddhi-kur, “the Prince is wise beyond his years! He has
learned the lesson of silence! Keep, then, your thoughts to yourself,
but if you are minded to listen, I will tell you a story, a wonder
tale, which will make the time pass quickly and pleasantly. Only nod
your head, if you are willing, and I will begin.”

Now the Prince was very weary, and the hours seemed long indeed.
“Surely,” he thought, “there can be no harm in merely listening, and
perhaps the Siddhi-kur can tell a wonderful tale which it will be
pleasant and profitable to hear.” So he nodded assent, and the
Siddhi-kur straightway began.








TALE ONE

THE WHITE BIRD’S WIFE


Many, many years ago, when the world was young, there lived in a
country very fair and full of flowers an old man who had three
daughters. They were simple, humble folk and owned little save a herd
of goats, and these were dearer to the old man than anything else in
the world, dearer even than his three fine daughters. Every day one of
the girls went forth with the flock and tended them upon the hillside,
and woe be to her if, when she returned at night, one of the little
beasts was hurt or missing! The father stood by the gate of their yard
and counted them all as they ran in at evening, and often he felt of
each and caressed it, murmuring terms of endearment which might better
have been spent on his daughters, to whom he never showed any affection
at all.

One day, when it was the turn of the eldest to tend the flock, she
returned at night, very late, and with eyes red and swollen with
weeping. The cause of her grief soon appeared; one of the goats was
missing, and the angry father lost no time in venting his wrath in
shrill words of abuse and cruel blows. The poor girl crept away to bed,
crying and complaining, but to all her sisters’ questions she answered
no word save to bid them crossly to be quiet. Yet there was something
in her manner which led the other two to believe that she had met with
some strange adventure, and they talked long together, wondering and
guessing as to what it might have been.

The next morning the second daughter set forth to watch the goats, and
returned late at night as the first had done, weary and crying
bitterly, for another goat had been lost. And if the father had been
angry and cruel before, he was twice as much so now. He beat the poor
girl’s shoulders with his heavy stick and cursed her till she fled in
terror to her bed and lay there, trembling and weeping in the dark. But
when the youngest daughter asked her gently what had happened, and how
she had lost the goat, she was bidden to hold her peace, and could
learn nothing. She noticed, however, that her two sisters now exchanged
looks of understanding, and whispered much together, stopping at once
when she came by. She was filled with curiosity and could scarcely
sleep that night for eagerness to try her luck with the flock next day,
and see if any strange adventure would befall her.

Early in the morning Ananda (for that was the youngest daughter’s name)
set forth with the goats to the hillside, resolved to be very alert and
avoid all the trouble her sisters had fallen into. The weather was
unusually warm and sultry, and about noon a great sense of heaviness
and sleep came upon her, so that, in spite of all her efforts, her eyes
would no longer stay open. She lay down under a tree, thinking she
would let herself sleep for just a few moments, but when she awoke she
found, to her dismay, that the moments had lengthened into hours, the
sun was nigh setting, and while she had slept one of the goats had gone
astray.

“Alas!” she thought. “My father will kill me if another goat is lost! I
must find it, though I hunt all night!” She began looking hurriedly
everywhere, in all the pastures where the flock were wont to stray, on
the neighboring hillsides and in the valleys, calling the goat by name
and watching in the soft ground for the mark of his hoofs. At last, a
long distance from where the others had grazed, she found the
impression of the hoofs of a single goat leading away along the muddy
banks of a stream. These she followed eagerly, hoping with every step
to see her missing charge in the distance. The marks led steadily on,
and she followed farther and farther until at length she found herself
in a strange country full of great rocks and dark-mouthed caves. The
hoof marks left the bank of the stream at this point, led directly to a
cave in the side of a hill, and there stopped short. The mouth of the
cave was closed by a big red door, and Ananda, pushing against it,
found that it opened easily, leading into a passageway dim and damp. At
the end of this passage was another door which shone in the dark,
making the way almost bright before it. This, she found, was of solid
gold and, wondering much, she tried it and found that it, too, opened
readily. Beyond was another passage, shorter than the first and lighted
by the radiance of the gold door behind her. Ananda hastened to the end
of it, where she found, to her astonishment, two doors, side by side,
one of mother-of-pearl and the other of emerald. By this time she had
quite forgotten the goat, so filled was she with wonder and curiosity.
She lost no time in pushing against the mother-of-pearl door, but,
though she threw all her weight upon it, she could not make it yield an
inch. So, turning with a sigh, she tried the emerald door, which opened
at once; stepping across the threshold, she found herself in a large
vaulted room, brilliantly lighted by lamps which swung from the
ceiling. On every side were signs of luxury and wealth, soft divans,
curious rich furnishings, and on the floor, in careless piles, gold
coins and precious stones,—diamonds, rubies, emeralds and many others,
beyond all power to count. Ananda rubbed her eyes, thinking she must
still be sleeping. There appeared to be no living being in the room, so
she began peering around in this corner and that, wondering more and
more as she came upon one rich object after another. Suddenly she was
startled by a voice quite close behind her.

“Good day, fair damsel!” it said. “May I ask what it is you are looking
for?”

Ananda wheeled around in terror, but there was no person visible behind
her. Only she noticed a richly carved table in the corner with a gold
cage upon it, and in the cage a beautiful snow-white bird.

“Who could have been speaking?” said she to herself, still looking in
every direction, and, as if in answer to her thought, the white bird
moved on his golden perch and spoke again.

“Damsel, I bid you good day, and welcome to my dwelling. But pray tell
me what it is you are seeking?”

Ananda stared in astonishment. “So it was you who spoke!” said she. “In
truth, I hadn’t noticed you before!” And then, bethinking her of the
question twice asked, and not yet answered, she continued, “I beg your
pardon—I have come to seek my father’s goat which is lost. I followed
his hoof marks to the door of this cave and had hoped to find him
within.”

“I can restore your goats to you,” said the bird, “that which you lost
to-day, and those which your sisters lost before you.”

“Oh, you are most kind!” cried the girl. “Give them to me, I beg, and I
will hasten home and trouble you no longer!”

“Not so fast! Not so fast!” replied the bird. “Wait and hear my
conditions. Your sisters refused them with scorn and preferred to
endure all the ill-treatment and abuse at home rather than to consider
for a moment what I proposed.”

“They must be hard conditions indeed,” said Ananda, “to make me refuse
them and go home goatless to my angry father! Tell me, good bird—what
are they?”

“This is the bargain I propose,” said the white bird slowly. “If you
will marry me and live in luxury here, in my palace cave, I will send
all the goats straightway back to your father. Moreover, you shall have
all that your heart can desire, in so far as wealth can give it. Come,
now! I will let you have fifteen minutes in which to consider. Sit down
upon that divan yonder, and when your mind is made up, speak and I will
listen.” Then the white bird began busily pecking grains of food from
the cup in his cage, as if he had nothing further to say on the
subject.

Slowly Ananda walked over to the divan and sat down. “If I go home
without the goat,” she reasoned with herself, “my father will nigh kill
me in his anger—and yet, to marry a white bird, truly that would be a
very sorry adventure. But (looking around the brightly lighted room)
life at home is poor and dull, and here would be much to amuse and
interest me. And even a white bird might prove a good companion, if I
had no other.” She arose and walked back to the cage with a decided
step.

“I will marry you!” said she to the white bird.

“Good!” said he, and rising on his perch, fluttered his wings.
Immediately there appeared before Ananda a table spread with a fine
cloth and having upon it the best supper her eyes had ever looked on.

“Sit down and eat,” continued the white bird, “for you must be hungry.
The goats are even now on their way homeward and will find your
father’s pen unguided, with the rest of the flock, to-night.”

So Ananda married the white bird and lived in the palace cave, and for
a long time her days were full of wonder and delight. There seemed no
end to the treasures around her, and she had but to form a wish in her
mind to have it straightway granted. But after awhile she began to grow
lonely. Every morning the white bird disappeared (whither, she never
knew), and all day long she must remain by herself in the great vaulted
room. In the evening the white bird would return, but after all, he was
poor company compared with her two sisters, and she began to regret
what she had done and long to be at home again. The white bird brought
her news of the outside world and tried to cheer her by talk and
gossip, and one time he told her of a fair which was to be held next
day in a near-by village. Ananda sighed deeply as he told of it.

“How I should love to go to that fair!” said she. “It is so long since
I have seen any of my kind.”

“My dear,” said the white bird, “I think it unwise for you to go; my
heart tells me that ill will come of it. Nevertheless, if you greatly
desire it, if nothing else will make you happy, you shall have your
wish. Go to the fair and stay all day. Indeed, if you go at all, you
must promise me faithfully not to return until six o’clock in the
evening.”

Ananda was delighted, readily gave the desired promise and bustled
eagerly about, preparing for the morrow. The next day she started forth
bright and early and in good time reached the fair grounds. Such a
merry time she had from the very start! She made friends with everybody
around her, and having plenty of money to spend on herself and others,
she soon found herself extremely popular. She saw all there was to be
seen and did all there was to be done, and the morning was gone before
she knew it.

Early in the afternoon there rode into the fair grounds a stranger on a
snow-white horse. Very tall and strong he was, and good to look upon,
and he was dressed in silk and cloth-of-gold, like a prince. Everybody
began at once to ask everybody else who he was and whence he came, and
it soon appeared that nobody at the fair had ever seen or heard of him
before. All talked and marvelled at his handsome face, fine carriage
and princely clothes, and wherever he went, a little crowd followed
after him, watching curiously everything he did. Ananda saw him too,
and when she looked into his face, all the happiness suddenly died
within her, and she wished mightily that she had never come to the fair
at all, for she knew that she loved him with all her heart. She
wandered away from her gay young companions and stood watching the
stranger from a distance and feeling very sorrowful.

“What ails you, my girl?” a thin, cracked voice suddenly said in her
ear, and looking around she saw a little old woman, very bent and aged,
and with a shrewd, wrinkled face. “What ails you?” she repeated,
tapping the ground with her staff. And because Ananda did not seem to
be able to do otherwise, she told her frankly the whole thing.

“Alas, good mother,” she said, “I have fallen in love with yonder
princely stranger!”

“And why should that make you unhappy?” said the old woman. “Why should
you not hope to marry him as well as any other; you are a pretty wench,
to be sure!”

“I am already married to the white bird,” said Ananda, with a sigh.

“That is as it should be, my dear! That is as it should be!” And the
old woman broke into a cackling laugh.

“How can that be?” cried Ananda crossly, for she was quite bewildered.

“Because, my dear, yonder princely stranger is the white bird himself
in his right and proper form.”

Ananda could only gasp with amazement, and the crone continued, “He is
bewitched, that is all!” And then she moved off as if she had done with
the subject, but Ananda ran after her and, catching her by the sleeve,
made her stop.

“Tell me! Tell me!” she cried. “Can I not break the spell? Is there no
way in which I can keep him in his right form?”

“Let me go!” snapped the old woman. “Yes, of course there is a way! Go
home at once, before he can reach there, and you will find his gold
cage and perch and bird feathers in a corner of the vaulted room. Take
these and burn them; then when he comes back, he will keep his man form
forever.”

Scarcely waiting to murmur her thanks, Ananda started for home, running
all the way and arriving at the red door of the cave quite out of
breath and exhausted. She soon found the gold cage and perch and the
white bird feathers in a corner of the vaulted room, as the old woman
had said, and these she quickly took outside and burned, until nothing
remained but a little pile of ashes. Then she sat down happily beside
the red door to await the return of the White Bird Prince.

Before long she caught sight of him riding towards her, and she jumped
up and ran to meet him. But he, when he saw her, stopped short and
looked down upon her very sorrowfully.

“Ananda,” said he, “you have broken your word; you have come home
before me. Alas, nothing but ill can come of it!” They moved on slowly
until they came to the little pile of ashes which was all that was left
of the golden cage and perch, and the white feathers. The White Bird
Prince got down from his horse and stood looking at it for a long time
in silence. Then he turned to Ananda and said, “You have burnt my bird
form, my perch and my cage, have you not?”

“Yes,” replied Ananda, beginning to cry, “but I did it that you might
keep your man form forever, my dear husband.”

“In burning my feathers,” he continued, “you have burnt my soul, and
now I shall be taken from you, and we can never see each other again.”

“No! no! don’t say that!” cried Ananda wildly. “If through my fault you
have lost your soul, surely I can win it back for you! I cannot, cannot
lose you now that I have got you in your own true form!”

The White Bird Prince looked upon her kindly, but there was little hope
in his face as he spoke.

“Because you have burnt my soul, to-night there will come a throng of
good and evil spirits who will fight for me, and at the end of seven
days and seven nights the victorious ones will carry me away. And then
I shall never be able to see my dear wife again. Nevertheless, there is
one way in which you can save me, though I fear it is far too hard a
task for any woman. If, for seven days and seven nights, while the good
and evil spirits are fighting for me, you can beat with a staff upon
the mother-of-pearl door outside our palace, without rest or pause for
a single moment, then at the end of that time you will be able to break
through the door and win back my soul for me. If you can do that, the
good and evil spirits will be forced to flee, and you and I may dwell
in peace together.”

“Surely,” cried Ananda joyfully, “that is not such a hard task, and for
love of you, I can easily perform it! Give me a stout staff that I may
be ready!”

That evening, when the sun had set, there came a great company of good
and evil spirits as the prince had foretold, and they strove together
outside the cave, and the din of their fighting was terrible to hear.
But Ananda heeded them not. With a mighty staff she beat upon the
mother-of-pearl door, all that night and the next day and the next,
never pausing a moment, though she grew so weary she could scarcely
stand or see. For seven days and seven nights she hammered on the door,
and in the very last hour it began to give way beneath her blows. But
in that hour her strength failed her, and she dropped exhausted and
senseless to the ground and slept, unknowing, while the spirits carried
away her beloved husband. When she came to herself again and found that
he was gone, her grief knew no bounds.

“But weeping will do no good!” she said to herself at last. “I will
rise up and search for my prince, though I have to go to the ends of
the world to find him!”

So, drying her eyes, she took a stout staff in her hand and set forth
at once, though she still ached with weariness and knew not which way
to turn first.

It would be long to tell of her journey and of the adventures she met
with by the way. Far and wide she traveled over the face of the earth,
neither pausing nor resting, but ever seeking the White Bird Prince. At
last, one day, when she was walking through a deep and lovely valley,
to her unbounded joy she heard the prince’s voice calling her from the
top of a mountain. Quickly and happily she climbed to the top, though
the way was rough and hard beyond anything she had yet experienced. But
when she had reached the summit, her husband was nowhere to be seen,
and she was about to give up in despair when she heard his voice again
from the depths of the valley. So she hurried breathlessly down again,
and there, seated beside a stream and waiting for her, was the White
Bird Prince himself. With a cry of joy she ran toward him, and they
kissed and caressed and were happy beyond measure, but their joy was
short.

“My dear wife,” said the Prince, “most grateful am I for this meeting,
but now we must part again. The evil spirits have me in their power and
have made me their water-bearer, and all day long I travel from the
depths of the valley to the top of the mountain and back again,
carrying water for them in a huge jug. And now I must return again to
my labor.”

“Let me stay with you!” cried Ananda eagerly. “Have I not gone to the
ends of the earth to find you?”

“That may not be,” replied the Prince; “nevertheless, since your love
for me is so great, perhaps you can even yet win back my soul for me.”

“How? Oh, tell me how!” said Ananda. “Nothing can be too hard for my
love!”

“Go back, then,” replied her husband, “go back to our palace cave and
there build for me another golden cage and perch like those you burned.
When they are finished, sit down before the cage and sing, and put into
your song all your love for me. If your love is strong enough, it will
woo my soul back in the form of a bird, and I shall return and take my
soul again, the magic spell under which I used to live will be broken,
and you and I can dwell together in our true forms happily and lovingly
for the rest of our lives.”



At this point in the story the Siddhi-kur stopped short and said no
more.

“Well, did she do it? Did Ananda sing the song and woo back the soul of
the White Bird Prince?” asked the Khan’s son, forgetting in his
interest all about Nagarguna and his command to keep silent.

“Of course she did!” replied the Siddhi-kur, “and her song was so full
of love and beauty that its like has never been heard, even to this
very day. But see now, you have broken silence, my son, and so I am
free once more to go back to my mango tree in the cool grove beside the
garden of ghost children. Farewell! And be you wiser in future!”

And with that, the Siddhi-kur jumped lightly from the sack on the
Prince’s back and in a flash had vanished in the distance.

It profited nothing for the Prince to rage at himself and his folly.
There was nothing left to do but to go back all the way he had come and
fetch the Siddhi-kur again, for never would he dare to face Nagarguna
with his task unaccomplished. So, taking a bite from his magic cake,
which grew not less, he turned about and set forth once more to the
northward. Over the same rough road he traveled, meeting the same
adventures and passing them safely by, until at last he came again to
the beautiful garden of ghost children and found the Siddhi-kur sitting
in his mango tree and smiling down upon him. Now, after he had captured
the Siddhi-kur as before and set him on his back, and after they had
gone far on the homeward way in silence, that creature of magic spoke
again, saying,

“Truly, O Khan’s son, this is a long and wearisome journey. Tell me, I
beg you, some tale of marvel that the way may seem shorter and
pleasanter to us both.” But, as his suggestion received no reply, he
continued:

“Since you are minded to keep silence at any cost, at least you can
have no objection to my telling you a story. I have a goodly one in my
mind even now, and if you say nothing to prevent me, I shall begin at
once.” After waiting for a moment in silence, the Siddhi-kur began his
second tale.








TALE TWO

THE PROMISE OF MASSANG


Long ago, there dwelt by the bank of a river a very poor man who had
nothing in the world but a cow. “If only I had a calf too,” he would
say to himself, “I would be so much better off, for then I could sell
the calf and with the money buy goods and trade with them, and in time
might even become rich.” So he wished and wished for a calf, and prayed
to his gods and recited many magic forms; and every morning he went
hopefully into the shed where his cow was kept, thinking he might find
the longed-for calf beside her. At last, one morning he heard a strange
noise in the shed and rushed out, feeling sure that his wishes and
prayers were at length to be rewarded. What was his surprise when he
reached the shed to see, standing by the cow, not a calf at all, but a
boy, tall and thin and very ragged, with bushy hair and clear brown
eyes. His disappointment and anger rose at the sight.

“What are you doing here, you young beggar?” he shouted. “Trying to
steal my cow, I suppose—the only thing I have in the world!” Seizing a
great staff, he went at the boy as if to kill him, and the lad shrank
back against the wall.

“Kill me not, master!” he cried. “I had no thought of evil towards you.
I am alone and friendless and have come begging you to take me as your
son.”

The man put down his staff and laughed loudly and disagreeably. “My
son!” said he; “as if I did not have enough to do in keeping this poor
body and soul together without taking upon me the care of another! Son,
indeed, when I wanted a calf! Nay, I’ve a mind to kill you for your
folly!” And he advanced angrily toward the boy again.

“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.

That night the widow devised a plan. Sitting beside her son as he lay,
restless and tossing on his bed, she said:

“Daibang, my child, hearken to me that you may live and not die. I have
a plan whereby you may keep your promise to the Khan and yet rid your
soul of its heavy secret. Take courage! hasten and get strong, then go
forth alone into a far desert place. There find a hole in the ground,
or a crevice in a rock, and when you have put your lips down close,
speak out the whole matter that is weighing upon your heart. So shall
you keep your promise and yet find relief for your soul and live.”

This advice seemed good to Daibang, and so encouraged was he by the
hope of ridding himself of his secret that he straightway began to
mend. In a short time he had recovered strength enough to start forth
and carry out the suggestion of his mother. He traveled many miles from
home and came at length to a desert place full of rocks and sand, far
from every sign of human dwelling. And in the middle of this waste land
he found a deep, dark hole. Kneeling upon the ground, Daibang put his
lips close to this hole and whispered all his secret. Three times he
told it, and then he arose, feeling light-hearted again and well in
body and mind.

Now it happened that in this hole lived a marmot, very old and clever,
and he heard and understood Daibang’s words, and knew it was the great
Khan’s secret he was telling. Being an idle, gossipy fellow, he
repeated it all to his friend Echo, and as Echo always repeated
everything he heard, whether secret or otherwise, he soon told the wind
and the wind bore the Khan’s secret far and wide over the land, and
back at last into the palace garden, where the Khan himself was
sitting. When the monarch heard the wind whispering about his secret,
he was filled with rage.

“Truly,” he said to himself, “the whole world must be talking about my
secret if even the wind bandies it about! I did wrong to spare the life
of that fellow Daibang, and to-morrow before sunrise he shall die!”

So it came about that Daibang was arrested that very day and dragged to
the palace by rough soldiers. He was thrust at once into the private
council room and there found himself alone with the angry Khan.

“Did I not say that no man on earth could keep a secret faithfully?” he
cried sternly to the lad. “And you, though I loved and believed in you,
have betrayed your trust, for the very wind that plays in my garden is
whispering of that which none but you could tell! Speak, now, if you
have aught to say in self-defense, for to-morrow, at daybreak, you
shall die!”

Daibang had been frightened and confused by the rough handling of the
soldiers, but now, hearing of what he was accused and knowing that he
had done no wrong, he took courage and told the Khan honestly and
without restraint all that he had done.

“Indeed, Sire,” said he at the end, “no human being knows your secret
even now, and it was only to save my life and because of the prayers of
my mother that I spoke it into a hole in a desert place.”

The Khan was touched by this story, his anger vanished, and he felt
again the love in his heart for this faithful lad which he had felt
first when he had eaten of his mother’s cakes. They talked a long time
together, and the end of it all was that Daibang was made the Khan’s
Chief Councilor, and he and his mother lived thereafter in high state
and luxury at the royal palace.

You may be sure Daibang and his clever mother were not long in devising
a way of hiding the Khan’s secret so that he could go abroad among his
people like other kings. And never again was a young man chosen to cut
the Khan’s hair and afterwards be put to death! That service Daibang
kept for himself and remained the Lord High Royal Barber to the end of
his days.



“But what was the Khan’s secret?” demanded the Prince, when the
Siddhi-kur had finished his tale.

“Oh, that,” said the Siddhi-kur, “was very simple; haven’t you guessed
it yet? The Khan had ears that were large and pointed like the ears of
an ass, and he was frightfully ashamed of them. But the widow made him
a tall velvet cap with lappets that came down over them, and after that
he felt perfectly comfortable about himself. Of course such caps became
the style in the kingdom, and I believe they are worn in the East, in
court circles, this very day!

“But I have tarried long enough! My heart yearns again for my mango
tree in the cool grove beside the garden of ghost children. Farewell, O
Prince! Since you have again broken silence on the homeward way, you
have no longer any power to hold me!”

The shame and remorse of the Prince at having failed again were pitiful
to see, but knowing that tears and self-accusation were of no avail, he
turned around and set off at a smart pace after the disappearing form
of the Siddhi-kur.



“I have a story in mind,” said the Siddhi-kur, as he journeyed once
more in the magic sack on the back of the Prince toward the cave of the
master, Nagarguna, “a very ancient story of a king’s son as faithful
and wise as yourself, my friend. Come now, would you like me to tell
it?”

The Prince nodded his head, resolving within himself that on no account
whatever would he open his lips this time to comment on the story. So
the Siddhi-kur began at once.








TALE FIVE

THE PRINCE WITH THE GOLDEN MOUTH


Many, many years ago, there dwelt in a far country a Khan who was great
and good and dearly loved by his people. Yet no one in all his kingdom
loved or admired him so much as did his faithful wife and young son.
Truly there never was a happier, more affectionate family. The three
shared their joys and sorrows, their cares, their pleasures and their
secrets, and indeed one was scarcely ever seen without the other two.
Now the Khan and his family and the whole kingdom had in common one
great sorrow; the country was watered by a clear, broad stream, and
unless this flowed, full and strong, all the year, the land dried up,
there was a great famine, and the people died of hunger and thirst. At
the source of this river lived two serpent-gods, hideous monsters, and
as evil as they were ugly, and every year these frightful creatures
demanded a young man or maiden whom they might devour. Unless this
desire was speedily fulfilled, they stopped the water at the head of
the stream, it dried up and the people began to suffer and then die.

Many and many a time had the Khan and his counselors talked of the
matter the whole night through, scheming, planning, wondering how they
might save the young people of the land from this dreadful fate, but
all to no avail. If the serpents did not get their yearly gift of
precious human blood, the death of hundreds of men, women and children
was the result. And so it seemed better for one young man or maid to
die each year than that so many should perish.

The time had now come for this terrible sacrifice, and throughout the
length and breadth of the land there was sorrow and anxiety. Fathers
and mothers could scarce sleep for thinking that it might be the turn
of their son or daughter to go to the head of the river and be cast
into the cave of the monster serpents. Nowhere was there more
unhappiness than in the family of the Khan, for he grieved for each lad
or lass as if each were his own child. Seeing the care and sorrow in
his father’s face, the Khan’s son, whose name, by the way, was Schalu,
thought long and earnestly.

“Surely,” he kept repeating to himself, “there must be some way in
which I can help my father and free my country from this great curse!”
But no matter how hard he thought, no way presented itself to his mind.
The fateful time drew ever nearer, and finally the very next day was
the dreaded one on which the serpent-gods would send a messenger,
demanding by name some girl or boy in the kingdom.

That night Schalu could not sleep for thinking of the tragedy of the
morrow. “Suppose I were the one,” he thought. “Of course they would not
really dare to ask for the Khan’s son—but just suppose—” and then he
pictured to himself the sorrow of his father and mother and his own
horror at such a death. “And we are no different, really, from the
others,” he said to himself. “The fathers and mothers among our
subjects must suffer as keenly as their king and queen would, and as
for the boys and girls—they are really just like me.” All at once
Schalu sat up in bed and stared into the darkness; a great idea had
entered his mind.

“I will go to these terrible serpent monsters myself!” he breathed
excitedly. “I will offer myself to them—I, a Khan’s son—if they will
give up their frightful practice hereafter!” There was little sleep for
Schalu after he had made up his mind to this deed; all night long he
lay wide awake, planning how he would plead and argue with the serpents
for the lives of his people, and getting up his courage to meet his
fate and die bravely, as befitted a prince.

Very early in the morning, before the sun was up, he arose, dressed
himself and slipped quietly from the palace. He had not gone far before
he was startled by hearing a step behind him, and turning around he saw
Saran, a faithful friend, following him. Now Saran was a boy of his own
age who had been brought up at the palace with him, as his servant and
companion, and he and the Prince loved each other as brothers.

“O my master and friend!” said Saran, running up to Schalu. “Forgive me
for having followed you! I have seen your trouble and anxiety these
many days, and when you started forth alone this morning, my heart
misgave me that some ill might befall you.”

At first the Prince was much annoyed that he should have been
discovered, but as he looked at Saran, he suddenly felt relieved to
have a friend near, and he opened his heart and told all his plan of
self-sacrifice. He feared Saran would entreat him to give it up and go
home, but his friend listened in silence to the end and then said:

“Schalu, your heart is noble, as a prince’s should be! I cannot urge
you to give up a deed so truly glorious. Only I beg you—and I will not
be denied—let me go with you and sacrifice myself also, for life
without you would be worse than death, and mayhap if two of us give our
lives, the serpents will be the more willing to leave our people in
peace hereafter.”

The Prince tried to dissuade his friend but, seeing it was of no use,
he soon stopped, and the two lads continued on their way together
toward the head of the stream.

As they approached the cave where the serpents dwelt, they went slowly
and softly, for they were minded, if possible, to get a good look at
the monsters before they allowed themselves to be seen. Creeping up
among the bushes by the side of the river they soon came to an opening
through which they could peer, and there, seated on the bank, they saw
the two horrible creatures. One was a long, thick, dragon-like being
covered with scales of tarnished gold; the other was smaller and
apparently younger, and the scales on its back were as green as
emeralds. They had neither seen nor heard the two lads, and in a moment
the golden one began to speak.

“It is strange, Brother,” said he, “that these people are so ignorant
and so faithful.”

“They cannot very well help themselves, can they?” said the smaller,
green one. “They know that if they fail in this sacrifice, we will dry
up their stream, and then they will all perish.”

“True,” replied the other, “but after all, it would be so easy to kill
us, you know, if they only knew how.”

“But have they not sent armed soldiers against us in times past?” said
the green serpent, drawing himself up proudly; “and have we not routed
them all and slain them?”

“Of course swords could not hurt us,” said the golden one
contemptuously, “but if they only knew enough to come out against us
with thick, oak staves! One well-aimed blow on the head from such a
weapon would finish us. But, luckily, they don’t know that!”

“And are far too stupid ever to guess it, so we are perfectly safe,”
added the green one.

“And then,” chuckled the big golden monster, writhing the folds of his
long body comfortably about him. “To think what a man would gain by
killing us! My head, cooked and eaten, would not only make a delicious
meal, but it would give the eater power to pour forth gold from his
mouth whenever he wanted to!”

“And if any one ate my head,” said the green one, also chuckling,
“emeralds would come from his mouth whenever he so desired. Lucky the
stupid mortals will never know!”

Schalu and his friend had heard enough. Trembling with excitement, they
crept away from their hiding place, out of sound and sight of the
serpents, and then fell to hugging each other for very joy of their
discovery. They lost no time in making for themselves huge oak staves,
and armed with these, they walked back to where the serpents still sat
lazily talking together on the bank of the stream. With a shout, they
leaped from the bushes upon the unsuspecting monsters and attacked
them. The fight was short and sharp. The great creatures turned upon
the two boys viciously and lunged at them with their hard, metallic
heads, but the lads dodged skilfully and brought down blow after blow
upon their enemies until at last they lay motionless and quite dead.

“Now,” said Prince Schalu, leaning on his staff and breathing hard, “we
must build a fire and cook ourselves a meal, and if the serpent-gods
spoke the truth, we shall then be rich for the rest of our lives.”

With their knives they cut off the heads of their dreaded enemies and,
having built a fire of twigs, they cooked them well and then ate them.
Schalu ate the golden head and declared it delicious, while Saran said
that he had never tasted anything quite so good as the emerald-green
head.

“Let us see,” said the Prince, when they had finished, “how well the
charm works. I wish that my mouth would pour forth gold!” Scarcely had
he finished speaking before a rain of bright gold coins fell from his
lips, and the boys gathered them up in big handfuls and stowed them
away in their pockets.

“Now let me try!” said Saran. “I wish that my mouth would pour forth
emeralds!” Immediately emeralds pattered to the ground in great
profusion.

“What fun!” said Saran, gathering them up. “Now let us hasten back to
the palace and show your royal father all that we have accomplished!”

“No, don’t let us go home yet,” said the Prince. “One adventure is but
a stepping-stone to another, and I am minded to travel a bit and see
what fortune we may meet by the way. With this marvellous gift of gold
and emeralds, we should surely come by some strange and interesting
experiences.”

To this plan Saran readily agreed; the two set forth with merry hearts
and, finding an unfamiliar road, followed it, they knew not whither.
All day long they traveled, meeting many wayfarers, but finding nothing
in the shape of an adventure. In the late afternoon they reached a palm
grove whence came shouts and cries and signs of great commotion.
Hurrying toward the scene of disturbance, they beheld half a dozen
lusty boys fighting most brutally.

“Here, young fellows!” cried the Prince, “stop that at once and tell us
what you are fighting about!” But the boys paid no heed to him at all.

“Stop!” cried Schalu again, shouting to make himself heard above the
din. “Stop, and I will show you a marvel the like of which you have
never seen!”

Hearing this, the boys ceased fighting on the instant, and all turned
and stared at Schalu and Saran.

“Marvel, did you say?” exclaimed the leader scornfully. “You can’t show
us a marvel greater than the one we have got right here!”

“Have you something wonderful, too?” asked the Prince. “Well, then, let
us make a bargain; if my marvel is greater than yours, you shall give
me yours, and if yours is greater than mine, I will give you each as
much gold as two hands can carry.”

“Hurrah!” cried the boys, delighted. “Let us do it!” They all gathered
around in a circle, while their leader picked up from the ground a torn
and battered cap. “This,” said he, “is what we were fighting about, for
each of us wants it for himself. This is a magic cap, and whoever puts
it on remains invisible until he takes it off again. Show us a marvel
equal to that, if you can!”

Softly uttering a wish for gold, the Prince opened his mouth and
immediately a great rain of coins tumbled to the ground. The boys fell
upon them greedily, shouting, snatching and fighting.

“Come,” said Schalu to his friend, “these boys are not worthy of owning
such a treasure as the cap, and besides, my marvel is greater than
theirs, so I am entitled to it.”

He caught up the ragged cap, put it on his head and grasped Saran’s
hand. Straightway they both became invisible, and so passed through the
midst of the fighting boys unnoticed and continued on their way.

“This is a prize well worth having!” said the Prince, after they had
walked awhile and, taking the cap off, he hid it carefully in his
bosom. “Now I wonder what our next adventure will be.”

They had not gone far before they came to a cross-roads where there was
a great cloud of dust and, hearing shouts and angry words, they
hastened to see what it all meant. In the midst of the dust were half a
dozen ugly dwarfs, fighting furiously, screaming and cursing each
other.

“You try your hand at this!” said Schalu to his friend. “This shall be
your adventure.” So Saran stamped upon the ground and called out
“Stop!” in a loud voice, but the dwarfs paid no attention to him at
all. “Stop, I say!” he repeated louder than before. “I have a great
marvel to show you!” At the word “marvel” the fighters ceased at once
and stood staring at the two friends.

“Marvel, did you say?” exclaimed the leader. “Pooh! I don’t care how
wonderful it is, it can’t be as great as ours!”

“What is yours?” said Saran. “If it is as interesting as mine, you
shall each have as many emeralds as your two hands can carry.” At that
all the dwarfs began to laugh scornfully.

“Show him! Show him!” they cried to their leader, “and then we will rob
him of all his emeralds if, in truth, he has any.”

The leader turned and picked up a pair of old, shabby-looking boots.
“These,” he said, “are magic, and if anybody puts even one of them on
and makes a wish to be in any place under the sun, he will find himself
there in the twinkling of an eye.”

“That is indeed wonderful!” said Saran, “and here is your pay, but, in
sooth, you deserve neither boots nor emeralds!” Then, to the great
astonishment of the little men, Saran, uttering a wish for emeralds,
opened his mouth and poured them forth, a great stream of glorious
green gems. With a shout the dwarfs snatched them up, pushing and
tearing them from each other.

“Quick!” said Saran to the Prince. “Put on your cap and take my hand,
so that they will not see us! We can make better use of the magic boots
than these wicked dwarfs can.” So they each hastily slipped on a boot
and, being invisible because of the magic cap, passed out from among
the dwarfs before they had stopped fighting over the jewels.

“And now,” said Saran, “while we have on the boots, let us test their
power by wishing to be somewhere.”

“Very well,” said Schalu, “I wish that we may be taken at once to a
country that needs a king!”

Immediately the two friends felt themselves picked up and whizzed
through the air with such speed that they could see nothing and feel
nothing but the wind rushing by their ears. Then they were put down
gently upon the ground and found themselves in a strange country.

Soon they saw a great procession of men, women and children advancing
toward them, and at their head walked an old man with snowy beard and
hair and clad in long white garments. The people came straight up to
the Prince and Saran, and there halted, while the old man addressed
them in eager, trembling tones.

“You are strangers,” said he, “and we are seeking strangers; I pray
you, can you show us some magic sign whereby we may know that you are
not as other mortals are?”

“Indeed,” said Prince Schalu, “we are no different from other men, but
by great good fortune we have this day become possessed of several
wonders.”

“Show us! Show us!” cried the crowd in great excitement.

“This,” continued Schalu, drawing the battered magic cap from his
pocket, “has the power of making its wearer invisible.” He put it on,
and the people cried out in wonder and anxiety, “Where are they? Where
are they? They are gone! Find them! They are truly the ones!”

“No, we are still here,” said the Prince, removing the cap. “But why
does it matter so much to you? And why are you so anxious to see our
marvels?”

“Show us more! Show us more!” the crowd shouted, and the old man in
white tried vainly to quiet them, for he was as much excited as they.

“These boots,” Schalu went on, pointing to the magic ones, “are also
very wonderful, for they will bear us wheresoever we wish to be in the
twinkling of an eye. It was by their means that we came here.”

“Don’t try them! We’ll believe you!” cried somebody, as if fearful of
losing them, and the crowd surged eagerly forward again.

“And finally,” said Schalu, smiling at them and thoroughly enjoying
their wonder, “my friend and I have a little trick which may interest
you.” Opening their mouths, the two began to pour forth gold and
emeralds and toss them in great handfuls among the crowd.

If they were excited before, the people now went mad with surprise and
joy, and while they were grasping at the precious things, the old,
white-haired man approached Schalu and said:

“O marvellous stranger, know that I am a magician, and by my art I
learned that this land which has been without a king for many a long
day would find a just, wise and righteous ruler in a wonder-working
stranger whom we should meet traveling along this road to-day. Accept,
then, our kingdom; come and rule over our people, and we will honor you
as our Khan and your companion as Grand Vizier to the end of our days!”

The crowd had by this time grown silent, listening, and at the end of
the speech they set up a shout that echoed to the very clouds. Seizing
Schalu and Saran in their arms, they bore them with laughter and
singing to the palace, where Schalu was crowned with all pomp and
ceremony, and Saran was made his chief adviser. And so the two friends
lived worthily and happily till the end of their days.



The tale being finished, the Siddhi-kur was silent.

“But what of the poor father and mother?” exclaimed the Prince
impatiently. “Surely Schalu was a faithless son if he left his parents
to die of grief for him!”

“Dear me, no! He didn’t do that!” said the Siddhi-kur, smiling. “He was
no sooner made king than he journeyed back to visit his royal father
and mother, and I leave you to imagine their joy and the happiness of
the whole land when it became known that the prince and his faithful
friend had not only returned in safety, but had delivered them from the
curse of the serpent-gods and had won, besides, such glory and riches.

“But I fear me!” continued the Siddhi-kur, playfully poking the Khan’s
son in the ribs, “that you will never attain glory and riches, unless
you remember the words of Nagarguna and keep silent on your homeward
way! Farewell—I am off to my mango tree, and it is good indeed to be
free again!”

The Prince could scarcely keep back his tears of anger and vexation as
he watched the Siddhi-kur skipping gayly off to the north.

“I will fetch you yet!” he cried, but the magic creature only turned
and smiled at him indulgently.

“I would give it up, if I were you,” said he; “but if you really are
determined to get me again, I’ve a nice story to tell you on the way
back,—‘The Strange Adventure of Schalu’s Wife.’” With that he ran on
and disappeared in the distance.








TALE SIX

THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF SCHALU’S WIFE


For several years Schalu reigned over his new-found kingdom, quietly,
wisely and well, ably advised and assisted by his faithful friend,
Saran. His people loved him, and there was happiness and prosperity
throughout the land. One day a group of men stood without the council
chamber and begged an audience with the Khan. Schalu graciously
admitted them and asked what it was they desired.

“Sire,” said they, “we are come from the people to ask you a boon, not
so much for ourselves as for your Majesty. These many years you have
been with us, and yet you have not taken unto yourself a wife, and we
wish mightily that you would wed some princess and so fill your home
with happiness, and perchance give us a son to love and look to as our
future ruler.”

This saying pleased the Khan, and he inquired about all the princesses
in near-by kingdoms, declaring that he would set about at once choosing
a royal wife. After that he spent many days visiting other countries
and meeting princesses and great ladies from far and near; but not one
of these lovely maidens entirely pleased him or made him feel that she
alone out of all the world was the one for him. This damsel had a voice
too sharp; that one’s temper was too quick; the other seemed cold and
indifferent,—and so it was. Day after day the people expected tidings
of a royal marriage, and day after day, with keen disappointment, they
watched the Khan ride back to his palace alone and dejected.

At last, when Schalu was returning after another fruitless journey into
a far land to visit a lady of great renown, he happened to pass a small
house on the outskirts of his kingdom. And standing in the doorway was
the most beautiful damsel his eyes had ever looked on. She was tall and
slim, with long, black hair reaching almost to her ankles. Her eyes
were big and black as midnight, and her lips were red. Moreover, there
was a soft magic in her face, a something so lovely that the Khan stood
spellbound, gazing at her in silence for a long time. Then, all at
once, he realized that this cottage girl, in her simple work-a-day
frock, was the one woman in all the world that he wanted for his wife.
No more looking about for princesses and grand ladies! He had found
what he longed for, and he would make this damsel his queen.

The matter was soon settled, for was not the Khan’s word law in the
land? A great marriage feast was held in the palace, holidays were
proclaimed throughout the land and there were revelry and mad rejoicing
among all the people. If there were any to murmur against the lowliness
of the new queen, their voices were quickly drowned by shouts of
approval from those who had been fortunate enough to look at the
beautiful face of the bride, and when the days of festivity were over,
everybody settled down in peace and contentment, feeling that their
Khan was at last to have a happy home life.

But it was far otherwise. Though Schalu loved his queen with all his
heart, though he showered riches and treasures upon her, and though he
racked his brain to find amusements and pleasures to make her happy,
she only looked upon him coldly and strangely and grew ever paler,
quieter and apparently more sorrowful every day. In vain the Khan
besought her to tell him what he could do to please her and to win her
love; in vain he tried to find out whether she had any secret cause of
woe,—he could do nothing. And day by day he became more disappointed
and unhappy. It grieved the courtiers and the people to see this, but
above all it grieved Saran, his faithful friend, until at last he could
stand it no longer and, going to Schalu, he said:

“My dear Master, my heart is nigh dead within me to see you, the best
of men and of monarchs, so sorrowful. I pray you, let me advise you! It
seems to me, Sire, that the queen must bear some hidden grief in her
heart, else she would surely give you her love. Perhaps, if we could
discover what her trouble is, we could cure it and make her the loving
wife you so desire.”

“Saran, my friend,” said the Khan wearily, “have I not tried every
means in my power to win the queen’s love and confidence—and all to no
avail?”

“Then let me try,” said Saran eagerly, “for my heart tells me I shall
succeed even where my royal master has failed.”

“Very well,” said Schalu, but he spoke without hope or interest.

From that moment, wearing the “invisible” cap, Saran watched the queen
day and night, unknown to her. He neglected food and sleep that he
might follow her continually, but she gave no hint at any time, by
word, look or deed, of any hidden cause of sorrow. Saran was about to
give up in despair when, one evening, he noticed a peculiar
restlessness in the lady. She looked often at the sky, moved uneasily
about the palace and seemed in an absent, dreamy state of mind. At last
she retired to her own rooms, soon to emerge dressed in a long black
mantle and hood which hid her face almost completely. Silently, and
with many an uneasy look behind her, she made her way to a small,
seldom used, back gate in the palace garden and thence out into the
highroad. Once there, she vanished in the twinkling of an eye, and
Saran, looking frantically in all directions, could find no trace of
her. He dashed back into the palace, seized the magic boots from their
hiding-place, tugged them on and muttered his wish:

“Take me wherever the queen is!”

For a moment the wind sang in his ears and the stars sped by him; then
he found himself on earth again and walking in a beautiful, strange
garden. Never had he smelled such fragrance or seen such profusion of
flowers as these that were dimly visible in the moonlight! Paths led in
many directions between rows of gorgeous bloom, and down one of them he
could make out the faint outline of the queen in her long, black robe.
He went on quickly and silently. She approached a palace which stood at
the end of the garden, entered through a small gate, and hurried along
a short, narrow passageway into an open court. Saran followed, still
wearing the magic cap, and soon found himself in a brilliantly lighted
room, rich beyond words and filled with a soft, smoky incense which
rose in clouds from a brazier standing in a corner. So interested was
he in looking about him that he quite forgot the queen for a moment and
was astonished to see her step forth into the light, clad, not in her
long, dark robe, but in flame-colored silk, embroidered with gold and
precious stones. She approached the brazier and waved her arms slowly
over it, muttering strange words in a hard, monotonous voice. Scarcely
had she ceased speaking and dropped her hands to her side when in
through the window flew a bird of gorgeous plumage. It darted three
times through the smoke of the incense and then disappeared in a flash
of light, and in its place appeared a tall, handsome man, dressed in
rich garments like a prince. He looked angrily at the queen, who still
stood gazing at the brazier, nor did she even glance at him as he said:

“Have you done as I bade you?”

She shook her head.

“What?” said he, stamping his foot. “After all my careful teaching,
does the Khan still keep his natural form and the power of pouring gold
from his mouth? Have I not given you fame and wealth and taught you
magic only upon condition that you would destroy your husband?”

The unhappy queen covered her face with her hands. “I cannot do it!”
she whispered. “Transform the Khan into a dog and take from him all his
magic powers! I cannot, cannot do it!”

“And why not, pray?” asked the strange man with a mocking laugh. “You
do not love the Khan! I have, by my magic, made that impossible.”

Saran, watching and listening from a near corner, let slip an
exclamation of wonder. “So that is it!” he thought. “She is kept from
loving her husband by wicked magic!”

Both the queen and the stranger started at the sound, but on looking
around, could see nothing, for Saran, of course, still wore his
“invisible” cap.

“Enough of this!” cried the man at length, after he had waited in vain
for the queen to answer his question. “To-morrow I will take matters
into my own hands. In the form of a snake I will seek the Khan and cast
a spell upon him. Thereafter he will be completely in my power.”

The queen turned toward him imploringly, but like a flash he had
changed himself into a bird again and was gone through the open window.

Slowly and sorrowfully the queen turned away from the glowing brazier,
caught up her black robe and put it over her shoulders. As Saran
followed her out to the beautiful garden, he could hear her softly
crying, and his heart grew big with pity for her and anger at the
strange man whom he now knew to be a wicked demon.

The next day Saran ordered a great fire to be built in the council
hall, and he bade Schalu and his queen sit before it. While they were
so doing, into the hall crept a great ugly serpent, green and slimy and
loathsome to look on. He raised his head high and fastened his evil
eyes upon Schalu, and the Khan became white and motionless and looked
like one dead. The snake swayed to and fro, muttering strange words,
but before his spell was ended, Saran had fallen upon him and was
beating his head with a huge staff. Then the serpent turned and
attacked Saran, and mightily they fought together at the edge of the
great fire. Sometimes Saran would nigh fall into the flames, and
sometimes the wicked demon, and great was the noise of their cries and
shouting. At last the great serpent made a sudden, unexpected turn,
glided under Saran’s arm and plunged at Schalu. In one breathless
moment he would have reached him, but with a cry the queen jumped
forward, cast her arms around the snake’s hideous green neck and flung
him from her into the fire. A great smoke arose, and with a scream an
ugly demon leaped from the midst of the flames and flew out through the
window, leaving his snake form behind him, smoldering in the ashes!

“My!” exclaimed the Prince, standing still in excitement. “How
thrilling! And did Schalu recover from his spell, and did the brave
queen love him after that?”

“Yes, indeed!” said the Siddhi-kur with a little laugh. “The wicked
demon lost all his power over the queen after that and never troubled
her or her husband again. And she proved to be a most loving and
dutiful wife, and they all lived happily together for the rest of their
days.”

“Saran should have had a lovely wife, too,” said the Prince
thoughtfully, beginning to move on again.

“Wait a bit, my friend,” said the Siddhi-kur, “you may add to the story
as you wish, by yourself, as you journey onward! As for me, I am off
for the cool grove beside the garden of ghost children, for you have
broken silence again on your way home, and I am free once more!”

With a shout of joy he leaped from the magic sack and dashed off toward
the north, where his mango tree stood awaiting him.

The Prince sighed wearily. “Oh, how stupid I am!” said he. “But I will
get the Siddhi-kur even yet, and carry him to my master, Nagarguna, if
I have to spend the rest of my life in doing it!”

And so it came about that in a few days the Khan’s son was again
journeying back toward the cave of Nagarguna bearing upon his back the
Siddhi-kur.

“Friend,” said that creature of magic, at length. “I have just
bethought me of a marvellous tale which I am minded to tell you. You
may listen or not, as you wish; for me, at least, it will make the way
and the hours seem shorter. The name of this story is ‘The Fortunes of
Shrikantha.’”








TALE SEVEN

THE FORTUNES OF SHRIKANTHA


There was once a lad, the son of a Brahman, who was neither very poor
nor very rich, very good nor very bad, very wise nor very foolish, but
who had the kindest heart in all the world. His name was Shrikantha,
and he lived long ago in India. When he was old enough to do as he
liked, he sold all that he had and bought three pieces of cloth goods,
very fine and handsome, and with these he was minded to trade and make
his fortune. He bade his parents good-by and started forth to journey
to a near-by city where he thought he might trade to the best
advantage.

He had not gone far before he came upon a band of cruel boys who were
tormenting a little mouse.

“Stop!” said Shrikantha, in anger. “The mouse is suffering and will
die! Have you no pity in your hearts?” But the boys only laughed at him
and continued their wicked play. So, seeing that words were useless,
Shrikantha bargained with them, and they finally agreed to set the
mouse free in return for one of his three handsome pieces of cloth.
After he had seen the little creature scamper safely away, Shrikantha
sighed and continued his journey, the poorer by one third of his
possessions, but with a satisfied heart.

A little farther on, what should he see but another group of boys ill
treating an ape and laughing to see the poor thing suffer. Shrikantha
tried to hurry by without noticing it, but he could not endure to see
pain and do nothing to relieve it, so in a moment he stopped and tried
by reasoning with the boys to make them cease their cruelty. As in the
first case, he found his words were all in vain, and only by giving up
his second piece of goods could he buy relief and freedom for the ape.
And now he felt poor indeed, having nothing left in the world save one
handsome bit of cloth.

“Never mind,” said he to himself reassuringly, “even with this, if I
bargain shrewdly, I may trade and make my fortune. At any rate, the
look of gratitude that poor ape gave me was worth much more than a
paltry piece of merchandise.” So he went on with a light step and a
merry heart, but, to his dismay, he soon heard again a cry of pain and
saw yet another group of boys gathered around a young bear and cruelly
abusing it.

“Alas!” thought Shrikantha. “This time I must harden my heart and pass
by, for well I know words will do no good, and I cannot give away my
last possession!” He quickened his step and tried to think of something
else as he hurried by, but at that moment the poor little bear cried
out so piteously that he could not endure it. Turning about, he
hastened to where the unkind lads were standing and spoke long and
earnestly with them. But, as it had been in the two other cases, so it
was now; Shrikantha argued in vain and finally had to offer his last
treasure that the bear might go free. Then he started forth again
empty-handed.

“I might as well go back to my father,” he thought, “yet not so—he will
but chide me for foolish kindness of heart! I will continue on my way,
for surely Dame Fortune will repay me for what I have lost in so good a
cause!” Fortune, however, was minded to do otherwise.

Now the road to the city led Shrikantha directly by the palace of the
Khan, and just as he was passing the great gate, he heard shouts and
confusion within and immediately a man dashed out.

“Run! Run for your life!” he cried, as he rushed past, and Shrikantha,
without stopping to think, did as he was told.

He heard the roar of many voices and the running steps of many feet
behind him, and so he ran faster than ever. On and on he sped, but his
pursuers slowly gained on him until he could hear their cries and
curses, and even feel the panting breath of the foremost ones.

“Stop, thief!” they cried. “Stop the wicked thief! He has stolen the
Khan’s jewels!”

Hearing this, Shrikantha grew more alarmed and, instead of stopping at
once to reason with the men that it was not he who had stolen the
jewels, but doubtless the man ahead of him, he foolishly ran on faster
than ever. At last his breath gave out completely, his knees seemed to
break beneath him and he fell, panting and sobbing, to the ground. In a
moment his pursuers were upon him and were binding him with a tight
cord, kicking and abusing him between their gasping breaths. In vain
did he try now to explain himself; he was too breathless to complete a
single sentence, and they were too angry and too sure of their prey to
listen. He was taken at once to the Khan’s court, and though of course
no jewels were found on him, and though he pleaded his innocence with
tears and prayers, he was condemned to die a horrible death. On the
morrow, two strong, cruel men threw him into a great wooden chest,
sealed the lid of it tight and cast it into the river.

Poor Shrikantha felt the lapping of the water against his air-tight box
and gave himself up as one already killed by cruel fate. But Fate
thought otherwise!

In a short time the great chest, bumping along with the current of the
river, caught against some rocks on an island and there stuck fast. And
who should be on that very spot but the little mouse whom Shrikantha
had saved from the abuse of the cruel boys. Seeing the big, ungainly
box come a-shore on her island, the mouse investigated the matter and
soon discovered that her friend and rescuer was shut up within.

“Have courage!” she squeaked to him, through the cracks of the chest,
and immediately she began to gnaw at a corner of it. When she had eaten
out a hole in the wood large enough to admit some air to Shrikantha,
who was already almost suffocated, she hurried off to find the ape and
the bear. They soon returned with her, declaring they were only too
glad to help. Together they dragged the chest a-shore, broke it open
and set Shrikantha free. Then, for many days the three faithful
creatures supplied the lad with nuts and fruits so that he suffered not
at all for lack of food and drink.

One day the mouse came to Shrikantha, bearing in her mouth a small,
blue stone.

“Take this, Master,” said she, laying it in his hand. “It is a
talisman, my dearest possession, and I give it to you in gratitude for
what you did once upon a time for me. Take it and breathe a wish upon
it, and you shall have your heart’s desire.”

Shrikantha looked at the little blue stone in wonder and, thinking that
he would merely test its power, wished himself away from the island. No
sooner thought than the island vanished beneath him, and he found
himself in a meadow on the mainland. He was surprised and delighted
beyond words, and he looked at the blue stone again and wished eagerly
for a palace set in the midst of a beautiful park, with rare trees,
birds and flowers about it and every luxury and comfort within. He
closed his eyes and, opening them again in a moment, beheld a lovely
garden where the meadow had been, a gorgeous palace in the distance,
and all exactly as he had wished to have it, only more beautiful and
wonderful than he had dared to think. With the greatest joy he walked
about his park and into his palace, finding there room after room
richly furnished, servants bowing before him at every turn and costly
possessions strewn about in profusion. Truly, he thought to himself, a
Khan might now envy him his wealth!

“But I must have my faithful friends here to enjoy all this good
fortune with me!” said he to himself at length. So he wished for the
mouse, the ape and the bear, and instantly they stood before him.

And now Shrikantha lived in luxury and happiness for some time, and it
seemed as if he might continue to live so until the end of his days.
But Fate planned otherwise. There came to the palace one day a caravan
of wicked, thieving merchants, and the chief among them made friends
with Shrikantha and in an evil moment persuaded him to tell the secret
of his good fortune.

“Alas!” said the merchant, when Shrikantha had told him all and shown
him the precious blue talisman. “How lucky some men are, how unlucky
others! Here are you, scarcely more than a lad; you have never worked
or traded or done anything whereby a man earns wealth, and yet you are
loaded with every blessing, while I, who have toiled hard and honestly
my whole life through, have nothing—nothing in all the world but a
handful of cheap goods which I must bargain hard to trade off for the
bare necessities of my miserable existence!” And with that he sighed so
wretchedly that Shrikantha’s tender heart melted within him.

“If only—” said the wicked merchant, “but I must not suggest such a
thing!”

“Suggest what?” asked Shrikantha, full of sympathy.

“If only,” continued the other, “if only in the kindness of your heart,
you would lend me your talisman for one moment, I could wish myself a
comfortable little home, and peace and quiet for the rest of my days!
You would be none the poorer; indeed, you would be richer for the
prayers and blessings of a happy man!”

It was such a simple way in which to help the poor fellow that
Shrikantha did not hesitate an instant, but put the magic blue stone
trustingly into his hands. With a scornful laugh, the wicked merchant
shouted his wish aloud:

“I want all the possessions Shrikantha has, and I desire him to return
to the place and state in which he was when this talisman was given to
him!”

In a flash, Shrikantha found himself again on the island in the river,
with not a sign of all his former wealth and glory about him. He sat
down on the ground and beat his forehead with his hands.

“What a miserable fool I have been!” said he to himself, over and over
again.

“Yes, you have been foolish, Master!” said a squeaky little voice in
his ear, “but truly in kindness have you been so.” Looking around,
Shrikantha saw his friend, the little mouse.

“Of what avail is it that my heart is kind, if by that very kindness I
lose everything I have in the world?” said he with a sigh, refusing to
be comforted.

“You have not lost everything,” corrected the mouse, “you still have
three faithful friends who were won to you forever by that same kind
heart of yours.”

And without another word the little creature disappeared, leaving
Shrikantha still lamenting on the ground.

It were too long a tale to tell how the three animal friends met and
planned together, how they went at night to the palace of the wicked
merchant, crept to his room, and how the ape and the bear waited
breathlessly outside while the mouse climbed through the keyhole and
stole the talisman from the breast of the sleeping man. They had little
trouble in passing the many guards, who were on the lookout for men,
not animals, to steal their master’s treasure. When they reached the
river, however, in sight of Shrikantha himself, a sorry adventure
befell them. The bear was the only one of the three who could swim, and
so, in order to cross the water, the ape got upon the bear’s back, put
the mouse upon his shoulder and the talisman in his mouth. Thus, with
this precious, heavy load on his back, the bear started bravely on his
long swim across to the island. In the very middle of the stream, a
fish passed within a few feet of his nose, and he, foolish creature,
made a dive for it. The ape lost his balance and cried out in fright,
letting the blue talisman slip from his mouth into the water. Down it
sank into the muddy depths, and the three friends, in dismay, watched
it disappear.

“Alack-a-day!” wailed the little mouse. “We have spent all our time and
labor for nothing, and our poor friend on the island will surely die of
hunger and despair! What shall we do? Whatever shall we do?”

The bear turned and swam back to the mainland, and there the three sat
down disconsolately on the shore.

“What a fool you were to jump at that fish!” said the ape to the bear
crossly.

“What a fool you were not to keep your mouth shut, when you had such a
treasure inside it!” growled the bear.

“Now don’t waste time blaming each other!” counselled the mouse. “It
doesn’t matter whose fault it was; the talisman is gone, and we must
get it again; that is the thing to think about.”

“Get it again!” the bear was crosser than ever. “I’d like to know how
that can be done! It has gone to the bottom of the river, thanks to the
carelessness of the ape, and we can never recover it. Let us go to our
homes; we have done enough for the man already to more than pay for his
kindness to us.”

“Yes, let us go home,” agreed the ape. “There is no use trying to do
anything if the bear has to chase every fish he meets, regardless of
the importance of his mission. And we have done enough for the man as
it is.”

“Don’t, don’t talk like that!” cried the little mouse. “You both know
as well as I that we can never repay the man’s kindness to us! Come,
let us plan! There must be a way!” She walked up and down the shore,
thinking. “I have it!” she cried at last.

“What?” said both the others, interested in spite of themselves.

“You watch me and do just as I tell you,” said she, and began crying in
a loud voice and running to and fro upon the river bank.

At the sound of her outcry, the frogs that live at the bottom of the
river came to the surface to learn what the matter was. When a great
crowd of them had collected, the little mouse called out:

“Quick, friends, quick! Before it is too late! The pebbles on your
river bed have been cursed, and the curse is about to fall upon you! We
have come to your aid. Hand us all the pebbles at the bottom of the
river, and we will throw them all away. Hurry and do as we bid you!”

The frogs, who were a silly, credulous people, hastened to do as the
mouse told them. Diving down to the river bottom they fetched the
pebbles, one after another, and handed them to their supposed
preserver, who gave them to the ape and the bear, bidding them fling
the cursed things away. More and more frogs gathered for the task and
brought up stones in countless numbers. At last one came, bringing the
precious, blue talisman, and when the little mouse had got hold of it,
she signalled to her friends to stop their work. With a gesture, she
made the frogs stand still and in a solemn voice she cried:

“It is enough! The curse is lifted from the river and its people! You
have worked well and saved yourselves (and us) much sorrow. Go now and
live in peace!”

The frogs murmured among themselves, being much puzzled by the whole
performance, but the bear, the ape and the little mouse paused not to
listen. Quickly they started across the river, the ape on the bear’s
back, the little mouse, still clutching the talisman, on the shoulder
of the ape. In this manner they reached the island in safety and there
they found——

The Siddhi-kur paused and bit into a mango which he had brought with
him, munching in silence for some time.

“Found what?” cried the Khan’s son, standing still to wonder. “I know!
He found that Shrikantha was already dead with hunger, having waited so
long for his friends!”

“No, not at all!” said the Siddhi-kur. “Nothing of the sort! Shrikantha
was sitting on the shore, patiently awaiting the return of his friends.
As soon as the mouse had handed him the magic blue stone, he wished
back all the good things he had had before and a wise and beautiful
wife to enjoy it all with him. And you may be sure the lady took charge
of the talisman as soon as they were married, so there was no danger of
their losing their fortune again, as poor, foolish, kind-hearted
Shrikantha had lost it before.

“However, if the Prince wishes my story to end otherwise, he may finish
it to suit himself. Meanwhile, since he has again broken silence on the
homeward way, I will leave him to meditate upon the story, his own lack
of wisdom, or whatever he likes. As for me, I will hie me back to my
mango tree in the cool grove beside the garden of ghost children!”

So the Siddhi-kur, with a joyful shout, leaped from the Prince’s back
and sped away again to the northward.

The Khan’s son neither sighed nor lamented, but, setting his teeth
grimly, he turned about and started forth once more after the magic
creature, eating his cake which grew not less as he trudged along.



When the long journey to the north had been completed, and the
Siddhi-kur had been called again from his mango tree and settled upon
the back of the Prince, he began at once:

“I have a story in mind which is perhaps more strange and interesting
than any I have yet told you. Listen, my friend, and I will begin it.”








TALE EIGHT

SUNSHINE AND MOONSHINE


Long years ago, there lived in a distant land a good and handsome
prince named Sunshine. He dwelt in a splendid palace with his father,
who was a Khan, his stepmother and his stepbrother, whose name was
Moonshine. His father and brother loved him dearly, but his stepmother
hated him, being jealous for her own son, Moonshine. So, while the two
boys lived happily together, never suspecting ill, this wicked woman
plotted and schemed to destroy the life of Sunshine and so make her son
heir to the throne.

At last, one day, she thought of a plan. Going to her room, she lay
down, groaning and crying out as if she were ill and in frightful pain.
The Khan was soon notified and was much alarmed when he found the queen
apparently in such a bad condition.

“My dear wife,” he cried, “I will have the court physician summoned at
once, that he may give you a remedy.”

“Nay,” said the queen feebly, “it will do no good. Already I am nigh
unto death, and none can help me. I am dying, my Khan—I am dying fast,
and the one and only remedy for my sickness I can never have.”

“One remedy?” said the king. “If there is anything on earth which will
cure you, my dear, you shall have it, though I give my kingdom to get
it for you! Only tell me what it is, that I may procure it at once!”

“It is more than your kingdom,” she replied, with another groan. “It is
of such a nature that I dare not speak of it!” Then she writhed and
shuddered as if in fearful agony, and the Khan was nigh distracted to
see her suffering so.

“Tell me, my love, tell me!” he begged. “No matter what it is, you
shall have it! You have my sacred promise!”

“Your son,” whispered the wicked woman, “Sunshine has worked an evil
charm upon me, and I shall surely die this night if his heart’s blood
is not given me!”

The Khan shrank from his wife in horror. He loved his eldest child more
than life itself, and to kill him would be impossible. Nevertheless,
something must be done quickly. “The queen,” he thought, “is mad; she
must be humored, and there is my kingly word which must not be broken.
I will have a goat killed, and its heart given her, and when she is
well again, she will be as glad as I that I thus deceived her!” So he
drew near the queen and spoke reassuringly to her:

“My love, your life is more precious to me than that of many sons! You
shall have the heart’s blood of Sunshine this very night without fail.
Meanwhile, try to sleep.”

He turned toward the door and met Moonshine coming in. One look at the
lad’s face told him that his last terrible words had been overheard. “I
must explain my plan to him,” he thought, but at that moment a
messenger came to him bearing important news, and he straightway forgot
all about the boy.

Moonshine, however, was as one struck dumb with surprise and fear. He
had indeed heard part of the conversation between the Khan and his
queen, for the two had been talking loudly as he approached their door,
and he thought, of course, that his brother was in deadly peril. As
soon as he had recovered a little from the shock of his discovery, he
ran to find Sunshine and poured the whole story into his ears.

Sunshine was more grieved at the apparent lack of love shown by his
father than he was fearful for his own life, but there was no time to
weep and lament, for he must leave the palace at once and be far away
in some safe hiding-place by night-fall.

“I am going with you!” declared Moonshine.

“Nay,” said Sunshine, though he looked grateful. “I know not what
dangers and privations I may have to meet. You must not think of it!”

“Indeed, yes!” cried the other. “What will home be without you, dear
brother? Your life shall be my life, whatever and wherever it is!”

There was no dissuading him, so in a very short time the two lads had
slipped quietly and secretly forth from the palace and were out in the
wide world.

All that day they walked, and the next, and the next, sleeping at night
wherever they could find shelter. On the third day they came into a
barren, desolate country, with no sign of human life to be seen
anywhere, and nothing which could yield them water or food. They
struggled manfully on, but at last Moonshine stumbled and fell to the
earth.

“Alas, dear brother,” he said, “I can go no farther. Bid me farewell
and go your way; there is no need for two of us to die! As for me, I am
so weary that the thought of death seems pleasant to my mind.”

Sunshine did not try to argue with his brother, but made him as
comfortable as the hot desert sand would allow and bade him be of good
cheer and await his return, for he would surely find and bring him
help. Then he began looking this way and that for some sign of a spring
or a bit of an oasis. At last his eye was caught by a bright red
something on the side of a rocky cliff not far away. He hastened to see
what it might be and found that it was a great red door set deep into
the face of the rock. His courage rose at the sight, for a door might
have a kindly human being behind it. He approached and rapped sturdily
upon it, whereupon it was slowly opened by an old man. Sunshine was so
relieved that he could have fallen upon the stooping shoulders and
kissed the long, flowing beard. Quickly he told his story and entreated
the old man to give him aid for Moonshine. The hermit, for such he
declared himself to be, lost no time in accompanying Sunshine back to
where his brother lay, and then he used all his skill to bring the
exhausted boy back to health and strength.

At last he was successful, and the long and the short of it all was
that the two lads took up their abode with the old hermit and lived
with him as his own sons. Indeed, he soon declared that he could have
loved no true sons any better. So the weeks and months went on, and the
three dwelt happily together in their cave behind the red door in the
desert. But as the year drew to a close, a great tragedy befell them.

It happened that the Khan who ruled over this country was a wicked,
ill-tempered, suspicious monarch who hated and feared strangers above
all men, because of a prophecy concerning them. It was foretold that he
should one day lose his throne and crown to some lad from a strange
land. And so he had made a law that every youth who came into his
kingdom from another country should be seized at once by his soldiers
and cast into a cave where lived three fierce demon-bears.

For a long time no one had heard of the coming of Sunshine and
Moonshine, for very rarely did any stray traveler or caravan pass the
solitary red door in the cliff. But at length, in some mysterious way,
the Khan learned of the two lads living with the hermit and sent his
soldiers in angry haste to fetch them.

The old man spied the men coming across the desert and at once guessed
their purpose, so, while they were still far off, he ran quickly to the
two boys and bade them hide themselves away. Sunshine climbed into a
barrel of mangos, crouching down until they covered him, and Moonshine
hid in a sack of grain. When the soldiers reached the red door, the
hermit opened it willingly.

“Boys?” said he, in answer to their question. “I have no boys! I am an
old man and have lived in this desert place many a long year without
wife or child to bear me company. You must be mistaken!”

The soldiers pushed the hermit roughly aside and entered the cave.

“You had better not lie to the Khan’s soldiers!” said the captain
threateningly.

“I have told you no lie,” replied the hermit, “but if you doubt my
word, come in, look and see.”

For a moment the men hesitated, then, with an oath, the captain seized
the hermit by his long white beard and shook him.

“So you thought you would give us the trouble of searching!” said he.
“We’ll do no such thing! I know there is a boy here, and my orders are
to fetch him, so bring him out at once—and I’ll teach you to hurry!”

He raised his sword over the hermit’s head, but before he could bring
it down, Sunshine had leaped from his hiding-place, had caught hold of
the captain’s arm and had stayed the blow.

“Oho!” said the captain, and he flashed around upon the lad. “So you
are here, after all—I was almost beginning to doubt!”

There was no use in struggling. The soldiers gathered around Sunshine,
bound his hands behind his back, flung him on a horse and, without
giving him a moment to bid farewell to the grief-stricken old hermit,
rode away with him. Not until they had gone far over the desert on
their way to the Khan’s city did the captain remember that he had been
told there were two boys living with the hermit. He stopped abruptly,
wheeled his horse and gave orders that the troop should return at once
to the old man’s cave. Sunshine guessed what was in the captain’s mind,
and his heart sank within him. “There will be no possible escape for my
brother,” he thought, “for the soldiers will come upon Moonshine
unexpectedly before he has time to hide again!” Then he began planning
and wondering if he could not, by craft, prevent the soldiers from
returning. At last he groaned aloud.

“Woe is me!” he said. “Alas! And woe is me! Would that I had died with
my brother before this evil fate befell me!”

“What do you mean by that?” said the captain, who had heard his
sorrowful words.

“What should I mean but what I say?” said Sunshine, with another groan.
“When you stood at the door of our cave we had but just returned from
digging the grave of my brother. And now, surely, the poor old man, our
foster-father, will die of grief, for both his sons are lost to him—all
in the space of a day!”

The captain drew rein, and the soldiers behind him halted respectfully.
The heat of the desert was great, and he had no desire to travel the
long distance back to the cave of the red door, to no purpose.

“Young man,” he said sternly to Sunshine. “Is it indeed true that your
brother is dead, and that there is now no strange youth in the cave of
the hermit?”

“Have I not said it?” replied Sunshine impatiently. “Indeed, I know not
which I wish the more—that I were dead beside my brother, or that he
were here beside me to share my woe!” Then he wept aloud.

The captain hesitated, then he slowly turned his horse and bade his
soldiers gruffly to proceed to the palace of the Khan.

Sunshine’s heart bounded with joy and relief for his brother, but he
still continued to groan and lament, that the soldiers might be
deceived.

It was a long distance to the Khan’s city, and by the time Sunshine and
his cruel captors had reached the gates, the sun was setting. Now it
happened that a young and beautiful daughter of the Khan was at that
moment sitting on the low roof of the palace, enjoying the cool
twilight air. Looking down into the street below, she saw the line of
soldiers riding by, with Sunshine in their midst, his head bowed and
his hands bound behind him. He looked up, and his eyes met those of the
princess. The light of the setting sun rested on his black hair; his
face was pale, and his eyes big and sorrowful. Never, thought the
princess, had she seen so beautiful a youth, and he, looking up at her
as she leaned over the roof, thought she must be a daughter of the
gods, so fair and lovely she was.

The princess made haste to inquire who the lad might be and soon
learned that he was a strange youth condemned, because of the prophecy,
to be thrown to the demon-bears on the morrow. Then she sought her
father, the Khan, and kneeling before him, she entreated him to spare
the life of this fair young stranger.

Now the Khan lived in daily dread that the prophecy concerning an
unknown young man would come true, so when his daughter urged him to
spare this fellow who might be the very one foretold, he fell into a
terrible rage. She, not seeing that her cause was hopeless, continued
to beg her father for the young man’s life. At last the Khan’s temper
broke all bounds. He summoned his soldiers and, pointing to the
princess, cried:

“Take her away! She has more thought for this upstart stranger than for
the safety and throne of her father! Take her away, I say, and cast her
into a dungeon. And on the morrow choose two strong sacks; tie this
strange youth into one of them, my daughter into the other; then cast
both into the cave of the demon-bears!”

The princess, though she could have fainted from very terror, was too
proud to show her fear, too noble to lament her life, so she silently
allowed the rough soldiers to bind her hands and lead her away.

At sunrise the next day everything was prepared as the Khan had
ordered, and the two unfortunate young people were thrust into huge
sacks which were tied about their necks. Then they were cast into an
open, rocky cave by a river, where the demon-bears came daily to drink.

Sunshine sighed deeply as he saw the princess beside him, her fair face
and long hair emerging from the mouth of the sack.

“Alas!” said he. “And ten times alas! That I should die is nothing, for
what am I but a stranger and an outcast? But oh, the cruel pity of it,
that you, loveliest princess, should perish too!”

“Nay, fair youth,” said the Khan’s daughter, “mourn not for me. I am
only an unthinking girl whose life or death can mean nothing to the
world—and since it is my father’s will that I die thus, willing am I to
obey him. But that you, a man of noble birth, unless your looks belie
you, should meet such a cruel fate—and only because you are a stranger!
Indeed, that seems more than my sad heart can bear!”

While these two noble young creatures were thus lamenting each other’s
hard lot, forgetful of their own, the three demon-bears drew near and
overheard their talk, and the heart of the chief of them was softened
at their words. He turned to his companions, saying:

“Of a truth, the unselfishness of these two young mortals moves me to
pity! If there is such bravery in the heart of man, I am minded never
to eat human flesh again!”

The other two, being also touched by the beauty and nobleness of their
captives, readily agreed with the chief; and they resolved to begin at
once to be the friends and not the fearful enemies of man. As they
entered the cave, they saw that Sunshine and the princess grew white
with terror at the sight of them, so the chief called out reassuringly:

“Be not afraid! The heart of a demon-bear is not always as cruel as men
say! We have come, not to devour you but to set you free. A lad and a
lass who, in such a dire strait, think only of each other, deserve to
live long in peace. By my magic power I declare your bonds broken! Go,
and from henceforth think of the demon-bears as no longer enemies but
friends!”

The wretched sacks dropped from the sides of Sunshine and the princess,
and they stood up safe and sound and as free as the wind that blew
about them.



The Siddhi-kur ceased speaking, and a long pause followed, but the
Prince said never a word. Only he stood still a moment and seemed to
gurgle unintelligibly in his throat.

“What did you say?” said the Siddhi-kur, leaning forward.

Another gurgle, and the Prince turned his head, whereat the Siddhi-kur
burst into a merry peal of laughter, for wedged between the lad’s teeth
was a piece of wood, making speech impossible.

“You are a wiser youth than I thought,” said the Siddhi-kur, when he
had a little recovered from his mirth. “Did you put that wedge in your
mouth before I began my tale, so that you could not speak, no matter
how much you wanted to?”

The Khan’s son nodded.

The Siddhi-kur settled back in his sack with a sigh. “You have won,” he
said, “and I might as well resign myself to my fate! Farewell, dear
mango tree and lovely garden of ghost children! Farewell, for now I
must dwell far away in another cool grove beside the cave of Nagarguna,
on the Shining Mountain!

“But I suppose you really deserve to know the ending of my story,” he
continued, in a more cheerful tone, “though you might guess the rest
for yourself.

“Of course, the princess went back to her father, who was nigh dead
with repentance now that his wrath had cooled, and Sunshine hastened to
the cave in the desert to relieve the minds of the good old hermit and
Moonshine, his faithful brother. And then, of course, there was a great
royal wedding, a double one—for not only did Sunshine marry the lovely
princess, but Moonshine found an almost equally beautiful bride in her
younger sister.

“The prophecy which the Khan had dreaded so long came true, but in a
very different way than he had expected. He did indeed lose his throne
and crown to a strange lad, but he gave them up of his own free will to
Sunshine, because he loved the boy so, and because he was old and weary
and had no greater wish in life than to see his son and daughter ruling
quietly and prosperously over his kingdom. So they all lived happily
ever after. And—oh, yes!—they soon paid a visit to Sunshine’s father
and found him grown old and gray, sorrowing for his two dear sons. The
wicked queen had meanwhile died, just because she was too wicked to
live. So everybody was happy and satisfied.”

A look of great contentment and relief settled upon the face of the
Prince, and he moved briskly on again in the direction of the Shining
Mountain. At last they saw it gleaming in the distance.

“And now, O Prince,” said the Siddhi-kur, “we are nearing the end of
our journey. Keep well the lesson of silence you have learned with such
pain and labor, for a king who thinks much and speaks little will be a
wise monarch, and his people will dwell in peace, happiness and
prosperity under his sway.”


                                THE END.