RworldTales

The Prince Who Had Everything: The Legend of the Buddha

2012-09-23T08:46:00.007-07:00

Of all Buddhist tales, the best-known and best-loved is the story of Buddha’s own birth and youth. Buddha—“the Enlightened One” or “The Awakened One”—is the religious title given to Siddhartha Gautama, a prince of the Sakya clan, which ruled an area that today straddles the border between Nepal and the Indian state of Bihar. He is believed to have lived from around 563 to around 483 B.C.

No official account of Buddha’s life was left by either Buddha or his disciples. As with most great religious leaders, the stories of his early life were gradually expanded and embellished by his followers. Still, the legend probably represents in symbolic form the early spiritual life of the young man who became the Buddha.

In the royal city of Kapilavatthu, a son had come to the great King Suddhodana and his lovely Queen Maya. They named the boy Siddhartha, which means “He Who Reaches His Goal.”

Soon after the birth, the king was visited by a great seer named Asita. The baby was brought for him to see. To the king’s alarm, the holy man burst into tears.

“Sir, what is wrong?” asked the king. “Do you foresee some disaster for my son?”

“Not at all,” said the seer. “His future is supreme. Your son shall become a Buddha, an Enlightened One, and free the world from its bonds of illusion. I weep only for myself, for I will not live to hear his teachings.”

Now, the king was distressed that his only heir might turn to a life of religion. He called upon eight Brahmin priests, all skilled in interpreting signs, and asked them to prophesy for the prince.

When the priests had conferred, their spokesman addressed the king. “Your majesty, if your son follows in your footsteps, he will become a Universal King and rule the known world. But if he renounces home and family for the life of a seeker, he will become a Buddha and save the world from its ignorance and folly.”

The king asked, “What would cause my son to renounce home and family?”

The priest answered, “Seeing the four signs.”

“And what are the four?”

“An old man, a sick man, a dead man, and a holy man.”

“Then none of these shall he see,” the king declared. And he placed guards around the palace to keep all such persons away.

As Siddhartha grew to manhood, the king sought ways to strengthen the prince’s ties to home. He married him to the lovely Princess Yasodhara, who in time bore a son. And he surrounded him with dancing girls to while away his hours. The prince became a creature of pleasure and seldom left his luxurious apartments in the palace’s upper stories.

But one day Siddhartha thought he would visit a park outside the city. The king arranged the outing, with strict orders to his guards to keep the road clear of the old, the sick, the dead, and the holy.

As the prince passed through the city in his royal carriage, people lined the road to admire him. The guards followed the king’s orders as best they could. But even so, the prince spied in the crowd a man with gray hair, weak limbs, and bent back.

“Driver,” said Siddhartha, “what is wrong with that man?”

“He is old, my lord.”

“And what is ‘old’?” asked the prince.

“‘Old’ is when you have lived many years.”

“And will I too become ‘old’?”

“Yes, my lord. To grow old is our common fate.”

“If all must face old age,” said the prince, “then how can we take joy in youth?”

Not long after, the prince spied a man yellow-faced and shaking, leaning on a companion for support. “Driver, what is wrong with that man?”

“He is sick, my lord.”

“And what is ‘sick’?”

“‘Sick’ is when your health has left you.”

“And will I too become ‘sick’?”

“It is likely, my lord. To be sick is our common fate.”

“If all must face sickness,” said the prince, “then how can we take pride in health?”

Before long, the prince spied a stiff, motionless man being carried along by four others.

“Driver, what is wrong with that man?”

“He has died, my lord.”

“And what is ‘die’?”

“‘Die’ is when your life is finished.”

“And will I too ‘die’?”

“You will, my lord, without a doubt. Of all our fates, death is the most certain.”

“If all must face death,” said the prince, “then how can we delight in life?”

At last the prince spied a man with shaved head and saffron robe.

“Driver, what is that man.”

“He is a seeker, my lord.”

“And what is a ‘seeker’?”

“A ‘seeker’ is one who renounces home and family to wander about, living on what he begs. Avoiding pleasure, he subdues the passions; meditating, he controls the mind. And so he strives for freedom from this world of tears and the endless round of rebirths.”

“Driver, return to the palace. No more do I care for parks or pleasure or anything that may pass away. Soon I too will be a seeker, renouncing this life that binds me.”

That very night, Siddhartha slipped into the women’s quarters for one last look at his sleeping wife and son. Then quietly he descended to the courtyard, mounted a white steed, and set out.

The city gate, too heavy for a single man, swung open by itself at his approach. And as the prince passed through, he made this vow:

“Never shall I enter this city again, till I’ve seen the farther shore of life and death.”

More About the Story

This simplified retelling is based primarily on the Pali Canon and the Nidanakatha (introduction to the Jataka), with some help from the Buddhacarita of Asvaghosha and the Mahavastu. Most of these texts were written down between 500 and 1000 years after the lifetime of Buddha but were based on earlier oral and written traditions.

References included:

Buddhism in Translations, selected and translated by Henry Clarke Warren, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1896 (Vol. 3 of the Harvard Oriental Series). Includes the relevant portion of the Nidanakatha.

The Gospel of Buddha, compiled by Paul Carus, Open Court Publishing, Chicago and London, 1917. Drawn from numerous sources.

The Life of Gotama the Buddha, compiled by E. H. Brewster, Kegan Paul, London, 1926. Drawn from the Pali Canon.

The Buddhacarita, or Acts of the Buddha, translated by E. H. Johnston, Motilal Banarsidass, Lahore, 1936.

The Mahavastu, Vol. 2, translated by J. J. Jones, Luzac, London, 1952 (Vol. 18 of Sacred Books of the Buddhists).

The Historical Buddha, H. W. Schumann, Arkana, London, 1982.

For further reading: Paul Carus’s The Gospel of the Buddha (see above) and The Life of Buddha, by A. Ferdinand Herold, Tuttle, Tokyo, 1954.

How to Say the Names

(General hint: If an h follows a d, or t, pretend it isn’t there.)
Buddha ~ BOO-duh
Siddhartha ~ sid-DAR-tuh
Gautama ~ GAW-tuh-muh
Kapilavatthu ~ KAP-pil-luh-VAH-too
Suddhodana ~ soo-DO-duh-nuh
Maya ~ MAH-yuh
Asita ~ AH-see-tuh
Yasodhara ~ yuh-SO-duh-ruh

Abraham and the Idols: An Islamic Legend

2012-09-23T08:46:00.004-07:00

Many of the Jewish prophets and patriarchs of the Bible are revered by Muslims as well. Among these, none is more important than Abraham. He is said to be the father not only of Judaism but also of Islam, through his first son Ishmael.

Islam, say the Muslims, is the pure religion of Abraham, restored and extended by God through his prophet Muhammad. One of the chief tenets of this faith is the rejection of idolatry—as exemplified in this legend of Abraham’s youth. This tenet was especially important to the first Muslims, since the Arabs of Muhammad’s time still worshiped idols.

The legend is found in the Koran, the holy book of Islam. Though not in the Bible itself, it appears in Bible commentaries of the rabbis and is one of many legends shared by Muslims and Jews.

In the days of mighty King Nimrod, there lived in Mesopotamia a young man named Abraham. Now, Abraham’s father was an idol maker named Azar, who carved the wooden gods worshiped by his people. But Abraham was a believer in the one God, and not in the gods made by hand.

Azar would send Abraham and his other sons to sell his idols in the marketplace. But Abraham would call to the passersby, “Who’ll buy my idols? They won’t help you and they can’t hurt you! Who’ll buy my idols?”

Then Abraham would mock the gods of wood. He would take them to the river, push their faces into the water, and command them, “Drink! Drink!”

At last Abraham said to his father, “How can you worship what doesn’t see or hear or do you any good?”

Azar replied, “Dare you deny the gods of our people? Get out of my sight!”

“May God forgive you,” said Abraham. “No more will I live with you and your idols.” And he left the house of his father.

Now, the time came for one of the festivals of that town. The people gathered in their temple and placed offerings of food before their gods.

Abraham walked among them, saying, “What are you worshiping? Do these idols hear when you call them? Can they help you or hurt you?”

But their only reply was, “It is the way of our forefathers.”

“I am sick of your gods!” declared Abraham. “Truly I am their enemy.”

When the people had gone out, Abraham took some of the food and held it up to the idols. “Why don’t you eat?” he mocked them. “Aren’t you hungry? Speak to me!” And he slapped their faces.

Then Abraham took an ax and chopped the idols to pieces—all except the largest idol, the chief god of the people. And he tied the ax to the hand of that idol.

When the people returned, they were shocked to find their gods broken up and scattered about the temple. Then they remembered how Abraham had spoken, and they sent for him.

“Abraham,” said the head man, “was it you who did this?”

“Surely it was someone!” he replied. “Their chief stands there with an ax in his hand. Perhaps he grew jealous and destroyed the rest. But why don’t you just ask him?”

The head man said, “You know they neither strike nor speak.”

“Then why worship gods that you make?” demanded Abraham. “Worship instead the Maker of all!”

But few of the people would listen. Abraham was seized and brought to King Nimrod for punishment.

When Nimrod had heard the accusers, he turned to Abraham. “Who is this mighty God you spoke of?”

“He it is Who gives life and death,” answered Abraham.

“But I too give life and death,” said Nimrod. “I pardon a guilty man sentenced to die—then I execute one who is innocent!”

“That is not the way of my Lord,” said Abraham. “But listen to this: Each morning, my Lord brings the sun up in the east. Can you make it rise in the west?”

Then Nimrod grew angry. He had a great fire built, and he ordered Abraham to be tied up and thrown into it. But the fire only burnt away the ropes, and they saw Abraham sitting peacefully among the flames. Beside him was an angel in Abraham’s likeness, comforting and protecting him.

After that, Nimrod did not dare try to harm Abraham again. Abraham returned to his town, where he gathered those who believed in the one God. Then he set out west, placing all faith in the Lord.

More About the Story

In the Koran, Abraham’s father—or “sire”—is called Azar, while the Bible calls his father Terah. Some Muslim authorities believe the names refer to two different people. But various versions of this legend use the names interchangeably for the same character.

While the Bible is mainly a book of stories, the Koran is a book of sermons. Nearly all of its tales are provided only in scattered fragments. But the Arabs, if nothing else, are great lovers of stories. After Muhammad’s death, all story fragments in the Koran were extracted, linked, interpreted, and expanded by scholars and popularizers.

In the Koran, bits about Abraham’s youth are in chapters 2:258–260, 6:75–84, 19:41–50, 21:51–70, 26:69–104, 29:16–25, 37:83–98, and 43:26–27. Influential reconstructions are found in the works of Ibn Ishaq, Tabari, Thalabi, and Kisai. (Thalabi’s works are not yet available in English.)

References included:

The Holy Quran, translated by Maulana Muhammad Ali, Ahmadiyyah Anjuman Ishaat Islam, Lahore, 1917, 1951.

The Tales of the Prophets of al-Kisai, translated by W. M. Thackston, Jr., Twayne, Boston, 1978.

The History of al-Tabari, Vol. 2: Prophets and Patriarchs, translated by William M. Brinner, State University of New York, Albany, 1987.

The Making of the Last Prophet, edited and translated by Gordon Darnell Newby, University of South Carolina, Columbia, 1989. Reconstruction of the lost first section of Ibn Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah.

The Koran, translated by N. J. Dawood, Penguin, London, 1990.

For further reading:

The Life of the Prophet Muhammad, by Leila Azzam and Aisha Gouverneur, Islamic Texts Society, London, 1985.

Islamic Legends: Histories of the Heroes, Saints, and Prophets of Islam, by Jan Knappert, E. J. Brill, Leiden, 1985.

For the Jewish version of the legend:

A Harvest of World Folk Tales, edited by Milton Rugoff, Viking, New York, 1949.

Mimekor Yisrael: Classical Jewish Folktales, Vol. 1: National Tales, collected by Micha Joseph bin Gorion, translated by I. M. Lask, Indiana University Press, Bloomington and London, 1976.

The Book of Legends, Sefer Ha-Aggadah: Legends from the Talmud and Midrash, edited by Hayim Nahman Bialik and Yehoshua Hana Ravnitzky, translated by William G. Braude, Schocken, New York, 1992.

The Legends of the Jews, Vols. 1 and 5, Louis Ginzberg, translated by Henrietta Szold, Jewish Publication Society, Philadelphia, 1937.

How Violence Is Ended: A Buddhist Legend

2012-09-23T08:46:00.001-07:00

Nearly all the world’s greatest religious teachers have been peacemakers, and the Buddha was certainly one of these. Among the ethical precepts of his “Eightfold Path” was “Right Action,” which included avoiding all killing.

A legend is told of two kingdoms on the brink of battle. Each claimed the right to irrigate lands from a river flowing between. The Buddha asked the two kings, “What is the water worth?” “Very little,” was the reply. “And what is a life worth?” “It is priceless.” “Then why would you trade something priceless for something of little worth?”

According to tradition, the following tale was told by the Buddha himself to monks whose quarrel had reached the point of violence.

Once long ago, there arose a quarrel between two kings.

One king was the great Brahmadatta. His kingdom was large and rich, and his troops were many. The other king was Dighiti. His kingdom was small and poor, and his troops were few.

Brahmadatta told his generals, “We will march against Dighiti and conquer his kingdom. He will not be able to resist me.”

When Dighiti heard of the army’s advance, he told Deva, his queen, “Nothing we do can prevent Brahmadatta from seizing our country. For the sake of our people, it is best to avoid a battle. Let us flee from the kingdom tonight.”

Deva asked, “Where can we go?”

“We will go to Brahmadatta’s own capital city, Benares. It is large enough to hide in, and he will never search for us there.”

So they took their young son, Dighavu, and fled by night to Benares. There they lodged in a poor quarter of the city. King Dighiti disguised himself as a wandering holy man and each day begged enough coins and food for them all.

Time passed and the prince grew toward manhood. Then King Dighiti told his wife, “Truly is it said, we may forgive those who hurt us, but we never forgive those we hurt. If Brahmadatta finds us here, he will surely kill us all. It is best to send our son from the city.”

The queen said, “Let him go to my parents in the west. There he can learn the arts and sciences proper to his estate.” So they sent the prince away.

Now, it happened that the barber from the court of King Dighiti was at this time at work in the court of Brahmadatta. One day, the barber caught sight of Dighiti in the marketplace, begging in the guise of a holy man. Hoping for reward, he secretly followed Dighiti to his home, then reported to Brahmadatta.

Brahmadatta sent his men to arrest the family. Dighiti and Deva were brought before him.

“Where is your son?” demanded Brahmadatta.

“Beyond your reach,” replied Dighiti.

Brahmadatta turned to one of his generals. “Tie them up and cart them around the city for all to see and scorn. Then take them out the south gate and execute them by the sword. Allow no one to perform the funeral rites. Their bodies shall be prey to birds and beasts.”

Now, on that very day, Prince Dighavu had come back to Benares to visit his parents. As he passed through the marketplace, he saw soldiers on horse and on foot, and among them a cart, and tied up in the cart, his mother and his father. And he was powerless to help them.

King Dighiti saw the prince as well. Wishing to advise his son, yet mindful not to give him away, Dighiti called out as if to no one. And these were his words:

Be not shortsighted.
Be not longsighted.
Not by violence is violence ended.
Violence is ended by nonviolence.

As darkness fell, King Dighiti and Queen Deva were taken outside the city walls and executed by the sword. Their bodies were left on the ground, with a dozen soldiers standing guard.

Within the city, Prince Dighavu told himself, “First I will perform the funeral rites for my parents. Then I will find a way to avenge them.”

He bought strong wine in the marketplace and brought it to the guards. They took it gladly, and soon lay drunk and asleep.

Dighavu piled up wood, placed his parents’ bodies on top, then lit the funeral pyre. He pressed his palms together and walked three times around the flames.

At that moment, at the royal palace, Brahmadatta was strolling upon his roof terrace, puzzling over the words of King Dighiti that had been reported to him. Gazing far south, over the city wall, he spied the fire and the figure circling it.

“It must be Prince Dighavu,” he told himself. And a cold fear gripped his heart.

The prince, his duty complete, slipped quickly into the forest. For days he stayed there, hiding from Brahmadatta’s men while grieving for his parents.

At last, the danger and the tears had passed, and Dighavu entered the city once more. At the royal elephant stables, he took work as an apprentice.

And so it was one morning that Dighavu rose early, sat before the stables, and sang to greet the dawn. His voice drifted to the palace and to the balcony of King Brahmadatta, who had also risen early, wakened by a fearful dream.

“How lovely,” said the king. “I have need of such music to ease my mind.”

He sent for the singer, and Dighavu was brought before him.

“Sing for me,” said Brahmadatta, not knowing who the young man was.

Dighavu sang, and the king’s heart was gladdened. Then Brahmadatta told him, “Stay with me.”

And Dighavu answered, “As you wish, my lord.”

So Dighavu became the king’s attendant. And since the young man’s conduct was agreeable and his words pleasing, the king grew ever more fond of him, bestowing on him more and more responsibility and trust.

Then came a day when Brahmadatta desired to go hunting. And he told Dighavu, “Today you will drive my chariot.”

And Dighavu replied, “It is an honor, my lord.”

So Dighavu that day drove the chariot of the king. But as the hunters pursued their quarry, Dighavu cleverly took a path that led away. He brought the king far from the sight and hearing of the others.

At last Brahmadatta said, “I wish to stop and rest.”

Dighavu dismounted and sat cross-legged on the ground. And he told the king, “Come rest yourself, my lord.”

So the king laid his head in the cradle of Dighavu’s legs, and slept.

Dighavu gripped his sword and drew it slowly from its sheath. He pointed the blade at the throat of Brahmadatta. And then there came to him the words of his father.

Be not shortsighted.
Be not longsighted.
Not by violence is violence ended.
Violence is ended by nonviolence.

The sword of Dighavu trembled. He drew it slowly away and replaced it in its sheath.

Brahmadatta breathed heavily and opened wide his eyes and sat up in alarm.

“What is wrong, my lord?” asked Dighavu.

“It is a dream that often plagues me,” said the king. “I see Dighavu, the son of my enemies, coming at me with his sword to avenge his parents.”

Then Dighavu clutched the king’s hair, dragged his head back down, and drew his sword. “I am Dighavu, son of your enemies, and here am I to avenge my parents!”

“Have mercy, dear Dighavu! Grant me my life!”

“How can I grant your life?” replied Dighavu. “Truly is it said, we may forgive those who hurt us, but we never forgive those we hurt. You have killed my mother and my father, and would surely kill me too. So the life to be granted is mine!”

“Then grant me my life,” said Brahmadatta, “and I will grant you yours!”

So Dighavu released the king and put away his sword. And the two rose and clasped their hands and swore never again to seek the other’s harm.

Then Brahmadatta said, “I have often pondered your father’s final words. Tell me, Dighavu, what did he mean when he told you, ‘Be not shortsighted.’?”

“My father meant, ‘Do not be quick to spurn a gift of friendship.’”

“And what did he mean when he told you, ‘Be not longsighted.’?”

“My father meant, ‘Do not allow your hate to last too long.’”

“And what did he mean when he told you, ‘Not by violence is violence ended. Violence is ended by nonviolence.’?”

“My father meant this: You, my lord, have killed my parents and stolen their kingdom. If I were to kill you in revenge, your allies would kill me, and then my allies would kill them, and so on, with no end to violence. But now instead, you have granted my life and I have granted yours. So violence is at an end.”

Then the king marveled at the wisdom of Dighavu, who understood in full what his father said in brief.

Indeed, so great was Brahmadatta’s admiration and his gratitude, he soon restored to Dighavu the kingdom of his father. And as long as both kings lived, all quarrels between them were resolved in friendship and good will.

About the Story

The full story is found in the tenth chapter of the Mahavagga, an ancient Buddhist text concerned with monastic discipline. Pieces and summaries of the story are found in the Jataka, a collection of fables, and in the Dhammapadatthakatha, a commentary by Buddhaghosa on the Dhammapada.

Brahmadatta is a legendary king mentioned in many Buddhist tales. Dighiti and Dighavu seem to be characters created just for this story, since their names describe their conditions—Dighiti meaning “long-suffering” and Dighavu meaning “long-lived.” Dighiti’s queen, here called Deva, is unnamed in the sources.

I was first introduced to this tale in the late 1970s by Paul Carus’s The Gospel of the Buddha. Key references for my retelling included:

Vinaya Texts, Part 2, translated by T. W. Rhys Davids and Hermann Oldenberg, Oxford University, 1882 (Volume 17 of The Sacred Books of the East, edited by F. Max Muller), pp. 291–306 (from the Tenth Khandhaka of the Mahavagga).

The Jataka, or Stories of the Buddha’s Former Births, Volume 3, translated by H. T. Francis and R. A. Neil, edited by E. B. Cowell, Cambridge University, 1897, pp. 139–140 (#371) and 289–291 (#428).

Buddhist Legends (translation of Buddhaghosa’s Dhammapadatthakatha), translated by Eugene Watson Burlingame, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1921 (Volume 28 of the Harvard Oriental Series, edited by Charles Rockwell Lanman), pp. 176–177.

The Gospel of the Buddha, compiled and retold by Paul Carus, Open Court, Lasalle, Illinois, 1915, pp. 104–108 and the glossary.

The legend described in the introductory note comes from:

The Jataka, or Stories of the Buddha’s Former Births, Volume 5, translated by H. T. Francis, edited by E. B. Cowell, Cambridge University, 1897, pp. 219–220 (#536).

For help with this retelling, I would like to thank the many students, teachers, and librarians who took part in my Internet program Works in Progress during the first half of 1995. The comments I received were invaluable in guiding my revisions.

How to Say the Names

(General hint: If an h follows a d, pretend it isn’t there.)
Benares ~ ben-AR-ess
Brahmadatta ~ BRAH-ma-DAH-ta
Deva ~ DAY-va
Dighavu ~ dee-GAH-voo (hard g)
Dighiti ~ dee-GEE-tee (hard g)

The Monkey King: A Superhero Tale of China

2012-09-23T07:55:00.001-07:00

If you think Superman or Spiderman has been around a long time, think about Monkey. He has been China’s favorite superhero for at least five centuries. He’s amazingly strong, he can fly, and he has a few tricks those other superheroes never heard of. And he’s always ready to do battle with demons, dragons—sometimes even the gods.

Monkey stars in The Journey to the West, an epic comic fantasy from the sixteenth century. The part retold here is about Monkey’s origin and early career—and the one time he didn’t come out on top.

Prologue:
From Out of Stone

Far across the Eastern Sea, on the island called the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, a magic boulder had sat on the mountain’s peak since the creation of the world. Bathed in the energies of Earth and Heaven, quickened by the light of Sun and Moon, the stone became fertile, and at last cracked open to release its young.

From this stone egg emerged a full-grown monkey. As it gazed about and above, golden light shot from its eyes to the farthest reaches of Heaven and Earth.

* * *

High above in Heaven, the Jade Emperor, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, was startled by the rays of light reaching his Celestial Throne.

“See what’s causing that,” he ordered his chief minister, the Spirit of the Great White Planet Venus.

The Great White Planet went to look out the East Gate of Heaven and soon returned with his report. “Your Majesty, a stone has given birth to a monkey. The rays of light came from its eyes. But now that the monkey has taken food, the light is fading.”

The Jade Emperor sighed. “Only a monkey, is it? Well, we have important business here. A monkey is no concern of ours.”

* * *

Elsewhere in Heaven, Lord Lao Tzu, Supreme Patriarch of the Way, was refining Elixir of Life, when just for a moment the golden rays penetrated his alchemy laboratory.

“Such a powerful beam!” murmured Lao Tzu in wonder. “The one who produced it will surely become an Immortal!”

* * *

Far off in the Western Paradise, the Buddha paused in his blessed discourse to his disciples as the rays of light shone into the temple hall. He closed his eyes a moment in silent meditation, then turned to Kwan Yin, Most Compassionate Bodhisattva and Goddess of Mercy.

“A remarkable creature has been born: a monkey, yet not an ordinary one. I see he is destined to become an enlightened being, a true Buddha. Yet before he does, he will offer us no end of mischief.”

And so saying, he resumed his blessed discourse.

1
The Birthday Quest

On the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, in the Heavenly Cave of the Water Curtain, the island monkeys were feasting to celebrate the birthday of their king. But the Monkey King himself sat there gloomily.

“What’s wrong, Your Majesty?” asked an old gibbon.

“Here I am, only four hundred years old,” said the Monkey King, “and I’ve already reached the heights of greatness. What is left to hope and strive for? What can be higher than a king?”

“Your Majesty,” said the gibbon carefully, “we have ever been grateful for that time four centuries ago when you hatched from the stone, wandered into our midst, and found for us this hidden cave behind the waterfall. We made you our king as the greatest honor we could bestow. Still, I must tell you that kings are not the highest of beings.”

“They’re not?” said the Monkey King.

“No, Your Majesty. Above them are gods, who dwell in Heaven and govern Earth. Then there are Immortals, who have gained great powers and live forever. And finally there are Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, who have conquered illusion and escaped rebirth.”

“Wonderful!” cried the Monkey King. “Maybe I can become all three!” He considered a moment, then said, “I think I’ll start with the Immortals. I’ll search the earth till I’ve found one, then learn to become one myself!”

The very next morning, the Monkey King ordered a pine raft to be built and loaded with fruit for the journey. Then he took leave of his cheering subjects, floated downstream to the island’s edge, and started across the great sea.

2
Meeting the Master

On the Mountain of Heart and Mind, the Monkey King stood before a double door in the mountainside. Beside it was a huge stone tablet carved in ancient characters.

DIVINE CAVE OF THE THREE STARS

“This is the place!” said the Monkey King. “Right where the woodcutter told me. I just hope I look all right in these human clothes.” He glanced down at what he’d gathered on his journey—black boots, red robe, and yellow sash.

Just then, one of the doors opened and a young man peered out at him. “You can’t be the one!” he exclaimed in horror.

“What one?” asked the Monkey King.

“My master, the Patriarch Subodhi, just mounted the dais to deliver the day’s discourse. But instead of starting, he told me to open the door, because someone had come who wished to study the Way.”

“That’s me!” said the Monkey King.

“You don’t say!” said the young man, laughing. “Then come along.”

They walked down a stone corridor and into a large chamber, where thirty or forty disciples faced a dais made of jade. Sitting cross-legged on the platform was a man who looked as old as Heaven, yet strong and healthy. His flowing beard trailed away behind him.

“Master!” cried the Monkey King, dropping to his knees and knocking his head on the floor. “Please accept this humble seeker as your disciple!”

“Humble, is it?” said the Patriarch. “We’ll see about that! But tell me, what is your name?”

“I have no name, Master, for I had no parents to give me one. I was born from a magic stone.”

“Most unusual,” said the Patriarch thoughtfully. “Well, what if I name you ‘Monkey’?”

“Master, what an ingenious idea! It fits me perfectly!”

“Then ‘Monkey’ it is,” said the Patriarch. “And for now, you may stay and learn with the others—just as long as you keep out of trouble!”

* * *

So Monkey became a student of the Way. Each day, he studied scriptures, discussed doctrine, and listened to the discourse of the Patriarch. The rest of the time, he swept the cave, helped in the vegetable garden and orchard, gathered firewood, and carried water from the stream. Days went by, then weeks, then months, then years.

One day during the Patriarch’s discourse, Monkey grew so excited that he could not contain himself. With his eyes closed, he got up on all fours and began leaping and turning.

“Stop that!” roared the Patriarch. “Monkey, why are you prancing about?”

“Forgive me, Master!” said Monkey. “I was so happy to hear your words, I danced without knowing it!”

“Is that so!” said the Patriarch, looking at Monkey thoughtfully. “You’ve been here seven years now, I believe. Tell me, what branch of the Way do you wish to learn from me?”

“Master,” said Monkey, “you know how ignorant I am. Anything you want to teach me is fine.”

“What if I teach you the Way of the Seventy-Two Changes? You’ll then be able to turn yourself into anything you want.”

“Wonderful!” said Monkey.

So the Patriarch whispered into Monkey’s ear.

For three months, Monkey practiced the techniques in private. Then one day, as he walked back from his chores in the orchard, the Patriarch came up to him.

“Monkey, how are you doing with those tidbits I taught you?”

“Just fine, Master,” said Monkey. “I can now accomplish all of the Seventy-Two Changes. But tell me, Master, will this make me immortal?”

“Not likely!” said the Patriarch.

“Then I beg you to teach me more.”

“All right,” said the Patriarch. “What about Cloud Soaring? You’ll then be able to travel quickly wherever you want.”

“Marvelous!” said Monkey.

The Patriarch explained, “When Immortals or Buddhas or gods want to travel great distances, they ride on magic clouds. They rise to the cloud by stamping one foot, and stamp it again to move the cloud forward. But you’re built differently. So instead, let’s try the Cloud Somersault.”

Then the Patriarch taught Monkey how to somersault high into the air, land on a magic cloud, and propel it across the sky with more somersaults.

Another three months passed while Monkey practiced. Soon he could travel for hundreds of miles with each somersault. Then one day the Patriarch paused in his discourse and addressed Monkey again from the dais.

“Monkey, how are you doing with that little trick I taught you?”

“Very well, Master. But tell me, will this make me immortal?”

“I should say not!”

“Then please, Master, teach me more!”

The Patriarch jumped from the dais and stalked angrily up to Monkey. “You greedy creature! Will you never be satisfied? Will you never stop demanding?”

He thumped Monkey on the head three times. Then, with his hands held behind his back, he stomped into his private chamber and slammed the door.

“Stupid ape!” yelled one of the disciples. “You’ve upset the Master!”

“Yes,” said another, “and who knows when he’ll come out again!”

But Monkey just sat there grinning.

Late that night, Monkey crept from the disciples’ sleeping place, out the front door of the cave, and around to the back. There he found the Patriarch’s door left open a crack.

“Come in, Monkey,” came the Patriarch’s voice.

Monkey slipped inside. In the candlelight, he saw the Patriarch sitting cross-legged on his cot.

The Patriarch smiled. “I see you understood my secret signs.”

“Yes, Master. I knew that hitting me three times meant to come here in the third watch of the night. And holding your hands behind you meant to use the back door. I came just as you instructed.”

“In that case,” said the Patriarch, “it’s your destiny to learn the Way of Immortality. Come close, my disciple, and hear the secrets of Eternal Life.”

And so the Patriarch revealed his precious wisdom. But what he said must not be written here.

* * *

For three years Monkey practiced the secret techniques. His body grew hard and enduring and full of powerful energies. Then one day, he was sitting with the other disciples outside the cave.

“Monkey,” said one of them, “what is that nonsense about the ‘Seventy-Two Changes’? Can you really turn yourself into something else?”

“I certainly can,” said Monkey proudly.

“We won’t believe it till we see it,” said another.

“Then just watch this,” said Monkey. He called out, “Change!” And there in place of Monkey stood a unicorn!

“Bravo! Bravo!” yelled the students. They cheered and applauded as Monkey changed back and took a bow.

Just then, the Patriarch Subodhi burst from the cave. “What’s all this noise?” he shouted. “Don’t you know that followers of the Way never shout?”

“We’re sorry, Master,” said Monkey. “I was just showing them one of my changes.”

The Patriarch turned white. “Away, all of you—except Monkey!”

When they were alone, the Patriarch turned on his disciple. “Is that how you use your powers—to show off? Don’t you realize the others will be jealous? They’re sure to come and demand your secrets. And if you refuse, they may seek revenge!”

“Master, I’m sorry!” said Monkey. “I didn’t think!”

“Well, I won’t punish you,” said the Patriarch. “But you’re not safe here any longer, so you’ll have to leave.”

“Master, where would I go?” said Monkey in alarm.

“That’s your business,” said the Patriarch. “But on your way, you’d better pick up a magic weapon for protection. The Dragon King of the Eastern Sea might have something useful.”

“But, Master,” said Monkey with tears in his eyes, “how can I leave without repaying all your kindness?”

“Don’t do me any favors,” said the Patriarch. “Once you’re gone, you’re bound to land in serious trouble. Just keep my name out of it, and don’t you dare tell anyone you’re my disciple!”

“Master, I promise,” said Monkey. “Good-bye, Master.” Then he somersaulted into the air, landed on a magic cloud, and flew off, head over heels.

3
The Dragon King’s Gift

At the bottom of the Eastern Sea, before the green jade palace of the Dragon King, Monkey marched up to a cowrie shell gate where a Dragon Captain stood guard. The captain stared in amazement.

“I’m here to see the Dragon King,” declared Monkey. “Tell him it’s the Monkey King from the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit. And be quick about it!”

“Yes, sir!” said the captain, saluting smartly.

In a few minutes, the captain was ushering Monkey into the throne room.

“Welcome, brother,” said the Dragon King stiffly. “How kind of you to pay this most unexpected visit.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Monkey.

“Tell me, brother,” said the Dragon King, “how did you gain the art of living under water?”

“I’ve studied the magic arts of the Way for many years,” said Monkey. “In fact, that’s why I’m here! Now that I’m an Immortal, I need a magic weapon to match my abilities. Can you spare one?”

“An Immortal!” remarked the Dragon King. “Well now, perhaps I can find one for you. Captain, bring out the Scimitar of the Waning Moon.”

The captain fetched a large scimitar. Monkey took it and made a few passes at the air. “Too light! Too light!”

The Dragon King laughed. “Brother, you must be joking. That scimitar weighs nearly a hundred pounds!”

“It just doesn’t feel right,” said Monkey.

The Dragon King looked somewhat alarmed. “Captain, bring out the Battle-Ax of the Noonday Sun.”

The captain brought it out, and Monkey swung it a few times. “Still too light. Way too light!”

Now the Dragon King looked really frightened. “Brother, that weapon is over a thousand pounds!”

“I need more weight!” declared Monkey. “Don’t you have anything heavier?”

“I assure you,” said the Dragon King, “that’s the heaviest weapon in the palace!”

Just then, the Dragon Queen entered from a door behind the throne, bowed graciously to Monkey, then spoke low to the king. “This monkey is no ordinary fellow. Perhaps you should give him the giant stamping rod in your treasury.”

“That old piece of scrap?” whispered the Dragon King. “What could he do with it?”

“That’s his concern, not ours,” hissed the queen. “Just give it to him and get him out of the palace!”

The queen bowed graciously to Monkey and took her leave.

The Dragon King cleared his throat nervously. “I remember now that in my treasury is an iron rod once belonging to Yu the Great. He used it to pound down the beds of the rivers and seas in the time of the Great Flood. Perhaps it will meet your needs.”

“Bring it out and we’ll have a look,” said Monkey.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the Dragon King. “It weighs ten tons, and not one of us can lift it! We’ll have to go ourselves to see it.”

The Dragon King led Monkey across a courtyard and into the treasury, then pointed out a pillar of black iron. It was twenty feet high and as thick as a barrel, and both ends were tipped with gold. As Monkey approached, the pillar began to glow.

“It likes me!” said Monkey.

He examined the pillar closely and found characters inscribed near the bottom band.

CELESTIAL STAFF OF THE OBEDIENT IRON

Monkey put both hands on the pillar and lifted it. The Dragon King gasped.

“The weight seems right,” said Monkey. “If only it were smaller.”

At once, the staff shrank to 15 feet and became thinner too.

“Wonderful!” said Monkey. “It really is obedient! But even smaller would be nice.”

It shrank to 10 feet.

“Almost there,” said Monkey.

Five feet.

“Perfect!” said Monkey. He hefted the staff and declared, “It weighs the same as before!”

As they returned through the courtyard, Monkey tried some practice thrusts and parries. The Dragon King turned pale and jumped out of range. “Brother, please be careful!”

Monkey said, “I believe this little beauty will do anything I want.” He called out, “Grow!” Both Monkey and the staff shot up to over two hundred feet tall.

“Take this! And that!” he shouted, swinging at an imaginary foe. The water swirled so furiously, it nearly swept away the Dragon King.

Then Monkey called “Shrink!” Monkey and staff returned swiftly to normal height. “Smaller!”—and the staff alone became the size of a needle. Monkey lodged it safely in his ear.

He turned to the Dragon King, who was now trembling violently. “Thank you, brother! You’ve been a most gracious host!”

“Don’t mention it,” said the Dragon King.

And with a leap and a somersault, Monkey was gone.

4
Death’s Domain

On the surface of the Eastern Sea, not far from the Dragon King’s palace, Monkey landed lightly on a barren rock that jutted above the waves. Stretching himself out on it, he yawned and then studied the sky.

“Now that I’m an Immortal, I think I’ll fly up to Heaven and become a god as well. But that’s all after a good nap.”

He closed his eyes and quickly drifted into sleep.

All at once Monkey felt himself jerked to his feet. Two men were clutching his elbows. One man had the face of a horse, the other had the head of an ox.

Horse Face held an official document, which he studied closely. “Is your name Monkey?”

“That’s right,” said Monkey, in a daze.

“All right,” said Ox Head, “get moving!”

They started to drag him off. Stumbling once, Monkey happened to glance back. There he saw himself, still lying on the ground!

They rounded the rock and started across a desolate plain. The sea was nowhere in sight. “Where is this?” he asked. “And how did I get here?”

“He wants to know how he got here!” snorted Horse Face.

“You got here the same way as everyone!” said Ox Head.

After a while they came to the wall of a city. Above the gate was an iron placard with characters inlaid in gold.

DEMON GATE OF THE LAND OF DARKNESS

“Land of Darkness?” exclaimed Monkey, at last coming fully awake. “But that’s the realm of Yama, Lord of the Dead! I don’t belong here!”

“That’s what they all say!” said Horse Face.

“But I’m an Immortal!” protested Monkey. “I’ve gone beyond death!”

“Tell it to the judge!” said Ox Head.

“All right, I will!” said Monkey, snatching his staff from its hiding place in his ear. “Grow!” he cried, and in half a moment he was swinging five feet of it.

“We didn’t mean it!” cried Horse Face, fleeing through the gate.

“Can’t you take a joke?” said Ox Head, racing after.

Monkey followed them in, still swinging his staff. The demons of the city were terrified, and not one of them dared get in his way. By the time Monkey reached the Palace of Darkness, Lord Yama and the other nine Judges of the Dead were waiting on the steps.

“Sir, what seems to be the trouble?” asked Yama nervously.

“The trouble?” said Monkey. “The trouble is you’ve brought me here!”

“But sir, I assure you,” said Yama, “you will be judged fairly and punished—I mean, re-educated—strictly according to your past deeds. Then when the evil you’ve done has been avenged—I mean, corrected—you’ll be returned to the Land of Light for a brand new life.”

“I don’t want to be reborn!” said Monkey. “I don’t want to die in the first place! Don’t you realize I’m an Immortal?”

“An Immortal!” said Yama in consternation. “There must be some mistake!”

“Exactly!” said Monkey. “I demand to see the Register of Life and Death.”

Yama led him into the Hall of Darkness, where a clerk dragged out several musty volumes. Monkey searched till he found his name.

“Writing brush!” commanded Monkey, and the clerk gave him one dipped in ink. Monkey blotted his name from the register. “That should do it,” he said.

“This is most irregular!” protested Yama.

“Tell it to the judge!” said Monkey. He slammed the book shut and rushed out. Then he made his way back to the city wall, swinging his staff as he went.

Just outside the gate, Monkey tripped and fell rolling. When he opened his eyes, he was back on the rock in the Eastern Sea.

“Wonderful!” cried Monkey as he jumped to his feet. “Next stop: Heaven.”

5
The Emperor of All

High above in Heaven, at the Cloud Palace of the Golden Doors, in the Hall of Divine Mist, the Jade Emperor, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, was having a bad day.

He had spent his whole morning stamping his official seal on documents promoting or demoting heavenly officials. In the afternoon his wife, the Lady Queen Mother, had demanded his help with the invitation list for the Grand Banquet of Immortal Peaches. And now both the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea and Yama, Lord of the Dead, stood before him complaining of some kind of monkey who had become immortal, with power enough to threaten them both.

“I’ll see to it at once,” said the Jade Emperor. “Now, both of you, please return to your kingdoms.”

No sooner had the Dragon King and Yama left the hall than a lieutenant rushed in and bowed to the ground.

“Your Majesty, there’s trouble at the East Gate. A talking monkey arrived there an hour ago and demanded entrance. Four of our guards engaged him in combat, but he is holding them all off with a simple staff.”

“Indeed,” said the Jade Emperor, raising an imperial eyebrow. “This must be the monkey Immortal that was reported to us.” He turned to his commander-in-chief, the Heavenly General of Mighty Miracle. “Round up the twelve Thunder Generals and arrest the fiend.”

But the Spirit of the Great White Planet Venus stepped forward and said, “Your Majesty, as your chief minister, I must point out that this monkey’s deeds may not yet merit such a response. Would it not be better simply to invite him into Heaven and offer him a position? Then we could keep an eye on him and avoid further trouble.”

“An excellent idea,” said the Jade Emperor. “You may go at once to extend the invitation.”

The Great White Planet soon returned with Monkey and bowed low before the Celestial Throne. “Your Majesty, I have brought the Immortal.”

“Remarkable,” said the Jade Emperor, looking Monkey up and down.

“Glad to meet you too!” said Monkey. “So, what’s it like, running the universe?”

A gasp went up from the Great White Planet and from the other court officials. The Jade Emperor stared icily at Monkey. “In light of your primitive background and the recentness of your arrival, I will overlook your ignorance of court etiquette.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!” said Monkey. “I knew we’d get along.”

“Now, in regard to a post,” said the Jade Emperor, “my officials tell me the only current vacancy is as a supervisor in the Imperial Stables.”

“Sounds important!” said Monkey. “I’ll take it!”

“Very good,” said the Jade Emperor. “Henceforth, your title shall be ‘Protector of Horses.’”

“‘Protector of Horses,’” said Monkey dreamily. “Thank you, Your Majesty!” And as the Great White Planet pulled him quickly from the hall, he called back, “You won’t be sorry!”

“I’m not so sure about that,” muttered the Jade Emperor.

6
Havoc in Heaven

At the Imperial Stables of the Jade Emperor, a banquet of welcome and congratulation was being held for the new Protector of Horses. In just a few weeks of Monkey’s care, the thousand heavenly coursers and chargers had begun to grow sleek and muscular. The officials under him liked him as well, and so had gathered in his honor.

“What a wonderful feast!” said Monkey as he sampled all the dishes. “I certainly like the food here in Heaven!”

“This isn’t bad,” said his chief assistant wistfully. “Still, it’s nothing compared to the food at the Grand Banquet of Immortal Peaches.”

“What’s that?” asked Monkey.

“Each year the Lady Queen Mother holds a banquet at the Pavilion of the Jade Pool. Her guests all dine on Immortal Peaches grown in her orchard. Each peach has ripened for nine thousand years and adds that many years to the life of the one who eats it. And for dessert, they have Pills of Immortality, made from Elixir of Life refined by Lord Lao Tzu in the Crucible of the Eight Trigrams. A single pill will guarantee eternal life.”

“I can hardly wait!” said Monkey. “When is the banquet?”

“Today,” said the assistant.

“But I haven’t had an invitation,” said Monkey.

“Of course not,” said the assistant. “Your post is too low.”

“What do you mean?” said Monkey in alarm. “I thought Protector of Horses was a high-ranking position.”

“On the contrary,” said the assistant. “It’s so low, it has no rank at all!”

Monkey was stunned. “So that’s what they think of me, is it? Me! The Monkey King! Well, I won’t stand for it! I’ll go to the banquet whether they want me or not!”

He rushed outside, somersaulted onto a cloud, and sped off.

* * *

At the Pavilion of the Jade Pool, servants ran about, busily setting the tables. From where he had landed nearby, Monkey could see trays loaded with Immortal Peaches, and bowls brimming with Pills of Immortality. There were also large pitchers filled with juice of jade, and heaping plates of delicacies like unicorn liver and phoenix marrow.

Monkey’s mouth watered. “I won’t bother waiting for the other guests,” he said. “Change!”—and he became an exact image of the Spirit of the Great White Planet Venus.

Monkey stepped into the pavilion and announced in the chief minister’s voice, “A command from the Jade Emperor! You are all to go to the Cloud Palace of the Golden Doors for further instructions.”

“What in Heaven could that be about?” said the head steward. “All right, we’d better not dally.” And all the servants rushed off.

As soon as Monkey was alone, he changed back to himself and started grabbing peaches right and left. They tasted so heavenly, he wanted to eat them all—but since there were so many, he took just a bite or two from each one. He guzzled the jade juice and bolted down whole plates of delicacies. And he popped Pills of Immortality into his mouth like peanuts.

“At last!” he said. “A feast fit for a Monkey King!”

* * *

At the Cloud Palace of the Golden Doors, in the Hall of Divine Mist, the guests of the Lady Queen Mother had gathered to await the Grand Banquet of Immortal Peaches. Nearly all of the most important divinities were there, including ministers from all departments of the heavenly administration, heavenly generals, many star and constellation spirits, and a number of Bodhisattvas and Immortals. Seated beside the Jade Emperor and the Lady Queen Mother were Lord Lao Tzu, Supreme Patriarch of the Way, and Kwan Yin, Most Compassionate Bodhisattva and Goddess of Mercy.

As the Jade Emperor conversed with the guests, the head steward entered and bowed low before the Celestial Throne. “Your Majesty, your servants are assembled outside the hall, awaiting your instructions for the banquet.”

“Instructions?” said the Jade Emperor. “I have none to give!”

“But, Your Majesty,” said the steward, “the venerable Spirit of the Great White Planet Venus commanded us in your name to come and receive them!”

“The Great White Planet has been here the whole time, and I gave no such order!” The Jade Emperor turned to his commander-in-chief, the Heavenly General of Mighty Miracle. “Go at once to the Pavilion of the Jade Pool and find out what’s behind this. And take along the twelve Thunder Generals, in case there’s trouble.”

* * *

At the Pavilion of the Jade Pool, Monkey had eaten as much as he possibly could and was patting his stomach in satisfaction. But a moment later he looked nervously at the scene around him.

“I don’t think I’ll win any friends this way!” he said. “I’d better clear out before I’m spotted.”

But just then the Heavenly General of Mighty Miracle ran up with the twelve Thunder Generals. “Monstrous monkey!” he bellowed. “You’ve ruined the Grand Banquet of Immortal Peaches!”

“There’s not much doubt about that!” said Monkey, with a sheepish grin. “But what are you going to do about it?”

“You sickening simian!” roared Mighty Miracle. “Have a taste of my battle-ax!”

Mighty Miracle rushed at Monkey, who grabbed his staff from his ear and called, “Grow!” Just in time, he blocked the swing of Mighty Miracle’s ax.

“You’ll have to do better than that!” said Monkey.

Mighty Miracle swung again and again, but Monkey parried every blow. Soon they were moving so fast, their arms were just a blur.

Mighty Miracle bellowed, “Let’s see if you can face my magic powers! Grow!”—and he shot up to over a hundred feet tall.

“I know that trick too!” called Monkey. “Grow!”—and he was once more face to face with his opponent.

The noise of their battle was deafening, and their movements raised a wind that nearly blew away the twelve Thunder Generals. But neither could gain an advantage.

All at once Monkey cried, “Shrink!” and somersaulted into the air. At normal size, he sailed right by Mighty Miracle’s battle-ax. He brought his staff down squarely on the Heavenly General’s shoulder as he passed over it.

Mighty Miracle roared with pain, then quickly shrank to normal size and retreated.

Now the twelve Thunder Generals surrounded Monkey and attacked him with their battle-axes, swords, lances, halberds, maces, and scimitars. Monkey whirled like a top, countering every blow. But after a while he grew tired.

“This is hardly a fair fight!” he said. “But here’s a trick you haven’t seen yet!”

He yanked a dozen hairs from his tail, threw them in the air, and cried, “Change!” Each hair became a monkey that swung an iron staff against one of the Thunder Generals.

“Now I can take a break!” said Monkey. He put his staff away in his ear and stood grinning in the midst of the battle.

At that moment, the Imperial Chariot arrived at the pavilion with the Jade Emperor, the Lady Queen Mother, Lord Lao Tzu, and Kwan Yin.

The Jade Emperor was aghast. “What did I tell you! It’s that fiendish monkey again!”

“Just look at my banquet!” cried the Lady Queen Mother. “It’s a complete disaster!”

“Your Majesty,” said Kwan Yin to the Jade Emperor, “it appears that your generals could use a bit of help in dealing with the Immortal. Will you permit me?”

“Most Compassionate Bodhisattva,” said the Jade Emperor, “I am grateful for your offer. But I must point out that you have no weapon.”

“I have this porcelain vase of willow twigs, which I always carry with me,” replied Kwan Yin. “Allow me to show you how useful it can be.”

Kwan Yin stamped her foot, rose a hundred feet in the air, and landed on a magic cloud. Then taking careful aim, she dropped her vase right onto Monkey’s head.

Monkey dropped unconscious to the ground. The fighting monkeys at once changed back to hairs, returning to his tail.

Kwan Yin retrieved her vase and landed back in the chariot.

“Well done!” declared the Jade Emperor.

“It is not worth mentioning,” replied the Bodhisattva.

The Heavenly General of Mighty Miracle came up. “Your Majesty, what are your wishes regarding the Protector of Horses?”

“Take him at once to the execution block,” said the Jade Emperor. “Cut him into a thousand pieces!”

“Your Majesty,” said Lord Lao Tzu, “I’m afraid such a punishment is no longer possible. After eating so many of my Pills of Immortality, his body must be as hard as a diamond. No weapon could pierce or even scratch it.”

“Then what are we to do with him?” asked the Jade Emperor in dismay.

“Perhaps I can be of service,” said Lao Tzu. “Hand him over to me, and I’ll heat him in my Crucible of the Eight Trigrams. In just an hour his body will be consumed to ash—and at the same time, I can recover my elixir.”

“I accept your kind and considerate offer,” said the Jade Emperor. “We will return to the palace to await word of your success.”

7
The Buddha’s Bet

In the alchemy laboratory of the Cinnabar Palace, Lord Lao Tzu, Supreme Patriarch of the Way, dumped Monkey into the Crucible of the Eight Trigrams, clamped down the lid, and lifted the crucible onto the hearth.

“Stoke up the fire as high as you can,” he told his assistant. “We’ll need the greatest heat possible to refine this villain.”

Meanwhile, Monkey was starting to come to. “What hit me?” he wondered, rubbing his sore head. “And where in Heaven have they taken me?”

He groped around in the dark. “It’s some kind of porcelain pot, and it’s getting warm! Are they trying to bake me? Or burn me to ashes? Well, I won’t let them do it!”

Monkey pushed and kicked at the lid, but it wouldn’t give. Then he took the miniature staff from his ear, held it pointing up, and said, “Grow!”

In a flash the staff enlarged to five feet, pushing against the bottom of the crucible and shattering the top. As Monkey jumped out, he knocked over the astonished Supreme Patriarch, sending him head over heels.

Monkey ran in a blind rage all the way from the Cinnabar Palace to the Cloud Palace of the Golden Doors, brandishing his staff at every heavenly official along the way. At the palace steps he found the Heavenly General of Mighty Miracle and the twelve Thunder Generals, who all grew pale at the sight of him.

“So you thought you could do away with the Monkey King!” shouted Monkey. “Well, here’s a message for the Jade Emperor: I’m no longer the Protector of Horses. I’m now the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. And he’s no longer the Jade Emperor, because I’m taking over! If he doesn’t step down from the Celestial Throne, I’ll come and pull him off it!”

* * *

In the Hall of Divine Mist, the Jade Emperor could hardly believe the message he had heard from the Heavenly General.

“The audacity of this wretched monkey knows no bounds!” he declared. “Gather as many soldiers as you need and wipe him out!”

“Your Majesty,” said the Heavenly General uneasily, “I fear we are unable to do so. The creature is too powerful a fighter for any single warrior to defeat. And if we send great numbers against him, he can easily outdo us with an army made from the hairs of his body. Even if we capture him again, we have no way to destroy or imprison him.”

“Just what are you telling me?” asked the Jade Emperor in amazement. “That I must give up my throne to this stinking monkey?”

“Your Majesty,” said Kwan Yin, “I don’t think it need come to that. There is still one who could defeat the rebellious Immortal and preserve your rule. Why not send to the Western Paradise and ask the assistance of the Buddha?”

The Jade Emperor said, “If the resources of Heaven are not enough to defeat this monster, I suppose I have no choice!”

Moments later, the Spirit of the Great White Planet Venus was speeding on a magic cloud out the West Gate of Heaven. It was not long before he reached the Western Paradise, where he landed on the Mountain of Miracles and entered the Temple of the Thunderclap.

The Buddha listened closely to the message of the Great White Planet. Then he turned to his disciples. “Remain steadfast in your practice of meditation until my return.”

* * *

Outside the Cloud Palace of the Golden Doors, Monkey marched up and down, swinging his staff, till his patience ran out.

“Time’s up!” he yelled at the quaking Thunder Generals. “I’m coming in!”

But just as he stepped forward, a magic cloud landed in front of him. Off it stepped a huge man in the robe of a monk.

“What’s this?” said Monkey. “Who are you, old monk, and why are you standing in my way?”

The man laughed. “I am Siddhartha, often called the Buddha. I am told you call yourself the Great Sage Equal to Heaven and even demand the Jade Emperor’s place on the Celestial Throne.”

“That’s right,” said Monkey. “He’s been there long enough. Someone else should get a turn.”

“The Jade Emperor,” said the Buddha, “has been perfecting himself through four million lifetimes, for over two hundred million years. And you’re not yet even fully human! What makes you think you’re suited to rule Heaven and Earth?”

“I have great powers,” said Monkey. “I’ve mastered the Seventy-Two Changes. And I can travel for hundreds of miles with a single somersault!”

“Indeed!” said the Buddha. “Then could you stand on the palm of my hand and somersault clear out of it?”

Monkey stared at the Buddha. “Enlightenment must have addled your brain! I just said I can somersault hundreds of miles. How could I not jump out of your palm?”

“Then wager with me,” said the Buddha. “If you get off my palm with a single somersault, the Celestial Throne will be yours. I’ll just tell the Jade Emperor to come live with me in the Western Paradise. But if you don’t make it off my palm, you’ll return to Earth and leave Heaven alone.”

“You can make good on your promise?” asked Monkey.

“Certainly,” said the Buddha.

“Then you’re on!”

Monkey put away his staff and jumped onto the Buddha’s palm, which was the size of a lotus leaf. Then he gave the mightiest leap of his life.

Head over heels Monkey tumbled through the air, spinning like a windmill for hundreds, thousands of miles. At last he came to five olive-colored pillars reaching high into the sky.

“This must be the end of Heaven,” he told himself, and he landed at the base of the middle pillar. “That bet wasn’t hard to win. But I’d better leave behind some proof.”

He plucked a hair from his tail and said, “Change!” The hair turned to a writing brush filled with ink, and Monkey wrote on the pillar,

MONKEY WAS HERE

He returned the hair to his tail, gave another mighty leap, and moments later landed back in the Buddha’s palm.

“All right, old monk,” said Monkey. “Now keep your part of the bargain and tell the Jade Emperor to clear out.”

“You impudent ape!” said the Buddha. “You’ve been on my palm the whole time!”

“What are you talking about?” said Monkey. “I somersaulted clear to the end of Heaven! If you don’t believe me, come see the proof for yourself.”

“There’s no need to go anywhere,” said the Buddha. “Just look down.”

Monkey looked down, and there at the base of the Buddha’s middle finger were the characters,

MONKEY WAS HERE

“It can’t be!” declared Monkey. “It’s some kind of trick! I’m going back to look for myself.”

But before Monkey could leap again, the Buddha turned his hand over, thrust Monkey out the West Gate of Heaven, and pushed him down to Earth. The hand turned into a five-peaked mountain which pinned Monkey between stone walls. His head and arms were out, but the rest of him was hopelessly trapped.

“You can’t do this to me!” cried Monkey. “I’m the Monkey King! I’m an Immortal! I’m the Great Sage Equal to Heaven! Let me out!”

He stopped to consider. Then he added, “Please?”

Epilogue:
To Stone Returned

High above in Heaven, outside the Cloud Palace of the Golden Doors, the Buddha was receiving profuse thanks and congratulations from the Jade Emperor, the Lady Queen Mother, and Lord Lao Tzu. But at last he said, “I must now return to my disciples in the Western Paradise.”

He turned to Kwan Yin, Most Compassionate Bodhisattva and Goddess of Mercy. “Would you care to accompany me?”

As the two flew west on magic clouds, Kwan Yin said gently, “No doubt the rebellious Immortal deserved a strict punishment. But wasn’t eternal imprisonment a bit harsh?”

“His punishment is not eternal,” replied the Buddha. “You may remember I once told you about this very monkey. He is destined to become an enlightened one, a Buddha.”

“And how will that come about?” asked Kwan Yin.

“Five hundred years from now,” said the Buddha, “I will need a messenger from the Middle Kingdom to come to the Western Paradise and carry back holy scriptures. It will be your own role to find a man or woman worthy of the task. At that time, too, you will recruit our penitent monkey friend to protect the messenger on the long and perilous journey. By doing so, the monkey will atone for his crimes and earn Enlightenment.”

“The compassion of the Buddha is beyond measure,” said Kwan Yin.

Buddha and Bodhisattva smiled at one another and touched hands lightly. Far ahead, the Temple of the Thunderclap gleamed in the setting sun.

About the Story

Monkey is the most popular figure in all Chinese literature, loved for centuries by young people and adults alike. His story is found in a classic sixteenth-century novel, The Journey to the West (Xi You Ji or Hsi Yu Chi), as well as in countless later adaptations, from Chinese opera to comic books.

The novel, written anonymously but often attributed to the humorist Wu Cheng’en, is an epic comic fantasy of 100 chapters. My retelling covers only the first seven chapters, which form a kind of prelude. The bulk of the novel recounts the journey of the Buddhist monk Sanzang to collect sacred scriptures from Buddha in the Western Paradise, aided by Monkey and several other magical creatures.

Monkey’s adventures provide a breathtaking, whirlwind tour of Chinese mythology, with its rich amalgam of Buddhist and Taoist elements. Here are notes on some of these.

Jade Emperor, Heaven. Though the Jade Emperor is ruler of Heaven and Earth, he is not so much a supreme God as a supreme administrator. In fact, he is outranked by the three top divine beings of the Chinese pantheon, Buddha, Lao Tzu, and Confucius—who are themselves subject to higher universal forces.

The Chinese Heaven is modeled closely on the government of the Chinese emperors. In other words, it is a bloated bureaucracy, crammed with innumerable officials with pompous titles, with a finger in every possible earthly activity.

Lao Tzu, Immortals, Patriarch Subodhi. Centuries before Taoism was established as an organized religion, it existed as a spiritual discipline similar to the yoga systems of India. (Tao is pronounced “DOW,” rhyming with “cow.”) The followers of this branch of Taoism, represented in the story by the Patriarch Subodhi and his disciples, were ascetics living in mountain hermitages. These ascetics aimed to become “Immortals” by developing conscious spirit bodies that could transcend death. But for most Chinese, this was simplified into the belief that Taoist masters achieved physical immortality.

The founder of Taoism is said to be Lao Tzu, who became known as a divine being. He is thought to have lived around the 5th or 6th century B.C., though we cannot be sure he actually lived at all. He is also supposed to have written the Tao Te Ching (“Book of the Way”), the primary text of Taoism and the most famous of all Chinese classics.

In Taoist literature, secrets of spiritual discipline were often coded in the metaphorical language of alchemy. Most Chinese, though, took this language literally. And so Lao Tzu and other Taoist figures were thought of as master alchemists, producing “Elixir of Life” and “pills of immortality.” Cinnabar, or mercuric sulfide—which I’ve used for the name of Lao Tzu’s palace—was a prime ingredient in such “alchemy.”

Buddha, Bodhisattva, Western Paradise. Buddha, or the Buddha, is the title given to Siddhartha Gautama, founder of Buddhism, now revered as a divine being. He lived in India from around 563 to around 483 B.C.

The title means “Enlightened One” or “Awakened One.” As such, it is often applied by Buddhists not only to Siddhartha but to all who attain his state of mind—a state that is said to bring a perception of the true nature of reality and a release from the need for additional lives. Bodhisattva is a related title for one who has become enlightened but remains on earth to help others toward that goal.

The Western Paradise is where good Buddhists are taken after death—a congenial place where they can progress more rapidly toward becoming Buddhas themselves. This is the teaching of the “Pure Land” school of Buddhism, which predominates in East Asia. In The Journey to the West, the Western Paradise is also the present home of the Buddha and seems to be somewhere in India.

Kwan Yin (or Kuan Yin, or Guan Yin). The Bodhisattva Kwan Yin, commonly called the Goddess of Mercy, is China’s favorite divine being—much more widely loved and worshiped than the Buddha, Lao Tzu, Confucius, the Jade Emperor, or any other. Her name means “heeding the cry.” She hears and helps all those who cry out to her in need, and also delivers babies to their mothers.

Dragon King of the Eastern Sea. In Chinese mythology, dragons are in most cases benevolent. They live underwater and are found in every good-sized lake and river. They can also fly, as they do while performing their main job, which is to bring rain.

There are four dragon kings, headed by the one in the Eastern Sea. Their magnificent palaces and treasure hordes are legendary.

Yama, Judges of the Dead, Land of Darkness. The Land of Darkness is the Chinese Hell. It is not underground but in a kind of parallel dimension. When people reach their fixed times of death, demon officials arrest their spirits and bring them before Lord Yama, the First Judge of the Dead. If their good deeds balance or outweigh their evil ones, they are sent directly to the Tenth Judge for rebirth. Otherwise, they must first pass before the other judges for punishment of various kinds of wrongdoing.

Especially good spirits might be brought to the Land of Darkness only briefly or not at all. They might be sent to Heaven to receive official posts, or to the Buddhist Western Paradise, or to Mount Kunlun, home of the Taoist Immortals.

Lady Queen Mother. In The Journey to the West, the Lady Queen Mother is the wife of the Jade Emperor and lives in Heaven. Elsewhere she is often known as the Queen Mother of the West, ruler of Mount Kunlun, home of the Taoist Immortals. In either case, she tends the orchard where the Immortal Peaches grow.

My retelling simplifies and shortens Monkey’s tale but broadly follows the original story line. The translations consulted were:

Monkey, by Wu Ch’êng-ên, translated by Arthur Waley, John Day, New York, 1943; reprinted by Grove, New York, 1958. Abridged.

The Journey to the West, translated and edited by Anthony C. Yu, University of Chicago, Chicago and London, 1977. Four volumes.

Journey to the West, by Wu Cheng’en, translated by W. J. F. Jenner, Foreign Languages Press, Beijing, 1982. Three volumes.

Lady White Snake: A Tale From Chinese Opera

2012-09-23T07:54:00.001-07:00

The old tales of China tell us that all things may grow and change. A stone may become a plant. A plant may become an animal. An animal may become a human. A human may become a god.

Just so, a snake may become a woman. And we are told of one who did.

Who can say for sure how it began? Yet after centuries of ceaseless effort—meditating, disciplining herself, mastering the energies of the universe—this white snake took human form. Immortal now and with great powers, she longed for one thing more.

Human love.

* * *

Perhaps no spot in China is more lovely than the famed West Lake. Lying beside the city of Hangzhou, bordered by green hills, it is often compared to a painter’s landscape or a fabled beauty. Visitors from far and near stroll the banks and take boats across the water.

Among the strollers on one spring day was a lovely young lady dressed in white and her young maid in blue—or so they seemed. How could anyone know they were really a white snake and a blue snake in human form? Flying on clouds from their home on sacred Mount Emei, they had come to Hangzhou to sample the joys of the human world.

“It’s even more beautiful than I’d hoped,” said Lady White as they walked along. “Can you smell the peach blossoms? And look, Blue! Here’s the famous Broken Bridge.”

“But the bridge isn’t broken!” said Blue.

“That’s just what it’s called,” said Lady White, smiling. “Oh, sister, I’m so glad we came here from our cold and dreary mountain.”

As the sun passed behind dark clouds, they spotted a young man with an umbrella under his arm. “How handsome he is!” said Blue, and Lady White agreed. Her heart felt something she had never known before.

Just then it began to rain, and they took shelter under a willow. The young man, whose name was Xu Xian, noticed their predicament. “Ladies,” he said, “that willow won’t keep you dry! Please use my umbrella.”

“But, sir, you need it yourself,” said Lady White.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Look, there’s a boat coming to shore. Let me hire the boatman to take us back to the city.”

As they crossed the lake, the ladies insisted that the young man sit close to share the umbrella. He and Lady White exchanged shy glances and spoke awkwardly, while Blue helped the conversation along and smiled in amused delight.

Before long, the boat reached the landing the ladies had asked for. By then the rain had stopped, but Blue pointed secretly skyward, and it started once again.

Just as hoped, the young man said, “Please, you must take the umbrella home with you. I’ll come for it tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lady White. “We will expect you. Please do not disappoint us!”

The next morning, Xu Xian visited the house where the ladies were staying. As Blue served tea and then wine, the young man told Lady White he was an orphan and had been returning from a visit to his mother’s grave when he met them. He lived with his sister and her husband and worked as an assistant in a shop for herbal medicine.

Pleased by his words and his manner, Lady White whispered to Blue and left the room. Blue said, “My mistress wants to know if you would like to marry her.”

In surprise, the young man said, “There’s nothing I’d like better! But with the little I earn, how could I support the three of us?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Blue. “My mistress has an inheritance from her father. Anyway, today is lucky, so you really should get married right away. You can tell your sister later, and that umbrella will do just fine as a gift for the bride. I’ll go ahead and light the candles.”

Almost before he knew it, Xu Xian was standing next to Lady White in her bridal gown. They bowed to Heaven and Earth, to their ancestors, and to each other. They were now husband and wife!

* * *

The newlyweds decided to move to the city of Zhenjiang and open an herb shop of their own. The shop was a great success, for Lady White could tell just what was wrong with a patient and just what compound to prescribe. What’s more, she showed great dedication in helping the sick, no matter how poor.

The two were supremely happy with their work and with each other. Adding to their joy, Lady White soon announced she was expecting a child.

One day when Lady White had gone off to rest, an old Buddhist monk entered the shop and spoke to Xu Xian. “I am Fahai, the abbot of Gold Mountain Temple,” he said. “I have come to warn you of a great danger. By my spiritual powers, I have discovered that your wife is a thousand-year-old snake. She hides her true nature for now, but one day she will surely turn on you and devour you.”

“How dare you say that!” said the young man. “It’s nothing but wicked slander!”

But Fahai told him, “Just make sure she drinks realgar wine for the Dragon Boat Festival. She’ll change back then to her true form, and you’ll see for yourself.”

Soon came the Dragon Boat Festival, when everyone drank wine mixed with foul-smelling realgar to drive away snakes. Knowing the danger to her kind, Lady White stayed in bed pretending to be ill. But Xu Xian called her out of the bedroom and said cheerily, “We mustn’t let the festival pass without sharing at least one cup of realgar wine!”

When his wife made excuses, he suddenly remembered Fahai’s warning and mentioned it as a joke. Lady White was horrified at this unexpected assault on their happiness. Afraid then to make her husband suspicious, and hoping by her powers to withstand the realgar, she drank one cup and then another.

Before she could drink a third, she began to retch. She quickly returned to the bedroom, while Xu Xian hurried out to prepare her some medicine. But when he came back with it, he found on the bed not his lovely wife but a huge white snake.

The young man collapsed to the floor, where Blue found him moments later. “Sister,” she called, “wake up! Your husband has died of shock!”

Lady White, again in human form, knelt by her husband and wept. Then she declared, “I will fly to Kunlun Mountain and steal a miracle mushroom from the gods. That and nothing else can bring him back to life.”

Taking both her own sword and Blue’s, Lady White flew swiftly on a cloud all the way to holy Kunlun Mountain. But just as she came upon one of the miracle mushrooms, she was challenged by Brown Deer, a guard serving the gods. “I beg you,” said Lady White, “spare one mushroom to save my husband’s life.”

“These mushrooms are not for mortals!” said Brown Deer.

He struck at her with his sword, but she met it with her own. “Then forgive me if I take one anyway,” she said. And she fought back until she wounded him.

Lady White picked the mushroom and turned to flee. But just then White Crane, another guard, joined the fight. Holding the mushroom in her mouth, and a sword in each hand, Lady White defended herself bravely. But she was no match for both guards together and was finally beaten to the ground.

As White Crane raised his sword for a final blow, the Old Man of the South appeared and called a halt. “How dare you steal from us!” the god demanded of Lady White. But he could not help admiring her devotion to her husband. For that and the child she was expecting, he pardoned her and let her take the mushroom away.

* * *

With a drink made from the miracle mushroom, Lady White brought her husband back to life. But though he soon recovered fully, neither one of them would speak of what had happened. Terrified by what he had seen, and not knowing of his wife’s efforts to save him, Xu Xian now did his best to avoid her.

Lady White, anxious to regain his love, at last played a trick on him. She changed her white silk sash into a living snake and fooled him into thinking that this was the snake that had frightened him.

Happiness returned to the household. But not long after, Xu Xian set off for Gold Mountain Temple to offer thanks to Buddha for his recovery. On the bank of the Yangzi River, he found Fahai waiting for him. “Your wife has tricked you,” said Fahai, and he told him just what had happened.

Terrified once more, the young man asked, “How can I save myself?”

“Become a monk and live at the temple,” said Fahai. “That’s the one place she can’t reach you.”

But Xu Xian, torn between love of his wife and fear of her, could not decide. “I stand in two boats at once!” he moaned. At last, meaning to decide later, he boarded Fahai’s raft and crossed with him to the river island where the temple stood.

Once inside Gold Mountain Temple, Xu Xian was not allowed to leave. Meanwhile, Lady White waited anxiously without news for three days. Then she and Blue took their swords and rowed a boat to the island to bring him home.

Fahai was waiting for them at the temple gate. Blue cried, “Give him back, you shaven-headed donkey!” But Lady White silenced her. Patiently appealing to Fahai’s compassion and sense of justice, she pleaded with him to return her husband.

“Demon!” cried Fahai. “My duty is to protect unsuspecting humans from such as you!”

“I have harmed no one and helped many,” protested Lady White. “Surely the demon is he who divides man and wife!”

“Sister,” declared Blue, “we must crush this temple!”

Fahai called down an army of heavenly warriors, while from the river below, Lady White and Blue called up an army of water animals. The two armies fought fiercely, and led by Lady White, her side was winning. But at last her condition made her falter. With her allies around her for protection, she hastily retreated.

Lady White and Blue fled to Hangzhou, where they found themselves once more by Broken Bridge. Believing her husband had betrayed her, Lady White said, “The bridge may not be broken, but my heart is.”

Blue told her, “If I ever see that traitor again, I’ll kill him!”

Just then, Xu Xian himself arrived. From within the temple, he had heard the noise of battle and learned it was his wife who had come for him. Determined at last to stand by her, he had managed to escape, then had searched till he found them.

But Blue, furious at sight of him, chased him with her sword. Lady White stood between them to protect her husband, but then turned on him herself and declared how he had hurt her. The young man protested, “Fahai kept me prisoner—yet all that time I only thought of you!”

“Dear husband,” said Lady White, “set aside your fear and hear me now.” Then, ignoring Blue’s signals of alarm, she revealed everything—what she was in truth and all she had done for him. “And now,” she said, “your heart must tell you what is right or wrong.”

Xu Xian replied, “Finally I realize all you’ve suffered for my sake. Human or not, I’ll love you always. If I don’t, let Blue cut off my head!”

* * *

United once more, the three stayed in Hangzhou with the sister of Xu Xian, and there Lady White gave birth to her baby boy. But the couple’s happiness was not to last. Just one month after their son’s birth—on the day they were to present him to friends and relatives—Fahai arrived, his golden alms bowl carried by a heavenly warrior. Lady White was instantly held captive by the bowl’s golden ray.

Blue attacked the warrior with her sword, but he fought her off with Fahai’s dragon staff. “Sister, save yourself,” called Lady White, “and come back later to avenge us!” Helpless for the moment, Blue fled.

Xu Xian pleaded with Fahai and tried to seize the bowl, but to no avail. “Now at last,” he said, “I see who is the real demon!”

Realizing there was no hope, Lady White said goodbye to her husband and to her baby. Then she told Fahai, “Though you tear me from my husband’s arms, you cannot stop our love.”

Then Fahai ordered the warrior to imprison her under Thunder Peak Pagoda by West Lake. He declared, “Not until the lake dries up or the pagoda falls will she come out again!”

* * *

Centuries passed. Xu Xian and Fahai passed away, but Blue did not forget. On Mount Emei, she trained herself until her powers were at their height. Then she gathered an army of mountain animals and marched on Thunder Peak Pagoda.

The pagoda’s guardian spirit met her with his own army, but it was defeated and forced to flee. Then Blue’s army set fire to the pagoda, which quickly crumbled.

“Sister, come out!” called Blue.

And there from the ruins rose Lady White—free again at last!

* * *

So ends the legend of Lady White. Who can say for sure what happened then? Perhaps she returned to Mount Emei, never more to brave the human world. Perhaps she flew above the clouds to live in peace in Heaven.

Or perhaps she strolls beside West Lake along with sister Blue, waiting for her heart to stir again.

The Harvest That Never Came: A Swedish Legend

2012-09-23T07:53:00.003-07:00

My dearest Arild,

I promised to wait for you forever, but I fear I will not be allowed to. My father says you will never return, and he has chosen another man to be my husband. Though I pleaded with him, he has already set the marriage date.

I will love you always.

Your faithful Thale

Arild Ugerup, son of a noble Danish family, sat on his cot, reading the letter by the dim light of his prison cell. How cruel the tricks played by war, he thought, his eyes filling with tears.

Though Arild and his family were nobles of Denmark, they had long lived peaceably in Sweden. When King Erik of Sweden was crowned, Arild had been one of his honored guests. But then Denmark and Sweden declared war on each other, and Arild was drafted into the Danish navy. He was captured in battle and imprisoned by King Erik.

Arild’s childhood sweetheart, Thale Thott, had promised to marry him when he came back from the war. Now it seemed he would lose Thale as well as his freedom.

Arild sat thinking for many hours, the letter lying loose in his hand. At last he crossed to a small table. Dipping his pen in an inkwell, he began to write.

Your Royal Majesty,

Though I am now your prisoner, you once counted me as a friend. Grant me one favor. Let me go home to marry the woman I love. Then allow me to stay only long enough to plant a crop and harvest it.

On my word of honor, I will return to your prison as soon as the harvest is gathered.

Arild signed and sealed the letter, then called the jailer.

The reply came the next day. King Erik had agreed! Arild was free—at least until the harvest.

Arild returned home, where Thale met him joyfully. Her father was not happy to have his plans changed, but in the end the two were married.

Now it was spring, the time for planting. And, in only a few months, Arild would have to harvest his crop and return to King Erik’s prison.

Arild thought long and hard about what he would plant. At last he went to the fields and planted his seeds, placing each of them six paces from the rest.

Late that fall, a messenger arrived from King Erik. “The harvest season is past,” he said. “The King awaits your return.”

“But my crop is not harvested,” said Arild. “In fact, it has not yet sprouted!”

“Not sprouted?” said the messenger. “What did you plant?”

“Pine trees,” replied Arild.

When King Erik heard what Arild had done, he laughed and said, “A man like that does not deserve to be a prisoner.”

Arild was allowed to remain home with his beloved Thale. And a magnificent forest stands today as a testament to his love.

About the Story

This legend is retold from “The Master of Ugerup,” in Swedish Folk-Lore, by Herman Hofberg, translated by W. H. Myers, Belford, Clarke & Co., Chicago and New York, 1888; and reprinted in Scandinavian Folk and Fairy Tales, edited by Claire Booss, Avenel, New York, 1984. Whatever the truth of the legend, it concerns an actual place and actual families of the mid-1500s, and a forest existing at least in Hofberg’s time.

The Most Precious Thing in the World: A Dutch Legend

2012-09-23T07:50:00.000-07:00

The old sea captain was not sure he had heard right. “What did you say, my Lady?”

The Lady stopped pacing about her parlor and looked at the captain in annoyance. Many were the merchants rich and proud in this great port city of Stavoren. But this woman, called by everyone “the Lady of Stavoren,” was richest and proudest of them all.

“I said I want to hire you and your ship to bring me the most precious thing in the world.”

“But what is the most precious thing?” asked the captain. “And where do I find it?”

“If I knew,” said the Lady coldly, “I would already have obtained it. I ask you to discover and bring it to me. I will make sure you have ample gold to buy it, whatever it turns out to be.”

“Forgive me, my Lady,” said the captain, “but I still don’t understand.”

The Lady sat facing him. “Look around you, Captain. Have you seen a more magnificent mansion?”

“Never, my Lady.”

“I spared no expense to build it, and I have filled it with the most costly items from all the ports visited by my ships. Yet whatever I do, my rival merchants find a way to copy me.

“I must show them once and for all that I am their better. That is why you must bring me the most precious thing in the world. I’ve chosen you for the job because it needs someone of your experience. Of course, I will pay you handsomely.”

“Thank you, my Lady. I will do my best.”

“You had better, dear Captain. If you fail, you and your ship will never find work in Stavoren again.”

The next day, the captain sailed from Stavoren, in search of the most precious thing in the world.

Months passed. Everyone in Stavoren knew of the captain’s quest. Wherever the Lady went, she heard people guessing what the most precious thing would be.

“A pearl as big as an egg,” said one.

“No, a magnificent gown,” said another.

“No, a marvelous statue,” said still another.

The Lady was delighted at the stir she was causing. “And how they will envy me,” she said to herself, “when they see what the captain brings!”

At long last, the captain’s ship was sighted entering the harbor. The people of Stavoren streamed to the dock. When the Lady arrived, dressed in her finest, they made way for her.

The captain’s ship was just docking. “My Lady,” he called, “I have brought what you desired! The most precious thing in the world!”

“What is it, Captain?” called back the Lady, barely able to hold in her excitement.

“I visited many ports in many lands,” said the captain. “I saw many wonderful things. None could I say was the most precious of all. But at last, in the city of Danzig, I came across it. Then I laughed at myself! I should have known it from the first!”

“But what is it?” said the Lady impatiently.

“Wheat!” cried the captain. “My ship is filled with wheat!”

“Wheat?” said the Lady. Her face grew white. Behind her, she heard murmurs from the crowd, and laughing. “Did you say wheat?”

“Yes, my Lady,” said the captain joyously. “What could be more precious, more valuable, than wheat? Without our daily bread, what good are all the treasures of the world?”

The Lady was silent for a moment, listening to the whispers and snickers of the crowd. “And this wheat is all mine, is it not? To do with as I like?”

“Of course, my Lady,” said the captain.

“Then,” said the Lady, “pour it into the harbor.”

“What?” said the captain. Now his own face was white.

“Pour it into the harbor! Every grain of it!”

Murmurs of horror and approval both rose up behind her.

“My Lady,” said the captain, “please consider what you say. There is wheat enough here to feed a city! If you have no use for it, then give it to the poor and hungry. After all, you too may someday be in need!”

“I?” shrieked the Lady. “In need?”

She plucked from her finger a ruby ring and held it high. “This ring will return to my hand before I am ever in need!”

With all her might, she flung it far into the harbor.

The captain stared at the Lady on the dock, her face red with rage. Then he called to his men.

“Cast off!”

When the ship reached the harbor mouth, the captain ordered his men to pour all the wheat overboard. Then he sailed from the harbor, never to return.

The next day, the Lady held a grand feast for all the richest merchants of Stavoren. She spared no expense, to show that she still had every cause for pride.

A huge roast fish was set before her for carving. As she was about to cut into it, the Lady noticed a glint from something in the fish’s mouth. She pulled out the object and held it up.

The diners gasped. The Lady turned pale.

It was the ruby ring.

A few weeks later, fishermen found that a sand bar was building beneath the water at the harbor’s mouth. The discarded wheat had sprouted and grown, and was catching the sand that before had drifted freely.

Soon, the tall ships could not enter. The harbor was ruined, and with it went the fortunes of the city. Many of the merchants lost everything.

Among them was the Lady of Stavoren.

Today, Stavoren is known mainly as a ferry landing. The sand bar that keeps tall ships from the harbor is still called “Lady’s Sand”—a reminder how the Lady of Stavoren scorned the most precious thing in the world.

About the Story

My retelling of this legend is based largely on “The Lady of Stavoren: A Tale from the Province of Friesland,” in Tales Told in Holland, edited by Olive Beaupré Miller, The Book House for Children, Chicago, 1926. Other versions consulted were found in Dutch Fairy Tales for Young Folks, by William Elliot Griffis, Crowell, New York, 1918; The Golden Cat Head and Other Tales of Holland, by Marian King, Whitman, Chicago, 1933; The Owl’s Nest: Folktales from Friesland, by Dorothy Gladys Spicer, Coward-McCann, New York, 1954; and The Sunken City and Other Tales from Around the World, by James McNeill, Henry Z. Walck, New York, 1959.

For help and comments, I thank Coby and Hans Siegenthaler in Los Angeles, and Claire Metz and her mother in Charlottesville, Virginia.

How to Say the Name

Stavoren ~ stah-VOR-en

The Stone in the Temple: An Islamic Legend

2012-09-23T07:49:00.003-07:00

“The sons of Makhzum should raise the Black Stone,” declared one of the men in the circle. “It is our right as foremost of the tribes.”

“Who gave you such a position?” demanded another man. “The sons of Jumah will raise it!”

“Not while the sons of Abdu Manaf stand here,” said another. “The honor should be ours.”

“Then you will have to fight for it,” cried another. “None but the sons of Abdul-Dar shall raise the stone!”

In the years before Muhammad’s holy mission, it happened that the tribes around Mecca decided to rebuild their temple, the Kaaba. In those days, the Kaaba was simply a yard enclosed by a wall. Their plan was to build a higher, thicker wall and add a roof.

Each tribe had chosen a section of the wall and started pulling down the stones. The sacred Black Stone, built into the east corner, had been removed carefully and set aside.

At last they had gotten down to the foundation laid by Abraham. They had begun to rebuild, and the wall had grown steadily higher. But when the time had come to raise the Black Stone back to its place, they could not agree on which tribe would have the honor.

The dispute grew fiercer and fiercer, till it seemed likely that blood would flow. But then Abu Amayya said, “Brothers, let us not fight among ourselves. I have an idea: Wait for the next man who comes through the gate, then give the decision to him.”

All agreed and settled down to wait. And it happened that the first man to enter the gate was Muhammad, he whom they called “The Trustworthy One.”

When Muhammad had listened to their claims, he considered for a moment. Then he said, “Bring me a cloak.”

They brought one, and Muhammad spread it on the ground. Then he took the Black Stone and placed it in the center.

“Each tribe will choose a man to hold the cloak by its edge. Then all will raise the stone together.”

This was done, and Muhammad himself set the stone in place. Then all the tribes were satisfied, and work went on with no further dispute.

About the Story

Muhammad, the founder of Islam, lived in Arabia from 570 to 632 A.D. Though in later years he took to warfare to spread his religion, Muhammad’s teachings were often aimed at conciliation—a trait found also in this tale of his early life.

The story concerns the Kaaba (“KAH-buh”)—meaning “Cube”—a Muslim shrine in the Arabian city of Mecca. Muslims believe the original Kaaba was built by Abraham and his first son, Ishmael, legendary founder of the Arab race. Set into one corner of the building is a black stone about eight inches in diameter, said to have fallen from heaven. This stone—possibly a meteorite—is the most sacred relic of Islam.

All Muslims are required to make a pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in their lives if they are able. Today, as many as two million pilgrims a year visit the Kaaba and kiss the Black Stone.

Whether or not the Kaaba was truly built by Abraham, it existed well before Muhammad, and at the time of this story was used as a temple for tribal gods.

The tale is found in the Sirat Rasul Allah of Ibn Ishaq, the earliest complete biography of Muhammad, compiled a little more than a century after Muhammad’s death. References included:

The Life of Muhammad: A Translation of Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah, translated by A. Guillaume, Oxford University Press, Karachi, 1955.

Muhammad: His Life Based on the Earliest Sources, by Martin Lings, Allen & Unwin, London, 1983.

Understanding Islam: An Introduction to the Muslim World, Thomas W. Lippman, Penguin, New York, 1990.

For further reading: The Life of the Prophet Muhammad, by Leila Azzam and Aisha Gouverneur, Islamic Texts Society, London, 1985.

Kings for Breakfast!: A Hindu Legend

2012-09-23T07:39:00.001-07:00

Once in India there were two generous kings. But one was more generous than the other.

The first king was named Karna. Every morning, he gave to the poor a hundred pounds of gold. In fact, he had vowed not to eat on any day before doing this. But where he got so much gold was a great mystery.

The second king was named Vikram. So big-hearted was Vikram, he would give anybody anything they asked for—a jewel, a horse, even a palace. His time and help too were free for the asking. Vikram’s fame spread far and wide, and even the animals asked him favors.

One day, while Vikram was strolling through his palace garden, two snow-white geese landed at his feet.

“Good King Vikram, we are starving!” cried the gander. “We beg you to feed us!”

“Certainly,” said Vikram. “I will send for seed at once.”

“We cannot eat seed,” said the female. “We come from a sacred lake, high in the mountains of the north. There, we eat only fresh pearls.”

“Then pearls it shall be,” said Vikram. He sent for a basket of his finest pearls and fed the geese from his hand.

Each morning, Vikram fed the geese. But one morning, the gander noticed that one of the pearls was pierced.

“Look!” he cried to his mate. “These pearls are not fresh!”

“Not even King Vikram can feed us forever,” she said. “Let us fly elsewhere.”

Before Vikram could protest, the geese rose into the air. But as they soared, they cried, “Thanks, thanks to Vikram, the most generous king of all!”

The geese flew on, singing Vikram’s praises. On their way, they passed over the palace of King Karna.

When the king heard their song, he said, “Why is Vikram praised even by the birds? Surely he’s no more generous than I!” And he sent his royal hunter to trap the geese where they landed.

The geese were brought in a cage before King Karna. He asked them, “Why do you call Vikram the most generous king of all?”

“He fed us pearls from his hand,” said the gander.

“But I give away a hundred pounds of gold each day!” said the king. “Am I not as generous as Vikram?”

The female said, “King Vikram would never imprison the innocent.”

King Karna took a handful of pearls and opened the cage door to reach in. But the female pushed past and flew out the window.

Swiftly the goose flew back to Vikram and landed breathless at his feet. “Good King Vikram,” she said, “you must help us! My husband is a prisoner!”

Vikram listened to her story. “Rest easy, dear friend,” he said. “I will rescue your mate.”

Disguised in ragged clothes, Vikram made his way to the court of King Karna.

“Your Majesty,” said Vikram, “allow me to be your servant. I hear you are the most generous king of all.”

“It’s true!” chortled the king. “Tomorrow you can help carry the gold.”

The next day, Vikram helped carry the baskets of gold coins to the palace steps. He watched as the king handed out all the gold before going in to his huge breakfast.

Vikram said to himself, “Truly, Karna is a generous king. But how does he have so much gold?” He decided to keep a careful eye on the king.

So it was, the next morning before dawn, Vikram spied the king sneaking from the palace. He followed secretly as Karna hurried up a mountain path and came to a lonely hut.

Vikram watched through an open window as King Karna was greeted by a scrawny, squinty-eyed hermit. A huge pan hung over a crackling fire.

All at once, Karna undressed and climbed in the pan! He sizzled and frizzled and fried to a crispy golden brown. Then the hermit, moaning and groaning with delight, munched and crunched and gobbled him down.

When the hermit was done, he set the bones on the floor, waved his arms over them, and chanted,

“Bones are good, but flesh is best.
Give him life, while I digest!”

And there was King Karna, as good as ever!

“Thank you so much,” said the hermit. “As usual, you were a very tasty meal. And now I will keep my part of the bargain.”

The hermit pulled a tattered coat from a peg and shook out the pockets. A hundred pounds of gold coins tumbled onto the floor from the magic coat.

“Thank you!” said King Karna. “Now I must give away this gold so I can have my breakfast!” He gathered up the gold and started down the mountain.

“Now I see!” muttered Vikram. “And now I know how to rescue the goose!”

Next morning, Vikram got up even earlier than King Karna and went to the palace kitchen. He made a paste of curry spices and rubbed it all over himself. Then he hurried to the hermit’s hut.

The hermit was so near-sighted and so hungry, he didn’t even see it wasn’t King Karna. “Why, King, you’re early today!” he said, as he welcomed Vikram in.

Vikram undressed and climbed in the pan. He sizzled and frizzled and fried to a crispy golden brown.

When the hermit caught a whiff of the curry spices, he said, “What is that marvelous aroma? The King has never smelled better!”

Moaning and groaning with greater delight than ever, he munched and crunched and gobbled Vikram down. Then he set the bones on the floor, waved his arms over them, and chanted the magic words.

“Bones are good, but flesh is best.
Give him life, while I digest!”

Vikram opened his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief.

“My, my, King,” said the hermit, who still thought Vikram was King Karna, “you must tell me how you tasted so delicious this morning!”

Vikram told the hermit about the curry spices. Then he said, “I will curry myself every morning, if you do me a favor.”

“Anything, anything!” said the hermit.

“I am tired of carrying a hundred pounds of gold down the mountain each day,” said Vikram. “Give me the magic coat, so I can keep it at the palace and shake it out down there.”

“Agreed!” said the hermit, and he handed over the coat.

Vikram took his leave, but hid outside the window. Before long, King Karna arrived. When the king found out what had happened, he screamed at the hermit.

“How could you give him the coat?”

The hermit yelled back, “I thought he was you!”

“You should have known better!” roared the king.

“You’re right!” howled the hermit. “You could never taste so good, you old goat!”

King Karna stormed down the mountain.

Later that morning, there was no hundred pounds of gold to carry to the palace steps. Just as he had vowed, King Karna ate not a thing. He went to bed and stayed there all day, growing hungrier and hungrier.

Finally, Vikram came to the king’s bedside. “Friend,” he said, “you need not starve any longer.”

He shook out the hermit’s coat. King Karna cried out for joy as the gold coins tumbled to the floor.

Then Vikram told the king his story. “And if you free the goose,” he said, “and promise to curry yourself for the hermit, I will gladly give you the coat.”

The king hung his head. “The geese were right,” he said. “I am generous to be nibbled for the needy. But more generous are you to be gobbled for a gander!”

Together they went to the goose’s cage, and King Karna opened the door.

Out flew the goose, through the window and over the palace, joining its mate in the air. And as the two turned homeward, they cried, “Thanks, thanks to Vikram, the most generous king of all!”

About the Story

This tale brings together two famous kings from India’s distant past, each a model of generosity. Of course, they lived in two different times—but why let historical accuracy stand in the way of a good story? By setting them face to face, the legend can at last answer the age-old question: Which of these two kings was the most generous?

Vikram—short for Vikramaditya (“VIK-rum-OD-it-ya”)—is a legendary king of Ujjain in central India in the first century B.C. He appears in countless folktales, as well as in classical literature. Like King Arthur of Britain, Vikram embodies the princely virtues most honored in his culture: bravery, wisdom, and above all, generosity.

Karna lived perhaps a millenium earlier and figures prominently in one of India’s great epics, the Mahabharata (“MAH-hah-BAR-a-ta”). Many legends are told of his generosity, which extended even to giving up his life. When he became king, he vowed never to refuse a request made of him while at midday prayers. The god Indra took advantage of this by requesting Karna’s magical golden armor and earrings. Karna gave them up willingly, knowing this would lead to his death—which it did, during the great battle at the climax of the epic.

The geese in the story are wild geese of the type called hamsa (“HOM-sa”)—known in English as the bar-headed goose—which breeds in Tibet and winters in India. Because of its beauty and its grace in flight, it has long held a revered place in the Indian imagination.

My retelling is based on “The King Who Was Fried” in Tales of the Punjab, by Flora Annie Steel, Macmillan, London, 1894. That version is said to have been recorded by R. C. Temple in the late 1800s in northwest India—now Pakistan—at Murree, close to modern-day Islamabad. It was told by a Brahmin priest at a temple shrine where the hermit’s hut was said to have stood.

The roots of the story, though, are much older. Two of its major motifs are found in tales #15 and #17 of the Vikramacarita (Adventures of King Vikram), a popular 11th-century text in Sanskrit.

How to Say the Names

Karna ~ KAR-na
Vikram ~ VIK-rum

The Wicked Girl: A Tale of Turkey

2012-09-23T07:38:00.004-07:00

There was once a merchant who set out with his wife on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Their daughter, though, they left at home, with an Arab slave girl to keep her company.

One evening quite late, the merchant’s daughter and the Arab girl were singing and laughing and dancing about in the upstairs apartment. By accident, the Arab girl knocked over the oil lamp, leaving the young ladies in darkness.

“What should we do?” said the merchant’s daughter. “It’s too late to rouse the servants.”

“I’ll go out and find a light,” said the Arab girl.

“But we’re locked in!” said the merchant’s daughter.

“The window’s open,” said the Arab girl.

So they knotted some bed sheets together and lowered them from the window. Then the Arab girl took a basket and climbed down.

She walked down the street till she came to a restaurant still open. The customers had all gone, but a handsome young man was in the kitchen, cleaning up and preparing for the next day. On the table were dishes piled high with kebabs, dolma, pilaf, and baklava.

“May I come in?” said the Arab girl prettily.

The young man, who owned the restaurant, cast an eye on the lovely young lady. “Please sit down!” he said.

As the two of them chatted, the young man moved closer and closer to the Arab girl. She was almost in reach when she asked him, “What’s in those huge crocks?”

“One has olive oil, one has clarified butter, and one has honey.”

“Honey?” she said. “What’s that?”

“Surely you’ve had honey before!”

“Never! Please give me a taste.”

So the young man took off the lid and leaned into the crock to spoon some out. The Arab girl came up behind and lifted his feet, so he slid head first into the honey. Then she quickly loaded her basket with dishes of food, grabbed an oil lamp, and ran off.

The young man came out of the honey dripping and sputtering. “Ooh, that Arab girl! If I ever catch her, I’ll drink her blood!”

The next night, the Arab girl was again dancing about with the merchant’s daughter, but she was wondering about the restaurant owner. So she knocked over the lamp a second time.

“I’ll have to go out again,” she said.

They lowered the bed sheets, and the Arab girl climbed down with her basket. When she reached the restaurant, she again found the young man alone.

“How dare you come back!” he demanded. “Do you know what I’ll do to you now?”

“Kiss me?” she asked.

“Well, well!” said the young man, with a smile. “What a fine idea!” He came close to embrace her.

“Not yet,” she said. “First we must eat and drink.”

So they ate and drank, and the Arab girl kept pouring him more and more wine, and he kept drinking it, till his head dropped down and rested on the table. She found some rope, tied him up, and gagged him. Then she took more dishes of food and a lamp and ran off.

His customers found him the next morning and set him free. “Ooh, that Arab girl! If I ever catch her, I’ll drink her blood!”

Later that same day, the young man disguised himself as an old flower peddler, with ragged clothes and a long white beard. Then he walked up and down the streets, calling, “Roses for sale! Roses for sale!”

When he came by the merchant’s house, he spotted the Arab girl looking out the upstairs window. “I have her now!” he muttered.

Meanwhile, the Arab girl was telling the merchant’s daughter, “There’s that handsome restaurant owner. I wonder what he’s up to.” She called down to him, “We would like some roses.”

“Then please come to the door,” said the young man, in an old man’s voice.

“We’re locked in,” she said. “But you can climb to the window.”

She lowered the bed sheets, and the young man started up. He was just a few feet away when the Arab girl took a knife and sliced through the top sheet. Roses flew everywhere as the young man tumbled to the ground.

While a crowd gathered around him, the young man painfully struggled to his feet. “Ooh, that Arab girl! If I ever catch her, I’ll drink her blood!”

Not long after that, the merchant returned with his wife from their pilgrimage. To thank the Arab slave girl for keeping his daughter good company, he asked, “What would you like as a gift?”

“A doll made of rubber,” she told him. “It should be just my height and look just like me and wear clothes just like mine. And when you shake it, it should say, ‘Yes, yes.’” So the merchant had the doll made and gave it to her.

A few days later, the merchant spoke again to the Arab girl. “I’ve received a note from a man who does not name himself. He wishes to buy you for an incredibly high price. But if you object, I’ll refuse him.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, smiling.

The next morning, a messenger came with a carriage and drove the Arab girl to a house a few streets away. She and her belongings were left alone in a room upstairs.

The Arab girl took her doll and stood it in the middle of the room. She poured red sherbet into its hollow center, filling it with the sweet fruit drink. Then she hid in a closet.

Before long, the door flew open. There stood the young restaurant owner, a dagger in his hand. He glared at the doll. “You wicked girl! I’ve caught you at last!”

Gripping it by the shoulder, he demanded, “Do you remember how you pushed me into the honey?” He shook it back and forth.

“Yes, yes,” said the doll.

“And do you remember how you tied me up and gagged me?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And do you remember how you made me fall to the street?”

“Yes, yes.”

“You admit everything! Then prepare to die, for now I will drink your blood!”

He plunged the dagger into the doll, and red liquid spurted out. As the doll fell over, he caught a few drops in his cupped hand, and raised them greedily to his lips.

“But what’s this? Her blood is so sweet! And if her blood is this sweet, how much sweeter must be the rest of her! What have I done? I have killed the sweetest woman in the world! Oh, if only I could bring her back to life, I would free her and marry her! But it’s too late. All I can do now is end my own life!” He raised the dagger above his chest.

“Hey, dummy! I’m right here!”

The young man stared at the Arab girl.

“Darling!” he cried.

“Dearest!” she answered.

And they lived happily ever after.

About the Story

In traditional Turkish culture, women were closely guarded, living in a separate upstairs apartment called a harem. The only men allowed there were family members. Servants in the harem were generally female slaves imported from other lands, since slaves didn’t have to wear veils in front of their male owners.

This female slavery was less harsh than the slavery in some other cultures. Slaves were generally treated well and were freed after seven years, often to marry Turkish husbands. Following the establishment of Turkey as a republic in 1923, the country was largely Westernized, and both slavery and the harem disappeared.

This story is retold from “The Arab Girl in Hate and Love,” in More Tales Alive in Turkey, by Warren S. Walker and Ahmet E. Uysal, Texas Tech University Press, Lubbock, Texas, 1992. That version is translated from a 1966 recording made of Ali Çuga, a Turkish storyteller. My retelling includes only a selection of the Arab girl’s exploits.

For more on traditional Turkish life, see The Women of Turkey and Their Folk-Lore, Vol. 2, by Lucy M. J. Garnett, Nutt, London, 1891, chapters 16–22.

The Boy Who Wanted the Willies

2012-09-23T07:36:00.000-07:00

There was once a boy who was never frightened—for he had not enough sense to be scared.

One day, Hans and his big sister were walking home after dark. The wind howled, and the trees creaked and groaned. The road led past a graveyard, where the moon lit up rows of tombstones.

Hans’s sister began to quiver and quake.

“Ooh!” she said. “This place gives me the willies!”

“The willies?” said Hans. “What are the willies?”

“Do I have to tell you everything? The willies are when you get so scared, you shiver and shake.”

“Well!” said Hans. “I never had anything like that! I wish I would get the willies, so I’d know what they’re like.”

The more Hans thought it over, the more he wondered about the willies, and the more he wished he could have them.

One day he told himself, “If I want the willies, I’d better go look for them.” So he said good-bye to his family and started down the road.

Hans walked for many days. Everyone he met, he asked, “Can you give me the willies?”

Many tried, but none could.

At last he came to the King’s castle and stood before the King. “Your Majesty,” said Hans, “can you give me the willies?”

“Of course I can. I’m the King!” The King waved his royal scepter. “I command you to have the willies!”

Hans waited, but nothing happened. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I still don’t have them.”

“Oh well,” said the King, “at least I know where you can get them. On the other side of my kingdom is a haunted castle. If you spend the night there, you are sure to get the willies.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!”

“There’s just one problem,” said the King. “No one who goes there ever lives through the night. But, if you stay alive and break the spell, you’ll find the castle treasure!”

“That’s fine with me,” said Hans, “as long as I get the willies!”

It was midnight when Hans reached the castle. The towers cast eerie shadows under the full moon. The drawbridge lowered itself at Hans’s feet. Creeeeeeeeeeeek.

“Seems like a friendly place!” said Hans.

As Hans entered the great hall, a fire sprang to life in the huge fireplace. Hans pulled up a chair and settled himself to wait.

“Now I’m sure to get the willies,” he said.

The clock in the great hall struck one. Bong.

“Velcome!” boomed a voice behind him.

Hans looked around and saw two men playing cards. One had a long, black cloak, and the other had a furry face.

“Vould you care to join our game?” asked the man in the cloak. “It’s been so long since ve had anyvun to play vith.”

“Certainly,” said Hans, taking a seat. “It will pass the time, while I’m waiting for the willies!”

“I vill explain the rules,” said the cloaked man. “If my furry friend vins, he vill rip you to shreds. If I vin, I vill drink your blood. If you vin, ve vill let you live.”

“Sounds fair to me!” said Hans.

The furry man snarled and dealt the cards. They played for almost an hour. In the end, the cloaked man won.

“I vant to drink your blood!” he said, moving closer to Hans and showing two long, pointy teeth.

“I think you cheated,” Hans said. He reached for the pointy teeth and broke them off—Snap!

“YEEE-OWWWWWWWW!” howled the man as he ran from the hall.

The furry man roared and leaped at Hans, but Hans sprang away and the man flew past—right out an open window. Hans heard a piercing scream, then a dull thud.

He settled himself again before the fire. “I enjoyed the game,” he said, “but when do I get the willies?”

The clock struck two. Bong. Bong.

Hans heard a rattling, and into the hall marched a long line of skeletons.

The first skeleton snapped its fingers. Click. Click.

The second skeleton knocked its knees. Clack. Clack.

The third skeleton drummed its skull. Clock. Clock.

The fourth skeleton tapped along its ribs in a little tune. Clackety, click clock. Clackety, click clock.

“Nice beat!” said Hans.

The other skeletons formed a circle and started to dance. One skeleton stretched a hand toward Hans.

“Don’t mind if I do!”

Hans took hold of two bony hands and danced in the circle around the hall.

The music got faster. Clackety, clackety, click clock clackety. Clackety, clackety, click clock clackety.

“Hold it, I can’t dance that fast!” shouted Hans over the clatter. But the skeletons gripped his hands harder and danced even faster.

Clackety clickety, clackety clockety. Clackety clickety, clackety clockety.

“I said HOLD IT!”

Hans gave a yank and—Pop!—the two skeletons’ arms came right off. The music and the dancing stopped.

“I think you lost something,” said Hans.

The skeletons rushed at Hans and started jumping on him. Hans grabbed a chair and swung it, this way and that.

Crash! Bash!

Bones flew here, there, and everywhere, till the skeletons lay all in pieces on the floor.

Hans gathered them up and tossed them out the window. “I like a little dancing,” he said, as he settled again before the fire, “but I wonder when I’m going to get those willies!”

The clock struck three. Bong. Bong. Bong.

From up the chimney, a deep voice called, “LOOK OUT BELOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW!”

Something huge came falling down, swerved to miss the fire, and—thump—landed before the fireplace. It was a giant body, with no arms or legs or head.

“LOOK OUT BELOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW!”

Thump thump thump thump. Two giant legs and two giant arms landed next to it.

“LOOK OUT BELOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWW!”

Thump. A giant head landed by the rest.

“I get it!” said Hans. “It’s a puzzle, and I have to put it together!”

Hans heaved the two giant legs and stuck them onto the body. Snap. Snap.

“Hey!” thundered the deep voice, close by. It was the giant head. “You got the shoes pointing out!”

“Oh, sorry,” said Hans. He switched the legs. Then he stuck on the arms and the head. Snap. Snap. Snap.

The giant jumped up. “The spell is broken! You’re the only one ever to get me together. The others all died of fright long before this! Now follow me to the castle treasure.”

Hans followed him to the doorway. The giant said, “You first.”

“After you,” said Hans.

The giant led him to the courtyard and pointed to a shovel under a tree. “Dig there!”

“You dig there!” said Hans.

The giant dug till he uncovered three pots of gold. “Take them inside!”

“You take them inside!”

The giant took the pots of gold into the great hall. He said, “One is for the king, one is for the poor, and one is for you.”

Then he fell into pieces again and flew up the chimney—first the head, then the arms and legs, then the giant body.

“Some folks just can’t keep things together,” said Hans. He went back to his chair before the fire, curled up in it, and sighed. “It’s nice to be rich, but when will I ever get the willies?”

* * *

And that is how Hans stayed alive, broke the spell, and found the treasure. When the King heard the tale, he let Hans live in the castle, and when Hans grew up, he married the King’s daughter. Within a year they had triplets—three fine sons. Hans named all three of them Willy.

“And now,” he said, “at last I have the Willies!”

About the Story

The story of the fearless lad in the haunted castle is known throughout Europe—from Spain to Russia, from Scandinavia to Italy—and in North America as well. In the Aarne-Thompson index, it is tale type 326, “The Youth Who Wanted to Learn What Fear Is,” named after a particularly well-developed version in the collection of the Brothers Grimm.

For this retelling, I have drawn most of my basic plot structure from Grimm, but have incorporated motifs from the Italian and other versions as well. Still other motifs were suggested by audiences during my time as a professional storyteller, when I performed this tale as a participatory improvisation. The ending was supplied in part by a student of Pinedale Elementary School in Pinedale, California.

Though I have skirted perilously close to anachronism, I hope to have sustained only minor injuries. Count Dracula and Wolfman have a modern cast, but they are based on European folk archetypes of the vampire and the werewolf.

In the same vein, “the willies” as a description of fear may be an English-language expression—and not too old a one at that—but it is derived from German legend. According to Heinrich Heine, the “Wilis” are “maidens who have died before their wedding day, because of faithless lovers.” They rise from their tombs at night to seek vengeance, and if any man is unlucky enough to encounter them, he is forced to dance till he drops dead from exhaustion. This legend formed the basis of the popular 19th-century ballet “Giselle.”

Mop Top: A Tale of Norway

2012-09-23T04:41:00.005-07:00

Once there was a King and Queen who were never happy, because they had no children.

Every day, the Queen would sit and sigh, until the King would ask, “What is wrong, my dear?”

“Oh, you know,” she would say, and sigh again. “If only we had children. I could hug them when they were good, and scold them when they were bad. What fun it would be!”

Then the King too would sigh, and agree with the Queen.

One day, the Queen was sitting and sighing in the garden, when the gardener’s wife came by.

“What is wrong, Your Majesty?” she asked.

“Oh, you know,” said the Queen, and sighed again.

“Well,” said the woman, “perhaps I have something that can help.”

From her apron pocket she took a pouch, and from the pouch she took a seed. She placed it in the Queen’s palm. It was shaped like a baby, curled in sleep.

“Plant this seed tonight, when the full moon is at its highest,” said the woman. “Water it with your right hand. But don’t water it with your left, or you’ll be sorry!”

That night, when the full moon was at its highest, the Queen crept out to the garden and planted the seed. She scooped up some water with her right hand and poured it over. But she forgot what the gardener’s wife said, and she watered it with her left hand too.

Early next morning, the Queen ran back to the spot. There, in place of the seed, she found a tall tree with two long branches. On each branch was a single blossom. The blossom on the right was golden yellow, and very lovely. The blossom on the left was flaming red, and very strange.

As the Queen watched, the petals fell from the yellow blossom, and the fruit began to grow. It grew into a lovely little girl with a princess’s gown and shining golden hair.

The child cried, “Pick me, Mama, I’m ripe!”

The Queen rushed to pick the child from the tree. “Am I your Mama?” said the Queen. “How wonderful! I shall call you Fair Hair.”

Just then, the red petals fell, and another child began to grow. But this one was a dirty mess, with tangled red hair that stuck out all over. Her clothes were rags, she carried a wooden ladle, and she sat on a baby billy goat.

The child called, “Pick me, Mama, I’m ripe!”

The Queen rushed to pick her. “Am I your Mama?” said the Queen. “How terrible! I shall call you Mop Top.”

“Mop Top! Mop Top!” yelled the child. With her wooden ladle, she bopped her billy goat’s bottom, and the billy goat galloped round and round the tree.

So now the Queen had the children she wished for. Fair Hair was as good as gold, so the Queen could hug her as much as she liked. And Mop Top was always into mischief, so the Queen could scold her as much as she liked.

As for the two sisters, they loved each other dearly and were never apart.

One day, the girls were picnicking in a cow pasture. Suddenly, from the nearby woods came a terrible ruckus.

“What’s that?” said Fair Hair.

“Troll girls!” yelled Mop Top.

Just then, dozens of troll girls burst from the woods, shouting and screeching ugly troll words. They had long tails and longer noses. They grabbed the picnic food and played catch with it.

“Keep your head down!” said Mop Top to Fair Hair. “I’ll take care of this!”

Mop Top bopped her billy goat’s bottom, and raced right among the troll girls. Then she bopped those troll girls’ bottoms. Bop! Bop! Bop! One after another, those troll girls went leaping and crying back into the woods.

Meanwhile, Fair Hair just had to peek. She lifted her head the tiniest bit. Whisk! A troll girl took Fair Hair’s head right off! Then the troll girl whisked the head off a calf, put it on Fair Hair, and ran away with Fair Hair’s head.

“Moo!” said Fair Hair. “Moo!”

When Mop Top had chased off the troll girls, she came back to her sister. “Oh, no!” cried Mop Top when she saw the calf’s head. “This won’t do! A princess can’t lose her head!”

So, Mop Top asked the King to prepare a ship. When it was ready, she led her sister on board.

“Don’t you want any sailors?” called the King.

“We don’t need them!” yelled Mop Top, as she galloped round and round the deck. Then she pulled up the anchor and set sail.

They sailed for a long time, till they reached the land of the trolls.

“Stay here!” said Mop Top to Fair Hair as they docked. Then she went ashore and galloped up the road, all the way to the troll castle.

There on a window sill was her sister’s head!

Mop Top bopped her billy goat’s bottom. The goat raced past the window, and Mop Top grabbed the head. Then she galloped back down the road.

The troll girls came leaping and bounding from the castle, screaming and shrieking nasty troll words. They chased Mop Top till they caught up. A troll girl reached for the head.

“No, you don’t!” yelled Mop Top. She swung her wooden ladle. Bop! That troll girl’s head flew right off her shoulders, and the troll girl had to run after it.

Mop Top kept swinging. Bop! Bop! Bop! Oh, those troll heads did roll! All the troll girls had to chase their heads and leave Mop Top alone.

By the time the troll girls had their heads on straight, Mop Top had reached the ship and set sail. Then Mop Top took the calf’s head off her sister and gave her back her own head.

“You’re wonderful!” said Fair Hair.

“You’re right!” said Mop Top.

And the calf’s head said, “Moo!”

Mop Top and Fair Hair sailed home. The King and Queen were overjoyed. The Queen gave Mop Top a big hug. Mop Top gave the calf back its head.

But the very next day, Mop Top said to Fair Hair, “Let’s go!” So they climbed back on board, and sailed off for adventure.

At last, they came to a far country. The people there were looking for a new King or Queen, because the old King had just died. So the Prime Minister himself came down to meet the ship.

When the Prime Minister saw Mop Top galloping round the deck, he glared. But when he saw the lovely Fair Hair, he stared!

“Princess,” he said, “be our Queen!”

“Oh, no!” said Fair Hair. “My sister is brave and noble. She should be the Queen.”

“Oh, no!” cried the Prime Minister. “She can’t be the Queen!”

“Why not?” yelled Mop Top.

“Well,” said the Prime Minister, “a Queen can’t ride an old billy goat!”

“You call this an old billy goat?” said Mop Top. “Look again!”

The Prime Minister looked again and saw that Mop Top was riding a beautiful white horse.

“Well,” he said, “a Queen can’t dress in rags and carry a ladle!”

“You call these rags? You call this a ladle?” said Mop Top. “Look again!”

The Prime Minister looked again and saw that Mop Top wore an elegant riding suit, and carried a polished riding stick.

“Well,” he said, “a Queen can’t be a dirty mess!”

“You call me a dirty mess?” said Mop Top. “Look again!”

The Prime Minister looked again and saw that Mop Top was perfectly groomed, with smooth and shining red hair.

“Well!” said the Prime Minister. “Then you can be the Queen!”

So Mop Top became the Queen and ruled that country with her sister’s help. And if ever that Prime Minister made her mad, you can bet she bopped his bottom!

About the Story

This tale was collected in the mid-1800s by the great Norwegian folklorist Jörgen Moe. It appears in a number of collections, including Folktales of Norway, edited by Reidar Christiansen, University of Chicago Press, 1964 (as “Mop Head”); and East o’ the Sun & West o’ the Moon, translated by George Webbe Dasent, Dover, New York, 1970 (as “Tatterhood”). Variants have been found in Sweden, Iceland, and Ireland.

The Lady of Stavoren: A Dutch Legend

2012-09-23T04:41:00.002-07:00

If you take the ferry across the Zuider Zee to the northern province of Friesland, you will land at a small town called Stavoren. Today it is little more than a ferry landing, a brief stop in the journey north. You’d never guess this was once one of the great port cities of Europe.

Yet so it was, many centuries ago. And so it might be still, if not for the choice made by a lady.

The fine harbor at Stavoren welcomed the ships of many countries, and many countries were visited by the ships of Stavoren. So rich and proud became the city’s merchants, they fitted their doors with handles and hinges of gold.

Among these merchants was a young widow, richest of the rich and proudest of the proud. They called her the Lady of Stavoren.

The Lady would stop at nothing to show herself better than her fellow merchants. She filled her palace with the most costly goods from wherever her ships made port. But her rivals always found the means to copy her.

“I must show them once and for all that I am their better,” she said to herself. “Somehow, I must get hold of the most precious thing in the world.”

One evening, the Lady attended a grand ball at the palace of another merchant. There she met a rich and handsome sea captain who had just sailed into Stavoren. He asked her for every dance.

At the end of the evening, the Captain kissed her hand. “My Lady, I was told you were the wealthiest woman in Stavoren. But no one warned me you were also the most charming.”

From then on, the Lady and the Captain were seen everywhere, her arm in his. And everywhere they went, people talked about what might come of it.

“She’ll marry him,” said one.

“She’ll send him away,” said another.

“She’ll keep him dangling,” said still another.

It was not long before the Captain knelt before her. “My Lady, will you honor me by becoming my wife?”

“Gladly, dear Captain,” said the Lady. “But there is one condition. As a wedding gift, you must bring me the most precious thing in the world.”

“The most precious thing? What is that? And where do I find it?”

“If I knew,” said the Lady gently, “I would have purchased it myself. I ask you to discover it and bring it to me.”

“I will do so, dear Lady!” declared the Captain. “Until I return, please wear this ruby ring as a token of my love.”

The next day, the Captain sailed from Stavoren in search of the most precious thing in the world.

Months passed. Everyone in Stavoren knew of the Captain’s quest. Wherever the Lady went, she heard people guessing what the most precious thing would be.

“A magnificent gown,” said one.

“A marvelous statue,” said another.

“A pearl as big as an egg,” said still another.

The Lady was delighted to be causing such a stir. “And how they will envy me,” she said to herself, “when my Captain returns with his gift!”

At long last, the Captain’s ship was sighted entering the harbor. The people of Stavoren streamed to the dock. When the Lady arrived, dressed in her finest, they made way.

The Captain’s ship was just docking. “My Lady,” he called, “I have brought what you desired! The most precious thing in the world!”

“What is it, my Captain?” called back the Lady, barely able to hold in her excitement.

“I visited many ports in many lands,” the Captain said. “I saw many wonderful things. None could I say was the most precious of all. But at last, in the city of Danzig, I came across it. Then I laughed at myself! I should have known it from the first!”

“But what is it?” said the Lady impatiently.

“Wheat!” cried the Captain. “My ship is filled with wheat!”

“Wheat?” said the Lady. Her face grew white. Behind her, she heard murmurs from the crowd, and laughing. “Did you say wheat?”

“Yes, dear Lady!” said the Captain joyously. “What could be more precious, more valuable, than wheat? Without our daily bread, what good are all the treasures of the world?”

The Lady was silent for a moment, listening to the whispers and snickers of the crowd. “And this wheat belongs to me, to do with as I like?”

“Yes, my love! It is my wedding gift to you!”

“Then,” said the Lady, “pour it into the harbor.”

“What?” Now the Captain’s own face was white.

“Pour it into the harbor! Every grain of it!”

Murmurs of horror and approval both rose behind her.

“My Lady,” said the Captain, “please consider what you say. There is wheat enough here to feed a city! If you have no use for it, then give it to the poor and hungry. After all, you too may someday be in need.”

“I?” shrieked the Lady. “In need?”

She plucked from her finger the ruby ring the Captain had given her and held it high. “This ring will return to my hand before I am ever in need.”

With all her might, she flung it far into the harbor.

The Captain watched as the ring hit the water and sank. Then he looked at the Lady on the dock, her face red with rage.

He spoke not another word to her, but turned to his men.

“Cast off!”

When the ship reached the harbor mouth, the Captain had his men pour all the wheat overboard. Then he sailed from the harbor, never to return.

The next day, the Lady held a grand feast for all the richest merchants of Stavoren. She spared no expense, to show that she still had every cause for pride.

A huge roast fish was set before her for carving. As she was about to cut into it, the Lady saw something glinting in the fish’s mouth. She pulled out the object and held it up.

The diners gasped. The Lady turned pale.

It was the ruby ring.

Soon, the tall ships could not enter. The harbor was ruined, and with it went the fortunes of the city. Many of the merchants lost everything.

Among them was the Lady of Stavoren.

In the tiny town of Stavoren today, the sand bar is still called “Lady’s Sand”—a reminder how the Lady of Stavoren scorned the most precious thing in the world.

About the Story

Stavoren is a coastal town in the province of Friesland in the Netherlands. It reached the height of its glory as a port city in the late Middle Ages. This is the legend told of its downfall.

My retelling is based largely on “The Lady of Stavoren: A Tale from the Province of Friesland,” in Tales Told in Holland, edited by Olive Beaupré Miller, The Book House for Children, Chicago, 1926. However, the romantic element on which I’ve so heavily depended—rare in versions of this story—comes from a brief synopsis of the legend in The Netherlands, edited by Doré Ogrizek, McGraw-Hill, New York, London, and Toronto, 1951.

Other versions consulted were in Dutch Fairy Tales for Young Folks, by William Elliot Griffis, Crowell, New York, 1918; The Golden Cat Head and Other Tales of Holland, by Marian King, Whitman, Chicago, 1933; The Owl’s Nest: Folktales from Friesland, by Dorothy Gladys Spicer, Coward-McCann, New York, 1954; and The Sunken City and Other Tales from Around the World, by James McNeill, Henry Z. Walck, New York, 1959.

My thanks for help and comments to Coby and Hans Siegenthaler in Los Angeles, and Claire Metz and her mother in Charlottesville, Virginia.

How to Say the Names

Friesland ~ FREEZ-lund
Stavoren ~ stah-VOR-en
Zuider Zee ~ ZI-der ZEE

Too-too-moo and the Giant: A Tale of Indonesia

2012-09-23T04:32:00.002-07:00

Once on the island of Java there was a little girl named Too-too-moo. She lived with her Mama in a one-room house in a forest. They were poor but they were happy.

Or they would have been happy, if not for a terrible giant who came every day.

Each morning, when Too-too-moo woke up, she fastened her hair in a knot with her long hairpin. Then she hurried into the woods to help Mama gather firewood and herbs to sell at the village market.

When that was done, Mama cooked a small pot of plain rice and shared it with Too-too-moo for breakfast. She also cooked a huge pot of sweet porridge. She made it from tasty rice flour, fragrant coconut milk, and lots of sugar.

But not even the tiniest bit of the porridge was for Too-too-moo and her Mama. It was all for the giant. Mama knew, if the giant came and did not find a full pot of porridge, he would eat Too-too-moo instead!

Then Mama left for the market, while Too-too-moo did the housework. She shook out their sleeping mat, swept the floor, and washed their few dishes. Then she went outside to play.

Soon she heard the giant’s terrible footsteps.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Too-too-moo ran into the house, picked up the covered pot of porridge, placed it outside on the doorstep, and shut and locked the door. Then she crouched and trembled in a corner.

The giant stamped up to the house. With one huge finger, he knocked on the door—Tock, tock, tock. Then he called,

“Too-too-moo!
Where are you?”

And Too-too-moo answered, “In the house.”

“And where is your Mama?”

“At the market.”

“And where is my PORRIDGE?”

“In the pot!”

The giant took off the cover, picked up the pot, and swallowed the porridge in one big gulp. Then he threw down the pot and stamped back through the forest.

This happened every day.

When Mama returned in the evening, she brought food that she had bought with the money earned at the market. But since they had to feed the giant, there was never enough for themselves.

One day, Mama did not sell as much as usual. When she came home, she had only enough food for the giant. She and Too-too-moo had to go hungry.

The next day was the same. And so was the day after that.

Too-too-moo and her Mama were starving.

On the fourth morning, Too-too-moo got up, fastened her hair with her long hairpin, and helped Mama gather firewood and herbs. Then Mama cooked the porridge for the giant and left for the market.

The sweet smell of the porridge filled the little house. Too-too-moo was so hungry, she couldn’t stand it.

“I’ll eat just one spoonful,” she said to herself. “The giant will never know.”

Too-too-moo uncovered the pot and ate one spoonful. But she was too hungry to stop! Before she knew what she was doing, a quarter of the porridge was gone.

Then she heard the giant’s terrible footsteps.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Too-too-moo quickly covered the pot, placed it outside on the doorstep, and shut and locked the door. Then she crouched and trembled in a corner.

The giant stamped up to the house. With one huge finger, he knocked on the door—Tock, tock, tock. Then he called,

“Too-too-moo!
Where are you?”

And Too-too-moo answered, “In the house.”

“And where is your Mama?”

“At the market.”

“And where is my PORRIDGE?”

“In the pot!”

The giant took off the cover, picked up the pot, stopped, and looked.

“This pot is not full!” bellowed the giant. He threw it down and called again,

“Too-too-moo!
Where are YOU?”

Too-too-moo did not answer.

With one blow of his fist, the giant knocked down the door. He reached in his long arm and felt all around till he found Too-too-moo. Then he pulled her from the house, tossed her in his mouth, and swallowed her in one big gulp.

Too-too-moo tumbled into the giant’s stomach. “Please let me out!” she shouted.

But the giant didn’t listen as he turned and stamped back through the forest.

Too-too-moo cried and shook with fear. Then all of a sudden, she remembered her long hairpin.

Quickly she pulled it from her hair. With both hands and all her strength, Too-too-moo stuck it into the giant.

“YOW!” howled the giant.

Too-too-moo stuck him again.

“OUCH! YOW!” The giant danced about, but there was nothing he could do. “TOO-TOO-MOO, STOP!”

But Too-too-moo did not stop. She stuck the giant again and again.

The bellowing giant raced through the woods. Mad with pain, he did not look where he was going. He tripped on a root and cracked his head on a rock.

The giant was dead!

But Too-too-moo was still trapped inside.

At that moment, Mama was on her way home. She had been lucky that day, and had quickly sold all she had carried to market. So she had bought rice and fish and vegetables, and even roasted peanuts as a special treat for Too-too-moo.

But when she reached the house, she saw the porridge thrown down and the door knocked in. She called,

“Too-too-moo!
Where are you?”

There was no answer.

Mama grabbed a big cooking knife and ran along the trail of the giant’s footsteps, calling,

“Too-too-moo!
Where are YOU?”

Still no answer.

Then she came to where the giant lay dead. But her daughter was nowhere to be seen, so she called one last time,

“TOO-TOO-MOO!
WHERE ARE YOU?”

And Too-too-moo answered, “IN THE GIANT!”

With both hands and all her strength, Mama slit open the giant’s side.

And out climbed—

Too-too-moo!

From that time on, Too-too-moo and her Mama were happy. There was no more giant to bother them. They always had enough to eat. And they had sweet porridge for breakfast, every single day.

About the Story

This tale comes from Java, the main island of the country of Indonesia. Indonesia itself lies entirely on islands, stretching across the Pacific Ocean between southeast Asia and Australia. Over 200 million people live there, and each major island has its own distinctive culture.

The culture of Java is an eclectic one, and this story echoes motifs from many lands. Japan has the tale of “The Inch Boy,” a Tom Thumb character who jumps into an ogre’s stomach and defeats him with his sewing-needle sword. Africa has many stories of mothers who rescue children from the belly of an elephant or giant caterpillar. In Western culture, Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother are cut out of the stomach of the wolf. “Too-too-moo” blends these elements with a distinctive Javanese flavor.

To my knowledge, this is the first time the tale has been published outside of Asia. It is here retold chiefly from “Tu-tu-mu and the Giant,” in Favourite Stories from Indonesia, by Marguerite Siek, Heinemann Educational Books, Kuala Lumpur, 1972.

The Millionaire Miser: A Buddhist Legend

2012-09-23T04:31:00.000-07:00

Sushil was a miser. Though his treasure house was full, he was too stingy to give away even the smallest coin. And since food cost money, he ate almost nothing, and starved his family and servants besides.

One morning, as Sushil took his daily walk through town, he saw a young boy eating a sweet rice dumpling. Sushil’s mouth watered as he made his way home.

“If only I could ask my wife to make me a sweet dumpling,” he said to himself. “But if I wanted one, so would my wife. And if my wife wanted one, so would the children. And if the children wanted one, so would the servants. So I had better just keep quiet.”

When Sushil arrived home, he said nothing about a dumpling. But he wanted one so badly, he felt weak. His legs shook, and he had to go to bed.

His wife, Nirmala, came to him. She asked, “What is wrong, my husband?”

Sushil lay groaning and clenched his teeth.

“Is there something you want?” said Nirmala.

Sushil’s face grew red, then purple. At last he squeaked, “I would like a sweet rice dumpling.”

“That is no problem,” said Nirmala. “We are wealthy enough. Why, I will make sweet dumplings for the whole town!”

Sushil gasped in horror. “You will make a pauper of me!”

“Well then,” said Nirmala, “I will make dumplings for our family and servants.”

“Why would the servants need any?” said Sushil.

“Then I will make them for us and the children.”

“I am sure the children can do without.”

“Then I will make one for you and one for me.”

“Why would you want one?” said Sushil.

Nirmala sighed and went out, and returned after a while with a single sweet dumpling. Then she looked on as Sushil, moaning with delight, devoured every crumb.

Now, it happened that all this was seen by Sakka, the King of Heaven, who was sitting on his marble throne in his thousand-mile-high palace. “Not in seventy-seven millennia,” he declared, “have I ever seen such a miser. I will teach this fellow not to be so stingy.”

So the god waited till the next day, when Sushil left on his morning walk. Then he made himself look just like Sushil and came down to earth.

Sakka walked into Sushil’s house as if he were Sushil himself. In Sushil’s own voice he told a servant, “Run through the town and invite everyone you see. Today Sushil will share his wealth!”

When Nirmala heard these words, she cried, “Husband, can this be true? Heaven be praised for your change of heart!” Then she helped him open the treasure house.

Soon the people of the town arrived. “Take what you will!” said the pretend Sushil. “And if anyone who looks like me tries to stop you, drive away the scoundrel!”

“Thanks to Lord Sushil!” cried the townspeople. “The most generous man alive!” They rushed into the treasure house and loaded themselves with gold, silver, diamonds, and pearls.

Just then, the real Sushil came home. When he saw his treasure being carried out the gate, he screamed, “Robbers! Thieves! Put that back! How dare you!”

But the townspeople said, “This must be the one that Lord Sushil warned us about.” And they chased Sushil halfway across town.

Sushil rushed on to the Rajah’s court. “Your Majesty,” he declared, “the people of the town are taking all I own!”

“But your own servant invited them!” said the Rajah. “I heard him myself. Did you not give the order?”

“Never!” said Sushil. “If the order was given, I beg you to bring the one who gave it!”

So the Rajah sent a messenger. Soon came Sakka, still pretending to be Sushil, along with Nirmala and the children. The children stared wide-eyed at the two Sushils, and Nirmala nearly fainted.

“Impostor!” screamed Sushil.

“Deceiver!” screamed Sakka.

“I cannot tell the difference between you,” said the bewildered Rajah. He turned to Nirmala. “Can you say which is the true Sushil?”

Nirmala looked at both men. “Your Majesty,” she said, “may I ask them a question?”

“Certainly,” said the Rajah.

Nirmala turned to Sakka. “Is it better to be generous to yourself, to your family, to your servants, or to your neighbors?”

“It is best to be generous to all!” answered Sakka. “When you are generous, others also grow generous, and everyone is wealthier.”

Then Nirmala turned to Sushil. “Is it better to be generous to yourself, to your family, to your servants, or to your neighbors?”

“To none!” shrieked Sushil. “It is a waste of wealth that can never be regained!”

Nirmala took a deep breath, gathered the children, then drew close to Sakka. She said, “This is the true Sushil, Your Majesty.”

“But, Nirmala!” cried Sushil. “My wife! My children!”

At that, the god stepped forward, and with a blinding flash of light changed back to his own shape. “Your Majesty, I am not Sushil but Sakka. I came down from Heaven to teach this man a lesson.”

He turned to the trembling and downcast Sushil. “Do you see? You are so stingy, even your wife and children deny you.”

Sushil moaned.

“There is but one hope for you,” said Sakka. “Will you stop being such a miser?”

“Well,” said Sushil, “maybe I could be a little more generous.”

“A little more?” demanded Sakka.

“Well, maybe a little more than a little more,” said Sushil.

“You had better be a lot more generous,” said Sakka. “Or I’ll be back!”

And with another flash of light, he vanished.

“Well!” said the Rajah to Sushil. “It seems you indeed have been taught a good lesson!”

“I suppose so, Your Majesty,” said Sushil. He turned shyly to Nirmala. “Wife?” he said, holding out his hand.

“Husband!” she said, taking it. “Oh, husband, let us celebrate! I have an idea. Let us make sweet rice dumplings for the entire town!”

Sushil gasped in horror. His legs shook. He groaned and clenched his teeth. His face grew red, then purple. Then he squeaked—

“All right!”

About the Story

The tale of the “Millionaire Miser” appears in several versions in the Jataka, a gigantic collection of folktales, legends, and fables compiled by Buddhists and set down in final form around the 5th century A.D. The Jataka tales are intended to illustrate moral points and are used by Buddhist preachers and teachers much as Christian clergy use stories from the Bible.

Sakka, the King of Heaven, is a popular figure appearing in many of the Jataka tales. He is actually a Buddhist version of the Hindu god Indra, borrowed like many other elements from Hindu folklore and mythology. (One of Indra’s standard epithets is Sakra, meaning “powerful.”) Among Chinese Buddhists, Sakka becomes known as Yu Huang, the Jade Emperor.

A distinctive feature of the Buddhist Sakka is that he is more a position than a person. Virtuous people may find themselves incarnating as the King of Heaven in between lives on earth. Buddha himself is said to have earned the post at various times before his enlightenment.

My sources for this retelling were #78, #450, and #535, in The Jataka, edited by E. B. Cowell, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1905; and Tales Told in India, retold by Berta Metzger, Oxford University Press, Madras, 1935.

How to Say the Names

Nirmala ~ NEER-ma-la
Sakka ~ SOK-a (sounds like “sock a”)
Sushil ~ SOO-shil

The Calabash Kids: A Tale of Tanzania

2012-09-23T04:22:00.001-07:00

Once there was a woman named Shindo, who lived in a village at the foot of a snow-capped mountain. Her husband had died, and she had no children, so she was very lonely. And she was always tired too, for she had no one to help with the chores.

All on her own, she cleaned the hut and yard, tended the chickens, washed her clothes in the river, carried water, cut firewood, and cooked her solitary meals.

At the end of each day, Shindo gazed up at the snowy peak.

“Great Mountain Spirit!” she would pray. “My work is too hard. Send me help!”

One day, Shindo was weeding her small field by the river, where she grew vegetables and bananas and gourds. Suddenly, a noble chieftain appeared beside her.

“I am a messenger from the Great Mountain Spirit,” he told the astonished woman, and he handed her some gourd seeds. “Plant these carefully. They are the answer to your prayers.”

Then the chieftain vanished.

Shindo wondered, “What help could I get from a handful of seeds?” Still, she planted and tended them as carefully as she could.

She was amazed at how quickly they grew. In just a week, long vines trailed over the ground, and ripe gourds hung from them.

Shindo brought the gourds home, sliced off the tops, and scooped out the pulp. Then she laid the gourds on the rafters of her hut to dry. When they hardened, she could sell them at the market as calabashes, to be made into bowls and jugs.

One fine gourd Shindo set by the cook fire. This one she wanted to use herself, and she hoped it would dry faster.

The next morning, Shindo went off again to tend her field. But meanwhile, back in the hut, the gourds began to change. They sprouted heads, then arms, then legs.

Soon, they were not gourds at all. They were children!

One boy lay by the fire, where Shindo had put the fine gourd. The other children called to him from the rafters.

“Ki-te-te, come help us!
We’ll work for our mother.
Come help us, Ki-te-te,
Our favorite brother!”

Kitete helped his brothers and sisters down from the rafters. Then the children ran through the hut and yard, singing and playing.

All joined in but Kitete. Drying by the fire had made the boy slow-witted. So he just sat there, smiling widely.

After a while, the other children started on the chores. They quickly cleaned the hut and yard, fed the chickens, washed the clothes, carried water, cut firewood, and cooked a meal for Shindo to eat when she returned.

When the work was done, Kitete helped the others climb back on the rafters. Then they all turned again into gourds.

That afternoon, as Shindo returned home, the other women of the village called to her.

“Who were those children in your yard today?” they asked. “Where did they come from? Why were they doing your chores?”

“What children? Are you all making fun of me?” said Shindo, angrily.

But when she reached her hut, she was astounded. The work was done, and even her meal was ready! She could not imagine who had helped her.

The same thing happened the next day. As soon as Shindo had gone off, the gourds turned into children, and the ones on the rafters called out,

“Ki-te-te, come help us!
We’ll work for our mother.
Come help us, Ki-te-te,
Our favorite brother!”

Then they played for a while, did all the chores, climbed back to the rafters, and turned again into gourds.

Once more, Shindo was amazed to see the work all done. But this time, she decided to find out who were her helpers.

The next morning, Shindo pretended to leave, but she hid beside the door of the hut and peeked in. And so she saw the gourds turn into children, and heard the ones on the rafters call out,

“Ki-te-te, come help us!
We’ll work for our mother.
Come help us, Ki-te-te,
Our favorite brother!”

As the children rushed out the door, they nearly ran into Shindo. She was too astonished to speak, and so were the children. But after a moment, they went on with their playing, and then with their chores.

When they were done, they started to climb back to the rafters.

“No, no!” cried Shindo. “You must not change back into gourds! You will be the children I never had, and I will love you and care for you.”

So Shindo kept the children as her own. She was no longer lonely. And the children were so helpful, she soon became rich, with many fields of vegetables and bananas, and flocks of sheep and goats.

That is, all were helpful but Kitete, who stayed by the fire with his simple-minded smile.

Most of the time, Shindo didn’t mind. In fact, Kitete was really her favorite, because he was like a sweet baby. But sometimes, when she was tired or unhappy about something else, she would get annoyed at him.

“You useless child!” she would say. “Why can’t you be smart like your brothers and sisters, and work as hard as they do?”

Kitete would only grin back at her.

One day, Shindo was out in the yard, cutting vegetables for a stew. As she carried the pot from the bright sunlight into the hut, she tripped over Kitete. She fell, and the clay pot shattered. Vegetables and water streamed everywhere.

“Stupid boy!” yelled Shindo. “Haven’t I told you to stay out of my way? But what can I expect? You’re not a real child at all. You’re nothing but a calabash!”

The very next moment, she gave a scream. Kitete was no longer there, and in his place was a gourd.

“What have I done?” cried Shindo, as the children crowded into the hut. “I didn’t mean what I said! You’re not a calabash, you’re my own darling son. Oh, children, please do something!”

The children looked at each other. Then over each other they climbed, scampering up to the rafters. When the last child had been helped up by Shindo, they called out one last time,

“Ki-te-te, come help us!
We’ll work for our mother.
Come help us, Ki-te-te,
Our favorite brother!”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then slowly, the gourd began to change. It sprouted a head, then arms, then legs. At last, it was not a gourd at all. It was—

Kitete!

Shindo learned her lesson. Ever after, she was very careful what she called her children.

And so they gave her comfort and happiness, all the rest of her days.

About the Story

This tale comes from the Chagga people—a collective name for a variety of Bantu peoples living on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro. Though of diverse origin, they have developed a common language and culture, distinct from those of the surrounding plains.

A Chagga story about children growing from gourds is not surprising, because Chaggas are often named after gourds. For instance, two common names for females are Mambiri, which means “ripe,” and Mambishi, “not ripe.” (Kitete, however, is not such a name.)

Though some of us might feel uneasy that children should work for their mother, this is part of the traditional education called ipvunda, based on “learning by doing.” Instead of studying subjects in classrooms, children took part in the same activities they would carry on as adults. Nowadays, though, Chagga children attend regular schools, as introduced by the British colonialists and continued by the independent government.

The source for my retelling was Kilimanjaro and Its People, by Charles Dundas, Witherby, High Holburn, England, 1924. The information here on Chagga names and education came from Ladi Semali, a Chagga and an assistant professor of education at Pennsylvania State University.

How to Say the Names

Kitete ~ Kee-TAY-tay
Shindo ~ SHEEN-do or SHEE-’n-do

Lars, My Lad!: A Tale of Sweden

2012-09-23T04:14:00.003-07:00

There was once a young duke who was down on his luck. He’d started with a good deal of money and a great many friends, but when his money ran out, his friends did too.

And so he found himself one night, ragged, cold, and starved, wandering through a lonely forest. He had nearly given up finding shelter for the night, when he came upon a deserted, ramshackle hut.

“It’s better than sleeping on the ground,” he said.

The duke went in, and there found nothing but a large chest, standing in the middle of the hut. Hoping it held some scraps of food, he unlatched it and lifted the lid.

Inside was another chest. He heaved out that one and opened it also, but found only another chest within. This too he pulled out and opened, but found still another chest inside it.

“Whatever’s in here must be of great value, to be tucked away so well,” he said, and he kept on taking out and opening chests, until the floor was quite covered by them.

Finally he came to a tiny box, and when he opened it, he found a scrap of paper.

“Is that all?” snorted the duke, and he was about to crumple and toss it aside, when he noticed some words written on it. They were so faded, he could hardly make them out.

“Lars . . . my . . . lad.”

“Master, what do you wish?”

The duke jumped in surprise. But when he looked around him, he could not see who had spoken.

“Let’s try that again,” said the duke, and holding the paper before him, he read, “Lars, my lad!”

“Master, what do you wish?”

The duke could still see no one, but he had an idea it didn’t matter.

“Bring me a table,” he said, “and set it with the richest feast anyone ever sat down to.”

A whisk, a whir, and a whoosh, and there in the hut was a banquet table such as the duke had never seen. He settled himself down and never stopped eating till he had made up for all his days of hunger.

When he was done, he pulled out the paper again and read, “Lars, my lad!”

“Master, what do you wish?”

“Take this table away, and bring me a four-poster bed with a canopy and seven mattresses.”

A whisk, a whir, and a whoosh, and in place of the table stood an elegant bed, with carvings on every post.

The duke laid himself down on it, but before going to sleep, he said to himself, “It’s a shame to place such a fine bed in such a lowly hut.” So he reached again for the paper.

“Lars, my lad!”

“Master, what do you wish?”

“Change this room, so it is as fine as the bed.”

A whisk, a whir, and a whoosh, and the duke found himself in a magnificent chamber, with a polished marble floor and curtained walls.

“That’s more like it,” said the duke, and he turned on his side and slept.

When the duke rose in the morning, he discovered that Lars had created not only a magnificent chamber, but a magnificent palace to set it in.

He wandered in astonishment from one luxurious room to the next, his eyes dazzled by the glint of gold and silver ornaments. Outside, he found the forest had been pushed back to make way for lawns and orchards and the finest flower gardens he had ever seen.

“It’s like heaven on earth,” said the duke. “But I can’t run it all by myself.” So he took out the paper.

“Lars, my lad!”

“Master, what do you wish?”

“I want servants to help take care of the palace.”

A whisk, a whir, and a whoosh, and the palace came alive with people. Maids and stewards and servants of all kinds rushed about, bowing or curtseying to the duke as they passed.

“Perfect,” said the duke. “All I need now is friends to share good fortune. And with wealth like this, I shouldn’t have long to wait.”

Now, on the other side of the forest was the palace of the king, and as usual, when he rose that morning, he went over to the window and looked out. But what he saw was not what he expected.

“Chamberlain, come here!” he shouted, and his chamberlain rushed into the bedchamber.

“Tell me, what do you see?” said the king, pointing out the window.

The chamberlain stared and gasped. “A palace, your majesty!”

“That’s what I thought,” said the king. “Someone has built a palace in my forest without even asking me! Call up my troops. I’ll tear down that palace and hang the intruder!”

The king and his soldiers were soon heading through the forest to the sound of drums and trumpets. They were still far off when the duke heard the music, but he knew what it meant. So he took out his paper.

“Lars, my lad!”

“Master, what do you wish?”

“I need an army, twice as big as the one that approaches.”

A whisk, a whir, and a whoosh, and there in front of the palace were long lines of soldiers and horses, guns and cannons.

The king and his men emerged from the forest, but when they saw the troops facing them, they came to a jumbled halt. As the king puzzled over what to do next, the duke rode up.

“Welcome, your majesty! To what do I owe this gracious visit?”

“I’ll tell you, you scoundrel!” said the king. “I mean to tear down your palace and string you up!”

“There’s not much chance of that!” said the duke. “Your majesty can see the size of my forces. So why doesn’t your majesty make me an ally, instead?”

“I suppose that might make more sense,” the king said thoughtfully.

The duke invited the king into the palace for a splendid feast. Never had the king been dined more royally. Then the duke led a tour of the palace, and the king could only stare wide-eyed at the great riches shown him. Before long, he was completely brought around by the duke’s wealth and charm.

While enjoying a second magnificent meal, the king began to tell the duke of his daughter.

“She’d make a wonderful wife for a man of your position,” said the king, “I’ll speak to her about you on the morrow.”

“Thank you, your majesty!” said the duke.

It was late that night before the king left. As soon as the duke was alone, he pulled out his paper.

“Lars, my lad!”

“Master, what do you wish?”

“Take me to the princess’s bedchamber.”

A whisk, a whir, and a whoosh, and the duke stood by the princess’s bed. He found her so lovely lying there, he could scarce catch his breath.

“Princess,” he called softly.

She awoke with a start, and sat up in terror. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I am merely an admirer,” said the duke. “And I have come only to make your acquaintance.”

Well, when the princess got over her shock, she found the duke quite charming. They talked and talked through the night, and before it passed, they were very much in love.

Just before dawn, the duke took her hands. “Do you care for me as much as I for you?”

“I do,” she said.

“Then tell the king you’ll gladly be my wife.”

He kissed her once, and crept quietly from the room.

“Lars, my lad!”

“Master, what do you wish?”

“Shhhhh! Not so loud! Take me back.”

A whisk, a whir, and a whoosh, and back he was.

That morning, when the king asked his daughter about marrying the duke, he was more than a little surprised by her eagerness. The wedding was held just a few days later, and a finer time was never had by any.

“But there’s still one thing that puzzles me,” the king remarked to the duke during the grand ball. “How did you manage to build your palace so quickly? It’s almost as if it sprang up overnight!”

“Overnight?” said the duke. “Why, what a curious notion, your majesty! Most likely, you just didn’t notice it going up.”

“I suppose that must be it,” sighed the king. “Still, your builders must have been marvelously fast.”

“Oh, I’ll grant you that, your majesty,” said the duke. “Marvelously fast indeed.”

Late that night, the duke lay blissfully in bed with the princess asleep in his arms. He had just begun to drift off himself, when he heard a voice he knew well.

“Master, what do you wish?”

“Lars? Can you come without my calling?” said the duke in surprise. “Anyway, you must know I wish for nothing, for I have everything I could want.”

“Then, master, grant a wish for me. I wish for the scrap of paper you found in the chest.”

“The paper? Well, I suppose I don’t really need it. After all, I’ll not likely forget the words!”

The duke reached over to his clothes, took the paper from a pocket, and held it out to the darkness. He felt the paper being snatched from his hand. Then he rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning, the duke awoke shivering, with the feel of something hard beneath him. He reached for the covers, but could not lay his hands upon them. He opened his eyes.

Not only the covers were gone, but also the bed and the bedchamber itself. The duke was wearing his tattered old clothes, and he and the princess were lying on the big chest, in the middle of the ramshackle hut.

The duke shot upright. “Lars! Lars, my lad!” But no voice answered. “Lars, my lad! Lars, my lad!”

Then the duke realized what had happened. By giving Lars the scrap of paper, the duke had given him his freedom, and along with that, Lars had taken back all he had given the duke. And there was not one thing the duke could do about it.

The princess, roused from sleep by the duke’s cries, asked drowsily, “What are you doing, husband?” Then her eyes opened, and she too sat upright. “Where are we?”

There was nothing then for the duke but to tell her the whole story. “So you had best go back to your father,” he concluded miserably, “for I have nothing now to offer you.”

“Don’t be silly,” said the princess. “You’re my husband!”

“But you wedded me wealthy, and now I’m a pauper!”

“That has nothing to do with it,” said the princess. “I married the man, not the palace!”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the forest, the king woke up as usual, wandered over to the window, and looked out. But what he expected was not what he saw.

“Chamberlain, come here!”

The chamberlain rushed in.

“Tell me, what do you see?”

The chamberlain stared and then stared harder out the window. “Why, nothing, your majesty!”

“That’s what I thought. Now, can you please tell me where is the palace with my daughter and son-in-law?”

“I have no idea, your majesty!”

“Then I’d best go and find out!”

So the king rode over with a couple of guards. There was no sign of a palace, but after a while they came upon the hut, and found the duke and princess inside.

“What is the meaning of this!” the king demanded of the duke. But the duke was too proud to tell the king the truth, so he refused to say a word.

“Never mind,” said the king. “You’re a scoundrel, just as I first thought, so you’ll hang, just as I first wanted!”

“But, father!” cried the princess. “He’s my husband!”

“Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll get you a better husband,” said the king. “Guards, take him to the ridge and string him up!”

The guards dragged the struggling duke from the hut, with the princess following after, begging and pleading for his life. But before the guards could ride off with him, the princess changed her tune.

“I’ll make you both rich,” she whispered, “if you string him up safely, then bring me to him after dark.”

Well, the guards didn’t mind being rich. When they got to the ridge, they wound the rope many times around the duke’s chest before hoisting him from a strong branch. Then they rode to catch up with the king and the princess on their way back to the palace.

“Someday you’ll thank me for this,” the king told his daughter with a glance at the duke on the ridge.

And so the duke was left dangling, in no great pain, but in no great comfort either. As he waited through the long day for the coming of night and his rescuers, he had plenty of time to think about the princess and her loyalty.

“She is surely worth more than any friend ever gained through riches,” mused the duke. “From now on, I’ll seek less wealth and better friends!” He sighed deeply. “Though it wouldn’t hurt to have both.”

At last the sun went down, and the duke was quite glad to see it go. But as the twilight deepened, he heard a noise far off. It grew louder and nearer, till it became a great cry and clatter.

Climbing up the ridge came a caravan of seven carts, strung together in a line, and all piled high with what looked like boots. At first the duke thought the carts moved by themselves. But as they drew closer, he saw they were all pulled by one ugly little man, no more than two feet high.

“What on earth . . . ?” muttered the duke. “I’d best play dead, till I know what’s up.”

From under half-closed eyelids, he watched the carts approach, till the lead cart stopped right before him. The little man clambered on top.

“So they hanged you, did they?” mocked the little man with a voice the duke knew well. “It serves you right, with your ‘Lars, my lad’ this, and your ‘Lars, my lad’ that. I’ve worn out seven cartloads of boots on all your grand wishes!”

Then Lars—for it was none other—took the old scrap of paper from his pocket and waved it under the duke’s nose. “Why don’t you take it, master?” he taunted. “Why don’t you read the words, master?”

The duke’s eyes flew open. “All right, I will.”

The little man froze in terror, and the duke snatched the paper from his hand. Lars, the carts, the boots, all vanished from sight in an instant.

“Lars, my lad!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO, NOT AGAIN! MASTER, WHAT DO YOU WISH?”

“Get me down from here and bring me the princess. Then put all I wished for back in place—the palace, the servants, everything!”

A whisk, a whir, and a whoosh, and . . .

The next morning, the king got up as usual, went over to the window and looked out.

“Oh, no,” he moaned. “Chamberlain, come here!”

In came the chamberlain.

“Tell me, what do you see?”

The chamberlain’s eyes bulged. “The palace, your majesty!”

The king sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

So the king and the two guards went again, and found the duke and the princess on the steps of the palace.

The princess said, “Greetings, father,” and the duke said, “Welcome, your majesty!”

“Now, tell me this,” said the king to the duke. “Didn’t I have you hanged yesterday?”

“Hanged, your majesty? Why, what a strange notion! Why would you ever wish such evil on me?”

“Well . . . ,” said the king uncertainly. He glanced at the guards, but they kept their eyes on the ground. “I’m not entirely sure. But didn’t I come here yesterday and find a hut instead of a palace?”

“Your majesty has such wild ideas! You must have been dreaming, for you certainly see the palace now!”

“Yes, I certainly do,” the king reflected. “Well, then! Let nothing more be said of it!”

And nothing ever was.

So the duke and the princess lived happily, as also did Lars, for the duke grew mindful of him and hardly ever called him after that. And when the duke himself became king, he replaced the paper in its many chests and buried it under a secret marker, so Lars would never be bothered again.

There are some, though, who search for that paper to this very day.

About the Story

This tale is retold from “‘Lars, My Lad!’” in Fairy Tales from the Swedish of Baron G. Djurklou, edited and translated by H. L. Braekstad, Heinemann, London, 1901. Djurklou was an important collector of Swedish folktales in the late 1800s. Though the tale is wonderfully fresh in many elements, it is also a clear cousin to both “Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp” and “The Tinder Box.”

The Wings of the Butterfly: A Tale of the Amazon Rainforest

2012-09-23T04:13:00.003-07:00

On the banks of the Amazon River, in a clearing in the forest, there once lived a girl named Chimidyue. She dwelt with her family and relatives in a big pavilion-house called a maloca.

While the boys of the maloca fished and hunted with the men, Chimidyue and the other girls helped the women with household chores or in the farm plots nearby. Like the other girls, Chimidyue never stepped far into the forest. She knew how full it was of fierce animals and harmful spirits, and how easy it was to get lost in.

Still, she would listen wide-eyed when the elders told stories about that other world. And sometimes she would go just a little way in, gazing among the giant trees and wondering what she might find farther on.

One day as Chimidyue was making a basket, she looked up and saw a big morpho butterfly hovering right before her. Sunlight danced on its shimmering blue wings.

“You are the most magical creature in the world,” Chimidyue said dreamily. “I wish I could be like you.”

The butterfly dipped as if in answer, then flew toward the edge of the clearing.

Chimidyue set down her basket and started after it, imitating its lazy flight. Among the trees she followed, swooping and circling and flapping her arms.

She played like this for a long time, until the butterfly passed between some vines and disappeared. Suddenly Chimidyue realized she had gone too far into the forest. There was no path, and the leaves of the tall trees made a canopy that hid the sun. She could not tell which way she had come.

“Mother! Father! Anyone!” she shouted. But no one came.

“Oh no,” she said softly. “How will I find my way back?”

Chimidyue wandered anxiously about, hoping to find a path. After a while she heard a tap-tap-tapping. “Someone must be working in the forest,” she said hopefully, and she followed the sound. But when she got close, she saw it was just a woodpecker.

Chimidyue sadly shook her head. “If only you were human,” she said, “you could show me the way home.”

“Why would I have to be human?” asked the woodpecker indignantly. “I could show you just as I am!”

Startled but glad to hear it talk, Chimidyue said eagerly, “Oh, would you?”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” said the woodpecker. “You humans are so conceited, you think everyone else is here to serve you. But in the forest, a woodpecker is just as important as a human.” And it flew off.

“I didn’t mean anything bad,” said Chimidyue to herself. “I just want to go home.”

More uneasy than ever, Chimidyue walked farther. All at once she came upon a maloca, and sitting within it was a woman weaving a hammock.

“Oh, grandmother!” cried Chimidyue joyfully, addressing the woman with the term proper for an elder. “I’m so glad to find someone here. I was afraid I would die in the forest!”

But just as she stepped into the maloca, the roof began to flap, and the maloca and the woman together rose into the air. Then Chimidyue saw it was really a tinamou bird that had taken a magical form. It flew to a branch above.

“Don’t you ‘grandmother’ me!” screeched the bird. “How many of my people have your relatives hunted and killed? How many have you cooked and eaten? Don’t you dare ask for my help.” And it too flew away.

“The animals here all seem to hate me,” said Chimidyue sorrowfully. “But I can’t help being a human!”

Chimidyue wandered on, feeling more and more hopeless, and hungry now as well. Suddenly, a sorva fruit dropped to the ground. She picked it up and ate it greedily. Then another dropped nearby.

Chimidyue looked up and saw why. A band of spider monkeys was feeding in the forest canopy high above, and now and then a fruit would slip from their hands.

“I’ll just follow the monkeys,” Chimidyue told herself. “Then at least I won’t starve.” And for the rest of that day she walked along beneath them, eating any fruit they dropped. But her fears grew fresh as daylight faded and night came to the forest.

In the deepening darkness, Chimidyue saw the monkeys start to climb down, and she hid herself to watch. To her amazement, as the monkeys reached the ground, each one changed to the form of a human.

Chimidyue could not help but gasp, and within a moment the monkey people had surrounded her.

“Why, it’s Chimidyue!” said a monkey man with a friendly voice. “What are you doing here?”

Chimidyue stammered, “I followed a butterfly into the forest, and I can’t find my way home.”

“You poor girl!” said a monkey woman. “Don’t worry. We’ll bring you there tomorrow.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Chimidyue. “But where will I stay tonight?”

“Why don’t you come with us to the festival?” asked the monkey man. “We’ve been invited by the Lord of Monkeys.”

They soon arrived at a big maloca. When the Monkey Lord saw Chimidyue, he demanded, “Human, why have you come uninvited?”

“We found her and brought her along,” the monkey woman told him.

The Monkey Lord grunted and said nothing more. But he eyed the girl in a way that made her shiver.

Many more monkey people had arrived, all in human form. Some wore animal costumes of bark cloth with wooden masks. Others had designs painted on their faces with black genipa dye. Everyone drank from gourds full of manioc beer.

Then some of the monkey people rose to begin the dance. With the Monkey Lord at their head, they marched in torchlight around the inside of the maloca, beating drums and shaking rattle sticks. Others sang softly or played bone flutes.

Chimidyue watched it all in wonder. She told her friend the monkey woman, “This is just like the festivals of my own people!”

Late that night, when all had retired to their hammocks, Chimidyue was kept awake by the snoring of the Monkey Lord. After a while, something about it caught her ear. “That’s strange,” she told herself. “It sounds almost like words.”

The girl listened carefully and heard, “I will devour Chimidyue. I will devour Chimidyue.”

“Grandfather!” she cried in terror.

“What? Who’s that?” said the Monkey Lord, starting from his sleep.

“It’s Chimidyue,” said the girl. “You said in your sleep you would devour me!”

“How could I say that?” he demanded. “Monkeys don’t eat people. No, that was just foolish talk of this mouth of mine. Pay no attention!” He took a long swig of manioc beer and went back to sleep.

Soon the girl heard again, “I will devour Chimidyue. I will devour Chimidyue.” But this time the snores were more like growls. Chimidyue looked over at the Monkey Lord’s hammock. To her horror, she saw not a human form but a powerful animal with black spots.

The Lord of Monkeys was not a monkey at all. He was a jaguar!

Chimidyue’s heart beat wildly. As quietly as she could, she slipped from her hammock and grabbed a torch. Then she ran headlong through the night.

When Chimidyue stopped at last to rest, daylight had begun to filter through the forest canopy. She sat down among the root buttresses of a kapok tree and began to cry.

“I hate this forest!” she said fiercely. “Nothing here makes any sense!”

“Are you sure?” asked a tiny voice.

Quickly wiping her eyes, Chimidyue looked up. On a branch of the kapok was a morpho butterfly, the largest she had ever seen. It waved at her with brilliant blue wings.

“Oh, grandmother,” said Chimidyue, “nothing here is what it seems. Everything changes into something else!”

“Dear Chimidyue,” said the butterfly gently, “that is the way of the forest. Among your own people, things change slowly and are mostly what they seem. But your human world is a tiny one. All around it lies a much larger world, and you can’t expect it to behave the same.”

“But if I can’t understand the forest,” cried Chimidyue, “how will I ever get home?”

“I will lead you there myself,” said the butterfly.

“Oh, grandmother, will you?” said Chimidyue.

“Certainly,” said the butterfly. “Just follow me.”

It wasn’t long till they came to the banks of the Amazon. Then Chimidyue saw with astonishment that the boat landing of her people was on the other side.

“I crossed the river without knowing it!” she cried. “But that’s impossible!”

“Impossible?” said the butterfly.

“I mean,” said Chimidyue carefully, “I don’t understand how it happened. But now, how will I get back across?”

“That’s simple,” said the morpho. “I’ll change you to a butterfly.” And it began to chant over and over,

Wings of blue, drinks the dew.
Wings of blue, drinks the dew.
Wings of blue, drinks the dew.

Chimidyue felt herself grow smaller, while her arms grew wide and thin. Soon she was fluttering and hovering beside the other.

“I’m a butterfly!” she cried.

They started across the wide water, their wings glistening in the sun. “I feel so light and graceful,” said Chimidyue. “I wish this would never end.”

Before long they reached the landing, where a path to the maloca led into the forest. The instant Chimidyue touched the ground, she was changed back to human form.

“I will leave you here,” said the butterfly. “Farewell, Chimidyue.”

“Oh, grandmother,” cried the girl, “take me with you. I want to be a butterfly forever!”

“That would not be right,” said the butterfly. “You belong with your people, who love you and care for you. But never mind, Chimidyue. Now that you have been one of us, you will always have something of the forest within you.”

The girl waved as the butterfly flew off. “Good-bye, grandmother!”

Then Chimidyue turned home, with a heart that had wings of a butterfly.

About the Story

Chimidyue’s tale is from the Tukuna (or Tucuna, or Tikuna) tribe of South America. It is recorded in Curt Nimuendajú’s The Tukuna, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1952. Nimuendajú spent altogether nearly a year with the Tukuna in the early 1940s, and most of what we know about the tribe comes from his excellent study.

The Tukuna (pronounced “TOO-koo-na”) live on the upper Amazon River and its tributaries, in adjoining sections of Brazil, Colombia, and Peru. Like the people of most Amazonian tribes, the Tukuna have suffered terribly from the encroachment of modern South Americans. Still, they have survived better than most, because of their geographic isolation, their respect for their own traditions, and their peaceable nature. Their number in the mid-1970s was figured at about 16,000, making them one of the largest remaining tribes in South America.

Much in Tukuna culture is common among South American tribes. The tale of Chimidyue itself is one of a genre of forest odyssey tales found in many parts of Amazonia—a genre that has been called the most sophisticated literary development of the Amazon tribes. The Tukuna version is unique in having a female protagonist.

Following are notes on unfamiliar and unusual elements of the story.

Maloca (“mul-O-ka”). A large communal house typical of Amazon tribes. In general, the Tukuna do not live in villages, but a group of relatives will share a maloca. The inside is fairly open, without dividing walls. The maloca might be 50 ft. wide, 100 ft. long, and 40 ft. high, or even larger. Since festivals are held inside, it must be big enough for several hundred people and their baggage.

In the past, the maloca of the Tukuna was approximately oval, with a solid outside wall to keep out insect pests. But now that the Tukuna have mosquito nets, they omit the walls entirely, and the maloca is likely to be rectangular. The kitchen is located in a separate building.

Morpho (“MOR-fo”). A large tropical butterfly with lustrous blue wings. It is often seen flying along forest trails, and according to Amazonian explorer Richard Evans Schultes, it “never fails to thrill the onlooker with wonder and admiration that such grace of movement could be found in such an asperous environment.” Though some Amazonians associate the morpho with evil sorcerers and black magic, not all share this view. The Yukunas of Colombia, for instance, honor the morpho with a special costumed dance.

Grandmother, grandfather. Terms of respect for elders.

Tinamou (“TIN-a-moo”). A South and Central American game bird resembling a partridge. Larger tinamou can reach a length of about 18 inches.

Sorva (“SOR-va”). The fruit of a rubber tree called sorveira (species Couma utilis). The terms are Portuguese, without English equivalents.

Genipa (“JEN-ip-a”). A green fruit similar to an apple. Its colorless juice turns black as it dries and so is used as a skin dye.

Kapok (“KAY-pok”). This is one of the trees believed by Amazonians to possess a soul. It is not surprising to find a magical creature like the morpho associated with it. Like some other trees growing in flood plains, the kapok’s root system forms buttresses above ground.

For more on the Tukuna, see Nimuendajú’s book and also “Tukuna Maidens Come of Age” in National Geographic, November 1959. For an overview of the forest odyssey genre, see Legends of the World, edited by Richard Cavendish, Crescent, New York, 1989, chapter 40; or The Origin of Table Manners, by Claude Lévi-Strauss, translated by John and Doreen Weightman, Jonathan Cape, London, 1978, part 2, chapter 2.

The quotation preceding the story comes from The Sea and the Jungle, by H. M. Tomlinson, Duckworth, London, 1912.

How to Say the Names

Chimidyue ~ chim-ID-yoo-a
maloca ~ mul-O-ka
morpho ~ MOR-fo
For more pronunciations, see the notes above.

The Master of Masters: A Tale of Norway

2012-09-23T04:12:00.005-07:00

One day, Jesus and St. Peter were walking through a village, when they came to a blacksmith shop.

Peter gave Jesus a nudge. “Lord, look at that.”

Jesus looked above the door and saw a sign saying, “Master of Masters.”

“Hmm,” said Jesus. “Let’s look into this.”

Inside, the blacksmith was at his forge, pounding on a horseshoe.

“I saw the sign over your door,” said Jesus. “What does it mean?”

“Can’t you read?” said the smith. “It means what it says. I’m the Master of Masters.”

“That’s quite a coincidence,” said Jesus. “That’s what people call me.”

“Then they’d better stop,” said the smith. “I’m the greatest blacksmith that ever lived. That makes me the Master of Masters.”

Just then, a man came in, saying, “Blacksmith, my horse is outside. Will you shoe it for me?”

“Certainly,” said the smith. “Come back for it in an hour.”

When the man had left, Jesus asked, “Mind if I try my hand at it?”

The smith looked him up and down. “I guess you can’t do so much harm that I can’t put it right.”

Now, usually, to shoe a horse, you pull the shoe off the horse’s hoof, heat the shoe in the fire, hammer it at the anvil to bend up the ends, then nail it back on the hoof. But that’s not what Jesus did.

He took hold of one of the horse’s legs and gave a little tug. Pop! The leg came right off. He carried it inside, stuck the hoof in the fire, then laid it on the anvil and bent up the shoe. Then he carried the leg back outside and—pop!—stuck it back on the horse.

“Never saw that trick before,” said the smith. “Mind if I try it?”

“Be my guest,” said Jesus.

The smith took hold of another leg and tugged and tugged. But all he got for his trouble was a kick from the horse.

“Watch me again,” said Jesus. He took hold of the leg—pop!—pulled it off, brought it inside to the fire, bent the shoe at the anvil, and stuck the leg back on the horse—pop! Then he went around and did the same with the other two legs.

“I have to admit, I’m impressed,” said the smith.

“That’s nothing,” said Jesus. “Watch this.”

A man with a hunchback was passing by. Jesus said, “Sir, let me relieve you of that burden.”

“Are you mocking me?” asked the man angrily.

“Not at all,” said Jesus. “Please come into the shop.”

Jesus brought the man inside, picked him up, and stuck his hump in the fire. Then he laid him on the anvil and picked up the blacksmith’s hammer. Whomp! whomp! whomp! He pounded that man’s back as straight as a ruler.

Jesus set him down. The man cried, “Hallelujah!”, jumped six feet in the air, and raced on down the street.

“Never saw that trick, either,” said the smith. “Mind if I try that one, too?”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Jesus. “It’s tougher than it looks.”

“I imagine you’re right,” said the smith. He went straight outside and took down his sign. And he never again called himself the Master of Masters.

About the Story

Though you won’t find it in the Bible, many folktales of Europe tell of the times when Jesus and St. Peter returned from Heaven to walk upon the earth.

My source for this retelling is “The Master-Smith,” in Popular Tales of the Norse, third edition, by Peter Asbjörnsen and Jörgen Moe, translated by George Webbe Dasent, David Douglas, Edinburgh, 1888 (reprinted as East o’ the Sun & West o’ the Moon, Dover, New York, 1970). Only the first portion of the story has been used here.

For further reading: “Jesus and St. Peter in Friuli” and “Jesus and St. Peter in Sicily,” in Italian Folktales, retold by Italo Calvino, translated by George Martin, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, New York, 1980; and Jesus Tales, by Romulus Linney, North Point, San Francisco, 1980.

The Four Puppets: A Tale of Burma

2012-09-23T04:12:00.001-07:00

Once there was a puppet maker who had a son named Aung. The father always hoped his son would grow up to be a puppet maker like himself. But to Aung, such a life was far from exciting.

“Father,” said Aung one day, “I’ve decided to leave home and seek my fortune.”

The puppet maker looked up sadly from his work. “I wish you would stay, my son. The life of a puppet maker is an honorable one. But if you must go, let me give you companions for your journey.”

He showed his son four wooden puppets he had carved, painted, and costumed. “Each puppet,” he said, “has its own virtue and value.”

The first puppet was the king of the gods. The puppet maker said, “The god’s virtue is wisdom.”

The second puppet was a green-faced ogre. “The ogre’s virtue is strength.”

The third was a mystic sorcerer. “The sorcerer’s virtue is knowledge.”

The fourth was a holy hermit. “The hermit’s virtue is goodness.”

He told his son, “Each of these virtues can help you on your way. But remember, strength and knowledge must always serve wisdom and goodness.”

Aung started off the next day. On his shoulder he carried a bamboo pole, with food and clothing tied at one end, and the puppets hanging by their strings from the other.

When night came, Aung found himself deep in the jungle. He stopped beneath a banyan tree.

“This looks like a good place to sleep,” he said to himself. “But I wonder if it’s safe.”

Then Aung had a funny idea. “I think I’ll ask one of the puppets!” He turned with a smile to the king of the gods. “Tell me, is it safe here?”

To his amazement, the puppet came alive. It got down from the pole and grew to life size.

“Aung,” said the god, “open your eyes and look around you. That is the first step to wisdom. If you fail to see what is right before you, how easy it will be for others to misguide you!”

And the next moment, the puppet was hanging again from the pole.

When Aung had gotten over his shock, he looked carefully all around the tree. There in the soft earth were the tracks of a tiger! That night he slept not on the ground but in the branches above. And he was glad he did, for in the middle of the night, he saw a tiger come prowling below him.

The next day took Aung into the mountains, and at sunset he left the road and camped a little way up the mountainside. When he awoke the next morning, he saw a caravan coming along the road below. A dozen bullock carts were piled high with costly goods.

“That caravan must belong to some rich merchant,” Aung told himself. “I wish I had wealth like that.”

Then he had a thought. He turned to the green-faced ogre. “Tell me, how can I gain such riches?”

Aung watched in wonder as the puppet left the pole and grew to life size. “If you have strength,” boomed the ogre, “you can take whatever you like. Watch this!” He stamped his foot and the earth shook.

“Wait!” said Aung. But it was too late. Just below them, dirt and rocks broke loose in a landslide. It rushed down the mountain and blocked the road. The terrified drivers jumped from their carts and ran off.

“You see?” said the ogre.

“Is it really that easy?” said Aung, in a daze.

He hurried down to the carts and rushed from one to another, gaping at the heaps of rich fabrics and piles of precious metals. “And all of it’s mine!” he cried.

Just then, Aung heard a sob. Lying huddled in one of the carts was a lovely young woman his own age. She cried and shivered in fear.

“I won’t hurt you,” said Aung gently. “Who are you?”

“My name is Mala,” she said in a small voice. “My father is the owner of this caravan. We were on our way to meet him.”

All at once, Aung knew he was in love. He wanted to keep Mala with him forever. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take you with me and care for you.”

Mala sat up angrily. “Go ahead! Take me, like you’re taking everything else! But you’re just a thief, and I’ll never, ever speak to you!”

Aung was shocked. Was he really just a thief? He didn’t know what to say.

The ogre came up beside him then. “Don’t listen to her. She’ll change her mind—and anyway, the important thing is you got what you wanted. Now, let’s go.”

The ogre cleared the road, then helped Aung lead the caravan. That afternoon, they came out of the mountains, not far from the capital city.

Aung asked the ogre, “What should I do, now that I have all these riches?”

“Don’t ask me!” said the ogre. “Ask the sorcerer!”

Aung turned to the mystic sorcerer. “Can you tell me?”

The puppet came to life and floated before him, as Mala looked on with wide eyes. “If you want your wealth to grow,” said the sorcerer, “you must learn the secrets of nature.”

He tapped Aung with his red wand, and together they rose high in the air. Looking down, Aung saw everything in a new way. He could tell what land was best for farming, and which mountains held gold and silver.

“This is wonderful!” said Aung. “Just think how I can help people with what I know!”

“Certainly you could,” said the sorcerer. “But knowledge is power. Why not keep it all for yourself instead? Isn’t that what other people do?”

“I suppose so,” said Aung.

So they came to the capital city. Aung became a merchant, and with the help of the ogre and the sorcerer, he grew many times richer than at first. He bought a palace for himself and Mala, and kept the puppets in a special room of their own.

But Aung was not happy, for Mala still would not speak to him.

One day, he placed before her a headdress fit for a queen. The heavy gold was set with dozens of large rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. The magnificent piece had cost Aung a third of his wealth.

Mala took one look and pushed it away.

Aung was heartbroken. He said, “Don’t you know I love you?” But she only glared at him and said not a word.

The next morning, Aung went to the puppets’ room and spoke to the ogre and the sorcerer. “Mala’s father must now be very poor, while I have more than I need. I’ll help Mala find him so I can pay him for what I took. Maybe then she’ll speak to me, and even learn to love me.”

“A terrible idea!” said the ogre. “You should never give up what is yours. You’re just being weak!”

“Besides,” the sorcerer told him, “you’re too late. Mala ran away last night.”

“What?” cried Aung. He rushed through the palace, but Mala was nowhere to be found.

Aung returned to the puppets’ room in despair. “What good is all my wealth if I’ve lost what I care for most?”

For once, the ogre and the sorcerer were silent and still.

Then Aung remembered there was one puppet he had never called on. He turned to the holy hermit. “Tell me, why has everything gone wrong?”

The puppet came to life. “Aung, you imagined that wealth brings happiness. But true happiness comes only from goodness. What is important is not what you have but what you do with it.”

The king of the gods then came to life and stood beside the hermit. “You forgot what your father told you, Aung. Strength and knowledge are useful, but they must always serve wisdom and goodness.”

“I won’t forget again,” said Aung.

From that day on, Aung used his wealth and his talents to do good. He built a splendid holy pagoda, and offered food and shelter to those who visited the shrine.

One day among the visitors, Aung saw a young woman he knew well. An older man stood beside her, both of them wearing humble clothes.

“Mala!” cried Aung. He rushed over to the startled young woman and knelt before her puzzled father.

“Sir, I have done you great wrong. I beg your forgiveness. All I have is yours, and I give it up gladly. I will be content to return to my village and make puppets.”

“Father,” said Mala softly, “this is Aung. But he has changed!”

“So it would seem!” said her father. “And if so, it would be a shame to let go of a young man of such talent. Perhaps he would like to work for me, and live with us in the palace.”

So Aung became the merchant’s assistant, and before long his partner, and when Mala’s heart was won, his son-in-law.

As for the puppets, Aung still called on them as needed. But though he was helped often by strength and knowledge, he was guided always by wisdom and goodness.

About the Story

In Burma—or Myanmar, as named by the current regime—puppet plays have been performed since at least the 1400s. In the 1700s, the royal court began to formally sponsor and regulate the puppet theater, causing it to quickly grow in prestige. In the 1800s, puppet theater was considered the most highly developed of the entertainment arts, and was also the most popular. Though no longer as popular today, the tradition is still maintained by a small number of performing troupes.

A Burmese puppet troupe includes puppet handlers, vocalists, and musicians. Plays are based on Buddhist fables, historical legends, and folktales, among other stories. The shows are performed for adults and children together, and typically last all night.

The puppets themselves are marionettes, ranging in height from about one to three feet. Nearly all are stock figures, changing their names but keeping their characteristics for each play. Some of these puppet types have been standard for centuries—especially those developed from Buddhist fables, which probably formed the puppeteers’ first repertoire.

The story retold here features four familiar figures. The king of the gods is Thagyarmin, the Burmese name for the deity called Sakka by Indian Buddhists and Indra by Hindus. (The rest of India’s heavenly gods—called devas—have been replaced by the Burmese with native gods called nats.) For Buddhists, a god is a powerful being still of lower rank than one who becomes a Buddha or Bodhisattva.

The figure here called an ogre is more accurately termed a demon—yaksha in Sanskrit. But with its great strength and its habit of eating people, it comes closer to the ogre in Western fairy mythology.

The sorcerer—zawgyi, in Burmese—is a survivor from pre-Buddhist Burma. The zawgyi practices alchemy to attain immortal life, along with lesser attainments such as the power of flight. An almost exact parallel is in the Chinese popular concept of the Taoist “Immortal.” The “dance of the zawgyi” is one of the most popular portions of the puppeteers’ pre-play warm-up.

Finally, the hermit is a seeker who lives in solitude and strives for spiritual advancement. Though he is more characteristic of the Hindu tradition—which many Buddhist fables draw on—the puppet is costumed as a Buddhist monk.

As with the puppet theater, most of Burmese society and culture is steeped in the dominant Buddhist faith. In Burma, no deed is considered more worthy than to build a pagoda—a towering shrine that typically houses holy relics or a sacred image. Making a pilgrimage to such shrines is also considered a worthy religious act.

This tale is retold chiefly from “The Four Puppets,” retold by Khin Myo Chit, in Folk Tales from Asia for Children Everywhere, Book 3, UNESCO, 1976. For more on Burma’s puppet theater, see Burmese Puppets, by Noel F. Singer, Oxford University Press, 1992. A good general introduction to the country is Myanmar, by Wilhelm Klein, APA Publications, 1992, from the Insight Guide series.

How to Say the Names

Aung ~ AWNG (rhymes with “wrong”)
Mala ~ MAH-la

How Frog Went to Heaven: A Tale of Angola

2012-09-22T08:29:00.000-07:00

There was a young man named Kimana. He wanted to marry the Sky Maiden. He wrote a letter to her father, the Sun Chief.

Kimana went to Rabbit. “Will you take this letter?”

Rabbit said, “I cannot go to Heaven.”

Kimana went to Antelope. “Will you take this letter?”

Antelope said, “I cannot go to Heaven.”

Kimana went to Hawk. “Will you take this letter?”

Hawk said, “I can go halfway. But I cannot go to Heaven.”

Then Frog came to Kimana. “Why do you not take the letter yourself?”

Kimana said, “This I cannot do.”

Frog said, “Then I will take it for you.”

Kimana laughed. “Can a frog take a letter to Heaven?”

Frog said, “Whatever it is, I can do it. But only if I try.”

Now, Frog lived by a well. Every day, the girls who served the Sun Chief came to this well. They climbed down from Heaven on a web made by Spider. Then they filled their water jugs and went home.

Frog put the letter in his mouth and hid in the well. The girls from Heaven came for water, singing their song.

Good day to you, my sister.
Good day to you.

They lowered their jugs into the well, and Frog jumped into one. The girls did not see.

Then the girls climbed back up the web of Spider. They went into the house of the Sun Chief and left the jugs in a room.

Frog was alone. He jumped out of the jug and spit the letter out on a bench. Then he hid in a corner.

The Sun Chief came for a drink of water. He saw the letter and opened it. He read, “I, Kimana, a man of earth, wish to marry the Sky Maiden, your daughter.”

The Sun Chief said, “How can this be?”

He went to the girls who fetched water. “Did you bring this letter?”

The girls said, “We did not.”

He went to his wife, the Moon Lady, and read it to her. “What should we do?”

The Moon Lady said, “Don’t ask me! Ask your daughter!”

He went to his daughter. The Sky Maiden said, “Let us see if he can bring a wedding gift.”

So the Sun Chief wrote a letter and set it on the bench. Then he went away.

Frog came out and put the letter in his mouth. Then he climbed into an empty jug.

The next day, the girls took the jugs and climbed down to earth, singing their song.

Good day to you, my sister.
Good day to you.

They lowered their jugs into the well, and Frog jumped out. The girls did not see.

Then the girls went back to Heaven.

Frog took the letter to Kimana, and Kimana read it. “You may marry my daughter if you bring a purse of money.”

Kimana said, “This I cannot do.”

Frog said, “Then I will bring it for you.”

Kimana laughed. “You took a letter to Heaven. But can you bring a purse of money?”

Frog said, “Whatever it is, I can do it. But only if I try.”

Kimana gave Frog a purse of money. Frog took hold of it with his mouth and carried it to the well. He climbed in and waited.

The girls from Heaven came to the well.

Good day to you, my sister.
Good day to you.

Frog got into one of the jugs. The girls returned to Heaven and left him in the room.

Frog set the money on the bench. Then he hid.

The Sun Chief came and found the purse. “How can this be?”

He went to the girls. “Did you bring this money?”

The girls said, “We did not.”

He went to his wife. The Moon Lady said, “Don’t ask me! Ask your daughter!”

He went to his daughter. The Sky Maiden said, “Let us see if he can come fetch me.”

So the Sun Chief wrote a letter and left it on the bench.

Frog put the letter in his mouth and climbed into an empty jug. The next day, the girls carried him to earth.

Good day to you, my sister.
Good day to you.

He jumped back into the well, and the girls went back to Heaven.

Frog brought the letter to Kimana, and Kimana read it. “You may marry my daughter if you come and fetch her.”

Kimana said, “This I cannot do.”

Frog said, “Then I will fetch her for you.”

Kimana laughed. “You took a letter to Heaven. You brought a purse of money. But can you fetch a bride?”

Frog said, “Whatever it is, I can do it. But only if I try.”

Frog climbed back into the well. The girls came with their jugs.

Good day to you, my sister.
Good day to you.

They carried him to Heaven.

Frog jumped out. He spit in all the jugs of water. Ptui. Ptui. Ptui. Then he hid in an empty jug.

The people of the house came and drank the water. They all got sick.

The Sun Chief called for the spirit doctor. The doctor told him, “You promised your daughter to a man of earth, but she has not gone. He has sent an evil spirit with a sickness. The evil spirit is in the shape of a frog.”

The Sun Chief went to his wife. The Moon Lady said, “Don’t ask me! Ask your daughter!”

He went to his daughter. The Sky Maiden said, “I will go.”

The next day, the Sky Maiden went with the girls down to the well.

Good day to you, my sister.
Good day to you.

The girls filled their jugs, and Frog jumped out. Then the girls left the Sky Maiden and went home.

Frog jumped out of the well. “I will lead you to your husband.”

The Sky Maiden laughed. “Can a frog lead a woman?”

Frog said, “I took a letter to Heaven. I brought a purse of money. I fetched a bride. Whatever it was, I could do it. But only since I tried.”

The Sky Maiden said, “Then it is you I will marry.”

She took Frog back to Heaven and married him. They lived on and on.

And Kimana is still waiting for his bride.

About the Story

This tale comes from the Mbaka tribe, part of the Ambundu people of northwest Angola. Kimanaueze—shortened here to “Kimana”—is a common figure in Ambundu stories.

In most of Africa—and in many other cultures worldwide—it is the custom for a groom to send a wedding gift to the bride’s family. Names for this include “wooing present,” “bride-price,” and “bride-wealth.”

The tale is retold from #13, “The Son of Kimanaueze and the Daughter of Sun and Moon,” in Folk-Tales of Angola, collected and edited by Heli Chatelain, Houghton Mifflin, Boston and New York, 1894 (Vol. 1 of the Memoirs of the American Folk-Lore Society.) I have tried to retain the rhythm of the original language.

How to Say the Name

Kimana ~ kee-MAH-nah

How to Sing the Song

Good Day to You
Traditional

Good day to you, my sister. Good day to you.

The song in my retelling, sung by the girls from Heaven, is a traditional greeting and farewell song of Angola. The lyrics are my own rendering of a common version in mixed Bantu and Portuguese: “O desayo, menina. O desayo.” The Portuguese menina actually means “little girl,” but variation is part of this musical tradition, so you can substitute whatever you like—“my sister,” “my brother,” “my mother,” “my father,” “my teacher,” and so on. And of course, the music can repeat with these variations until everyone is properly greeted.

Like most traditional African songs, this one has a syncopation that can be tricky. The rhythm of eight beats is accented on the one, the four, and the seven. To get the feel of it, clap along in the following pattern: ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three, ONE, two. Except for the sis in “sister,” each syllable of the lyrics falls on an accented beat.

The song can be found with additional lyrics and music in full arrangement in Echoes of Africa in Folk Songs of the Americas, by Beatrice Landeck, David McKay Company, New York, 1961. My thanks to Lois Sprengnether for calling it to my attention.

The Boy Who Drew Cats: A Tale of Japan

2012-09-22T08:28:00.005-07:00

Once there was a boy who loved to draw. His name was Joji.

Joji grew up on a farm with lots of brothers and sisters. The others were a big help to their father and mother. But not Joji!

He did nothing for hours but draw in the dirt with a stick. And what Joji drew was just one thing.

Cats.

Cats, cats, and more cats. Small cats, big cats, thin cats, fat cats. Cats, cats, cats, cats, cats.

“Joji,” his father told him, “you must stop drawing all those cats! How will you ever be a farmer?”

“I’m sorry, Father. I’ll try to stop.”

And he did try. But whenever Joji saw one of the farm cats go by, he forgot about his chores and drew another cat.

“Joji will never make a farmer,” said the farmer sadly to his wife.

“Maybe he could be a priest,” she told him. “Why don’t you take him to the temple?”

So the farmer brought Joji to the priest at the village temple. The priest said, “I will gladly teach him.”

From then on, Joji lived at the temple. The priest gave him lessons in reading and writing. Joji had his own box of writing tools, with a brush and an ink stick and a stone.

Joji loved to make the ink. He poured water in the hollow of the stone. He dipped the ink stick in the water. Then he rubbed the stick on the stone. And there was the ink for his brush!

Now, the other students worked hard at their writing. But not Joji! With his brush and rice paper, he did nothing for hours but draw. And what Joji drew was just one thing.

Cats.

Cats, cats, and more cats. Small cats, big cats, thin cats, fat cats. Cats, cats, cats, cats, cats.

“Joji,” the priest told him, “you must stop drawing all those cats! How will you ever be a priest?”

“I’m sorry, honorable sir. I’ll try to stop.”

And he did try. But whenever Joji saw one of the temple cats go by, he forgot about his writing and drew another cat.

That was bad enough. Then Joji started drawing on the folding screens of the temple. Soon there were cats on all the rice-paper panels. They were everywhere!

“Joji, you’ll never make a priest,” the priest told him sadly. “You’ll just have to go home.”

Joji went to his room and packed his things. But he was afraid to go home. He knew his father would be angry.

Then he remembered another temple in a village nearby. “Maybe I can stay with the priest there.”

Joji started out walking. It was already night when he got to the other village.

He climbed the steps to the temple and knocked. There was no answer. He opened the heavy door. It was all dark inside.

“That’s strange,” said Joji. “Why isn’t anyone here?”

He lit a lamp by the door. Then he saw something that made him clap. All around the big room were folding screens with empty rice-paper panels.

Joji got out his writing box and made some ink. Then he dipped in his brush and started to draw. And what Joji drew was just one thing.

Cats.

Cats, cats, and more cats. Small cats, big cats, thin cats, fat cats. Cats, cats, cats, cats, cats.

The screen he drew on last was almost as long as the room. Joji covered it with one gigantic cat—the biggest and most beautiful cat he had ever drawn.

Now Joji was tired. He started to lie down. But something about the big room bothered him.

“I’ll find someplace smaller.”

He found a cozy closet and settled inside. Then he slid shut the panel door and went to sleep.

Late that night, Joji awoke in fright.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

It sounded like a large, fierce animal in the temple! Now he knew why no one was there. He wished he wasn’t there either!

He heard the thing sniff around the big room. It halted right in front of the closet. Then all at once . . .

Yowl!

There was a sound of struggling, and a roar of surprise and pain. Then a huge thud that shook the floor.

Then a soft padding sound. Then silence.

Joji lay trembling in the dark. He stayed there for hours, afraid to look out of the closet.

At last, daylight showed at the edge of the door. Joji carefully slid the door open and peered out.

In the middle of the room lay a monster rat—a rat as big as a cow! It lay dead, as if something had smashed it to the floor.

Joji looked around the room. No one and nothing else was there—just the screens with the cats. Then Joji looked again at the one gigantic cat.

“Didn’t I draw the head to the left and the tail to the right?”

Yes, he was sure of it. But now the cat faced the other way—as if it had come down off the screen and then gone back up.

“The cat!” said Joji. His eyes grew wide. Then he pressed his palms together and bowed to the screen.

“Thank you, honorable cat. You have saved me. For as long as I live, no one will stop me from drawing cats.”

* * *

When the villagers learned that the monster rat was dead, Joji became a hero. The village priest let him live in the temple as long as he liked.

But Joji did not become a priest. And he did not become a farmer.

He became an artist. A great artist. An artist honored through all the country. An artist who drew just one thing.

Cats!

About the Story

This Japanese tale is retold from “The Boy Who Drew Cats” in Gleanings from Buddha-Fields, by Lafcadio Hearn, Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1897. Joji is pronounced “JO-jee.” The temples and priests in the story are Buddhist. My thanks to storyteller Grace Megumi Fleming for her suggestions and help with cultural details.

The Hidden One: A Native American Legend

2012-09-22T08:28:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, in a village by a lake, there lived a great hunter who was invisible. He was called the Hidden One. It was known that any young woman who could see him would become his bride.

Many were the hopeful young women who visited his wigwam at the far end of the village. Each was tested by the hunter’s sister, who was called the Patient One. But years passed, and none succeeded.

In the same village lived two sisters who had lost their mother. The younger sister had a good heart, but the older one was jealous and cruel. While their father was out hunting, the older sister would torment the younger one, holding her down and burning her arms and face with sticks from the fire.

“Don’t you dare tell our father,” she would say, “or next time will be worse!”

When the father came home, he would ask in dismay, “Why is she burnt again?”

The older sister would answer, “The stupid, clumsy thing! She was playing with the fire, just like you told her not to!”

The father would turn to the younger. “Is this true?”

But she only bit her lip and said nothing.

After a while she had so many scars, she was called Little Scarface. She lost her long braids too, when her sister singed them off. And she had to go barefoot and wear rags, for her sister would not allow her any skins to make moccasins or new clothes.

Of course, the sister made up all different reasons to tell their father. And he would shake his head in sorrow and disappointment.

One day, the older sister put on her finest clothes and many shiny strings of shell beads.

“Do you know what I’m doing?” she asked Little Scarface. “I’m going to marry the Hidden One. Of course, that’s something you could never dream of.”

Little Scarface bowed her head.

When the older sister reached the wigwam at the edge of the village, she was greeted by the sister of the hunter.

“You are welcome,” said the Patient One. “My brother will return soon from the hunt. Come help me prepare the evening meal.”

The two of them worked awhile, until the sun was nearly down. Then the Patient One led the young woman to the shore of the lake.

“My brother comes,” the Patient One said, pointing along the shore. “Do you see him?”

The young woman saw no one, but she had decided to pretend. “Of course. There he is now!”

The eyes of the Patient One narrowed. “And what is his shoulder strap?”

“A strip of rawhide,” said the young woman, thinking it a safe guess.

The Patient One frowned. “Let us return to the wigwam.”

They had just finished making the meal when a deep voice said, “Greetings, my sister.”

The young woman jumped in surprise. She stared at the entrance but saw no one.

“Greetings, my brother,” replied the Patient One.

As the young woman watched with wide eyes, a moccasin appeared in mid-air and dropped to the floor, followed by another. A moment later, bits of food were rising from a birch-bark tray near the fire and vanishing into an invisible mouth.

The young woman turned to the Patient One. “When will our wedding take place?”

The Patient One turned to her angrily. “What wedding? Do you think my brother would marry a liar and a fool?”

The young woman ran crying from the wigwam.

All the next morning she stayed in bed, weeping and sobbing. Then Little Scarface came to her.

“Sister, let me have skins to make moccasins and new clothes. It is my turn to visit the Hidden One.”

“How dare you!” screamed the sister. She jumped up and slapped Little Scarface, knocking her to the floor. “Are you so stupid to think you can do what I couldn’t? Even if you saw him, do you think he’d marry a pathetic thing like you?”

She sank back to the bed in tears.

Little Scarface sat huddled for a long time, listening to her sister howl and sob. Then she rose and said again, “It is my turn to visit the Hidden One.”

Her sister stopped crying and stared in amazement.

Little Scarface went to her father’s chest and took out an old pair of moccasins. She put them on her own small feet.

Then she went out into the woods. She chose a birch tree and carefully stripped off the bark in a single sheet. From this she made a suit of clothes, which she put on in place of her rags.

Then she started back through the village.

“Look at Little Scarface!” yelled a boy. “She’s dressed like a tree!”

“Hey, Little Scarface,” a young man called, “are those moccasins big enough for you?”

“I don’t believe it!” an old woman said. “She’s on her way to the Hidden One!”

“Little Scarface,” called a young woman, “did you burn yourself and cut off your hair to look pretty for him?”

Ignoring their taunts and laughter, Little Scarface walked on till she reached the wigwam at the village edge.

The Patient One regarded the young woman with surprise, but she told her, “You are welcome.”

Little Scarface helped prepare the evening meal. When the sun was nearly down, the Patient One led her to the lake.

“My brother comes,” the Patient One told her. “Do you see him?”

Little Scarface gazed along the shore. “I’m not sure . . . .”

Then her eyes lit in wonder. “Yes, I see him! But how can there be such a one?”

The Patient One looked at her curiously. “What is his shoulder strap?”

“His shoulder strap is . . . is the Rainbow!”

The Patient One’s eyes grew wide. “And his bowstring?”

“His bowstring is . . . the Milky Way!”

The Patient One smiled. “Let us return.”

When they reached the wigwam, the Patient One took the strange clothes off Little Scarface and washed her with water from a special jar. The young woman’s scars disappeared, leaving her skin shining and smooth. A magic comb made the young woman’s hair grow quickly to her waist, ready for braiding.

Then the Patient One opened a chest and took out a beautiful wedding outfit. Little Scarface had just put it on when a deep voice said, “Greetings, my sister.”

Little Scarface turned to the entrance and stared at the magnificent young hunter. As their eyes met, she saw the surprise in his.

“Greetings, my brother,” said the Patient One. “You are discovered!”

The Hidden One walked over to Little Scarface and took her hands in his. “For years I have waited to find a woman of pure heart and brave spirit. Only such a one could see me. And now you shall be my bride.”

So they were married. And from then on, Little Scarface had a new name—the Lovely One. For she too had been hidden, and now was hidden no more.

About the Story

This tale was popular in many Native American tribes with languages in the Algonquian family. The variant here comes from the Mi’kmaq (or Micmac) tribe of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island, Canada. It was recorded in Nova Scotia.

The sources for my retelling were Legends of the Micmacs, by Silas Rand, Longmans, New York and London, 1894; and The Algonquin Legends of New England, by Charles Leland, Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1884. (Rand’s manuscript, though published later, was the basis for Leland’s version.) Background on the Micmacs came from The Micmac Indians of Eastern Canada, by Wilson and Ruth Wallis, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, 1955.

When the Twins Went to War: A Fable of Far East Russia

2012-09-22T08:27:00.006-07:00

On the Amur River, in the tribe of the Nanai, the ones who most loved to fight were the men of the Beldy clan. They were always rushing off to attack another clan’s village, or defending themselves from a clan that had come for revenge.

They neglected their hunting. They neglected their fishing. They got so bad, they felt lost when they weren’t fighting. They just sat around and waited for the next war.

And every year, there were fewer of them left alive.

Now, into this clan was born a pair of twins whose names were Chubak and Udoga. The Beldies were careful to honor the boys, because they knew that twins are good luck.

Besides, there was something special about those two. By the time they were five years old, they were wiser than anyone else in the village. So both the men and the women of the clan often came to them for advice.

One day, a Beldy hunter found that one of his traps had been sprung, but the animal was missing. He could tell from the signs that the animal was a weasel and it had been taken by a man of the Zaksuli clan.

The hunter went to tell the Beldy chief.

“This is a great insult!” roared the chief. “Prepare for war!”

All the Beldy men rushed off eagerly to get ready their spears, knives, bows, and arrows.

“Not again!” cried the chief’s wife. “Is a weasel worth killing and dying for?”

“We are men,” said the chief. “Must a man not fight?”

“You are men!” screamed his wife. “Must a man be stupid?”

She went with the other Beldy women to talk with the twins. “Udoga, Chubak, tell the men to stay home. We’ve had enough fighting and killing!”

Chubak said to Udoga, “She’s right, brother. There’s been enough war.”

Udoga told the women, “We’ll see what we can do.”

Not long after, the men also came to the twins. “Chubak, Udoga,” said the chief, “give us your counsel.”

Chubak picked up a warrior’s bow. “Never has a clan been so insulted! If the thief had taken a sable, we could forgive him. The skin of a sable has value. But a weasel skin is almost worthless. It must have been taken just to shame us. If we are shamed, we have no honor. If we have no honor, we are dead. The Zaksulis have killed us!”

Udoga picked up a spear. “The Zaksulis have killed us, so now we must kill them back. All their men must die. Death to the Zaksulis!”

“Death to the Zaksulis!” cried the men. “Death to the Zaksulis!”

“But wait!” said Udoga. “This is no ordinary war. The Zaksulis are so evil, the place where they live is evil too. We must not let this evil touch us. We must take a vow not to eat any food from their land or drink a single drop of their water.”

“We swear it! We swear it! Death to the Zaksulis! Death to the Zaksulis!”

The women were sad. “What hope do we have,” said the chief’s wife, “when even the twins go to war.” So they set about preparing the men’s food.

The next morning, the men loaded themselves with as much food and water as they could carry. Then, taking the twins with them, they started off to the Zaksuli village.

They walked all day. It was slow, hard going, with all they had to carry. So the farther they went, the angrier they were at the Zaksulis.

At last they came upon some Zaksuli women gathering berries. Chubak called, “You women! We are coming to your village! We won’t leave a single man alive!”

The women ran off to warn their men.

“Why did you let them know?” said the chief in dismay. “With all we’re carrying, those women will get to the village long before we do. The men will hide in the lodges, and we’ll have to wait them out!”

“What is that to us?” said Udoga. “Nothing they do can save them.”

The Beldies reached the village, but the Zaksuli men were already hiding inside. They were not like the Beldies. They did not want to fight. They wanted to stay put till those crazy Beldies went home!

The Beldies hid all around the village in the tall grass and the bushes. They knew that sooner or later the Zaksuli men would have to come out. They would need to hunt and fish. Then they would have to face the Beldies.

The next morning, the Zaksuli men did not come out. But the women came out. And they carried big sticks.

“You stupid Beldies!” yelled the wife of the Zaksuli chief. “Why don’t you go back to your village where you belong!”

Then the women searched for the Beldies in the grass and the bushes. When a woman found one, she beat him with her stick.

“Be brave!” cried Udoga to the men. “Remember, you must never hit a woman!”

The chief called, “But what if the woman—OW!—does not act—OW!—like a woman?—OW!”

“What does that matter?” called Chubak. “We are men. How could a woman hurt us?”

“OW!” replied the chief.

Day after day, they waited for the Zaksuli men. Day after day, the women came out and beat them. The Beldy men were brave.

Then their food ran out.

“Remember your vow!” Chubak told them. “We will take no food from this evil land!”

“But how can we fight without food?” asked the chief.

“Don’t worry!” said Chubak. “It won’t be long now!”

So they were brave a little longer.

Then their water ran out.

“Remember your vow!” said Udoga. “Not a drop of water from this place of evil!”

“But we can’t last long without water,” said the chief.

“We won’t have to,” said Udoga. “We’ve almost won!”

So they were brave a little longer.

Then their patience ran out.

“What kind of war is this?” said the chief. “We’re so weak from hunger and thirst, we can barely hold our spears!”

“We are men,” said Chubak. “When honor is at stake, how can we complain of hardship?”

So they were brave a little longer.

At last the Zaksuli chief appeared. He came out to plead with the Beldy chief. “Please,” he said, “can’t we talk and settle this without fighting?”

“How can talk restore honor?” said Udoga. “We will be satisfied only by a great gift.”

“Yes,” said Chubak. “A gift such as never given before.”

The Zaksuli chief trembled. “What do you want?”

Udoga said, “You must give us . . . the skin of the weasel!”

Both the chiefs stared at the twins in astonishment. Then the Zaksuli chief ran back to tell the good news.

The Beldy chief’s face grew red. “Was that such a great gift? Is that why we starved and suffered? For nothing but the skin of a weasel?”

“The weasel skin sent us to war,” said Chubak. “Why shouldn’t it send us home?”

When the Beldies got back to their village, the chief told his wife, “What a war that was! The most terrible war of all! We never want to go to war again!”

And they didn’t—thanks to Udoga and Chubak.

About the Story

The Amur River, lying in the region that Russia calls its Far East, flows almost 2,000 miles down to the Pacific coast. This river is the home of many native tribes who lived for centuries by hunting and fishing. They were remarkably similar to the Pacific coast tribes of the northwest United States and of Canada.

Formerly, the clans of a tribe would often fight among themselves. Of course, their wars were not as terrible as wars of today. Most lasted only a few days; the men were careful not to hurt women or children; and they did not destroy their enemies’ homes. Still, some men would be killed, and the wars were numerous.

This is a retelling of a tale found in Khrabryi Azmun (Brave Azmun), collected and retold by Dmitrii Nagishkin, Moscow, 1949. The book was published in English as Folktales of the Amur: Stories from the Russian Far East, translated by Emily Lehrman, illustrated by Leo and Diane Dillon, Abrams, New York, 1980. The story appears there as “How the Beldys Stopped Fighting.” Also in that volume is a second tale about Chubak and Udoga, called “The Twins.”

For a look at the Amur and the lifestyle of its natives, see the internationally-acclaimed Japanese film Dersu Uzala, by Akira Kurosawa.

How to Say the Names

Amur ~ ah-MER
Beldy ~ BEL-dee
Chubak ~ CHOO-bak
Nanai ~ nan-I (sounds like “Nan eye”)
Udoga ~ oo-DO-ga
Zaksuli ~ ZAK-soo-lee

The Magic of Mushkil Gusha: A Tale of Iran

2012-09-22T08:27:00.002-07:00

Once in the royal city of Isfahan, there was an old woodcutter who lived alone with his young daughter. Every day, the woodcutter went out to the desert to gather camel-thorn bushes, then sold them in the marketplace as firewood. In this way, he earned barely enough for the two of them.

One morning, the woodcutter’s daughter said, “Father, we always have enough to eat. But just once, it would be nice to have something special. Do you think you could buy us some date cakes?”

“I think I could do that, my dear,” said the woodcutter. “I’ll just gather some extra wood today.”

So the woodcutter walked farther that day to gather more thorn bushes. But he took longer than he meant to.

By the time he got back with the wood, darkness had fallen. It was too late to go to the marketplace. What’s more, when he reached his house, he found that his daughter had already bolted the front door and gone to bed.

Knock as he would, there was no answer. So he had to sleep outside on the doorstep.

Next morning, the woodcutter awoke while it was still dark. He told himself, “I might as well go out right now and get another big load of wood. Then I can sell twice as much and buy even more date cakes.”

So he left his load and went back to the desert to gather more bushes. But again he took longer than he meant to, and when he got back, it was dark and the door was bolted. So again he had to sleep on the doorstep.

He awoke once more before dawn. “There’s no sense wasting a day,” he said. “I’ll go back out for one more big load. How many date cakes we’ll have then!”

But yet again he took too long, and yet again the door was bolted when he got back.

The woodcutter sank to the doorstep and wept.

“What’s wrong, old man?”

He looked up to see a dervish in a long green robe and a tall green cap.

“Holy sir, for three days I have gone out to gather thorn bushes, and for three days I have come home too late to get into my house. And in all that time, I’ve had nothing to eat.”

“What night is this, old man?”

The woodcutter said, “Why, Friday eve, of course.”

“That’s right. It’s the eve of our holy day. And that’s the time of Mushkil Gusha.”

“Mushkil Gusha?” said the woodcutter.

“That’s right, old man—the ‘Remover of Difficulties.’”

The holy man took some roasted chickpeas and raisins from his pouch and handed them to the woodcutter. “Here, share this with me.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“You may not know it,” the dervish went on, “but Mushkil Gusha is already helping you. If you want your good fortune to continue, here’s what you must do: Every Friday eve, find someone in need. Then share what you have, and tell a tale of Mushkil Gusha. That way, you both will be helped.”

And with that, the holy man vanished.

As the woodcutter stared at the empty spot, the door to his house swung open.

“Father, where have you been? Oh, please come inside! I was so worried!”

A few days passed, while the woodcutter and his daughter enjoyed the many date cakes he bought after selling his wood. Then one morning, when the woodcutter had gone to the desert and his daughter had finished her housework, she decided to go walking in a public park.

She was strolling down a broad path when a carriage stopped beside her.

“What a pretty little girl!” said a royal young lady. “I am the daughter of the king. Would you like to be my handmaiden?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the girl said, blushing.

So the woodcutter’s daughter became a handmaiden of the princess. With the gifts the princess gave her, she and her father became quite rich. He bought a nice house, and he didn’t have to gather thorn bushes anymore.

But somehow he forgot what the dervish told him.

A month went by. One day, the princess went on a picnic to one of her father’s private gardens, and she brought along the woodcutter’s daughter. There was a small lake there, so they decided to go for a swim.

The princess took off her necklace and hung it on a branch overlooking the water. But when she came out, she forgot all about it.

A few days later at the palace, the princess looked for the necklace but couldn’t find it. She turned angrily to the woodcutter’s daughter.

“You stole my necklace! You must have taken it when we went for our swim!”

“No, Your Highness, I wouldn’t do that!”

“You’re a thief and a liar too! I’ll show you what happens to people of your kind! Get out of my sight!”

The woodcutter’s daughter ran home in tears. But an hour later, soldiers came to the door. They arrested the woodcutter and carried him off to a public square in front of the prison. Then they locked his feet in the stocks and left him there.

The woodcutter had to suffer the taunts and jeers of the passersby. Some people were kinder, though, and even threw him scraps of food.

Now, that evening was Friday eve. As the sun set, the woodcutter cast his thoughts over all that had happened to him in the past weeks. All at once, he cried out.

“Oh, what a foolish, ungrateful wretch I am! Didn’t the dervish say to share what I have each Friday eve and tell of Mushkil Gusha? Yet I haven’t done it once!”

Just then, a packet of chickpeas and raisins landed by the woodcutter. When he looked up, he didn’t see who had thrown it. But he did see a beggar boy coming by.

“Young friend!” called the woodcutter. “Please share this with me while I tell you a story.”

The boy sat down and gratefully took what was offered. As he ate, the woodcutter related everything that had happened, from when his daughter asked for date cakes, to when he was put in the stocks.

“Thank you, sir,” said the boy. “I needed the food, and the story was good too. I hope it has a happy ending.”

The beggar boy went on his way. But he’d only gone a block when a rich merchant stopped him.

“My one and only son! Ever since you were stolen at birth, I’ve looked for that birthmark on your left cheek. Now at last I’ve found you!”

But they leave our story here.

The next day, the princess had another picnic in her father’s private garden, and again she went down to the lake for a swim. She was about to step into the water when she saw the reflection of her necklace. She looked up into the tree—and there was the necklace itself, right where she had left it.

“That woodcutter’s daughter didn’t take it at all!”

By the end of the day, the woodcutter was free from the stocks, and his daughter was back in the palace.

And every Friday eve after that, the woodcutter always remembered to find someone in need, share what he had, and tell his tale of Mushkil Gusha.

About the Story

The custom of invoking Mushkil Gusha is practiced in Iran especially among traditional Muslim women. The tale is told each week on Friday eve, the beginning of the Muslim holy day. (Muslims measure their days from sunset to sunset, so “Friday eve” would come before Friday morning—just as “Christmas Eve” comes before Christmas Day.) Along with telling the story goes the sharing of a special snack food with the poor. Sometimes called aajeel and sometimes nokhod kishmish, it is a mixture of things like roasted chickpeas, raisins, dried dates, dried figs, nuts, and seeds.

The name Mushkil Gusha is Persian for “Remover of Difficulties.” But exactly who and what is he? If you ask Iranians, you get differing answers. Some say he is Ali, the prophet Muhammad’s cousin, son-in-law, and true successor—as he is considered by the Shiites, whose sect of Islam predominates in Iran. But one Iranian woman told me simply, “It is God, isn’t it?”

Others say Mushkil Gusha is the prophet Khidr, the “Green One,” the patron saint of the Muslim holy men called dervishes. (Khidr is the Arabic name. In Iran he is called Khezr, and in Turkey, Hizir.) Khidr is portrayed in many Muslim tales as the bearer of fortune—a role he shares with the prophet Elijah, about whom many of the same stories are told by the Jews. Since the tale of Mushkil Gusha seems clearly in the Khidr/Elijah genre, I have made that identification in my version with an appearance by Khidr himself.

This tale was retold chiefly from “The Story of Mushkil Gusha” in Persian Tales, collected and translated by D. L. R. and E. O. Lorimer, Macmillan, London, 1919. This was supplemented by my personal email correspondence with Kave Eshgi of Bristol, England, whose grandmother told him the tale every Friday eve as he grew up in the Iranian city of Kerman. Still another version is “The Tale of Mushkil Gusha” in World Tales, collected by Idries Shah, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, New York and London, 1979, which first introduced me to the story.

How to Say the Names

Isfahan ~ ISS-fah-hon
Mushkil Gusha ~ MUSH-kil goo-SHAH (rhymes with “push kill goo Shah”)

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1
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2
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3
The Dragon King’s Gift

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Havoc in Heaven

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Epilogue:
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