Tag: 24. Family Dynamics

Complex relationships within families, like sibling rivalry or parental challenges

Pánwpattí Rání

At a grand fair, a prince and princess silently admired each other, though they never exchanged words. When the princess left, the prince fell into despair until his loyal friend helped him find her. They married, but misunderstandings and jealousy led to betrayal. Eventually, reconciliation followed, and the prince and princess returned home to live happily, with the friend rewarded for his unwavering loyalty.

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

► Themes of the story

Love and Betrayal: The prince and princess fall in love, but their relationship faces challenges due to misunderstandings and jealousy.

Trials and Tribulations: The couple endures various hardships, including separation and emotional turmoil, before achieving happiness.

Family Dynamics: Despite the betrayals and misunderstandings, the prince and princess eventually reconcile and live happily together.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá, February, 1879

In a country a big fair was held, to which came a great many people and Rájás from all the countries round. Among them was a Rájá who brought his daughter with him. Opposite their tent another tent was pitched, in which lived a Rájá’s son. He was very beautiful; so was the little Rání, the other Rájá’s daughter.

Now, the Rájá’s son and the Rájá’s daughter did not even know each other’s names, but they looked at each other a great deal, and each thought the other very beautiful. “How lovely the Rájá’s daughter is!” thought the prince. “How beautiful the Rájá’s son is!” thought the princess.

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They lived opposite each other for a whole month, and all that time they never spoke to each other nor did they speak of each other to any one. But they thought of each other a great deal.

When the month was over, the little Rání’s father said he would go back to his own country. The Rájá’s son sat in his tent and watched the servants getting ready the little Rání’s palanquin. As soon as the princess herself was dressed and ready for the journey, she came out of her tent, and took a rose in her hand. She first put the rose to her teeth; then she stuck it behind her ear; and lastly, she laid it at her feet. All this time the Rájá’s son sat in his tent and looked at her. Then she got into her palanquin and was carried away.

The Rájá’s son was now very sad. “How lovely the princess is!” he thought. “And I do not know her name, or her father’s name, or the name of her country. So how can I ever find her? I shall never see her again.” He was very sorrowful, and determined he would go home to his country. When he got home he laid himself down on his bed, and night and day he lay there. He would not eat, or drink, or bathe, or change his clothes. This made his father and mother very unhappy. They went to him often, and asked him, “What is the matter with you? Are you ill?” “I want nothing,” he would answer. “I don’t want any doctor, or any medicine.” Not one word did he say to them, or to any one else, about the lovely little Rání.

The son of the Rájá’s kotwál [the chief police officer in a town] was the prince’s great friend. The two had always gone to school together, and had there read in the same book; they had always bathed, eaten, and played together. So when the prince had been at home for two days, and yet had not been to school or seen his friend, the kotwál’s son grew very anxious. “Why does the prince not come to school?” he said to himself. “He has been here for two days, and yet I have not seen him. I will go and find out if anything is the matter. Perhaps he is ill.”

He went, therefore, to see the prince, who was lying very miserable on his bed. “Why do you not come to school? Are you ill?” asked his friend. “Oh, it is nothing,” said the prince. “Tell me what is the matter,” said the kotwál’s son; but the Rájá’s son would not answer. “Have you told any one what is the matter with you?” said the kotwál’s son. “No,” answered the prince. “Then tell me,” said his friend; “tell me the truth: what is it that troubles you?”

“Well,” said the prince, “at the fair there was a Rájá who had a most beautiful daughter. They lived in a tent opposite mine, and I used to see her every day. She is so beautiful! But I do not know her name, or her father’s name, or her country’s name; so how can I ever find her?” “I will take you to her,” said his friend; “only get up and bathe, and eat.” “How can you take me to her?” said the prince. “You do not even know where she is; so how can you take me to her?” “Did she never speak to you?” said the kotwál’s son. “Never,” said the prince. “But when she was going away, just before she got into her palanquin, she took a rose in her hand; and first she put this rose to her teeth; then she stuck it behind her ear; and then she laid it at her feet.” “Now I know all about her,” said his friend. “When she put the rose to her teeth, she meant to tell you her father’s name was Rájá Dánt [Rájá Tooth]; when she put it behind her ear she meant you to know her country’s name was Karnátak [on the ear]; and when she laid the rose at her feet, she meant that her name was Pánwpattí [Foot-leaf]. Get up; bathe and dress, eat and drink, and we will go and find her.”

The prince got up directly, and told his father and mother he was going for a few days to eat the air of another country. At first they forbad his going; but then they reflected that he had been very ill, and that perhaps the air of another country might make him well; so at last they consented. The prince and his friend had two horses saddled and bridled, and set off together.

At the end of a month they arrived in a country where they asked (as they had asked in every other country through which they had ridden), “What is the name of this country?” “Karnátak” [the Carnatic]. “What is your Rájá’s name?” “Rájá Dánt.” Then the two friends were glad. They stopped at an old woman’s house, and said to her, “Let us stay with you for a few days. We are men from another country and do not know where to go in this place.” The old woman said, “You may stay with me if you like. I live all alone, and there is plenty of room for you.”

After two or three days the kotwál’s son said to the old woman, “Has your Rájá a daughter?” “Yes,” she answered; “he has a daughter; her name is Pánwpattí Rání.” “Can you go to see her?” asked the kotwál’s son. “Yes,” she said, “I can go to see her. I was her nurse, and she drank my milk. It is the Rájá who gives me my house, and my food, and clothes–everything that I have.” “Then go and see her,” said the kotwál’s son, “and tell her that the prince whom she called to her at the fair has come.”

The old woman went up to the palace, and saw the princess. After they had talked together for some time, she said to the little Rání, “The prince you called to you at the fair is come.” “Good,” she said; “tell him to come to see me to-night at twelve o’clock. He is not to come in through the door, but through the window.” (This she said because she did not want her father to know that the prince had come, until she had made up her mind whether she would marry him.)

The old woman went home and told the kotwál’s son what the Princess Pánwpattí said. That night the prince went to see her, and every night for three or four nights he went to talk with her for an hour. Then she told her mother she wished to be married, and her mother told her father. Her father asked whom she wished to marry, and she said, “The Rájá’s son who lives in my nurse’s house.” Her father said she might marry him if she liked; so the wedding was held. The kotwál’s son went to the wedding, and then returned to the old woman’s house; but the prince lived in the Rájá’s palace.

Here he stayed for a month, and all that time he never saw his friend. At last he began to fret for him, and was very unhappy. “What makes you so sad?” said Pánwpattí Rání. “I am sad because I have not seen my friend for a whole month,” answered her husband. “I must go and see him.” “Yes, go and see him,” said his wife. The Rájá’s son went to the old woman’s house, and there he stayed a week, for he was so glad to see the kotwál’s son. Then he returned to his wife. Now she thought he would only have been away a day, and was very angry at his having stayed so long from her. “How could you leave me for a whole week?” she said to him. “I had not seen my friend for a month,” he answered. Pánwpattí Rání did not let her husband see how angry she was; but in her heart she thought, “I am sure he loves his friend best.”

The prince remained with her for a month. Then he said, “I must go and see my friend.” This made her very angry indeed. However, she said, “Good; go and see your friend, and I will make you some delicious sweetmeats to take him from me.” She set to work, and made the most tempting sweetmeats she could; only in each she put a strong poison. Then she wrapped them in a beautiful handkerchief, and her husband took them to the kotwál’s son. “My Rání has made you these herself,” he said to his friend, “and she sends you a great many salaams.” The Rájá’s son knew nothing of the poison.

The kotwál’s son put the sweetmeats on one side, and said, “Let us talk, and I will eat them by and by.” So they sat and talked for a long time. Then the kotwál’s son said, “Your Rání herself made these sweetmeats for me?” “Yes,” said the Rájá’s son. His friend was very wise, and he thought, “Pánwpattí Rání does not like me. Of that I am sure.” So he took some of the sweetmeats, and broke them into bits and threw them to the crows. The crows came flying down, and all the crows who ate the sweetmeats died instantly. Then the kotwál’s son threw a sweetmeat to a dog that was passing. The dog devoured it and fell dead. This put the Rájá’s son into great rage. “I will never see my Rání again!” he exclaimed. “What a wicked woman she is to try and poison my friend–my friend whom I love so dearly; but for whom I should never have married her!” He would not go back to his wife, and stayed in the old woman’s house. The kotwál’s son often told him he ought to return to his wife, but the prince would not do so. “No,” he said, “she is a wicked woman. You never did her any evil or hurt; yet she has tried to poison you. I will never see her again.”

When a month had passed, the kotwál’s son said to the prince, “You really must go back to Pánwpattí Rání; she is your wife, and you must go to her, and take her away to your own country.” Still the Rájá’s son declared he would never see her again. “If you would like to see something that will please you,” said his friend, “go back to your wife for one day; and to-night ‘when she is asleep’ you must take off all her jewels, and tie them up in a handkerchief, and bring them to me. But before you leave her you must wound her in the leg with this trident.” So saying, he gave him a small iron trident.

The prince went back to the palace. His wife was very angry with him, though she did not show her anger. At night ‘when she was fast asleep’ he took off all her jewels and tied them in a handkerchief, and he gave her a thrust in the leg with his trident. Then he went quickly back to his friend. The princess awoke and found herself badly hurt and alone; and she saw that her jewels were all gone. In the morning she told her father and mother that her jewels had been stolen; but she said nothing about the wound in her leg. The king called his servants, and told them a thief had come in the night and stolen his daughter’s jewels, and he sent them to look for the thief and seize him.

That morning the kotwál’s son got up and dressed himself like a yogí. He made the prince put on common clothes such as every one wears, so that he could not be recognized, and sent him to the bazar to sell his wife’s jewels. He told him, too, all he was to say. The pretended yogí went to the river and sat down by it, and the Rájá’s son went through the bazar and tried to sell the jewels. The Rájá’s servants seized him immediately. “You thief!” they said to him, “what made you steal our Rájá’s daughter’s jewels?” “I know nothing about the jewels,” said the prince. “I am no thief; I did not steal them. The holy man, who is my teacher, gave them to me to sell in the bazar for him. If you want to know anything more about them, you must ask him.” “Where is this holy man?” said the servants. “He is sitting by the river,” said the Rájá’s son. “Let us go to him. I will show you where he is.”

They all went down to the river, and there sat the yogí. “What is all this?” said the servants to him. “Are you a yogí, and yet a thief? Why did you steal the little Rání’s jewels?” “Are those the little Rání’s jewels?” said the yogí. “I did not steal them; I did not know to whom they belonged. Listen, and I will tell you. Last night at twelve o’clock I was sitting by this river when a woman came down to it–a woman I did not know. She took a dead body out of the river, and began to eat it. This made me so angry, that I took all her jewels from her, and she ran away. I ran after her and wounded her in the leg with my trident. I don’t know if she were your Rájá’s daughter, or who she was; but whoever she may be, she has the mark of the trident’s teeth in her leg.”

The servants took the jewels up to the palace, and told the Rájá all the yogí had said. The Rájá asked his wife whether the Princess Pánwpattí had any hurt in her leg, and told her all the yogí’s story. The Rání went to see her daughter, and found her lying on her bed and unable to get up from the pain she was in, and when she looked at her leg she saw the wound. She returned to the Rájá and said to him, “Our daughter has the mark of the trident’s teeth in her leg.”

The Rájá got very angry, and called his servants and said to them, “Bring a palanquin, and take my daughter at once to the jungle, and there leave her. She is a wicked woman, who goes to the river at night to eat dead people. I will not have her in my house any more. Cast her out in the jungle.” The servants did as they were bid, and left Pánwpattí Rání, crying and sobbing in the jungle, partly from the pain in her leg, and partly because she did not know where to go, and had no food or water.

Meanwhile her husband and the kotwál’s son heard of her being sent into the jungle, so they returned to the old woman’s house and put on their own clothes. Then they went to the jungle to find her. She was still crying, and her husband asked her why she cried. She told him, and he said, “Why did you try to poison my friend? You were very wicked to do so.” “Yes,” said the kotwál’s son; “Why did you try to kill me? I have never done you any wrong or hurt you. It was I who told your husband what you meant by putting the rose to your teeth, behind your ear, and at your feet. Without me he would never have found you, never have married you.” Then she knew at once who had brought all this trouble to her, and she was very sorry she had tried to kill her husband’s friend.

They all three now went home to her husband’s country; and his father and mother were very glad indeed that their son had married a Rájá’s daughter, and the Rájá gave the kotwál’s son a very grand present.

The young Rájá and his wife lived with his father and mother, and were always very happy together.

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The Princess Who Loved Her Father Like Salt

A king’s youngest daughter professes her love as “salt,” earning her banishment to a jungle. Facing challenges, she discovers a magical palace and revives a cursed prince. Betrayed by a servant who claims credit, she endures hardship until her virtues are revealed. Reuniting with her family, she demonstrates wisdom through symbolism, proving love’s depth. Ultimately, she marries the king and ensures harmony among all.

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

► Themes of the story

Family Dynamics: The narrative centers on the relationship between the king and his daughters, particularly highlighting the misunderstanding and subsequent reconciliation between the king and his youngest daughter.

Trials and Tribulations: The youngest princess endures hardships, including banishment to the jungle and the challenges she faces thereafter, showcasing her resilience and determination.

Transformation through Love: The princess’s genuine love, symbolized by her comparison to salt, ultimately leads to a transformation in her father’s understanding of love’s true value.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá

In a country there lived a king who had seven daughters. One day he called them all to him and said to them, “My daughters, how much do you love me?” The six eldest answered, “Father, we love you as much as sweetmeats and sugar;” but the seventh and youngest daughter said, “Father, I love you as much as salt.” The king was much pleased with his six eldest daughters, but very angry with his youngest daughter. “What is this?” he said; “my daughter only loves me as much as she does salt!” Then he called some of his servants, and said to them, “Get a palanquin ready, and carry my youngest daughter away to the jungle.”

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The servants did as they were bid; and when they got to the jungle, they put the palanquin down under a tree and went away. The princess called to them, “Where are you going? Stay here; my father did not tell you to leave me alone in the jungle.” “We will come back,” said the servants; “we are only going to drink some water.” But they returned to her father’s palace.

The princess waited in the palanquin under the tree, and it was now evening, and the servants had not come back. She was very much frightened and cried bitterly. “The tigers and wild beasts will eat me,” she said to herself. At last she went to sleep, and slept for a little while. When she awoke she found in her palanquin some food on a plate, and a little water, that God had sent her while she slept. She ate the food and drank the water, and then she felt happier, for she thought, “God must have sent me this food and water.” She decided that as it was now night she had better stay in her palanquin, and go to sleep. “Perhaps the tigers and wild beasts will come and eat me,” she thought; “but if they don’t, I will try to-morrow to get out of this jungle, and go to another country.”

The next morning she left her palanquin and set out. She walked on, till, deep in the jungle, she came to a beautiful palace, which did not belong to her father, but to another king. The gate was shut, but she opened it, and went in. She looked all about, and thought, “What a beautiful house this is, and what a pretty garden and tank!”

Everything was beautiful, only there were no servants nor anybody else to be seen. She went into the house, and through all the rooms. In one room she saw a dinner ready to be eaten, but there was no one to eat it. At last she came to a room in which was a splendid bed, and on it lay a king’s son covered with a shawl. She took the shawl off, and then she saw he was very beautiful, and that he was dead. His body was stuck full of needles.

She sat down on the bed, and there she sat for one week, without eating, or drinking, or sleeping, pulling out the needles. Then a man came by who said to her, “I have here a girl I wish to sell.” “I have no rupees,” said the princess; “but if you will sell her to me for my gold bangles, I will buy her.” The man took the bangles, and left the girl with the princess, who was very glad to have her. “Now,” she thought, “I shall be no longer alone.”

All day and all night long the princess sat and pulled out the needles, while the girl went about the palace doing other work. At the end of other two weeks the princess had pulled out all the needles from the king’s body, except those in his eyes.

Then the king’s daughter said to her servant-girl, “For three weeks I have not bathed. Get a bath ready for me, and while I am bathing sit by the king, but do not take the needles out of his eyes. I will pull them out myself.” The servant-girl promised not to pull out the needles. Then she got the bath ready; but when the king’s daughter had gone to bathe, she sat down on the bed, and pulled the needles out of the king’s eyes.

As soon as she had done so, he opened his eyes, and sat up. He thanked God for bringing him to life again. Then he looked about, and saw the servant-girl, and said to her, “Who has made me well and pulled all the needles out of my body?” “I have,” she answered. Then he thanked her and said she should be his wife.

When the princess came from her bath, she found the king alive, and sitting on his bed talking to her servant. When she saw this she was very sad, but she said nothing. The king said to the servant-maid, “Who is this girl?” She answered, “She is one of my servants.” And from that moment the princess became a servant-girl, and her servant-girl married the king. Every day the king said, “Can this lovely girl be really a servant? She is far more beautiful than my wife.”

One day the king thought, “I will go to another country to eat the air.” So he called the pretended princess, his wife, and told her he was going to eat the air in another country. “What would you like me to bring you when I come back?” She answered, “I should like beautiful sárís and clothes, and gold and silver jewels.” Then the king said, “Call the servant-girl, and ask her what she would like me to bring her.” The real princess came, and the king said to her, “See, I am going to another country to eat the air. What would you like me to bring for you when I return?”

“King,” she answered, “if you can bring me what I want I will tell you what it is; but if you cannot get it, I will not tell you.” “Tell me what it is,” said the king. “Whatever it may be I will bring it you.” “Good,” said the princess. “I want a sun-jewel box.” Now the princess knew all about the sun-jewel boxes, and that only fairies had such boxes. And she knew, too, what would be in hers if the king could get one for her, although these boxes contain sometimes one thing and sometimes another.

The king had never heard of such a box, and did not know what it was like; so he went to every country asking all the people he met what sort of box was a sun-jewel box, and where he could get it. At last one day, after a fruitless search, he was very sad, for he thought, “I have promised the servant to bring her a sun-jewel box, and now I cannot get one for her; what shall I do?”

Then he went to sleep, and had a dream. In it he saw a jungle, and in the jungle a fakír who, when he slept, slept for twelve years, and then was awake for twelve years. The king felt sure this man could give him what he wanted, so when he woke he said to his sepoys and servants, “Stay here in this spot till I return to you; then we will go back to my country.”

He mounted his horse and set out for the jungle he had seen in his dream. He went on and on till he came to it, and there he saw the fakír lying asleep. He had been asleep for twelve years all but two weeks: over him were a quantity of leaves, and grass, and a great deal of mud. The king began taking off all the grass, and leaves, and mud, and every day for a fortnight when he got up he cleared them all away from off the fakír. When the fakír awoke at the end of the two weeks, and saw that no mud, or grass, or leaves were upon him, but that he was quite clean, he was very much pleased, and said to the king, “I have slept for twelve years, and yet I am as clean as I was when I went to sleep. When I awoke after my last sleep, I was all covered with dirt and mud, grass and leaves; but this time I am quite clean.”

The king stayed with the fakír for a week, and waited on him and did everything for him. The fakír was very much pleased with the king, and he told this to him: “You are a very good man.” He added, “Why did you come to this jungle? You are such a great king, what can you want from me?” “I want a sun-jewel box,” answered the king. “You are such a good man,” said the fakír, “that I will give you one.”

Then the fakír went to a beautiful well, down which he went right to the bottom. There, there was a house in which lived the red fairy. She was called the red fairy not because her skin was red, for it was quite white, but because everything about her was red–her house, her clothes, and her country. She was very glad to see the fakír, and asked him why he had come to see her. “I want you to give me a sun-jewel box,” he answered. “Very good,” said the fairy, and she brought him one in which were seven small dolls and a little flute. “No one but she who wants this box must open it,” said the fairy to the fakír. “She must open it when she is quite alone and at night.” Then she told him what was in the box.

The fakír thanked her, and took the box to the king, who was delighted and made many salaams to the fakír. The fakír told him none but the person who wished for the box was to open it; but he did not tell him what more the fairy had said.

The king set off on his journey now, and when he came to his servants and sepoys, he said to them he would now return to his country, as he had found the box he wanted. When he reached his palace he called the false princess, his wife, and gave her her silks and shawls, and sárís, and gold and silver jewels. Then he called the servant-girl–the true princess–and gave her her sun-jewel box. She took it, and was delighted to have it. She made him many salaams and went away with her box, but did not open it then, for she knew what was in it, and that she must open it at night and alone.

That night she took her box and went out all by herself to a wide plain in the jungle, and there opened it. She took the little flute, put it to her lips, and began to play, and instantly out flew the seven little dolls, who were all little fairies, and they took chairs and carpets from the box, and arranged them all in a large tent which appeared at that moment. Then the fairies bathed her, combed and rolled up her hair, put on her grand clothes and lovely slippers. But all the time the princess did nothing but cry. They brought a chair and placed it before the tent, and made her sit in it. One of them took the flute and played on it, and all the others danced before the princess, and they sang songs for her. Still she cried and cried. At last, at four o’clock in the morning, one of the fairies said, “Princess, why do you cry?” “I took all the needles out of the king, all but those in his eyes,” said the princess, “and while I was bathing, my servant-girl, whom I had bought with my gold bangles, pulled these out. She told the king it was she who had pulled out all the other needles and brought him to life, and that I was her servant, and she has taken my place and is treated as the princess, and the king has married her, while I am made to do a servant’s work and treated as the servant.” “Do not cry,” said the fairies. “Everything will be well for you by and by.”

When it was close on morning, the princess played on the flute, and all the chairs, sofas, and fairies became quite tiny, and went into the box, and the tent disappeared. She shut it up, and took it back to the king’s palace. The next night she again went out to the jungle-plain, and all happened as on the night before.

A wood-cutter was coming home late from his work, and had to pass by the plain. He wondered when he saw the tent. “I went by some time ago,” he said to himself, “and I saw no tent here.” He climbed up a big tree to see what was going on, and saw the fairies dancing before the princess, who sat outside the tent, and he saw how she cried though the fairies did all they could to amuse her. Then he heard the fairies say, “Princess, why do you cry?” And he heard her tell them how she had cured the king, and how her servant-girl had taken her place and made her a servant. “Never mind, don’t cry,” said the fairies. “All will be well by and by.” Near morning the princess played on her flute, and the fairies went into the box, and the tent disappeared, and the princess went back to the palace.

The third night passed as the other two had done. The wood-cutter came to look on, and climbed into the tree to see the fairies and the princess. Again the fairies asked her why she cried, and she gave the same answer.

The next day the wood-cutter went to the king. “Last night and the night before,” he said, “as I came home from work, I saw a large tent in the jungle, and before the tent there sat a princess who did nothing but cry, while seven fairies danced before her, or played on different instruments, and sang songs to her.” The king was very much astonished, and said to the wood-cutter, “To-night I will go with you, and see the tent, and the princess, and the fairies.”

When it was night the princess went out softly and opened her box on the plain. The wood-cutter fetched the king, and the two men climbed into a tree, and watched the fairies as they danced and sang. The king saw that the princess who sat and cried was his own servant-girl. He heard her tell the fairies all she had done for him, and all that had happened to her; so he came suddenly down from the tree, and went up to her, and took her hand. “I always thought you were a princess, and no servant-girl,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

She left off crying, and said, “Yes, I will marry you.” She played on her flute, and the tent disappeared, and all the fairies, and sofas, and chairs went into the box. She put her flute in it, as she always did before shutting down the lid, and went home with the king.

The servant-girl was very vexed and angry when she found the king knew all that had happened. However, the princess was most good to her, and never treated her unkindly.

The princess then sent a letter to her mother, in which she wrote, “I am going to be married to a great king. You and my father must come to my wedding, and must bring my sisters with you.”

They all came, and her father and mother liked the king very much, and were glad their daughter should marry him. The wedding took place, and they stayed with her for some time. For a whole week she gave their servants and sepoys nice food cooked with salt, but to her father and mother and sisters she only gave food cooked with sugar. At last they got so tired of this sweet food that they could eat it no longer. At the end of the week she gave them a dinner cooked with salt. Then her father said, “My daughter is wise though she is so young, and is the youngest of my daughters. I know now how much she loved me when she said she loved me like salt. People cannot eat their food without salt. If their food is cooked with sugar one day, it must be cooked with salt the next, or they cannot eat it.”

After this her father and mother and sisters went home, but they often came to see their little daughter and her husband.

The princess, the king, and the servant-maid all lived happily together.

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The Fakír Nánaksá Saves the Merchant’s Life

A kind grain merchant and his wife hosted the fakír Nánaksá, whose mysterious laughter revealed truths about karma and past lives. Guided by Nánaksá, the wife appeased angels with sweetmeats, securing her husband’s extended life by 20 years through divine intervention. After organizing a grand feast in gratitude, the fakír vanished, leaving the couple to live happily ever after.

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

► Themes of the story

Rebirth: The narrative delves into the consequences of past actions, illustrating how the merchant’s father and grandmother are reborn as a goat and an old woman, respectively, seeking refuge behind him. This reflects the belief in karma and the cycle of rebirth.

Family Dynamics: The transformation of the merchant’s deceased sister into his daughter to punish the wife for her previous mistreatment underscores complex familial relationships and the enduring impact of past behaviors within a family.

Sacrifice: The merchant’s wife makes offerings of sweetmeats to appease the angels, demonstrating the theme of giving up something valuable to achieve a greater good—in this case, the extension of her husband’s life.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Múniyá

In a country there was a grain merchant who was a very good man. Now a fakír named Nánaksá, who was also a very good man, came constantly to talk with him.

One day he came as usual, and the merchant and his wife were very glad to see him. As they were all sitting together, they saw a goat led away to be killed. The goat escaped from the man who was leading him and hid behind the merchant, but he was caught and marched off to death.

At this the merchant said nothing, but the fakír laughed.

► Continue reading…

A little later they saw an old woman who had done something wrong, and, therefore, the king had ordered her to be taken to the jungle and there put to death. The old woman escaped from the men who were leading her and took refuge behind the merchant, but she was seized and led away to die.

The merchant said nothing; the fakír laughed, and the merchant’s wife saw him laugh.

At this moment the merchant’s little daughter woke and began to scream. Her mother took her in her arms; the child was cross and pulled her mother’s clothes all awry.

The fakír laughed.

The mother put her dress straight and held her child in her arms and stopped her crying. She then took a knife and went up to the fakír, saying, “Why did you laugh three times? Tell me the truth. What made you laugh three times?” Nánaksá answered, “What does it signify whether I cry or laugh? Ask me no questions, for I am a fakír, and it does not matter in the least whether I laugh or cry.” However, the merchant’s wife insisted on knowing why he laughed, and she said, “If you do not tell me, I will kill you with my knife.” “Good,” said Nánaksá; “if you really do wish to know, I will tell you.” “I really do wish to know,” she answered.

“Well,” said Nánaksá, “you remember the goat took refuge behind your husband? That goat in his former life was your husband’s father, and your husband would have saved him from death had he given the man who was taking him to be killed four rupees, for the man would then have gone away contentedly without the goat.”

“Good,” said the woman. “Why did you laugh the second time?”

“Well,” said Nánaksá, “that old woman who hid herself behind your husband was his grandmother in her former life. Had your husband given the men who were taking her to the jungle twenty rupees, they would have given her up to him, and he would have saved her from death. Should a wild beast or a man ever take refuge behind us, it is our duty to save his life.”

“Well,” said the merchant’s wife, “you have told me why you laughed the first two times. Now tell me why you laughed the third time.”

“Listen,” said Nánaksá. “You remember your husband’s sister whom you tormented so much? She died, but then God caused her to be born again as your daughter, that she might torment you and punish you for having been so unkind to her in her former life when she was your sister-in-law.”

“Is that true?” said the woman.

“Quite true,” answered the fakír, “and that is why I laughed the third time. But now would you like to hear something I wish to tell you? If you promise not to cry, I will tell it you.”

“I promise not to cry, so tell me,” she said.

“Then listen,” said Nánaksá. “God has decreed that your husband shall die to-morrow morning at ten o’clock. He will send four angels to fetch him.”

At this the poor woman began to cry bitterly.

“Do not cry,” said the fakír. “I will tell you something more. Listen to me. To-morrow morning at four o’clock you must get up, and make your house quite clean and neat. Then buy new dishes and make all the nicest and most delicious sweetmeats you can.”

“I will do so,” she answered.

When it was yet night she rose, and did all the fakír had bidden her. Then she went to him and said, “The sweetmeats are ready.” “Now,” said Nánaksá, “go and get a fine, clean cloth; take it and the sweetmeats with you, and set out and walk on and on till you come to a plain which is a long way from this. But you must go on till you reach it, and on it you will see a tank and a tree. By the tank and the tree you must spread your cloth and lay out your sweetmeats on it. At nine o’clock you will see four men, who will come and bathe in the tank. When they have bathed they will come towards you, and you must say to them, ‘See! you are four angels, therefore you must eat some of my sweetmeats.'”

The woman set out for the plain and did all Nánaksá had told her to do; and everything happened as he had foretold. When the four men had bathed, they came towards the woman, and she said to them, “See! you are four angels, and therefore you must eat some of my sweetmeats.” The chief of the four angels, who was called Jabrá’íl, and the three other angels answered, “We have no money, wherewith to buy your sweetmeats, so how can we eat any of them?” “Never mind the money,” said the woman; “you can pay me another day. Come now and eat some.” So the four angels sat down and ate a great many of her sweetmeats.

When they had finished they stood up and said to each other, “Now we must go to the village and fetch the merchant.” Then the woman made them a great many salaams and said, “That merchant is my husband. Still, if it is your pleasure to take him away, take him away.”

At this the angels were sad, and said to her, “How can we take your husband’s life now that we have eaten your food? But stay under this tree till we return, and then we will pay you for your sweetmeats.”

So the angels left her, and the wife waited under the tree. She was very sad; and after some time she thought, “Now I will go home: perhaps these angels are gone to take his life;” and then she cried bitterly and remained under the tree.

Meanwhile the four angels had gone back to God, who asked them, “Have you brought the merchant?” They were sorry not to have brought him, and told God all that had happened. And God was very angry; but he said to them. “Never mind. I know the fakír Nánaksá is with the merchant and his wife just now, and it is he who has played you this trick.”

Then God wrote a letter in which he promised the merchant twenty years more life, only at the end of the twenty years he was really to die and not to be allowed to live any longer. This letter he gave to the angels, and bade them take it to the merchant’s wife and tell her to have a silver box made, into which she was to put the letter, and then hang it round her husband’s neck, so that he should live for twenty years more.

The four angels came down to earth again, and went to the tree under which they had left the woman. They found her waiting for them, and gave her the letter saying, “You must get a silver box made and put this letter in it; then hang it round your husband’s neck, so that he may live for twenty years more.”

The woman thanked them, and was very happy. She took the letter and went home. There she found her husband quite well, and with him was Nánaksá. She gave Nánaksá the letter and told him what the angels had bidden her do with it. Nánaksá read the letter, and was very much pleased. Then he said to her, “Call a silversmith here, and let him make you the silver box. Then you must get a great dinner ready, and ask all your friends, rich and poor, to come and eat it.”

All this she did, and when the dinner was ready and all their friends had come, the fakír said, “None who are here, men, women, or children, must eat, till they have put their hands before their faces and worshipped God.” Everybody hid his face in his hands at once and worshipped God: while they did this the fakír stole away from them, so when they uncovered their faces he was nowhere to be seen. No one knew where he had gone, and no one had seen him go. Some of the men went to look for him, but they could not find him, and none of them ever saw him again. But the merchant and his wife lived happily together.

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The Monkey Prince

Jabhú Rájá, a childless king, meets a fakír who gives him mangoes to share with his seven wives. The youngest wife, denied a mango, eats a discarded seed and gives birth to Prince Monkey, who hides his human form under a monkey-skin. Overcoming trials and revealing his true identity, Prince Monkey wins a princess, reconciles with his family, and brings joy to the kingdom.

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

► Themes of the story

Transformation: Prince Monkey conceals his human form beneath a monkey skin, ultimately revealing his true identity.

Quest: Prince Monkey embarks on a journey to win Princess Jahúran by attempting to throw the heavy iron ball, as decreed by her father, King Jamársá.

Family Dynamics: The narrative explores the relationships between Prince Monkey, his six brothers who despise him, and his mother, who is unaware of his true nature.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about the Hindu people

Told by Dunkní

Once upon a time there was a Rájá called Jabhú Rájá, and he had a great many wives; at least he had seven wives, but he had no children. Although he had married seven wives, not one of them had given him a child.

At this he was greatly vexed and said, “I have married seven wives, and not one of them has given me a child.” And he got very angry with God: he said, “Why doesn’t God give me any children? I will go into the jungle and die by myself.” The Ránís coaxed him to stay, but he wouldn’t; he would go out into the jungle.

► Continue reading…

So he went out into the jungle very far, and God sent him an old fakír leaning on a stick. The Rájá met him, and the fakír said, “Why do you come into the jungle? If you go far into the jungle you will meet plenty of tigers, and they will eat you. Tell me what you want. Whatever you want I will give you.” “No, I won’t tell you,” said the Rájá. But at last the Rájá told him, “I have seven wives, and none of them has given me any children, and so here I will die by myself.” Then the fakír said, “Take this stick, and a little way off you will find a mango-tree with some mangoes on it. Throw the stick at the mangoes with one hand, and catch them as they fall with the other, and when you have caught them all, take them home and give one to each of your seven wives.” So the Rájá went and knocked the mangoes off the tree and caught them as the fakír had told him. Then he looked about for the fakír, but he could not find him, for he had gone away into another part of the jungle. So he went home and gave the seven mangoes to his wives. But the fruit was so good that six of the wives ate it up, and would not give the youngest wife any. She cried very much, and went into the compound and picked up one of the mango stones which one of the six wives had thrown away, and ate it. By and by each of the six wives had a son; but the one who had eaten the stone had a monkey, who was called in consequence Bandarsábásá, or Prince Monkey. He was really a boy, but no one knew it, for he had a monkey-skin covering him. His six brothers hated him. They went to school every day; and the monkey went under the ground, and was taught by the fairies. His mother did not know this; she thought, as he was a monkey, he went to the jungle and swung in the trees. He was the best and the cleverest of all the boys.

Now, in a kingdom a three months’ journey off by land from Jabhú Rájá’s country, there lived a king called King Jamársá. He had a very beautiful daughter whose name was Princess Jahúran, and as her father wanted a very strong son-in-law, he had a large heavy iron ball made, and he sent letters to all the Rájás and Rájás’ sons far and near to say that whoever wished to marry his daughter, the Princess Jahúran, must be able to throw this heavy ball at her and hit her. So many Rájás went to try, but none of them could even lift the ball. Now, one of these letters had come to Jabhú Rájá, and his six elder sons determined they would go to King Jamársá’s country, for each of them was sure he could throw the ball, and win the princess.

Prince Monkey laughed softly and said to himself, “I will go and try too. I know I shall succeed.”

Off, therefore, the six brothers set on their long journey, and the monkey followed them; but before he did so, he went into the jungle and took off his monkey-skin, and God sent him a beautiful horse and beautiful clothes. Then he followed his brothers and overtook them, and gave them betel-leaf and lovely flowers. “What a beautiful boy!” they said. “Who is it owns such a beautiful boy? He must be some Rájá’s son.” Then he galloped quickly away, took off his grand clothes and put them on his horse, and the horse rose into the air. He put on his monkey-skin and followed his brothers.

When they reached King Jamársá’s palace they pitched their tents in his compound, which was very big. Every evening the princess used to stand in her verandah and let down her long golden hair so that it fell all round her, and then the Rájás who wished to marry her had to try to hit her with the great heavy ball that lay on the ground just in front of where she stood.

King Jamársá’s house had more than one storey, and you had to go upstairs to get to the Princess Jahúran’s rooms which led into the verandah in which she used to stand.

Well, Prince Monkey’s six elder brothers all got ready to go up to the palace and throw the ball. They were quite sure they would throw it without any trouble. Before they went they told their monkey brother to take care of their tents, and to have a good dinner ready for them when they returned. “If the dinner is not ready, we will beat you.”

As soon as they were gone, Prince Monkey took some gold mohurs he had, and he went to a traveller’s resting-house, which was a little way outside King Jamársá’s compound, and gave them to the man who owned it, and bade him give him a grand dinner for his six brothers. Then he took the dinner to the tents, went into the jungle, and took off his monkey-skin. And God sent him a grand horse from heaven, and splendid clothes. These he put on, mounted his horse, and rode to King Jamársá’s compound. There he took no notice of either the king, or his daughter, or of the ball, or of the Rájás who were there to try and lift it. He spoke only to his brothers, and gave them lovely flowers and betel-leaf. Meanwhile, everybody was looking at him and talking about him. “Who can he be? Did you ever see any one so lovely? Where does he come from? Just look at his clothes! In our countries we cannot get any like them!” As for the Princess Jahúran she thought to herself, “That Rájá shall be my husband, whether he lifts the ball or not.” When he had given his brothers the flowers and betel-leaf, Prince Monkey rode straight to the jungle, took off his clothes, laid them on his horse (which instantly went up to heaven), put on his monkey-skin, went back to the tents, and lay down to sleep.

When his brothers came home they were talking eagerly about the unknown beautiful Rájá. All the time they were eating their dinner they could speak of nothing else.

Well, every evening for about ten evenings it was just the same story. Only every evening Prince Monkey appeared in a different dress. The princess always thought, “That is the man I will marry, whether he can throw the ball or not.” Then about the eleventh evening, after he had given his brothers the flowers and betel-leaf, he said to all the Rájás who were standing there, and to King Jamársá and to all the servants, “Now every one of you go and stand far away, for I am going to throw the ball.” “No, no!” they all cried, “we will stand here and see you.” “You must go far away. You can look on at a distance,” said the Monkey Prince; “the ball might fall back among you and hurt you.” So they all went off and stood round him at a distance.

“Now,” said Prince Monkey to himself, “I won’t hit the princess this time; but I will hit the verandah railing.” Then he took up the ball with one hand, just as if it were quite light, and threw it on the verandah railing, and then he rode off fast to the jungle.

The next evening it was the same thing over again, only this time he threw the ball into the Princess Jahúran’s clothes.

The next evening the ball fell on one of her feet, and hurt her little toe-nail. Now, Princess Jahúran was very angry that this unknown beautiful prince should have thrown the ball three times, and hit her twice, and hurt her the third time, and yet had never spoken to her father, or let any one know who he was, and had always, on the contrary, ridden away as hard as he could, no one knew where. She was very much in love with him, and was very anxious to find this Rájá who had hit her twice, so she ordered a bow and arrow to be brought to her, and said she would shoot the Rájá the next time he hit her. She would not kill him; she would only shoot the arrow at him. Well, the next evening Prince Monkey threw the ball, and it fell on her other foot and hurt her great toe-nail. When he saw she was hurt, he was very sorry in his heart, and said, “Did I hurt you?” “Yes,” she said, “very much.” “Oh, I am so sorry,” said the prince. “I would not have thrown the ball so hard had I thought it would hurt you.” Then she shot the arrow, and hit him in the leg, and a great deal of blood came out of the wound; but he rode hard away to the jungle all the same, only this time he did not take off his fine clothes, but he drew the monkey-skin over them, and his horse went up to heaven, and he went back to the tents. Then the princess sent a servant into the town, and said, whoever or whatever he should hear crying with pain, he should bring to her–were it a man, or a jackal, or a dog, or a wild beast. So the servant went round the town. The six brothers had gone to sleep, but the poor monkey brother could not sleep, but sat up crying from pain. He could not help it, do what he would, and the servant, as he went round the town, heard him crying. So he took him and brought him to the princess, and the princess said she would marry him.

“What!” cried her father, “marry that monkey? Never! Who ever heard of any one marrying a monkey, a nasty monkey?” But in spite of all the king said, the princess declared marry that monkey she would. “I like that monkey very, very much,” she said. “I will marry him. It is my pleasure to marry him.” “Well,” said the Rájá at last, “if it is your pleasure to marry him, you must marry him; but who ever heard of any one marrying a nasty monkey?”

So they were married at once; and the Monkey Prince wore his monkey-skin for a wedding garment.

That night when they went to bed, the young prince drew off his skin and lay down by Jahúran, and when she saw her beautiful husband she was so glad, so glad. “Why do you wear a monkey-skin?” she asked. He answered, “I wear it as a protection, because my brothers are naughty, and would kill me if they knew what I really am.”

They lived very happily with King Jamársá for six months, and the six elder brothers went on living there too, and hating him more and more for having such a beautiful wife.

But one night Prince Monkey thought of his mother, and he said to his wife, “My mother perhaps is crying for me. Let us go to my father’s kingdom, and see her.” Princess Jahúran agreed; so next morning they spoke to King Jamársá, who said they might go.

The six brothers at once said, “We will go with you;” and they also said, “Let us get two big boats, one for you and the princess, and one for ourselves, and let us go by water, and not by land.” Now by water it took only six days to get to Jabhú Rájá’s kingdom, by land it took three months. The Monkey Prince agreed to all his brothers said.

Princess Jahúran heard them planning to throw the monkey into the water on the journey, and then to take her home to their father as the wife of one of them; so as she was very wise she went to her father and begged him to have six large beautiful mattresses, well stuffed with cotton, made for her.

“What can you want with six mattresses?” said the king. “I want my bed to be very comfortable on board the boat,” said his daughter. Her father loved her dearly, so he had her mattresses made, beautiful mattresses and well stuffed with cotton. The princess had them all carried to her boat.

When everything was ready they went on board the boats with the monkey’s six brothers. Now, the princess had warned her husband of his brothers’ wicked plans, and she said to him, “Never go near your brothers; never speak to your brothers; for they want to kill you.” The first day the six brothers said to the monkey, “Please bring us a little salt.” But the monkey said, “No; my wife will take you some.” “No,” said the brothers, “your wife cannot bring us any. She is a princess. Do you bring us some.” So they threw a rope from one boat to another, and the monkey went on the rope, and the brothers untied it, and the monkey fell into the water. Then the princess cried out, “My husband will be drowned! My husband will be drowned!” And she threw out one of the mattresses; the monkey sat on it; it floated back to his boat, and the crew drew him up.

The next day the six brothers begged Prince Monkey to bring them water, and they threw a plank from their boat to his for him to cross on. The prince set off with the water, in spite of all his wife’s entreaties, and his brothers tilted the plank into the water. The prince would have been drowned had not the Princess Jahúran thrown him a mattress. And the same thing happened during the next four days. The brothers wanted something to eat or drink, and their monkey-brother brought it them across a rope or plank, which they cut or dropped into the water, and he would have died but for the mattresses which his wife threw to him one by one.

When they reached Jabhú Rájá’s kingdom, the eldest son went on shore up to his father’s palace. Each of the Rájá’s seven wives had a house to herself in his compound. He went to his mother’s house and said, “Give me your palanquin, mother, for I have brought home a most lovely wife, and want to bring her to the palace.”

At this news his mother was delighted, and she told it to the other Ránís, and said, “My son has brought home such a lovely wife! I am so glad! oh, I am so glad!” The youngest Rání began to cry bitterly. “My son,” she said, “is nothing but a monkey; he will never be married; he will never have a wife at all.”

Then the palanquin was got ready, and the seven Ránís and the prince went with it to the boat. The Princess Jahúran came on land with her monkey, and when the Ránís saw her, they all cried, “How lovely she is! how beautiful!” And the eldest Rání was gladder than ever, and the youngest cried still more. The princess got into the palanquin with her monkey. “What are you doing with that horrid monkey?” said the eldest prince. “Put him out of the palanquin directly.” “Indeed I will not,” said the princess. “He is my husband, and I love him.” “What!” cried all the Ránís, “are you married to that monkey?” “Yes,” said the princess. “Then get out of my palanquin at once,” said the eldest Rání. “You shall not ride in my palanquin with that nasty monkey.” The youngest Rání was very glad her son had such a beautiful wife. So the princess got out, and took her monkey in her arms and walked with him to the youngest Rání’s house, and there they all lived for some time. Now the little Rání did not know her son was really a beautiful man, for the princess never told her, as her husband had forbidden her to tell any one.

One evening Jabhú Rájá’s servants had a grand nautch in the Rájá’s compound, and the Rájá and his sons and the neighbouring Rájás all came to see it. Prince Monkey said to his wife, “I, too, will go and see this nautch.” So he took off his monkey-skin, folded it up and laid it under her pillow. Then he put on the clothes God had sent him from heaven the last time he threw the ball, and which he had not laid on his horse’s back when he put his monkey-skin on again, and when he came among all the Rájás and people who were looking on at the nautch, they all exclaimed, “Who is that? Who can it be?” He was very handsome, and he had beautiful hair all gold. When he had stayed some time, Prince Monkey went quickly back to his wife, and in the morning he put on his monkey-skin again.

Now the little Rání, his mother, though she was very glad her monkey son had such a wife, could never understand how it was that her daughter-in-law was so happy with him. “How could you marry him?” she used to say to her. “Because it pleased me to marry him,” the princess used to answer. “How can you be so happy with him?” said the mother. “I love him,” said the princess; and the poor Rání used to wonder at this more and more.

Well, one day there was another nautch, and Prince Monkey went to it; but he left his skin under his wife’s pillow. As soon as he had gone, she called the little Rání, and said, “See, you think my husband is a monkey; he is no monkey, but a very handsome man. There is no one like him, he is so beautiful.” The Rání did not believe her. Then the princess took the skin from under her pillow. “See,” she said, “when your son puts this on, then he is a monkey; when he takes it off he is a beautiful man. And now, I think I will burn this skin, and then he must always be a man. What do you say?” “Are you sure it won’t hurt him if you burn his skin?” said his mother. “Perhaps he may die if it is burnt.” “Oh, no, he won’t die,” said the princess. “Shall I burn it?” “Burn it,” said the little Rání. Then the princess threw the skin on the fire and burnt it quite up.

Prince Monkey was sitting looking on at the nautch when suddenly his heart told him his wife had burnt his skin. He jumped up directly and went home, and when he found his heart had told him true, he was so angry with his wife, that he would say nothing to her but “Why did you burn my skin?” and he was in such a rage that he went straight to bed and went to sleep.

In the morning, while he slept, the princess went to the little Rání, and said, “Come and see your beautiful son.” “I am ashamed to do so,” said the Rání. “Ashamed to look at your own son? What nonsense! Come directly,” said Princess Jahúran. Then the little Rání went with her, and when she saw her beautiful son she was indeed glad, and the prince opened his eyes and saw her, and then he kissed her, and they were very happy.

The news spread through the compound, and Jabhú Rájá and his sons and everybody came at once to see if it were true. When they saw the beautiful young prince, with his hair all gold, they could not stand, but fell down. Prince Monkey lifted his father and loved him, and put his arms round him, and said, “I am your son, your own son; you must not fall down before me.” “Why did you wear that monkey-skin?” asked his father. “Because,” he said, “my mother ate the mango stone instead of eating the mango, and so I was born with this skin, and God ordered me to wear it till I had found a wife.” His brothers said, “Who could have guessed there was such a beautiful man inside that monkey-skin? God’s decrees are good!” And they left off hating their brother, Prince Monkey.

There were great rejoicings and feasts now, and all were very happy. The six elder brothers lived always with their father and Prince Monkey, but none of them ever married.

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

Three Brothers

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

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

► Themes of the story

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

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

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

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Uzbek people

Retold by Serghei Palastrov
Translated by Olga Shartse

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

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

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

► Continue reading…

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

And on this, their father rose and left them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus passed the first night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He talked so cleverly that the chieftain replied:

“You did well to come to us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, the Shah sent for the gardener.

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

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

“Your life will be spared. Speak up.”

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

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

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

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

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

And Tonguch-batyr replied:

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

But the Shah insisted:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Story of the Parrot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it was his own mother who spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broken Images

Two brothers, a hunter and a dreamer, embark on contrasting journeys—one in the forest, the other into a mystical shrine. The dreamer encounters divine beings, learning of their duties and sorrows, while the hunter searches for his brother through a stormy night. Reunited, they reflect on their different perspectives: the dreamer’s visions of gods and the hunter’s pragmatic view of the world.

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

► Themes of the story

Sacred Spaces: The shrine serves as a holy place where the dreamer gains insight into the divine and the duties of the gods.

Illusion vs. Reality: The contrasting experiences of the brothers highlight different perceptions of reality—the dreamer’s mystical visions versus the hunter’s pragmatic worldview.

Family Dynamics: The relationship between the two brothers, with their differing perspectives and experiences, reflects the complexities within familial bonds.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Once there lived two brothers who were princes in the land.

The elder brother was a hunter. He loved the deep woods and the chase. He went from dawn to dark with his bow and his arrows. Swiftly he could run; he was strong and bright-eyed. The younger brother was a dreamer; his eyes were gentle. From dawn to dark he would sit with his book or with his thoughts. Sweetly could he sing of love, or of war, or of the green fields, and tell stories of the fairies and of the time of the gods.

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Upon a fair day of summer the hunter betook himself very early to the woods, as was his wont. But the dreamer took his book in his hand, and, musing, he wandered by the stream’s side, where grew the yellow mimulus.

“It is the fairies’ money,” he said; “it will buy all the joys of fairyland!” So he went on his way, smiling.

And when he had continued for some time, he came to a holy shrine. And there led to the shrine a hundred steps, moss-grown and grey. Beside the steps were guardian lions, carved in stone. Behind the shrine was Fugi, the Mystic Mountain, white and beautiful, and all the lesser hills rose softly up like prayers.

“O peerless Fugi,” said the dreamer, “O passionless wonder mountain! To see thee is to hear sweet music without sound, the blessed harmony of silence.”

Then he climbed the steps, moss-grown and grey. And the lions that were carved in stone rose up and followed him, and they came with him to the inner gates of the shrine and stayed there.

In the shrine there was a hush of noonday. The smoke of incense curled and hung upon the air. Dimly shone the gold and the bronze, the lights and the mystic mirrors.

There was a sound of singing in the shrine, and turning, the dreamer saw a man who stood at his right hand. The man was taller than any child of earth. Moreover, his face shone with the glory of a youth that cannot pass away. He held a year-old child upon his arm and hushed it to sleep, singing a strange melody. When the babe fell asleep he was well pleased, and smiled.

“What babe is that?” said the dreamer.

“O dreamer, it is no babe, but a spirit.”

“Then, my lord, what are you?” said the dreamer.

“I am Jizo, who guards the souls of little children. It is most pitiful to hear their crying when they come to the sandy river-bed, the Sai-no-kawara. O dreamer, they come alone, as needs they must, wailing and wandering, stretching out their pretty hands. They have a task, which is to pile stones for a tower of prayer. But in the night come the Oni to throw down the towers and to scatter all the stones. So the children are made afraid, and their labour is lost.”

“What then, my lord Jizo?” said the dreamer.

“Why, then I come, for the Great One gives me leave. And I call ‘Come hither, wandering souls.’ And they fly to me that I may hide them in my long sleeves. I carry them in my arms and on my breast, where they lie light and cold,–as light and cold as the morning mist upon the mountains.”

When he had spoken, the year-old child stirred and murmured: so he rocked it, and wandered to and fro in the quiet temple court and hushed it as he went.

So the swift moments flew and the noontide passed away.

Presently there came to the shrine a lady most gentle and beautiful. Grey was her robe, and she had silver sandals on her feet. She said, “I am called The Merciful. For mankind’s dear sake, I have refused eternal peace. The Great One has given to me a thousand loving arms, arms of mercy. And my hands are full of gifts. O dreamer, when you dream your dreams you shall see me in my lotus boat when I sail upon the mystic mere.”

“Lady, Lady Kwannon …” said the dreamer.

Then came one clothed in blue, speaking with a sweet, deep, well-known voice.

“I am Benten, the Goddess of the Sea and the Goddess of Song. My dragons are about me and beneath my feet. See their green scales and their opal eyes. Greeting, O dreamer!”

After her there came a band of blooming boys, laughing and holding out their rosy arms. “We are the Sons of the Sea Goddess,” they said. “Come, dreamer, come to our cool caves.”

The God of Roads came, and his three messengers with him. Three apes were the three messengers. The first ape covered his eyes with his hands, for he could see no evil thing. The second ape covered his ears with his hands, for he could hear no evil thing. The third ape covered his mouth with his hands, for he could speak no evil thing. Then came She, the fearful woman who takes the clothes of the dead who are not able to pay their toll, so that they must stand shivering at the entrance of the mysterious Three Ways. They are unfortunate indeed.

And many and many a vision the dreamer saw in that enchanted shrine.

And dark night fell, with storm and tempest and the sound of rain upon the roof. Yet the dreamer never stirred. Suddenly there was a sound of hurrying feet without. A voice called loud, “My brother, my brother, my brother!…” In sprang the hunter through the golden temple doors.

“Where are you?” he cried, “my brother, my brother!” He had his swinging lantern in his hand and held it high, as he flung his long blown hair back over his shoulder. His face was bright with the rain upon it, his eyes were as keen as an eagle’s.

“O brother …” said the dreamer, and ran to meet him.

“Now the dear gods be thanked that I have you safe and sound,” said the hunter. “Half the night I have sought you, wandering in the forest and by the stream’s side. I was all to blame for leaving you … my little brother.” With that, he took his brother’s face between his two warm hands.

But the dreamer sighed, “I have been with the gods all night,” he said, “and I think I see them still. The place is holy.”

Then the hunter flashed his light upon the temple walls, upon the gilding and the bronze.

“I see no gods,” he said.

“What see you, brother?”

“I see a row of stones, broken images, grey, with moss-grown feet.”

“They are grey because they are sad, they are sad because they are forgotten,” said the dreamer.

But the hunter took him by the hand and led him into the night.

The dreamer said, “O brother, how sweet is the scent of the bean fields after the rain.”

“Now bind your sandals on,” said the hunter, “and I’ll run you a race to our home.”

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

The Strange Story of the Golden Comb

Two samurai families in Sendai betrothed their newborn children, Aiko and Konojo, marking the bond with a golden comb. Years later, misfortune separated them, and Aiko, now a graceful maiden, fell ill and died longing for Konojo. When he returned, Aiko’s spirit briefly inhabited her sister Aiyamé’s body, sharing a year with Konojo. Before departing to the afterlife, Aiko united them in love.

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

► Themes of the story

Tragic Love: Aiko’s death due to longing for Konojo, and their brief reunion through Aiyamé, underscore the sorrow of love lost and regained only temporarily.

Family Dynamics: The interactions between Aiko, Aiyamé, and their families reflect the complexities of familial relationships, especially in the context of cultural traditions.

Prophecy and Fate: The predetermined betrothal and the eventual outcomes suggest a play of destiny in the characters’ lives.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

In ancient days two samurai dwelt in Sendai of the North. They were friends and brothers in arms. Hasunuma one was named, and the other Saito.

Now it happened that a daughter was born to the house of Hasunuma, and upon the selfsame day, and in the selfsame hour, there was born to the house of Saito a son. The boy child they called Konojo, and the girl they called Aiko, which means the Child of Love.

► Continue reading…

Or ever a year had passed over their innocent heads the children were betrothed to one another. And as a token the wife of Saito gave a golden comb to the wife of Hasunuma, saying: “For the child’s hair when she shall be old enough.” Aiko’s mother wrapped the comb in a handkerchief, and laid it away in her chest. It was of gold lacquer, very fine work, adorned with golden dragon-flies.

This was very well; but before long misfortune came upon Saito and his house, for, by sad mischance, he aroused the ire of his feudal lord, and he was fain to fly from Sendai by night, and his wife was with him, and the child. No man knew where they went, or had any news of them, nor of how they fared, and for long, long years Hasunuma heard not one word of them.

The child Aiko grew to be the loveliest lady in Sendai. She had longer hair than any maiden in the city, and she was the most graceful dancer ever seen. She moved as a wave of the sea, or a cloud of the sky, or the wild bamboo grass in the wind. She had a sister eleven moons younger than she, who was called Aiyamé, or the Water Iris; and she was the second loveliest lady in Sendai. Aiko was white, but Aiyamé was brown, quick, and light, and laughing. When they went abroad in the streets of Sendai, folk said, “There go the moon and the south wind.”

Upon an idle summer day when all the air was languid, and the cicala sang ceaselessly as he swung on the pomegranate bough, the maidens rested on the cool white mats of their lady mother’s bower. Their dark locks were loose, and their slender feet were bare. They had between them an ancient chest of red lacquer, a Bride Box of their lady mother’s, and in the chest they searched and rummaged for treasure.

“See, sister,” said Aiyamé, “here are scarlet thongs, the very thing for my sandals … and what is this? A crystal rosary, I declare! How beautiful!”

Aiko said, “My mother, I pray you give me this length of violet silk, it will make me very fine undersleeves to my new grey gown; and, mother, let me have the crimson for a petticoat; and surely, mother, you do not need this little bit of brocade?”

“And what an obi,” cried Aiyamé, as she dragged it from the chest, “grass green and silver!” Springing lightly up, she wound the length about her slender body. “Now behold me for the finest lady in all Sendai. Very envious shall be the daughter of the rich Hachiman, when she sees this wonder obi; but I shall be calm and careless, and say, looking down thus humbly, ‘Your pardon, noble lady, that I wear this foolish trifling obi, unmeet for your great presence!’ Mother, mother, give me the obi.”

“Arah! Arah! Little pirates!” said the mother, and smiled.

Aiko thrust her hand to the bottom of the chest. “Here is something hard,” she murmured, “a little casket wrapped in a silken handkerchief. How it smells of orris and ancient spices!–now what may it be?” So saying, she unwound the kerchief and opened the casket. “A golden comb!” she said, and laid it on her knee.

“Give it here, child,” cried the mother quickly; “it is not for your eyes.”

But the maiden sat quite still, her eyes upon the golden comb. It was of gold lacquer, very fine work, adorned with golden dragon-flies.

For a time the maiden said not a word, nor did her mother, though she was troubled; and even the light Lady of the South Wind seemed stricken into silence, and drew the scarlet sandal thongs through and through her fingers.

“Mother, what of this golden comb?” said Aiko at last.

“My sweet, it is the love-token between you and Konojo, the son of Saito, for you two were betrothed in your cradles. But now it is full fifteen years since Saito went from Sendai in the night, he and all his house, and left no trace behind.”

“Is my love dead?” said Aiko.

“Nay, that I know not–but he will never come; so, I beseech you, think no more of him, my pretty bird. There, get you your fan, and dance for me and for your sister.”

Aiko first set the golden comb in her hair. Then she flung open her fan to dance. She moved like a wave of the sea, or a cloud of the sky, or the wild bamboo grass in the wind. She had not danced long before she dropped the fan, with a long cry, and she herself fell her length upon the ground. From that hour she was in a piteous way, and lay in her bed sighing, like a maid lovelorn and forsaken. She could not eat nor sleep; she had no pleasure in life. The sunrise and the sound of rain at night were nothing to her any more. Not her father, nor her mother, nor her sister, the Lady of the South Wind, were able to give her any ease.

Presently she turned her face to the wall. “It is more than I can understand,” she said, and so died.

When they had prepared the poor young maid for her grave, her mother came, crying, to look at her for the last time. And she set the golden comb in the maid’s hair, saying:

“My own dear little child, I pray that in other lives you may know happiness. Therefore take your golden token with you; you will have need of it when you meet the wraith of your lover.” For she believed that Konojo was dead.

But, alas, for Karma that is so pitiless, one short moon had the maid been in her grave when the brave young man, her betrothed, came to claim her at her father’s house.

“Alas and alack, Konojo, the son of Saito, alas, my brave young man, too late you have come! Your joy is turned to mourning, for your bride lies under the green grass, and her sister goes weeping in the moonlight to pour the water of the dead.” Thus spoke Hasunuma the samurai.

“Lord,” said the brave young man, “there are three ways left, the sword, the strong girdle, and the river. These are the short roads to Yomi. Farewell.”

But Hasunuma held the young man by the arm. “Nay, then, thou son of Saito,” he said, “but hear the fourth way, which is far better. The road to Yomi is short, but it is very dark; moreover, from the confines of that country few return. Therefore stay with me, Konojo, and comfort me in my old age, for I have no sons.”

So Konojo entered the household of Hasunuma the samurai, and dwelt in the garden house by the gate.

Now in the third month Hasunuma and his wife and the daughter that was left them arose early and dressed them in garments of ceremony, and presently were borne away in kago, for to the temple they were bound, and to their ancestral tombs, where they offered prayers and incense the live-long day.

It was bright starlight when they returned, and cold the night was, still and frosty. Konojo stood and waited at the garden gate. He waited for their home-coming, as was meet. He drew his cloak about him and gave ear to the noises of the evening. He heard the sound of the blind man’s whistle, and the blind man’s staff upon the stones. Far off he heard a child laugh twice; then he heard men singing in chorus, as men who sing to cheer themselves in their labour, and in the pauses of song he heard the creak, creak of swinging kago that the men bore upon their shoulders, and he said, “They come.”

“I go to the house of the Beloved,
Her plum tree stands by the eaves;
It is full of blossom.
The dew lies in the heart of the flowers,
So they are the drinking-cups of the sparrows.
How do you go to your love’s house?
Even upon the wings of the night wind.
Which road leads to your love’s house?
All the roads in the world.”

This was the song of the kago men. First the kago of Hasunuma the samurai turned in at the garden gate, then followed his lady; last came Aiyamé of the South Wind. Upon the roof of her kago there lay a blossoming bough.

“Rest well, lady,” said Konojo, as she passed, and had no answer back. Howbeit it seemed that some light thing dropped from the kago, and fell with a little noise to the ground. He stooped and picked up a woman’s comb. It was of gold lacquer, very fine work, adorned with golden dragon-flies. Smooth and warm it lay in the hand of Konojo. And he went his way to the garden house. At the hour of the rat the young samurai threw down his book of verse, laid himself upon his bed, and blew out his light. And the selfsame moment he heard a wandering step without.

“And who may it be that visits the garden house by night?” said Konojo, and he wondered. About and about went the wandering feet till at length they stayed, and the door was touched with an uncertain hand.

“Konojo! Konojo!”

“What is it?” said the samurai.

“Open, open; I am afraid.”

“Who are you, and why are you afraid?”

“I am afraid of the night. I am the daughter of Hasunuma the samurai…. Open to me for the love of the gods.”

Konojo undid the latch and slid back the door of the garden house to find a slender and drooping lady upon the threshold. He could not see her face, for she held her long sleeve so as to hide it from him; but she swayed and trembled, and her frail shoulders shook with sobbing.

“Let me in,” she moaned, and forthwith entered the garden house.

Half smiling and much perplexed, Konojo asked her:

“Are you Aiyamé, whom they call the Lady of the South Wind?”

“I am she.”

“Lady, you do me much honour.”

“The comb!” she said, “the golden comb!”

As she said this, she threw the veil from her face, and taking the robe of Konojo in both her little hands, she looked into his eyes as though she would draw forth his very soul. The lady was brown and quick and light. Her eyes and her lips were made for laughing, and passing strange she looked in the guise that she wore then.

“The comb!” she said, “the golden comb!”

“I have it here,” said Konojo; “only let go my robe, and I will fetch it you.”

At this the lady cast herself down upon the white mats in a passion of bitter tears, and Konojo, poor unfortunate, pressed his hands together, quite beside himself.

“What to do?” he said; “what to do?”

At last he raised the lady in his arms, and stroked her little hand to comfort her.

“Lord,” she said, as simply as a child, “lord, do you love me?”

And he answered her in a moment, “I love you more than many lives, O Lady of the South Wind.”

“Lord,” she said, “will you come with me then?”

He answered her, “Even to the land of Yomi,” and took her hand.

Forth they went into the night, and they took the road together. By river-side they went, and over plains of flowers; they went by rocky ways, or through the whispering pines, and when they had wandered far enough, of the green bamboos they built them a little house to dwell in. And they were there for a year of happy days and nights.

Now upon a morning of the third month Konojo beheld men with kago come swinging through the bamboo grove. And he said:

“What have they to do with us, these men and their kago?”

“Lord,” said Aiyamé, “they come to bear us to my father’s house.”

He cried, “What is this foolishness? We will not go.”

“Indeed, and we must go,” said the lady.

“Go you, then,” said Konojo; “as for me, I stay here where I am happy.”

“Ah, lord,” she said, “ah, my dear, do you then love me less, who vowed to go with me, even to the Land of Yomi?”

Then he did all that she would. And he broke a blossoming bough from a tree that grew near by and laid it upon the roof of her kago.

Swiftly, swiftly they were borne, and the kago men sang as they went, a song to make labour light.

“I go to the house of the Beloved,
Her plum tree stands by the eaves;
It is full of blossom.
The dew lies in the heart of the flowers,
So they are the drinking-cups of the sparrows.
How do you go to your love’s house?
Even upon the wings of the night wind.
Which road leads to your love’s house?
All the roads in the world.”

This was the song of the kago men.

About nightfall they came to the house of Hasunuma the samurai.

“Go you in, my dear lord,” said the Lady of the South Wind. “I will wait without; if my father is very wroth with you, only show him the golden comb.” And with that she took it from her hair and gave it him. Smooth and warm it lay in his hand. Then Konojo went into the house.

“Welcome, welcome home, Konojo, son of Saito!” cried Hasunuma. “How has it fared with your knightly adventure?”

“Knightly adventure!” said Konojo, and blushed.

“It is a year since your sudden departure, and we supposed that you had gone upon a quest, or in the expiation of some vow laid upon your soul.”

“Alas, my good lord,” said Konojo, “I have sinned against you and against your house.” And he told Hasunuma what he had done.

When he had made an end of his tale:

“Boy,” said the samurai, “you jest, but your merry jest is ill-timed. Know that my child lies even as one dead. For a year she has neither risen nor spoken nor smiled. She is visited by a heavy sickness and none can heal her.”

“Sir,” said Konojo, “your child, the Lady of the South Wind, waits in a kago without your garden wall. I will fetch her in presently.”

Forth they went together, the young man and the samurai, but they found no kago without the garden wall, no kago-bearers and no lady. Only a broken bough of withered blossom lay upon the ground.

“Indeed, indeed, she was here but now!” cried Konojo. “She gave me her comb–her golden comb. See, my lord, here it is.”

“What comb is this, Konojo? Where got you this comb that was set in a dead maid’s hair, and buried with her beneath the green grass? Where got you the comb of Aiko, the Lady of the Moon, that died for love? Speak, Konojo, son of Saito. This is a strange thing.”

Now whilst Konojo stood amazed, and leaned silent and bewildered against the garden wall, a lady came lightly through the trees. She moved as a wave of the sea, or a cloud of the sky, or the wild bamboo grass in the wind.

“Aiyamé,” cried the samurai, “how are you able to leave your bed?”

The young man said nothing, but fell on his knees beside the garden wall. There the lady came to him and bent so that her hair and her garments overshadowed him, and her eyes held his.

“Lord,” she said, “I am the spirit of Aiko your love. I went with a broken heart to dwell with the shades of Yomi. The very dead took pity on my tears. I was permitted to return, and for one short year to inhabit the sweet body of my sister. And now my time is come. I go my ways to the grey country. I shall be the happiest soul in Yomi–I have known you, beloved. Now take me in your arms, for I grow very faint.”

With that she sank to the ground, and Konojo put his arms about her and laid her head against his heart. His tears fell upon her forehead.

“Promise me,” she said, “that you will take to wife Aiyamé, my sister, the Lady of the South Wind.”

“Ah,” he cried, “my lady and my love!”

“Promise, promise,” she said.

Then he promised.

After a little she stirred in his arms.

“What is it?” he said.

So soft her voice that it did not break the silence but floated upon it.

“The comb,” she murmured, “the golden comb.”

And Konojo set it in her hair.

* * * * *

A burden, pale but breathing, Konojo carried into the house of Hasunuma and laid upon the white mats and silken cushions. And after three hours a young maid sat up and rubbed her sleepy eyes. She was brown and quick and light and laughing. Her hair was tumbled about her rosy cheeks, unconfined by any braid or comb. She stared first at her father, and then at the young man that was in her bower. She smiled, then flushed, and put her little hands before her face.

“Greeting, O Lady of the South Wind,” said Konojo.

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The Espousal of the Rat’s Daughter

Mr. Rat, a proud and well-to-do figure, sought the most powerful suitor for his beautiful daughter, Yuki. Consulting the Sun, Cloud, Wind, and Wall, he discovered each had a weakness. Ultimately, the Wall revealed Mr. Rat’s own nephew—who had gnawed through it—as the most powerful. Satisfied, Yuki married her cousin, proving that true strength often lies closest to home.

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

► Themes of the story

Cunning and Deception: The story highlights the cleverness of the rat, who, despite being small, is capable of gnawing through the sturdy wall, demonstrating that true strength isn’t always apparent.

Family Dynamics: The narrative focuses on Mr. Rat’s desire to secure a powerful match for his daughter, reflecting familial aspirations and relationships.

Illusion vs. Reality: Mr. Rat perceives the Sun, Cloud, Wind, and Wall as the most powerful beings, but learns that their apparent strength has limitations, leading him to recognize the true power within his own kind.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Mr. Nedzumi, the Rat, was an important personage in the hamlet where he lived–at least he was so in his own and his wife’s estimation. This was in part, of course, due to the long line of ancestors from whom he was descended, and to their intimate association with the gods of Good Fortune. For, be it remembered, his ancestry went back into a remote past, in fact as far as time itself; for had not one of his race been selected as the first animal in the cycle of the hours, precedence being even given him over the dragon, the tiger, and the horse? As to his intimacy with the gods, had not one of his forebears been the chosen companion of the great Daikoku, the most revered and the most beneficent of the gods of Good Fortune?

► Continue reading…

Mr. Rat was well-to-do in life. His home had for generations been established in a snug, warm and cosy bank, hard by one of the most fertile rice-fields on the country-side, where crops never failed, and where in spring he could nibble his fill of the young green shoots, and in autumn gather into his storerooms supplies of the ripened grain sufficient for all his wants during the coming winter.

For his needs were not great. Entertainment cost him but little, and, unlike his fellows, he had the smallest of families, in fact a family of one only.

But, as regards that one, quality more than compensated for quantity, for it consisted of a daughter, of a beauty unsurpassed in the whole province. He himself had been the object of envy in his married life, for he had had the good fortune to marry into a family of a very select piebald breed, which seldom condescended to mix its blood with the ordinary self-coloured tribe, and now his daughter had been born a peerless white, and had received the name of Yuki, owing to her resemblance to pure snow.

It is little wonder, then, that as she grew up beautiful in form and feature, her father’s ambitions were fired, and that he aspired to marry her to the highest in the land.

As it happened, the hamlet where he lived was not very far removed from a celebrated temple, and Mr. Rat, having been brought up in the odour of sanctity, had all his life long been accustomed to make pilgrimages to the great shrine. There he had formed the acquaintance of an old priest, who was good enough to provide for him out of the temple offerings in return for gossip as to the doings of his village, which happened to be that in which the priest had been born and bred. To him the rat had often unburdened his mind, and the old priest had come to see his friend’s self-importance and his little weaknesses, and had in vain impressed upon him the virtues of humility.

Now Mr. Rat could find no one amongst his village companions to inform him where to attain what had now become an insatiable desire, namely, a fine marriage for his daughter. So he turned to the temple custodian for advice, and one summer morn found him hammering on the gong which summoned his friend the priest.

“Welcome, Mr. Rat; to what am I indebted for your visit?” said the old priest, for experience had shown him that his friend seldom came so far afield unless he had some request to make.

Thereupon Mr. Rat unburdened himself of all that was in his mind, of his aspiration, and of the difficulty he had in ascertaining in what manner he could obtain it.

Nor did the priest immediately satisfy him, for he said the matter was a difficult one, and would require much consideration. However, on the third day the oracle gave answer as follows: “There is no doubt that apart from the gods there is no one so powerful, or who exercises so beneficent a rule over us, as His Majesty the Sun. Had I a daughter, and did I aspire to such heights for her as you do, I should make my suit to him, and I should take the opportunity of so doing when he comes down to our earth at sundown, for then it is that he decks himself in his most gorgeous apparel; moreover, he is more readily approached when his day’s work is done, and he is about to take his well-earned rest. Were I you I would lose no time, but present myself in company with your honourable wife and daughter to him this very evening at the end of the great Cryptomeria Avenue at the hour when he especially honours it by flooding it with his beams.”

“A thousand thanks,” said Mr. Rat. “No time is to be lost if I am to get my folk together at the time and place you mention.”

“Good fortune to you,” said the priest; “may I hail you the next time I see you as father-in-law to His Majesty the Sun.”

At the appointed hour parents and daughter were to be seen in the avenue, robed in their finest clothes; and as the sun came earthwards and his rays illumined the gloom under the great pines, Mr. Rat, noway abashed, addressed His Majesty and at once informed him of his desire.

His Majesty, evidently considering that one business personage addressing another should not waste time in beating about the bush, replied as follows: “I am extremely beholden to you for your kind intention of allowing me to wed your honourable and beautiful daughter, O Yuki San, but may I ask your reason for selecting me to be your honourable son-in-law?”

To this Mr. Rat replied, “We have determined to marry our daughter to whoever is the most powerful personage in the world, and that is why we desire to offer her to you in marriage.”

“Yes,” said His Majesty, “you are certainly not without reason in imagining me to be the most august and powerful person in the world; but, unfortunately, it has been my misfortune to discover that there is one other even more powerful than myself, against whose plottings I have no power. It is to him that you should very certainly marry your daughter.”

“And may we honourably ask you who that potentate may be?” said Mr. Rat.

“Certainly,” rejoined the Sun. “It is the Cloud. Oftentimes when I have set myself to illumine the world he comes across my path and covers my face so that my subjects may not see me, and so long as he does this I am altogether in his power. If, therefore, it is the most powerful personage in the world whom you seek for your daughter, the honourable O Yuki San, you must bestow her on no one else than the Cloud.”

It required little consideration for both father and mother to see the wisdom of the Sun’s advice, and upon his suggestion they determined to wait on the Cloud at the very earliest opportunity, and at an hour before he rose from his bed, which he usually made on the slopes of a mountain some leagues removed from their village. So they set out, and a long journey they had, so long that Mr. Rat decided that if he was to present his daughter when she was looking her best, the journey must not be hurried. Consequently, instead of arriving at early dawn, it was full afternoon when they neared the summit where the Cloud was apparently wrapped in slumber. But he roused himself as he saw the family approaching, and bade them welcome in so urbane a manner that the Rat at once proceeded to lay his request before him.

To this the Cloud answered, “I am indeed honoured by your condescension in proposing that I should marry your beauteous daughter, O Yuki San. It is quite true, as His August Majesty the Sun says, that when I so desire I have the strength to stay him from exercising his power upon his subjects, and I should much esteem the privilege of wedding your daughter. But as you would single out for that honour the most powerful person in the world, you must seek out His Majesty the Wind, against whom I have no strength, for as soon as he competes with me for supremacy I must fain fly away to the ends of the earth.”

“You surprise me,” said the Rat, “but I take your word for it. I would, therefore, ask you whether His Majesty the Wind will be this way shortly, and where I may best meet him.”

“I am afraid I cannot tell you at the moment when he is likely to be this way. He usually announces his coming by harrying some of my subjects who act as my outposts, but, as you see, they are now all resting quietly. His Majesty is at this moment, I believe, holding a court far out in the Eastern Seas. Were I you I would go down to the seashore and await his coming. He is often somewhat inclined to be short-tempered by the time he gets up into these mountainous parts, owing to the obstructions he has met with on his journey, and he will have had few of these vexatious annoyances during his ride over the sea.”

Now, although from the slopes of the mountain the sea looked not very far distant, it was in reality a long way for a delicately-nurtured young lady such as Yuki, and every mile of the journey that she had to traverse increased her querulousness. Her father had often boasted of the journeys that he had taken down to the coast, free of cost, concealed in a truck-load of rice, and she would take no excuses that there was no railway to the point at which they were to await His Highness the Wind, although had there been it would never have done for a party engaged on such an embassy to ride in a railway truck. Nor was her humour improved by the time they had to wait in the very second-rate accommodation afforded by a fishing hamlet, as none of them were accustomed to a fish fare. But after many days there were signs that the great personage was arriving, and they watched with some trepidation his passage over the sea, although when, in due time, he neared the shore they could hardly credit the Cloud’s assurance as to his strength, for he seemed the personification of all that was gentle; and Madame Rat at once interposed the remark that you should never judge a person’s character by what you hear, and that the Cloud evidently owed the Wind a grudge.

So the Rat at once unburdened himself to the Wind as it came over the water towards him, making its face ripple with smiles. And the Wind itself was in the fairest good humour and addressed the Rat as follows: “Mr. Cloud is a flatterer, and knows full well that I have no power against him when he really comes up against me in one of his thunderous moods. To call me the most powerful person in the world is nonsense. Where do you come from? Why, in that very village there is one stronger than me, namely, the high wall that fences in the house of your good neighbour. If your daughter must fain marry the strongest thing in the world, wed her to the wall. You will find him a very stalwart spouse. I wish you good day. I am sorry I cannot offer you a seat in my chariot, but I am not going in the direction of that wall to-day, else I should have had much pleasure in introducing your honourable self to my powerful antagonist.”

By this time the party was getting much disheartened, and the stress of the journey and the chagrin of so many disappointments were beginning to tell on O Yuki San’s beauty. But Mr. Rat said there was nothing for it but to return home; he knew the wall in question very well, but had no idea it stood so high in the world’s estimation–he had always thought of it as somewhat of a dullard.

So they trudged homewards, and it was weary work, for the Cloud had hidden the Sun, and the Wind had fretted the Cloud, who showed his ill-humour by discharging a surplusage of moisture he had in his pocket, and they approached their home wet through, bedraggled and worn out. As luck would have it, just as they gained the wall which the wind had singled out for its power, a heavier downpour than ever came on and they were glad to take shelter under the lee of the wall. Now Mr. Wall had always been known for his inquisitive nature, which, it is said, arose from one side of his face never being able to see what was going on on the other; and so hearing his leeward side addressing Mr. Rat, and ascertaining that he had come from the sea, the windward side at once asked whether he had any tidings of that scoundrel the Wind, who was always coming and chafing his complexion.

“Why,” said Mr. Rat, “we met him but recently, and he desired to be remembered to you, who, he said, was the strongest person in the world.”

“I the strongest! It shows his ignorance. Why, only yesterday your nephew, the big brown rat, because he would not be at the trouble of going round, must needs gnaw a hole through me. The strongest thing in the world! Why, next time the wind comes this way he’ll rush through the hole and be telling your nephew that he’s the strongest person in the world.”

At this moment the rain stopped, the clouds rolled by, and the sun shone out, and Mr. and Mrs. Rat went home congratulating themselves that they had not had to demean themselves by proposing their daughter in marriage to a neighbour with such a false character.

And a month afterwards O Yuki San expressed her determination to marry her cousin, and her parents were fain to give their consent, for had he not proved himself to be the most powerful person in the world?

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

Reflections

A simple father and son live happily avoiding women until the father insists the son marry. The son weds pretty Mistress Tassel, but after his father dies, he buys a mirror in Kioto, mistaking his reflection for his father. Mistress Tassel believes the mirror holds another woman, causing chaos. A wise abbess intervenes, keeping the “woman” (mirror) and restoring peace.

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

► Themes of the story

Family Dynamics: The narrative explores the relationship between a father and son, and later, the son’s interactions with his wife, highlighting the complexities within a family unit.

Illusion vs. Reality: The son’s confusion between his reflection and his deceased father introduces a motif where appearances are mistaken for reality, leading to misunderstandings.

Transformation through Love: The son’s journey from a life without women to marrying Mistress Tassel signifies a personal transformation influenced by love and companionship.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Long enough ago there dwelt within a day’s journey of the city of Kioto a gentleman of simple mind and manners, but good estate. His wife, rest her soul, had been dead these many years, and the good man lived in great peace and quiet with his only son.

They kept clear of women-kind, and knew nothing at all either of their winning or their bothering ways. They had good steady men-servants in their house, and never set eyes on a pair of long sleeves or a scarlet obi from morning till night.

► Continue reading…

The truth is that they were as happy as the day is long. Sometimes they laboured in the rice-fields. Other days they went a-fishing. In the spring, forth they went to admire the cherry flower or the plum, and later they set out to view the iris or the peony or the lotus, as the case might be. At these times they would drink a little saké, and twist their blue and white tenegui about their heads and be as jolly as you please, for there was no one to say them nay. Often enough they came home by lantern light. They wore their oldest clothes, and were mighty irregular at their meals.

But the pleasures of life are fleeting–more’s the pity!–and presently the father felt old age creeping upon him.

One night, as he sat smoking and warming his hands over the charcoal, “Boy,” says he, “it’s high time you got married.”

“Now the gods forbid!” cries the young man. “Father, what makes you say such terrible things? Or are you joking? You must be joking,” he says.

“I’m not joking at all,” says the father; “I never spoke a truer word, and that you’ll know soon enough.”

“But, father, I am mortally afraid of women.”

“And am I not the same?” says the father. “I’m sorry for you, my boy.”

“Then what for must I marry?” says the son.

“In the way of nature I shall die before long, and you’ll need a wife to take care of you.”

Now the tears stood in the young man’s eyes when he heard this, for he was tender-hearted; but all he said was, “I can take care of myself very well.”

“That’s the very thing you cannot,” says his father.

The long and short of it was that they found the young man a wife. She was young, and as pretty as a picture. Her name was Tassel, just that, or Fusa, as they say in her language.

After they had drunk down the “Three Times Three” together and so became man and wife, they stood alone, the young man looking hard at the girl. For the life of him he did not know what to say to her. He took a bit of her sleeve and stroked it with his hand. Still he said nothing and looked mighty foolish. The girl turned red, turned pale, turned red again, and burst into tears.

“Honourable Tassel, don’t do that, for the dear gods’ sake,” says the young man.

“I suppose you don’t like me,” sobs the girl. “I suppose you don’t think I’m pretty.”

“My dear,” he says, “you’re prettier than the bean-flower in the field; you’re prettier than the little bantam hen in the farm-yard; you’re prettier than the rose carp in the pond. I hope you’ll be happy with my father and me.”

At this she laughed a little and dried her eyes. “Get on another pair of hakama,” she says, “and give me those you’ve got on you; there’s a great hole in them–I was noticing it all the time of the wedding!”

Well, this was not a bad beginning, and taking one thing with another they got on pretty well, though of course things were not as they had been in that blessed time when the young man and his father did not set eyes upon a pair of long sleeves or an obi from morning till night.

By and by, in the way of nature, the old man died. It is said he made a very good end, and left that in his strong-box which made his son the richest man in the country-side. But this was no comfort at all to the poor young man, who mourned his father with all his heart. Day and night he paid reverence to the tomb. Little sleep or rest he got, and little heed he gave to his wife, Mistress Tassel, and her whimsies, or even to the delicate dishes she set before him. He grew thin and pale, and she, poor maid, was at her wits’ end to know what to do with him. At last she said, “My dear, and how would it be if you were to go to Kioto for a little?”

“And what for should I do that?” he says.

It was on the tip of her tongue to answer, “To enjoy yourself,” but she saw it would never do to say that.

“Oh,” she says, “as a kind of a duty. They say every man that loves his country should see Kioto; and besides, you might give an eye to the fashions, so as to tell me what like they are when you get home. My things,” she says, “are sadly behind the times! I’d like well enough to know what people are wearing!”

“I’ve no heart to go to Kioto,” says the young man, “and if I had, it’s the planting-out time of the rice, and the thing’s not to be done, so there’s an end of it.”

All the same, after two days he bids his wife get out his best hakama and haouri, and to make up his bento for a journey. “I’m thinking of going to Kioto,” he tells her.

“Well, I am surprised,” says Mistress Tassel. “And what put such an idea into your head, if I may ask?”

“I’ve been thinking it’s a kind of duty,” says the young man.

“Oh, indeed,” says Mistress Tassel to this, and nothing more, for she had some grains of sense. And the next morning as ever was she packs her husband off bright and early for Kioto, and betakes herself to some little matter of house cleaning she has on hand.

The young man stepped out along the road, feeling a little better in his spirits, and before long he reached Kioto. It is likely he saw many things to wonder at. Amongst temples and palaces he went. He saw castles and gardens, and marched up and down fine streets of shops, gazing about him with his eyes wide open, and his mouth too, very like, for he was a simple soul.

At length, one fine day he came upon a shop full of metal mirrors that glittered in the sunshine.

“Oh, the pretty silver moons!” says the simple soul to himself. And he dared to come near and take up a mirror in his hand.

The next minute he turned as white as rice and sat him down on the seat in the shop door, still holding the mirror in his hand and looking into it.

“Why, father,” he said, “how did you come here? You are not dead, then? Now the dear gods be praised for that! Yet I could have sworn—- But no matter, since you are here alive and well. You are something pale still, but how young you look. You move your lips, father, and seem to speak, but I do not hear you. You’ll come home with me, dear, and live with us just as you used to do? You smile, you smile, that is well.”

“Fine mirrors, my young gentleman,” said the shopman, “the best that can be made, and that’s one of the best of the lot you have there. I see you are a judge.”

The young man clutched his mirror tight and sat staring stupidly enough no doubt. He trembled. “How much?” he whispered. “Is it for sale?” He was in a taking lest his father should be snatched from him.

“For sale it is, indeed, most noble sir,” said the shopman, “and the price is a trifle, only two bu. It’s almost giving it away I am, as you’ll understand.”

“Two bu–only two bu! Now the gods be praised for this their mercy!” cried the happy young man. He smiled from ear to ear, and he had the purse out of his girdle, and the money out of his purse, in a twinkling.

Now it was the shopman who wished he had asked three bu or even five. All the same he put a good face upon it, and packed the mirror in a fine white box and tied it up with green cords.

“Father,” said the young man, when he had got away with it, “before we set out for home we must buy some gauds for the young woman there, my wife, you know.”

Now, for the life of him, he could not have told why, but when he came to his home the young man never said a word to Mistress Tassel about buying his old father for two bu in the Kioto shop. That was where he made his mistake, as things turned out.

She was as pleased as you like with her coral hair-pins, and her fine new obi from Kioto. “And I’m glad to see him so well and so happy,” she said to herself; “but I must say he’s been mighty quick to get over his sorrow after all. But men are just like children.” As for her husband, unbeknown to her he took a bit of green silk from her treasure-box and spread it in the cupboard of the toko no ma. There he placed the mirror in its box of white wood.

Every morning early and every evening late, he went to the cupboard of the toko no ma and spoke with his father. Many a jolly talk they had and many a hearty laugh together, and the son was the happiest young man of all that country-side, for he was a simple soul.

But Mistress Tassel had a quick eye and a sharp ear, and it was not long before she marked her husband’s new ways.

“What for does he go so often to the toko no ma,” she asked herself, “and what has he got there? I should be glad enough to know.” Not being one to suffer much in silence, she very soon asked her husband these same things.

He told her the truth, the good young man. “And now I have my dear old father home again, I’m as happy as the day is long,” he says.

“H’m,” she says.

“And wasn’t two bu cheap,” he says, “and wasn’t it a strange thing altogether?”

“Cheap, indeed,” says she, “and passing strange; and why, if I may ask,” she says, “did you say nought of all this at the first?”

The young man grew red.

“Indeed, then, I cannot tell you, my dear,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know,” and with that he went out to his work.

Up jumped Mistress Tassel the minute his back was turned, and to the toko no ma she flew on the wings of the wind and flung open the doors with a clang.

“My green silk for sleeve-linings!” she cried at once; “but I don’t see any old father here, only a white wooden box. What can he keep in it?”

She opened the box quickly enough.

“What an odd flat shining thing!” she said, and, taking up the mirror, looked into it.

For a moment she said nothing at all, but the great tears of anger and jealousy stood in her pretty eyes, and her face flushed from forehead to chin.

“A woman!” she cried, “a woman! So that is his secret! He keeps a woman in this cupboard. A woman, very young and very pretty–no, not pretty at all, but she thinks herself so. A dancing-girl from Kioto, I’ll be bound; ill-tempered too–her face is scarlet; and oh, how she frowns, nasty little spitfire. Ah, who could have thought it of him? Ah, it’s a miserable girl I am–and I’ve cooked his daikon and mended his hakama a hundred times. Oh! oh! oh!”

With that, she threw the mirror into its case, and slammed-to the cupboard door upon it. Herself she flung upon the mats, and cried and sobbed as if her heart would break.

In comes her husband.

“I’ve broken the thong of my sandal,” says he, “and I’ve come to—- But what in the world?” and in an instant he was down on his knees beside Mistress Tassel doing what he could to comfort her, and to get her face up from the floor where she kept it.

“Why, what is it, my own darling?” says he.

“Your own darling!” she answers very fierce through her sobs; and “I want to go home,” she cries.

“But, my sweet, you are at home, and with your own husband.”

“Pretty husband!” she says, “and pretty goings-on, with a woman in the cupboard! A hateful, ugly woman that thinks herself beautiful; and she has my green sleeve-linings there with her to boot.”

“Now, what’s all this about women and sleeve-linings? Sure you wouldn’t grudge poor old father that little green rag for his bed? Come, my dear, I’ll buy you twenty sleeve-linings.”

At that she jumped to her feet and fairly danced with rage.

“Old father! old father! old father!” she screamed; “am I a fool or a child? I saw the woman with my own eyes.”

The poor young man didn’t know whether he was on his head or his heels. “Is it possible that my father is gone?” he said, and he took the mirror from the toko no ma.

“That’s well; still the same old father that I bought for two bu. You seem worried, father; nay, then, smile as I do. There, that’s well.”

Mistress Tassel came like a little fury and snatched the mirror from his hand. She gave but one look into it and hurled it to the other end of the room. It made such a clang against the woodwork, that servants and neighbours came rushing in to see what was the matter.

“It is my father,” said the young man. “I bought him in Kioto for two bu.”

“He keeps a woman in the cupboard who has stolen my green sleeve-linings,” sobbed the wife.

After this there was a great to-do. Some of the neighbours took the man’s part and some the woman’s, with such a clatter and chatter and noise as never was; but settle the thing they could not, and none of them would look into the mirror, because they said it was bewitched.

They might have gone on the way they were till doomsday, but that one of them said, “Let us ask the Lady Abbess, for she is a wise woman.” And off they all went to do what they might have done sooner.

The Lady Abbess was a pious woman, the head of a convent of holy nuns. She was the great one at prayers and meditations and at mortifyings of the flesh, and she was the clever one, none the less, at human affairs. They took her the mirror, and she held it in her hands and looked into it for a long time. At last she spoke:

“This poor woman,” she said, touching the mirror, “for it’s as plain as daylight that it is a woman–this poor woman was so troubled in her mind at the disturbance that she caused in a quiet house, that she has taken vows, shaved her head, and become a holy nun. Thus she is in her right place here. I will keep her, and instruct her in prayers and meditations. Go you home, my children; forgive and forget, be friends.”

Then all the people said, “The Lady Abbess is the wise woman.”

And she kept the mirror in her treasure.

Mistress Tassel and her husband went home hand in hand.

“So I was right, you see, after all,” she said.

“Yes, yes, my dear,” said the simple young man, “of course. But I was wondering how my old father would get on at the holy convent. He was never much of a one for religion.”

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The Flute

In Yedo, a man loved his daughter, O’Yoné, dearly, though her mother died early. The father remarried, unaware of his new wife’s cruelty toward O’Yoné. Before leaving for Kioto, he refused to take O’Yoné, who gifted him a bamboo flute. Months later, haunted by the flute’s wails, he returned to find O’Yoné murdered by her stepmother. He avenged her death and began a sorrowful pilgrimage, carrying the flute.

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

► Themes of the story

Family Dynamics: The narrative delves into the complex relationships within a family, highlighting the bond between O’Yoné and her father, and the subsequent cruelty she endures from her stepmother.

Love and Betrayal: O’Yoné’s father’s remarriage brings betrayal into their lives, as the stepmother’s malevolence contrasts sharply with the father’s love for his daughter.

Moral Lessons: The tale imparts lessons on the consequences of jealousy and cruelty, and the enduring nature of parental love and grief.

► From the same Region or People

Learn more about Japanese Mythology & Folklore

Long since, there lived in Yedo a gentleman of good lineage and very honest conversation. His wife was a gentle and loving lady. To his secret grief, she bore him no sons. But a daughter she did give him, whom they called O’Yoné, which, being interpreted, is “Rice in the ear.”

Each of them loved this child more than life, and guarded her as the apple of their eye. And the child grew up red and white, and long-eyed, straight and slender as the green bamboo.

► Continue reading…

When O’Yoné was twelve years old, her mother drooped with the fall of the year, sickened, and pined, and ere the red had faded from the leaves of the maples she was dead and shrouded and laid in the earth. The husband was wild in his grief. He cried aloud, he beat his breast, he lay upon the ground and refused comfort, and for days he neither broke his fast nor slept. The child was quite silent.

Time passed by. The man perforce went about his business. The snows of winter fell and covered his wife’s grave. The beaten pathway from his house to the dwelling of the dead was snow also, undisturbed save for the faint prints of a child’s sandalled feet. In the spring-time he girded up his robe and went forth to see the cherry blossom, making merry enough, and writing a poem upon gilded paper, which he hung to a cherry-tree branch to flutter in the wind. The poem was in praise of the spring and of saké. Later, he planted the orange lily of forgetfulness, and thought of his wife no more. But the child remembered.

Before the year was out he brought a new bride home, a woman with a fair face and a black heart. But the man, poor fool, was happy, and commended his child to her, and believed that all was well.

Now because her father loved O’Yoné, her stepmother hated her with a jealous and deadly hatred, and every day she dealt cruelly by the child, whose gentle ways and patience only angered her the more. But because of her father’s presence she did not dare to do O’Yoné any great ill; therefore she waited, biding her time. The poor child passed her days and her nights in torment and horrible fear. But of these things she said not a word to her father. Such is the manner of children.

Now, after some time, it chanced that the man was called away by his business to a distant city. Kioto was the name of the city, and from Yedo it is many days’ journey on foot or on horseback. Howbeit, go the man needs must, and stay there three moons or more. Therefore he made ready, and equipped himself, and his servants that were to go with him, with all things needful; and so came to the last night before his departure, which was to be very early in the morning.

He called O’Yoné to him and said: “Come here, then, my dear little daughter.” So O’Yoné went and knelt before him.

“What gift shall I bring you home from Kioto?” he said.

But she hung her head and did not answer.

“Answer, then, rude little one,” he bade her. “Shall it be a golden fan, or a roll of silk, or a new obi of red brocade, or a great battledore with images upon it and many light-feathered shuttlecocks?”

Then she burst into bitter weeping, and he took her upon his knees to soothe her. But she hid her face with her sleeves and cried as if her heart would break. And, “O father, father, father,” she said, “do not go away–do not go away!”

“But, my sweet, I needs must,” he answered, “and soon I shall be back–so soon, scarcely it will seem that I am gone, when I shall be here again with fair gifts in my hand.”

“Father, take me with you,” she said.

“Alas, what a great way for a little girl! Will you walk on your feet, my little pilgrim, or mount a pack-horse? And how would you fare in the inns of Kioto? Nay, my dear, stay; it is but for a little time, and your kind mother will be with you.”

She shuddered in his arms.

“Father, if you go, you will never see me more.”

Then the father felt a sudden chill about his heart, that gave him pause. But he would not heed it. What! Must he, a strong man grown, be swayed by a child’s fancies? He put O’Yoné gently from him, and she slipped away as silently as a shadow.

But in the morning she came to him before sunrise with a little flute in her hand, fashioned of bamboo and smoothly polished. “I made it myself,” she said, “from a bamboo in the grove that is behind our garden. I made it for you. As you cannot take me with you, take the little flute, honourable father. Play on it sometimes, if you will, and think of me.” Then she wrapped it in a handkerchief of white silk, lined with scarlet, and wound a scarlet cord about it, and gave it to her father, who put it in his sleeve. After this he departed and went his way, taking the road to Kioto. As he went he looked back thrice, and beheld his child, standing at the gate, looking after him. Then the road turned and he saw her no more.

The city of Kioto was passing great and beautiful, and so the father of O’Yoné found it. And what with his business during the day, which sped very well, and his pleasure in the evening, and his sound sleep at night, the time passed merrily, and small thought he gave to Yedo, to his home, or to his child. Two moons passed, and three, and he made no plans for return.

One evening he was making ready to go forth to a great supper of his friends, and as he searched in his chest for certain brave silken hakama which he intended to wear as an honour to the feast, he came upon the little flute, which had lain hidden all this time in the sleeve of his travelling dress. He drew it forth from its red and white handkerchief, and as he did so, felt strangely cold with an icy chill that crept about his heart. He hung over the live charcoal of the hibachi as one in a dream. He put the flute to his lips, when there came from it a long-drawn wail.

He dropped it hastily upon the mats and clapped his hands for his servant, and told him he would not go forth that night. He was not well, he would be alone. After a long time he reached out his hand for the flute. Again that long, melancholy cry. He shook from head to foot, but he blew into the flute. “Come back to Yedo … come back to Yedo…. Father! Father!” The quavering childish voice rose to a shriek and then broke.

A horrible foreboding now took possession of the man, and he was as one beside himself. He flung himself from the house and from the city, and journeyed day and night, denying himself sleep and food. So pale was he and wild that the people deemed him a madman and fled from him, or pitied him as the afflicted of the gods. At last he came to his journey’s end, travel-stained from head to heel, with bleeding feet and half-dead of weariness.

His wife met him in the gate.

He said: “Where is the child?”

“The child…?” she answered.

“Ay, the child–my child … where is she?” he cried in an agony.

The woman laughed: “Nay, my lord, how should I know? She is within at her books, or she is in the garden, or she is asleep, or mayhap she has gone forth with her playmates, or …”

He said: “Enough; no more of this. Come, where is my child?”

Then she was afraid. And, “In the Bamboo Grove,” she said, looking at him with wide eyes.

There the man ran, and sought O’Yoné among the green stems of the bamboos. But he did not find her. He called, “Yoné! Yoné!” and again, “Yoné! Yoné!” But he had no answer; only the wind sighed in the dry bamboo leaves. Then he felt in his sleeve and brought forth the little flute, and very tenderly put it to his lips. There was a faint sighing sound. Then a voice spoke, thin and pitiful:

“Father, dear father, my wicked stepmother killed me. Three moons since she killed me. She buried me in the clearing of the Bamboo Grove. You may find my bones. As for me, you will never see me any more–you will never see me more….”

* * * * *

With his own two-handed sword the man did justice, and slew his wicked wife, avenging the death of his innocent child. Then he dressed himself in coarse white raiment, with a great rice-straw hat that shadowed his face. And he took a staff and a straw rain-coat and bound sandals on his feet, and thus he set forth upon a pilgrimage to the holy places of Japan.

And he carried the little flute with him, in a fold of his garment, upon his breast.

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