Category: Asia

Clever Ashik

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Kyrgyz people

Retold by Dmitri Brudnyi
Translated by Olga Shartse

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

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

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

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

Ashik took the frog and carried it to the lake.

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

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

Ashik dropped the pebble in his pocket and went home.

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

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

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

“The wickedness that Karakhan is planning now…”

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

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

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

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

“Send me.”

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

“Did you hear Karakhan’s conditions?”

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

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

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

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

Everyone froze from terror.

And Ashik replied very calmly:

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

At this, Karakhan screamed more furiously still:

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

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

The khan grew angrier than ever.

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

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

And then Karakhan said with a nasty grin:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guards flew to do the khan’s bidding.

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

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

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

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

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

“Bring my tulpar,” he ordered his servants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which Was the Biggest?

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Kyrgyz people

Retold by Mikhail Bulatov
Translated by Irina Zheleznova

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he added, as he bade the horseman goodbye:

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

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

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

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

The middle brother thanked the horseman.

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

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

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

And he slowed his steps.

But the horseman did not stop and rode on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the villagers went and found forty doctors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just then a young woman came up to them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was it the bull?

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

Was it the eagle?

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

Was it the goat?

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

Was it the goatherd?

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

Was it the fox?

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

Was it the baby?

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

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

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

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

Three Brothers

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Uzbek people

Retold by Serghei Palastrov
Translated by Olga Shartse

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

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

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

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

And on this, their father rose and left them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus passed the first night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He talked so cleverly that the chieftain replied:

“You did well to come to us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, the Shah sent for the gardener.

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

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

“Your life will be spared. Speak up.”

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

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

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

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

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

And Tonguch-batyr replied:

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

But the Shah insisted:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Story of the Parrot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it was his own mother who spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Sad Story of the Yaoya’s Daughter

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

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

So he told this tale:

► Continue reading…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes grew large and burning bright.

“Alas! poor maid,” said her father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is your lover?” said the judge.

Then she told him.

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

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

“Nay, lord,” she answered.

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

“Lord,” she said, “I am fifteen.”

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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Karma

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

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

► Continue reading…

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

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

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

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

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

“Your mistress?” said Tatewaki.

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

“Because I am come?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he answered, “I have come.”

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

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

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

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

Here the two held converse together.

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

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

“Alas! what is this?” cried Tatewaki.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the sun was up he arose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will she be glad?” said Tatewaki.

“The time has been long.”

“Long and very weary,” said Tatewaki.

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

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

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

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

The Moon Maiden

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

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

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

► Continue reading…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lord, I cannot,” she said.

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

“Wait and see, lord,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The mist descends,” said Také Tori.

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

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

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

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

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

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Hana-Saka-Jiji

A kind old couple, despite their poverty, discovers a treasure with the help of their loyal dog, inspiring envy in their greedy neighbors. The neighbors’ attempts to replicate their fortune end in disaster, leading to the dog’s tragic death. However, the good couple finds new magical blessings, while the bad couple faces humiliation and punishment. Ultimately, goodness is rewarded, and the virtuous live happily ever after.

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

► Themes of the story

Good vs. Evil: The narrative contrasts the virtuous old couple with their envious neighbors, highlighting the moral dichotomy between kindness and greed.

Sacrifice: The loyal dog sacrifices itself, leading to subsequent events that test the characters’ virtues.

Transformation: The withered cherry tree miraculously blooms, symbolizing renewal and the power of goodness.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

In the early days there lived a good old couple. All their lives long they had been honest and hard-working, but they had always been poor. Now in their old age it was all they could do to make both ends meet, the poor old creatures. But they didn’t complain, not a bit. They were merry as the day is long. If they ever went to bed cold or hungry they said nothing about it, and if they had bite or sup in the house you may be sure they shared it with their dog, for they were very fond of him. He was faithful, good, and clever. One evening the old man and the old woman went out to do a bit of digging in their garden, and the dog went with them.

► Continue reading…

While they were working the dog was sniffing the ground, and presently he began to scratch up the earth with his paws.

“What can the dog be about now?” says the old woman.

“Oh, just nothing at all,” says the old man; “he’s playing.”

“It’s more than playing,” says the old woman. “It’s my belief he’s found something worth having.”

So off she went to see what the dog would be at, and the old man followed her and leaned on his spade. Sure enough the dog had dug a pretty big hole by this time, and he went on scratching with his paws for dear life and barking short and sharp. The old man helped with his spade, and before long they came on a big box of hidden treasure, silver and gold and jewels and rich stuffs.

It is easy to believe that the good old couple were glad. They patted their clever dog, and he jumped up and licked their faces. After this they carried the treasure into the house. The dog ran to and fro and barked.

Now, next door to the good old couple lived another old couple, not so good as they, but envious and discontented. When the dog found the hidden treasure they looked through a hole in the bamboo hedge and saw the whole affair. Do you think they were pleased? Why, not a bit of it. They were so angry and envious that they could get no pleasure by day nor rest at night.

At last the bad old man came to the good old man.

“I’ve come to ask for the loan of your dog,” he says.

“With all my heart,” says the good old man; “take him and welcome.”

So the bad old man took the dog and brought him to their best room. And the bad old man and his wife put a supper, of all manner of fine things to eat, before the dog, and bade him fall to.

“Honourable Dog,” they said, “you are good and wise, eat and afterwards find us treasure.”

But the dog would not eat.

“All the more left for us,” said the greedy old couple, and they ate up the dog’s supper in a twinkling. Then they tied a string round his neck and dragged him into the garden to find treasure. But never a morsel of treasure did he find, nor a glint of gold, nor a shred of rich stuff.

“The devil’s in the beast,” cries the bad old man, and he beat the dog with a big stick. Then the dog began to scratch up the earth with his paws.

“Oho! Oho!” says the bad old man to his wife, “now for the treasure.”

But was it treasure that the dog dug up? Not a bit of it. It was a heap of loathly rubbish, too bad to tell of. But they say it smelt most vilely and the bad old couple were fain to run away, hiding their noses with their sleeves.

“Arah, arah!” they cried, “the dog has deceived us.” And that very night they killed the poor dog and buried him at the foot of a tall pine tree.

Alack for the good old man and the good old woman when they heard the dog was gone! It was they that wept the bitter tears. They pulled flowers and strewed them on the poor dog’s grave. They burned incense and they spread out good things to eat, and the vapour that rose from them comforted the poor dog’s spirit.

Then the good old man cut down the pine tree, and made a mortar of its wood. He put rice in the mortar and pounded the rice with a pestle.

“Wonder of wonders,” cried the old woman, who was looking on, “wonder of wonders, good man, our rice is all turned into broad gold pieces!”

So it was sure enough.

Presently, in comes the bad old man to ask for the loan of the mortar.

“For I’m needing a mortar something very special,” says he.

“Take it,” says the good old man; “I’m sure you’re welcome.”

So the bad old man took away the mortar under his arm, and when he had got it home he filled it with rice in a twinkling. And he pounded away at it for dear life’s sake.

“Do you see any gold coming?” he says to his wife, who was looking on.

“Never a bit,” she says, “but the rice looks queer.”

Queer enough it was, mildewed and rotten, no use to man or beast.

“Arah, arah!” they cried, “the mortar has deceived us.” And they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet, but lit a fire and burnt the mortar.

Now the good old couple had lost their fairy mortar. But they never said a word, the patient old folk. The good old man took some of the ashes of the mortar and went his way.

Now it was mid-winter time, and all the trees were bare. There was not a flower to be seen, nor yet a little green leaf.

What does the good old man do but climb into a cherry tree and scatter a handful of his ashes over the branches? In a moment the tree was covered with blossoms.

“It will do,” says the good old man, and down he gets from the tree and off he sets for the Prince’s palace, where he knocks at the gate as bold as brass.

“Who are you?” they ask him.

“I am Hana-saka-jiji,” says the old man, “the man who makes dead trees to blossom; my business is with the Prince.”

Mighty pleased the Prince was when he saw his cherry trees and his peach trees and his plum trees rush into blossom.

“Why,” he said, “it is mid-winter, and we have the joys of spring.” And he called forth his lady wife and her maidens and all his own retainers to see the work of Hana-saka-jiji. At last he sent the old man home with a passing rich reward.

Now what of the bad old couple? Were they content to let well alone? Oh no.

They gathered together all the ashes that were left, and when they had put them in a basket they went about the town crying:

“We are the Hana-saka-jiji. We can make dead trees blossom.”

Presently out comes the Prince and all his company to see the show. And the bad old man climbs up into a tree forthwith and scatters his ashes.

But the tree never blossomed, never a bit. The ashes flew into the Prince’s eyes, and the Prince flew into a rage. There was a pretty to-do. The bad old couple were caught and well beaten. Sad and sorry they crept home at night. It is to be hoped that they mended their ways. Howbeit the good people, their neighbours, grew rich and lived happy all their days.

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 Beautiful Dancer of Yedo

Sakura-ko, the “Flower of the Cherry,” is a geisha in Yedo, famed for her beauty and artistry but burdened by a tragic past. She rejects the love of a rich man, an old suitor, and a young admirer, seeking dignity over material or fleeting desires. Disappearing to spare her young lover heartbreak, she later reappears as a wandering nun, quietly reconciling with her sorrowful choices.

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

► Themes of the story

Forbidden Love: Sakura-ko encounters suitors whose affections she must navigate within the constraints of her societal role.

Transformation: Her journey from a samurai’s daughter to a geisha, and later to a wandering nun, reflects significant personal and social transformations.

Sacrifice: Sakura-ko sells herself into bondage to provide for her mother, exemplifying personal sacrifice for familial duty.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

This is the tale of Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, who was the beautiful dancer of Yedo. She was a geisha, born a samurai’s daughter, that sold herself into bondage after her father died, so that her mother might have food to eat. Ah, the pity of it! The money that bought her was called Namida no Kané, that is “the money of tears.” She dwelt in the narrow street of the geisha, where the red and white lanterns swing and the plum trees flourish by the low eves. The street of the geisha is full of music, for they play the samisen there all day long.

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Sakura-ko played it too; indeed she was skilful in every lovely art. She played the samisen, the kotto, the biwa, and the small hand-drum. She could make songs and sing them. Her eyes were long, her hair was black, her hands were white. Her beauty was wonderful, and wonderful her power to please. From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn she could go smiling and hide her heart. In the cool of the day she would stand upon the gallery of her mistress’s house, and muse as she stood and looked down into the street of the geisha. And the folk that passed that way said to one another, “See, yonder stands Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, the beautiful dancer of Yedo, the geisha without peer.”

But Sakura-ko looked down and mused and said, “Little narrow street of the geisha, paved with bitterness and broken hearts, your houses are full of vain hopes and vain regrets; youth and love and grief dwell here. The flowers in your gardens are watered with tears.”

The gentlemen of Yedo must needs have their pleasure, so Sakura-ko served at feasts every night. They whitened her cheeks and her forehead, and gilded her lips with beni. She wore silk attires, gold and purple and grey and green and black, obi of brocade magnificently tied. Her hair was pinned with coral and jade, fastened with combs of gold lacquer and tortoise-shell. She poured saké, she made merry with the good company. More than this, she danced.

Three poets sang of her dancing. One said, “She is lighter than the rainbow-tinted dragonfly.”

And another said, “She moves like the mist of the morning when the bright sun shines.”

And the third said, “She is like the shadow in the river of the waving willow-branch.”

But it is time to tell of her three lovers.

The first lover was neither old nor young. He was passing rich, and a great man in Yedo. He sent his servant to the street of the geisha with money in his girdle. Sakura-ko shut the door in his face.

“You are wrong, fellow,” she said, “you have lost your way. You should have gone to the street of the toy-shops and bought your master a doll; let him know there are no dolls here.”

After this the master came himself. “Come to me, O Flower of the Cherry,” he said, “for I must have you.”

“Must?” she said, and looked down with her long eyes.

“Aye,” he said, “must is the word, O Flower of the Cherry.”

“What will you give me?” she said.

“Fine attires, silk and brocade, a house, white mats and cool galleries; servants to wait on you, gold hairpins–what you will.”

“What do I give you?” she said.

“Yourself, just that, O Flower of the Cherry.”

“Body and soul?” she said.

And he answered her, “Body and soul.”

“Now, fare you well,” she said, “I have a fancy to remain a geisha. It is a merry life,” she said, and she laughed.

So that was the end of the first lover.

The second lover was old. To be old and wise is very well, but he was old and foolish. “Sakura-ko,” he cried, “ah, cruel one, I am mad for love of you!”

“My lord,” she said, “I can easily believe it.”

He said, “I am not so very old.”

“By the divine compassion of the gods,” she told him, “you may yet have time to prepare for your end. Go home and read the good law.” But the old lover would hear nothing of her counsel. Instead, he bade her to his house by night to a great feast which he had prepared for her. And when they had made an end of the feast she danced before him wearing scarlet hakama and a robe of gold brocade. After the dancing he made her sit beside him and he called for wine, that they might drink together. And the geisha who poured the saké was called Silver Wave.

When they had drunk together, Sakura-ko and her old lover, he drew her to him and cried:

“Come, my love, my bride, you are mine for the time of many existences; there was poison in the cup. Be not afraid, for we shall die together. Come with me to the Meido.”

But Sakura-ko said, “My sister, the Silver Wave, and I are not children, neither are we old and foolish to be deceived. I drank no saké and no poison. My sister, the Silver Wave, poured fresh tea in my cup. Howbeit I am sorry for you, and so I will stay with you till you die.”

He died in her arms and was fain to take his way alone to the Meido.

“Alas! alas!” cried the Flower of the Cherry. But her sister, Silver Wave, gave her counsel thus: “Keep your tears, you will yet have cause for weeping. Waste not grief for such as he.”

And that was the end of the second lover.

The third lover was young and brave and gay. Impetuous he was, and beautiful. He first set eyes on the Flower of the Cherry at a festival in his father’s house. Afterwards he went to seek her out in the street of the geisha. He found her as she leaned against the gallery railing of her mistress’s house.

She looked down into the street of the geisha and sang this song:

“My mother bade me spin fine thread
Out of the yellow sea sand–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My father gave me a basket of reeds;
He said, ‘Draw water from the spring
And carry it a mile’–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My heart would remember,
My heart must forget;
Forget, my heart, forget–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!”

When she had made an end of singing, the lover saw that her eyes were full of tears.

“Do you remember me,” he said, “O Flower of the Cherry? I saw you last night at my father’s house.”

“Aye, my young lord,” she answered him, “I remember you very well.”

He said, “I am not so very young. And I love you, O Flower of the Cherry. Be gentle, hear me, be free, be my dear wife.”

At this she flushed neck and chin, cheeks and forehead.

“My dear,” said the young man, “now you are Flower of the Cherry indeed.”

“Child,” she said, “go home and think of me no more. I am too old for such as you.”

“Old!” he said; “why, there lies not a year between us!”

“No, not a year–no year, but an eternity,” said Flower of the Cherry. “Think no more of me,” she said; but the lover thought of nothing else. His young blood was on fire. He could not eat, nor drink, nor sleep. He pined and grew pale, he wandered day and night, his heart heavy with longing. He lived in torment; weak he grew, and weaker. One night he fell fainting at the entrance of the street of the geisha. Sakura-ko came home at dawn from a festival in a great house. There she found him. She said no word, but she bore him to his house outside Yedo, and stayed with him there full three moons. And after that time he was nursed back to ruddy health. Swiftly, swiftly, the glad days sped by for both of them.

“This is the happy time of all my life. I thank the dear gods,” said Flower of the Cherry one evening.

“My dear,” the young man bade her, “fetch hither your samisen and let me hear you sing.”

So she did. She said, “I shall sing you a song you have heard already.”

“My mother bade me spin fine thread
Out of the yellow sea sand–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My father gave me a basket of reeds;
He said, ‘Draw water from the spring
And carry it a mile’–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!
My heart would remember,
My heart must forget;
Forget, my heart, forget–
A hard task, a hard task.
May the dear gods speed me!”

“Sweet,” he said, “what does this song mean, and why do you sing it?”

She answered, “My lord, it means that I must leave you, and therefore do I sing it. I must forget you; you must forget me. That is my desire.”

He said, “I will never forget you, not in a thousand existences.”

She smiled, “Pray the gods you may wed a sweet wife and have children.”

He cried, “No wife but you, and no children but yours, O Flower of the Cherry.”

“The gods forbid, my dear, my dear. All the world lies between us.”

The next day she was gone. High and low the lover wandered, weeping and lamenting and seeking her both near and far. It was all in vain, for he found her not. The city of Yedo knew her no more–Sakura-ko, the beautiful dancer.

And her lover mourned many many days. Howbeit at last he was comforted, and they found for him a very sweet fair lady whom he took to wife willingly enough, and soon she bore him a son. And he was glad, for time dries all tears.

Now when the boy was five years old he sat in the gate of his father’s house. And it chanced that a wandering nun came that way begging for alms. The servants of the house brought rice and would have put it into her begging bowl, but the child said, “Let me give.”

So he did as he would.

As he filled the begging bowl and patted down the rice with a wooden spoon and laughed, the nun caught him by the sleeve and held him and looked into his eyes.

“Holy nun, why do you look at me so?” cried the child.

She said, “Because I once had a little boy like you, and I went away and left him.”

“Poor little boy!” said the child.

“It was better for him, my dear, my dear–far, far better.”

And when she had said this, she went her way.

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 Nurse

Idé, a samurai, entrusts his son Fugiwaka with his clan’s sacred sword, emphasizing its significance as their treasure and trust. After Idé’s death, Fugiwaka is cast out by his jealous stepmother, Lady Sadako. His loyal nurse, O Matsu, sacrifices herself to safeguard the sword. Her spirit delivers it to Fugiwaka, reaffirming his duty to honor and protect the legacy of the House of Idé.

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

► Themes of the story

Sacrifice: O Matsu, the loyal nurse, sacrifices herself to protect the sacred sword and ensure Fugiwaka’s legacy.

Divine Intervention: After her death, O Matsu’s spirit intervenes to deliver the sword to Fugiwaka, guiding him to honor his family’s heritage.

Sacred Objects: The sword symbolizes the clan’s honor and trust, serving as a central element around which the story revolves.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Idé the samurai was wedded to a fair wife and had an only child, a boy called Fugiwaka. Idé was a mighty man of war, and as often as not he was away from home upon the business of his liege lord. So the child Fugiwaka was reared by his mother and by the faithful woman, his nurse. Matsu was her name, which is, in the speech of the country, the Pine Tree. And even as the pine tree, strong and evergreen, was she, unchanging and enduring. In the house of Idé there was a very precious sword. Aforetime a hero of Idé’s clan slew eight-and-forty of his enemies with this sword in one battle. The sword was Idé’s most sacred treasure. He kept it laid away in a safe place with his household gods.

► Continue reading…

Morning and evening the child Fugiwaka came to make salutations before the household gods, and to reverence the glorious memory of his ancestors. And Matsu, the nurse, knelt by his side.

Morning and evening, “Show me the sword, O Matsu, my nurse,” said Fugiwaka.

And O Matsu made answer, “Of a surety, my lord, I will show it to you.”

Then she brought the sword from its place, wrapped in a covering of red and gold brocade. And she drew off the covering and she took the sword from its golden sheath and displayed the bright steel to Fugiwaka. And the child made obeisance till his forehead touched the mats.

At bedtime O Matsu sang songs and lullabies. She sang this song:

“Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep–
Would you know the secret,
The secret of the hare o Nennin Yama?
Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep–
You shall know the secret.
Oh, the august hare of Nennin Yama,
How augustly long are his ears!
Why should this be, oh, best beloved?
You shall know the secret.
His mother ate the bamboo seed.
Hush! Hush!
His mother ate the loquat seed.
Hush! Hush!
Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep–
Now you know the secret.”

Then O Matsu said, “Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?”

And the child answered, “I will sleep now, O Matsu.”

“Listen, my lord,” she said, “and, sleeping or waking, remember. The sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it.”

“Sleeping or waking, I will remember,” said Fugiwaka.

Now in an evil day the mother of Fugiwaka fell sick and died. And there was mourning in the house of Idé. Howbeit, when years were past, the samurai took another bride, and he had a son by her and called him Goro. And after this Idé himself was slain in an ambush, and his retainers brought his body home and laid him with his fathers.

Fugiwaka was chief of the House of Idé. But the Lady Sadako, his stepmother, was ill-pleased. Black mischief stirred in her heart; she bent her brows and she brooded as she went her ways, bearing her babe in her arms. At night she tossed upon her bed.

“My child is a beggar,” she said. “Fugiwaka is chief of the House of Idé. Evil fortune betide him! It is too much,” said the proud lady. “I will not brook it; my child a beggar! I would rather strangle him with my hands….” Thus she spoke and tossed upon her bed, thinking of a plan.

When Fugiwaka was fifteen years old she turned him out of the house with a poor garment upon his back, barefooted, with never a bite nor a sup nor a gold piece to see him on his way.

“Ah, lady mother,” he said, “you use me ill. Why do you take my birthright?”

“I know nought of birthrights,” she said. “Go, make your own fortune if you can. Your brother Goro is chief of the House of Idé.”

With that she bade them shut the door in his face.

Fugiwaka departed sorrowfully, and at the cross-roads O Matsu, his nurse, met him. She had made herself ready for a journey: her robe was kilted, she had a staff in her hand and sandals on her feet.

“My lord,” she said, “I am come to follow you to the world’s end.”

Then Fugiwaka wept and laid his head upon the woman’s breast.

“Ah,” he said, “my nurse, my nurse! And,” he said, “what of my father’s sword? I have lost the precious sword of Idé. The sword is my treasure, the sword is my trust, the sword is my fortune. I am bound to cherish it, to guard it, to keep it. But now I have lost it. Woe is me! I am undone, and so is all the House of Idé!”

“Oh, say not so, my lord,” said O Matsu. “Here is gold; go you your way and I will return and guard the sword of Idé.”

So Fugiwaka went his way with the gold that his nurse gave him.

As for O Matsu, she went straightway and took the sword from its place where it lay with the household gods, and she buried it deep in the ground until such time as she might bear it in safety to her young lord.

But soon the Lady Sadako became aware that the sacred sword was gone.

“It is the nurse!” she cried. “The nurse has stolen it…. Some of you bring her to me.”

Then the Lady Sadako’s people laid their hands roughly upon O Matsu and brought her before their mistress. But for all they could do O Matsu’s lips were sealed. She spoke never a word, neither could the Lady Sadako find out where the sword was. She pressed her thin lips together.

“The woman is obstinate,” she said. “No matter; for such a fault I know the sovereign cure.”

So she locked O Matsu in a dark dungeon and gave her neither food nor drink. Every day the Lady Sadako went to the door of the dark dungeon.

“Well,” she said, “where is the sword of Idé? Will you say?”

But O Matsu answered not a word.

Howbeit she wept and sighed to herself in the darkness–“Alas! Alas! never alive may I come to my young lord. Yet he must have the sword of Idé, and I shall find a way.”

Now after seven days the Lady Sadako sat in the garden-house to cool herself, for it was summer. The time was evening. Presently she saw a woman that came towards her through the garden flowers and trees. Frail and slender was the woman; as she came her body swayed and her slow steps faltered.

“Why, this is strange!” said the Lady Sadako. “Here is O Matsu, that was locked in the dark dungeon.” And she sat still, watching.

But O Matsu went to the place where she had buried the sword and scratched at the ground with her fingers. There she was, weeping and moaning and dragging at the earth. The stones cut her hands and they bled. Still she tore away the earth and found the sword at last. It was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she clasped it to her bosom with a loud cry.

“Woman, I have you now,” shrieked the Lady Sadako, “and the sword of Idé as well!” And she leaped from the garden-house and ran at full speed. She stretched forth her hand to catch O Matsu by the sleeve, but did not have her or the sword either, for both of them were gone in a flash, and the lady beat the empty air. Swiftly she sped to the dark dungeon, and as she went she called her people to bring torches. There lay the body of poor O Matsu, cold and dead upon the dungeon floor.

“Send me the Wise Woman,” said the Lady Sadako.

So they sent for the Wise Woman. And the Lady Sadako asked, “How long has she been dead?”

The Wise Woman said, “She was starved to death; she has been dead two days. It were well you gave her fit burial; she was a good soul.”

As for the sword of Idé, it was not found.

Fugiwaka tossed to and fro upon his lowly bed in a wayside tavern. And it seemed to him that his nurse came to him and knelt by his side. Then he was soothed.

O Matsu said, “Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?”

And he answered, “I will sleep now, O Matsu.”

“Listen, my lord,” she said, “and, sleeping or waking, remember. The sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it.”

The sword was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she laid it by Fugiwaka’s side. The boy turned over to sleep, and his hand clasped the sword of Idé.

“Waking or sleeping,” he said, “I will remember.”

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The Tongue-Cut Sparrow

An old man and a cruel old woman lived separately in a village. The man cherished his talking sparrow, while the woman, angry when it ate her starch, cut its tongue. The sparrow fled, and the man found it, receiving treasure as a gift. The greedy woman sought her own reward, choosing a heavy basket, only to find it full of demons, giving her a well-deserved fright.

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

► Themes of the story

Trials and Tribulations: Along the way, Aisling faces a series of challenges, both physical and emotional. These trials test her courage, resolve, and resourcefulness, pushing her to her limits.

Mythical Creatures: Her encounters with legendary beings—both allies and adversaries—add a layer of mysticism to the narrative, highlighting the interplay between humans and the supernatural.

Sacred Objects: The stolen artifact is central to the story, symbolizing the cultural and spiritual heritage of Aisling’s community. Its recovery represents not just a personal triumph but the restoration of balance and order.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Once upon a time there was an old man who lived all alone. And there was an old woman who lived all alone. The old man was merry and kind and gentle, with a good word and a smile for all the world. The old woman was sour and sad, as cross a patch as could be found in all the country-side. She grumbled and growled for ever, and would not so much as pass the time of day with respectable folk. The old man had a pet sparrow that he kept as the apple of his eye. The sparrow could talk and sing and dance and do all manner of tricks, and was very good company. So the old man found when he came home from his work at night.

► Continue reading…

There would be the sparrow twittering on the doorstep, and “Welcome home, master,” he would say, his head on one side, as pert and pretty as you please.

One day the old man went off to cut wood in the mountains. The old woman, she stayed at home for it was her washing day. She made some good starch in a bowl and she put it outside her door to cool.

“It will be all ready when I want it,” she said to herself. But that’s just where she made a mistake. The little sparrow flew over the bamboo fence and lighted on the edge of the starch bowl. And he pecked at the starch with his little beak. He pecked and he pecked till all the starch was gone, and a good meal he made, to be sure.

Then out came the old woman for the starch to starch her clothes.

You may believe she was angry. She caught the little sparrow roughly in her hand, and, alas and alack! she took a sharp, sharp scissors and cut his little tongue. Then she let him go.

Away and away flew the little sparrow, over hill and over dale.

“And a good riddance, too!” said the cruel old woman.

When the old man came home from the mountains he found his pet sparrow gone. And before long he knew all the tale. He lost no time, the good old man; he set out at once on foot, calling “Sparrow, sparrow, where are you, my tongue-cut sparrow?”

Over hill and over dale he went, calling “Sparrow, sparrow, where are you, my tongue-cut sparrow?”

At last and at length he came to the sparrow’s house, and the sparrow flew out to greet his master. Then there was a twittering, to be sure. The sparrow called his brothers and sisters and his children and his wife and his mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother. And they all flew out to do the old man honour. They brought him into the house and they set him down upon mats of silk. Then they spread a great feast; red rice and daikon and fish, and who knows what all besides, and the very best saké to drink. The sparrow waited upon the good old man, and his brothers and sisters and his children and his wife and his mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother with him.

After supper the sparrow danced, whilst his grandmother played the samisen and the good old man beat time.

It was a merry evening.

At last, “All good things come to an end,” says the old man; “I fear ’tis late and high time I was getting home.”

“Not without a little present,” says the sparrow.

“Ah, sparrow dear,” says the old man, “I’d sooner have yourself than any present.”

But the sparrow shook his head.

Presently they brought in two wicker baskets.

“One of them is heavy,” says the sparrow, “and the other is light. Say, master, will you take the heavy basket or the light?”

“I’m not so young as I once was,” says the good old man. “Thanking you kindly, I’d sooner have the light basket; it will suit me better to carry–that is, if it’s the same to you,” he says.

So he went home with the light basket. When he opened it, wonderful to tell, it was full of gold and silver and tortoise-shell and coral and jade and fine rolls of silk. So the good old man was rich for life.

Now, when the bad old woman heard tell of all this, she tied on her sandals and kilted her skirts and took a stout stick in her hand. Over hill and over dale she went, and took the straight road to the sparrow’s house. There was the sparrow, and there were his brothers and sisters and children and his wife and his mother and his mother-in-law and his grandmother. They were not too pleased to see the bad old woman, but they couldn’t do less than ask her in as she’d come so far. They gave her red rice and white rice and daikon and fish, and who knows what besides, and she gobbled it up in a twinkling, and drank a good cup of saké. Then up she got. “I can’t waste any more time here,” she says, “so you’d best bring out your presents.”

They brought in two wicker baskets.

“One of them is heavy,” says the sparrow, “and the other is light. Say, mistress, will you take the heavy basket or the light?”

“I’ll take the heavy one,” says the old woman, quick as a thought. So she heaved it up on her back and off she set. Sure enough it was as heavy as lead.

When she was gone, Lord! how the sparrows did laugh!

No sooner did she reach home than she undid the cords of the basket.

“Now for the gold and silver,” she said, and smiled–though she hadn’t smiled for a twelve-month. And she lifted up the lid.

“Ai! Ai! Kowai! Obaké da! Obaké!” she screeched.

The basket was full of ugly imps and elves and pixies and demons and devils. Out they came to tease the old woman, to pull her and to poke her, to push her and to pinch her. She had the fine fright of her life, I warrant you.

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