The next day it came again, and inquired once more about the King’s son and his black consort, and repeated what it said before. The third day it did in like manner, and as many trees as it hopped upon withered right away beneath it.
One day the King’s son felt weary of his black bride, so he went out into the garden for a walk. Then his eye fell on the withered trees, and he called the gardener and said to him: “What is this, gardener? Why dost thou not take better care of thy trees? Dost thou not see that they are all withering away?” Then the gardener replied that it was of but little use for him to take care of the trees, for a few days ago a little bird had been there, and asked what the King’s son and his black consort were doing, and had said that though she might be sitting there, she should not sit for ever, but that thorns would grow, and every tree it lit upon should wither.
The Bang’s son commanded the gardener to smear the trees with bird-lime, and if the bird then lit upon it, to bring it to him. So the gardener smeared the trees with bird-lime, and when the bird came there next day he caught it, and brought it to the King’s son, who put it in a cage. Now no sooner did the black woman look upon the bird than she knew at once that it was the damsel. So she pretended to be very ill, sent for the chief medicine-man, and by dint of rich gifts persuaded him to say to the King’s son that his consort would never get well unless he fed her with such and such birds.
The King’s son saw that his consort was very sick, he sent for the doctor, went with him to see the sick woman, and asked him how she was to be cured. The doctor said she could only be cured if they gave her such and such birds to eat. “Why, only this very day have I caught one of such birds,” said the King’s son; and they brought the bird, killed it, and fed the sick lady with the flesh thereof. In an instant the black damsel arose from her bed. But one of the bird’s dazzling feathers fell accidentally to the ground and slipped between the planks, so that nobody noticed it.
Time went on, and the King’s son was still waiting and waiting for his consort to turn white. Now there was an old woman in the palace who used to teach the dwellers in the harem to read and write. One day as she was going down-stairs she saw something gleaming between the planks of the floor, and going towards it, perceived that it was a bird’s feather that sparkled like a diamond. She took it home and thrust it behind a rafter. The next day she went to the palace, and while she was away the bird’s feather leaped down from the rafter, shivered a little, and the next moment turned into a most lovely damsel. She put the room tidy, cooked the meal, set everything in order, and then leaped back upon the rafter and became a feather again. When the old woman came home she was amazed at what she saw. She thought: “Somebody must have done all this,” so she went up and down, backwards and forwards through the house, but nobody could she see.
Early next morning she again went to the palace, and the feather leaped down again in like manner, and did all the household work. When the old woman came home, she perceived the house all nice and clean, and everything in order. “I really must find out the secret of this,” thought she, so next morning she made as if she were going away as usual, and left the door ajar, but went and hid herself in a corner. All at once she perceived that there was a damsel in the room, who tidied the room and cooked the meal, whereupon the old woman dashed out, seized hold of her, and asked her who she was and whence she came. Then the damsel told her her sad fate, and how she had been twice killed by the black woman, and had come thither in the shape of a feather.
“Distress thyself no more, my lass,” said the old woman. “I’ll put thy business to rights, and this very day, too.” And with that she went straight to the King’s son and invited him to come and see her that evening. The King’s son was now so sick unto death of his black bride that he was glad of any excuse to escape from his own house, so the evening found him punctually at the old woman’s. They sat down to supper, and when the coffee followed the meats, the damsel entered with the cups, and when the King’s son saw her he was like to have fainted. “Nay, but, mother,” said the King’s son, when he had come to himself a little, “who is that damsel?”
“Thy wife,” replied the old woman.
“How didst thou get that fair creature?” inquired the King’s son. “Wilt thou not give her to me?”
“How can I give her to thee, seeing that she was thine own once upon a time,” said the old woman; and with that the old woman took the damsel by the hand, led her to the King’s son, and laid her on his breast. “Take better care of the Orange-Peri another time,” said she.
The King’s son now nearly fainted in real earnest, but it was from sheer joy. He took the damsel to his palace, put to death the black slave-girl, but held high festival with the Peri for forty days and forty nights. So they had the desire of their hearts, and may Allah satisfy your desires likewise.
Once upon a time in the old old days when straws were sieves, and the camel a chapman, and the mouse a barber, and the cuckoo a tailor, and the donkey ran errands, and the tortoise baked bread, and I was only fifteen years old, but my father rocked my cradle, and there was a miller in the land who had a black cat—in those olden times, I say, there was a King who had three daughters, and the first daughter was forty, and the second was thirty, and the third was twenty. One day the youngest daughter wrote this letter to her father: “My lord father! my eldest sister is forty and my second sister is thirty, and still thou hast given neither of them a husband. I have no desire to grow grey in waiting for a husband.”
The King read the letter, sent for his three daughters, and addressed them in these words: “Look now! let each one of you shoot an arrow from a bow and seek her sweetheart wherever her arrow falls!” So the three damsels took their bows. The eldest damsel’s arrow fell into the palace of the Vizier’s son, so the Vizier’s son took her to wife. The second girl’s arrow flew into the palace of the Chief Mufti’s son, so they gave her to him. The third damsel also fired her arrow, and lo! it stuck in the hut of a poor young labourer. “That won’t do, that won’t do!” cried they all. So she fired again, and again the arrow stuck in the hut. She aimed a third time, and a third time the arrow stuck in the hut of the poor young labourer. Then the King was wroth and cried to the damsel: “Look now, thou slut! thou hast got thy deserts. Thy sisters waited patiently, and therefore they have got their hearts’ desires. Thou wast the youngest of all, yet didst thou write me that saucy letter, hence thy punishment. Out of my sight, thou slave-girl, to this husband of thine, and thou shalt have nought but what he can give thee!” So the poor damsel departed to the hut of the labourer, and they gave her to him to wife.
They lived together for a time, and on the tenth day of the ninth month the time came that she should bear a child, and her husband, the labourer, hastened away for the midwife. While the husband was thus away his wife had neither a bed to lie down upon nor a fire to warm herself by, though grinding winter was upon them. All at once the walls of the poor hut opened hither and thither, and three beautiful damsels of the Peri race stepped into it. One stood at the damsel’s head, another at her feet, the third by her side, and they all seemed to know their business well. In a moment everything in the poor hut was in order, the princess lay on a beautiful soft couch, and before she could blink her eyes a pretty little new-born baby girl was lying by her side. When everything was finished the three Peris set about going, but first of all they approached the bed one by one, and the first said:
The second Peri approached the bed and said:
And the third Peri wound up with these words:
whereupon they all three disappeared.
Now all this time the husband was seeking a midwife, but could find one nowhere. What could he do but go home? But when he got back he was amazed to find everything in the poor hut in beautiful order, and his wife lying on a splendid bed. Then she told him the story of the three Peris, and there was no more spirit left in him, so astounded was he. But the little girl grew more and more lovely from hour to day, and from day to week, so that there was not another like her in the whole world. Whosoever looked upon her lost his heart at once, and pearls fell from her eyes when she wept, roses burst into bloom when she smiled, and a bright riband of fresh green verdure followed her footsteps. Whosoever saw her had no more spirit left in him, and the fame of lovely Rosa went from mouth to mouth.
At last the King of that land also heard of the damsel, and instantly made up his mind that she and nobody else should be his son’s consort. So he sent for his son, and told him that there was a damsel in the town of so rare a beauty that pearls fell from her eyes when she wept, roses burst into bloom when she smiled, and the earth grew fresh and green beneath her footsteps, and with that he bade him up and woo her.
Now the Peris had for a long time shown the King’s son the beautiful Rose-damsel in his dreams, and the sweet fire of love already burned within him; but he was ashamed to let his father see this, so he hung back a little. At this his father became more and more pressing, bade him go and woo her at once, and commanded the chief dame of the palace to accompany him to the hut of the labourer.
They entered the hut, said on what errand they came, and claimed the damsel for the King’s son in the name of Allah. The poor folks rejoiced at their good luck, promised the girl, and began to make ready.
Now this palace dame’s daughter was also a beauty, and not unlike Rosa. Terribly distressed was the dame that the King’s son should take to wife a poor labourer’s daughter, instead of her own child; so she made up her mind to deceive them and put her own daughter in Rosa’s place. So on the day of the banquet she made the poor girl eat many salted meats, and then brought a pitcher of water and a large basket, got into the bridal coach with Rosa and her own daughter, and set out for the palace. As they were on the road (and a very long time they were about it) the damsel grew thirsty and asked the palace dame for some water. “Not till thou hast given me one of thine eyes,” said the palace dame. What could the poor damsel do?—she was dying with thirst. So she cut out one of her eyes and gave it for a drink of water.
They went on and on, further and further, and the damsel again became thirsty and asked for another drink of water. “Thou shalt have it if thou give me thy other eye,” said the palace dame. And the poor damsel was so tormented with thirst that she gave the other eye for a drink of water.
The old dame took the two eyes, pitched the sightless damsel into the big basket, and left her all alone on the top of a mountain. But the beautiful bridal robe she put upon her own daughter, brought her to the King’s son, and gave her to him with the words: “Behold thy wife!” So they made a great banquet, and when they had brought the damsel to her bridegroom and taken off her veil, he perceived that the damsel who now stood before him was not the damsel of his dreams. As, however, she resembled her a little he said nothing about it to anybody. So they lay down to rest, and when they rose up again early next morning the King’s son was quite undeceived, for the damsel of his dreams had wept pearls, smiled roses, and sweet green herbs had grown up in her footsteps, but this girl had neither roses nor pearls nor green herbs to show for herself. The youth felt there was some trickery at work here. This was not the girl he had meant to have. “How am I to find it all out?” thought he to himself; but not a word did he say to any one.
While all these things were going on in the palace, poor Rosa was weeping on the mountain top, and such showers of pearls fell from her by dint of her sore weeping that there was scarce room to hold them all in the big basket. Now a mud-carrier happened to be passing by who was carting mud away, and hearing the weeping of the damsel was terribly afraid, and cried: “Who art thou?—A Jinn or a Peri?”—“I am neither a Jinn nor yet a Peri,” replied the damsel, “but the remains of a living child of man.” Whereupon the mud-raker took courage, opened the basket, and there a poor sightless damsel was sobbing, and her tears fell from her in showers of pearls. So he took the damsel by the hand and led her to his hut, and as the old man had nobody about him he adopted the damsel as if she were his own child and took care of her. But the poor girl did nothing but weep for her two eyes, and the old man had all he could do to pick up the pearls, and whenever they were in want of money he would take a pearl and sell it, and they lived on whatever he got for it.
Thus time passed, and there was mirth in the palace, and misery in the hut of the mud-raker. Now it chanced one day as fair Rosa was sitting in the hut, that something made her smile, and immediately a rose bloomed. Then the damsel said to her foster-father, the mud-raker: “Take this rose, papa, and go with it in front of the palace of the King’s son, and cry aloud that thou hast roses for sale that are not to be matched in the wide world. But if the dame of the palace comes out, see that thou dost not give her the rose for money, but say that thou wilt sell it for a human eye.”
So the man took the rose and stood in front of the palace, and began to cry aloud: “A rose for sale, a rose for sale, the like of which is nowhere to be found.” Now it was not the season for roses, so when the dame of the palace heard the man crying a rose for sale, she thought to herself: “I’ll put it in my daughter’s hair, and thus the King’s son will think that she is his true bride.” So she called the poor man to her, and asked him what he would sell the rose for? “For nothing,” replied the man, “for no money told down, but I’ll give it thee for a human eye.” Then the dame of the palace brought forth one of fair Rosa’s eyes and gave it for the rose. Then she took it to her daughter, plaited it in her hair, and when the King’s son saw the rose, he thought of the Peri of his dreams, but could not understand whither she had gone. Nevertheless he now fancied he was about to find out, so he said not a word to any one.
Meanwhile, the old man went home with the eye and gave it to the damsel, fair Rosa. Then she fitted it in its right place, sighed from her heart in prayer to Allah, who can do all things; and behold! she could see right well again with her one eye. The poor girl was so pleased that she could not help smiling, and immediately another rose sprang forth. This also she gave to her father that he might walk in front of the palace and give it for another human eye. The old man took the rose, and scarcely had he begun crying it before the palace when the old dame again heard him. “He has just come at the nick of time,” thought she; “the King’s son has begun to love my rose-bedizened daughter; if I can only get this rose also, he will love her still better, and this serving-wench will go out of his mind altogether.” So she called the mud-raker to her and asked for the rose, but again he would not take money for it, though he was willing to let her have it in exchange for a human eye. Then the old woman gave him the second eye, and the old man hastened home with it and gave it to the damsel. Rosa immediately put it in its proper place, prayed to Allah, and was so rejoiced when her two bright eyes sparkled with living light that she smiled all the day, and roses bloomed on every side of her. Henceforth she was lovelier than ever. Now one day beautiful Rosa went for a walk, and as she smiled continually as she walked along, roses bloomed around her and the ground grew fresh and green beneath her feet. The palace dame saw her and was terrified. What will become of me, she thought, if the affair of this damsel comes to be known? She knew where the poor mud-scraper lived, so she went all alone to his dwelling, and terrified him by telling him that he had an evil witch in his house. The poor man had never seen a witch, so he was terrified to death, and asked the palace dame what he had better do. “Find out, first of all, what her talisman is,” advised the palace dame, “and then I’ll come and do the rest.”
So the first thing the old man did when the damsel came home was to ask her how she, a mere child of man, had come to have such magic power. The damsel, suspecting no ill, said that she had got her talisman from the three Peris, and that pearls, roses, and fresh sweet verdure would accompany her so long as her talisman was alive.
“What then is thy talisman?” asked the old man.
answered she.
The next day the palace dame came thither in the utmost misery, heard all about it from the mud-scraper, and hastened home with great joy. She told her daughter that on the top of the neighbouring hill was a little deer which she should ask her husband to get for her. That very same day the Sultana told her husband of the little deer on the top of the hill, and begged and implored him to get her its heart to eat. And after not many days the Prince’s men caught the little deer and killed it, and took out its heart and gave it to the Sultana. At the same instant when they killed the little fawn fair Rosa died. The mud-raker sorrowed over her till he could sorrow no more, and then took and buried her.
Now in the heart of the little fawn there was a little red coral eye which nobody took any notice of. When the Sultana ate the heart, the little red coral eye fell out and rolled down the steps as if it wanted to hide itself.
Time went on, and in not more than nine months and ten days the Prince’s consort was brought to bed of a little daughter, who wept pearls when she cried, dropt roses when she smiled, and sweet green herbs sprang up in her footsteps.
When the Prince saw it he mused and mused over it, the little girl was the very image of fair Rosa, and not a bit like the mother who had borne her. So his sleep was no repose to him, till one night fair Rosa appeared to him in his dreams and spoke these words to him: “Oh, my prince! oh, my betrothed! my soul is beneath thy palace steps, my body is in the tomb, thy little girl is my little girl, my talisman is the little coral eye.”
The Prince had no sooner awakened than he went to the staircase and searched about, and lo! there was the little coral eye. He picked it up, took it into his chamber, and laid it on the table. Meanwhile, the little girl entered the room, saw the red coral, and scarcely had she laid hold of it than she vanished as if she had never been. The three Peris had carried off the child and taken her to her mother’s tomb, and scarcely had she placed the coral eye in the dead woman’s mouth than she awoke up to a new life.
But the King’s son was not easy in his mind. He went to the cemetery, had the tomb opened, and there in her coffin lay the Rose-beauty of his dreams, with her little girl in her arms and the coral talisman in her mouth. They arose from the tomb and embraced him, and pearls fell from the eyes of both of them as they wept, and roses from their mouths as they smiled, and sweet green herbs grew up in their footsteps.
The palace dame and her daughter paid for their crimes, but beautiful Rosa and her father and her mother, the Sultan’s daughter, were all re-united, and for forty days and forty nights they held high revel amidst the beating of drums and the tinkling of cymbals.
Once upon a time in the old old days when the camel was only a spy, when toads rose in the air on wings, and I myself rode in the air while I walked on the ground, and went up hill and down dale at the same time, in those days, I say, there were two brothers who dwelt together.
All that they had inherited from their father were some oxen and other beasts, and a sick mother. One day the spirit of division seized upon the younger brother (he was half-witted besides, Allah help him!), and he went to his brother and said: “Look now, brother! at these two stables! One of them is as new as new can be, while the other is old and rotten. Let us drive our cattle hither, and whatever goes into the new stable shall be mine, and all the rest shall be thine.”
“Not so, Mehmed,” said the elder brother; “let whatever goes into the old stable be thine!” To this also the half-crazy Mehmed agreed. That same day they went and drove up their cattle, and all the cattle went into the new stable except a helpless old ox that was so blind that it mistook its way and went into the old stable instead. Mehmed said never a word, but took the blind old ox into the fields to graze; every morning early he drove it thither, and late every evening he drove it back again. One day when he was on the road, the wind began to shake a big wayside tree so violently that its vast branches whined and whimpered again. “Hi! whimpering old dad!” said the fool to the tree, “hast thou seen my elder brother?” But the tree, as if it didn’t hear, only went on whining. The fool flew into such a rage at this that he caught up his chopper and struck at the tree, when out of it gushed a whole stream of golden sequins. At this the fool rallied what little wits he had, hastened home, and asked his brother to lend him another ox, as he wanted to plough with a pair. He found a cart also, and some empty sacks. These he filled with earth, and set out forthwith for his tree. There he emptied his sacks of their earth, filled them with sequins instead, and when he returned home in the evening, his brother well-nigh dropped down for amazement at the sight of the monstrous treasure.
They could think of nothing now but dividing it, so the younger brother went to their neighbour for a three-peck measure to measure it with. Now the neighbour was curious to know what such clodpoles could have to measure. So he took and smeared the bottom of the measure with tar, and, sure enough, when the fool brought the measure back a short time afterwards, a sequin was sticking to the bottom of it. The neighbour immediately went and told it to another, who went and told it to a third, and so it was not long before everybody knew all about it.
Now the wiser brother knew not what might happen to them now that they had all this money, and he began to feel frightened. So he snatched up his pick and shovel, dug a trench, buried the treasure, and made off as fast as his heels could carry him. On the way it occurred to the wise brother that he had done foolishly in not shutting the door of the hut behind him, so he sent off his younger brother to do it for him. So the fool went back to the house, and he thought to himself: “Well, since I am here, I ought not to forget my old mother either.” So he filled a huge cauldron with water, boiled it, and soused his old mother in it so thoroughly that her poor old head was never likely to speak again. After that he propped the old woman against the wall with the broom, tore the door off its hinges, threw it over his shoulders, and went and rejoined his brother in the wood.
The elder brother looked at the door, and listened to the sad case of his poor old mother, but scold and chide his younger brother as he might the latter grew more cock-a-hoop than ever—he fancied he had done such a clever thing. He had brought the door away with him, he said, in order that no one might get into the house. The wise brother would have given anything to have got rid of the fool, and began turning over in his mind how he might best manage it. He looked before him and behind him, he looked down the high-road, and there were three horsemen galloping along. The thought instantly occurred to the pair of them that these horsemen were on their track, so they scrambled up a tree forthwith, door and all. They were scarcely comfortably settled when the three horsemen drove up beneath the tree and encamped there. The dusk of evening had come on at the very nick of time, so that they could not see the two brothers.
Now the two brothers would have done very well indeed up in the tree had not one of them been a fool. Mehmed the fool began to practise pleasantries which disturbed the repose of the horsemen beneath the tree. Presently, however, came a crash—bang!—and down on the heads of the three sleepers fell the great heavy door from the top of the tree. “The end of the world has come, the end of the world has come!” cried they, and they rushed off in such a fright that no doubt they haven’t ceased running to this very day. This finished the business so far as the elder brother was concerned. In the morning he arose and went on his way, and left the foolish younger brother by himself.
Thus poor silly Mehmed had to go forth into the wide world alone. He went on and on till he came to a village, by which time he was very hungry. There he stood in the gate of a mosque, and got one or two paras[6] from those who went in and out till he had enough to buy himself something to eat. At that moment a fat little man came out of the mosque, and casting his eyes on Mehmed, asked him if he would like to enter his service.
“I don’t mind if I do,” replied Mehmed, “but only on condition that neither of us is to get angry with the other for any cause whatever. If thou art wroth with me I’ll kill thee, and if I get wroth with thee thou mayest kill me also.” The fat man agreed to these terms, for there was a great lack of servants in that village.
In order to make short work of the fat little man the fool began by at once chasing all the hens and sheep off his master’s premises. “Art angry, master?” he then inquired of his lord. His master was amazed, but he only answered: “Angry? Not I! Why should I be?” At the same time he entrusted nothing more to him, but let him sit in the house without anything to do.
His master had a wife and child, and Mehmed had to look after them. He liked to dandle the child up and down, but he knocked it about and hurt it, so clumsy was he; so he soon had to leave that off. But the wife began to be afraid that her turn would come next, sooner or later, so she persuaded her husband to run away from the fool one night. Mehmed overheard what they said, hid himself in their storebox, and when they opened it in the next village out he popped.
After a while his master and his wife agreed together that they would go and sleep at night on the shores of a lake. They took Mehmed with them, and put his bed right on the water’s edge, that he might tumble in when he went to sleep. However, the fool was not such a fool but that he made his master’s wife jump into the lake instead of himself. “Art angry, master?” cried he.—“Angry indeed! How can I help being angry when I see my property wasted, and my wife and child killed, and myself a beggar—and all through thee!” Then the fool seized his master, put him in mind of their compact, and pitched him into the water.
Mehmed now found himself all alone, so he went forth into the wide world once more. He went on and on, did nothing but drink sweet coffee, smoke chibooks, look about over his shoulder, and walk leisurely along at his ease. As he was thus knocking about, he chanced to light upon a five-para piece, which he speedily changed for some lebleb,[7] which he immediately fell to chewing, and, as he chewed, part of it fell into a wayside spring, whereupon the fool began roaring loud enough to split his throat: “Give me back my lebleb, give me back my lebleb!” At this frightful bawling a Jinn popped up his head, and he was so big that his upper lip swept the sky, while his lower lip hid the earth. “What dost thou require?” asked the Jinn.—“I want my lebleb, I want my lebleb!” cried Mehmed.
The Jinn ducked down into the spring, and when he came up again, he held a little table in his hand. This little table he gave to the fool and said: “Whenever thou art hungry thou hast only to say: ‘Little table, give me to eat;’ and when thou hast eaten thy fill, say: ‘Little table, I have now had enough.’”
So Mehmed took the table and went with it into a village, and when he felt hungry he said: “Little table, give me to eat!” and immediately there stood before him so many beautiful, nice dishes that he couldn’t make up his mind which to begin with. “Well,” thought he, “I must let the poor people of the village see this wonder also,” so he went and invited them all to a great banquet.
The villagers came one after another, they looked to the right, they looked to the left, but there was no sign of a fire, or any preparations for a meal. “Nay, but he would needs make fools of us!” thought they. But the young man brought out his table, set it in the midst, and cried: “Little table, give me to eat!” and there before them stood all manner of delicious meats and drinks, and so much thereof that when the guests had stuffed themselves to the very throat, there was enough left over to fill the servants. Then the villagers laid their heads together as to how they might manage to have a meal like this every day. “Come now!” said some of them, “let us steal a march upon Mehmed one day and lay hands upon his table, and then there will be an end to the fool’s glory.” And they did so.
What could the poor, empty-bellied fool do then? Why he went to the wayside spring and asked again: “I want my lebleb, I want my lebleb!” And he asked and asked so long that at last the Jinn popped up his head again out of the spring and inquired what was the matter. “I want my lebleb, I want my lebleb!” cried the fool.—“But where’s thy little table?”—“They stole it.”
The big-lipped Jinn again popped down, and when he rose out of the spring again he had a little mill in his hand. This he gave to the fool and said to him: “Grind it to the right and gold will flow out of it, grind it to the left and it will give thee silver.” So the youth took the mill home and ground it first to the right and then to the left, and huge treasures of gold and silver lay heaped about him on the floor. So he grew such a rich man that his equal was not to be found in the village, nay, nor in the town either.
But no sooner had the people of the village got to know all about the little mill than they laid their heads together and schemed and schemed till the mill also disappeared[8] one fine morning from Mehmed’s cottage. Then Mehmed ran off to the spring once more and cried: “I want my lebleb, I want my lebleb!”
“But where is thy little table? Where is thy little mill?” asked the big-lipped Jinn.
“They have stolen them both from me,” lamented the witless one, and he wept bitterly.
Again the Jinn bobbed down, and this time he brought up two sticks with him. He gave them to the fool, and impressed upon him very strongly on no account to say: “Strike, strike, my little sticks!”
Mehmed took the sticks, and first he turned them to the right and then to the left, but could make nothing of them. Then he thought he would just try the effect of saying: “Strike, strike, my little sticks!” and no sooner were the words out of his mouth than the sticks fell upon him unmercifully, and belaboured him on every part of the body that can feel—the head, the foot, the arm, the back—till he was nothing but one big ache. “Stop, stop, my little sticks!” cried he, and lo! the two sticks were still. Then, for all his aches and pains, Mehmed rejoiced greatly that he had found out the mystery.
He had no sooner got home with the two sticks than he called together all the villagers, but said not a word about what he meant to do. In less than a couple of hours everybody had assembled there, and awaited the new show with great curiosity. Then Mehmed came with his two sticks and cried: “Strike, strike, my little sticks, strike, strike!” whereupon the two sticks gave the whole lot of them such a rub-a-dub-dubbing that it was as much as they could do to howl for mercy. “Now,” said Mehmed, who was getting his wits back again, “I’ll have no mercy till you have given back to me my little table and my little mill.”
The people of the village, all bruised and bleeding as they were, consented to everything, and hurried off for the little table and the little mill. Then Mehmed cried: “Stand still, my little sticks!” and there was peace and quiet as before.
Then the man took away the three gifts to his own village, and as he now had money he grew more sensible, and there also he found his brother. He gave all the buried treasure to his brother, and each of them sought out a damsel meet to be a wife, and married, and lived each in a world of his own. And there was not a wiser man in that village than Mad Mehmed now that he had grown rich.
Once upon a time, in days long gone by, when my father was my father, and I was my fathers son, when my father was my son, and I was my father’s mother, once upon a time, I say, at the uttermost ends of the world, hard by the realm of demons, stood a great city.
In this same city there dwelt three poor damsels, the daughters of a poor wood-cutter. From morn to eve, from evening to morning, they did nothing but sew and stitch, and when the embroideries were finished, one of them would go to the market-place and sell them, and so purchase wherewithal to live upon.
Now it fell out, one day, that the Padishah of that city was wroth with the people, and in his rage he commanded that for three days and three nights nobody should light a candle in that city. What were these three poor sisters to do? They could not work in the dark. So they covered their window with a large thick curtain, lit a tiny rushlight, and sat them down to earn their daily bread.
On the third night of the prohibition, the Padishah took it into his head to go round the city himself to see whether every one was keeping his commandment. He chanced to step in front of the house of the three poor damsels, and as the folds of the curtain did not quite cover the bottom of the window he caught sight of the light within. The damsels, however, little suspecting their danger, went on sewing and stitching and talking amongst themselves about their poor affairs.
“Oh,” said the eldest, “if only the Padishah would wed me to his chief cook, what delicious dishes I should have every day. Yes, and I would embroider him for it a carpet so long that all his horses and all his men could find room upon it.”
“As for me,” said the middling damsel, “I should like to be wedded to the keeper of his wardrobe. What lovely splendid raiment I should then have to put on. And then I would make the Padishah a tent so large, that all his horses and all his men should find shelter beneath it.”
“Well,” cried the youngest damsel, “I’ll look at nobody but the Padishah himself, and if he would only take me to wife I would bear him two little children with golden hair. One should be a boy and the other a girl, and a half-moon should shine on the forehead of the boy, and a bright star should sparkle on the temples of the girl.”
The Padishah heard the discourse of the three damsels, and no sooner did the red dawn shine in the morning sky than he sent for all three to the palace. The eldest he gave to his head pantler, the second to his head chamberlain, but the youngest he took for himself.
And in truth it fared excellently well with the three damsels. The eldest got so many rich dishes to eat, that when it came to sewing the promised carpet she could scarce move her needle for the sleep of surfeit. So they sent her back again to the wood-cutters hut. The second damsel, too, when they dressed her up in gold and silver raiment, would not deign to dirty her fingers by making tents, so they sent her back too, to keep her elder sister company.
And how about the youngest? Well, after nine months and ten days the two elder sisters came sidling up to the palace to see if the poor thing would really be as good as her word, and bring forth the two wondrous children. In the gates of the palace they met an old woman, and they persuaded her with gifts and promises to meddle in the matter. Now this old woman was the devil’s own daughter, so that mischief and malice were her meat and drink. She now went and picked up two pups and took them with her to the sick woman’s bed.
And oh, my soul! the wife of the Padishah brought forth two little children like shining stars. One was a boy, the other a girl; on the boys forehead was a half-moon and on the girl’s a star, so that darkness was turned to light when they were by. Then the wicked old woman exchanged the children for the pups, and told it in the ears of the Padishah that his wife had brought forth two pups. The Padishah was like to have had a fit in the furiousness of his rage. He took his poor wife, buried her up to the waist in the ground, and commanded throughout the city that every passer-by should strike her on the head with a stone. But no sooner had the evil witch got hold of the two children, than she took them a long way outside the town, exposed them on the bank of a flowing stream, and returned to the palace right glad that she had done her work so well.
Now close to the water where the two children lay stood a hut where lived an aged couple. The old man had a she-goat which used to go out in the morning to graze, and come back in the evening to be milked, and that was how the poor people kept body and soul together. One day, however, the old woman was
surprised to find that the goat did not give one drop of milk. She complained about it to the old man her husband, and told him to follow the goat to see if perchance there was any one who stole the milk.
So the next day the old man went after the goat, which went right up to the water’s edge, and then disappeared behind a tree. And what do you think he saw? He saw a sight which would have delighted your eyes also—two golden-haired children were lying in the grass, and the goat went right up to them and gave them to suck. Then she bleated to them a little, and so left them and went off to graze. And the old man was so delighted at the sight of the little starry things, that he was like to have lost his head for joy. So he took the little ones (Allah had not blessed him with children of his own) and carried them to his hut and gave them to his wife. The woman was filled with a still greater joy at the children which Allah had given her, and took care of them, and brought them up. But now the little goat came bleating in as if in sore distress, but the moment she saw the children, she went to them and suckled them, and then went out to graze again.
But time comes and goes. The two wondrous children grew up and scampered up hill and down dale, and the dark woods were bright with the radiance of their golden hair. They hunted the wild beasts, tended sheep, and helped the old people by word and deed. Time came and went till the children had grown up, and the old people had become very old indeed. The golden-haired ones grew in strength while the silver-haired ones grew in feebleness, till, at last, one morning they lay dead there, and the brother and sister were left all alone. Sorely did the poor little things weep and wail, but was ever woe mended by weeping? So they buried their old parents, and the girl stayed at home with the little she-goat, while the lad went a-hunting, for how to find food was now their great care and their little care too.
One day, while he was hunting wild beasts in the forest, he met his father, the Padishah, but he did not know it was his father, neither did the father recognize his son. Yet the moment the Padishah beheld the wondrously beautiful child, he longed to clasp him to his breast, and commanded those about him to inquire of the child from whence he came.
Then one of the courtiers went up to the youth, and said: “Thou hast shot much game there, my Bey!”—“Allah also has created much,” replied the youth, “and there is enough for thee and for me also,” and with that he left him like a blockhead.
But the Padishah went back to his palace, and was sick at heart because of the boy; and when they asked what ailed him, he said that he had seen such a wondrously beautiful child in the forest, and that he loved him so that he could rest no more. The boy had the very golden hair and the same radiant forehead that his wife had promised him.
The old woman was sore afraid at these words. She hastened to the stream, saw the house, peeped in, and there sat a lovely girl, like a moon fourteen days old. The girl entreated the old woman courteously, and asked her what she sought. The old woman did not wait to be asked twice; indeed, her foot was scarce across the threshold when she began to ask the girl with honey-sweet words whether she lived all alone.
“Nay, my mother,” replied the girl; “I have a young brother. In the day-time he goes hunting, and in the evening he comes home.”
“Dost thou not grow weary of being all alone here by thyself?” inquired the witch.—“If even I did,” said the girl, “what can I do? I must fill up my time as best I may.”
“Tell me now, my little diamond! dost thou dearly love this brother of thine?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then, my girl,” said the witch, “I’ll tell thee something, but don’t let it go any further! When thy brother comes home this evening, fall to weeping and wailing, and keep it up with all thy might. When then he asks what ails thee, answer him not, and when he asks thee again, again give him never a word. When, however, he asks thee a third time, say that thou art tired to death with staying at home here all by thyself, and that if he loves thee, he will go to the garden of the Queen of the Peris, and bring thee from thence a branch. A lovelier branch thou hast never seen all thy life long.”—The girl promised she would do this, and the old woman went away.
Towards evening the damsel burst forth a-weeping and wailing till both her eyes were as red as blood. The brother came home in the evening, and was amazed to see his sister in such dire distress, yet could he not prevail upon her to tell him the cause of it. He promised her all the grass of the field and all the trees of the forest if she would only tell him what was the matter, and, to satisfy the desire of his sister’s heart, the golden-haired youth set off next morning for the garden of the fairy queen. He went on and on, smoking his chibook and drinking coffee, till he reached the boundaries of the fairy realm. He came to deserts where no caravan had ever gone; he came to mountains where no bird could ever fly; he came to valleys where no serpent can ever crawl. But his trust was in Allah, so he went on and on till he came to an immense desert which the eye of man had never seen nor the foot of man trodden. In the midst of it was a beautiful palace, and by the roadside sat the Mother of Devils, and the smell of her was as the pestilence in the air all round about her.
The youth went straight up to the Mother of Devils, hugged her to his breast, kissed her all over, and said: “Good-day, little mother mine! I am thine own true lad till death!” and he kissed her hand.
“A good-day to thee also, my little son!” replied the Mother of Devils. “If thou hadst not called me thy dear little mother, if thou hadst not embraced me, and if thy innocent mother had not been under the earth, I would have devoured thee at once. But tell me now, my little son, whither away?”
The poor youth said that he wanted a branch from the garden of the Queen of the Peris.
“Who put that word in thy mouth, my little son?” asked the woman in amazement. “Hundreds and hundreds of talismans guard that garden, and hundreds of souls have perished there by reason thereof.”
Yet the youth did not hold back. “I can but die once,” thought he.—“Thou dost but go to salute thy innocent, buried mother,” said the old woman; and then she made the youth sit down beside her and taught him the way: “Set out on thy quest at daybreak, and never stop till thou dost see right in front of thee a well and a forest. Draw forth thine arrows in this forest and catch five to ten birds, but catch them alive. Take these birds to the well, and when thou hast recited a prayer twice over, plunge the birds into the well and cry aloud for a key. A key will straightway be cast out of the well, take it to thee, and go on thy way. Thou wilt come presently to a large cavern; open the door thereof with thy key, and, as soon as thy foot is inside, stretch forth thy right hand into the blank darkness, grip fast hold of whatever thy hand shall touch, drag the thing quickly forth, and cast the key back into the well again. But look not behind thee all the time, or Allah have mercy on thy soul!”
Next day, when the red dawn was in the sky, the youth went forth on his quest, caught the five to ten birds in the forest, got hold of the key, opened therewith the door of the cavern, and—oh, Allah!—stretched forth his right hand, gripped hold of something, and, without once looking behind him, dragged it all the way to his sister’s hut, and never stopped till he got there. Only then did he cast his eyes upon what he had in his hand, and it was neither more nor less than a branch from the garden of the Queen of the Peris. But what a branch it was! It was full of little twigs, and the twigs were full of little leaves, and there was a little bird on every little leaf, and every little bird had a song of its own. Such music, such melody was there as would have brought even a dead man to life again. The whole hut was filled with joy.
Next day the youth again went forth to hunt, and, as he was pursuing the beast of the forest, the Padishah saw him again. He exchanged a word or two with the youth, and then returned to his palace, but he was now sicker than ever, by reason of his love for his son.
Then the old woman strolled off to the hut again, and there she saw the damsel sitting with the magic branch in her hand.
“Well, my girl!” said the old woman, “what did I tell thee? But that’s nothing at all. If thy brother would only fetch thee the mirror of the Queen of the Peris, Allah knows that thou wouldst cast that branch right away. Give him no peace till he get it for thee.”
The witch had no sooner departed than the damsel began screaming and wailing so that her brother was at his wit’s end how to comfort her. He said he would take the whole world on his shoulders to please her, went straight off to the Mother of Devils, and besought her so earnestly that she had not the heart to say him nay.
“Thou hast made up thy mind to go under the sod to thy innocent, buried mother, I see,” cried she, “for not by hundreds but by thousands have human souls perished in this quest of thine.” Then she instructed the youth whither he should go and what he should do, and he set off on his way. He took an iron staff in his hand and tied iron sandals to his feet, and he went on and on till he came to two doors, as the Mother of Devils told him he would beforehand. One of these doors was open, the other was closed. He closed the open door and opened the closed door, and there, straight before him, was another door. In front of this door was a lion and a sheep, and there was grass before the lion and flesh before the sheep. He took up the flesh and laid it before the lion, then he took up the grass and laid it before the sheep, and they let him enter unharmed. But now he came to a third door, and in front of it were two furnaces, and fire burned in the one and ashes smouldered in the other. He put out the flaming furnace, stirred up the cinders in the smouldering furnace till they blazed again, and then through the door he went into the garden of the Peris, and from the garden into the Peri palace. He snatched up the enchanted mirror, and was hastening away with it when a mighty voice cried out against him so that the earth and the heavens trembled. “Burning furnace, seize him, seize him!” cried the voice, just as he came up to the furnace.
“I can’t,” answered the first furnace, “for he has put me out!” But the other furnace was grateful to him for kindling it into a blaze again, so it let him pass by too.
“Lion, lion, tear him to pieces!” cried the mighty voice from the depths of the palace, when the youth came up to the two beasts.
“Not I,” answered the lion, “for he helped me to a good meal of flesh!”—Nor would the sheep hurt him either, because he had given it the grass.—“Open door! let him not out!” cried the voice from within the palace.—“Nay, but I will!” replied the door; “for had he not opened me I should be closed still!”—and so the golden-haired youth was not very long in getting home, to the great joy of his sister. She snatched at the mirror and instantly looked into it, and—Allah be praised!—she saw the whole world in it. Then the damsel thought no more of the Peribranch, for her eyes were glued to the mirror.
Again the youth went a-hunting, and again he caught the eye of the Padishah. But the sight of the youth this third time so touched the fatherly heart of the Padishah that they carried him back to his palace half fainting. Then the witch guessed only too well how matters stood.
So she arose and went to the damsel, and so filled her foolish little head with her tales that she persuaded her not to give her brother rest day and night till he had brought her the Queen of the Peris herself. “That’ll make him break his hatchet anyhow!” thought the old woman. But the damsel rejoiced beforehand at the thought of having the Queen of the Peris also, and in her impatience could scarce wait for her brother to come home.
When her brother came home she shed as many tears as if she were a cloud dripping rain. In vain her brother tried to prove to her how distant and how dangerous was the way she would fain have him go. “I want the Queen of the Peris, and have her I must,” cried the damsel.
So again the youth set out on his journey, went straight to the Mother of Devils, pressed her hand, kissed her lips, pressed her lips and kissed her hand, and said: “Oh, my mother! help me in this my sore need!” The Mother of Devils was amazed at the valour of the man, and never ceased dissuading him from his purpose, for every human soul that goes on such a quest must needs perish.—“Die I may, little mother!” cried the youth, “but I will not come back without her.”
So what could the Mother of Devils do but show him the way? “Go the same road,” said she, “that led thee to the branch, and then go on to where thou didst find the mirror. Thou wilt come at last to a large desert, and beyond the desert thou wilt see two roads, but look neither to the right hand nor yet to the left, but go right on through the sooty darkness betwixt them. When now it begins to grow a little lighter, thou wilt see a large cypress wood, and in this cypress wood a large tomb. In this tomb, turned to stone, are all those who ever desired the Queen of the Peris. Stop not there, but go right on to the palace of the Queen of the Peris and call out her name with the full strength of thy lungs. What will happen to thee after that not even I can tell thee.”
Next day the youth set out on his journey. He prayed by the wayside well, opened all the gates he came to, and, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, went on straight before him through the sooty darkness. All at once it began to grow a little lighter, and a large cypress wood appeared right in front of him. The leaves of the trees were of a burning green, and their drooping crowns hid snow-white tombs. Nay, but they were not tombs, but stones as big as men. Nay, but they were not stones at all, but men who had turned, who had stiffened, into stone. There was neither man, nor spirit, nor noise, nor breath of wind, and the youth froze with horror to his very marrow. Nevertheless he plucked up his courage and went on his way. He looked straight before him all the time, and his eyes were almost blinded by a dazzling light. Was it the sun he saw? No, it was the palace of the Queen of the Peris! Then he rallied all the strength that was left in him and shouted the name of the Queen of the Peris with all his might, and the words had not yet died away upon his lips when his whole body up to his knee-cap stiffened into stone. Again he shouted with all his might, and he turned to stone up to his navel. Then he shouted for the last time with all his might, and stiffened up to his throat first and then up to his head, till he became a tombstone like the rest.
But now the Queen of the Peris came into her garden, and she had silver sandals on her feet and a golden saucer in her hand, and she drew water from a diamond fountain, and when she watered the stone youth, life and motion came back to him.
“Well, thou youth thou,” said the Queen of the Peris, “’tis not enough, then, that thou hast taken away my Peri branch and my magic mirror, but thou must needs, forsooth, venture hither a third time! Thou shalt share the fate of thy innocent buried mother, stone thou shalt become and stone shalt thou remain. What brought thee hither?—speak!”
“I came for thee,” replied the youth very courageously.
“Well, as thou hast loved me so exceedingly, no harm shall befall thee, and we will go away together.”
Then the youth begged her to have compassion on all the men she had turned to stone and give them back their lives again. So the Peri returned to her palace, packed up her baggage, which was small in weight but priceless in value, filled the little golden saucer with water, and sprinkled therewith all the stones and the whole multitude of the stones became men. They all took horse, and as they quitted the Peri realm, the earth trembled beneath them and the sky was shaken as if the seven worlds and the seven heavens were mingled together, so that the youth would have died of fright if the Queen of the Peris had not been by his side. Never once did they look behind them, but galloped on and on till they came to the house of the youth’s sister, and such was their joy and gladness at seeing each other again that place could scarce be found for the Queen of the Peris. But now the youth was in no great hurry to go hunting as before, for he had changed hearts with the lovely Queen of the Peris, and she was his and he was hers.
Now when the Queen of the Peris had heard the history of the children and their parents, and the fate of their innocent mother, she said one morning to the youth: “Go a-hunting in the forest, and thou wilt meet the Padishah. The first thing he will do will be to invite thee to the palace, but beware lest thou accept his invitation.” And so indeed it turned out. Scarcely had he taken a turn in the wood than the Padishah stood before him, and, one word leading to another, he invited the youth to his palace, but the youth would not go.
Early next morning the Peri awoke the children, clapped her hands together and called her Lala,[9] and immediately a huge negro sprang up before them. So big was he that one of his lips touched the sky while the other swept the earth. “What dost thou command me, my Sultana?” cried the Lala.
“Fetch me hither my father’s steed!” commanded the Peri.
The negro vanished like a hurricane, and, a moment afterwards, the steed stood before them, and the like of it was not to be found in the wide world.
The youth leaped upon the horse, and the splendid suite of the Padishah was already waiting for him at the roadside.
But—O Allah, forgive me!—I have forgotten the best of the story. The Peri charged the youth as he quitted her to take heed, while he was in the palace of the Padishah, to the neighing of his horse. At the first neighing he was to hasten back.
So the youth went to meet the Padishah on his diamond-bridled charger, and behind him came a gay and gallant retinue. He saluted the people on the right hand and on the left all the way to the palace, and there they welcomed him with a pomp the like of which was never known before. They ate and drank and made merry till the Padishah could scarce contain himself for joy, but then the steed neighed, the youth arose, and all their entreaties to him to stay could not turn him from his set purpose. He mounted his horse, invited the Padishah to be his guest on the following day, and returned home to the Peri and his own sister.
Meanwhile the Peri dug up the mother of the children, and so put her to rights again by her Peri arts that she became just as she was in the days of her first youth. But she spake not a word about the mother to the children, nor a word about the children to the mother. On the morning of the reception of guests she rose up early and commanded that on the spot where the little hut stood a palace should rise, the like of which eye hath never seen nor ear heard of, and there were as many precious stones heaped up there as were to be found in the whole kingdom. And then the garden that surrounded that palace! There were multitudes of flowers, each one lovelier than the other, and on every flower there was a singing bird, and every bird had feathers aglow with light, so that one could only look at it all open-mouthed and cry: “Oh! oh!” And the palace itself was full of domestics, there were black harem slaves, and white captive youths, and dancers and singers, and players of stringed instruments—more than thou canst count, count thou never so much, and words cannot tell of the splendour of the retinue which went forth to greet the Padishah as a guest.
“These children are not of mortal birth!” thought the Padishah to himself, when he beheld all these marvels, “or if they are of mortal birth a Peri must have had a hand in the matter.”
They led the Padishah into the most splendid room of the palace, they brought him coffee and sherbet, and then the music spoke to him, and the singing birds—oh! a man could have listened to them for ever and ever! Then rich meats on rare and precious dishes were set before him, and then the dancers and the jugglers diverted him till the evening.
At eventide the servants came and bowed before the Padishah and said: “My lord! peace be with thee! They await thee in the harem!” So he entered the harem, and there he saw before him the golden-haired youth, with a beautiful half-moon shining on his forehead, and his bride, the Peri-Queen, and his own consort, the Sultana, who had been buried in the earth, and by her side a golden-haired maiden with a star sparkling on her forehead. There stood the Padishah as if turned to stone, but his consort ran up to him and kissed the edge of his garment, and the Peri-Queen began to tell him the whole of her life and how everything had happened.
The Padishah was nigh to dying in the fulness of his joy. He could scarce believe his eyes, but he pressed his consort to his breast and embraced the two beauteous children, and the Queen of the Peris likewise. He forgave the sisters of the Sultana their offences, but the old witch was mercilessly destroyed by lingering tortures. But he and his consort and her son and the Queen of the Peris, and his daughter, and his daughter’s bridegroom sat down to a great banquet and made merry. Forty days and forty nights they feasted, and the blessing of Allah was upon them.
There was once upon a time a Padishah who had three daughters. One day the old father made him ready for a journey, and calling to him his three daughters straightly charged them to feed and water his favourite horse, even though they neglected everything else. He loved the horse so much that he would not suffer any stranger to come near it.
So the Padishah went on his way, but when the eldest daughter brought the fodder into the stable the horse would not let her come near him. Then the middling daughter brought the forage, and he treated her likewise. Last of all the youngest daughter brought the forage, and when the horse saw her he never budged an inch, but let her feed him and then return to her sisters. The two elder sisters were content that the youngest should take care of the horse, so they troubled themselves about it no more.
The Padishah came home, and the first thing he asked was whether they had provided the horse with everything. “He wouldn’t let us come near him,” said the two elder sisters; “it was our youngest sister here who took care of him.”
No sooner had the Padishah heard this than he gave his youngest daughter to the horse to wife, but his two other daughters he gave to the sons of his Chief Mufti and his Grand Vizier, and they celebrated the three marriages at a great banquet, which lasted forty days. Then the youngest daughter turned into the stable, but the two eldest dwelt in a splendid palace. In the daytime the youngest sister had only a horse for a husband and a stable for a dwelling; but in the night-time the stable became a garden of roses, the horse-husband a handsome hero, and they lived in a world of their own. Nobody knew of it but they two. They passed the day together as best they could, but eventide was the time of their impatient desires.
One day the Padishah held a tournament in the palace. Many gallant warriors entered the lists, but none strove so valiantly as the husbands of the Sultan’s elder daughters.
“Only look now!” said the two elder daughters to their sister who dwelt in the stable, “only look now! how our husbands overthrow all the other warriors with their lances; our two lords are not so much lords as lions! Where is this horse-husband of thine, prythee?”
On hearing this from his wife, the horse-husband shivered all over, turned into a man, threw himself on horseback, told his wife not to betray him on any account, and in an instant appeared within the lists. He overthrew every one with his lance, unhorsed his two brothers-in-law, and re-appeared in the stable again as if he had never left it.
The next day, when the sports began again, the two elder sisters mocked as before, but then the unknown hero appeared again, conquered and vanished. On the third day the horse-husband said to his wife: “If ever I should come to grief or thou shouldst need my help, take these three wisps of hair, burn them, and it will help thee wherever thou art.” With that he hastened to the games again and triumphed over his brothers-in-law. Every one was amazed at his skill, the two elder sisters likewise, and again they said to their younger sister: “Look how these heroes excel in prowess! They are very different to thy dirty horse-husband!”
The girl could not endure standing there with nothing to say for herself, so she told her sisters that the handsome hero was no other than her horse-husband—and no sooner had she pointed at him than he vanished from before them as if he had never been. Then only did she call to mind her lord’s command to her not to betray her secret, and away she hurried off to the stable. But ’twas all in vain, neither horse nor man came to her, and at midnight there was neither rose nor rose-garden.
“Alas!” wept the girl, “I have betrayed my lord, I have broken my word, what a crime is mine!” She never closed an eye all that night, but wept till morning. When the red dawn appeared she went to her father the Padishah, complained to him that she had lost her horse-husband, and begged that she might go to the ends of the earth to seek him. In vain her father tried to keep her back, in vain he pointed out to her that her husband was now most probably among devils, and she would never be able to find him—turn her from her resolution he could not. What could he do but let her go on her way?
With a great desire the damsel set out on her quest, she went on and on till her tender body was all aweary, and at last she sank down exhausted at the foot of a great mountain. Then she called to mind the three hairs, and she took out one and set fire to it—and lo! her lord and master was in her arms again, and they could not speak for joy.
“Did I not bid thee tell none of my secret?” cried the youth sorrowfully; “and now if my hag of a mother see thee she will instantly tear thee to pieces. This mountain is our dwelling-place. She will be here immediately, and woe to thee if she see thee!”
The poor Sultan’s daughter was terribly frightened, and wept worse than ever at the thought of losing her lord again, after all her trouble in finding him. The heart of the devil’s son was touched at her sorrow: he struck her once, changed her into an apple, and put her on the shelf. The hag flew down from the mountain with a terrible racket, and screeched out that she smelt the smell of a man, and her mouth watered for the taste of human flesh. In vain her son denied that there was any human flesh there, she would not believe him one bit.
“If thou wilt swear by the egg not to be offended, I’ll show thee what I’ve hidden,” said her son. The hag swore, and her son gave the apple a tap, and there before them stood the beautiful damsel. “Behold my wife!” said he to his mother. The old mother said never a word, what was done could not be undone. “I’ll give the bride something to do all the same,” thought she.
They lived a couple of days together in peace and quiet, but the hag was only waiting for her son to leave the house. At last one day the youth had work to do elsewhere, and scarcely had he put his foot out of doors when the hag said to the damsel: “Come, sweep and sweep not!” and with that she went out and said she should not be back till evening. The girl thought to herself again and again: “What am I to do now? What did she mean by ‘sweep and sweep not’?” Then she thought of the hairs, and she took out and burned the second hair also. Immediately her lord stood before her and asked her what was the matter, and the girl told him of his mother’s command: “Sweep and sweep not!” Then her lord explained to her that she was to sweep out the chamber, but not to sweep the ante-chamber.