Part 9

Imagine the joy of Champalak when he perceived the princess! “What joy, what rapture, that thou hast come!” cried Champalak; but fondle her and caress her as he might, the damsel did nothing but weep. Days passed by, weeks passed by, and yet the tears never left the damsel’s eyes. “Tell me at least what thy talisman is,” said the damsel to him one day, “if thou wouldst see me happy and not wretched with thee all thy days.”

“Alas, my soul!” said the dragon, “my talisman is guarded in a place whither it is impossible ever to come. It is in a large palace in a neighbouring realm, and though one may venture thither for it, no one has ever been able to get back again.”

The prince needed no more, that was quite good enough for him. He took his bridle, went with it to the sea-shore, and summoned his golden-maned steed. “What dost thou command me, little Sultan?” said the steed. “I desire thee to convey me to the neighbouring realm, to the palace of the talisman of the dragon Champalak,” cried the youth--and in no more time than it takes to wink an eye, the palace stood before him.

Then the steed said to the youth: “When we reach the palace thou wilt tie the bridle to two iron gates, and when I neigh once and strike my iron hoofs together, a door will open. In this open door thou wilt see a lion’s throat, and if thou canst not kill that lion at one stroke, escape, or thou art a dead man.” With that they went up to the palace, he tied the horse to the two iron gates by his bridle, and when he neighed the door flew open. The youth struck with all his might at the gaping throat of the lion in the doorway and split it right in two. Then he cut open the lion’s belly, and drew out of it a little gold cage with three doves in it, so beautiful that the like of them is not to be found in the wide world. He took one of them and began softly stroking and caressing it, when all at once--pr-r-r-r!--away it flew out of his hand. The steed galloped swiftly after it, and if he had not caught it and wrung its neck it would have gone hard with the good youth.

Then he mounted his steed again, and in the twinkling of an eye he stood once more before Champalak’s palace. In the gateway of the palace he killed the second dove, so that when the youth entered the dragon’s room, there the monster lay quite helpless, and there was no more spirit in him at all. When he saw the dove in the youth’s hand he implored him to let him stroke it for the last time before he died. The youth’s heart felt for him, and he was just about to hand the bird to him when the princess rushed out, snatched the dove from his hand, and killed it, whereupon the dragon expired before their very eyes. “‘Twas well for thee,” said the steed, “that thou didst not give him the dove, for if he had got it, fresh life would have flowed into him.” And with that the steed disappeared, bridle and all.

Then they got together the dragon’s treasures, and went with them to the Empire of Chin-i-Machin. The Padishah was sick for grief at the loss of the damsel, and after searching for her in all parts of the kingdom in vain, was persuaded that she had fallen into the hands of the dragon. And lo! there she stood before him now, hand in hand with the King’s son. Then there was such a marriage-feast in that city that it seemed as if there was no end to it. After the marriage they set out on their journey again, and travelled with a great escort of soldiers to the prince’s father. There they had long held the King’s son to be dead, and would not believe that it was he even now till he had told them the tale of the three seven-headed dragons and the forty damsels.

The fortieth damsel was waiting patiently for him there, and the prince said to his wife: “Behold now my second bride!”--“Thou didst save my life from the dragon,” replied the Princess of Chin-i-Machin, “I therefore give her to thee, do as thou wilt with her!” So they made a marriage-feast for the second bride also, and they spent half their days in the Empire of the prince’s father, and the other half in the Empire of Chin-i-Machin, and their lives flowed away in happiness.

THE WORLD’S MOST BEAUTEOUS DAMSEL

There was once upon a time a Padishah who had an only son. His father guarded him as the apple of his eye, and there was not a desire of his heart that was not instantly gratified.

One night a dervish appeared to the King’s son in a dream, and showed him the World’s most beauteous Damsel, and there he drained with her the cup of love. After that the prince became another man. He could neither eat nor drink. Sleep brought him neither pleasure nor refreshment, and he all at once grew sallow and withered. They sent for doctor after doctor, they sent for wizard after wizard, but they could not tell the nature of the malady or find a cure for it.

Then the sick prince said to his father: “My lord Padishah and father, no leech, no wise man can help me, wherefore weary them in vain? The World’s most beauteous Damsel is the cause of my complaint, and she will be either the life or the death of me.”

The Padishah was frightened at the words of his son, and his chief care was to drive the damsel out of the lad’s head. “‘Tis dangerous to even think of such a thing,” said he, “for her love will be thy death.” But his son continued to pine away daily, and life had no joy for him. Again and again the father begged his son to tell him his heart’s desire and it should be instantly fulfilled, and the eternal reply of the son was: “Let me seek the World’s most beauteous Damsel.” Then the Padishah thought to himself: “If I do not let him go he will only perish, and he cannot therefore be worse off if he goes.” Then said he: “Go, my son, after thy love, and may the righteous Allah be merciful to thee.”

So the next day the prince set out on his journey. He went up hill and down dale, he crossed vast deserts, he traversed rugged wildernesses in search of his beloved, the World’s most beauteous Damsel. On and on he went, till he came at last to the sea-shore, and there he saw a poor little fish writhing in the sand, and the fish besought him to throw it back into the sea again. The youth had compassion upon the fish, and threw it back into the sea again. Then the little fish gave him three scales, and said to him: “If ever thou dost get into any trouble, burn these scales.”

Again the youth went on his way till he came to a vast desert, and there on the ground in front of him he saw a lame ant. The little creature told him that he was going to a wedding, but could not overtake his comrades because they hastened so quickly. Then the youth took up the ant and carried him to his comrades. As they parted the ant gave him a little piece of its wing and said: “If ever thou shouldst get into any trouble, burn this bit of wing.”

Again the youth followed his road, full of weary woefulness, and reaching the borders of a large forest he there saw a little bird struggling with a large serpent. The little bird asked help of the youth, and with one blow he cut the serpent in two. The bird then gave him three feathers. “If ever thou shouldst get into trouble,” it said, “burn these little feathers.”

Again he took up his pilgrim’s staff and went beyond the mountains, beyond the sea, till he came to a large city. It was the realm of the father of the World’s most beauteous Damsel. He went straight into the palace to the Padishah, and begged the hand of his daughter in the name of Allah. “Nay,” said the Padishah, “thou must first of all accomplish three tasks for me. Only after that canst thou make known thy wishes to my daughter.”

With that he took a ring, cast it into the sea, and said to the King’s son: “If thou canst not find it for me in three days, thou art a dead man.” Then the King’s son fell a-thinking till he bethought him of the three scales, and he had no sooner burnt them than the little fish stood before him and said: “What dost thou command, O my Sultan?”--“The ring of the World’s most beauteous Damsel hath been cast into the sea, and I want it back again,” said the prince. Then the fish sought for the ring but couldn’t find it; it dived down a second time and still it couldn’t find it; a third time it descended right down into the seventh ocean, drew up a fish, cut it open, and there was the ring. So the youth gave the ring to the Padishah, and the Padishah gave it to his daughter.

Now there was a cave near the palace full of gravel and grain. “My second task,” said the Padishah, “is that thou dost separate the grain from the gravel.” Then the youth entered the cave, took out the ant’s wing and burned it, whereupon the whole cave was swarming with ants, and they set to work upon the grain in hot haste. The day was now nearly over, and the same evening the youth sent word to the Padishah that the second task also was accomplished.

“The third task still remains,” said the Padishah, “and then thou mayest have my daughter.” With that he sent for a maid-servant, had her head cut off straightway, and then said to the youth: “Thus shall be done to thy head also if thou restore not this damsel to life again.” The youth quitted the palace in deep thought, and at last he bethought him that the bird’s feathers might help him. So he took them out and burned them, and lo! the bird stood before him ere yet his lips had commanded it to appear. And the youth complained bitterly to the bird of the task that was set him.

Now the bird had friends among the Peris, and, flying up into the air, in no very long time was back again with a cruse of water in its beak. “I have brought thee heavenly water which can give life even to the dead,” said the bird. So the prince entered the palace, and no sooner had he sprinkled the damsel with the water than she sprang up as if she had never been dead at all.

Now the rumour of all these things reached the ears of the World’s most beauteous Damsel, and she ordered the prince to be brought before her. The damsel dwelt in a little marble palace, and before the palace was a golden basin which was fed by the water of four streams. The courtyard of this palace also was a vast garden wherein were many great trees and fragrant flowers and singing-birds, and to the youth it seemed like the gate of Paradise.

Suddenly the door of the palace was opened, and the garden was so flooded with light that the eyes of

the youth were dazzled even to blindness. It was the World’s most beauteous Damsel who had appeared in the door of the palace, and the great light was the rosiness of her two radiant cheeks. She approached the prince and spoke to him, but scarcely did the youth perceive her than he fainted away before her eyes. When he came to himself again they brought him into the damsel’s palace, and there he rejoiced exceedingly in the World’s most beauteous Damsel, for her face was as the face of a Houri, and her presence was as a vision of Peris.

“Oh, prince!” began the damsel, “thou that art the son of Shah Suleiman, canst aid me in my deep distress. In the vast garden of the Demon of Autumn there is a bunch of singing-pomegranates: if thou canst get them for me I will be thine for ever and ever.”

Then the youth gave her his hand upon it, the hand of loyal friendship, and departed far far away. He went on and on without stopping, he went on, and for months and months he crossed deserts where man had never trod, and mountains over which there was no path. “Oh, my Creator,” he sighed, “wilt thou not show me the right way?” and he rose up again each morning from the place where he had sunk down exhausted the night before, and so he went on and on from day to day till the path led him right down to the roots of the mountains. There it seemed to him as if it were the Day of Judgment. Such a noise, such a hubbub, such a hurly-burly of sounds arose that all the hills and rocks around him trembled. The youth knew not whether it was friend or foe, man or spirit, and as he went on further, trembling with fear, the noise grew louder and the dust rose up round about him like smoke. He knew not where he was going, but he might have known from what he heard that the smaller garden of the Demon of Autumn was now but a six-months’ journey off, and all this great hubbub and clamour was the talisman of the gate of the garden.

And now he drew still nearer and could see the gate of the smaller garden, and could hear the roaring of the talismans in the gate, and could perceive the guardian of the gate also. Then he went up to him and told him of his trouble. “But art thou not afraid of this great commotion?” asked the guardian of the gate. “Is it not because of thee that all the talismans are so impatient? even I am afraid thereat!”

But the youth did nothing but inquire continually about the cluster of singing-pomegranates.

“‘Tis a hard task to reach that,” said the guardian, “yet if thou art not afraid, perhaps thou mayest get it after all. Three-months’ journey from hence thou wilt come to such another place of talismans, there also there is a garden, and the guardian of that garden is my own mother. But whatever thou dost, take care not to draw nigh to her, nor let her draw nigh to thee. Give her my salaams, but tell her nothing of thy trouble unless she ask thee.”

So the youth went on towards the second garden, and after a three-months’ journey such a monstrous din and racket arose around him as to make the former noise seem nothing. This was the greater garden of the Demon of Autumn, and the great din proceeded from the talismans of the garden. The youth lay down beside a rock, and when he had waited a little he saw something like a man approaching him, but as it came nearer he perceived that it was an old woman, a little beldame of thrice thirty winters. The hairs of her head were as white as snow, red circles were round her eyes, her eyebrows were like pointed darts, the fire of hell was in her eyes, her nails were two ells long, her teeth were like faggots, her two lips had only one jaw, she shuffled along leaning on a stick, drew in her breath through her nose, and coughed and sneezed at every step she took. “Oh-oh! oh-oh!” she groaned, shuffling painfully along in her large slippers, till it seemed as if she would never be able to reach the new-comer. This was the mother of the guardian of the lesser garden, and she herself was the guardian of the larger one.

At last she got up to the youth, and asked him what he was doing in those parts? The prince gave her the compliments of her son. “Ah, the vagabond!” said the old woman, “where didst thou meet with him? That wicked lad of mine knew that I would have compassion on thee, so he sent thee hither. Very well, let us make an end of thee.” And with that she seized hold of him, and cried: “Hi, Earless!” and something came running up to him, and before he knew where he was, the youth found himself seated on its back. He looked down upon it and saw beneath him a creature like a shrunken huddled toad, that had neither eyes nor ears. This was Earless, and away it went with him. When he first saw it, it was as small as a worm, but the moment he was on its back it took such leaps that every three of them covered as much space as a vast ocean. Suddenly Earless stopped short and said to him: “Whatever thou mayest see, whatever thou mayest hear, take care not to speak, or it will be all up with thee,” and with that it vanished.

There in the rippling water in front of the prince, like a dream-shape, lay a large garden. This garden had neither beginning nor end, and within it were such trees and flowers and sweet fruit as the eye of man hath never seen. Whithersoever one turned nothing was to be heard but the rustling of soft wings and the songs of nightingales, so that the whole atmosphere of that garden seemed to be an eternal song. The youth looked all about him, his reason died away within him, he entered the garden. But then he heard quite near to him such a woeful wailing that his heart was like to break, and the thought of the cluster of pomegranates occurred to his mind. His eyes sought for them in every direction but in vain, till he came to the centre of the garden, where was a fountain and a little palace made of flowers, and the pomegranates hung down from the flowery palace like so many shining lamps. The youth plucked a branch, but no sooner had he done so than there was a horrible cry, and a warning voice exclaimed--

“A son of man of us hath ta’en, We by a son of man are slain!”

The youth scarce had time to escape from the garden. “Hasten! fly!” cried Earless, who was waiting again at the gate. The youth jumped on its back, and in a couple of leaps they were beyond the ocean. Then only did the youth think of looking at the cluster of pomegranates. There were fifty pomegranates on it, and each one had a different voice, and each voice had a different song--it was just as if all the music in the wide world was gathered together in one place. By this time they had reached the old grandmother, the old old beldame of thrice thirty winters.

“Guard well thy pomegranate cluster,” said the old woman, “never leave it out of thy sight. If on the first night of thy wedding thou and thy bride are able to listen to their music all night without going to sleep once, these pomegranates will love thee, and after that thou wilt have nothing more to fear, for they will deliver thee from every ill.” Then they went from the old mother to the son; he also bade them take to heart his mother’s words, and then the youth went on his way to his sole-beloved, the World’s most beauteous Damsel.

The girl was awaiting him with the greatest impatience, for she also dearly loved the prince, and her days were passed in anxiety lest some mischief should befall the youth. All at once she heard the sound of music, the fifty pomegranates were singing fifty different songs with fifty different voices, and she opened her heart to the beautiful music. The damsel rushed forth to meet the youth, and at their joyous embrace the pomegranates rang out with a melody so sweet that the like of it is not to be found in this world, but only in Allah’s world beyond the grave. Forty days and forty nights did the wedding-feast last, and on the fortieth day the King’s son went in unto his bride, and they lay down and listened to the pomegranates. Then when the day was born again they arose, and the pomegranate cluster rejoiced again in their love, and so they went on their way to the prince’s own kingdom. There all the feasting began again, and in his joy the old Padishah resigned his kingdom to his son, the Padishah of the cluster of Pomegranates.

THE PADISHAH OF THE FORTY PERIS

In the old, old time, in the age of fairy tales, there was once the daughter of a Padishah who was as fair as the full moon, as slim as a cypress-tree, with eyes like coals, and hair like the night, and her eyebrows were like bows, and her eyeballs like the darts of archers. In the palace of the Padishah was a garden, and in the midst of the garden a fountain of water, and there the maid sat the livelong day sewing and stitching.

One day she put her ring upon her sewing-table, but scarcely had she laid it down when there came a little dove and took up the ring and flew away with it. Now the little dove was so lovely that the damsel at once fell in love with it. The next day the damsel took off her bracelet, and immediately the dove was there and flew off with that too. Then the damsel was so consumed with love that she neither ate nor drank, and could scarce tarry till the next day for the dove to come forth again. And on the third day she brought her sewing-table, put upon it her lace handkerchief, and placed herself close beside it. She waited for the dove, and waited and waited, and lo! all at once there he was right before her, and he caught up the handkerchief and away he flew. Then the damsel had scarce strength enough to rise up; weeping bitterly she went into the palace, and there she threw herself on the ground in a passion of grief.

Her old waiting-woman came running towards her: “O Sultana!” cried she, “wherefore dost thou weep so sorely?--what ails thee?”

“I am sick, my heart is sick!” replied the daughter of the Sultan, and with that she fell a-weeping and a-wailing worse than ever.

The old waiting-woman feared to tell of this new thing, for the damsel was the only daughter of the Padishah, but when she perceived how pale the damsel was growing, and how she wept and sobbed, the waiting-woman took her courage in both hands, went to the Padishah, and told him of his daughter’s woe. Then the Padishah was afraid, and went to see his daughter, and after him came many wise men and many cunning leeches, but not one of them could cure her sickness.

But on the next day the Padishah’s Vizier said to him: “The wise men and the leeches cannot help the damsel, the only medicine that can cure her lies hidden elsewhere.” Then he advised the Padishah to make a great bath, the water whereof should cure all sick people, but whoever bathed therein was to be made to tell the story of his life. So the Padishah caused the bath to be made, and proclaimed throughout the city that the water of this bath would give back his hair to the bald, and his hearing to the deaf, and his sight to the blind, and the use of his legs to the lame. Then all the people flocked in crowds to have a bath for nothing, and each one of them had to tell the story of his life and his ailment before he returned home again.

Now in that same city dwelt the bald-headed son of a bed-ridden mother, and the fame of the wonder-working bath reached their ears also. “Let us go too,” said the son; “perchance the pair of us shall be cured.”

“How can I go when I can’t stand on my legs?” groaned the old woman.--“Oh, we shall be able to manage that,” replied bald-pate, and taking his mother on his shoulders he set out for the bath.

They went on and on and on, through the level plains by the flowing river, till at last the son was tired and put his mother down upon the ground. At that same instant a cock lighted down beside them with a big pitcher of water on its back, and hastened off with it. Then the young man became very curious to know why and whither this cock was carrying water; so after the bird he went. The cock went on till it came to a great castle, and at the foot of this castle was a little hole through which water was gurgling. Still the youth followed the cock, squeezed himself with the utmost difficulty through the hole, and no sooner had he begun to look about him than he saw before him a palace so magnificent that his eyes and mouth stood wide open with astonishment. No other human being had ever stood in the path that led up to this palace. All over it he went, through all the rooms, from vestibule to attic, admiring their splendour without ceasing, till weariness overcame him. “If only I could find a living being here!” said he to himself, and with that he hid himself in a large armoury, from whence he could easily pounce out upon any one who came.

He had not waited very long when three doves flew on to the window-sill, and after shivering there a little while turned into three damsels, all so beautiful that the young man did not know which to look at first.

“Alas, alas!” cried the three damsels, “we are late, we are late! Our Padishah will be here presently, and nothing is ready!” Then one seized a broom and brushed everything clean, the second spread the table, and the third fetched all manner of meats. Then they all three began to shiver once more, and three doves flew out of the window.