Category: Asia

The Jackal and the Kite

A she-jackal and a she-kite, neighbors on a tree, sought children through fasting. The kite sincerely worshipped and bore seven sons, while the jackal deceitfully feigned fasting and remained childless. Consumed by jealousy, the jackal repeatedly harmed the kite’s sons, but God revived them each time. Angered by the jackal’s actions, God cursed her, while the kite and her sons thrived happily ever after.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the virtuous behavior of the kite, who sincerely fasts and worships, against the deceitful and malicious actions of the jackal, who feigns fasting and harms the kite’s children.

Cunning and Deception: The jackal employs deceit by pretending to fast and later by harming the kite’s children under the guise of friendship.

Divine Intervention: God intervenes to revive the kite’s children each time the jackal kills them, showcasing a higher power influencing mortal affairs.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

There was once a she-jackal and a she-kite. They lived in the same tree; the jackal at the bottom of the tree, and the kite at the top. Neither had any children. One day the kite said to the jackal, “Let us go and worship God, and fast, and then he will give us children.” So the jackal said, “Very good.” That day the kite ate nothing, nor that night; but the jackal at night brought a dead animal, and was sitting eating it quietly under the tree. By-and-by the kite heard her crunching the bones, instead of fasting. “What have you got there,” said the kite, “that you are making such a noise?” “Nothing,” said the jackal; “it is only my own bones that rattle inside my body whenever I move.”

► Continue reading…

The kite went to sleep again, and took no more notice of the jackal. Next morning the kite ate some food in the name of God. That night again the jackal brought a dead animal. The kite called out, “What are you crunching there? Why are you making that noise? I am sure you have something to eat.” The jackal said, “Oh, no! It is only my own bones rattling in my body.” So the kite went to sleep again.

Some time after, the kite had seven little boys–real little boys–but the jackal had none, because she had not fasted. A year after that the kite went and worshipped God, asking Him to take care of her children. One day–it was their great day–the kite set out seven plates. On one she put cocoa-nuts, on another cucumbers, on a third rice, on a fourth plantains, and so on. Then she gave a plate to each of her seven sons, and told them to take the plates to their aunt the jackal. So they took the seven plates, and carried them to their aunt, crying out, “Aunty, aunty, look here! Mamma has sent you these things.” The jackal took the plates, and cut off the heads of the seven boys, and their hands, and their feet, and their noses, and their ears, and took out their eyes. Then she laid their heads in one plate, and their eyes in another, and their noses in a third, and their ears in a fourth, and their hands in a fifth, and their feet in a sixth, and their trunks in the seventh, and then she covered all the plates over. Then she took the plates to the kite, and called out, “Here! I have brought you something in return. You sent me a present, and I bring you a present.” Now the poor kite thought the jackal had killed all her seven children, so she cried out, “Oh, it’s too dark now to see what you have brought. Put the plates down in my tree.” The jackal put the plates down and went home. Then God made the boys alive again, and they came running to their mother, quite well. And instead of the heads and eyes, and noses and ears, and hands and feet, and trunks, there were again on the plates cocoa-nuts and cucumbers, and plantains and rice, and so on.

Now the jackal got hold of the boys again. And this time she killed them, and cooked them and ate them; and again God brought them to life. Well, the jackal was very much astonished to see the boys alive, and she got angry, and said to the kite, “I will take your seven sons and throw them into the water, and they will be drowned.” “Very well,” said the kite, “take them. I don’t mind. God will take care of them.” The jackal took them and threw them into the water, and left them to die, while the kite looked on without crying. And again God made them alive, and the jackal was so surprised. “Why,” said she, “I put these children into the water, and left them to drown. And here they are alive!” Then God got very angry with the jackal, and said to her, “Go out of this village. And wherever you go, men will try to shoot you, and you shall always be afraid of them.” So the jackal had to go away; and the kite and her children lived very happily ever afterwards.

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 Cat Which Could Not Be Killed

A dog repeatedly tries to harm a resilient cat who remains unhurt despite his efforts and mockingly dances away each time. Seeking help from various animals and even a man, the dog’s allies fail to harm the clever cat, often suffering in return. Frustrated and defeated, the dog ultimately dies in despair, while the unscathed and victorious cat rejoices with her friends.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The cat consistently outsmarts the dog and other animals, using her wit to evade harm and turn situations to her advantage.

Moral Lessons: The narrative imparts lessons on the futility of malice and the virtue of cleverness in overcoming adversity.

Tragic Flaw: The dog’s persistent aggression and inability to recognize the cat’s superiority lead to his ultimate demise, illustrating the consequences of hubris.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 26th, 1876

There were once a dog and a cat, who were always quarrelling. The dog used to beat the cat, but he never could hurt her. She would only dance about and cry, “You never hurt me, you never hurt me! I had a pain in my shoulder, but now it is all gone away.” So the dog went to a mainá [a kind of starling] and said, “What shall I do to hurt this cat? I beat her and I bite her, and yet I can’t hurt her. I am such a big dog and she is rather a big cat, yet if I beat her I don’t hurt her, but if she beats me she hurts me so much.” The mainá said, “Bite her mouth very, very hard, and then you’ll hurt her.” “Oh, no,” said the cat, who had just come up, laughing; “you won’t hurt me at all.”

► Continue reading…

The dog bit her mouth as hard as he could. “Oh, you don’t hurt me,” said the cat, dancing about. So the dog went again to the mainá and said, “What shall I do?” “Bite her ears,” said the mainá. So the dog bit the cat’s ears, but she danced about and said, “Oh, you did not hurt me; now I can put earrings in my ears.” So she put in earrings.

The dog went to the elephant. “Can you kill this cat? she worries me so every day.” “Oh, yes,” said the elephant, “of course I can kill her. She is so little and I am so big.” Then the elephant came and took her up with his trunk, and threw her a long way. Up she jumped at once and danced about, saying, “You did not hurt me one bit. I had a pain, but now I am quite well.” Then the elephant got cross and said, “I’ll teach you to dance in another way than that,” and he took the cat and laid her on the ground and put his great foot on her. But she was not hurt at all. She danced about and said, “You did not hurt me one bit, not one bit,” and she dug her claws into the elephant’s trunk. The elephant ran away screaming, and he told the dog, “You had better beware of that cat. She belongs to the tiger tribe.” The dog felt very angry with the cat. “What shall I do,” said he, “to kill this cat?” And he bit her nose so hard that it bled. But she laughed at him. “Now I can put a ring in my nose,” said she. He got furious. “I’ll bite her tail in half,” said he. So he bit her tail in half, and yet he did not hurt her.

He then went to a leopard. “If you can kill this cat I will give you anything you want.” “Very well, I’ll kill her,” said the leopard. And they went together to the cat. “Stop,” said the cat to the leopard; “I want to speak to you first. I’ll give you something to eat, and then I’ll tell you what I want to say.” And then she ran off ever so far, and after she had run a mile she stopped and danced, calling out, “Oh! I’ll give you nothing to eat; you could not kill me.” The leopard went away very cross, and saying, “What a clever cat that is.”

The dog next went to a man, and said, “Can you kill this cat, she worries me so?” “Of course I can,” said the man; “I’ll stick this knife into her stomach.” And he stuck his knife into the cat’s stomach, but the cat jumped up, and her stomach closed, and the man went home.

And the dog went to a bear. “Can you kill this cat? I can’t.” “I’ll kill her,” said the bear; so he stuck all his claws into the cat, but he didn’t hurt her; and she stuck her claws into the bear’s nose so deep that he died immediately.

Then the poor dog felt very unhappy, and went and threw himself into a hole, and there he died, while the cat went away to her friends.

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 Cat and the Dog

A dog and a cat argue over caste and seek a jackal’s judgment. The jackal declares the dog superior, angering the cat. In the jungle, they encounter a tiger with a thorn in his paw. A man removes it, but the tiger breaks his promise not to harm him. The jackal tricks the tiger into a bag, and with help, the tiger is killed, resolving the conflict.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The jackal’s judgment and the subsequent events involve cleverness and trickery, especially in dealing with the tiger.

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the benevolent actions of the man who removes the thorn from the tiger’s paw with the tiger’s malevolent betrayal.

Revenge and Justice: The jackal orchestrates a plan to punish the tiger for breaking his promise, leading to the tiger’s demise and the restoration of order.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 26th, 1876

Now all cats are aunts to the tigers, and the cat in this story was the aunt of the tiger in this story. She was his mother’s sister. When the tiger’s mother was dying, she called the cat to her, and taking her paw she said, “When I am dead you must take care of my child.” The cat answered, “Very well,” and then the tiger’s mother died. The tiger said to the cat, “Aunt, I am very hungry. Go and fetch some fire. When I go to ask men for fire they are afraid of me, and run away from me, and won’t give me any. But you are such a little creature that men are not afraid of you, and so they will give you fire, and then you must bring it to me.” So the cat said, “Very good,” and off she started, and went into a house where some men were eating their dinner: they had thrown away the bones, and the cat began to eat them.

► Continue reading…

This house was very near the place where the tiger lived, and on peeping round the corner he saw his aunt eating the bones. “Oh,” said he, “I sent my aunt to fetch fire that I might cook my dinner as I am very hungry, and there she sits eating the bones, and never thinks of me.” So the tiger called out, “Aunt, I sent you to fetch fire, and there you sit eating bones and leave me hungry! If ever you come near me again, I will kill you at once.” So the cat ran away screaming, “I will never go near the tiger again, for he will kill me!” This is why all cats are so afraid of tigers, or of anything like a tiger. And this is why, when the cat in the story saw the tiger, her nephew, fighting with the man, she ran away as hard as she could.

The Story

There were once a dog and a cat. It was a very rainy day, and some men were eating their dinner inside their house. The cat sat inside too, eating her dinner, and the dog sat on the door-step. The cat called out to the dog, “I am a high-caste person, and you are a very low-caste person.” “Oh,” said the dog, “not at all. I am the high-caste person and you are of very low caste. You eat all the men’s dinner up, and snatch the food from their hands just as they are putting it into their mouths. And you scratch them, and they beat you; while I sit away from them, and so they don’t beat me. And if they give me any dinner I’ll eat it; but if they don’t, I won’t.” “Oh,” says the cat, “not a bit of it. I eat nice clean food; but you eat nasty, dirty food, which the men have thrown away.” “No,” said the dog, “I am high caste and you are very low caste, for if I gave you a slap you would tumble down directly.” “No, no!” said the cat. And they went on disputing and began to fight, till the dog said, “Very well, let us go to the wise jackal and ask him which of us is the better.” “Good,” said the cat. So they went to the jackal and asked him. Said the cat, “I am of the higher caste, and the dog is of the lower caste.” “No,” said the jackal, “the dog is of the higher caste.” The cat said, “No,” and the jackal said, “Yes,” and they began to fight. Then the jackal and the dog proposed to go and ask a great big beast who lived in the jungle and was like a tiger. But the cat said, “I cannot go near a tiger or anything like one.” So then they said, “When we come near the beast, you can remain behind, and we will go on and speak to him.” So they ran into the jungle, where there was a tiger who had been lying on the ground with a great thorn sticking in his foot. When his aunt, the cat, saw him, she scampered off, for she was dreadfully frightened.

The thorn had given the tiger great pain; for a long while he could get no one to take it out, so had lain there for days. At last he had seen a man passing by, to whom he called and said, “Take out this thorn, and I promise I won’t eat you.” But the man refused through fear, saying, “No, I won’t, for you will eat me.” Three times the tiger had promised not to eat him; so at last the man took out the thorn. Then the tiger sprang up and said, “Now I will eat you, for I am very hungry.” “Oh, no, no!” said the man. “What a liar you are! You promised not to eat me if I would take the thorn out of your foot, and now that I have done so you say you will eat me.” And they began to fight, and the man said, “If you won’t eat me, I will bring you a cow and a goat.” But the tiger refused, saying, “No, I won’t eat them; I will eat you.”

At this moment the jackal and the dog came up. And the jackal asked, “What is the matter? why are you fighting?” So then the man told him why they were fighting; and the jackal said to the tiger, “I will tell you a good way of eating the man. Go and fetch a big bag.” So the tiger went and fetched the bag, and brought it to the jackal. Then the jackal said, “Get inside the bag, and leave its mouth open and I’ll throw the man in to you.” So the tiger got inside the bag, and the jackal, the dog and the man quickly tied it up as tight as they could. Then they began to beat the tiger with all their might until at last they killed him. Then the man went home, and the jackal went home, and the dog went home.

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 Pomegranate King

The Pomegranate King mourns his wife’s death and cares for their two children. He remarries, but the new queen mistreats the children and tries to kill them. Through divine intervention, the children are repeatedly saved, eventually becoming fruits on a magical tree. The king discovers the truth, punishes the queen, and reunites with his wife, who returns in bird form before regaining her human shape. They live happily ever after.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Transformation: The children undergo physical changes, becoming fruits on a magical tree, and the mother transforms from a bird back into her human form, symbolizing change and renewal.

Revenge and Justice: The king discovers the truth about the queen’s malice, leading to her punishment and the restoration of order within the family.

Resurrection: The mother’s return from death, first as a bird and then regaining her human form, signifies a literal resurrection, bringing the family back together.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní at Simla, 26th July, 1876

There was once a Mahárájá, called the Anárbásá, or Pomegranate King; and a Mahárání called the Gulíanár, or Pomegranate-flower. The Mahárání died leaving two children: a little girl of four or five years old, and a little boy of three. The Mahárájá was very sorry when she died, for he loved her dearly. He was exceedingly fond of his two children, and got for them two servants: a man to cook their dinner, and an ayah to take care of them. He also had them taught to read and write. Soon after his wife’s death the neighbouring Rájá’s daughter’s husband died, and she said if any other Rájá would marry her, she would be quite willing to marry him, and she also said she would like very much to marry the Pomegranate Rájá.

► Continue reading…

So her father went to see the Pomegranate Rájá, and told him that his daughter wished to marry him. “Oh,” said the Pomegranate Rájá, “I do not want to marry again, for if I do, the woman I marry will be sure to be unkind to my two children. She will not take care of them. She will not pet them and comfort them when they are unhappy.” “Oh,” said the other Rájá, “my daughter will be very good to them, I assure you.” “Very well,” said the Mahárájá, “I will marry her.” So they were married.

For two or three months everything went on well, but then the new Rání, who was called the Sunkásí Mahárání, began to beat the poor children, and to scold their servants. One day she gave the boy such a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled. When the Mahárájá came out of his office to get his tiffin, he saw the boy’s swollen face, and, calling the two servants, he said, “Who did this? how did my boy get hurt?” They said, “The Rání gave him such a hard blow on his cheek that it swelled, and she gets very angry with us if we say anything about her ill-treatment of the children, or how she scolds us.” The Mahárájá was exceedingly angry with his wife for this, and said to her, “I never beat my children. Why should you beat them? If you beat them I will send you away.” And he went off to his office in a great rage. The Rání was very angry. So she told the little girl to go with the ayah to the bazar. The ayah and the little girl set off, never suspecting any evil. As soon as they had gone, the Rání took the little boy and told him she would kill him. The boy went down on his knees and begged her to spare his life. But she said, “No; your father is always quarrelling with me, beating me, and scolding me, all through your fault.” The boy begged and prayed again, saying he would never be naughty any more. The Rání shook her head, and taking a large knife she cut off his head. She then cut him up and made him into a curry. She then buried his head, and his nails, and his feet in the ground, and she covered them well with earth, and stamped the ground well down so that no one should notice it had been disturbed. When the Pomegranate Rájá came home to his dinner, she put the curry and some rice on the table before him; but the Rájá, seeing his boy was not there, would not eat. He went and looked everywhere for his son, crying very much, and the little girl cried very much too, for she loved her brother dearly. After they had hunted for him for some time, the little boy appeared. His father embraced him. “Where have you been?” said he. “I cannot eat my dinner without you.” The little boy said, “Oh, I was in the jungle playing with other boys.” They then sat down to dinner, and the curry changed into a kid curry. The Rání was greatly astonished when she saw the boy. She said to herself, “I cut his head off; I cut him into little pieces, and I made him into a curry, and yet he is alive!” She then went into the garden to see if his head, and nails, and feet were in the hole where she had buried them. But they were not there; it was quite empty. She then called a sepoy, and said to him, “If you will take two children into the jungle and kill them, I will give you as much money as you like.” “All right,” said the sepoy. She then brought the children, and told him to take them to the jungle. So he took them away to the jungle, but he had not the heart to kill them, for they were exceedingly beautiful, and he left them in the jungle near their dead mother’s grave. Then he returned to the Rání, saying he had done as she wished, and she gave him as much money as he wanted.

The poor Pomegranate Rájá was very unhappy when he saw his children were not in the palace, and that they could not be found. He asked his Rání where they were, but she said she did not know; they had gone out to play and had never returned. From the day he lost his children the Pomegranate Rájá became melancholy. He did not love the Rání any more; he hated her.

Meanwhile the children lived in a little house built close to their mother’s grave. God had given her life again that she might take care of them. But they did not know she was their mother; they thought she was another woman sent to take care of them. God sent also a man to teach them. Somehow or other the Rání Sunkásí heard they were still alive in the jungle. She did not know how she could kill them. So at last she pretended she was very ill, and she said to the Rájá, “The doctor says that in the jungle there are two children, and he says if you will have them killed, and will bring their livers for me to stand on when I bathe, then I shall get well.” The Rájá sent a second sepoy to kill the children, and this man killed them and brought their livers to the Rání. She stood on them while bathing, and then said she was quite well. She then threw the livers into the garden, and during the night a tree grew up there with two large beautiful flowers on it. Next morning the Rání looked out and said, “I will gather those flowers to-day.” Every day she said she would gather them, and every day she forgot. At last one day she said, “Every day I forget to gather those flowers, but to-day I really will do so,” and she sent her servant to pluck them. So he went out, and, just as he was going to gather them, the flowers flew up just out of his reach. Then the Rání went down, and when she was going to pick them they flew up so high that they could not be seen. Every day she tried to gather them, and every day they went high up, and came back again to the tree as soon as she had gone. Then the flowers disappeared and two large fruits came in their stead. The Rání looked out of her window: “Oh, what delicious fruits! I’ll eat them all myself. I won’t give a bit to anybody, and I’ll eat them by myself quite quietly.” She went down to the garden, but they flew high up into the sky, and then they came down again. So this went on, day after day, until she got so cross she ordered the tree to be cut down. But it was of no use. The tree was cut down, but the fruits flew high up into the sky, and in the night the tree grew up again and the fruits came back again to it. And so this went on for many days. Every day she cut down the tree, and every night it grew up again, but she could never get the fruits. At last she became very angry, and had the tree hewn into tiny bits and all the bits thrown away, but still the tree grew again in the night, and in the morning the fruits were hanging on it. So she went to the Rájá and told him that in the garden was a tree with two fruits, and every time she tried to get them, the fruits went up into the air. She had had the tree cut down ever so many times, and it always grew up again in the night and the fruits returned to it. “Why cannot you leave the tree alone?” said the Rájá. “But I should like to see if what you say is true.” So the Rájá and the Rání went down to the garden, and the Rání tried to get the fruits, but she could not, for they went right up into the air.

That evening the Rájá went alone to the garden to gather the fruits, and the fruits of themselves fell into his hand. He took them into his room, and putting them on a little table close to his bed, he lay down to sleep. As soon as he was in bed a little voice inside one of the fruits said, “Brother;” and a little voice in the other fruit said, “Sister, speak more gently. To-morrow the Rájá will break open the fruits, and if the Rání finds us she will kill us. Three times has God made us alive again, but if we die a fourth time he will bring us to life no more.” The Rájá listened and said, “I will break them open in a little while.” Then he went to sleep, and after a little he woke and said, “A little while longer,” and went to sleep again. Several times he woke up and said, “I will break the fruits open in a little while,” and went to sleep. At last he took a knife and began cutting the fruits open very fast, and the little boy cried, “Gently, gently, father; you hurt us!” So then the Rájá cut more gently, and he stopped to ask, “Are you hurt?” and they said, “No.” And then he cut again and asked, “Are you hurt?” and they said, “No.” And a third time he asked, “Are you hurt?” and they answered, “No.” Then the fruits broke open and his two children jumped out. They rushed into their father’s arms, and he clasped them tight, and they cried softly, that the Rání might not hear.

He shut his room up close, and fed and dressed his children, and then went out of the room, locking the door behind him. He had a little wooden house built that could easily catch fire, and as soon as it was ready he went to the Rání and said, “Will you go into a little house I have made ready for you while your room is getting repaired?” “All right,” said the Rání; so she went into the little house, and that night a man set it on fire, and the Rání and everything in it was burnt up. Then the Pomegranate Rájá took her bones, put them into a tin box, and sent them as a present to her mother. “Oh,” said the mother, “my daughter has married the Pomegranate Mahárájá, and so she sends me some delicious food.” When she opened the box, to her horror she found only bones! Then she wrote to the Mahárájá, “Of what use are bones?” The Mahárájá wrote back, “They are your bones; they belong to you, for they are your daughter’s bones. She ill-treated and killed my children, and so I had her burnt.”

The Pomegranate Rájá and his children lived very happily for some time, and their dead mother, the Gulíanár Rání, having a wish to see her husband and her children, prayed to God to let her go and visit them. God said she could go, but not in her human shape, so he changed her into a beautiful bird, and put a pin in her head, and said, “As soon as the pin is pulled out you will become a woman again.” She flew to the palace where the Mahárájá lived, and there were great trees about the palace. On one of these she perched at night. The doorkeeper was lying near it. She called out, “Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!” and he answered, “What is it? Who is it?” And she asked, “Is the Rájá well?” and the doorkeeper said, “Yes.” “Are the children well?” and he said, “Yes.” “And all the servants, and camels, and horses?” “Yes.” “Are you well?” “Yes.” “Have you had plenty of food?” “Yes.” “What a great donkey your Mahárájá is!” And then she began to cry very much, and pearls fell from her eyes as she cried. Then she began to laugh very much, and great big rubies fell from her beak as she laughed. The next morning the doorkeeper got up and felt about, and said, “What is all this?” meaning the pearls and the rubies, for he did not know what they were. “I will keep them.” So he picked them all up and put them into a corner of his house. Every night the bird came and asked after the Mahárájá and the children and the servants, and left a great many pearls and rubies behind her. At last the doorkeeper had a whole heap of pearls and rubies.

One day a Fakír came and begged, and as the doorkeeper had no pice, or flour, or rice to give, he gave him a handful of pearls and rubies. “Well,” said the Fakír to himself, “I am sure these are pearls and rubies.” So he tied them up in his cloth. Then he went to the Rájá to beg, and the Rájá gave him a handful of rice. “What!” said the Fakír, “the great Mahárájá only gives me a handful of rice when his doorkeeper gives me pearls and rubies!” and he turned to walk away. But the Mahárájá stopped him. “What did you say?” said he, “that my doorkeeper gave you pearls and rubies?” “Yes,” said the Fakír, “your doorkeeper gave me pearls and rubies.” So the Mahárájá went to the doorkeeper’s house, and when he saw all the pearls and rubies that were there, he thought the man had stolen them from his treasury. The Mahárájá had not as many pearls and rubies as his doorkeeper had. Then turning to the doorkeeper he asked him to tell him truly where and how he had got them. “Yes, I will,” said the doorkeeper. “Every night a beautiful bird comes and asks after you, after your children, after all your elephants, horses, and servants; and then it cries, and when it cries pearls drop from its eyes; and then it laughs, and rubies fall from its beak. If you come to-night I dare say you will see it.” “All right,” said the Pomegranate Rájá.

So that night the Mahárájá pulled his bed out under the tree on which the bird always perched. At night the bird came and called out, “Doorkeeper! doorkeeper!” and the doorkeeper answered, “Yes, lord.” And the bird said, “Is your Mahárájá well?” “Yes.” “Are the children well?” “Yes.” “And all his servants, horses, and camels and elephants–are they well?” “Yes.” “Are you well?” “Yes.” “Have you had plenty of food?” “Yes.” “What a fool your Mahárájá is!” And then she cried, and the pearls came tumbling down on the Mahárájá’s eyes, and the Mahárájá opened one eye and saw what a beautiful bird it was. And then it laughed, and rubies fell from its beak on to the Mahárájá. Next morning the Mahárájá said he would give any one who would catch the bird as much money as he wanted. So he called a fisherman, and asked him to bring his net and catch the bird when it came that night. The fisherman said he would for one thousand rupees. That night the fisherman, the Mahárájá, and the doorkeeper, all waited under the tree. Soon the bird came, and asked after the Mahárájá, after his children, and all his servants and elephants, and camels and horses, and then after the doorkeeper, and then it called the Mahárájá a fool. Then it cried, and then it laughed, and just as it laughed the fisherman threw the net over the bird and caught it. Then they shut it up in an iron cage, and the next morning the Mahárájá took it out and stroked it, and said, “What a sweet little bird! what a lovely little bird!” And the Mahárájá felt something like a pin in its head, and he gave a pull, and out came the pin, and then his own dear wife, the Pomegranate-flower Rání, stood before him. The Rájá was exceedingly glad, and so were his two children. And there were great rejoicings, and they lived happily ever after.

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

Phúlmati Rání, or The Flower Lady

Phúlmati Rání, a radiant princess weighing only a flower, marries Indrásan Rájá, an equally enchanting prince. Their journey unfolds with trials: betrayal by a wicked shoemaker’s wife, the Rání’s deaths and resurrections by divine intervention, and the Rájá’s regretful mistakes. Guided by magical doves, he ultimately redeems himself, recovers his wife, and ensures justice. Reunited, they return to their kingdom and live happily ever after.

Source
Indian Fairy Tales
collected and translated by Maive Stokes
Ellis & White, London, 1880

► Themes of the story

Trials and Tribulations: Both protagonists face numerous challenges, including betrayal and separation, testing their resilience and commitment.

Cunning and Deception: The shoemaker’s wife employs deceit to harm Phúlmati Rání, introducing conflict and driving the narrative forward.

Rebirth: The literal resurrection of Phúlmati Rání signifies a new beginning, emphasizing the cyclical nature of life and redemption.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní at Simla, July 25th, 1876.

There were once a Rájá and a Rání who had an only daughter called the Phúlmati Rání, or the Pink-rose Queen. She was so beautiful that if she went into a very dark room it was all lighted up by her beauty. On her head was the sun; on her hands, moons; and her face was covered with stars. She had hair that reached to the ground, and it was made of pure gold.

Every day after she had had her bath, her father and mother used to weigh her in a pair of scales. She only weighed one flower. She ate very, very little food.

► Continue reading…

This made her father most unhappy, and he said, “I cannot let my daughter marry any one who weighs more than one flower.” Now, God loved this girl dearly, so he went down under the ground to see if any of the fairy Rájás was fit to be the Phúlmati Rání’s husband, and he thought none of them good enough. So he went in the form of a Fakír to see the great Indrásan Rájá who ruled over all the other fairy Rájás. This Rájá was exceedingly beautiful. On his head was the sun; and on his hands, moons; and on his face, stars. God made him weigh very little. Then he said to the Rájá, “Come up with me, and we will go to the palace of the Phúlmati Rání.” God had told the Rájá that he was God and not a Fakír, for he loved the Indrásan Rájá. “Very well,” said the Indrásan Rájá. So they travelled on until they came to the Phúlmati Rání’s palace. When they arrived there they pitched a tent in her compound, and they used to walk about, and whenever they saw the Phúlmati Rání they looked at her. One day they saw her having her hair combed, so God said to the Indrásan Rájá, “Get a horse and ride where the Phúlmati Rání can see you, and if any one asks you who you are, say, ‘Oh, it’s only a poor Fakír, and I am his son. We have come to stay here a little while just to see the country. We will go away very soon.'” Well, he got a horse and rode about, and Phúlmati Rání, who was having her hair combed in the verandah, said, “I am sure that must be some Rájá; only see how beautiful he is.” And she sent one of her servants to ask him who he was. So the servant said to the Indrásan Rájá, “Who are you? why are you here? what do you want?” “Oh, it’s only a poor Fakír, and I am his son. We have just come here for a little while to see the country. We will go away very soon.” So the servants returned to the Phúlmati Rání and told her what the Indrásan Rájá had said. The Phúlmati Rání told her father about this. The next day, when the Phúlmati Rání and her father were standing in the verandah, God took a pair of scales and weighed the Indrásan Rájá in them. His weight was only that of one flower! “Oh,” said the Rájá, when he saw that, “here is the husband for the Phúlmati Rání!” The next day, after the Phúlmati Rání had had her bath, her father took her and weighed her, and he also weighed the Indrásan Rájá. And they were each the same weight. Each weighed one flower, although the Indrásan Rájá was fat and the Phúlmati Rání thin. The next day they were married, and there was a grand wedding. God said he was too poor-looking to appear, so he bought a quantity of elephants, and camels, and horses, and cows, and sheep, and goats, and made a procession, and came to the wedding. Then he went back to heaven, but before he went he said to the Indrásan Rájá “You must stay here one whole year; then go back to your father and to your kingdom. As long as you put flowers on your ears no danger will come near you.” (This was in order that the fairies might know that he was a very great Rájá and not hurt him.) “All right,” said the Indrásan Rájá. And God went back to heaven.

So the Indrásan Rájá stayed for a whole year. Then he told the Rájá, the Phúlmati Rání’s father, that he wished to go back to his own kingdom. “All right,” said the Rájá, and he wanted to give him horses, and camels, and elephants. But the Indrásan Rájá and the Phúlmati Rání said they wanted nothing but a tent and a cooly. Well, they set out; but the Indrásan Rájá forgot to put flowers on his ears, and after some days the Indrásan Rájá was very, very tired, so he said, “We will sit down under these big trees and rest awhile. Our baggage will soon be here; it is only a little way behind.” So they sat down, and the Rájá said he felt so tired he must sleep. “Very well,” said the Rání; “lay your head in my lap and sleep.” After a while a shoemaker’s wife came by to get some water from a tank which was close to the spot where the Rájá and Rání were resting. Now, the shoemaker’s wife was very black and ugly, and she had only one eye, and she was exceedingly wicked. The Rání was very thirsty and she said to the woman, “Please give me some water, I am so thirsty.” “If you want any,” said the shoemaker’s wife, “come to the tank and get it yourself.” “But I cannot,” said the Rání, “for the Rájá is sleeping in my lap.” At last the poor Rání got so very, very thirsty, she said she must have some water; so laying the Rájá’s head very gently on the ground she went to the tank. Then the wicked shoemaker’s wife, instead of giving her to drink, gave her a push and sent the beautiful Rání into the water, where she was drowned. The shoemaker’s wife then went back to the Rájá, and, taking his head on her knee, sat still until he woke. When the Rájá woke he was much frightened, and he said, “This is not my wife. My wife was not black, and she had two eyes.” The poor Rájá felt very unhappy. He said, “I am sure something has happened to my wife.” He went to the tank, and he saw flowers floating on the water and he caught them, and as he caught them his own true wife stood before him.

They travelled on till they came to a little house. The shoemaker’s wife went with them. They went into the house and laid themselves down to sleep, and the Rájá laid beside him the flowers he had found floating in the tank. The Rání’s life was in the flowers. As soon as the Rájá and Rání were asleep, the shoemaker’s wife took the flowers, broke them into little bits, and burnt them. The Rání died immediately, for the second time. Then the poor Rájá, feeling very lonely and unhappy, travelled on to his kingdom, and the shoemaker’s wife went after him. God brought the Phúlmati Rání to life a second time, and led her to the Indrásan Rájá’s gardener.

One day as the Indrásan Rájá was going out hunting, he passed by the gardener’s house, and saw a beautiful girl sitting in it. He thought she looked very like his wife, the Phúlmati Rání. So he went home to his father and said, “Father, I should like to be married to the girl who lives in our gardener’s house.” “All right,” said the father; “you can be married at once.” So they were married the next day.

One night the shoemaker’s wife took a ram, killed it, and put some of its blood on the Phúlmati Rání’s mouth while the Rání slept. The next morning she went to the Indrásan Rájá and said, “Whom have you married? You have married a Rakshas. Just see. She has been eating cows, and sheep, and chickens. Just come and see.” The Rájá went, and when he saw the blood on his wife’s mouth he was frightened, and he thought she was really a Rakshas. The shoemaker’s wife said to him, “If you do not cut this woman in pieces, some harm will happen to you.” So the Rájá took a knife and cut his beautiful wife into pieces. He then went away very sorrowful. The Phúlmati Rání’s arms and legs grew into four houses; her chest became a tank, and her head a house in the middle of the tank; her eyes turned into two little doves; and these five houses, the tank and the doves, were transported to the jungle. No one knew this. The little doves lived in the house that stood in the middle of the tank. The other four houses stood round the tank.

One day when the Indrásan Rájá was hunting by himself in the jungle he was very tired, and he saw the house in the tank. So he said, “I will go into that house to rest a little while, and to-morrow I will return home to my father.” So, tying his horse outside, he went into the house and lay down to sleep. By and by, the two little birds came and perched on the roof above his head. They began to talk, and the Rájá listened. The little husband-dove said to his wife, “This is the man who cut his wife to pieces.” And then he told her how the Indrásan Rájá had married the beautiful Phúlmati Rání, who weighed only one flower, and how the shoemaker’s wife had drowned her; how God had brought her to life again; how the shoemaker’s wife had burned her; and last of all, how the Rájá himself had cut her to pieces. “And cannot the Rájá find her again?” said the little wife-dove. “Oh, yes, he can,” said her husband, “but he does not know how to do so.” “But do tell me how he can find her,” said the little wife-dove. “Well,” said her husband, “every night, at twelve o’clock, the Rání and her servants come to bathe in the tank. Her servants wear yellow dresses, but she wears a red one. Now, if the Rájá could get all their dresses, every one, when they lay them down and go into the tank to bathe, and throw away all the yellow dresses one by one, keeping only the red one, he would recover his wife.” The Rájá heard all these things, and at midnight the Rání and her servants came to bathe. The Rájá lay very quiet, and after they all had taken off their dresses and gone into the tank, he jumped up and seized every one of the dresses,–he did not leave one of them,–and ran away as hard as he could. Then each of the servants, who were only fairies, screamed out, “Give me my dress! What are you doing? why do you take it away?” Then the Rájá dropped one by one the yellow dresses and kept the red one. The fairy servants picked up the dresses, and forsook the Phúlmati Rání and ran away. The Rájá came back to her with her dress in his hand, and she said, “Oh, give me back my dress. If you keep it I shall die. Three times has God brought me to life, but he will bring me to life no more.” The Rájá fell at her feet and begged her pardon, and they were reconciled. And he gave her back her dress. Then they went home, and Indrásan Rájá had the shoemaker’s wife cut to pieces, and buried in the jungle. And they lived happily ever after.

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

A Bought Dream

Sarsembai, an orphan boy, embarks on a journey of resilience, kindness, and courage. From enduring harsh hardships to saving Altyn-kyz from a wicked witch, he triumphs against all odds. Along the way, his compassion for creatures earns him their loyalty. His bravery leads to love, family, and prosperity, fulfilling a dream he once purchased. Ultimately, Sarsembai’s selflessness transforms his fortune into abundance for his entire community.

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: Sarsembai embarks on a transformative journey, facing numerous challenges that lead to personal growth and fulfillment.

Cunning and Deception: Throughout his adventure, Sarsembai encounters situations requiring wit and cleverness to overcome obstacles and adversaries.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts values of kindness, resilience, and the rewards of compassion and bravery.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Kazakh people

Retold by Evgenia Malyug
Translated by Olga Shartse

Sarsembai was an orphan. Both his father and mother were dead, and the boy had to earn his own bread. The local bei hired him as a shepherd boy, and promised to give him a lame sheep for his work when autumn came. It wasn’t much, but it was something anyway. And so Sarsembai tended the flock, ate the master’s leftovers, and waited for autumn to come.

“Come autumn, I’ll be given that lame sheep for my own and then at last I’ll find out what mutton tastes like,” dreamed the boy.

One day he was driving the flock to another pasture when suddenly a wolf sprang out from behind a bush, and said:

► Continue reading…

“Give me a sheep. Just one. If you don’t, I’ll kill ten.”

“How can I give you a sheep? This flock isn’t mine. The master will kill me if there’s one sheep missing.”

The wolf thought for a minute, and then said:

“I’m terribly hungry. Go to your master and ask him to give me a sheep.”

Sarsembai went to his master and told him everything. The bei reasoned that ten sheep were more than one sheep, and one sheep cost less than ten. And so he told Sarsembai:

“Let him take one sheep. Only he must not choose. Blindfold him, and the sheep he grabs he can take.”

Sarsembai did as his master told him. The blindfolded wolf rushed into the thick of the flock, grabbed one sheep with his teeth. There is a saying: a stick thrown into the desert will anyway find some poor wretch to hit. And, true enough, it was Sarsembai’s promised lame sheep that the wolf grabbed. The boy burst into tears. The wolf felt sorry for him and said:

“It’s too bad, but that’s the kind of luck you have. Look, Ill leave you the sheep’s hide, so you can sell it to someone and make a little money.”

Sarsembai picked up the sheep’s hide from the ground, flung it over his shoulder, and drove on the flock.

Down the hill came the bei on a red pacer. Standing up on his stirrups he started counting the sheep. They were all there except for the lame sheep he had promised Sarsembai. Behind the flock came Sarsembai with a shepherd’s crook in his hand, a sheep’s hide flung over his shoulder, and tears pouring down his face.

The bei gave such a roar of laughter that his startled pacer lurched on his feet.

“Some shepherd I have! You couldn’t even watch your one sheep! You’ll lose my whole flock like that. Get out of my sight!”

And poor Sarsembai trudged across the steppe, following the shadow cast by his shepherd’s crook.

After some time he came to a strange town, and there found the bazaar. He hung about in the crowd for hours, but no one wanted to buy his sheep’s hide. It was late in the evening when at last he managed to sell it to someone for three coins.

“For the three coins I’ll buy three flat cakes, and they’ll last me three days. After that, come what may.”

He made for the bread stalls, but on the way he came upon a sick old man who was begging alms. Sarsembai gave him one coin, which left him with only two.

The old beggar nodded his thanks, then he bent down, scooped up some sand and held it out to the boy.

“Take this for your kindness,” he said.

Sarsembai thought the old beggar was not all there, but he did not want to hurt his feelings and so accepted the sand and poured it into his pocket.

Night fell. It grew quite dark. Sarsembai went to the caravanserai and asked the owner to let him stay the night. The owner would not let him stay for free, and demanded payment. And so Sarsembai had to give him one of his two remaining coins.

The owner laid down carpets and felts for his lodgers to sleep on, but as for Sarsembai, he told him to lie down on the bare ground. The ground was cold and hard, Sarsembai was hungry, and when he did fall asleep he had bad dreams.

At daybreak the caravanserai came awake, the merchants who had stayed the night started loading their bags of goods on to their camels out in the yard, and Sarsembai heard them talking as they moved about their business.

“I had a wonderful dream,” one of the merchants said. “I dreamt that I was lying like a khan on a gorgeous divan, the bright sun was leaning over me, and a young silver moon was playing on my chest.”

Sarsembal went up to the merchant and said:

“I’ve never had a good dream in my whole life. Please, sell me your dream, and let it be mine.”

“Sell my dream?” the merchant asked, laughing. “Very well. What will you pay me?”

“I have one coin. Here it is.”

“Hand it over!” cried the merchant. “My dream is yours now, little fellow.”

The merchant roared with laughter, and everyone who had watched the scene joined in. And Sarsembai, delighted with his purchase, left the caravanserai, hopping as he went.

Sarsembai walked near and far, he came to many villages, but nowhere was there work for him, no one offered him shelter or a bowl of soup.

Winter came. One dark, cold night Sarsembai was plodding across the steppe, blowing on his frozen fingers. He swayed like a reed in the vicious wind, and the blizzard made him go round in circles. Sarsembai was crying, and his tears froze on his cheeks. Too weak to go on, he fell on a snowdrift and cried in despair:

“Better fall prey to the wolves than suffer this misery any longer!”

The moment he had spoken those words, a huge wolf appeared from the darkness, his eyes burning and the fur bristling on his neck.

“Some food at last!” he wailed. “Won’t my cubs be happy!”

“Kill me, wolf. Let your cubs be happy,” Sarsembai said in a weak voice. “I’d rather die than live…”

The wolf made no move. He stood peering at the boy, and then he said: |

“Is it you, Sarsembai, who once let me take a sheep? I’ve recognised you. Don’t be afraid, I shan’t touch you, and maybe I’ll save your life too. Climb on to my back and hold tight!”

Sarsembai climbed on to the wolf’s back, and the wolf carried him across the snow-drifted steppe. He brought him to the edge of a dense forest and said:

“See that little light, Sarsembai? It’s a bonfire. A band of robbers had been camping there. They have now ridden on their way and won’t be back soon. Go and warm yourself at their fire. And perhaps it won’t be so cold tomorrow… Goodbye!”

The wolf vanished, and Sarsembai ran to the fire. He warmed himself and even appeased his: hunger a little by gnawing the bones the robbers had left on the ground near the fire. He felt so happy that he could sing. It doesn’t take much to cheer up a poor beggar, does it?

The sky paled, and the fire went out. When the coals had turned black, Sarsembai thrust his hands into the warm cinders. It was lovely and warm! And as he pushed his hands deeper and deeper, his fingers came upon some hard object. Sarsembai pulled it out and gasped! It was a golden casket. His heart hammered excitedly.

He raised the lid, and in that very moment the first sunray fell right on it. Sarsembai cried out and shut his dazzled eyes: the casket was filled with diamonds!

He clutched his treasure to his chest and ran into the forest as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Oh, to reach people quickly!” he was thinking. “I’ll live like a bei now! These riches will be enough for a hundred people.”

The forest was growing denser and denser. It was a creepy place, and Sarsembai was afraid he’d never find his way out of the impenetrable thickets.

“What am I going to do with my treasures in this dark, terrible forest?” .

Suddenly, the pale sky showed between the trees, and Sarsembai came out of the forest into a wide glade. In the middle of the glade, near a stream that never froze, stood a handsome yurt covered with white felts.

“What kind of people live here, I wonder?” Sarsembai was thinking. “Will they be good or mean to a ragged beggar boy?”

He hid his casket in the hollow of an ancient oak tree, and went into the yurt.

“Good morming,” he said.

A fire was burning in the yurt, and crouching before it sat a little girl, deep in thought. At the sound of the stranger’s voice she sprang up and stared at Sarsembai in fright and amazement.

“Who are you, what brings you here?” the girl asked at last.

Sarsembai gazed at the girl and could not utter a word, for he had never seen anyone so beautiful, a lovely princess only the bards sing of in their legends. But her eyes were sad, her pretty face was whiter than snow: some terrible grief must have befallen her.

Sarsembai pulled himself together and told her:

“I am Sarsembai, an orphan. I’ve been wandering about the land in search of work, food and a roof over my head, but I lost my way in the forest and happened upon this yurt. And who are you?”

The girl stepped close to him and, trembling all over, spoke:

“My name is Altyn-kyz, and there isn’t an unhappier girl in the whole world. But why should you worry about me, Sarsembai, when you yourself are in terrible danger… Run for your life from here, run if you can find your way out of this horrible forest. Do you know where your misfortune has brought you? This is the yurt of the bloodthirsty Zhalmawiz-Kempir. She’ll be back any minute. You won’t have a chance… Run then, before it’s too late!”

A loud thudding, crackling and snapping came from outside. The little girl turned paler still.

“It is too late!” she whispered in horror and, grabbing Sarsembai by the hand, pulled him away from the hearth and hid him under some felts.

Through a slit between the felts Sarsembai saw the door flung wide open and the frightening Zhalmawiz-Kempir stomping into the yurt. This monster of a witch had thick red lips, a beak of a nose, and fangs like a she-wolf. She swept the yurt with her mean little purblind eyes, squatted in front of the fire and stretched her bony black fingers to the flames. She sat like that for some time, wheezing heavily, while the little girl stood out of her reach, numbed by fear.

When the witch had warmed her bones enough, she snarled:

“Altyn-kyz, come here.”

Trembling like a leaf, the little girl made a small step and stopped, but the old witch grabbed her with her claw-like fingers and drew her close.

Altyn-kyz moaned with pain. Sarsembai clenched his fists and would have pounced on the mean old witch, but just then she pushed the girl away and screamed at her:

“Nasty brat! Growing paler and skinnier with every day! Don’t you know what I’m keeping you in my yurt for? I should have eaten you long ago, but I keep putting it off, waiting for you to come to your senses and start putting on flesh. Mark my words: if when I return tomorrow I find you as skinny as you are now, I’ll fry you alive on this fire here!”

The old witch flopped on her bed and started snoring. Poor Altyn-kyz cried all night long, crouching in front of the fire.

In the morning, the witch repeated her threat to the girl, took her crook and left the yurt. There was a great noise outside, a thudding, crackling and snapping, and then with the witch’s departure everything grew quiet again.

Sarsembai crawled out from under the felts and asked the girl to tell him how she had fallen into the clutches of the witch.

“I lived in my home village with my father and mother in happiness and in plenty,” Altyn-kyz began. “Once, my parents went away to visit friends, and my father said to me in parting: ‘Be a good girl, Altyn-kyz, don’t go outside and don’t let any strangers in.’ It was dull staying indoors all by myself, and so I went outside. A crowd of my girl-friends were off to the steppe to pick flowers, and they asked me to come with them. And I did go, stupid me. There I was picking flowers when a very old woman came towards me, leaning on her crook. ‘My, what a lovely girl, my, what a beauty!’ she said to me. ‘Is your home far?’ And I replied: ‘No, it’s very near, there’s our yurt over there.’ And she said: ‘Take me home with you and give me a drink of fresh water, child.’ I didn’t think there was anything wrong, and so I took her home and gave her some water. But she just sat there, gazing and gazing at me. ‘My, what a lovely girl, my, what a beauty! Come, let me comb your hair for you.’ I laid my head on her knee, she took out a golden comb and started combing out my hair. And all of a sudden I felt so sleepy. I closed my eyes and fell fast asleep. I don’t know how long I slept, only I came awake in this yurt. It was many days ago. Since then I haven’t seen anyone except this Zhalmawiz-Kempir, my torturer. And every day I think is my last.”

When she had finished her story, she again implored Sarsembai to escape while the going was good, begging him with tears.

But Sarsembai only smiled gently in response, then he put his arms round Altyn-kyz like a big brother, and said:

“I’ll never abandon you, Altyn-kyz. We shall run away together.”

“Oh, thank.you, Sarsembai, for your kind words, but it is not to be. If we run away, Zhalmawiz-Kempir will overtake us, and if she doesn’t overtake us we’ll die anyway, freezing to death in the snow.”

“We’ll wait till spring and then run away…” said Sarsembai.

Altyn-kyz sighed sadly. “The brave are often reckless,” she said. “You must have forgotten that I’m to be fried alive today.”

“No, Altyn-kyz, you won’t be!” the boy cried hotly. “I’ve thought it all out. The witch may be cunning, but we’ll try to outwit her. It’s dark inside the yurt, Ill put on your dress and let the witch feel me instead of you. I’m bigger and fatter than you. Maybe she’ll be taken in, and we’ll survive until it gets warmer.”

Altyn-kyz would not hear of the risk which Sarsembai wanted to run for her, but he stood his ground.

“If you don’t listen to reason, I’ll attack the old witch this very evening and be the first of us to die when she sinks her sharp fangs into me!” he told Altyn-kyz.

She had to give in then. They changed clothes, Altyn- kyz hid under the felts, and Sarsembai sat down in front of the hearth in her usual place.

Again there was a great noise outside—a thudding, a crackling, and a snapping—and the red-lipped monster stomped into the yurt.

She warmed her hands at the fire, and then snarled:

“Altyn-kyz, come here.”

Sarsembai stepped forward bravely. She looked him up and down with her mean little purblind eyes, and mumbled:

“You do seem to have grown a bit.”

She felt him all over, pinched him, and said with a nasty snicker:

“Aren’t you a sly thing! I’ve long guessed that you were making a fool of me. I only had to give you a proper scare, for you to change at once. Oh well, if that’s how it is, you can live a little longer, fattening up…”

Time flowed on—days and nights full of fear for the boy and girl.

Spring came at last. The stream began to babble merrily, the birds began to twitter, and the flowers to open out.

“Dear Altyn-kyz, we must get ready to run,” Sarsembai said to the girl. “I’ve noticed that the witch has grown fiercer than ever: could she have guessed that you’re planning to escape? If she finds out about me, then it’ll be the end for both of us. I’ll make a bow and arrow, go into the forest, bag game enough to last us the journey, I’ll return in three days’ time and then we’ll run away.”

“Do what you think best, Sarsembai, you know best,” Altyn-kyz replied with tears in her eyes. “Only be careful, and come back safe and sound.”

“Don’t cry, Altyn-kyz, don’t worry about me,” Sarsembai said to her. “When you feel lonely, go to the stream and look at the water: if you see goose feathers floating along then you’ll know that all’s well with me and I am sending you my greetings from afar.”

Altyn-kyz walked with him a little way, and then hurried back in case the witch returmed before her usual time and found the yurt empty.

Sarsembai followed the stream, going farther and farther away.

That first day he shot three wild geese. He plucked them and sent the feathers floating along the stream. The second day he shot three wild geese again, and sent the feathers floating on the water.

On the third day he saw a baby deer standing in the middle of a glade with a flock of black ravens hovering over him with a noisy flapping of wings and a greedy croaking. The ravens wanted to pluck out the poor thing’s eyes. Sarsembai shooed away the ravens, frightening them off. And here the father deer came loping across the glade.

“Thank you, Sarsembai,” he said to the boy. “I’ll also do you a good turn one day.”

Sarsembai went on, and suddenly he heard a piteous bleating, and guessed that it came from a hole in the ground. He looked down, and there was a little lamb, bleating, thrashing about and vainly trying to climb out.

Sarsembai pulled out the poor thing, and there the old father ram came running.

“Thank you, Sarsembai,” he said. “I’ll also do you a good turn one day.”

On went Sarsembai. Suddenly he heard a tiny squeak almost under his feet. It was an eagle chick that had fallen out of the nest. The boy felt sorry for the poor thing, picked it up and put it back in the nest.

Here, the old father eagle flew down to him.

“Thank you, Sarsembai. I’ll also do you a good turn one day,” he told the boy.

That day Sarsembai did not bag any game, and the sun was already setting. His heart sank as he remembered that he had not thrown a single feather on the water yet, and what poor Altyn-kyz must be thinking. He turned and ran back to the witch’s yurt as fast as he could.

Altyn-kyz, missing him sorely and feeling very lonely, had been going to the stream every day, hurrying there as soon as the witch left on her business. She’d see the goose feathers floating on the water, and smile, knowing that all was well with Sarsembai.

On the third day, she came to the stream and there were no feathers floating on the water. Altyn-kyz stood there gazing at the stream and waiting for an hour, another hour, and yet another hour, and still there was not a feather to see. She fell down on the ground, covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

“Sarsembai is no more! I’d have died a thousand deaths only so that he’d live and be happy… And now he’s dead, kind, brave, Sarsembai!”

She was sobbing her heart out, too overcome with grief to see that Zhalmawiz-Kempir was stealing up to her, shaking with rage. The old witch grabbed the girl by the shoulders and dragged her to the yurt.

“You thought you’d play a trick on me, did you!” she snarled. “I’ve found you out now. Run away, would you? You found someone to help you, did you! Forget it, girl: you won’t get away from me and no one will rescue you. Your end has come. I’ll eat you alive with my bare teeth!”

Suddenly, the door was thrown wide, and on the threshold stood Sarsembai. Altyn-kyz threw her arms round his neck, but the old witch still held her fast in her clutches.

“Listen, Zhalmawiz-Kempir,” shouted Sarsembai. “If you let Altyn-kyz go I’ll pay you a rich ransom for her.”

“A ransom? What ransom can you give me, you ragged beggar?”

Sarsembai fetched the casket from the hollow in the ancient oak, and raised the lid for the old witch to see. The sight of the diamonds made her howl from greed, her hands itched to seize them and she slackened her hold on the girl.

“Take her, take the girl, and hand over your stones!”

But Sarsembai was no simpleton, and he was not going to put the casket into the old witch’s hands.

“Here are the stones, pick them up, old witch!” he said, and scattered the diamonds all over the floor. As they rolled this way and that they sparkled like stars. Zhalmawiz-Kempir dropped down on all fours and started picking them up, and Sarsembai, taking his chance, caught Altyn-kyz’s hand and together they dashed out of the yurt.

They ran across the meadow, then they ran through the forest, afraid to pause for breath or look back. The branches whipped their faces, the dry twigs scratched them, and great old tree roots blocked their path. Altyn-kyz was at her last gasp, her poor feet were blistered and wounded by the stones and prickles, her braids had got undone, and sweat poured down her face.

Suddenly they heard a seas noise behind them: trees turned out by the root, the earth quaking. Zhalmawiz- Kempir hard in pursuit.

“We must run faster, Altyn-kyz,” Sarsembai begged her. “Our legs are our only hope.”

“I can’t go on, Sarsembai,” Altyn-kyz pleaded. “I feel dizzy, my knees are giving way. Go on without me. While Zhalmawiz-Kempir is eating me you’ll go a long way to safety…”

“What are you saying, Altyn-kyz! I’ll never abandon you. You’re all I have in the world.”

So on they ran together. And Zhalmawiz-Kempir was already gaining on them. They could already hear her voice, cursing them and threatening: “I’ll catch you anyway! Ill eat you alive anyway!”

Altyn-kyz’s legs gave way, she could hardly breathe and whispered:

“Goodbye, Sarsembai… Leave me, save your own life… There’s no help for me now…”

Sarsembai burst into tears.

“No, if we must die, we’ll die together.”

He picked up Altyn-kyz, hoisted her on his back, and ran on, gasping painfully.

Suddenly the old father deer appeared before them, and said:

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sarsembai. Climb on to my back and clutch my neck: the old witch will never outrun me.”

In minutes he brought them to a tall mountain and said:

“Zhalmawiz-Kempir won’t find you here.”

The children sat down on the ground, close to one another, but before they could get their breath back they saw the old witch coming straight at them, howling and shrieking, and raising great clouds of dust.

Sarsembai jumped to his feet, shielded Altyn-kyz with his body, picked up a sharp stone and prepared to fight for their lives.

And here the old father ram suddenly appeared from nowhere, and said:

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sarsembai. Get on my back, children, take hold of my horns, and I’ll take you out of the old witch’s reach.”

When Zhalmawiz-Kempir got to the mountain, the boy and the girl were already on the very top. Enraged, the old witch started gnawing at the mountain with her teeth and scraping at it with her claws. The mountain began to sway, and in a moment it would collapse.

And here the old father eagle came flying down to the children, and said:

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sarsembai. Quickly, climb on to my wings, and I’ll take you to safety.”

The children jumped on to his wings, and just as the eagle took off the mountain collapsed and buried the cruel witch under.

The eagle flew all that day and all that night. He flew under the clouds and above the clouds. At last he alighted in the middle of the steppe near a village.

Altyn-kyz stepped down, looked about her and cried in delight:

“Why, it’s my own home village!”

Her father and mother came running out of their yurt, they hugged and kissed their little daughter, asking her anxiously all the time:

“Where have you been, Altyn-kyz? Who had carried you off? Whom must we thank for your rescue?”

Altyn-kyz told them the whole story, and pointed to Sarsembai:

“This is my rescuer!”

Sarsembai was too embarrassed to raise his eyes. He stood before Altyn-kyz’s parents, a beggar boy in dirty rags, barefoot, and covered with scratches.

The parents took him by the arms, brought him into their yurt, made him change into good clothes, and seated him in the place of honour.

“Stay with us, dear Sarsembai, stay with us for good. We shall cherish you like a child and esteem you like a white-bearded sage.”

Sarsembai stayed in the village, and he and Altyn-kyz were always together. They shared everything—work, leisure, joys and sorrows. Years passed. In the whole steppe there was no djigit braver and worthier than Sarsembai, and in the whole world there was no girl lovelier and sweeter than Altyn-kyz. When they came of age, they married and became happier still. In time, a child was born to them, it was a son—the father’s pride, and the mother’s delight.

One day his work done, Sarsembai was lying on the fragrant steppe grass, beside him sat Altyn-kyz, and their baby son was playing on his chest. Sarsembai laughed happily and sald:

“My old dream has come true, the dream I once bought for a coin from a merchant at the caravanserai. People, come and look: here I’m lying on a gorgeous divan—the sacred soil of my motherland, the bright sun is smiling at me—that’s you, my beloved Altyn-kyz, and the young moon is playing on my chest, that’s our darling son, our firstborn… There isn’t a khan who wouldn’t envy me at this moment!”

Remembering his miserable childhood, Sarsembai said he’d like to take another look at the rags in which he left the bei, went wandering about the land, and met his Altyn-kyz in the yurt of the bloodthirsty old witch. His wife brought him the small, tattered coat. Sarsembai took it in his hands, and sighed: there was no counting the holes and the patches on it. There was a pocket too, and it wasn’t empty… There was something in it, but what? He thrust his hand in and felt sand. Now, he remembered the old beggar at the bazzar giving him that sand-in gratitude for his coin, and with a sigh he scattered the sand on the wind. The wind picked up the light grains of sand and strewed them over the steppe. And instantly all over the boundless steppe there appeared countless herds of cattle and horses, and flocks of sheep: the grains of sand turned into powerful camels, mettlesome horses, milch cows and fat sheep.

The villagers poured out of doors, exclaiming in wonder: “Whose herds are they? Whose fabulous riches are these?” And Sarsembai replied:

“They belong to you and me, to all of us.”

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

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.

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 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