To notesIN a country lived a King who had seven sons. Six of these sons married, but the seventh and youngest son would not marry; and, moreover, he disliked his six sisters-in-law, and could not bear to take food from their hands. One day, they got very angry with him for disliking them, and they said to him, taunting him, “We think that you will marry a Bél-Princess.”
“A Bél-Princess,” said the young prince to himself. “What is a Bél-Princess? and where is one to be found? I will go and look for one.” But the next day he thought, “How can I find a Bél-Princess? I don’t know where to seek for her.”
At last one day he saddled and bridled one of his father’s beautiful horses. Then he put on his grand clothes, took his sword and gun, and said good-bye to his father and mother, and set out on his search. They cried very much at parting with him.
He rode from his father’s country for a long, long way. At length, when he had journeyed for six months, he found himself in a great jungle, through which he went for many nights and days, until he at last came to where a fakír lay sleeping. The young prince thought, “I will watch by this fakír till he wakes. Perhaps he can help me.” So he stayed with the fakír for one whole month; and all that time he took care of him and watched by him, and kept his hut clean.
This fakír used to sleep for six whole months at a time, and then he would remain awake for six months.
When the prince had watched over him for one month the fakír woke, for his six months’ sleep had come to an end; and when he saw what care the young prince had taken of him, and how clean his hut was, he was very much pleased with the King’s son, and said to him, “How have you been able to reach this jungle, to which no man can come? and who are you? and whence do you come?”
“I am a King’s son,” answered the prince. “My father’s country is a six months’ journey away from this; and I am come to look for a Bél-Princess. I hear there is a Bél-Princess, and I want to find her. Can you tell me where she is?”
“It is true that there is one,” answered the fakír, “and I know where she is. She is in the fairies’ country, whither no man can go.”
This made the young prince very sad. “What shall I do?” he said. “I have left my father and mother, and have travelled a long, long way to find the Bél-Princess. And now you tell me I cannot go where she lives.”
“I will help you,” said the fakír, “and if you do exactly what I tell you, you will find her. But, first, stay here with me for a little while.”
So the King’s son stayed for another month with the fakír, and took care of him, and did everything for him, as he did for his own father.
At the end of the month, the fakír gave him his stick, and said to him, “Now you must go to the fairies’ country. It is one week’s journey distant from this jungle. When you get there, you will see a number of demons and fairies who live in it.” Then the fakír took a little earth from the ground, and put it in the prince’s hand. “When you have come to the fairies’ country, in order that they and the demons may not see you, you must blow all this earth away from the palm of your hand, and then you will be invisible. You must ride on till you come to a great plain in the middle of their garden, and on this plain you will see a large bél-tree and on it one big bél-fruit. In this fruit is the Bél-Princess. You must throw my stick at it, and it will fall; but you must take care to catch the fruit in your shawl, and not let it fall to the ground. Then ride quickly back to me, for as soon as the fruit falls you will cease to be invisible, and the fairies and demons who guard the fruit will all come running after you, and they will all call to you. But take care, take care not to look behind you when they call you. Ride straight on to me with the fruit, and do not look behind you. If you do, you will become stone, and your horse too, and they will take the bél-fruit back to its tree.”
The prince promised to do all the fakír bade him. He rode for a week, and then he came to the fairies’ country. He blew the earth the fakír had given him away from his palm all along his fingers, just as he had been told, and then he became invisible. He rode through the great garden to the plain. There he saw the bél-tree, and the one fruit hanging all alone. He threw the fakír’s stick at it, and caught it in a corner of his shawl as it fell, but then he was no longer invisible. All the fairies and demons could see him, and they came running after him as he rode quickly away, and called to him. He looked behind at them, and instantly he and his horse became stone; and the bél-fruit went back to its tree and hung itself up.
For one week the fakír sat in his jungle, waiting for the King’s son. But the moment he was turned into stone, the fakír knew of it, and he set off at once for the fairies’ country. He walked all through it, but neither the fairies nor demons could touch him. He went straight to the great plain, and there he saw the King’s son sitting on his horse, and both he and the horse were stone.
This made the fakír very sad; and he said to God, “What will the father and mother do, now that their son is changed into a stone?” And he prayed to God and said, “If it be God’s pleasure, may this King’s son be alive once more.” Then he cut his little finger on the inside from the tip to the palm, and smeared the prince’s forehead with the blood that came from it. He rubbed some blood on the horse too, all the time praying to God to give the prince his life again. The King’s son and his horse were alive once more. The fakír took the prince back to his jungle, and said to him, “Listen. I told you not to look behind you, and you disobeyed me and so were turned to stone. Had I not come to save you, you would always have remained stone.”
The fakír kept the prince with him in the jungle for one whole week. Then he gave him his stick and some earth he picked up from the ground on which they were standing, and said, “Now you must go to the fairies’ country again, and throw my stick at the bél-fruit, and catch it in a corner of your shawl as you did before. But mind, mind you do not look behind you this time. If you do you will be turned to stone, and you will for ever remain stone. Ride straight back to me with the fruit, and take care never to look behind you once till you get to me.”
So the King’s son went again to the fairies’ country, and all happened as before, till he had caught the fruit in his shawl. But then he rode straight back to the fakír without looking behind him, although the fairies and demons ran after him and called to him the whole way.
He rode so fast they could not catch him, and when he came to the fakír, the fakír turned him into a fly and thus hid him. Up came all the fairies and demons and said to the fakír, “There is a thief in your hut.” “A thief! Where is the thief?” said the fakír. “Look everywhere for him, and take him away if you can find him.” Then they searched and searched everywhere, but could not find the prince; so at last they went away.
When they had all gone, the fakír took the little fly and turned it back into a King’s son. A few days afterwards he said to the prince, “Now you have found what you wanted; you have the Bél-Princess you came to seek. So go back to your father and mother.” “Very well,” said the prince. Then he got his horse all ready for the journey, took the bél-fruit, and made many salaams to the fakír, who said to him, “Now, listen. Take care not to open the fruit on the road. Wait till you are in your father’s house with your father and mother, and then open it. If you do not do exactly as I tell you, evil will happen to you; so mind you only open the fruit in your father’s house. Out of it will come the Bél-Princess.”
The prince set out on his journey, and rode on and on for six months till he came to his father’s country, and then to his father’s garden. There he sat down to rest by a well under a clump of great trees. He said to himself, “Now that I am in my father’s country, and in my father’s garden, I will sit and rest in this cool shade; and when I am rested I will go up to the palace.” He bathed his face and his hands in the well, and drank some of its water. Then he thought, “Surely, now that I am in my father’s country and in his garden, I need not wait till I get to his palace to open my bél-fruit. What harm can happen if I do open it here?”
So he broke it open, in spite of all the fakír had told him, and out of it came such a beautiful girl. She was more beautiful than any princess that ever was seen—so beautiful that the King’s son fainted when he saw her. The princess fanned him, and poured water on his face, and presently he recovered, and said to her, “Princess, I should like to sleep for a little while, for I have travelled for six months, and am very tired. After I have slept we will go together to my father’s palace.” So he went to sleep, and the princess sat by him.
Presently a woman came to the well for water, and she said to herself, “See, here is the King’s youngest son. What a lovely princess that is sitting by him! What fine clothes and jewels she has on!” And the wicked woman determined to kill the princess and to take her place. Then she came up to the beautiful girl, and sat down beside her, and talked to her. “Listen to me, princess,” she said at last. “Let us change clothes with each other. Give me yours, and I will give you mine.” The princess, thinking no harm, did as the woman suggested. “And now,” said the woman, “let me put on your beautiful jewels.” The princess gave them to her, and then the wicked, wicked woman, said to her, “Let us walk about this pretty garden, and look at the flowers, and amuse ourselves.” By and by she said, “Princess, let us go and look at ourselves in the well, and see what we look like, you in my clothes, and I in yours.” The young girl consented, and they went to the well. As they bent over the side to look in, the wicked woman gave the princess a push, and pushed her straight over the edge into the water.
Then she went and sat down by the sleeping prince, just as the princess had done. When he awoke and saw this ugly, wicked woman, instead of his Bél-Princess, he was very much surprised, and said to himself, “A little while ago I had a beautiful girl by me, and now there is such an ugly woman. It is true she has on the clothes and jewels my Bél-Princess wore; but she is so ugly, and there is something wrong with one of her eyes. What has happened to her?” Then he said to this wicked woman, whom he took for his Bél-Princess, “What is the matter with you? Has anything happened to you? Why have you become so ugly?” She answered, “Till now I have always lived in a bél-fruit. It is the bad air of your country that has made me ugly, and hurt one of my eyes.”
The prince was ashamed of her, and very, very sorry. “How shall I take her to my father’s palace now?” he thought. “My mother and all my brothers’ wives will see her, and what will they say? However, never mind; I must take her to my house, and marry her. I cannot think what can have happened to her.” Then he got a palanquin, and took her up to the palace.
His father and mother were very glad that their youngest son had come back to them; but when they saw the wicked woman, and heard she was his Bél-Princess, they, and every one else in the palace, said, “Can she be a Bél-Princess? She is not at all pretty, and she is not at all pleasant.” “She was lovely when she came out of the fruit,” said the prince. “No one ever saw such a beautiful girl before. I cannot think what has happened to her. It must be the bad air of this country that has made her so ugly.” Then he told them all about his journey to the jungle where he had met the fakír, and how, with the fakír’s help, he had found his Bél-Princess, and how he had opened the fruit in his father’s garden, and then fallen asleep.
The King made a great wedding-feast for his son, and he and the wicked woman were married, and all the time the King’s youngest son thought he was marrying the Bél-Princess.
Meanwhile, the beautiful girl had not been drowned in the well, but had changed into a most lovely pink lotus-flower. This flower was first seen by a man from the village who came to the well for water. “What a lovely lotus-flower!” said the man; “I must gather it.” But when he tried to reach it the flower floated away from him. Then he went and told all the people in the village of the beautiful flower, and then the palace servants heard of it. They all tried to gather it, but could not, for the flower always went just out of their reach. Then the King and his six elder sons heard of it, and they came to the well; but the King tried in vain to gather it, and his six sons too. The lotus-flower always floated away from them.
Last of all, the youngest prince heard of the lotus, and he grew very curious to see it, and said, “I will try if I cannot gather this wonderful flower that no one can touch.” So he, too, came to the well, and stooped, and stretched out his hand, and the minute he did so the flower floated of itself into his hand.
Then he was very happy and proud, and he took the flower up to his wife and showed it to her. “Just see,” he said, “every one in the village and the palace were talking of this lotus-flower; and every one tried to gather it; and no one could, for the flower would not let any one touch it. My father tried, and my brothers all tried, and they, too, could not gather it; but as soon as I stretched out my hand the flower floated into it of itself.”
When his wicked wife saw the flower, she said nothing; but her heart told her it was the beautiful girl she had pushed into the well. The prince laid the flower on his pillow, and was very glad and happy. As soon as he had gone out, his wife seized the lotus-flower, tore it to bits, and threw them far away into the garden.
In a few days a bél-tree was growing on the spot where she had thrown the pieces of the lotus-flower. On it grew one big bél-fruit, and it was so fine and large that every one in the village and the palace tried to gather it; but no one could touch it, for the fruit always went just out of reach. The King and his six elder sons also tried, but they could not touch it. The youngest prince heard of this fruit, so he said to his wife, “I will go and see if I can gather this bél-fruit that no one can even touch.” The wicked woman’s heart said to her, “In the bél-fruit is the Bél-Princess;” but she said nothing.
The prince went to the bél-tree; the bél-fruit came into his hand, and he broke it off the tree, and brought it home to his wife. “See,” he said, “here is the bél-fruit; it let me gather it at once.” And he was very proud and happy. Then he laid the fruit on a table in his room.
When he had gone out the wicked wife came, and took the fruit, and flung it away in the garden. In the night the fruit burst in two, and in it lay a lovely, tiny girl baby. The gardener, as he went round the garden early in the morning, found the little baby; and he wondered who had thrown away the beautiful fruit, and who the lovely baby girl could be. She was so tiny and so pretty, and the gardener was delighted when he saw her, for he had no children, and thought God had sent him a little child at last.
He took her in his arms and carried her to his wife.
“See,” he said, “we have never had any children, and now God has sent us this beautiful little girl.” His wife looked at the child, and she was as delighted with her as her husband was. “Yes,” she said, “God has sent us this child, and she is certainly most beautiful. I am very happy. But I have no milk for her; if only I had milk for her, I could nurse her and she would live.” And the gardener’s wife was very sad to think she had no milk in her breasts for the little child.
Then her husband said, “Let us ask God to send you milk for her.” So they prayed to God and worshipped him. And God was pleased with them both, and sent the gardener’s wife a great deal of milk.
The little girl now lived in the gardener’s house, and he and his wife took the greatest care of her, and were very happy to think they had now a child. She grew very fast, and became lovelier every day. She was more beautiful than any girl that had ever been seen, and all the people in the King’s country used to say, “How lovely the gardener’s daughter is! She is more beautiful than any princess.”
The King’s youngest son’s wicked wife heard of the child, and her heart told her, “She is the Bél-Princess.” She said nothing, but she often thought of how she could contrive to have her killed.
One day, when the gardener’s daughter was seven years old, she was out in her father’s garden, making a little garden of her own near the house-door. While she was busy over her flowers, the wicked woman’s cow strayed into the garden and began eating the plants in it. The little girl would not let it make its dinner off her father’s flowers and grass, but pushed it out of the garden.
The wicked woman was told how the gardener’s daughter had treated her cow; so she cried all day long, and pretended to be ill. When her husband asked her what was the matter, she answered, “I am sick because the gardener’s daughter has ill-treated my cow. She beat it, and turned it out of her father’s garden, and said many wicked things. If you will have the girl killed, I shall live; but if you do not kill her, I shall die.” The prince at once ordered his servants to take the gardener’s daughter the next morning to the jungle, and there kill her.
So the next morning early the servants went to the gardener’s house to take away his daughter. He and his wife cried bitterly, and begged the servants to leave the girl with them. They offered them a great many rupees, saying, “Take these rupees, and leave us our daughter.” “How can we leave you your daughter,” said the servants, “when the King’s youngest son has ordered us to take her to the jungle and kill her, that his wife may get well?”
So they led the girl away; and as they went to the jungle, they said to each other, “How beautiful this girl is!” They found her so beautiful that they grew very sorrowful at the thought of killing her.
They took the girl to a great plain, which was about ten miles distant from the King’s country; but when they got there they said they could not kill her. She was so beautiful that they really could not kill her. She said to them, “You were ordered to kill me, so kill me.” “No,” they answered, “we cannot kill you, we cannot kill you.”
Then the girl took the knife in her own hand and cut out her two eyes; and one eye became a parrot, and the other a mainá. Then she cut out her heart and it became a great tank. Her body became a splendid palace and garden—a far grander palace than was the King’s palace; her arms and legs became the pillars that supported the verandah roof; and her head the dome on the top of the palace.
The prince’s servants looked on all the time these changes were taking place, and they were so frightened by them, that when they got home they would not tell the prince or any one else what they had seen. No one lived in this wonderful house. It stood empty in its garden by its tank, and the parrot and mainá lived in the garden trees.
Some time afterwards the youngest prince went out hunting, and towards evening he found himself on the great plain where stood the wonderful palace. He rode up to it and said to himself, “I never saw any house here before. I wonder who lives here?” He went through the great gate into the garden, and then he saw the large tank, and how beautiful the garden was. He went all through the garden and was delighted with it, and he saw that it was beautifully kept, and was in perfect order. Then he went into the palace, and went through all the rooms, and wondered more and more to whom this beautiful house could belong. He was very much surprised, too, at finding no one in the palace, though the rooms were all splendidly furnished, and very clean and neat.
“My father is a great king,” he said to himself, “and yet he has not got a palace like this.” It was now deep night, so the prince knew he could not go home till the next day. “Never mind,” he said, “I will sleep in the verandah. I am not afraid, though I shall be quite alone.”
So he lay down to sleep in the verandah, and while he lay there, the parrot and mainá flew in, and they perched near him, for they knew he was there, and they wanted him to hear what they said to each other. Then they began chattering together; and the parrot told the mainá how the prince’s father was king of the neighbouring country, and how he had seven sons, and how six of the sons had married six princesses, “but this prince, who was the youngest son, would not marry; and what is more, he did not like his brother’s wives at all.” Then the birds stopped talking and did not chatter any more that night. The prince was very much surprised at the birds knowing who he was, and all about his dislike to his brothers’ wives.
The next morning he rode home; and there he stayed all day, and would not talk. His wife asked him, “What is the matter with you? Why are you so silent?” “My head aches,” he answered: “I am ill.” But towards evening he felt he must go back to the empty palace on the great plain, so he said to his wife, “I am going out to eat the air for a little while.” Then he got on his horse and rode off to the palace.
As soon as he had laid himself down in the verandah, the parrot and the mainá perched near him; and the parrot told the mainá how the prince had heard of the Bél-Princess; and all about his long journey in search of her, and how he found the bél-fruit, and how he was turned to stone. Then he stopped chattering, and the birds said nothing more to each other that night.
In the morning the King’s son rode home, and was as silent and grave as he had been before. He told his wife his head ached when she asked him whether he was ill.
That night he again slept in the verandah of the strange palace, and heard a little more of his story from the birds.
The next day he was still silent and grave, and his wife was very uneasy. “I am sure the Bél-Princess is alive,” she said to herself, “and that he goes every night to see her.” Then she asked him, “Why do you go out every evening? Why do you not stay at home?” “I am not well,” he answered, “so I go to my mother’s house” (the prince had a little house of his own in his father’s compound). “I will not sleep at home again till I am well.”
That night he lay down to sleep again in the verandah of the great empty palace, and heard the parrot tell the mainá all that happened to the prince up to the time that he fell asleep in his father’s garden with the beautiful Bél-Princess sitting beside him.
On the fifth night the prince lay down to sleep again in the verandah of the palace on the great plain, and watched eagerly for the little birds to begin their talk. This night the parrot told how the wicked woman had come and taken the Bél-Princess’s clothes, and thrown her down the well; how the princess became a lotus-flower which the wicked wife broke to bits; how the bits of the lotus-flower turned into a bél-fruit which she threw away; how out of the fruit came a tiny girl-baby that the gardener adopted; how the wicked woman persuaded the prince to have this girl killed when she was seven years old; how he and the mainá had once been this girl’s eyes; how the tank was once her heart, and how her body had changed into this palace and garden, while her head became the dome on the top of the palace.
Then the mainá asked the parrot where the Bél-Princess was. “Cannot she be found?” said the mainá. “Yes,” said the parrot, “she can be found; but the King’s youngest son alone can find her, and he is so foolish! He believes that his ugly, wicked wife is the beautiful Bél-Princess!” “And where is the princess?” asked the mainá. “She is here,” said the parrot. “If the prince would come one day and go through all the rooms of this palace till he came to the centre room, he would see a trap-door in the middle of that room. If he lifted the trap-door he would see a staircase which leads to an underground palace, and in this palace is the Bél-princess.” “And can no one but the prince lift the trap-door?” asked the mainá. “No one,” answered the parrot. “It is God’s order that only the King’s youngest son can lift the trap-door and find the Bél-Princess.”
The next day the young prince went through all the rooms of the palace, instead of going home. When he came to the centre room, he looked for the trap-door, and when he had lifted it he saw the staircase. He went down it, and found himself in the under-ground palace, which was far more beautiful than the one above-ground. It was full of servants; and in one room a grand dinner was standing ready. In another room he saw a gold bed, all covered with pearls and diamonds, and on the bed lay the Bél-Princess.
Day and night she prayed to God and read a holy book. She did nothing else.
When the prince went into her room and she saw him, she was very sad, not happy, for she thought, “He is so foolish; he knows nothing of what has happened to me.” Then she said to him, “Why did you come here? Go home again to your father’s palace.”
The prince burst out crying. “See, princess,” he said, “I knew nothing of your palace. I only found it by chance five nights ago. I have slept here in the verandah for the last five nights, and only last night did I learn what had happened to you, and how to find you.” “I know it is true,” she said, “that you knew nothing of what happened to me. But now that you have found me, what will you do?”
“I will go home to my father’s palace,” he answered, “and make everything ready for you, and then I will come and marry you and take you home.”
So it was all settled, and he ate some food, and returned to his father. He told his father and mother all that had happened to the Bél-Princess, and how her body had turned into the beautiful garden and palace that stood on the big plain; and of the little birds; and of the underground palace in which she now lived. So his father said that he and the prince’s mother, and his six brothers and their wives, would all take him in great state to the palace and marry him to the beautiful Bél-Princess; and that then they would all return to their own palace, and all live together. “But first the wicked woman must be killed,” said the King.
So he ordered his servants to take her to the jungle and kill her, and throw her body away. So they took her away at four o’clock in the afternoon and killed her.
One morning two or three days later, the prince and his father and mother, and brothers and sisters-in-law, went to the great palace on the wide plain; and there, in the evening, the king’s youngest son was married to the Bél-Princess. And when his father and mother and brothers, and his brothers’ wives, saw her, they all said, “It is quite true. She is indeed a Bél-Princess!”
After the wedding they all returned to the King’s palace, and there they lived together. But the King and his sons used often to go to the palace on the great plain to eat the air; and they used to lend it sometimes to other rájás and kings.
Told by Múniyá.
To notesIN a country there was a Rájá who had an only son who every day went out to hunt. One day the Rání, his mother, said to him, “You can hunt wherever you like on these three sides; but you must never go to the fourth side.” This she said because she knew if he went on the fourth side he would hear of the beautiful Princess Labám, and that then he would leave his father and mother and seek for the princess.
The young prince listened to his mother, and obeyed her for some time; but one day, when he was hunting on the three sides where he was allowed to go, he remembered what she had said to him about the fourth side, and he determined to go and see why she had forbidden him to hunt on that side. When he got there, he found himself in a jungle, and nothing in the jungle but a quantity of parrots, who lived in it. The young Rájá shot at some of them, and at once they all flew away up to the sky. All, that is, but one, and this was their Rájá, who was called Híráman parrot.
When Híráman parrot found himself left alone, he called out to the other parrots, “Don’t fly away and leave me alone when the Rájá’s son shoots. If you desert me like this, I will tell the Princess Labám.”
Then the parrots all flew back to their Rájá, chattering. The prince was greatly surprised, and said, “Why, these birds can talk!” Then he said to the parrots, “Who is the Princess Labám? Where does she live?” But the parrots would not tell him where she lived. “You can never get to the Princess Labám’s country.” That is all they would say.
The prince grew very sad when they would not tell him anything more; and he threw his gun away, and went home. When he got home, he would not speak or eat, but lay on his bed for four or five days, and seemed very ill.
At last he told his father and mother that he wanted to go and see the Princess Labám. “I must go,” he said; “I must see what she is like. Tell me where her country is.” “We do not know where it is,” answered his father and mother. “Then I must go and look for it,” said the prince. “No, no,” they said, “you must not leave us. You are our only son. Stay with us. You will never find the Princess Labám.” “I must try and find her,” said the prince. “Perhaps God will show me the way. If I live and I find her, I will come back to you; but perhaps I shall die, and then I shall never see you again. Still I must go.”
So they had to let him go, though they cried very much at parting with him. His father gave him fine clothes to wear, and a fine horse. And he took his gun, and his bow and arrows, and a great many other weapons, “for,” he said, “I may want them.” His father, too, gave him plenty of rupees.
Then he himself got his horse all ready for the journey, and he said good-bye to his father and mother; and his mother took her handkerchief and wrapped some sweetmeats in it, and gave it to her son. “My child,” she said to him, “when you are hungry eat some of these sweetmeats.”
He then set out on his journey, and rode on and on till he came to a jungle in which were a tank and shady trees. He bathed himself and his horse in the tank, and then sat down under a tree. “Now,” he said to himself, “I will eat some of the sweetmeats my mother gave me, and I will drink some water, and then I will continue my journey.” He opened his handkerchief, and took out a sweetmeat. He found an ant in it. He took out another. There was an ant in that one too. So he laid the two sweetmeats on the ground, and he took out another, and another, and another, until he had taken them all out; but in each he found an ant. “Never mind,” he said, “I won’t eat the sweetmeats; the ants shall eat them.” Then the Ant-Rájá came and stood before him and said, “You have been good to us. If ever you are in trouble, think of me and we will come to you.”
The Rájá’s son thanked him, mounted his horse and continued his journey. He rode on and on till he came to another jungle, and there he saw a tiger who had a thorn in his foot, and was roaring loudly from the pain.
“Why do you roar like that?” said the young Rájá. “What is the matter with you?” “I have had a thorn in my foot for twelve years,” answered the tiger, “and it hurts me so; that is why I roar.” “Well,” said the Rájá’s son, “I will take it out for you. But, perhaps, as you are a tiger, when I have made you well, you will eat me?” “Oh, no,” said the tiger, “I won’t eat you. Do make me well.”
Then the prince took a little knife from his pocket, and cut the thorn out of the tiger’s foot; but when he cut, the tiger roared louder than ever, so loud that his wife heard him in the next jungle, and came bounding along to see what was the matter. The tiger saw her coming, and hid the prince in the jungle, so that she should not see him.
“What man hurt you that you roared so loud?” said the wife. “No one hurt me,” answered her husband; “but a Rájá’s son came and took the thorn out of my foot.” “Where is he? Show him to me,” said his wife. “If you promise not to kill him, I will call him,” said the tiger. “I won’t kill him; only let me see him,” answered his wife.
Then the tiger called the Rájá’s son, and when he came the tiger and his wife made him a great many salaams. Then they gave him a good dinner, and he stayed with them for three days. Every day he looked at the tiger’s foot, and the third day it was quite healed. Then he said good-bye to the tigers, and the tiger said to him, “If ever you are in trouble, think of me, and we will come to you.”
The Rájá’s son rode on and on till he came to a third jungle. Here he found four fakírs whose teacher and master had died, and had left four things,—a bed, which carried whoever sat on it whithersoever he wished to go; a bag, that gave its owner whatever he wanted, jewels, food, or clothes; a stone bowl that gave its owner as much water as he wanted, no matter how far he might be from a tank; and a stick and rope, to which its owner had only to say, if any one came to make war on him, “Stick, beat as many men and soldiers as are here,” and the stick would beat them and the rope would tie them up.
The four fakírs were quarrelling over these four things. One said, “I want this;” another said, “You cannot have it, for I want it;” and so on.
The Rájá’s son said to them, “Do not quarrel for these things. I will shoot four arrows in four different directions. Whichever of you gets to my first arrow, shall have the first thing—the bed. Whosoever gets to the second arrow, shall have the second thing—the bag. He who gets to the third arrow, shall have the third thing—the bowl. And he who gets to the fourth arrow, shall have the last things—the stick and rope.” To this they agreed, and the prince shot off his first arrow. Away raced the fakírs to get it. When they brought it back to him he shot off the second, and when they had found and brought it to him he shot off his third, and when they had brought him the third he shot off the fourth.
While they were away looking for the fourth arrow, the Rájá’s son let his horse loose in the jungle, and sat on the bed, taking the bowl, the stick and rope, and the bag with him. Then he said, “Bed, I wish to go to the Princess Labám’s country.” The little bed instantly rose up into the air and began to fly, and it flew and flew till it came to the Princess Labám’s country, where it settled on the ground. The Rájá’s son asked some men he saw, “Whose country is this?” “The Princess Labám’s country,” they answered. Then the prince went on till he came to a house where he saw an old woman. “Who are you?” she said. “Where do you come from?” “I come from a far country,” he said; “do let me stay with you to-night.” “No,” she answered, “I cannot let you stay with me; for our king has ordered that men from other countries may not stay in his country. You cannot stay in my house.” “You are my aunty,” said the prince; “let me remain with you for this one night. You see it is evening, and if I go into the jungle, then the wild beasts will eat me.” “Well,” said the old woman, “you may stay here to-night; but to-morrow morning you must go away, for if the king hears you have passed the night in my house, he will have me seized and put into prison.”
Then she took him into her house, and the Rájá’s son was very glad. The old woman began preparing dinner, but he stopped her. “Aunty,” he said, “I will give you food.” He put his hand into his bag, saying, “Bag, I want some dinner,” and the bag gave him instantly a delicious dinner, served upon two gold plates. The old woman and the Rájá’s son then dined together.
When they had finished eating, the old woman said, “Now I will fetch some water.” “Don’t go,” said the prince. “You shall have plenty of water directly.” So he took his bowl and said to it, “Bowl, I want some water,” and then it filled with water. When it was full, the prince cried out, “Stop, bowl,” and the bowl stopped filling. “See, aunty,” he said, “with this bowl I can always get as much water as I want.”
By this time night had come. “Aunty,” said the Rájá’s son, “why don’t you light a lamp?” “There is no need,” she said. “Our king has forbidden the people in his country to light any lamps; for, as soon as it is dark, his daughter, the Princess Labám, comes and sits on her roof, and she shines so, that she lights up all the country and our houses, and we can see to do our work as if it were day.”
When it was quite black night, the princess got up. She dressed herself in her rich clothes and jewels, and rolled up her hair, and across her head she put a band of diamonds and pearls. Then she shone like the moon, and her beauty made night day. She came out of her room, and sat on the roof of her palace. In the daytime she never came out of her house; she only came out at night. All the people in her father’s country then went about their work and finished it.
The Rájá’s son watched the princess quietly, and was very happy. He said to himself, “How lovely she is!”
At midnight, when everybody had gone to bed, the princess came down from her roof, and went to her room; and when she was in bed and asleep, the Rájá’s son got up softly, and sat on his bed. “Bed,” he said to it, “I want to go to the Princess Labám’s bed-room.” So the little bed carried him to the room where she lay fast asleep.
The young Rájá took his bag and said, “I want a great deal of betel-leaf,” and it at once gave him quantities of betel-leaf. This he laid near the princess’s bed, and then his little bed carried him back to the old woman’s house.
Next morning all the princess’s servants found the betel-leaf, and began to eat it. “Where did you get all that betel-leaf?” asked the princess. “We found it near your bed,” answered the servants. Nobody knew the prince had come in the night and put it all there.
In the morning the old woman came to the Rájá’s son. “Now it is morning,” she said, “and you must go; for if the king finds out all I have done for you, he will seize me.” “I am ill to-day, dear aunty,” said the prince; “do let me stay till to-morrow morning.” “Good,” said the old woman. So he stayed, and they took their dinner out of the bag, and the bowl gave them water.
When night came the princess got up and sat on her roof, and at twelve o’clock, when every one was in bed, she went to her bed-room, and was soon fast asleep. Then the Rájá’s son sat on his bed, and it carried him to the princess. He took his bag and said, “Bag, I want a most lovely shawl.” It gave him a splendid shawl, and he spread it over the princess as she lay asleep. Then he went back to the old woman’s house and slept till morning.
In the morning, when the princess saw the shawl, she was delighted. “See, mother,” she said; “God must have given me this shawl, it is so beautiful.” Her mother was very glad too. “Yes, my child,” she said; “God must have given you this splendid shawl.”
When it was morning the old woman said to the Rájá’s son, “Now you must really go.” “Aunty,” he answered, “I am not well enough yet. Let me stay a few days longer. I will remain hidden in your house, so that no one may see me.” So the old woman let him stay.
When it was black night, the princess put on her lovely clothes and jewels, and sat on her roof. At midnight she went to her room and went to sleep. Then the Rájá’s son sat on his bed and flew to her bed-room. There he said to his bag, “Bag, I want a very, very beautiful ring.” The bag gave him a glorious ring. Then he took the Princess Labám’s hand gently to put on the ring, and she started up very much frightened.
“Who are you?” she said to the prince. “Where do you come from? Why do you come to my room?” “Do not be afraid, princess,” he said; “I am no thief. I am a great Rájá’s son. Híráman parrot, who lives in the jungle where I went to hunt, told me your name, and then I left my father and mother, and came to see you.”
“Well,” said the princess, “as you are the son of such a great Rájá, I will not have you killed, and I will tell my father and mother that I wish to marry you.”
The prince then returned to the old woman’s house; and when morning came, the princess said to her mother, “The son of a great Rájá has come to this country, and I wish to marry him.” Her mother told this to the king. “Good,” said the king; “but if this Rájá’s son wishes to marry my daughter, he must first do whatever I bid him. If he fails I will kill him. I will give him eighty pounds weight of mustard seed, and out of this he must crush the oil in one day. If he cannot do this he shall die.”
In the morning the Rájá’s son told the old woman that he intended to marry the princess. “Oh,” said the old woman, “go away from this country, and do not think of marrying her. A great many Rájás and Rájás’ sons have come here to marry her, and her father has had them all killed. He says whoever wishes to marry his daughter must first do whatever he bids him. If he can, then he shall marry the princess; if he cannot, the king will have him killed. But no one can do the things the king tells him to do; so all the Rájás and Rájás’ sons who have tried have been put to death. You will be killed too, if you try. Do go away.” But the prince would not listen to anything she said.
The king sent for the prince to the old woman’s house, and his servants brought the Rájá’s son to the king’s court-house to the king. There the king gave him eighty pounds of mustard seed, and told him to crush all the oil out of it that day, and bring it next morning to him to the court-house. “Whoever wishes to marry my daughter,” he said to the prince, “must first do all I tell him. If he cannot, then I have him killed. So if you cannot crush all the oil out of this mustard seed, you will die.”
The prince was very sorry when he heard this. “How can I crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day?” he said to himself; “and if I do not, the king will kill me.” He took the mustard seed to the old woman’s house, and did not know what to do. At last he remembered the Ant-Rájá, and the moment he did so, the Ant-Rájá and his ants came to him. “Why do you look so sad?” said the Ant-Rájá. The prince showed him the mustard seed, and said to him, “How can I crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day? And if I do not take the oil to the king to-morrow morning, he will kill me.” “Be happy,” said the Ant-Rájá; “lie down and sleep: we will crush all the oil out for you during the day, and to-morrow morning you shall take it to the king.” The Rájá’s son lay down and slept, and the ants crushed out the oil for him. The prince was very glad when he saw the oil.
The next morning he took it to the court-house to the king. But the king said, “You cannot yet marry my daughter. If you wish to do so, you must first fight with my two demons and kill them.” The king a long time ago had caught two demons, and then, as he did not know what to do with them, he had shut them up in a cage. He was afraid to let them loose for fear they would eat up all the people in his country; and he did not know how to kill them. So all the kings and kings’ sons who wanted to marry the Princess Labám had to fight with these demons; “for,” said the king to himself, “perhaps the demons may be killed, and then I shall be rid of them.”
When he heard of the demons the Rájá’s son was very sad. “What can I do?” he said to himself. “How can I fight with these two demons?” Then he thought of his tiger: and the tiger and his wife came to him and said, “Why are you so sad?” The Rájá’s son answered, “The king has ordered me to fight with his two demons and kill them. How can I do this?” “Do not be frightened,” said the tiger. “Be happy. I and my wife will fight with them for you.”
Then the Rájá’s son took out of his bag two splendid coats. They were all gold and silver, and covered with pearls and diamonds. These he put on the tigers to make them beautiful, and he took them to the king, and said to him, “May these tigers fight your demons for me?” “Yes,” said the king, who did not care in the least who killed his demons, provided they were killed. “Then call your demons,” said the Rájá’s son, “and these tigers will fight them.” The king did so, and the tigers and the demons fought and fought until the tigers had killed the demons.
“That is good,” said the king. “But you must do something else before I give you my daughter. Up in the sky I have a kettle-drum. You must go and beat it. If you cannot do this, I will kill you.”
The Rájá’s son thought of his little bed; so he went to the old woman’s house and sat on his bed. “Little bed,” he said, “up in the sky is the king’s kettle-drum. I want to go to it.” The bed flew up with him, and the Rájá’s son beat the drum, and the king heard him. Still, when he came down, the king would not give him his daughter. “You have,” he said to the prince, “done the three things I told you to do; but you must do one thing more.” “If I can, I will,” said the Rájá’s son.
Then the king showed him the trunk of a tree that was lying near his court-house. It was a very, very thick trunk. He gave the prince a wax hatchet, and said, “To-morrow morning you must cut this trunk in two with this wax hatchet.”
The Rájá’s son went back to the old woman’s house. He was very sad, and thought that now the Rájá would certainly kill him. “I had his oil crushed out by the ants,” he said to himself. “I had his demons killed by the tigers. My bed helped me to beat his kettle-drum. But now what can I do? How can I cut that thick tree trunk in two with a wax hatchet?”
At night he went on his bed to see the princess. “To-morrow,” he said to her, “your father will kill me.” “Why?” asked the princess.
“He has told me to cut a thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet. How can I ever do that?” said the Rájá’s son. “Do not be afraid,” said the princess; “do as I bid you, and you will cut it in two quite easily.”
Then she pulled out a hair from her head, and gave it to the prince. “To-morrow,” she said, “when no one is near you, you must say to the tree-trunk, ‘The Princess Labám commands you to let yourself be cut in two by this hair.’ Then stretch the hair down the edge of the wax hatchet’s blade.”
The prince next day did exactly as the princess had told him; and the minute the hair that was stretched down the edge of the hatchet-blade touched the tree-trunk, it split into two pieces.
The king said, “Now you can marry my daughter.” Then the wedding took place. All the Rájás and kings of the countries round were asked to come to it, and there were great rejoicings. After a few days the prince’s son said to his wife, “Let us go to my father’s country.” The Princess Labám’s father gave them a quantity of camels and horses and rupees and servants; and they travelled in great state to the prince’s country, where they lived happily.
The prince always kept his bag, bowl, bed, and stick; only as no one ever came to make war on him, he never needed to use the stick.
Told by Múniyá.