Tale II. (continued 2)

But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not answer begged for the token of his assent that he should tell one, which when the Khan had given he told this tale, saying,—

The Turbulent Subject.

Long ages ago there lived in a district called Brschiss1 a haughty, turbulent man. As he feared no man and obeyed no laws, the Khan of that country sent to him, saying, “Since thou wilt obey no laws, thou canst not remain in my country. Get thee gone hence, or else submit to the laws!”

But the turbulent man chose rather to go forth in exile than submit to the laws. So he went wandering forth till he came to a vast plain covered with feather-grass, and a palm-tree standing in the midst, with a dead horse lying beneath it. Under the shade of the palm-tree2 he sat down, saying, “The head of this horse will be useful for food when my provisions are exhausted.” So he bound it into his waist-scarf and climbed up into the palm-tree to pass the night.

He had scarcely composed himself to sleep when there was a great noise of shouting and yelling, which woke him up; and behold there came thither towards the palm-tree, from the southern side of the steppe, a herd of dæmons, having ox-hide caps on their heads, and riding on horses covered with ox-hides. Nor had they long settled themselves before another herd of dæmons came trooping towards the palm-tree from the northern side of the steppe, and these wore paper caps and rode on horses wearing paper coverings.

All these dæmons now danced and feasted together with great howling and shouting. The man looked down upon them from the tree-top full of terror, but also full of envy at their enjoyment. As he leant over to watch them, the horse’s head tumbled out of his girdle right into their midst and scattered them in dire alarm in every direction, not one of them daring to look up to see whence it came. It was not till the morning light broke, however, that the man ventured to come down. When he did so, he said, “Last night there was much feasting and drinking going on here, surely there must be something left from such a banquet.” Searching through the long feather-grass all about, he discovered a gold goblet full of brandy3, from which he drank long draughts, but it continued always full. At last he turned it down upon the ground, and immediately all manner of meats and cakes appeared. “This goblet is indeed larder and cellar!” said the man, and taking it with him he went on his way.

Farther on he met a man brandishing a thick stick as he walked.

“What is your stick good for that you brandish it so proudly?” asked the turbulent man.

“My stick is so much good that when I say to it, ‘Fly, that man has stolen somewhat of me, fly after him and kill him and bring me back my goods,’ it instantly flies at the man and brings my things back.”

“Yours is a good stick, but see my goblet; whatsoever you desire of meat or drink this same goblet provides for the wishing. Will you exchange your stick against my goblet?”

“That will I gladly,” rejoined the traveller.

But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to the stick, “Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and kill him and bring me back my goblet! “Before the words had left his lips the stick flew through the air, killed the man, and brought back the goblet. Thus he had both the stick and the goblet.

Farther on he saw a man coming who carried an iron hammer.

“What is your hammer good for?” inquired he as they met.

“My hammer is so good,” replied the traveller, “that when I strike it nine times on the ground immediately there rises up an iron tower nine storeys high.”

“Yours is a good hammer,” replied the turbulent man, “but look at my goblet; whatever you desire of meat or drink this same goblet provides for the wishing. Will you change your hammer against my goblet?”

“That will I gladly,” replied the wayfarer.

But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to the stick, “Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and kill him and bring me back the goblet.” The command was executed as soon as spoken, and the turbulent man thus became possessed of the hammer as well as the stick and the goblet.

Farther on he saw a man carrying a goat’s leather bag.

“What is your bag good for?” inquired he as they met.

“My bag is so good that I have but to shake it and there comes a shower of rain, but if I shake it hard then it rains in torrents.”

“Yours is a good bag,” replied the turbulent man, “but see my goblet; whatsoever you desire of meat or drink it provides you for the wishing. Will you exchange your bag against my goblet?”

“That will I gladly,” answered the traveller.

But no sooner had the turbulent man possession of the bag than he sent his stick as before to recover the goblet also.

Provided with all these magic articles, he had no fear in returning to his own country in spite of the prohibition of the Khan. Arrived there about midnight, he established himself behind the Khan’s palace, and, striking the earth nine times with his iron hammer, there immediately appeared an iron fortress nine storeys high, towering far above the palace.

In the morning the Khan said, “Last night I heard ‘knock, knock, knock,’ several times. What will it have been?” So the Khanin rose and looked out and answered him, saying, “Behold, a great iron fortress, nine storeys high, stands right over against the palace.”

“This is some work of that turbulent rebel, I would wager!” replied the Khan, full of wrath. “And he has brought it to that pass that we must now measure our strength to the uttermost.” Then he rose and called together all his subjects, and bid them each bring their share of fuel to a great fire which he kindled all round the iron fortress; all the smiths, too, he summoned to bring their bellows and blow it, and thus it was turned into a fearful furnace.

Meantime the turbulent man sat quite unconcerned in the ninth storey with his mother and his son, occupied with discussing the viands which the golden goblet provided. When the fire began to reach the eighth storey, the man’s mother caught a little alarm, saying, “Evil will befall us if this fire which the Khan has kindled round us be left unchecked.” But he answered, “Mother! fear nothing; I have the means of settling that.” Then he drew out his goat’s-leather bag, went with it up to the highest turret of the fortress, and shook it till the rain flowed and pretty well extinguished the fire; but he also went on shaking it till the rain fell in such torrents that presently the whole neighbourhood was inundated, and not only the embers of the fire but the smiths’ bellows were washed away, and the people and the Khan himself had much ado to escape with their lives. At last the gushing waters had worked a deep moat round the fortress, in which the turbulent man dwelt henceforth secure, and the Khan durst admonish him no more.

“Thus the power of magic prevailed over sovereign might and majesty,” exclaimed the Khan; and as he uttered these words the Siddhî-kür said, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the sixth chapter, of how it fell out with the Turbulent Subject.

Tale VII.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded again by the same manner and means to the cool grove, and having bound the Siddhî-kür in his bag, bore him on his shoulder to present to his Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una.

But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale; and when he would not answer, craved the token of his assent that he should tell one, which when the Khan had given, he told this tale, saying,—

The White Bird and his Wife.

Long ages ago, there lived in a land called Fair-flower-garden, a man, who had three daughters, who minded his herds of goats1, the three alternately.

One day, when it was the turn of the eldest sister to go with them, she fell asleep during the mid-day heat, and when she awoke, she found that one of the goats was missing. While she wandered about seeking it, she came to a place where was a great red door. When she had opened this, she found behind it, a little farther on, a great gold door. And when she had opened this, she found farther on another door all of shining mother-o’-pearl. She opened this, and beyond it again there was an emerald door, which gave entrance to a splendid palace full of gold and precious stones, dazzling to behold. Yet in all the whole palace there was no living thing save one white bird perched upon a costly table in a cage.

The bird espying the maiden, said to her, “Maiden, how camest thou hither?” And she replied, “One of my father’s goats has escaped from the flock, and as I dare not go home without it, I have been seeking it every where; thus came I hither.” Then the White Bird said, “If thou wilt consent to be my wife2, I will not only tell thee where the goat is, but restore it to thee. If, however, thou refuse to render me this service, the goat is lost to thy father’s flock for ever.” But the maiden answered, “How can I be thy wife, seeing thou art a bird? Therefore is my father’s goat lost to his flock for ever.” And she went away weeping for sorrow.

The next day, when the second daughter took her turn with the herds, another goat escaped from the flock; and when she went to seek it, she also came to the strange palace and the white bird; but neither could she enter into his idea of her becoming his wife; and she therefore came home, sorrowing over the loss to the herd under her care.

The day following, the youngest daughter went forth with the goats, and a goat also strayed from her. But she, when she had come to the palace, and the white bird asked her to become his wife, with the promise of restoring her goat in case of her consent, answered him, “As a rule, creatures of the male gender keep their promises; therefore, O bird! I accept thy conditions.” Thus she agreed to become his wife.

One day there was to be a great gathering, lasting thirteen days, in a temple in the neighbourhood. And when all the people were assembled together, it was found that it was just this woman, the wife of the white bird, who was more comely than all the other women. And among the men there was a mighty rider, mounted on a dappled grey horse, who was so far superior to all the rest, that when he had trotted thrice round the assembly and ridden away again, they could not cease talking of his grace and comeliness, and his mastery of his steed.

When the wife came back home again to the palace in the rock, the white bird said to her, “Among all the men and women at the festival, who was regarded to have given the proofs of superiority?” And she answered, “Among the men, it was one riding on a dappled grey horse; and among the women, it was I.” Thus it happened every day of the festival, neither was there any, of men or women, that could compete with these two.

On the twelfth day, when the woman that was married to the white bird went again to the festival, she had for her next neighbour an ancient woman, who asked her how it had befallen the other days of the feast; and she told her, saying, “Among all the women none has overmatched me; but among the men, there is none to compare with the mighty rider on the dappled grey horse. If I could but have such a man for my husband, there would be nothing left to wish for all the days of my life!” Then said the ancient woman, “And why shouldst thou not have such a man for thy husband?” But she began to weep, and said, “Because I have already promised to be the wife of a white bird.” “That is just right!” answered the ancient woman. “Behold, to-morrow is the thirteenth day of the assembly; but come not thou to the feast, only make as though thou wert going: hide thyself behind the emerald door. When thou seemest to be gone, the white bird will leave his perch, and assuming his man’s form, will go into the stable, and saddle his dappled grey steed, and ride to the festival as usual. Then come thou out of thy hiding-place, and burn his perch, and cage, and feathers; so will he have henceforth to wear his natural form.” Thus the ancient woman instructed the wife of the white bird.

The next day the woman did all that she had been told, even according to the words of the ancient woman. But as she longed exceedingly to see her husband return, she placed herself behind a pillar where she could see him coming a long way. At last, as the sun began to sink quite red towards the horizon, she saw him coming on his dapple-grey horse. “How is this?” he exclaimed, as he espied her. “You got back sooner than I, then?” And she answered, “Yes, I got home the first.” Then inquired he further, “Where is my perch and cage?” And she made answer, “Those have I burned in the fire, in order that thou mightest henceforth appear only in thy natural form.” Then he exclaimed, “Knowest thou what thou hast done? In that cage had I left not my feathers only, but also my soul3!” And when she heard that, she wept sore, and besought him, saying, “Is there no means of restoration? Behold there is nothing that I could not endure to recover thy soul.” And the man answered, “There is one only remedy. The gods and dæmons will come to-night to fetch me, because my soul is gone from me; but I can keep them in perpetual contest for seven days and seven nights. Thou, meantime, take this stick, and with it hew and hew on at the mother-o’-pearl door without stopping or resting day or night. By the close of the seventh night thou shalt have hewn through the door, and I shall be free from the gods and dæmons; but, bear in mind, that if thou cease from hewing for one single instant, or if weariness overtake thee for one moment, then the gods and dæmons will carry me away with them—away from thee.” Thus he spoke. Then the woman went and fetched little motes of the feather-grass, and fixed her eyelids open with them, that she might not be overtaken by slumber; and with the stick that her husband had given her she set to work, when night fell, to hew and hew on at the mother-o’-pearl door. Thus she hewed on and on, nor wearied, seven days and seven nights: only the seventh night, the motes of grass having fallen out of one of her eyes so that she could not keep the lid from closing once, in that instant the gods and dæmons prevailed against her husband, and carried him off.

Inconsolable, she set forth to wander after him, crying, “Ah! my beloved husband. My husband of the bird form!” Notwithstanding that she had not slept or left off toiling for seven days and seven nights, she set out, without stopping to take rest, searching for him every where in earth and heaven4.

At last, as she continued walking and crying out, she heard his voice answering her from the top of a mountain. And when she had toiled up to the top of the mountain, crying aloud after him, she heard him answer her from the bottom of a stream. When she came down again to the banks of the stream, still calling loudly upon him, there she found him by a sacred Obö, raised to the gods by the wayside5. He sat there with a great bundle of old boots upon his back, as many as he could carry.

When they had met, he said to her, “This meeting with thee once more rejoices my heart. The gods and dæmons have made me their water-carrier; and in toiling up and down from the river to their mountain6 so many times, I have worn out all these pairs of boots.”

But she answered, “Tell me, O beloved, what can I do to deliver thee from this bondage?”

And he answered, “There is only this remedy, O faithful one. Even that thou return now home, and build another cage like to the one that was burned, and that having built it, thou woo my soul back into it. Which when thou hast done, I myself must come back thither, nor can gods or dæmons withhold me.”

So she went back home, and built a cage like to the one that was burned, and wooed the soul of her husband back into it; and thus was her husband delivered from the power of the gods and dæmons, and came back to her to live with her always.

“In truth that was a glorious woman for a wife!” exclaimed the Khan.

“Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips,” replied the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the seventh chapter, of how it befell the White Bird and his Wife.

Tale VIII.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again as heretofore to the cool grove, and having taken captive the Siddhî-kür bore him along to present to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una. But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not speak, craved of him the token that he willed he should tell one; which, when he had given, he told this tale, saying,—

How Ânanda the Wood-carver and Ânanda the Painter strove against each other.

Long ages ago there lived in a kingdom which was called Kun-smon1, a Khan named Kun-snang2. When this Khan departed this life his son named Chamut Ssakiktschi3 succeeded to the throne.

In the same kingdom lived a painter named Ânanda4, and a wood-carver also named Ânanda. These men were friends of each other apparently, but jealousy reigned in their hearts.

One day, now, it befell that Ânanda the painter, whom to distinguish from the other, we will call by his Tibetian name of Kun-dgah instead of by his Sanskrit name of Ânanda, appeared before the Khan, and spoke in this wise: “O Khan, thy father, born anew into the kingdom of the gods, called me thither unto him, and straightway hearing his behest, I obeyed it.” As he spoke he handed to “All-protecting” the Khan, a forged strip of writing which was conceived after this manner:—

“To my son Chotolo5 Ssakiktschi!

“When I last parted from thee, I took my flight out of the lower life, and was born again into the kingdom of the gods6. Here I have my abode in plenitude, yea, superabundance of all that I require. Only one thing is wanting. In order to complete a temple I am building, I find not one to adorn it cunning in his art like unto Ânanda our wood-carver. Wherefore, I charge thee, son Chotolo-Ssakiktschi, call unto thee Ânanda the wood-carver, and send him up hither to me. The way and means of his coming shall be explained unto thee by Kun-dgah the painter.”

Such was the letter that Kun-dgah the painter, with crafty art, delivered to Kun-tschong7, the Khan. Which when the Khan had read he said to him—“That the Khan, my father, is in truth born anew into the gods’ kingdom is very good.”

And forthwith he sent for Ânanda the wood-carver, and spoke thus to him: “My father, the Khan, is new born into the gods’ kingdom, and is there building a temple. For this purpose he has need of a wood-carver; but can find none cunning in his art like unto thee. Now, therefore, he has written unto me to send thee straightway above unto him.” With these words he handed the strip of writing into his hands.

But the Wood-carver when he had read it thought within himself, “This is indeed contrary to all rule and precedent. Do I not scent here some craft of Kun-dgah the painter? Nevertheless, shall I not find a means to provide against his mischievous intent?” Then he raised his voice, and spoke thus aloud to the Khan:—

“Tell me, O Khan, how shall I a poor Wood-carver attain to the gods’ kingdom?”

“In this,” replied the Khan, “shall the Painter instruct thee.”

And while the Wood-carver said within himself, “Have I not smelt thee out, thou crafty one?” the Khan sent and fetched the Painter into his presence. Then having commanded him to declare the way and manner of the journey into the gods’ kingdom, the Painter answered in this wise,—

“When thou hast collected all the materials and instruments appertaining to thy calling, and hast gathered them at thy feet, thou shalt order a pile of beams of wood well steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain to be heaped around thee. Then to the accompaniment of every solemn-sounding instrument kindle the pile, and rise to the gods’ kingdom borne on obedient clouds of smoke as on a swift charger.”

The Wood-carver durst not refuse the behest of the Khan; but obtained an interval of seven days in order to collect the materials and instruments of his calling, but also to consider and find out a means of avenging the astuteness of the Painter. Then he went home, and told his wife all that had befallen him.

His wife, without hesitating, proposed to him a means of evading while seeming to fulfil the decree. In a field belonging to him at a short distance from his house, she caused a large flat stone to be placed, on which the sacrifice was to be consummated. But under it by night she had an underground passage made, communicating with the house.

When the eighth day had arrived the Khan rose and said, “This is the day that the Wood-carver is to go up to my father into the gods’ kingdom.”

And all the people were assembled round the pile of wood steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain, in the Wood-carver’s field. It was a pile of the height of a man, well heaped up, and in its midst stood the Wood-carver calm and impassible, while all kinds of musical instruments sent up their solemn-sounding tones.

When the smoke of the spirit-steeped wood began to rise in concealing density, the Wood-carver pushed aside the stone with his feet, and returned to his home by the underground way his wife had had made for him.

But the Painter, never doubting but that he must have fallen a prey to the flames, rubbed his hands and pointing with his finger in joy and triumph to the curling smoke, cried out to the people,—

“Behold the spirit of our brother Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending on the obedient clouds as on a swift charger to the kingdom of the gods!”

And all the people followed the point of his finger with their eyes and believing his words, they cried out,—

“Behold the spirit of Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending to adorn the temple of the gods’ kingdom.”

And now for the space of a whole month the Wood-carver remained closely at home letting himself be seen by no one save his wife only. Daily he washed himself over with milk, and sat in the shade out of the coloured light of the sun. At the end of the month his wife brought him a garment of white gauze, with which he covered himself; and he wrote, he also, a feigned letter, and went up with it to “All-protecting” the Khan.

As soon as the Khan saw him he cried out,—

“How art thou returned from the gods’ kingdom? And how didst thou leave my father ‘All-knowing’ the Khan?”

Then Ânanda the wood-carver handed to him the forged letter which he had prepared, and he caused it to be read aloud before the people in these words:—

“To my son, Chotolo-Ssakiktschi.

“That thou occupiest thyself without wearying in leading thy people in the way of prosperity and happiness is well. As regards the erection of the temple up here, concerning which I wrote thee in my former letter, Ânanda the wood-carver hath well executed the part we committed to him, and we charge thee that thou recompense him richly for his labour. But in order to the entire completion of the same, we stand in need of a painter to adorn with cunning art the sculpture he hath executed. When this cometh into thy hands, therefore, send straightway for Kun-dgah the painter, for there is none other like to him, and let him come up to us forthwith; according to the same way and manner that thou heretofore sendedst unto us Ânanda the wood-carver, shall he come.”

When the Khan had heard the letter, he rejoiced greatly, and said, “These are in truth the words of my father, ‘All-knowing’ the Khan.” And he loaded Ânanda the wood-carver with rich rewards, but sent and called unto him Kun-dgah the painter.

Kun-dgah the painter came with all haste into the presence of the Khan, who caused the letter of his father to be read out to him; and he as he heard it was seized with great fear and trembling; but when he saw Ânanda the wood-carver standing whole before him, all white from the milk-washing and clad in the costly garment of gauze as if the light of the gods’ kingdom yet clove to him, he said within himself,—

“Surely the fire hath not burnt him, as I see him before mine eyes, so neither shall it burn me; and if I refuse to go a worse death will be allotted me, while if I accept the charge I shall receive rich rewards like unto Ânanda,” So he consented to have his painter’s gear in readiness in seven days, and to go up to the gods’ kingdom by means of the pile burnt with fire.

When the seven days were passed, all the people assembled in the field of Kun-dgah the painter, and the Khan came in his robes of state surrounded by the officers of his palace, and the ministers of the kingdom. The pile was well heaped up of beams of wood steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain; in the midst they placed Kun-dgah the painter, and with the melody of every solemn-sounding instrument they set fire to the pile. Kun-dgah fortified himself for the torture by the expectation that soon he would begin to rise on the clouds of smoke; but when he found that, instead of this, his body sank to the ground with unendurable pain, he shouted out to the people to come and release him. But the device whereby he had intended to drown the cries of the Wood-carver prevailed against him. No one could hear his voice for the noise of the resounding instruments; and thus he perished miserably in the flames.

“Truly that bad man was rewarded according to his deserts!” exclaimed the Prince.

And as he let these words escape him thoughtlessly, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Prince hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Tale IX.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again to the cool grove, and having in the same manner as heretofore taken captive the Siddhî-kür, bore him along to present to his Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una.

But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not speak craved the token that he willed he should tell one, which when the Prince had given he told this tale, saying,—

Five to One.

Long ages ago there lived among the subjects of a great kingdom six youths who were all boon companions. One was a smith’s son, and one was a wood-carver’s son; one was a painter’s son, and one was a doctor’s son; one was an accountant’s son, and one was a rich man’s son, who had no trade or profession, but plenty of money.

These six determined on taking a journey to find the opportunity of establishing themselves in life; so they all six set out together, having taken leave of their friends, and the rich man’s son providing the cost.

When they had journeyed on a long way together without any thing particular befalling them, as they were beginning to weary of carrying on the same sort of life day by day, they came to a place where the waters of six streams met, flowing thither from various directions, and they said, “All these days we have journeyed together, and none of us have met with the opportunity of settling or making a living. Let us now each go forth alone, each one following back the course of one of these rivers to its source, and see what befalls us then.” So each planted a tree at the head of the stream he chose, and they agreed that all should meet again at the same spot, and if any failed to appear, and his tree had withered away, it should be taken as a token that evil had befallen him, and that then his companions should follow his river, and search for him and deliver him.

Having come to this agreement, each one went his way.

The rich man’s son followed the wanderings of his stream without falling in with any one till he had reached the very source of the river-head; here was a meadow skirting a forest, and on the border of the forest a dwelling. Towards this dwelling the youth directed his steps. There lived here an ancient man along with his ancient wife, who when they saw the youth opening the gate cried out to him,—

“Young man! wherefore comest thou hither, and whence comest thou?”

“I come from a far country,” answered the youth, “and I am journeying to find the occasion of settling myself in life; and thus journeying, my steps have brought me hither.”

When the ancient man and his wife saw that he was a comely youth and well-spoken, they said, “If this is indeed so, it is well that thy steps have brought thee hither, for we have here a beautiful daughter, charming in form and delightful in conversation; take her and become our son.”

As they said these words the daughter appeared on the threshold of the dwelling, and when the youth saw her he said within himself, “This is no common child of earth, but one of the daughters of the heavenly gods1. What better can befall me than that I should marry her and live here the rest of my days in her company?”

The maiden, too, said to him, “It is well, O youth, that thy steps have brought thee hither.” Thus they began conversing together, and the youth established himself on the spot and lived with his wife in peace and happiness.

This dwelling, however, was within the dominions of a mighty Khan. One day, as his minions were disporting themselves in the river, they found a ring all set with curious jewels, in cunning workmanship, which the rich youth’s wife had dropped while bathing, and the stream had carried it along to where the Khan’s minions were. As the ring was wonderful to behold, they brought it to the Khan.

The eyes of the Khan, who was a man of understanding, no sooner lighted on the ring than he turned and said to his attendants,—

“Somewhere on the borders of this stream, and higher up its course, lives a most beautiful woman, more beautiful than all the wives of the Khan; go fetch her and bring her to me.”

The Khan’s attendants set out on their mission, and visited all the dwellers on the banks of the stream, but they found no woman exceeding in beauty all the wives of the Khan till they came to the wife of the rich youth. When they saw her, they had no doubt it must be she that the Khan had meant. Saying, therefore, “The Khan hath sent for thee,” they carried her off to the palace; but the rich youth followed mourning, as near as he could approach.

When the Khan saw her, he said, “This is of a truth no child of earth; she must be the daughter of the heavenly gods. Beside of her all my other wives are but as dogs and swine,” and he took her and placed her far above them all. But she only wept, and could think of nothing but the rich youth. When the Khan saw how she wept and thought only of the rich youth, he said to his courtiers, “Rid me of this fellow.” And so, to please the Khan, they treacherously invited him to a lone place on the bank of the river, as if to join in some game; but when they had got him there they thrust him into a hole in the ground, and then rolled a piece of rock on the top of it, and so put him to death.

In the meantime, the day came round on which the six companions had agreed to come together at the spot where the six streams met; and there the five others arrived in due course, but the rich youth came not; and when they looked at the tree he had planted by the side of his stream, behold, it had withered away. In accordance with their promise, therefore, they all set out to follow the course of his stream and to search him out. But when they had wandered on a long way and found no trace of him, the accountant’s son sat down to reckon, and by his reckoning he discovered that he must have gone so far into such a kingdom, and that he must lie buried under a rock. Following the course of his reckoning, the five soon came upon the spot where the rich youth lay buried under the rock. But when they saw how big the rock was, they said, “Who shall suffice to remove the rock and uncover the body of our companion?”

“That will I!” cried the smith’s son, and, taking his hammer, he broke the rock in pieces and brought to light the body of the rich youth. When his companions saw him they were filled with compassion and cried aloud, “Who shall give back to us our friend, the companion of our youth?”

“That will I!” cried the doctor’s son, and he mixed a potion which, when he had given it to the corpse to drink, gave him power to rise up as if no harm had ever befallen him.

When they saw him all well again, and free to speak, they every one came round him, assailing him with manifold questions upon how he had fallen into this evil plight, and upon all that had happened to him since they parted. But when he had told them all his story from beginning to end, they all agreed his wife must have been a wonderful maiden indeed, and they cried out, “Who shall be able to restore his wife to our brother?”

“That will I!” cried the wood-carver’s son. “And I!” cried the painter’s son.

So the wood-carver’s son set to work, and of the log of a tree he hewed out a Garuda-bird2, and fashioned it with springs, so that when a man sat in it he could direct it this way or that whithersoever he listed to go; and the painter’s son adorned it with every pleasant colour. Thus together they perfected a most beautiful bird.

The rich youth lost no time in placing himself inside the beautiful garuda-bird, and, touching the spring, flew straight away right over the royal palace.

The king was in the royal gardens, with all his court about him, and quickly espied the garuda-bird, and esteemed himself fortunate that the beautiful garuda-bird, the king of birds, the bearer of Vishnu, should have deigned to visit his residence; and because he reckoned no one else was worthy of the office, he appointed the most beautiful of his wives to go up and offer it food.

Accordingly, the wife of the rich youth herself went up on to the roof of the palace with food to the royal bird. But the rich youth, when he saw her approach, opened the door of the wooden garuda and showed himself to her. Nor did she know how to contain herself for delight when she found he was therein.

“Never had I dared hope that these eyes should light on thee again, joy of my heart!” she exclaimed. “How madest thou then the garuda-bird obedient to thy word to bring thee hither?”

But he, full only of the joy of finding her again, and that she still loved him as before, could only reply,—

“Though thou reignest now in a palace as the Khan’s wife in splendour and wealth, if thine heart yet belongeth to me thine husband, come up into the garuda-bird, and we will fly away out of the power of the Khan for ever.”

To which she made answer, “Truly, though I reign now in the palace as the Khan’s wife in splendour and wealth, yet is my heart and my joy with thee alone, my husband. Of what have my thoughts been filled all through these days of absence, but of thee only, and for whom else do I live?”

With that she mounted into the wooden garuda-bird into the arms of her husband, and full of joy they flew away together.

But the Khan and his court, when they saw what had happened, were dismayed.

“Because I sent my most beautiful wife to carry food to the garuda-bird, behold she is taken from me,” cried the Khan, and he threw himself on the ground as if he would have died of grief.

But the rich youth directed the flight of the wooden garuda-bird, so that it regained the place where his five companions awaited him.

“Have your affairs succeeded?” inquired they, as he descended.

“That they have abundantly,” answered the rich youth.

While he spoke, his wife had also descended out of the wooden garuda-bird, whom when his five companions saw, they were all as madly smitten in love with her as the Khan himself had been, and they all began to reason with one another about it.

But the rich youth said, “True it is to you, my dear and faithful companions, I owe it that by means of what you have done for me, I have been delivered from the power of cruel death, and still more that there has been restored to me my wife, who is yet dearer far to me. For this, my gratitude will not be withheld; but what shall all this be to me if you now talk of tearing her from mine arms again?”

Upon which the accountant’s son stood forward and said, “It is to me thou owest all. What could these have done for thee without the aid of my reckoning? They wandered hither and thither and found not the place of thy burial, until I had reckoned the thing, and told them whither to go. To me thou owest thy salvation, so give me thy wife for my guerdon.”

But the smith’s son stood forward and said, “It is to me thou owest all. What could all these have done for thee without the aid of mine arm? It was very well that they should come and find the spot where thou wert held bound by the rock; but all they could do was to stand gazing at it. Only the might of my arm shattered it. It is to me thou owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon.”

Then the doctor’s son stood forward and said, “It is to me thou owest all. What could all these have done without the aid of my knowledge? It was well that they should find thee, and deliver thee from under the rock; but what would it have availed had not my potion restored thee to life? It is to me thou owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon.”

“Nay!” interposed the wood-carver’s son, “nay, but it is to my craft thou owest all. The woman had never been rescued from the power of the Khan but by means of my wooden garuda-bird. Behold, are we six unarmed men able to have laid siege to the Khan’s palace? And as no man is suffered to pass within its portal, never had she been reached, but by means of my bird. So it is I clearly who have most claim to her.”

“Not so!” cried the painter’s son. “It is to my art the whole is due. What would the garuda-bird have availed had I not painted it divinely? Unless adorned by my art never had the Khan sent his most beautiful wife to offer it food. To me is due the deliverance, and to me the prize, therefore.”

Thus they all strove together; and as they could not agree which should have her, and she would go with none of them but only the rich youth, her husband, they all seized her to gain possession of her, till in the end she was torn in pieces.

“Then if each one had given her up to the other he would have been no worse off,” cried the Prince. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the ninth chapter, of the story of Five to One.

Tale X.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that the Siddhî-kür had once more escaped, he went forth yet another time to the cool grove, and sought him out as before; and having been solicited by him to give the sign of consent to his telling a tale, the Siddhî-kür commenced after the following manner:—

The Biting Corpse.

Long ages ago, there lived two brothers who had married two sisters. Nevertheless, from some cause, the hearts of the two brothers were estranged from each other. Moreover, the elder brother was exceeding miserly and morose of disposition. The elder brother also had amassed great riches; but he gave no portion of them unto his younger brother. One day the elder brother made preparations for a great feast, and invited to it all the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. The younger brother said privately to his wife on this occasion, “Although my brother has never behaved as a brother unto us, yet surely now that he is going to have such a great gathering of neighbours and acquaintances, it beseemeth not that he should fail to invite also his own flesh and blood.”

Nevertheless he invited him not. The next day, however, he said again to his wife, “Though he invited us not yesterday, yet surely this second day of the feast he will not fail to send and call us.”

Nevertheless he invited him not. Yet the third day likewise he expected that he should have sent and called him; but he invited him not the third day either. When he saw that he invited him not the third day either, he grew angry, and said within himself, “Since he has not invited me, I will even go and steal my portion of the feast.”

As soon as it was dark, therefore—when all the people of his brother’s house, having well drunk of the brandy he had provided, were deeply sunk in slumber,—the younger brother glided stealthily into his brother’s house, and hid himself in the store-chamber. But it was so, that the elder brother, having himself well drank of the brandy, and being overcome with sound slumbers1, his wife supported him along, and then put herself to sleep with him in the store-chamber. After a while, however, she rose up again, chose of the best meat and dainties, cooked them with great care, and went out, taking with her what she had prepared. When the brother saw this, he was astonished, and, abandoning for the moment his intention of possessing himself of a share of the good things, went out, that he might follow his brother’s wife. Behind the house was a steep rock, and on the other side of the rock a dismal, dreary burying-place. Hither it was that she betook herself. In the midst of a patch of grass in this burying-place was a piece of paved floor; on this lay the body of a man, withered and dried—it was the body of her former husband2; to him, therefore, she brought all these good dishes. After kissing and hugging him, and calling upon him by name, she opened his mouth, and tried to put the food into it. Then, see! suddenly the dead man’s mouth was jerked to again, breaking the copper spoon in two. And when she had opened it again, trying once more to feed him, it closed again as violently as before, this time snapping off the tip of the woman’s nose. After this, she gathered her dishes together, and went home, and went to bed again. Presently she made as though she had woke up, with a lamentable cry, and accused her husband of having bitten off her nose in his sleep. The man declared he had never done any such thing; but as the woman had to account for the damage to her nose, she felt bound to go on asseverating that he had done it. The dispute grew more and more violent between them, and the woman in the morning took the case before the Khan, accusing her husband of having bitten off the tip of her nose. As all the neighbours bore witness that the nose was quite right on the previous night, and the tip was now certainly bitten off, the Khan had no alternative but to decide in favour of the woman; and the husband was accordingly condemned to the stake for the wilful and malicious injury.

Before many hours it reached the ears of the younger brother that his elder brother had been condemned to the stake; and when he had heard the whole matter, in spite of his former ill-treatment of him, he ran forthwith before the Khan, and gave information of how the woman had really come by the injury, and how that his brother had no fault in the matter.

Then said the Khan, “That thou shouldst seek to save the life of thy brother is well; but this story that thou hast brought before us, who shall believe? Do dead men gnash their teeth and bite the living? Therefore in that thou hast brought false testimony against the woman, behold, thou also hast fallen into the jaws of punishment.” And he gave sentence that all that he possessed should be confiscated, and that he should be a beggar at the gate of his enemies3, with his head shorn4. “Let it be permitted to me to speak again,” said the younger brother, “and I will prove to the Khan the truth of what I have advanced.” And the Khan having given him permission to speak, he said, “Let the Khan now send to the burying-place on the other side of the rock, and there in the mouth of the corpse shall be found the tip of this woman’s nose.” Then the Khan sent, and found it was even as he had said. So he ordered both brothers to be set at liberty, and the woman to be tied to the stake.

“It were well if a Khan had always such good proof to guide his judgments,” exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.

And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good,” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Tale XI.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again, and fetched the Siddhî-kür. And as he brought him along, the Siddhî-kür told this tale:—

The Prayer making suddenly Rich.

Long ages ago, there was situated in the midst of a mighty kingdom a god’s temple, exactly one day’s journey distant from every part of the kingdom. Here was a statue of the Chongschim Bodhisattva1 wrought in clay. Hard by this temple was the lowly dwelling of an ancient couple with their only daughter. At the mouth of a stream which watered the place, was a village where lived a poor man. One day this man went up as far as the source of the stream to sell his fruit, which he carried in a basket. On his way home he passed the night under shelter of the temple. As he lay there on the ground, he overheard, through the open door of the lowly dwelling, the aged couple reasoning thus with one another: “Now that we are both old and well-stricken in years, it were well that we married our only daughter to some good man,” said the father. “Thy words are words of truth,” replied the mother. “Behold, all that we have in this world is our daughter and our store of jewels. Have we not all our lives through offered sacrifice at the shrine of the Chongschim Bodhisattva? have we not promoted his worship, and spread his renown? shall he not therefore direct us aright in our doings? To-morrow, which is the eighth day of the new moon, therefore, we will offer him sacrifice, and inquire of him what we shall do with our daughter Suvarnadharî2: whether we shall devote her to the secular or religious condition of life.”

When the man had heard this, he determined what to do. Having found a way into the temple, he made a hole in the Buddha-image, and placed himself inside it. Early in the morning, the old man and his wife came, with their daughter, and offered their sacrifice. Then said the father, “Divine Chongschim Bodhisattva! let it now be made known to us, whether is better, that we choose for our daughter the secular or religious condition of life? And if it be the secular, then show us to whom we shall give her for a husband.”

When he had spoken these words the poor man inside the Buddha-image crept up near the mouth of the same, and spoke thus in solemn tones:—

“For your daughter the secular state is preferable. Give her for wife to the man who shall knock at your gate early in the morning.”

At these words both the man and his wife fell into great joy, exclaiming, “Chutuktu3 hath spoken! Chutuktu hath spoken!”

Having watched well from the earliest dawn that no one should call before him, the man now knocked at the gate of the old couple. When the father saw a stranger standing before the door, he cried, “Here in very truth is he whom Buddha hath sent!” So they entreated him to come in with great joy; prepared a great feast to entertain him, and, having given him their daughter in marriage, sent them away with all their store of gold and precious stones.

As the man drew near his home he said within himself, “I have got all these things out of the old people, through craft and treachery. Now I must hide the maiden and the treasure, and invent a new story.” Then he shut up the maiden and the treasure in a wooden box, and buried it in the sand of the steppe4.

When he came home he said to all his friends and neighbours, “With all the labour of my life riches have not been my portion. I must now undertake certain practices of devotion to appease the dæmons of hunger; give me alms to enable me to fulfil them.” So the people gave him alms. Then said he the next day, “Now go I to offer up ‘the Prayer which makes suddenly rich.’” And again they gave him alms.

While he was thus engaged it befell that a Khan’s son went out hunting with two companions, with their bows and arrows, having with them a tiger as a pastime to amuse them while journeying. They rode across the steppe, just over the track which the poor man had followed; and seeing there the sand heaped up the Prince’s attention fell on it, and he shot an arrow right into the midst of the heap. But the arrow, instead of striking into the sand, fell down, because it had glanced against the top of the box.

Then said the Khan’s son, “Let us draw near and see how this befell.”

So they drew near; and when the servants had dug away the sand they found the wooden box which the man had buried. The Khan’s son then ordered the servants to open the box; and when they had opened it they found the maiden and the jewels.

Then said the Khan’s son, “Who art thou, beautiful maiden?”

And the maiden answered, “I am the daughter of a serpent-god.”

Then said the Khan’s son, “Come out of the box, and I will take thee to be my wife.”

But the maiden answered, “I come not out of the box except some other be put into the same.”

To which the Prince replied, “That shall be done,” and he commanded that they put the tiger into the box; but the maiden and the jewels he took with him.

Meantime the poor man had completed the prayers and the ceremonies ‘to make suddenly rich,’ and he said, “Now will I go and fetch the maiden and the treasure.” With that he traced his way back over the steppe to the place where he had buried the box, and dug it out of the sand, not perceiving that the Prince’s servants had taken it up and buried it again. Then, lading it on to his shoulder, he brought the same into his inner apartment. But to his wife he said, “To-night is the last of the ceremony ‘for making suddenly rich.’ I must shut myself up in my inner apartment to perform it, and go through it all alone. What noise soever thou mayst hear, therefore, beware, on thy peril, that thou open not the door, neither approach it.”

This he said, being minded to rid himself of the maiden, who might have betrayed the real means by which he became possessed of the treasure, by killing her and hiding her body under the earth.

Then having taken off all his clothes, that they might not be soiled with the blood he was about to spill, and prepared himself thus to put the woman to death, he lifted up the lid of the box, saying, “Maiden, fear nothing!” But on the instant the tiger sprang out upon him and threw him to the ground. In vain he cried aloud with piteous cries. All the time that his bare flesh was delivered over to the teeth and claws of the unpitying tiger his wife and children were laughing, and saying, “How is our father diligent in offering up ‘the Prayer which makes suddenly rich!’”

But when, the next morning, he came not out, all the neighbours came and opened the door of the inner apartment, and they found only his bones which the tiger had well cleaned; but having so well satisfied its appetite, it walked out through their midst without hurting any of them.

In process of time, however, the maiden whom the Khan’s son had taken to his palace had lived happily with him, and they had a family of three children; and she was blameless and honoured before all. Nevertheless, envious people spread the gossip that she had come no one knew whence; and when they brought the matter before the king’s council it was said, “How shall a Khan’s son whose mother was found in a box under the sand reign over us? And what will be thought of a Khan’s son who has no uncles?”

These things reached the ears of the Khanin, and, fearing lest they should take her sons from her and put them to death that they might not reign, she resolved to take them with her and go home to her parents.

On the fifteenth of the month, while the light of the moon shone abroad, she took her three sons and set out on her way.

When it was about midday she had arrived nigh to the habitation of her parents; but at a place where formerly all had been waste she found many labourers at work ploughing the land, directing them was a noble youth of comely presence. When the youth saw the Khan’s wife coming over the field he asked her whence she came; answering, she told him she had journeyed from afar to see her parents, who lived by the temple of Chongschim Bodhisattva on the other side of the mountain.

“And you are their daughter?” pursued the young man.

“Even so; and out of filial regard am I come to visit them,” answered the Khanin.

“Then you are my sister,” returned the youth, “for I am their son; and they have always told me I had an elder sister who was gone afar off.”

Then he invited her to partake of his midday meal, and after they had dined they set out together to find the lowly dwelling of their parents. But when they had come round to the other side of the mountain in the place where the lowly habitation had stood, behold there was now a whole congeries of palaces, each finer than the residence of the husband of the Khanin! All over they were hung with floating streamers of gay-coloured silks. The temple of the Chongschim Bodhisattva itself had been rebuilt with greater magnificence than before, and was resplendent with gold, and diamonds, and streamers of silk, and furnished with mellow-toned bells whose sound chimed far out into the waste.

“To whom does all this magnificence belong?” inquired the Khanin.

“It all belongs to us,” replied the youth. “Our parents, too, are well and happy; come and see them.”

As they drew near their parents came out to meet them, looking hale and hearty and riding on horses. Behind them came a train of attendants leading horses for the Khanin and her brother. They all returned to the palace where the parents dwelt, all being furnished with elegance and luxury. When they had talked over all the events that had befallen each since they parted, they went to rest on soft couches.

When the Khanin saw the magnificence in which her parents were living she bethought her that it would be well to invite the Khan to come and visit them. Accordingly she sent a splendid train of attendants to ask him to betake himself thither. Soon after, the Khan arrived, together with his ministers, and they were all of them struck with the condition of pomp and state in which the Khanin was living, far exceeding that of the Khan himself, the ministers owned, saying, “The report we heard, saying that the Khanin had no relations but the poor and unknown, was manifestly false;” and the Khan was all desire that she should return home. To this request she gave her cordial assent, only, as her parents were now well-stricken in years, and it was not likely she should have the opportunity of seeing them more, she desired to spend a few days more by their side. It was agreed, therefore, that the Khan and his ministers should return home, and that after three days the Khanin also should come and join him.

Having taken affectionate leave of the Khan and seen him depart, she betook herself to rest on her soft couch.

When she woke in the morning, behold, all the magnificence of the place was departed! There were no stately palaces; the temple of the Chongschim Bodhisattva was the same unpretending structure it had always been of old, only a little more worn down by time and weather; the lowly habitation of her parents was a shapeless ruin, and she was lying on the bare ground in one corner of it, with a heap of broken stones for a pillow. Her parents were dead long ago, and as for a brother there was no trace of one.

Then she understood that the devas had sent the transformation to satisfy the Khan and his ministers, and, that done, every thing had returned to its natural condition.

Grateful for the result, she now returned home, where the Khan received her with greater fondness than before. The ministers were satisfied as to the honour of the throne, all the gossips were put to silence from that day forward, and her three sons were brought up and trained that they might reign in state after the Khan their father.

“Truly, that was a woman favoured by fortune beyond expectation!” exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Thus far of the adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the eleventh chapter, concerning “The Prayer making suddenly Rich.”

Tale XII.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and fetched the Siddhî-kür; and as he brought him along the Siddhî-kür told this tale:—

“Child-intellect” and “Bright-intellect.”

Long ages ago there lived a Khan who was called Küwôn-ojôtu1. He reigned over a country so fruitful that it was surnamed “Flower-clad.” All round its borders grew mango-trees and groves of sandalwood2, and vines and fruit-trees, and within there was of corn of every kind no lack, and copious streams of water, and a mighty river called “The Golden,” with flourishing cities all along its banks.

Among the subjects of this Khan was one named Gegên-uchâtu3, renowned for his wit and understanding. For him the Khan sent one day, and spoke to him, saying, “Men call thee ‘him of bright understanding.’ Now let us see whether the name becomes thee. To this end let us see if thou hast the wit to steal the Khan’s talisman, defying the jealous care of the Khan and all his guards. If thou succeedest I will recompense thee with presents making glad the heart; but if not, then I will pronounce thee unworthily named, and in consequence will lay waste thy dwelling and put out both thine eyes.” Although the man ventured to prefer the remark, “Stealing have I never learned,” yet the Khan maintained the sentence that he had set forth.

In the night of the fifteenth of the month, therefore, the man made himself ready to try the venture.

But the king, to make more sure, bound the talisman fast to a marble pillar of his bed-chamber, against which he lay, and leaving the door open the better to hear the approach of the thief, surrounded the same with a strong watch of guards.

Gegên-uchâtu now took good provision of rice-brandy, and going in to talk as if for pastime with the Khan’s guards and servants, gave to every one of them abundantly to drink thereof, and then went his way.

At the end of an hour he returned, when the rice-brandy had done its work. The guards before the gate were fast asleep on their horses; these he carried off their horses and set them astride on a ruined wall. In the kitchen were the cooks waiting to strike a light to light the fire: over the head of the one nearest the fire he drew a cap woven of grass4, and in the sleeve of the other he put three stones. Then going softly on into the Khan’s apartment, without waking him, he put over his head and face a dried bladder as hard as a stone; and the guards that slept around him he tied their hair together. Then he took down the talisman from the marble pillar to which it was bound and made off with it. Instantly, the Khan rose and raised the cry, “A thief has been in here!” But the guards could not move because their hair was tied together, and cries of “Don’t pull my hair!” drowned the Khan’s cries of “Stop thief!” As it was yet dark the Khan cried, yet more loudly, “Kindle me a light!” And he cried, further, “Not only is my talisman stolen, but my head is enclosed in a wall of stone! Bring me light that I may see what it is made of.” When the cook, in his hurry to obey the Khan, began to blow the fire, the flame caught the cap woven of grass and blazed up and burnt his head off; and when his fellow raised his arm to help him put out the fire the three stones, falling from his sleeve, hit his head and made the blood flow, giving him too much to attend to for him to be able to pursue the thief. Then the Khan called through the window to the outer guards, who ought to have been on horseback before the gate, to stop the thief; and they, waking up at his voice, began vainly spurring at the ruined wall on which Gegên-uchâtu had set them astride, and which, of course, brought them no nearer the subject of their pursuit, who thus made good his escape with the talisman, no man hindering him, all the way to his own dwelling.

The next day he came and stood before the Khan. The Khan sat on his throne full of wrath and moody thoughts.

“Let not the Khan be angry,” spoke the man of bright understanding, “here is the talisman, which I sought not to retain for myself, but only to take possession of according to the word of the Khan.”

The Khan, however, answered him, saying, “The talisman is at thy disposition, nor do I wish to have it back from thee. Nevertheless, thy dealings this night, in that thou didst draw a stone-like bladder over the head of the Khan, were evil, for the fear came therefrom upon me lest thou hadst even pulled off my head; therefore my sentence upon thee is that thou be taken hence to the place of execution and be beheaded by the headsman.”

Hearing this sentence, Gegên-uchâtu said, within himself, “In this sentence that he hath passed the Khan hath not acted according to the dictates of justice.” Therefore he took the Khan’s talisman in his hand and dashed it against a stone, and, behold, doing so, the blood poured out of the nose of the Khan until he died!

“That was a Khan not fit to reign!” exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.

And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied, “Forgetting his health the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips.” And with the cry, “To escape out of this world is good!” he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

Tale XIII.

Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and fetched the Siddhî-kür, and as he brought him along the Siddhî-kür told him, according to the former manner, this tale, saying,—

The Fortunes of Shrikantha.

Long ages ago there was a Brahman’s son whose name was Shrikantha1. This man sold all his inheritance for three pieces of cloth-stuff. Lading the three pieces of cloth-stuff on to the back of an ass, he went his way into a far country to trade with the same2.

As he went along he met a party of boys who had caught a mouse and were tormenting it. Having tied a string about its neck, they were dragging it through the water. The Brahman’s son could not bear to see this proceeding and chid the boys, but they refused to listen to his words. When he found that they would pay no heed to his words, he bought the mouse of them for one of his pieces of stuff, and delivered it thus out of their hands.

When he had gone a little farther he met another party of boys who had caught a young ape3 and were tormenting it. Because it did not understand the game they were playing, they hit it with their fists, and when it implored them to play in a rational manner and not be so hasty and revengeful, they but hit it again. At the sight the Brahman was moved with compassion and chid the boys, and when they would not listen to him he bought it of them for another of his pieces of stuff, and set it at liberty.

Farther along, in the neighbourhood of a city, he met another party of boys who had caught a young bear and were tormenting it, riding upon it like a horse and otherwise teasing it; and when by his chiding he could not induce them to desist, he bought it of them for his last piece of stuff, and set it at liberty.

By this means he was left entirely without merchandize to trade with, and he thought within himself, as he drove his donkey along, what he should do; and he found in his mind no better remedy than to steal something out of the palace of the Khan wherewith to commence trading. Having thus resolved, he tied his donkey fast in the thick jungle and made his way with precaution into the store-chambers of the Khan’s palace. Here he possessed himself of a good provision of pieces of silk-stuff, and was well nigh to have escaped with the same when the Khan’s wife, espying him, raised the cry, “This fellow hath stolen somewhat from the Khan’s store-chamber!”

At the cry the people all ran out and stopped Shrikantha and brought him to the Khan. As he was found with the stuffs he had stolen still upon him, there was no doubt concerning his guilt, so the Khan ordered a great coffer to be brought, and that he should be put inside it, and, with the lid nailed down, be cast into the water.

The force of the current, however, carried the coffer into the midst of the branches of an overhanging tree on an island, where it remained fixed; nevertheless, as the lid was tightly nailed down, it soon became difficult to breathe inside the box. Just as Shrikantha was near to die for want of air, suddenly a little chink appeared, through which plenty of air could enter. It was the mouse he had delivered from its tormentors who had brought him this timely aid4. “Wait a bit,” said the mouse, as soon as he could get his mouth through the aperture, “I will go fetch the ape to bring better help.”

The ape came immediately on being summoned, and tore away at the box with all his strength till he had made a hole big enough for the man to have crept out; but as the box was surrounded by the water he was still a prisoner. “Stop a bit!” cried the ape, when he saw this dilemma; “I will go and call the bear.”

The bear came immediately on being summoned, and dragged the coffer on to the bank of the island, where Shrikantha alighted, and all three animals waited on him, bringing him fruits and roots to eat.

While he was living here water-bound, but abundantly supplied by the mouse, the ape, and the bear with fruits to sustain life, he one day saw shining in a shallow part of the water a brilliant jewel as big as a pigeon’s egg. The ape soon fetched it at his command, and when he saw how big and lustrous it was he resolved that it must be a talisman. To put its powers to the test, he wished himself removed to terra firma. Nor had he sooner uttered the wish than he found himself in the midst of a fertile plain. Having thus succeeded so well, he next wished that he might find on waking in the morning a flourishing city in the plain, and a shining palace in its midst for his residence, with plenty of horses in the stable, and provisions of all kinds in abundance in the store-chamber; shady groves were to surround it, with streams of water meandering through them.

When he woke in the morning he found all prepared even as he had wished. Here, therefore, he lived in peace and prosperity, free from care.

Before many months had passed there came by that way a caravan of merchants travelling home who had passed over the spot on their outward-bound journey.

“How is this!” exclaimed the leader of the caravan. “Here, where a few months ago grew nothing but grass; here is there now sprung up a city in all this magnificence!” So they came and inquired concerning it of the Brahman’s son.

Then Shrikantha told them the whole story of how it had come to pass, and moreover showed them the talisman. Then said the leader of the caravan, “Behold! we will give thee all our camels and horses and mules, together with all our merchandize and our stores, only give us thou the talisman in exchange.” So he gave them the talisman in exchange, and they went on their way. But the Brahman’s son went to sleep in his palace, on his soft couch with silken pillows.

In the morning, when he woke, behold the couch with the silken pillows was no more there, and he was lying on the ground in the island in the midst of the water!

Then came the mouse, the ape, and the bear to him, saying—

“What misfortune is this that hath happened to thee this second time?” So he told them the whole story of how it had come to pass. And they, answering, said to him, “Surely now it was foolish thus to part with the talisman; nevertheless, maybe we three may find it.” And they set out to follow the track of the travelling merchants. They were not long before they came to a flourishing city with a shining palace in its midst, surrounded by shady groves, and streams meandering through them. Here the merchants had established themselves.

When night fell, the ape and the bear took up their post in a grove near the palace, while the mouse crept within the same, till she came to the apartment where the leader of the caravan slept—here she crept in through the keyhole. The leader of the caravan lay asleep on a soft couch with silken pillows. In a corner of the apartment was a heap of rice, in which was an arrow stuck upright, to which the talisman was bound, but two stout cats were chained to the spot to guard it. This report the mouse brought to the ape and the bear. “If it is as thou hast said,” answered the bear, “there is nothing to be done. Let us return to our master.” “Not so!” interposed the ape. “There is yet one means to be tried. When it is dark to-night, thou mouse, go again to the caravan leader’s apartment, and, having crept in through the keyhole, gnaw at the man’s hair. Then the next night, to save his hair, he will have the cats chained to his pillow, when the talisman being unguarded, thou canst go in and fetch it away.” Thus he instructed the mouse.

The next night, therefore, the mouse crept in again through the keyhole, and gnawed at the man’s hair. When the man got up in the morning, and saw that his hair fell off by handfuls, he said within himself, “A mouse hath done this. To-night, to save what hair remains, the two cats must be chained to my pillow.” And so it was done. When the mouse came again, therefore, the cats being chained to the caravan leader’s pillow, she could work away at the heap of rice till the arrow fell; then she gnawed off the string which bound the talisman to it, and rolled it before her all the way to the door. Arrived here, she was obliged to leave it, for by no manner of means could she get it up to the keyhole. Full of sorrow, she came and showed this strait to her companions. “If it is as thou hast said,” answered the bear, “there is nothing to be done. Let us return to our master.”

“Not so!” interposed the ape; “there is yet one means to be tried. I will first tie a string to the tail of the mouse, then let her go down through the keyhole, and hold the talisman tightly with all her four feet, and I will draw her up through the keyhole.” This they did; and thus obtained possession of the talisman.

They now set out on the return journey, the ape sitting on the back of the bear, carrying the mouse in his ear and the talisman in his mouth. Travelling thus, they came to a place where there was a stream to cross. The bear, who all along had been fearing the other two animals would tell the master how little part he had had in recovering the talisman, now determined to vaunt his services. Stopping therefore in the midst of the stream, he said, “Is it not my back which has carried ye all—ape, mouse, and talisman—over all this ground? Is not my strength great? and are not my services more than all of yours?” But the mouse was asleep snugly in the ear of the ape, and the ape feared to open his mouth lest he should drop the talisman; so there was no answer given. Then the bear was angry when he found there was no answer given, and, having growled, he said, “Since it pleases you not, either of you, to answer, I will even cast you both into the water.” At that the ape could not forbear exclaiming, “Oh! cast us not into the water!” And as he opened his mouth to speak, the talisman dropped into the water. When he saw the talisman was lost, he was full dismayed; but for fear lest the bear should drop him in the water, he durst not reproach him till they were once more on land.

Arrived at the bank, he cried out, “Of a surety thou art a cross-grained, ungainly sort of a beast; for in that thou madest me to answer while I had the talisman in my mouth, it has fallen into the water, and is more surely lost to the master than before.” “If it is even as thou hast said,” answered the bear, “there is nothing to be done. Let us return to the master.” But the mouse waking up at the noise of the strife of words, inquired what it all meant. When therefore the ape had told her how it had fallen out, and how that they were now without hope of recovering the talisman, the mouse replied, “Nay, but I know one means yet. Sit you here in the distance and wait, and let me go to work.”

So they sat down and waited, and the mouse went back to the edge of the stream. At the edge of the stream she paced up and down, crying out as if in great fear. At the noise of her pacing and her cries, the inhabitants of the water all came up, and asked her the cause of her distress. “The cause of my distress,” replied the mouse, “is my care for you. Behold there is even now, at scarcely a night’s distance, an army on the march which comes to destroy you all; neither can you escape from it, for though it marches over dry land, in a moment it can plunge in the water and live there equally well.” “If that is so,” answered the inhabitants of the water, “then there is no help for us.” “The means of help there is,” replied the mouse. “If we could between us construct a pier along the edge of the water, on which you could take refuge, you would be safe, for half in and half out of the water this army lives not, and could not pursue you thither.” So the inhabitants of the water replied, “Let us construct a pier.” “Hand me up then all the biggest pebbles you can find,” said the mouse, “and I will build the pier.” So the inhabitants of the water handed up the pebbles, and the mouse built of the pebbles a pier. When the pier was about a span long, there came a frog bringing the talisman, saying, “Bigger than this one is there no pebble here!” So the mouse took the talisman with great joy, and calling out, “Here it is!” brought the same to the ape. The ape put the talisman once more in his mouth, and the mouse in his ear; and having mounted on to the back of the bear, they brought the talisman safely to Shrikantha5.

Shrikantha not having had his three attendants to provide him with fruits for so many days was as one like to die; nevertheless, when he saw the talisman again, he revived, and said, “Truly the services are great that I have to thank you three for.” No sooner, however, had he the talisman in his hand, than all the former magnificence came back at a word—a more flourishing city, a more shining palace, trees bending under the weight of luscious fruits, and birds of beautiful plumage singing melodiously in the branches.

Then said Shrikantha again to his talisman, “If thou art really a good and clever talisman, make that to me, who have no wife, a daughter of the devas should come down and live with me, and be a wife to me.” And, even as he spoke, a deva maiden came down to him, surrounded with a hundred maidens, her companions, and was his wife, and they lived a life of delights together, and a hundred sons were born to him.”

“Of a truth that was a Brahman’s son whom fortune delighted to honour,” exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan. And as he had marched fast, and they were already far on their journey when the Siddhî-kür began his tale, they had reached even close to the precincts of the dwelling of the great Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una, when he spoke these words. Nevertheless, the Siddhî-kür had time to exclaim, “Excellent! Excellent!” and to escape swift out of sight.

But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan stood before Nâgârg′una.

Then spoke the great Master and Teacher Nâgârg′una, unto him, saying,—

“Seeing thou hast not succeeded in thine enterprise, thou hast not procured the happiness of all the inhabitants of Gambudvîpa, nor promoted the well-being of the six classes of living beings6. Nevertheless, seeing thou hast exercised unexampled courage and perseverance, and through much terror and travail hast fetched the Siddhî-kür these thirteen times, behold, the stain of blood is removed from off thee, though thou fetch him not again. Moreover, this that thou hast done shall turn to thy profit, for henceforth thou shalt not only be called the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, but thou shalt exceed in good fortune and in happiness all the Khans of the earth.”

Tale XIV.

Notwithstanding this generous promise and bountiful remission of his master Nâgârg′una, the Khan set out on his journey once again, even as before, determined this time to command his utterance and fulfil his task to the end. Treading his path with patience and earnestness he arrived at the cool grove, even to the foot of the mango-tree. There he raised his axe “White Moon,” as though he would have felled it.

Then spoke the Siddhî-kür, saying, “Spare the leafy mango-tree, and I will come down to thee.”

So the Khan put up his axe again and bound the Siddhî-kür on his back, to carry him off to Nâgârg′una.

Now as the day was long, and the air oppressive, so that they were well weary, the Siddhî-kür began to tempt the Khan to speak, saying,—

“Lighten now the journey by telling a tale of interest.”

But how weary soever the Khan was, he pressed his lips together and answered him never a word.

Then the Siddhî-kür finding he could not make him speak, continued, “If thou wilt not lighten the journey by telling a tale of interest, tell me whether I shall tell one to thee.”

And when he found that he still answered him not, he said, “If thou wilt that I tell the tale, make me a sign of consent by nodding thine head backwards.”

Then the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards, and the Siddhî-kür proceeded to tell the tale in these words:—

The Avaricious Brother.

Long ages ago there dwelt in a city of Western India two brothers.

As the elder brother had no inheritance, and made a poor living by selling herbs and wood, he suffered the common fate of those in needy circumstances, and received no great consideration from his fellow-men.

The younger brother on the other hand was wealthy, yet gave he no portion of his riches to his brother.

One day he gave a great entertainment, to which he invited all his rich neighbours and acquaintances, but to his brother he sent no invitation.

Then spoke the brother’s wife to her husband, saying,—

“It were better that thou shouldst die than live thus dishonoured by all. Behold, now, thou art not even invited to thy brother’s entertainment.”

“Thy words which thou hast spoken are true,” replied the husband. “I will even go forth and die.”

Thus saying, he took up his hatchet and cord, and went out into the forest, passing over many mountains by the way. On the banks of a stream, running through the forest, he saw a number of lions and tigers1, and other savage beasts, so he forbore to go near that water, but continued his way till he came to the head of the stream, and here in the sheltering shade of a huge rock were a number of Dakinis2, dancing and disporting themselves to tones of dulcet music. Presently one of the Dakinis flew up on high out of the midst of those dancing, and took out of a cleft in the rock a large sack, which she brought down to the grassy bank where the dancing was going on. Having spread it out on the ground in the presence of them all, she took a hammer out of it, and began hammering lustily into the bag. As she did so, all kinds of articles of food and drink that could be desired presented themselves at the mouth of the sack. The Dakinis now left off dancing, and began laying out the meal; but ever as they removed one dish from the mouth of the bag, another and another took its place.

When they had well eaten and drank, the first Dakini hammered away again upon the bag, and forthwith there came thereout gold and silver trinkets, diadems, arm-bands, nûpuras3, and ornaments for all parts of the body. With these the Dakinis decked themselves, till they were covered from head to foot with pearls and precious stones, and their hair sparkling with a powdering of gems4. Then they flew away, the first Dakini taking care to lay up the bag and hammer in the cleft of the rock before taking her flight.

When they were far, far on their way, and only showed as specks in the distant sky, then the man came forth from his hiding-place, and having felled several trees with his axe, bound them together one on to the end of the other with his cord, and by this means climbed up to the cleft in the rock, where the Dakini had laid up the hammer and bag, and brought them away.

He had no sooner got down to the ground again, than to make proof of his treasure even more than to satisfy his ravenous appetite, he took the hammer out of the bag, and banged away with it on to the bag, wishing the while that it might bring him all manner of good things to eat. All sorts of delicious viands came for him as quickly as for the Dakinis, of which he made the best meal he had ever had in his life, and then hasted off home with his treasure.

When he came back he found his wife bemoaning his supposed death.

“Weep not for me!” he exclaimed, as soon as he was near enough for her to hear him; “I have that with me which will help us to live with ease to the end of our days.” And without keeping her in suspense, he hammered away on his bag, wishing for clothes, and household furniture, and food, and every thing that could be desired.

After this they gave up their miserable trade in wood and herbs, and led an easy and pleasant life.

The neighbours, however, laid their heads together and said,—

“How comes it that this fellow has thus suddenly come into such easy circumstances?”

But his brother’s wife said to her husband,—

“How can thine elder brother have come by all this wealth unless he hath stolen of our riches?” As she continued saying this often, the man believed it, and called his elder brother to him and asked him, “Whence hast thou all this wealth; who hath given it to thee?” And when he found he hesitated to answer, he added, “Now know I that thou must have stolen of my treasure; therefore, if thou tell me not how otherwise thou hast come by it, I will even drag thee before the Khan, who shall put out both thine eyes.”

When the elder brother had heard this threat, he answered, “Going afar off to a place unknown to thee, having purposed in my mind to die, I found in a cleft of a rock this sack and this hammer5.”

“And how shall this rusty iron hammer and this dirty sack give thee wealth?” again inquired his brother; and thus he pursued his inquiries until by degrees he made him tell the whole story. Nor would he be satisfied till he had explained to him exactly the situation of the place and the way to it. No sooner had he acquainted himself well of this than, taking with him a cord and an axe, he set out to go there.

When he arrived, he saw an immense number of deformed, ugly spirits, standing against the rock in eight rows, howling piteously. As he crept along to observe if there was any thing he could take of them to make his fortune as his brother had done, one of them happened to look that way and espied him, after which it was no more possible to escape.

“Of a surety this must be the fellow who stole our bag and hammer!” exclaimed the ugly spirit. “Let us at him and put him to death.”

The Dakinis were thoroughly out of temper, and did not want any urging. The words were no soon uttered than, like a flock of birds, they all flew round him and seized him.

“How shall we kill him?” asked one, as she held him tight by the hair of his head till every single hair seemed as if forced out by the roots.

“Fly with him up to the top of the rock, and then dash him down!” cried some. “Drop him in the middle of the sea!” cried others. “Cut him in pieces, and give him to the dogs!” cried others again. But the sharp one who had first espied him said, “His punishment is too soon over with killing him; shall we not rather set a hideous mark upon him, so that he shall be afraid to venture near the habitations of his kind for ever?” “Well spoken!” cried the Dakinis in chorus, something like good-humour returning at the thought of such retribution. “What mark shall we set upon him?”

“Let us draw his nose out five ells long, and then make nine knots upon it,” answered the sharp-witted Dakini.

This they did, and then the whole number of them flew away without leaving a trace of their flight.

Fully crestfallen and ashamed, the avaricious brother determined to wait till nightfall before he ventured home, meantime hiding himself in a cave lest any should chance to pass that way and see him with his knotted nose. When darkness had well closed in only he ventured to slink home, trembling in every limb both from remaining fright at the life-peril he had passed through, and from fear of some inopportune accident having kept any neighbour abroad who might come across his path.

Before he came in sight of his wife he began calling out most piteously,—

“Flee not from before me! I am indeed thine own, very own husband. Changed as I am, I am yet indeed the very self-same. Yet a few days I will endeavour to endure my misery, and then I will lay me down and die.”

When his neighbours and friends found that he came out of his house no more, nor invited them to him, nor gave entertainments more, they began to inquire what ailed him; but he, without letting any of them enter, only answered them from within, “Woe is me! woe is me!”

Now there was in that neighbourhood a Lama6, living in contemplation in a tirtha7 on the river bank. “I will call in the same,” thought the man, “and take his blessing ere I die.” So he sent to the tirtha and called the Lama.