Author: Mikael de SanLeon

A Mountain of Gems

An old widow and her son Mirali live in poverty until Mirali seeks work. Hired by a bai, Mirali is tricked into gathering gems atop a mountain and abandoned. Mirali escapes using ingenuity and later tricks the bai into suffering the same fate. He retrieves the gems and returns to his mother, leaving the deceitful bai stranded on the mountain.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: Mirali, after realizing the bai’s betrayal, uses his wit to escape the mountain and later turns the tables on the bai, leading to the bai’s own entrapment.

Trials and Tribulations: Mirali faces significant challenges, including being abandoned on a mountain and devising a plan to return home safely.

Revenge and Justice: After being deceived, Mirali ensures the bai faces the same fate, achieving a sense of justice for the wrong done to him.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Turkmen people

Retold by Mikhail Bulatov
Translated by Irina Zheleznova

In a certain village there once lived an old widow who had one son, Mirali by name. The mother and son were very poor. The old woman combed wool and took in washing, and in this way managed to earn enough to feed herself and her son.

When Mirali grew up, his mother said to him:

“I haven’t the strength to work any more, my son. You must find yourself work of some kind to do and so earn your keep.”

“Very well,” said Mirali, and off he went in search of work. He went here, and he went there, but nowhere could he find anything to do.

► Continue reading…

After a time he came to the house of a certain bai. [a rich, sometimes titled man in old Turkmenia]

“Do you need a workman, bai?” Mirali asked.

“I do,” the bai replied.

And he hired Mirali on the spot.

A day passed, and the bai did not ask his new workman to do anything at all. Another day passed, and the bai gave him no orders of any kind. A third day passed, and the bai seemed not so much as to notice him.

All this seemed very strange to Mirali who began to wonder why the bai had hired him.

So he went to him and asked:

“Shall I be getting any work to do, master?”

“Yes, yes,” the bai replied, “I am going on a journey tomorrow, and you will come with me.”

The following day the bai ordered Mirali to slaughter a bull and to skin it, and, this done, to bring four large sacks and prepare two camels for a journey.

The bull’s hide and the sacks were put on one of the camels, the bai mounted the other, and off they started on their way.

They got to the foot of a distant mountain, and the bai stopped the camels and ordered Mirali to take down the sacks and the bull’s hide. Mirali did so, and the bai then told him to turn the bull’s hide inside out and lie down on it. Mirali could not understand the reason for this, but he dared not disobey and did as his master told him.

The bai rolled up the hide with Mirali inside it into a bundle, strapped it tight and hid himself behind a rock.

By and by two large birds of prey flew up, seized the hide which had a fresh smell of meat about it in their beaks and carried it off with them to the top of a tall mountain.

The birds began to peck and claw at the hide, and, seeing Mirali, were frightened and flew away.

Mirali got to his feet and began looking about him.

The bai saw him from below and shouted:

“What are you standing there for? Throw down to me the coloured stones that are lying at your feet!”

Mirali looked down at the ground and saw that a great number of precious stones, diamonds and rubies and sapphires and emeralds, were strewn all over it. The gems were large and beautiful and they sparkled in the sun.

Mirali began gathering the gems and throwing them down to the bai, who picked them up as fast as they fell and filled two of the sacks with them.

Mirali kept on working until a thought struck him that turned his blood cold.

“How shall I get down from here, master?” he called to the bai.

“Throw down more of the stones,” the bai called back.

“I will tell you how to get down from the mountain afterwards.”

Mirali believed him and went on throwing down the gems.

When the sacks were full, the bai hoisted them on to the camels’ backs.

“Ho there, my son!” called he with a laugh to Mirali. “Now you can see what kind of work I give my workmen to do. See how many of them are up there, on the mountain!”

And with these words the bai rode away.

Mirali was left on the mountain top all alone. He began looking for a way to climb down, but the mountain was very steep, with precipices on all sides, and he could not find one. Men’s bones lay about everywhere. They were the bones of those who, like Mirali, had been the bai’s workmen.

Mirali was terrified.

Suddenly there came a rush of wings overhead, and before he could tum round, a huge eagle had pounced upon him. He was about to tear Mirali to pieces, but Mirali did not lose his presence of mind, and, grasping the eagle’s legs with both hands, held them in a tight grip. The eagle let out a cry, rose up into the air and flew round and round, trying to shake off Mirali. At last, exhausted, he dropped to the ground well below the mountain top, and when Mirali loosed his hold, flew away.

Thus was Mirali saved from a terrible death. He reached the foot of the mountain, and, going to marketplace, began looking for work again. Suddenly he saw the bai, his former master, coming toward him.

“Do you need a workman, bai?” Mirali asked him.

Now, it did not enter the bai’s head that any workman of his, once he had been left on the mountain top, could have remained alive—it had never happened before—and, not recognising Mirali, he hired him and took him home with him.

Soon after, the bai ordered Mirali to slaughter a bull and skin it, and this being done, told him to get ready two camels and bring four sacks.

They made thair way to the foot of the same mountain, and, just as before, the bai told Mirali to lie down on the bull’s hide and wrap himself up in it.

“Show me how it’s done, for it’s not quite clear to me,” said Mirali.

“What is there to understand? Here is the way it’s done,” the bai replied, and he stretched himself out on the hide which had been turned inside out.

Mirali at once rolled up the hide, with the bai inside it, into a bundle and strapped it tight.

“What have you done to me, my son!” the bai cnied.

The same moment two birds of prey flew up, seized the bull’s hide with the bai in it and flew off with it to the mountain top. Once there, they began to tear at it with their beaks and claws, but, seeing the bai, were frightened and flew away. The bai scrambled to his feet.

“Come bai, do not waste time, throw down the gems to me, just as I did to you,” Mirali called from below.

Only then did the bai recognise him and begin trembling with fear and rage.

“How did you get down the mountain?” he called to Mirali.

“Throw down more of the gems, and when I have enough, I’ll tell you how!” Mirali called back.

The bai began throwing down the gems, and Mirali picked them up as fast as they fell. When the sacks were full, he hoisted them on to the camels’ backs.

“Come bai, look around you,” he called to him. “The bones of your workmen are strewn about everywhere. Why do you not ask them how to get down from the mountain? As for me, I am going home.”

And turning the camels round, Mirali set off for his mother’s house.

The bai rushed about on the mountain top, shouting threats and pleas, but all in vain, for who was there to hear him!

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

Yarty-Gulok

This tale recounts the adventures of Yarty-gulok, a clever boy no bigger than half a camel’s ear. Born from a camel’s ear, he brings joy to his adoptive parents and aids a young man in love by outsmarting a greedy moneylender. Through wit and courage, Yarty removes the village’s troubles and ensures justice, concluding with a joyous wedding celebration for the young couple.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: Yarty-Gulok employs his wit to outsmart the greedy moneylender, showcasing cleverness in overcoming adversaries.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts values of justice and the triumph of cleverness over greed, teaching ethical lessons through Yarty-Gulok’s actions.

Cultural Heroes: Yarty-Gulok emerges as a foundational figure who alleviates his village’s troubles, embodying the qualities of a cultural hero in Turkmen lore.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Turkmen people

Retold by Anna Alexandrova
and Mikhail Tuberovsky
Translated by Olga Shartse

Maybe this really did happen, or maybe it did not, but the story goes that an old man was riding across the sands, white-hot from the sun. He was riding a donkey and leading a camel. The old man had been working at the flour mill since before daybreak, and was very tired. The camel had the heavy bags to carry and felt tired too. As for the donkey, he felt tired because he had the old man sitting on his back. The old man was riding along and singing a song. He sang of whatever was uppermost in his mind:

Now, if I had a son,
If only a wee little boy,
With a face like a poppy,
A nature like the smiling sun,
And like a bee industrious,
I’d be a happy man…

► Continue reading…

Suddenly he heard someone calling him:

“Hey, ata-djan, dear father! If you have no son, take me!”

Astonished, the old man stopped and peered at the ground around him, but all he saw were the ordinary dry prickly clumps.

Again he heard the same voice:

“If you want to see the eagle don’t look at the ground!’

The old man then gazed into the sky, but there was nothing there to see.

“Hey, ata-djan, does anyone look for a snow leopard in the clouds?”

The old man cried:

“Stop hiding! Come out imw the open this minute

He could not wait to see his long-awaited son. And suddenly there he was, peeping out of the camel’s ear! The tiny little boy said in a thin little voice:

“I’m here! Can’t you see me? Do please help me out of this narrow opening.”

The old man took the boy out of the camel’s ear and sat him on the palm of his hand. My, what a wee little boy he was! Like all Turkmenian boys he had his head shaved. in front, and the back hair been plaited into two tight little braids that stuck out behind his ears.

“What’s your name?” the old man asked. “I swear you’re no bigger than half a camel’s ear!”

The boy glanced at him and laughed:

“That’s a name for me! I like it.”

And the old man called him Yarty-gulok which means “half an ear”.

Yarty-gulok jumped to his feet and yelled like a proper driver at the sleepy donkey:

“Io, io, get a move on! Take us home quickly before my mother’s pilau gets overdone!”

The donkey shook his ears, and started homeward.

In the meantime I’ll tell you about the old woman.

She was sitting on a white felt in the middle of her yard weaving a carpet. As she tied the wool into little knots she brooded on her sorrow. And when a person has some sorrow to brood on he either weeps or sings. And the old woman sang:

Now, if I had a son,
If only a wee little boy,
I’d weave a carpet for him,
In red, the colour of carnations,
In yellow, like the setting sun,
In dark blue, like the sky at night…

She glanced out at the road and saw her old man galloping on his donkey straight for their house, with the old camel running behind, hardly able to keep up.

“Hey, mother!” the old man shouted. “Happiness comes both to the young and the old! Fate has smiled upon us and sent us a small son.”

Yarty was sitting between the camel’s ears and looking curiously at his parents.

The old woman cradled the wee boy in her warm hands and whispered endearments to him, calling him her darling little apple, or a baby camel.

Later that evening, she called on all her neighbour women and asked them to come and help her cook a feast. The best of everything was served: a huge pot of pilau, a mountain of rich flat cakes, and a wooden platter full of currants and slices of sweet musk melons.

The women stayed far into the night, singing songs to the accompaniment of a dutar. They sewed as they sang, and made three tiny coats for Yarty-gulok, a fur cap and a pair of leather hose. They dressed up the boy, made him turn round this way and that to see how he looked, clapped their hands in delight and laughed.

“Now he’s a proper djigit!”

Yarty-gulok bowed to his parents and said:

“Thank you for your kindness. Now it’s my turn to help you and people here.”

That’s what he said. Now let’s see what he did.

* * *

One day he was walking home from the neighbouring village. It was a long road for someone so small, and he was very tired.

A horse was nibbling the dry grass on the edge of the road, and its rider—a young, handsome djigit—stood beside it, pulling straight the saddle on its back. Yarty- gulok said to himself: “It can’t be much fun riding all alone, can it? And two can ride that horse just as well as one.

He ran to the horse, caught its tail and climbed up to sit on its back. The djigit did not see him. He leapt into the saddle, gave the reins a tug and the horse its head. My, how he flew! Yarty, sitting behind the djigit, all but jumped for joy. “I’ll be home soon, spooning porridge too!” thought the hungry boy, and suddenly it struck him that his rider was making straight for the desert and had not taken the road leading to the village.

“Hey, hey,” shouted Yarty. “Are you crazy? Where are you going? You’ll lose your way in the sands and perish, and I’ll perish with you!”

“Who’s that squeaking behind me?” said the startled djigit, and reined in the horse at full gallop. Turning round, he saw Yarty-gulok.

“Yes, it’s I, Yarty,” the little boy told him. “But why are you heading for the desert? Instead of galloping senselessly about the sands, you’d much better take me home.”

“No, Yarty, I can’t do that,” the djigit replied sadly. “I’ve sworn an oath not to see anyone before I’ve carried my trouble away into the desert.”

“How big is your trouble?” asked Yarty.

“It’s so big that I can’t find enough words to describe it,” replied the djigit.

“Look, if you’re in trouble you must shout, and not keep quiet about it, because just supposing I can help you?”

“Oh no, no one can help me,” the djigit said. “I love Gul-Asal better than I love life, but I’m poor, and her master is the richest man in the village. He’s mean and hard, he’ll never let his servant go, and will never consent to our marriage.” All at once, the djigit flared up: “Get off my horse this minute, and be on your way. And leave me alone with my trouble.”

But Yarty did not so much as stir. He merely shook his head and said:

“My, you’re such a big man, but where’s your big heart? You worry only about your own trouble, but don’t your good neighbours have any troubles at all?”

“In our village there’s trouble enough for everyone,” replied the djigit.

“Then collect all their troubles from everyone!” cried Yarty. “Load those troubles on to seven camels and take them so far away that they’ll never find their way back to the village.”

“Id gladly do that, but I haven’t the strength.”

“Who, you?” Yarty gave a peel of laughter. ‘Why, your chest is as broad as a snow leopard’s, and your hands are stronger than iron!”

At this, the djigit quite lost his temper.

“Get off my horse at once, and don’t teach others if you can’t do anything yourself!”

“Can’t I? Just watch me. Turn the horse round, and ride back to the village. We’ll collect all the troubles there are.”

They rode back to the village. Yarty had never seen such a poverty-stricken village.

They stopped at the first gate they came to. A very, very old woman, her back bent from her burden of years and troubles, told them:

“Great is my trouble, and it comes from behind that tall white-washed wall.”

A small boy came out from another yard. He looked about him to make sure that no one was listening, and whispered:

“My father says that all our troubles come from there,” and he pointed at the same white-washed wall.

Men were shouting and women were weeping in the next yard.

“Someone must have fallen ill or died in this house,” Yarty said anxiously.

“No,” replied the djigit. “Can’t you see that men are carrying everything out of that poor house and taking it to the same place behind that tall white-washed wall?”

“But who lives there? A ferocious tiger or a terrible dragon?” asked the bewildered boy.

“The man who lives there is fiercer than a tiger and more merciless than a dragon,” the djigit told Yarty. “His name is Kara-Bek, he is a money lender. Like a greedy spider he has spun his web round all the villagers and is sucking their blood. He ruins everyone! He has ruined my life too. Because my love, Gul-Asal, is his servant girl!”

“Then let’s go quickly to that shaitan!” cried Yarty. “My hands are itching to get even with him!”

“Kara-Bek won’t let us in,” the djigit said. “Can’t you see how securely his gates are locked, and how sharp those thongs stuck into the wall? His servants and savage dogs watch the house day and night. Not even a bird could fly in, not even a weasel could sneak in. So what chance does a man have?”

Yarty was not put out in the least.

“And my father told me time and again that a man who runs away from a fight might as well be dead and buried,” he said. “Let’s not be cowards, let’s ride quickly to that greedy miser!”

Early every morning Kara-Bek went down to his cellars where chests packed with gold stood in rows. He would light an oil lamp and count over his gold coins. Nothing gladdened the old miser so much—not the singing of birds, not the babbling of brooks, not the brilliant sunlight on a day in spring. Nothing touched his hard heart—neither tears, nor pleas. All he worried about from morning to night was how to get more money and fill more chests with gold.

On this particular day, he filled his hundredth bag with gold coins, placed it in his hundredth chest, and locked it with seven locks. In that dead silence a faint rustling startled him: he turned round and saw a tiny mouse peeping out of a hole.

“Hey, you,” the mouse piped in a small squeak. “Don’t bother to lock up your coins any more. Your wealth has become worthless since that golden rainfall in the desert.”

Angrily, the old miser hurled his slipper at the mouse, who vanished at once.

And now a spider climbed down from the ceiling on a long thread he had spun, and twitching his legs, whispered:

“You shouldn’t have hurt that small mouse. He told you the truth. Now that a gold rain has fallen in the sands, everyone can go to the Kara-Kum desert and shovel gold coins into his bag.”

“It’s a lie, you’re both lying!” wheezed the old miser. “No one can ever collect more gold coins than I have in these chests here!”

“Ha-ha-ha!” snickered a large black cockroach, as he crawled about the wall. “The poorest beggar in the village will soon have more gold than you, Kara-Bek!”

“You want to drive me out of my mind!” moaned the miser.

“Not at all,” squeaked the small mouse again, poking his head out of the hole. “We simply wanted to warn you for old friendship’s sake. Don’t waste time. Ride quickly to the desert and fill your bags with gold before others can get there.”

“Do that,” whispered the spider. “Fill your bags with gold coins, take them to lands far away and sell them there for three times the cost.”

“You’ll be the richest man here, the richest man again,” snickered the cockroach.

“Oh my, oh my, who’s going to take me to the desert?” wailed the old miser. “I was so thrifty all my life that I kept neither a camel, nor a horse, nor a donkey to ride!”

“Then it’s too bad, too bad for you,” squeaked the small mouse. “Then you’ll never get to the desert.”

“And you’ll miss all that gold!” whispered the spider.

“The poor beggars will rake in all those gold coins and leave nothing for you,” snickered the cockroach.

“Oh no, they won’t!” roared the old miser. “I’ll get there first, and all the gold will be mine!”

He rushed out of the house and was about to call his servants when he thought better of it. If his servants found out about the gold rain, they’d reach the desert first and collect the coins before he got there.

And so, he stole outside very cautiously, and to his great joy saw a man on horseback, a local young man.

“Hello, my young friend, I know you,” the miser said to the djigit. “You owe me a hundred tengas, but I’ll reduce your debt to half if you take me to the desert.”

“No one will take you there today even for a thousand copper tengas,” answered the young djigit.

“I’l pay two thousand!”

“I wouldn’t take you there even for five thousand,” the djigit said. “Give me Gul-Asal in marriage, and then I’ll take you.”

“Take Gul-Asal, take everything, only get me to the desert right away!”

“Alright. Climb on,” the djigit said, laughing.

The old miser clambered on to the horse behind the djigit, and off they rode to the desert.

They rode on and on, the whole of that day, until the sun began to set in the sands of the Kara-Kum desert.

The dyjigit reined in the horse, and ordered the miser sharply to get off.

Kara-Bek looked about him, but there was nothing to see, only the lifeless sands. There was no beginning and no end to these sands running in waves to the very horizon. And there was not the smallest glimmer of gold in that boundless desert.

“Where have you brought me, you cheat?” screamed Kara- Bek.

“Why, you said the Kara-Kum desert, didn’t you?” to his astonishment Kara-Bek heard the voice of the small mouse.

“But where are the gold coins?” he roared.

“Dig in the sand and you’ll find them,” replied the voice of the spider.

“You’ve cheated me!” wailed the old money lender.

“What about you? Didn’t you cheat your good neighbours?” snickered the cockroach.

Kara-Bek swung round and saw a tiny little boy, the size of half a camel’s ear, sitting on the djigit’s shoulder, and speaking in these different voices, as he had done in the: money cellar. He was laughing now and shaking a finger at Kara-Bek. In fright, Kara-Bek backed away and fell off the horse on to the sand.

“Well, that’s that,” Yarty announced to the djigit. “We’ve taken people’s troubles away into the desert to be stranded here, and now let’s hurry back to the village.”

“Wait, wait, take me with you!” screamed Kara-Bek.

“Not on your life!” Yarty shouted. “Can you see anyone getting rid of his troubles and then taking them back? You’ll have to make your own way home, you wicked man!”

The djigit gave a whoop, and his horse took off, raising clouds of sand.

Kara-Bek stood there, gaping, for a long time. Then he dug in the sand in one place, then in another, and not a coin did he find, of course. He turned homeward on dragging feet. He trudged the whole day, then another day, and on the third day a black sandstorm started up in the desert. And the old money lender was buried under, and with him the villagers’ troubles. All the neighbours came to the wedding of the beautiful Gul-Asal and the handsome young djigit. When friends gather together of an evening they love recalling the story of the gold rain in the desert and how the clever, wee Yarty-gulok got the better of the wicked money lender.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Greedy Kazi

A hardworking poor man saves a thousand tanga after years of toil and entrusts it to a seemingly honest judge, the kazi. The kazi deceitfully denies receiving the money. With a clever woman’s help, the man exposes the kazi’s dishonesty through a ruse involving a fake treasure. The man regains his savings, while the kazi is left humiliated and furious over his failed scheme.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Revenge and Justice: The man seeks justice for the kazi’s deceit, ultimately regaining his savings and leaving the kazi humiliated.

Trickster: The clever woman acts as a trickster figure, using her wit to outsmart the greedy kazi.

Conflict with Authority: The story depicts a struggle against an authority figure, the kazi, who abuses his position for personal gain.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Tajik people

Retold by Mikhail Bulatov
Translated by Irina Zheleznova

Believe it or not, but once lived a poor man who worked very, very hard yet remained just as poor as ever he was. So he decided to leave his native parts and go to a distant city to earn his living. He said goodbye to his family and set off from home. Whether he was long on the way or not no one knows, but at last he reached the city he was bound for and at once began going from house to house, looking for work. And he did anything that came his way, never refusing any kind of work, however hard, setting about it willingly and always doing everything thoroughly and well.

As for the money he earned, he spent only as much as he needed to buy food for himself and put away the rest in a small bag, saying to himself:

► Continue reading…

“I will work a little more, save up more money and then go back to my family.”

In this way he toiled unsparingly for several years and was able to put aside a whole thousand tanga. And since that, for a poor man, is a large sum of money, he began brooding about it and said to himself:

“What if through some mischance my money is lost?.. To carry it on me is folly, for I may lose it; also, a thief might learn about it and might then kill and rob me. Nor will it do to hide the money at my lodgings, for someone might see me hiding it, and there being many sly and evil people in the world, I will be deprived of it and return home empty-handed.”

So his thoughts ran and he did not know what to do. But at last he decided to give his thousand tanga to the kazi [the judge] for safekeeping.

“Everyone says the kazi is as honest as he is pious,” said he to himself, “so my money will be safe with him. I will take it back from him when I decide to go home.”

And off he went to see the kazi. The kazi greeted him politely and asked what he wanted.

“I should like to leave my money with you for safekeeping, O most honourable kazi,” the man said. “Please keep it for me while I am living and working in this town.”

The kazi took the bag of money and said gravely:

“I shall do as you ask with the greatest pleasure. You could not have found a safer place to keep your money.”

The poor man left, and the kazi counted the money and put it away in a large chest.

Some time passed, and the owner of the money prepared to go back to his family. He came to the kazi and said to him:

“Give me back my money, O most honourable kazi, for tomorrow I leave this town.”

The kazi looked at him.

“What money do you mean?” he asked.

“The thousand tanga that I gave you to keep for me, most honourable kazi.”

“You must be mad!” the kazi shouted. “When did you ever give me any money? One thousand tanga indeed! What an idea! Why, neither you nor any of your kin ever laid eyes on so much as a hundred tanga! Where would you get a whole thousand?”

The poor man tried to remind the kazi when it was he had brought him the money and what had been said between them. But the kazi would not listen to him. He stamped his feet and called for his servants.

“This man is a swindler!” he shouted. ‘Thrash him soundly and turn him out of my house!”

The kazi’s servants fell on the poor man, beat him up and threw him out of the house.

The poor man stumbled off down the street with tears and lamentations.

“All my hard work has been in vain! My money is lost he kept repeating sorrowfully. “The kazi has taken it all!”

Now, a woman who happened to be passing by just then overheard the poor man’s lamentations and said to him reproachfully:

“What has happened, my brother? Why are you, a grownup man, crying like a child?”

Said the poor man sadly:

“O my sister, if only you knew how I have been tricked you would not reproach me! By working beyond my strength for years and never eating my fill I succeeded in putting aside a thousand tanga. Now I have. lost them.”

“Tell me how it happened,” the woman said.

The poor man told her the whole story.

“And people say that the kazi is as honest as he is pious!” he added bitterly.

The woman listened to his story with sympathy.

“Do not be sad, not all is lost,” said she. “Come with me, I will think of something.”

They went to her house, and the woman took a large box that stood there and said to her little son:

“I am going with this man to see the kazi. Follow us at a distance and try not to be seen by anyone. When we reach the kazi’s house, hide yourself and wait till the kazi has handed this man his money. When you see him stretch out his hands to take this box, run into the house and say: “Father has come back with his camels and goods.”

“Very well, I will do as you say,” said the boy.

The woman placed the box on her head, and she and the poor man made their way to the kazi’s house, the woman’s son following them at a distance.

They came there, and the woman said to the poor man:

“I will go in first, and you come in after me.”

She stepped into the house, and the kazi looked at her and at the large box on her head and said:

“What business brings you here, my sister?”

Said the woman:

“Perhaps you have heard of me, O most honourable kazi. I am the wife of Rahim, the rich merchant. My husband has taken his caravan to distant lands, and no one knows when he will return. For many nights now I have been unable to sleep peacefully. Thieves are prowling round our house, and I am sure they plan to rob us. This box contains all the money we have, as well as all our gold and precious stones. t was with difficulty that I carried it here, it is so heavy. I should like to leave it with you for safekeeping. When my husband returns he will come for it himself.”

The kazi lifted the box and his hands shook.

“There must be at least forty or fifty thousand tanga in money in this box, and many precious stones besides, it is so heavy,” thought he. “I have heard this Rahim is a very rich merchant.” And turning to the woman, he said:

“Very well, my sister, I shall keep your treasures for you. They will be safe with me, you may be sure. And you will get everything back, to the last tanga.”

But the woman took the box from the kazi’s hands.

“Will I truly get all of it back?” said she.

“Do not doubt it, my sister!” the kazi exclaimed. “All the people in the town know me for an honest man.”

Just as he said this, the poor man, for so it had been agreed between him and the woman, came into the kazi’s house. The kazi saw him and was overjoyed.

“Heaven itself has brought this man here,” said he to himself. “There could be no better opportunity of proving my honesty to this woman. I shall give back to that beggar his thousand tanga and get a box full of money and jewels instead. It will be worth it, ha-ha!”

And the kazi turned to the woman, saying:

“I repeat to you, my sister, that there is no better place for you to leave your money than my house. Your box will be far safer here than if you keep it in your own house. And you can have it back any time you want.”

The kazi’s servants and all who were present in the house nodded their heads as if to say that the kazi was indeed speaking the truth and that his every word could be trusted.

And the kazi, pretending to have only just noticed the poor man’s presence, exclaimed:

“Why, here is the man who gave me all his savings, one thousand tanga, to keep! He came to me this morning and asked for his money, but I did not recognise him, I mistook him for a thief and refused to give it back. If someone here knows him and will vouch for him I will give it him at once.”

Said the woman:

“O most honourable kazi, I have known this poor man for almost two years. He came to this town from afar and he has been working very hard ever since. He worked for me, too, for a time. Believe me when I tell you that he has more than earned his money, for never was there a more hard-working man.”

“What, you know this man!” the kazi exclaimed. “Then we need not delay. Come up here, my brother, and take your thousand tanga.”

And the kazi reached into his chest, counted out a thousand tanga and gave them to their owner.

“Well, my sister, now you have seen for yourself how safe other people’s money is with me and that I can be trusted to return it to its owner,” said the kazi hurriedly. “Leave your box here and go home in peace.”

And he stretched out his hands for the box.

But before the woman could hand it to him, her son burst into the house.

“Mother! Mother!” he called. “Come home quickly! Father has come back with his camels and goods and is waiting for you.”

“Oh well, now that my husband has returned, I need no longer fear thieves,” said the woman with a smile. “He will be able to look after our treasures without the help of the honourable kazi.”

And with these words the woman took her box, placed it on her head and left the kazi’s house in the company of the poor man.

“One must never despair, my brother,” said she. “Remember that there is no knave alive whose scurvy tricks work every time. Go back to your family and live in peace. You have wandered in alien parts long enough. Spend your hard- earned money and enjoy it.”

And taking leave of one another, they parted.

As for the kazi, now that he was left alone, he flew into a terrible. rage. He tugged at his beard, stamped his feet and was so distressed that he did not know what to do with himself.

“Unhappy man that I am! ” he said over and over again. “What a terrible misfortune! May the merchant Rahim be cursed! Why couldn’t he have arrived an hour later! It would all have been over and done with by then, the box of treasures would have been mine. My riches would have multiplied. My large chest would have been filled to the top. I shall never get over it, never!”

And he wept and cried and could not stop.

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The Padishah’s Daughter and the Young Slave

A conceited princess rejects all suitors, leading her father, the Padishah, to consult an old sage, who foretells her marriage to a slave. Despite challenges, the slave accomplishes impossible tasks, gaining immense strength and valor. Refusing to marry the princess, he rejects the Padishah’s tyranny, defeating his oppressors. Embracing freedom, the former slave dedicates his life to protecting the weak and fighting for justice.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Prophecy and Fate: The narrative centers on a prophecy foretelling that the Padishah’s proud daughter will marry a slave, highlighting the inescapable nature of destiny.

Conflict with Authority: The young slave challenges the Padishah’s authority, especially when he refuses to marry the princess and later opposes the Padishah’s tyranny, symbolizing a struggle against oppressive power.

Revenge and Justice: The story concludes with the slave defeating his oppressors and dedicating his life to protecting the weak and fighting for justice, emphasizing the restoration of moral order.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Tajik people

Retold by Klavdia Ulug-zadeh
Translated by Olga Shartse

The Padishah had a grownup daughter who was so proud and conceited that she sent away all the match- makers who came to seek her hand in marriage. None of the suitors was good enough for this Princess. And then her father held counsel with his viziers and said to them:

“Is it not time the Princess got married?” – “It is time,” replied the viziers. “Only let us ask her what sort of man she wants for a husband.”

And the Princess told them: “I’ll only marry the strongest and most handsome young man in the world, who alone deserves to be my husband.”

► Continue reading…

The viziers tried to find a man like that in their own city, but no one measured up to the Princess’s demands.

The Padishah himself then set off on a journey to other towns. He rode for a long time and finally came to a wide river. On the bank squatted an old man with a beard that was long and green like sea-weed, he had on a green robe, and had a green staff in his hand. He was writing something with a black pebble on white pebbles which he then threw into the river.

The Padishah rode right up to the old man and asked him what he was writing on those pebbles and why he threw them into the water.

“I foretell people’s future. Whatever I write on a white pebble which I then throw into the river will come to pass.”

“Could you foretell my daughter’s future? Who is destined to become her husband?” asked the Padishah, and told the old man about his proud, conceited daughter who refused to marry anyone but the handsomest and strongest young man in the world.

The old man smiled, wrote something on a white pebble, threw it into the river, and said:

“Your daughter will marry neither a pauper nor a labourer, she’ll marry a slave.”

“Oh no! It cannot be!” cried the Padishah in alarm because he remembered that he did have a slave working in his household, he was a young man and the best worker in town, but a slave he was!

The Padishah hurried back home, and all the way he was thinking how to avert that terrible disaster from his daughter. The moment he returned to his palace, he called his viziers together and told them what fate had in store for the Princess.

“Woe unto us, woe! That wretched slave intends to marry my daughter! What am I to do!”

“Chop off his head,” replied the viziers promptly.

When the poor young slave heard that he was to die, he pleaded and swore that he did not have the slightest desire to marry the Princess.

“What, he has the impudence to refuse the Padishah’s daughter?” cried the sly viziers. ‘Off with his head for such impudence!”

And the Padishah agreed with them.

A very, very old and very, very wise man lived in a small hut not far from the palace. He was so old that he could no longer walk. When he heard about Padishah’s cruel order, he begged his neighbours:

“Please, put me on a white felt rug, pick it up by the four corners, and carry me to the Padishah.”

They did so, and when they brought him to the palace the Padishah asked the wise man:

“What advice have you come to give me, old sage?” asked the Padishah.

“Oh Padishah, you are free to do what you will with your servants,” replied the old man. “Send your young slave to the end of the world, give him any order you can think of, only don’t execute that innocent youth.”

The Padishah ordered the young slave to be brought into his presence.

“Hey you, wretched slave!” he said to the young man. “Go and find for me two precious pearls the size of walnuts with a moonglow inside them. If you find them I’ll grant you your life, and give you your freedom besides. If you don’t find them, I’ll order your head to be chopped off.”

The poor young slave merely dropped his head in agreement, and set off to find those unheard-of pearls, the size of walnuts and with a moonglow inside them.

He wandered about the land for many a day, he suffered cold and hunger, people laughed at him, and he all but collapsed from weariness. And then, one day, he came to the river on the bank of which squatted an old man in a green robe, with a long green beard and a green staff in his hand.

The young man bowed to him and asked:

“Can you tell me where I can find two precious pearls the size of walnuts with a moonglow inside them?”

“You are as trusting as a child, I see,” replied the old man. “I know who sent you and why. Oh well, I’ve got to help you. Stay here on the bank, and wait for me.”

Saying this, the old man in the green robe stepped into the river and vanished from sight. Suddenly the green weeds, floating on the surface of the water, parted and out came the old man. He climbed on to the bank and from the skirt of his robe poured a whole heap of large pearls on to the ground. All of them had a moonglow inside them.

“Take them and return to the Padishah,” said the old man. ‘Only mind you don’t show him all the pearls at once. First give him the two he asked for.”

The young slave thanked the old man from the bottom of his heart and started back for the palace at once.

When the Padishah saw the young slave and the fabulous pearls, he knew that he would have to grant him his life and give him his freedom, which did not suit him at all. And so, being very shrewd and wily, he shouted angrily:

“Aha, I’ve caught you out at last! These two pearls were in my treasure-box and then someone stole them. So now we know who stole them! You’re a thief and a liar, pretending that you got them at the other end of the world!”

“My lord, did you say that you had two such pearls in your treasure-box?” asked the brave young man.

“Yes, two, exactly two such pearls,” replied the Padishah.

At this, the young man undid his bundle and poured out onto the carpet before the Padishah a whole heap of beautiful pearls.

The sight of that wealth so startled the Padishah that he was struck speechless. He did not know what to do next, and so he called his viziers together again and asked their advice.

“Since this slave. managed to find a whole heap of pearls and not just the two I sent him to find, it means that he really intends to marry my daughter. But I don’t want her to marry a slave, and so I’ll have his head chopped off,” the Padishah told them.

The viziers did not know what to advise him and, fearing his anger, they thought it safest to say:

“Oh the greatest of the great! You followed the advice of that oldest and wisest of sages about your young slave, and so he should be sent for this time too.”

Once again the old sage was brought to the palace on a white felt. He heard out the viziers and said:

“A promise must not be broken. The Padishah must keep his word.”

“But he’s my slave, his life is in my hands!” cried the Padishah angrily.

“And your word? You can’t go back on your word,” sald the sage.

“Very well then,” said the Padishah. ‘Let him go to the end of the world, see how the sun and the moon rise, and tell us all about it when he comes back. Only then I shall grant him his life and give him his freedom!”

Poor, poor young slave! Without saying a word, he set off to find the end of the world where the sun and the moon rose.

In the meantime, the Padishah tried his best to find a husband for his conceited daughter.

The young slave wandered for days, weeks, months, climbing over high mountains, all but dying of thirst in the dry deserts, and still plodding on. His sandals were worn out, his clothes torn to shreds, and his staff became as thin as a needle. He walked on in rain and wind, in heat and frost. Hunger drove him to beg for bread. Sometimes, he fell asleep at someone’s gate with no strength to go, and the owners beat him up for a tramp.

At long last he came to a mountain so tall that it reached the sky. He tried to climb it but he could not find a foothold anywhere, for the steep sides were smooth rock. Helplessly, he sat on the ground and gazed in despair at the mountain before him.

Suddenly, a peri in white appeared on the top of the mountain.

“Who are you and what do you seek?” he heard her voice.

“I am the Padishah’s slave,” replied the youth. “Under threat of death the Padishah ordered me to go and see where the sun and moon rise in the sky. And I haven’t even discovered where that place is!”

“Shut your eyes,” the girl told him.

He shut his eyes, and when he opened them in a moment he found himself standing on top of the mountain beside the girl.

“Come, I’ll show you what you want,” the peri told him, and started across a green meadow, covered with beautiful white flowers, and made for some tall trees whose branches drooped to the very ground.

When the youth came nearer to these trees he saw that they were weeping willows growing round a large, still lake. That lake was so lovely that he stood there spellbound, unable to tear his eyes away.

“It’s so wonderful here!” he exclaimed, and went down to the water.

“The sun and the moon bathe in this lake,” the fairy-girl told him. “This lake does magic things. If you bathe in it right after the moon has taken a dip, you’ll become even more handsome than you are now and the Padishah’s daughter will gladly marry you.”

“But I don’t want to marry the Padishah’s daughter!” said the youth. “Would I have come all this way just for that?”

“Then wait until after the sun has had its swim. If you enter the water just after, you’ll feel enormous strength flowing into your body,” the fairy-girl told him, and disappeared.

The youth was very thirsty, but he stood on the shore and did not touch the water. He very much wanted to refresh his weary body in the lovely lake, but he waited patiently for the moon or the sun to bathe in it first.

The day waned, and dusk gathered quickly. Golden sunlight gave way to a silvery mist. And then darkness fell all at once, and the mountain trembled. Something very large and heavy rolled into the water, causing a wave to dash against the shore. In the next moment, a round, shining moon emerged from the lake, soared up, and sailed across the sky. And in the moonlight everything turned silver and began to shine and sparkle.

All night long the youth sat on the shore of the lovely lake, gazing at the beauty that surrounded him.

Little by little the moon lost its sparkle and melted away, the sky turned a pale grey, and suddenly the mountain trembled again, and something very large and heavy rolled into the lake. And in the next moment he saw the radiant, brilliant sun rise from the water higher and higher into the sky, and in the dazzling light it shed down on earth everything glowed with light and warmth.

Thus the brave youth saw how the sun rose. Happily, he threw off his rags, drank his fill of water and bathed in the lake. And instantly he felt his strength increasing tenfold. As he climbed on to the shore he clutched at a branch of a weeping willow, pulling down the whole tree, and as the roots were bared he saw between them a round shield, a sharp sword, a tall helmet and clothes worthy of a knight. And then he saw a beautiful horse with strong, slender legs standing there ready for him to mount.

Quickly, he put on the fine clothes, leapt into the saddle and rode off to look for the peri. He found her where he saw her for the first time, and thanked her for everything.

“But I only helped you to rise to the top of the mountain,” she said. “The rest you did yourself. You yourself found. the place where the sun and the moon rise. And you saw them rise. You bathed in the lake after the sun. You drank the water of life and joy and your strength increased tenfold. Only mind that your strength does not do people harm.”

“I promise I shall be kind to people,” the youth cried.

“But first I’ve got to settle up with my master, the Padishah, and obtain my freedom.”

And he went back to the Padishah whose slave he had been for so many years. On the way back he performed many feats, and his fame ran ahead of him.

In the meantime the Padishah had still been trying to find a husband for his daughter.

When he heard that a strange young knight had come to his city, he ordered him brought into his presence at once.

“Quickly, bring the visitor to my palace!” he ordered his servants. “And tell the young Princess. Maybe she’ll agree to marry him, because we’ve quite run out of suitors.”

The Princess peeped through the curtains at the newcomer, and whispered to her father:

“I’ll marry him. He’s the strongest and most handsome man in the world!”

The Padishah was overjoyed that at long last a worthy suitor had been found. He ordered the finest delicacies and wines to be served, seated the guest in the place of honour, and asked him to relate where he had been in the world and what he had seen.

“I travelled to the place where the sun and the moon rise,” replied the guest. “I saw the moon and the sun bathing in a mountain lake. I, too, bathed in that lake and it gave me the fabulous strength of a powerful knight.”

The Padishah knew then that his grand visitor was, in fact, his slave. But he did not let on that he had recognised him. To himself he was saying: “If he marries my daughter hell go on serving me as my son-in-law. As a warrior he’ll win glory for me and multiply my wealth.”

Now, the visitor said in conclusion of his story:

“Well, I’ve done everything I was ordered to do, and now I want to receive what was promised me. Do you remember your promise, Padishah?”

“Marry my daughter, and I’ll give you your freedom,” the Padishah told him.

But the young slave said:

“Then you don’t rightly know what freedom means if you want to give it to me in addition to your conceited daughter. When I wore the rags of a slave I did not seem a human being to you and your daughter!”

Enraged, the Padishah ordered his servants to seize the impudent slave, but he flung them off easily with his mighty strength and bared his sword… And the Padishah, being a cowardly, spiteful soul, scampered away in terror, like a rabbit from a great lion. The former slave left the Padishah’s palace forever, and as a free man rode off on his horse. He knew what he must do now: a man who was brave, strong and free must protect the weak from the strong, he must fight evil for the triumph of good on earth.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

Clever Ashik

Ashik, a brave orphan, saves a frog, earning a magical pebble as gratitude. When the tyrant Karakhan threatens Ashik’s village, Ashik cleverly meets the khan’s impossible conditions and uses the pebble’s powers to fulfill a ransom. Escaping Karakhan’s betrayal, Ashik employs magical items to outwit his pursuers. After Karakhan’s demise, Ashik returns as a hero, earning the esteemed title of aksakal for his courage and wisdom.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: Ashik employs wit and cleverness to meet Karakhan’s impossible demands and to escape his treachery.

Supernatural Beings: The magical frog bestows upon Ashik a pebble with mystical powers, aiding him in his challenges.

Trials and Tribulations: Throughout the narrative, Ashik faces and overcomes numerous challenges, including imprisonment and pursuit by Karakhan’s forces.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Kyrgyz people

Retold by Dmitri Brudnyi
Translated by Olga Shartse

Once upon a time there lived a boy whose name was Ashik. His father and mother had died, and Ashik was left to make his own living. A rich bei took him on as a shepherd boy, and winter and summer Ashik tended his flock of sheep up in the mountains, only rarely coming down to the village.

As he was returning from the village one day, Ashik saw a frog with a broken leg lying in the road. He felt sorry for the poor thing, took it home and bandaged its broken leg. In a corner of the sheep-fold he dug a hole, filled it with water, and had the frog live there. He nursed it for days until its leg had quite healed.

When the bei found Ashik fussing with a frog, he got terribly angry, hit the boy with his whip, and screamed:

► Continue reading…

“That’s the thanks I get for feeding you! A real man would never dirty his hands touching that slimy thing. Throw it out this moment!”

Ashik took the frog and carried it to the lake.

“You saved my life,” the frog said to him at parting. “I should give you something in gratitude. But I have nothing, only this pebble. It’s a magic pebble. When you’re in difficulties and necd help, touch the ground with it and say: ‘Pebble, Pebble. .’ And it will do your bidding.”

After saying this, the frog spit out a small green pebble, hopped once, hopped once again, and vanished.

Ashik dropped the pebble in his pocket and went home.

Before he was half-way there, a horseman overtook him, galloping at full speed. He shouted something as he passed, but Ashik did not catch the words.

As Ashik approached the village he saw that something terrible must have happened: men were running about and shouting, and women were sobbing at the top of their voices.

The village aksakals—the oldest and most highly esteemed men with long beards—had gathered in front of the bei’s house. Facing them was the horseman who had overtaken \shik on the road, and he was speaking to them in a loud voice:

“The wickedness that Karakhan is planning now…”

Everybody knew Karakhan, the neighbouring khan. He was mean and envious, greedy and merciless. In his own khanate his very name struck terror in people’s hearts, and the threat: “Karakhan will get you!” made the naughtiest child behave himself at once.

“What does he want?” the aksakals asked the horseman.

“He wants to conquer all the people living in the mountains and in the valleys and seize everything they possess. To soften his heart, all the villages have sent messengers to him with gifts. But Karakhan said that he’d only speak to someone who came not on horseback, not riding a camel, not walking on his two feet, not coming along the road and not across the field. None of those messengers came back, and now it’s our turn to send someone.”

Everyone started talking excitedly at once, without arriving at anything. And then Ashik stepped forward and said:

“Send me.”

The long-bearded, grey-haired aksakals were angry at first, and then they laughed and laughed at the boy. But then the aksakal with the longest white beard said:

“Did you hear Karakhan’s conditions?”

“I did, aksakal,” replied Ashik. “I shall not ride a horse or a camel, I’ll ride a goat, and I’ll go along the curb where it’s neither the road nor the field.”

Everyone liked the boy’s clever idea. He was given the oldest goat there was to ride and the tallest camel they had as a gift to the khan. And he set off on his journey.

When Karakhan saw the boy riding an old goat, he screamed furiously:

“Impudent brat! How dare you come into my presence in this manner?”

Everyone froze from terror.

And Ashik replied very calmly:

“I did as you wished, Mighty Khan! I came to you not on a horse or a camel, and not on my two feet either, but I rode a goat, an animal that no one rides, and I rode along the curb where it’s neither road nor field.”

At this, Karakhan screamed more furiously still:

“Impudent brat, wasn’t there anyone bigger than you to send?”

“Mighty Khan, the biggest we have’in our village is this camel, you can speak to him if you wish.”

The khan grew angrier than ever.

“Impudent brat, wasn’t there anyone older than you in your village?”

“Mighty Khan,” Ashik said. “The oldest we have in our village is this goat here. You can speak to him if you wish.”

And then Karakhan said with a nasty grin:

“I’ll let you go and I shan’t touch your village, since you are so brave and quick-witted. But before the moon rises in the sky you must pay me a ransom of a hundred black pacers, a hundred fast camels, a hundred live sables, a hundred brocade robes, and a white yurt with a hundred walls and fully furnished. In the meantime you’ll be locked up in the dungeon. Hey, guards, take him there! If he doesn’t pay me this ransom, chop his head off at daybreak, and raze his village to the ground!”

The guards threw Ashik into the deepest dungeon, and the khan’s djigits, armed with sharp spears, were ordered to watch him. There was no hope of escape.

Ashik was chilled through in that dark, cold dungeon, and he felt so sorry for himself, a poor, defenseless orphan, that he wanted to cry, when suddenly he remembered the green pebble which the frog had given him. He fished it out of his pocket, twisted it in his hands for a minute, then knocked on the ground with it and said:

“Pebble, pebble, help me. Let the wicked Karakhan have his ransom—a hundred black pacers, a hundred fast camels, a hundred live sables, a hundred brocade robes, and a white yurt with a hundred walls and fully furnished.”

No sooner were the words spoken, than the pebble crumbled, and in that very spot a girl appeared, a beauty with a long, long braid, rosy cheeks and teeth gleaming like pearls.

“Do not worry, dear boy. Karakhan will get his ransom. Only beware of his anger. Take this comb, needle and mirror. They’ll help you when you’re in danger.”

The beautiful girl said this, smiled sweetly, and with a flip of her long, long braid, vanished.

The moon had not risen yet, when Karakhan’s servants came to tell him that a strange caravan was approaching his palace. There were a hundred black pacers, a hundred fast camels, a hundred live sables, a hundred djigits were carrying a hundred brocade robes, and next to the khan’s tall palace an even taller white yurt with a hundred walls and fully furnished had appeared overnight.

Karakhan rejoiced in such wealth, but did not let his joy show because he would now have to release the boy from prison. And that was something he hated doing. No one ever came out alive from his dungeons.

Still, a promise was a promise, and so he told his guard to release the prisoner. The guards let out the boy and brought him to the khan.

“I’ll let you go,” Karakhan told him. “But if you’d like to remain in my service I’ll appoint you my vizier.”

“No, Karakhan. I shall not serve you and your wickedness,” Ashik replied bravely. “Let me go, and do not raid my village if your word of a khan can be trusted.”

No one had ever dared speak like that to Karakhan. His eyes flashed red with anger.

“Very well,” he said. ‘I shall keep my word. You may go.

No sooner had Ashik left than Karakhan made a sign to his servants:

“Gallop after him and pierce that impudent brat with your spears.”

The dyjigits hastened to carry out the khan’s orders.

Very soon Ashik heard a thudding behind him, as if a whole herd of horses was galloping after him. He glanced back and saw the khan’s djigits with spears at the ready.

He guessed that Karakhan had sent them after him. The pursuers were almost on him. Ashik took out the comb, given him by that girl of extraordinary beauty, and threw it behind him. Instantly, a dense, impenetrable forest sprang up and barred the horsemen’s way. The djigits stopped. They did not know what to do, and decided to turn back. They fell at the khan’s feet and begged mercy.

“Mighty Khan, be merciful. We did not catch that impudent brat. An impenetrable forest barred our way.”

Karakhan had no mercy to spare his faithful djigits, and ordered their heads chopped off. Then he called his faithful guards and ordered them:

“Go after that impudent brat and catch him. When you do, pierce him with your spears.”

The guards flew to do the khan’s bidding.

Very soon Ashik heard a thudding behind him, as if several herds of horses were galloping along the road. He glanced back and saw the khan’s guards with spears at the ready. Again, the pursuers were almost on him. Then Ashik took the needle, given him by the girl of extraordinary beauty, and threw it on the ground right under the horses’ feet. And instantly a mountain, reaching to the clouds, rose across the road behind him. Ashik was out of reach now.

The horsemen stopped, wondering what to do, and were then obliged to turn back. They fell at the khan’s feet and begged mercy.

“Mighty Khan, have mercy on us. We did not catch that impudent brat. A huge mountain barred our way.”

Karakhan had no mercy to spare his faithful guards either, and had their heads chopped off.

In his towering rage he could not wait to lay his hands upon the impudent brat, and so decided to go in pursuit of him himself.

“Bring my tulpar,” he ordered his servants.

The splendid winged horse was brought, Karakhan leapt into the saddle and off he flew. He came to an impenetrable forest barring his way. Karakhan pulled the reins, the tulpar took a great leap and flew over the forest. And now a tall mountain barred Karakhan’s way. Again he pulled the reins, his tulpar took an even greater leap and flew over the mountain.

And now Karakhan was gaining rapidly on the boy. Ashik threw the mirror, given him by the girl of extraordinary beauty, behind him, and instantly a deep, wide lake was formed.

Again Karakhan thought his tulpar would be able to fly across it, and pulled the reins. The tulpar took a great leap, but it was not long enough, and he fell into the water. Karakhan was knocked out of the saddle, he floundered in the water, thrashing about, and trying to keep afloat. But he had never learnt to swim, and so he drowned.

The tulpar swam to the shore, Ashik mounted it and rode home to his village.

The whole village turned out to welcome him back, and thereafter everyone called him an aksakal for defeating the wicked khan.

Since then the honourable title of aksakal has been applied in Kirghizia not only to old men with white beards, but also to younger men esteemed by the people for their good deeds, bravery and cleverness.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

Which Was the Biggest?

Long ago, three brothers sought a wise man’s help to divide a shared bull. On their journey, an eagle snatched the bull, leading to a chain of events: the bull’s bladebone caused pain to a goatherd, an earthquake, and a fox’s death. A woman crafted a baby’s cap from the fox’s skin. But who, among them all, was truly the largest?

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Quest: The three brothers embark on a journey to seek the wisdom of a sage to resolve their dilemma regarding the division of their shared bull.

Conflict with Nature: The narrative highlights the unpredictable forces of nature, exemplified by the eagle’s sudden snatching of the bull and the ensuing natural events.

Moral Lessons: The story imparts lessons on the unpredictability of life and the importance of seeking wisdom in resolving disputes.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Kyrgyz people

Retold by Mikhail Bulatov
Translated by Irina Zheleznova

Long, long ago in a certain village there lived three brothers who had nothing but one piebald bull between them.

One day the brothers decided to separate and live apart. But how was one bull to be divided among the three of them? At first they thought of selling him, but found no one in the neighbourhood rich enough to buy him. Then they thought of slaughtering him and dividing the meat, but this they could not do, for they were sorry for him.

And so they decided to go to a wise man that he might settle the matter for them.

► Continue reading…

“As the wise man says, so will we do,” they said, and they set off with the bull for the wise man’s village. The eldest brother walked by the bull’s head, the middle brother by the bull’s side, and the youngest brother came behind the bull and drove him on with a stick.

At dawn they were overtaken by a man on horseback who greeted the youngest brother and asked him where he was driving the bull. The youngest brother told him all about everything.

“We are taking the bull to a wise man who is going to settle the matter once and for all,” he said.

And he added, as he bade the horseman goodbye:

“You will soon overtake my middle brother. He is walking by the bull’s side. Give him my regards and tell him to urge on the bull. We want to get to the wise man’s village before nightfall.”

“Very well,” said the horseman, and, putting his horse into a trot, he rode away.

At noon he caught up with the middle brother who was walking by the bull’s side.

“Your younger brother sends you his best regards and asks you to urge on the bull if you want to get to where you are going before dark,” said he..

The middle brother thanked the horseman.

“When you ride up to the bull’s head,” he said, “give my regards to my elder brother and ask him to urge on the bull. We want to reach the wise man’s village as soon as we can.”

The horseman rode on, and it was evening by the time he reached the bull’s head and passed on to the eldest brother what his middle brother had said.

“There is nothing I can do,” said the eldest brother. “It is already dusk. We’ll have to stop and spend the night by the wayside.”

And he slowed his steps.

But the horseman did not stop and rode on.

The brothers spent the night in the steppe, and on the following morning started out again with the bull. All of a sudden the most terrible thing happened. A huge eagle swooped down from the sky, seized the bull in its claws, lifted him up to the clouds and flew away.

The brothers grieved and sorrowed for a time, and then went back home, empty-handed.

The eagle flew on with the bull in its claws. Soon it spied below a flock of goats and among them one which had the longest of long horns. The eagle dropped down, perched on the goat’s horns and began pecking and tearing the bull and strewing his bones all around.

All of a sudden it began to rain, and the goatherd and his flock of goats took shelter underneath the selfsame goat’s beard.

Suddenly the goatherd felt a sharp pain in his left eye.

“A mote must have got into my eye,” he thought.

Towards evening, as he drove his flock to the village, the pain grew worse.

“Call forty doctors, good folk!” he cried. “Let them sail in my eye in forty boats and find the mote. Not a moment of peace does it give me.”

And the villagers went and found forty doctors.

“Get into your boats and sail in the eye of our goatherd, doctors,” said they. “Find the mote and put an end to his pain. Only see that you don’t injure the eye.”

The forty doctors set sail in the goatherd’s eye in their forty boats, and they found the mote which was not a mote at all but the bull’s bladebone which had got into the goatherd’s eye while he was sheltering from the rain under the goat’s beard.

After that the goatherd’s eye stopped hurting him, the doctors all went home, and the bull’s bladebone was taken far beyond the village and thrown away.

Now, soon after this, some nomads happened to be passing the place where the bladebone lay. Night was approaching, and they spoke among themselves and decided to stop and build a fire there.

“This salt marsh is the best and safest place we can find to spend the night,” said they.

But when they were all settled and about to go to sleep, the ground beneath their feet began trembling and quaking. The nomads were frightened, and, piling their belongings on to their carts, moved off in haste.

Only when morning came did they recover from their fright and set up camp. And they sent forty horsemen back to the place where the earthquake had been to find out what it was that had caused it.

The forty horsemen were soon there, and they saw that what they had taken for a salt marsh was really a huge bone—the bladebone of a bull—at which a fox was gnawing even as they watched.

“So that is what made the earth tremble!” the horsemen cried. And taking aim, they let fly their arrows and killed the fox.

After that they set to work and began skinning it. But they only succeeded in skinning one side of it, for, hard as they tried, they could not turn the fox over.

They returned to their camp and told the elders all about it, and the elders began thinking what to do.

Just then a young woman came up to them.

“Do please give me the piece of foxskin your horsemen have brought, for I want to make a cap for my newborn baby,” she said.

The elders gave it to her, and the woman measured her baby’s head and began cutting a cap for him out of the foxskin. But she soon saw that there was only enough fur to make half a cap. So she went to the elders again and asked them to give her the second half of the foxskin.

The elders called the forty horsemen, and the forty horsemen confessed that they had not been able to turn the fox wer and skin its other side.

“If one half of the foxskin is too small for you to make your baby a cap out of it,” said they to the woman, “then you had better go and skin the fox’s other side yourself.”

The woman took her baby and went to where they had left the fox. She turned the fox over easily, skinned its other side and made her baby a cap from the two halves of the skin.

Now, here is a question for you. Which, do you think, was the biggest—

Was it the bull?

Don’t forget it took a man on horseback a whole day to ride from its tail to its head.

Was it the eagle?

Don’t forget that it carried the bull with it to the sky.

Was it the goat?

Don’t forget that it was on its horns that the eagle perched and pecked at the bull.

Was it the goatherd?

Don’t forget that forty doctors sailed in his eye in forty boats.

Was it the fox?

Don’t forget that it started an earthquake by gnawing at the bull’s bladebone.

Was it the baby?

Don’t forget that it was as much as its mother could do to make it a cap from the whole of the fox’s skin.

Or was it the woman who had such a giant of a baby?

Think hard now, and perhaps you will know the answer.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

Three Brothers

Three brothers, Tonguch, Ortancha, and Kendja, embark on a journey to seek fortune after their father advises them to live honestly, avoid laziness, and explore the world. They overcome challenges, including defeating a lion, a giant snake, and a band of robbers. Kendja saves a shah but faces false accusations. Ultimately, the brothers marry the shah’s daughters, reject royal servitude, and return home to live freely and happily.

Source
Folk Tales from the Soviet Union
Central Asia & Kazakhstan
compiled by R. Babloyan and M. Shumskaya
Raduga Publishers, Moscow, 1986

► Themes of the story

Trials and Tribulations: Throughout their adventure, they confront and overcome obstacles, including defeating a lion, a giant snake, and a band of robbers.

Family Dynamics: The bond between the three brothers is central to the story, highlighting their cooperation and mutual support during their quest.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts lessons on honesty, humility, and diligence, as advised by their father before their departure.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Uzbek people

Retold by Serghei Palastrov
Translated by Olga Shartse

Well then, listen… Many, many years ago there lived a man who was neither rich nor poor. He had three sons. All three were handsome boys, they had learnt to read and write, they had good sense, and never kept bad company.

The eldest brother, Tonguch-batyr, was twenty-one, the second brother, Ortancha-batyr, was eighteen, and the youngest, Kendja-batyr, was sixteen.

One day their father called them together, told them to sit down, stroked the head of each fondly, and said:

► Continue reading…

“My dear sons, I am not rich, and what you inherit after me will not last you long. Do not expect or hope for anything more than I can leave you. I brought you up in good health, and you became strong young men; I gave you each a sword, and you have become skilled warriors; and I taught you to fear nothing, and you.became brave men. I shall now give you three behests. Listen well and do not forget them: be honest, and you’ll live without any qualms; do not brag, and you’ll never have to feel ashamed of yourselves; do not be lazy, and you’ll be happy. As for the rest, it’s your own lookout. I have prepared three horses for you: a black, a dun, and a grey. Your bags have been filled with food for a week. Fortune is yours to seek. Go now, go and see the world. Without seeing the world you won’t be able to make your way in life. Go and seek your fortune. Goodbye, my sons.”

And on this, their father rose and left them.

Early next morning the three brothers mounted their horses and set off. They rode the whole day without stopping, and covered a great distance from home. When evening came they decided to take a rest. They dismounted, had their supper, but before going to sleep they arranged to take turns keeping watch, as this was a desolate spot and it wouldn’t do for all of them to be asleep. They divided the night into three watches.

Tonguch, the eldest brother, went on watch first, while the other two brothers lay down to sleep. He sat there, playing with his sword, and looking about him in the light of the moon. It was very, very quiet. The whole world slept.

Suddenly, he heard a noise coming from the forest. Tonguch drew his sword and prepared to defend the three of them.

A lion, scenting people, came out into the open.

Tonguch was sure that he could overcome the lion alone, and ran a little way from his brothers so as not to waken them. The lion went after him. Tonguch swung round, brought his sword down on the lion’s left leg. The wounded beast pounced on Tonguch, but he side-stepped in time and with his whole might hit the lion over the head. And the lion went down, dead.

Tonguch then sat astride the dead beast, cut a narrow ribbon out of his hide, tied it round his body under his shirt, and returned to his sleeping brothers as if nothing had happened.

The next to go on watch was Ortancha-batyr, the middle brother.

And after him, the youngest, Kendja-batyr who guarded his sleeping brothers till daybreak.

Thus passed the first night.

In the morning the brothers mounted their horses and continued on their way. They rode until evening, and called a halt at the foot of a tall mountain. A solitary, spreading poplar grew there, and under it a spring of sweet water gushed from the ground. Behind the spring was a cave, and in it lived Azhdar-sultan, the King of Snakes.

The brothers did not know this. They tethered their horses, cleaned them with a curry-comb, fed them, and then sat down to their own supper. They decided to keep watch again, as on the previous night. Tonguch-batyr, the eldest, did his three hours, and then it was the turn for the middle brother, Ortancha-batyr to stand watch.

It was a moonlit night, and very quiet. Suddenly Ortancha heard a strange rustling sound coming, he thought, from the cave. And out crawled Azhdar-sultan, with a head like a tree stump, and a body that was long and thick like a tree trunk. The King of Snakes was making for the spring.

Ortancha-batyr did not want to waken his brothers, and so he ran a little distance off, to lure the snake away from them. Scenting man, Azhdar-sultan went after him. Ortancha-batyr side-stepped and struck him on the tail. The snake writhed and twisted. And then Ortancha-batyr struck him on the back. The gravely wounded snake made a desperate lunge at him, and here Ortancha-batyr finished him off.

He cut a narrow ribbon out of the snake’s back, tied it round his middle under the shirt, returned to camp and squatted on the ground as if he had never left the place.

The youngest brother had an uneventful watch next, and early in the morning they set off again.

They rode all day over the steppe. When the sun was setting they came to a solitary hill, dismounted, started a fire, had their supper, and as before had one of them keep watch while the other two brothers slept.

It was the youngest brother’s turn to watch. He sat there, lost in thought, and did not notice that the fire had gone out. “It’s not safe for us to have no fire going,” he chided himself. He climbed to the top of the hill and looked around. A tiny light twinkled in the distance. Kendja-batyr mounted his horse and rode in that direction. He rode for a long time, and finally came to a house standing all by itself in the middle of the steppe. He dismounted, tiptoed to the window and peeped in.

A lamp was burning, and a pot of broth was cooking on the hearth. There were about twenty men sitting round it. All of them had sullen faces and angry eyes. Kendja-batyr guessed that they were up to no good.

“They look like a band of robbers,” he thought. “It won’t do for an honest man to simply let them be and quietly slip away. I’ll try to outwit them: I’ll get them to trust me, and then I’ll do what I must.”

Kendja-batyr pushed open the door and walked in. The robbers grabbed their knives.

“Master,” Kendja-batyr addressed their chieftain. “I’m your worthless slave. I come from a town far away. Until now I’ve been living by petty deals, and I’ve long dreamed of joining a large band like yours. When I heard that you were here, I hastened to you. I know I’m very young, but give it no mind. You’re my only hope. Please take me in. I know a lot of different tricks. I’m good at spying, at nosing things out, and doing other such things. You’ll find me useful in your business.”

He talked so cleverly that the chieftain replied:

“You did well to come to us.”

Kendja-batyr pressed his palms to his breast, bowed low, and sat down close to the hearth. The broth was ready now, and they supped on it.

That night the robbers were planning to rob the shah. When they had eaten, they got on their horses and rode off. Kendja-batyr went with them. When they came to the shah’s garden, they dismounted and put their heads together about the best way to steal into the palace. And this is what they decided to do: Kendja-batyr would climb over the garden wall first and spy out the land. If the guards were sleeping, the robbers would climb over the wall one after the other, assemble in the garden and break into the palace all together.

The robbers helped Kendja-batyr on to the wall. He jumped down on the other side, walked about the garden, finding all the guards fast asleep, then rolled a cart right up to the wall. Standing on this cart, he looked over the wall and said: “The time’s just right.”

The chieftain ordered his men to climb over one after the other.

When the first robber heaved himself on to the wall and bent over to climb down to the cart, Kendja-batyr swung his sword and chopped off his head.

“Climb down now,” he said, and pulled the body down to the ground.

To cut a long story short, he chopped off the heads of all the robbers, one after another, and after that went to the palace.

He slipped past the sleeping guards and entered a hall that had three doors. Ten girl-servants were keeping guard here, but they, too, were fast asleep.

Unnoticed, Kendja-batyr opened the first door and found himself in a gorgeously decorated room. The walls were hung with silk curtains embroidered in red flowers.

A beauty, lovelier than all the flowers in the world, was sleeping on a silver bed, wrapped in white cloth. Kendja- batyr stole up to her, pulled a gold ring off a finger on her right hand, dropped it in his pocket and tiptoed back into the great hall.

Now he opened the second door, and found himself in a gorgeously decorated room. The silk drapes here had birds embroidered on them. In the middle of the room stood a silver bed and on it slept a beautiful girl surrounded by her ten handmaidens. Was it from the sun or the moon that she had taken her beauty?

Kendja-batyr stole up to her, took a golden bracelet off her arm, dropped it in his pocket, and tiptoed back into the main hall.

He now went into the third room. It was even more gorgeously decorated than the other two. The walls were hung with crimson silk.

A beauty was sleeping on the silver bed, surrounded by sixteen pretty handmaidens. She was so lovely that even the queen of stars, the Morning Star, might well be her servant.

Stealthily, Kendja-batyr took the gold earring out of the beauty’s right ear and dropped it in his pocket.

He left the palace, climbed over the garden wall, mounted his horse and rode back to his brothers.

They were still asleep. Kendja-batyr squatted beside them and played with his sword-till daybreak.

When it grew light, the brothers had breakfast, got on their horses and continued on their travels.

Before long they came to a town and put up at the caravanserai. They tethered their horses under the shed and went to the tea-room to have a nice pot of tea.

The quiet of the morning was disrupted by the loud voice of the town crier.

“Those who have ears to hear, listen! Last night a person unknown chopped off the heads of twelve robbers in the palace garden. It is the wish of our Shah that the entire population, old and young alike, should try to throw some light upon this puzzling happening and to name the hero who has performed such an outstanding feat. Anyone in whose house there are guests, newly arrived from other towns or lands, must bring them to the palace at once. The Shah’s three grown daughters have reported the loss of a piece of gold jewelry each.”

The owner of the caravanserai asked the three brothers to go to the palace forthwith. They finished their tea and went.

When the Shah heard that they came from another country, he ordered them to be put in a richly. furnished room all by themselves, and told his vizier to make them talk.

The vizier said: “If I ask them straight out they may not tell me anything. Eavesdropping would be better, I think.”

The brothers were served a lavish meal, and they sat down to eat, while the Shah and his vizier sat in the next room and listened.

“We’ve been given the meat of a young lamb, but it was a bitch and not a sheep that had nursed it,” said Tonguch- batyr. “Shahs don’t turn up their noses at the taste of dog, it seems. What really amazes me is that this grape syrup smells of human blood.”

“You’re right,” said Kendja-batyr. “All shahs are blood- suckers. It may well be that human blood has been mixed in with the syrup. There’s one thing that amazes me too: those flat cakes have been arranged so artfully on the platter as only a good baker could arrange them.”

“Probably you’re right,” said Tonguch-batyr. “Listen, brothers; the Shah wants to find out what happened in the palace last night, and that’s why we’ve been called here. We’ll be questioned, naturally. What shall we tell them?”

“We’re not going to lie, we’ll speak the truth,” said Ortancha-batyr.

“Yes, it’s time we told what we’d seen in those last three days,” said Kendja-batyr.

Tonguch-batyr then told his brothers about killing the lion that first night. He undid the ribbon of lion hide which he wore under his shirt and threw it down before his brothers. Next, Ortancha-batyr told them what happened on the second night, and removing the ribbon cut from the back of the King of Snakes, showed it to his brothers. Now it was Kendja-batyr’s turn. He told his brothers what happened on the third night and showed them the gold ring, gold earring and gold bracelet he had taken from the sleeping princesses.

Now the Shah and his vizier knew the whole truth about the night’s happenings in the palace, but they simply could not understand what the brothers had meant about the lamb, the syrup and the flat cakes. So, first of all they sent for the shepherd.

“Tell me the truth,” the Shah said to him. “Had the lamb you sent to the palace yesterday been nursed by a bitch?”

“Oh Mighty Shah! If my life is spared, I’ll tell all!” wailed the shepherd.

“Please tell me the truth,” said the Shah.

“One of my sheep died in the winter. I was sorry for the wee lamb and gave it to a bitch to nurse together with her pups. And it was this very lamb I sent you yesterday, because it was the only one I had left, your servants having already taken all the others.”

Now, the Shah sent for the gardener.

“Tell me the truth,” the Shah said to him. “Has human blood been mixed into the grape syrup?”

“Oh Mighty Shah!” replied the gardener. “Something did happen, and if my life is spared I’ll tell you the whole truth.”

“Your life will be spared. Speak up.”

“Last summer, someone took to coming every night to steal the best grapes which I was saving for you, oh mighty Shah! I hid in the vineyard and watched. I saw someone coming towards me, and hit him over the head with a cudgel. I then dug a deep hole under the vine and buried the body in it. The vine grew so big and strong, there were more grapes on it than leaves. Only the taste was a bit different. So instead of sending you the fresh grapes I cooked that syrup from them.”

As for the flat cakes, the truth was that the Shah himself had arranged them so nicely on the platter. His father, surprisingly, had been.a baker.

The Shah came into the room where the three brothers were, greeted them, and said:

“Everything you said here turned out to be true, and I like you for it. I have a request to make of you, dear guests. Please hear me out.

“I have three daughters and no sons. Stay here. I’ll give you my daughters in marriage, I’ll invite the whole town to the wedding, and for forty days I’ll treat all my guests to pilau.”

And Tonguch-batyr replied:

“Your speech sounds fine, but how can we marry your daughters when we are not a shah’s sons and our father is not rich at all? Your wealth came to you for sitting on the throne, while we were brought up in industry.”

But the Shah insisted:

“I am a Shah but a father who brought up such fine, brave sons is in no way inferior to me. In fact, he is richer than I am. And I, the father of three lovely girls who had been sought in marriage by mighty rulers of the world, by great Shahs who were smitten by my daughters’ beauty and wept brokenly before them, now I stand here before you and implore you to marry my daughters!”

The brothers consented. The Shah gave a great feast which went on for forty days. The three brothers now came to live in the Shah’s palace. The Shah grew fondest of the youngest brother, Kendja-batyr.

One day the Shah was taking a nap in his garden in the shade. Suddenly a poisonous snake crawled out of a ditch and would have bitten the Shah if not for Kendja-batyr who saw it in the nick of time, drew his sword, slashed the snake in two and threw the pieces into the bushes. He was still holding the sword in his hands when the Shah woke up. And what he saw made him suspicious. “Probably being my son-in-law isn’t good enough for him,” the Shah was thinking. “He’s scheming to kill me and himself become the Shah.”

The Shan went to his vizier and confided his suspicions to him. The vizier had long been nursing a grudge against the three brothers, and this was a marvellous chance to get rid of them.

“You did not care to consult me and married off your daughters to some nobodies. And now your beloved son-in- law wanted to kill you. He’s a sly fox, he’ll do the deed anyway one day if you don’t look out.”

The Shah believed the vizier and ordered Kendja-batyr to be put in prison.

The young princess, Kendja-batyr’s wife, cried all day and night, she grew pale and wan, and her heart ached terribly for her beloved husband. And then one day she threw herself at her father’s feet and begged him to release Kendja-batyr. The Shah ordered the prisoner to be brought into his presence.

“What a traitor you turned out to be!” he said to Kendja- batyr. “So you resolved to kill me, did you?” For answer, Kendja-batyr told the Shah the story of the parrot.

The Story of the Parrot

Once upon a time there lived a shah who had a pet parrot. The Shah was so fond of this parrot that he could not live without him for even an hour.

The parrot said flattering things to the Shah and generally amused him. And then one day the parrot said:

“At home, in India, I have my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, and I haven’t seen them for a very long time, ever since I started living in this cage. Please let me go home for twenty days. It will take me six days to fly there, six days to fly back, and eight days I’ll spend at home and look my fill at my father and mother, my brothers and sisters.”

“No,” replied the Shah. “If I let you go you’ll never come back, and I’ll have no one to keep me amused.”

“I give you my word and I’ll keep it,” begged the parrot.

“Very well then, I’ll let you go but only for two weeks,” said the Shah.

“I’ll have to look sharp then. Goodbye,” said the parrot happily.

From the cage he flew to the top of the garden wall, cried goodbye to everyone, and hastened southward. The Shah stood and watched him out of sight. He did not believe that the parrot would keep his word.

It took the parrot six days to reach India and his parents’ home. How happy the poor thing was, flitting about, playing, flying from one tree to another, from one branch to another, relishing the green forests, visiting his relatives and old friends, and before he knew it the two days he had were over. It was time to fly back to prison, to his cage. He had to part again with his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, and it nearly broke his heart. The minutes of happiness he had enjoyed were to be followed by hours and days of grief and sorrow. His wings drooped. Perhaps he’d be given leave again some day, perhaps not. All the relatives and friends came to say goodbye, all felt sorry for the parrot and advised him not to return to the Shah at all. But the parrot said:

“I gave him my word. How can I break my promise?”

“Was there ever a shah who kept his promise?” said one of the relatives. “If your Shah were a fair-minded person would he have kept you in a cage for fourteen years and set you free for a mere fourteen days? Were you born to live in a cage? You have your freedom now, so don’t give it up just to keep someone amused! Hang on to it! There’s more meanness than kindness in your Shah. It’s foolish and dangerous to come too close to a Shah or a tiger.”

Still, the parrot was resolved to fly back, and no one could make him change his mind.

And then it was his own mother who spoke.

“Listen to me then. Growing in our forests here are the fruits of life. It is enough to eat just one fruit for an old man to turn into a youth, and an old woman to turn into a girl. Take some of these precious fruits to your Shah and ask him to set you free. Maybe a sense of justice will awaken in him, and he’ll give you your freedom.”

Everyone approved. Three of the fruits were brought at once. The parrot said goodbye to his family and friends, and flew northward. Everyone watched him, hopefully.

It took the parrot six days to fly back. He gave the fruits to the Shah and told him what magic properties they possessed. The Shah was delighted, and promised to free the parrot. One of the fruits he gave to his wife, and the other two he placed in a cup.

The Shah’s vizier went quite sick with envy and spite, and his scheming mind cooked up a plan at once.

“Do not eat the fruits brought by your parrot right away, let’s first test them,” he said to the Shah. “If they’re good, it will never be too late to eat them.”

The Shah agreed, and the vizier furtively injected some strong poison into one of the fruits.

Two peacocks were brought in and given the fruit to peck. Both died instantly.

“That’s what would have happened to you if you’d eaten it,” said the vizier.

“I would have died too!” cried the Shah, dragged the parrot out of the cage and tore off his head. And that was how the ruler rewarded his pet for his loyalty.

Soon after this the Shah was so displeased with one of his old servants that he wanted his head chopped off, but instead he ordered him to eat the remaining fruit. And no sooner had the old man eaten it than his hair turned black, new teeth were cut, a youthful sparkle shone in his eyes, and altogether he looked like a man of twenty.

The Shah knew then that he shouldn’t have killed his parrot, but too late.

* * *

“And now I’ll tell you what happened while you were sleeping,” said Kendja-batyr in conclusion.

He went to the garden and brought back the two halves of the poisonous snake. The Shah begged his son-in-law to forgive him.

“Master, permit my brothers and me to go home. One cannot live in peace and friendship with shahs, it seems.”

The brothers remained deaf to the Shah’s pleas and promises. They refused to live in his palace as his servants, even if privileged. They wanted to work for their living as free men.

“But my daughters shall stay here with me,” said the Shah.

“No, I won’t part with my husband,” replied each of his daughters.

And so the three brothers returned home to their father with their young wives, and they all lived happily ever after.

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The Sad Story of the Yaoya’s Daughter

A wandering ballad-singer narrates the tragic tale of O Schichi, a beautiful young girl from Yedo who falls in love with a temple acolyte. When her family’s home is rebuilt, she is separated from him and consumed by longing. In desperation, she sets her father’s house ablaze to return to the temple. Caught and judged, she is executed, dying for love.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Tragic Love: The profound love between O Schichi and the acolyte ultimately results in her demise, highlighting the sorrowful aspects of their relationship.

Conflict with Authority: O Schichi’s actions, driven by her love, bring her into direct conflict with societal laws and the authorities who enforce them.

Prophecy and Fate: The story reflects on the concept of karma and destiny, suggesting that the characters’ actions are influenced by forces beyond their control.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

There was a wandering ballad-singer who came to a great house in Yedo where they wished to be entertained. “Will you have a dance or a song?” said the ballad-singer; “or shall I tell you a story?” The people of the house bade him tell a story. “Shall it be a tale of love or a tale of war?” said the ballad-singer. “Oh, a tale of love,” they said. “Will you have a sad tale or a merry?” asked the ballad-singer. They were all agreed that they would hear a sad tale. “Well, then,” said the ballad-singer, “listen, and I will tell you the sad story of the Yaoya’s daughter.”

So he told this tale:

► Continue reading…

The Yaoya was a poor hard-working man, but his daughter was the sweetest thing in Yedo. You must know she was one of the five beauties of the city, that grew like five cherry-trees in the time of the spring blossoming.

In autumn the hunters lure the wild deer with the sound of the flute. The deer are deceived, for they believe that they hear the voices of their mates. So are they trapped and slain. For like calls to like. Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and this law was the undoing of the Yaoya’s daughter.

When there was a great fire in Yedo, so great that more than the half of the city was burned, the Yaoya’s house was ruined also. And the Yaoya and his wife and his daughter had no roof over them, nor anywhere to lay their heads. So they went to a Buddhist temple for shelter and stayed there many days, till their house should be rebuilt. Ah me, for the Yaoya’s daughter! Every morning at sunrise she bathed in the spring of clean water that was near the temple. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks ruddy. Then she would put on her blue gown and sit by the water-side to comb her long hair. She was a sweet and slender thing, scarce fifteen years old. Her name was O Schichi.

“Sweep the temple and the temple courts,” her father bade her. “’Tis well we should do so much for the good priests who give us shelter.” So O Schichi took the broom and swept. And as she laboured she sang merrily, and the grey precincts of the temple grew bright.

Now there was a young acolyte who served in the holy place. Gentle he was and beautiful. Not a day passed but he heard the singing of O Schichi; not a day passed but he set eyes upon her, going her ways, so light and slender, in the ancient courts of the temple.

It was not long before he loved her. Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. It was not long before she loved him.

Secretly they met together in the temple grove. Hand in hand they went, her head against his arm.

“Ah,” she cried, “that such a thing should be! I am happy and unhappy. Why do I love you, my own?”

“Because of the power of Karma,” said the acolyte. “Nevertheless, we sin, O heart’s desire, grievously we sin, and I know not what may come of it.”

“Alas,” she said, “will the gods be angry with us, and we so young?”

“I cannot tell,” he said; “but I am afraid.”

Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping. But they pledged themselves to each other for the space of many existences.

The Yaoya had his dwelling in the quarter of the city called Honjo, and presently his house was rebuilt which had been destroyed by the fire. He and his wife were glad, for they said, “Now we shall go home.”

O Schichi hid her face with her sleeve and wept bitter tears.

“Child, what ails you?” said her mother.

O Schichi wept. “Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, and swayed herself to and fro.

“Why, maid, what is it?” said her father.

Still O Schichi wept. “Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, and swayed herself to and fro.

That night she went to the grove. There was the acolyte, very pale and sorrowful, beneath the trees.

“They will part us,” she cried, “O my dear heart’s desire. The dear gods are angry with us, and we so young.”

“Ah,” he said, “I was afraid…. Farewell, dear maid, O little maid, sweet and slender. Remember we are pledged to one another for the space of many existences.”

Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping, and they bade farewell a thousand times.

The next day they bore O Schichi home to Honjo. She grew languid and listless. White she grew, white as the buckwheat flower. She drooped and she failed. No longer was she numbered with the five beauties of Yedo, nor likened to a cherry-tree in the time of the spring blossoming. All the day long she brooded silently. At night she lay awake in her low bed.

“Oh! oh!” she moaned, “the weary, weary night! Shall I never see him? Must I die of longing? Oh! oh! the weary, weary night….”

Her eyes grew large and burning bright.

“Alas! poor maid,” said her father.

“I am afraid …” said her mother. “She will lose her wits…. She does not weep any more.”

At last O Schichi arose and took straw and made it into a bundle; and she put charcoal in the bundle and laid it beneath the gallery of her father’s house. Then she set fire to the straw and the charcoal, and the whole burnt merrily. Furthermore the wood of her father’s house took light and the house was burnt to the ground.

“I shall see him; I shall see him!” shrieked O Schichi, and fell in a swoon.

Howbeit all the city knew that she had set fire to her father’s house. So she was taken before the judge to be tried for her wrong-doing.

“Child,” said the judge, “what made you do this thing?”

“I was mad,” she said, “I did it for love’s sake. I said, ‘I will burn the house, we shall have nowhere to lay our heads, then we shall take shelter at the temple; I will see my lover.’ Lord, I have not seen him nor heard of him these many, many moons.”

“Who is your lover?” said the judge.

Then she told him.

Now as for the law of the city, it was hard and could not be altered. Death was the penalty for the crime of the Yaoya’s daughter. Only a child might escape.

“My little maid,” the judge said, “are you perhaps twelve years old?”

“Nay, lord,” she answered.

“Thirteen, then, or fourteen? The gods send you may be fourteen. You are little and slender.”

“Lord,” she said, “I am fifteen.”

“Alas, my poor maid,” said the judge, “you are all too old.”

So they made her stand upon the bridge of Nihonbashi. And they told her story aloud; they called it from the house-tops so that all might hear. There she was for all the world to look upon.

Every day for seven days she stood upon the bridge of Nihonbashi, and drooped in the glare of the sun and of men’s glances. Her face was white as the flower of the buckwheat. Her eyes were wide and burning bright. She was the most piteous thing under the sky. The tender-hearted wept to see her. They said, “Is this the Yaoya’s daughter that was one of the five beauties of Yedo?”

After the seven days were passed they bound O Schichi to a stake, and they piled faggots of wood about her and set the faggots alight. Soon the thick smoke rose.

“It was all for love,” she cried with a loud voice. And when she had said this, she died.

* * * * *

“The tale is told,” said the ballad-singer. “Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and this law was the undoing of the Yaoya’s daughter.”

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Karma

Ito Tatewaki, burdened by cares, encounters a mysterious maiden on a solitary road. She leads him to her mistress, a lady he instantly loves. After a night together, the house vanishes, and she leaves, binding his arm with a golden dragon girdle, promising reunion in nine years. Despite years of longing, they meet again on the Night of Souls, where he dies peacefully, finally reunited with his love.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Love and Betrayal: The profound connection between Ito Tatewaki and the mysterious lady highlights deep affection, though not explicitly involving betrayal.

Prophecy and Fate: The promise of reunion after nine years and the eventual fulfillment of this destiny underscore the role of fate in their lives.

Illusion vs. Reality: The vanishing house and garden blur the lines between what is real and what is illusionary, challenging Tatewaki’s perception of reality.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

The young man, Ito Tatewaki, was returning homeward after a journey which he had taken to the city of Kioto. He made his way alone and on foot, and he went with his eyes bent upon the ground, for cares weighed him down and his mind was full of the business which had taken him to Kioto. Night found him upon a lonely road leading across a wild moor. Upon the moor were rocks and stones, with an abundance of flowers, for it was summer time, and here and there grew a dark pine tree, with gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.

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Tatewaki looked up and beheld the figure of a woman before him in the way. It was a slender girl dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Lightly she went along the lonely road in the deepening twilight.

“I should say she was the serving-maid of some gentle lady,” Tatewaki said to himself. “The way is solitary and the time is dreary for such a child as she.”

So the young man quickened his pace and came up with the maiden. “Child,” he said very gently, “since we tread the same lonely road let us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be dark.”

The pretty maiden turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips.

“Sir,” she said, “my mistress will be glad indeed.”

“Your mistress?” said Tatewaki.

“Why, sir, of a surety she will be glad because you are come.”

“Because I am come?”

“Indeed, and indeed the time has been long,” said the serving-maid; “but now she will think no more of that.”

“Will she not?” said Tatewaki. And on he went by the maiden’s side, walking as one in a dream.

Presently the two of them came to a little house, not far from the roadside. Before the house was a small fair garden, with a stream running through it and a stone bridge. About the house and the garden there was a bamboo fence, and in the fence a wicket-gate.

“Here dwells my mistress,” said the serving-maid. And they went into the garden through the wicket-gate.

Now Tatewaki came to the threshold of the house. He saw a lady standing upon the threshold waiting.

She said, “You have come at last, my lord, to give me comfort.”

And he answered, “I have come.”

When he had said this he knew that he loved the lady, and had loved her since love was.

“O love, love,” he murmured, “time is not for such as we.”

Then she took him by the hand, and they went into the house together and into a room with white mats and a round latticed window.

Before the window there stood a lily in a vessel of water.

Here the two held converse together.

And after some time there was an old ancient woman that came with saké in a silver flagon; and she brought silver drinking-cups and all things needful. And Tatewaki and the lady drank the “Three Times Three” together. When they had done this the lady said, “Love, let us go out into the shine of the moon. See, the night is as green as an emerald….”

So they went and left the house and the small fair garden behind them. Or ever they had closed the wicket-gate the house and the garden and the wicket-gate itself all faded away, dissolving in a faint mist, and not a sign of them was left.

“Alas! what is this?” cried Tatewaki.

“Let be, dear love,” said the lady, and smiled; “they pass, for we have no more need of them.”

Then Tatewaki saw that he was alone with the lady upon the wild moor. And the tall lilies grew about them in a ring. So they stood the live-long night, not touching one another but looking into each other’s eyes most steadfastly. When dawn came, the lady stirred and gave one deep sigh.

Tatewaki said, “Lady, why do you sigh?”

And when he asked her this, she unclasped her girdle, which was fashioned after the form of a golden scaled dragon with translucent eyes. And she took the girdle and wound it nine times about her love’s arm, and she said, “O love, we part: these are the years until we meet again.” So she touched the golden circles on his arm.

Then Tatewaki cried aloud, “O love, who are you? Tell me your name….”

She said, “O love, what have we to do with names, you and I?… I go to my people upon the plains. Do not seek for me there…. Wait for me.”

And when the lady had spoken she faded slowly and grew ethereal, like a mist. And Tatewaki cast himself upon the ground and put out his hand to hold her sleeve. But he could not stay her. And his hand grew cold and he lay still as one dead, all in the grey dawn.

When the sun was up he arose.

“The plains,” he said, “the low plains … there will I find her.” So, with the golden token wound about his arm, fleetly he sped down, down to the plains. He came to the broad river, where he saw folk standing on the green banks. And on the river there floated boats of fresh flowers, the red dianthus and the campanula, golden rod and meadow-sweet. And the people upon the river banks called to Tatewaki:

“Stay with us. Last night was the Night of Souls. They came to earth and wandered where they would, the kind wind carried them. To-day they return to Yomi. They go in their boats of flowers, the river bears them. Stay with us and bid the departing Souls good speed.”

And Tatewaki cried, “May the Souls have sweet passage…. I cannot stay.”

So he came to the plains at last, but did not find his lady. Nothing at all did he find, but a wilderness of ancient graves, with nettles overgrown and the waving green grass.

So Tatewaki went to his own place, and for nine long years he lived a lonely man. The happiness of home and little children he never knew.

“Ah, love,” he said, “not patiently, not patiently, I wait for you…. Love, delay not your coming.”

And when the nine years were past he was in his garden upon the Night of Souls. And looking up he saw a woman that came towards him, threading her way through the paths of the garden. Lightly she came; she was a slender girl, dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Tatewaki stood up and spoke:

“Child,” he said very gently, “since we tread the same lonely road let us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be dark.”

The maid turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips:

“Sir,” she said, “my mistress will be glad indeed.”

“Will she be glad?” said Tatewaki.

“The time has been long.”

“Long and very weary,” said Tatewaki.

“But now you will think no more of that….”

“Take me to your mistress,” said Tatewaki. “Guide me, for I cannot see any more. Hold me, for my limbs fail. Do not leave go my hand, for I am afraid. Take me to your mistress,” said Tatewaki.

In the morning his servants found him cold and dead, quietly lying in the shade of the garden trees.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page

The Moon Maiden

Také Tori, an elderly bamboo cutter, discovers a magical jewel containing a fairy, Lady Beaming Bright, who brings wealth and joy to his household. Despite her beauty attracting many suitors, including the Mikado, she refuses marriage, revealing her exile from the Moon. After three years, celestial beings reclaim her. Heartbroken, the Mikado burns the elixir of life, sending his love to her in the heavens.

Source
Japanese Fairy Tales
by Grace James
Macmillan & Co., London, 1912

► Themes of the story

Divine Intervention: The celestial beings’ eventual return to reclaim Lady Beaming Bright underscores the influence of higher powers in mortal affairs.

Love and Betrayal: The Mikado’s deep affection for Lady Beaming Bright and her subsequent departure to the Moon introduces elements of unfulfilled love and emotional loss.

Sacred Objects: The elixir of life, which the Mikado chooses to burn in his grief, serves as a powerful artifact with symbolic significance.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

There was an old bamboo cutter called Také Tori. He was an honest old man, very poor and hard-working, and he lived with his good old wife in a cottage on the hills. Children they had none, and little comfort in their old age, poor souls. Také Tori rose early upon a summer morning, and went forth to cut bamboos as was his wont, for he sold them for a fair price in the town, and thus he gained his humble living.

Up the steep hillside he went, and came to the bamboo grove quite wearied out.

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He took his blue tenegui and wiped his forehead, “Alack for my old bones!” he said. “I am not so young as I once was, nor the good wife either, and there’s no chick nor child to help us in our old age, more’s the pity.” He sighed as he got to work, poor Také Tori.

Soon he saw a bright light shining among the green stems of the bamboos.

“What is this?” said Také Tori, for as a rule it was dim and shady enough in the bamboo grove. “Is it the sun?” said Také Tori. “No, that cannot well be, for it comes from the ground.” Very soon he pushed his way through the bamboo stems to see what the bright light came from. Sure enough it came from the root of a great big green bamboo. Také Tori took his axe and cut down the great big green bamboo, and there was a fine shining green jewel, the size of his two fists.

“Wonder of wonders!” cried Také Tori. “Wonder of wonders! For five-and-thirty years I’ve cut bamboo. This is the very first time I’ve found a great big green jewel at the root of one of them.” With that he takes up the jewel in his hands, and as soon as he does that, it bursts in two with a loud noise, if you’ll believe it, and out of it came a young person and stood on Také Tori’s hand.

You must understand the young person was small but very beautiful. She was dressed all in green silk.

“Greetings to you, Také Tori,” she says, as easy as you please.

“Mercy me!” says Také Tori. “Thank you kindly. I suppose, now, you’ll be a fairy,” he says, “if I’m not making too bold in asking?”

“You’re right,” she says, “it’s a fairy I am, and I’m come to live with you and your good wife for a little.”

“Well, now,” says Také Tori, “begging your pardon, we’re very poor. Our cottage is good enough, but I’m afraid there’d be no comforts for a lady like you.”

“Where’s the big green jewel?” says the fairy.

Take Tori picks up the two halves. “Why, it’s full of gold pieces,” he says.

“That will do to go on with,” says the fairy; “and now, Také Tori, let us make for home.”

Home they went. “Wife! wife!” cried Také Tori, “here’s a fairy come to live with us, and she has brought us a shining jewel as big as a persimmon, full of gold pieces.”

The good wife came running to the door. She could hardly believe her eyes.

“What is this,” she said, “about a persimmon and gold pieces? Persimmons I have seen often enough–moreover, it is the season–but gold pieces are hard to come by.”

“Let be, woman,” said Také Tori, “you are dull.” And he brought the fairy into the house.

Wondrous fast the fairy grew. Before many days were gone she was a fine tall maiden, as fresh and as fair as the morning, as bright as the noonday, as sweet and still as the evening, and as deep as the night. Také Tori called her the Lady Beaming Bright, because she had come out of the shining jewel.

Take Tori had the gold pieces out of the jewel every day. He grew rich, and spent his money like a man, but there was always plenty and to spare. He built him a fine house, he had servants to wait on him. The Lady Beaming Bright was lodged like an empress. Her beauty was famed both near and far, and scores of lovers came to seek her hand.

But she would have none of them. “Také Tori and the dear good wife are my true lovers,” she said; “I will live with them and be their daughter.”

So three happy years went by; and in the third year the Mikado himself came to woo the Lady Beaming Bright. He was the brave lover, indeed.

“Lady,” he said, “I bow before you, my soul salutes you. Sweet lady, be my Queen.”

Then the Lady Beaming Bright sighed and great tears stood in her eyes, and she hid her face with her sleeve.

“Lord, I cannot,” she said.

“Cannot?” said the Mikado; “and why not, O dear Lady Beaming Bright?”

“Wait and see, lord,” she said.

Now about the seventh month she grew very sorrowful, and would go abroad no more, but was for long upon the garden gallery of Také Tori’s house. There she sat in the daytime and brooded. There she sat at night and gazed upon the moon and the stars. There she was one fine night when the moon was at its full. Her maidens were with her, and Také Tori and the good wife, and the Mikado, her brave lover.

“How bright the moon shines!” said Také Tori.

“Truly,” said the good wife, “it is like a brass saucepan well scoured.”

“See how pale and wan it is,” said the Mikado; “it is like a sad despairing lover.”

“How long and bright a beam!” quoth Také Tori. “It is like a highway from the moon reaching to this garden gallery.”

“O dear foster-father,” cried the Lady Beaming Bright. “You speak truth, it is a highway indeed. And along the highway come countless heavenly beings swiftly, swiftly, to bear me home. My father is the King of the Moon. I disobeyed his behest. He sent me to earth three years to dwell in exile. The three years are past and I go to mine own country. Ah, I am sad at parting.”

“The mist descends,” said Také Tori.

“Nay,” said the Mikado, “it is the cohorts of the King of the Moon.”

Down they came in their hundreds and their thousands, bearing torches. Silently they came, and lighted round about the garden gallery. The chief among them brought a heavenly feather robe. Up rose the Lady Beaming Bright and put the robe upon her.

“Farewell, Také Tori,” she said, “farewell, dear foster-mother, I leave you my jewel for a remembrance…. As for you, my lord, I would you might come with me–but there is no feather robe for you. I leave you a phial of the pure elixir of life. Drink, my lord, and be even as the Immortals.”

Then she spread her bright wings and the cohorts of Heaven closed about her. Together they passed up the highway to the moon, and were no more seen.

The Mikado took the elixir of life in his hand, and he went to the top of the highest mountain in that country. And he made a great fire to consume the elixir of life, for he said, “Of what profit shall it be to me to live for ever, being parted from the Lady Beaming Bright?” So the elixir of life was consumed, and its blue vapour floated up to Heaven. And the Mikado said, “Let my message float up with the vapour and reach the ears of my Lady Beaming Bright.”

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page