SINCE SHAH NADIR COULD REFUSE HER NOTHING, HE GRANTED HER REQUEST.SINCE SHAH NADIR COULD REFUSE HER NOTHING, HE GRANTED HER REQUEST.
This man was king of the giants in Turan (that vast, wild region of rock and desert north of Persia) and his name was Bom Bali. Once, when warring in the far, far North, Bom Bali had captured a wizard named Hirmu who could change himself into any animal whatever, and afterward resume his own natural shape.
Now when Bom Bali learned through his spies that a grand exhibition of wild beasts was to be held in Ispahan, he summoned Hirmu into his presence and said to him:
"Dog, dost thou wish to live?"
Hirmu answered, "My lord, may thy beard never grow less! Thou knowest that thy dog desires greatly to live."
Bom Bali said, "The first day of the month Moharrem there is to be an exhibition of wild beasts in Ispahan. Shah Nadir has sent his hunters into every mountain, even to mountains in our kingdom, to ensnare fierce creatures for the contests. Take upon thyself the form of a tiger. Be thou captured by the hunters. Steal and bring back to me the Princess Lindagull who is the pride of Shah Nadir and of all Asia."
"Thy hound shall fulfil all thy commands," said the Lappish wizard.
Soon after this conversation, the Persian hunters came to Turan, captured alive all the wild beasts they could from its mountains and deserts, and carried them in strong cages back to Ispahan.
FOOTNOTES:[3]Pronounced Lin'dah-gōōl.
[3]Pronounced Lin'dah-gōōl.
[3]Pronounced Lin'dah-gōōl.
The first day of the month Moharrem had now arrived and the arrangements had all been completed in the capital city. Many of the most dangerous and terrible wild animals from India, Arabia, Turan, and even from the Desert of Sahara, were held in readiness in the side rooms or stalls of the immense semi-circular arena which had been especially built for this occasion. More than sixty thousand spectators were seated on the numerous tiers of seats stretching all around the arena. For the safety of these a strong iron railing had been erected between the benches and the fighting-ground.
Early in the morning the whole town was in excitement. Princess Lindagull was as happy as a child. She was going to be allowed to fly as a bird out of its cage! She was going to see a play wherein the actors were real lions, real tigers;—not like those represented by men dressed in skins which they took off after they had finished the play.
The spectators were assembled and all things awaited the arrival of the king. At last he came, followed by his shining guard; and not he alone, but with him his daughter, the wondrously beautiful Princess Lindagull. According to the custom in Eastern lands she was veiled. The people could only admire her charming manners and royal carriage as she, followed by her attendants, rode in upon a little zebra which caprioled with pride at bearing such a burden.
Although no one could see her countenance every one knew by hearsay the loveliness of the young princess. All knew, too, that she by her intercession had saved the life of many an unhappy captive, and that she each day sent out her maidens with medicine and bread for the poor in Ispahan. Therefore, when she now for the first time showed herself before the populace, there broke forth such a shout of joy from thousands of voices that its like had not been heard since the day when Shah Nadir celebrated his Day of Triumph after his grand conquest, with twenty captive kings in his train.
It is probable that the princess blushed; but no one saw it. She seated herself beside her father on the richly embroidered purple robe which was spread over the royal bench. And then began the exercises of the day.
A strange strife between a wildcat and a pelican came first. One of the pelican's wings had been clipped so that it could not fly away, and though it fought fiercely, thrusting its beak into the cat's side, the wildcat scratched and bit the big bird so savagely that the end soon came and the cat was declared the winner in the fight. Almost every one thought this contest very entertaining, but the Princess Lindagull did not like it at all.
After this, two monstrous crocodiles were brought forth in long tanks of water, and a dead pig was thrown out in front of them. The crocodiles had not had meat for a whole month and were very hungry. Nevertheless, so sleepy were they that they continued to lie still in the tanks, warming themselves in the sun. Then a boy sprang boldly forward and tickled one of the crocodiles on the nose with a switch. The crocodile thrust up his ugly mouth and began to clamber clumsily out of the tank to devour the boy. But the boy saved himself by jumping hastily aside, the crocodile not being able to turn quickly enough to catch him. When the boy had thoroughly roused this crocodile he awoke the one in the other tank; and then, swift as a gazelle, escaped through a little gate in the fence. Soon the crocodiles caught sight of the dead pig and both started forward to seize it. Falling into a rage at the idea of sharing it, they fell upon each other in a frightful contest. Each tried to force his sharp teeth through the scaly skin of the other, but without success. At last, however, one fell on its back, and the conqueror mounted its breast and got the pig.
Next followed a strife between six large Arabian dogs and an equal number of jackals from the deserts of Turan. These two animals both belong to the wolf family and though the jackal is a cowardly creature, he is formidable when once engaged in a fray. This conflict was fierce indeed. Five dogs lay prone upon the ground and only one jackal had fallen when a whistling was heard from the bench where sat the brave young Arab prince Abderraman. He whistled to incite his favorite hound, Valledivau, to further effort. The dog heard his master's voice and tackled again. The jackals fell, one after another, before his prowess, and soon Valledivau was greeted with a loud cheer as conqueror.
Then came a fight between hyenas and wolves; another between an Indian elephant and a tiger; and then a leopard and a panther were led to opposite sides of the arena. A piece of fresh meat was thrown down before them, and immediately both rushed toward it and fought for its possession. But the panther, which was stronger and more agile, came off victor, having covered his adversary with deadly wounds.
This contest being finished, a royal tiger of unusual strength and beauty was brought forth. He was called Ahriman, after the Prince of Darkness. The tiger's adversary was an immense lion, called Ormuz, after the Prince of Light. A living lamb was cast down before the two, but this was more than Lindagull could endure. She gave a sign and the trembling little creature was snatched away; and in its stead one of the dead dogs was cast before the wild animals.
The lion was hungry and immediately rushed upon the prey. The tiger, jealous by nature, also darted forward furiously, eager to deprive the lion and to get the prey for himself.
This was the most terrible contest of all. The air echoed the dreadful roaring of the angry beasts, the sand was thrown up by their paws and colored red with their blood.
They fell over each other, they separated, they rushed against each other again. All the spectators trembled, entranced. Long was the strife undecided, but the tiger Ahriman finally succumbed and Ormuz was led from the arena in triumph.
And now the performances were about to close with a grand strifeen masse, every wild animal taking part. But the heat of the sun being intense, there was a cessation in the sports, so that the spectators might refresh themselves with cooling drinks. Many then went down upon the arena to look at the dead animals which had been left there.
Even the Princess Lindagull became curious to view the animals at a nearer point. She, who until now had seen only blossoms and singing birds, had no idea of the aspect of these dead creatures. So down she went, followed by her ladies and the guard, into the arena; and slaves spread gold-embroidered mats before her feet, so that her dainty sandals should not be soiled by the blood-stained sands.
What could she fear? All the living animals were shut up in safe cages. The most dangerous of all, the great tiger Ahriman, lay dead upon the arena. The princess went toward him, admiring his beauty and marveling at his splendid striped skin which she determined to ask her father for, that she might use it as a rug in the marble castle.
Suddenly the tiger rose up, gave a leap, sprang upon the princess, seized her in his terrible jaws, and rushed away! Shrieks of horror flew from tier to tier among the spectators, but no one had the courage to try to snatch his booty from the tiger.
No one? Ah, one there was! The valiant Prince Abderraman dashed with the speed of the wind into the tiger's path, grasped the monster's gory breast and struggled with him for his precious booty.
Alas, unhappy prince! His right arm was in an instant bitten almost off by the tiger, and he was thrown bleeding and helpless upon the sand; and before any one could come to the aid of the vanquished hero, the tiger had leaped over the high iron railing and escaped with the Princess Lindagull in his mighty jaws!
The anguish of poor old Shah Nadir was great; and great was the grief of all Ispahan,—indeed, of all Persia. The king's guard and the fifty thousand knights with gold saddles rode immediately away to seek the princess. They searched through every bush and cleft in Turan where a tiger's lair might be. Hundreds of tigers and other wild beasts fell before their spears, but fruitlessly. After looking through all Turan and half of Asia, the guard returned sorrowing. No trace of the Princess or her strange captor was to be found.
Shah Nadir tore his gray hair and cursed his sixtieth birthday. He had lost what he held dearest on earth,—his Lindagull. He ordered his people to array themselves in mourning as if a sultana had died. He also commanded that prayers should be offered in all the mosques for the Princess Lindagull's return. And the proclamation was made that whoever restored his daughter to him, living, should receive the hand of the princess and inherit the Persian crown; whoever brought her back dead should receive as a reward sixty asses laden with gold and costly treasure. The hope of so rich a reward led many princes and noblemen to undertake the search for the lost daughter of the king. But sooner or later all came back without having found her. All except one; and that was Prince Abderraman. He had made a solemn vow to seek for the princess fifteen years; to find and rescue her, or die.
If the princess had been carried away by a real tiger, our tale would have ended with that; because nothing is sacred to a royal tiger, not even the noblest princess in the world. But this was not the case. The wizard, Hirmu, had availed himself of the exhibition of wild beasts in order that, transformed into a tiger, he might carry out his master's commands for his own advantage. He had exchanged hearts with the tiger; and so long as the heart was not destroyed or eaten up, Hirmu could not be killed. But such a treasure as a princess he preferred to keep for himself; so, instead of taking his captive to old King Bom Bali in Turan, he carried her away, with flying leaps, to his own far-away home in Lapland.
It was now autumn, and dark in Lapland.
The Lapp woman, Pimpedora, sat and cooked porridge over a blazing fire in the tent, while her son Pimpepanturi sat waiting for the porridge and looking idly at his reindeer shoes. Pimpepanturi was a good-natured boy; but he was stupid, and not a little lazy besides. His father, Hirmu, had wished very much to bring him up as a wizard, but it was of no use. Pimpepanturi thought more about eating and drinking than of learning anything,—whether sorcery or what not.
The Lapp woman turned toward the boy, and said, "Don't you hear something?"
"I hear the fire crackle and the porridge bubble in the pot," answered Pimpepanturi with a long yawn.
"Don't you hear something like a roar out in the autumn night?" asked the Lapp woman again.
"Yes," said Pimpepanturi; "that is a wolf taking some of our reindeer."
"No," said the Lapp woman; "that is Father coming back. He has now been away four winters, but I hear him growling like a wild animal. He must have hurried to have reached home so soon again!"
At that moment Hirmu entered in the semblance of a tiger with the Princess Lindagull hanging from his mouth. Placing her on a heap of moss in the corner of the tent, he quickly regained his own body (replacing his own heart in it now), at the same time calling out, "Mother, what food have you? I have run a long way."
The tiger fell dead upon the moss in the tent. The Lapp woman had nearly fallen into the porridge-pot from fright; but she recognized her husband and promised him a good supper, if he would tell her where he had been these four winters, and what kind of a grand doll he had brought home with him.
"That is too long a story to tell," grumbled the husband. "Take care of our grand doll and give her warm reindeer milk to restore her to life. She is a fine young lady from Persia. She will bring us good fortune."
Princess Lindagull was not dead,—not even wounded. She had only fainted from fright. When she awoke she lay (in her rich clothing of pearls and silver tissue) on a reindeer skin spread over moss, in the Lapp tent. It was dark and cold. The firelight shone on the close walls of the tent and on the Lapp woman, who gave her reindeer milk to drink. Lindagull believed herself to be in death's domain under the earth; and cried because she, so young, should be snatched away from Persia's sun and Ispahan's lovely rose gardens.
IN THE LAPP TENT.IN THE LAPP TENT.
The wizard, in the meantime, hit upon a happy plan for winning Persian treasure, and said to Lindagull:
"Weep not, beautiful princess. Thou art not dead. Thou hast only been stolen away by a horrid tiger and my son, the brave Knight Morus Pandorus von Pikkuluk'ulikuck'ulu, has saved thee at the greatest risk of his own precious life. We will be thy slaves and serve thee with the utmost zeal until it becomes possible to conduct thee back to Persia."
"What lie is that, old man?" said the honest Lapp woman in her own language to the wizard.
The wizard continued: "My wife says that if thou wilt take our son, the surpassingly beautiful and brave knight, Morus Pandorus von Pikkuluk'ulikuck'ulu, for thy bridegroom, we will immediately conduct thee back to Persia."
Pimpepanturi did not understand Persian; so he made great eyes when his father pushed him forward toward the princess and pressed his stiff back down with both hands that it might appear as if Pimpepanturi were bowing.
Lindagull would not have been a princess and the daughter of proud Shah Nadir if she had not felt herself insulted by such an indignity. She gazed scornfully at the wizard, and at his clumsy lout of a son,—withsucheyes! Nay! it was not a gaze; for her eyes flashed lightning! (And Persian eyescanflash lightning!) Father and son both flushed dark red.
"No, that won't do," said the wizard. "She must first be tamed."
Then the wizard made a partition in the tent, three yards long and two yards wide. There he imprisoned Lindagull, and gave her half a reindeer cheese and a dipper of melted snow-water every day for food.
Thus day and night passed by in darkness, for winter came quickly; and the Northern Lights shone in through the cracks of the tent.
Poor, innocent little Lindagull! Her eyes had flashed lightning once; but as in thunder-storms it is not long between lightning gleams and showers of rain, so the tears of Princess Lindagull soon began to fall. Yes, she cried as one only can cry when one is twelve years old and has been a princess in Persia and lived in rose-gardens and marble castles, guarded by the friendliest attendants, and then suddenly finds herself hungry and freezing, alone, in a dark Lapland winter. Yes, she wept as one weeps over lost youth, health and beauty;—over a lost life; as the dew weeps over a beautiful extinguished day in Ispahan's pleasure garden.
When she had done weeping she slept. But lo! while she slept, there stood by her side the friendly old fellow whom the Finns call Nukku Matti, whom the Swedes call Jon Blund, and whom the Danes and Norwegians call Ole Luköje,[4]—(I don't know what they call him in Persia;) and he took her in his arms, bore her to Feather Islands and laid her on a bed of fragrant roses in a lovely grotto. There all was peaceful and good. The soft moon shone over date-palms and myrtle forests, just as in Persia's fairest springtime. Small airy Dreams danced forth to her with silken shoes over velvet rugs, and led her back to her home; to her father the old Shah Nadir, to her friendly attendants and to all the places dear to her from birth. And so passed the long winter nights.
And so passed weeks and months in the Kingdom of Dreams; because it was now night altogether. But Lindagull was patient and wept no more. The Dreams had said to her, "Wait; thy deliverer will come——"
Who would deliver her? Who should discover a path where no path lay, far away in the snow?
The Lapp woman would willingly have set her free, but dared not on account of her husband. And Pimpepanturi also had thoughts of it, but was too lazy.
At length the winter was ended. The sun dared to shine, the snow melted and the gnats danced about. Then the wizard thought, "Now she is tamed!" Whereupon he went to Lindagull and asked if she wished to travel back to Persia. If so, she need only to accept the grandly courageous and highly admired knight, Morus Pandorus von Pikkuluk'ulikuck'ulu for her bridegroom, and the reindeer would immediately stand harnessed at the door ready to travel southward.
Lindagull did not shoot glances of lightning this time. But she thought of the young Prince Abderraman who had once bled for her on Ispahan's sand; and remembering his face she could not possibly accept Pimpepanturi. She answered nothing.
At this the wizard became very angry. He shut the Princess Lindagull in a deep, dark grotto on a mountainside, and said to her (dropping the grandiloquent style he had heretofore used): "Soon the cloudberries will be ripe. You shall keep account of the days as they pass, in this way. The first day you shall have thirty cloudberries to eat and thirty dewdrops to drink; the next day twenty-nine cloudberries to eat and twenty-nine dewdrops to drink; and so on, for each day one berry and one drop less. On the last day you shall tell me what you have decided."
So Lindagull stayed there confined in the grotto. The time of year had now come when barren Lapland shone with light both day and night; but the grotto was dark. The cloudberries and dewdrops steadily lessened in number, but Lindagull's cheeks became no paler and her quiet patience continued the same as before. What she had to forego by day Nukku Matti and the Dreams made up to her every night. They lifted off the rocky roof by their magic power so that she could see the glowing midnight sun and hear the roar of the waterfall as it hurled itself over the edge of the rock. Drippings from this waterfall fell into the grotto in the form of a delicious honey-dew, which served the starving one as refreshing meat and drink.
The thoughts of Princess Lindagull dwelt often upon Prince Abderraman. She sang ballads of the Eastern lands, and it pleased her to hear a hundred clear-voiced echoes answer back from the mountain walls. On the thirtieth day, the wizard brought her the last berry and the last dewdrop laid upon a leaf of Lapland dwarf-birch.
"Well now," he asked, "have you decided?"
Lindagull covered her fair face and answered nothing.
"There is still one day's time for thought," said the wizard, "and you shall have some company to help hasten your decision." As he said this he opened the door of the grotto, and immediately something like a great cloud streamed in. It was a swarm of Lapland's starved-out gnats. There were thousands and thousands and thousands of them, and they filled the grotto like a thick cloud of smoke.
"I wish you much joy in your new acquaintances!" said the ugly wizard, shutting the door quickly as he went out.
Lindagull did not understand his meaning. She did not know the sting of the Lapland gnat. She had never been annoyed by the Persian firefly even, for a slave had always stood at her side night and day with a long waving peacock feather to protect her from all hurtful insects. The knowledge of such suffering as the horde of stinging gnats would have inflicted was kept from her now by the kindly Dreams; who, the instant the door was shut, threw around her a close-woven veil of finest texture, from the loom of the fairies. Through this veil the gnats could not make their way. Not a drop of royal blood did they taste, day or night. They bit with all their little power at the hard granite rocks; but finding these too juiceless, the disappointed insects settled themselves like a gray web about all the cracks and corners of the grotto.
At midnight the door of the grotto was noiselessly opened and in walked the Lapp woman, Pimpedora, with a jar in her hand, followed by Pimpepanturi carrying a burning torch and some smoked reindeer meat.
"Poor child," said the good-hearted Lapp woman, "it is a sin to keep you here; but I dare not let you out, for if I did my husband would change me to a mountain rat. See, I have brought you some pitch-oil in my jar. Spread it all over your body; that will keep you from being stung to death by the gnats."
"And see here, I have brought you a smoked shoulder of reindeer so that you shall not starve to death," said Pimpepanturi, good-naturedly. "It is somewhat nibbled, because I grew so very hungry on the way; but there is still a little meat on the bone. And I stole the key of the grotto while Father slept, but I dare not let you out, for if I did Father would change me into a wolverine. But you need not trouble yourself about taking me for your husband. I'll wager that you cannot even cook a black pudding properly."
"No, I know I cannot, truly," answered Princess Lindagull, and she thanked them both for their good-will, but explained to them that she was neither hungry nor gnat-stung.
"Well! Keep the pitch-oil for safety's sake," said the Lapp woman.
"Yes, keep the shoulder of reindeer, too," said Pimpepanturi.
"A thousand thanks," replied Lindagull.
Then the door was closed and she was again alone.
The next morning the wizard came, expecting that now he should surely find his captive half stung to death by gnats and completely subdued. But when he saw Lindagull as blooming as before, and saw her again look thoughtfully into his face without speaking, his wrath knew no bounds.
"Come out!" he shouted.
Lindagull stepped forth in the clear day, as delicate and bright as a fairy in moonlight. When she threw back her veil to look about, the sun shone before her, warm and radiant as on a spring morning in the blue mountains of Afghanistan.
Then said the wizard: "I have a great mind to take you to old King Bom Bali in Turan. He would load six asses with gold to get hold of you for a single day! But no; I will not give up yet. Listen to what I have decided upon. You shall be turned into a heather blossom on a Lappish moor and live only as long as a heather blossom lives, unless you will yield to my wishes. Notice the sun: it now stands low in the sky. In two weeks and a day comes the first polar frost. Then the heather blossoms die. Just before the frost comes, I shall question you for the last time."
LINDAGULL STEPPED FORTH IN THE CLEAR DAY.LINDAGULL STEPPED FORTH IN THE CLEAR DAY.
Glaring at her, he waited, as if expecting the desired answer at once; but as Lindagull again only gazed thoughtfully up at him in silence, the wizard cried out in a voice trembling with anger:
"Adáma donai Marrabataësan!"
which meant, "Human life! sink into the likeness of a flower!"
The wizard had learned these magic words one autumn evening from the South Wind when it came from the African desert and laid itself to rest on a Lapland mountain. The wind understands all languages, for all words are spoken in its hearing.
As the magician uttered this frightful command, it seemed to Lindagull as if all the flower-stalks on the heath grew to trees and overshadowed her; but it was she herself who sank down to the earth. The next moment a stranger's eye could no longer distinguish her from the thousands and thousands of pale purple-pink heather blossoms on the Lappish waste. "In one day and two weeks!" mumbled the wizard, casting a malignant glance behind him as he turned back to his tent.
FOOTNOTES:[4]Ole Shut-Eye. (The Sandman.)
[4]Ole Shut-Eye. (The Sandman.)
[4]Ole Shut-Eye. (The Sandman.)
While all this was taking place, Prince Abderraman was riding the wide world over, with his sword at his side and his staff in his hand. There was not a mountain in Asia, not a desert in Africa, nor a field, town or city in Southern or Middle Europe which he had not traversed in vain. But what had he to hope for in Europe? No tigers are found there except the tame ones exhibited in the city menageries; and amongthemthere was noAhriman! Sorrow drew the prince back on the way to Persia, and his trusty dog, Valledivau, accompanied him.
One day the dog hunted a wild duck among the reeds of a lake, captured it and carried it alive to his master. Just as the prince was about to kill it, the duck quacked out:
"Spare my life, and I will tell you something!"
"Iwillspare your life, wonderful bird," the prince exclaimed, astonished. "What have you to tell me?"
"Ride to Lapland!" quacked the duck, at the same time escaping into the water.
Lapland! The prince had never even heard of such a kingdom. When he inquired about it and how he should find it, people answered:
"Ride northward, steadily northward; and stop not until the road ends, the forest ends, and you no more find a human dwelling with builded hearth."
"Wonderful!" thought the prince, and he followed the advice. He rode northward, steadily northward; stopping not until the road came to an end, the forest came to an end, and no human dwelling was to be seen but one lone movable tent.
It was on the last day of August, after he had ridden many long and weary miles without seeing a single trace of man, that the prince suddenly discovered, at the foot of a high mountain, this lone tent of reindeer skin. The last day of August! The sun still shone and the heather still blossomed, but the sky had changed and a cool north wind blew. When the wind ceased, then would come the frost!
The prince drew nearer to the tent that he might once more repeat his fruitless query for the lost princess, when to his indescribable astonishment he perceived in the distance an inscription on a rock on the mountainside. The characters were very legible. He read the name of
Lindagull!
The wizard had carved the name there, over the door of the mountain grotto, so that he could find the place again when he moved his tent away.
The prince had dismounted, and was just about to draw his sword and enter the tent when Hirmu came out on his way to the heath.
"Give me back the Princess Lindagull or I will send you to the Kingdom of the Prince of Darkness!" shouted Abderraman.
The wizard was a crafty fellow who knew many a trick by which to save himself when in a dilemma. But he lost his presence of mind at this unexpected encounter and could think of no better way out of the difficulty than to change himself instantly into a mountain fox. With a hasty spring he fled swiftly away into the mountain. He thought thus to be safe from the prince's sword, but he forgot the dog by whom the prince was followed!
No sooner had Valledivau seen the fox spring away than he was off on the hunt after it. The fox hid in every cleft and jumped over the mountain ravines; but Valledivau, even more agile, chased him to the highest mountain top, tore him in pieces, and ate up his heart.
This proved the death of Hirmu the wizard; for his heart had entered the fox just as it had before gone into the tiger; and when the heart was eaten up, that was the end of the wizard.
When the dog returned with his nose covered with blood, his master understood that now their common enemy had met his destruction. But where was Lindagull to be found?
The prince went to the door of the tent. The Lapp woman, Pimpedora, was cooking reindeer meat; and her boy, Pimpepanturi, stretched lazily on the soft moss, was sleeping instead of doing something useful while he was waiting for dinner.
"Woman," said the prince, "your husband is dead. Give me back the Princess Lindagull, and no harm shall come to you."
"O mercy! And is he dead?" exclaimed the Lapp woman, coming out of the tent, but not appearing very much distressed. "Ah, well! It's time there should come an end to his evil arts. As for Lindagull, we must seek her out there among the heather blossoms. My husband has changed her into a heather blossom, exactly like many thousands of others; and to-night the frost will come and then all will be over with her!"
"Ah! dearest little Lindagull! Must you die to-night and I not be able to discover the stalk on which you wither?" cried the prince, throwing himself down among the heather on the boundless moor, where a thousand times a thousand pale, purple-pink blossoms, exactly like each other, awaited death.
"Hold!" said the Lapp woman. "Despair not! Now occurs to me the saying with which Lindagull was enchanted! I thought he planned a wrong against the child, and crept back of a big stone to see what my husband was going to do. Then I heard him say:
"Adáma donai Marrabataësan!"
"Ah!" sighed the prince, "how can that help us when we do not know the words which loosen the enchantment?"
Pimpepanturi, waking and thinking that the dinner had been long enough deferred, walked out of the tent to look for his mother. When he heard the prince's words, he scratched his forehead thoughtfully a few times and said, "Father used to change the saying around when he wanted to disenchant any one."
"Yes, so he did!" said the Lapp woman.
Prince Abderraman, with terrified eagerness, gave a great leap, landed on a rock, and shouted as loudly as he could over the limitless heath:
"Marrabataësan donai Adáma!"
The words rang out through the air without effect. No blossom arose. The sun was sinking rapidly toward the horizon and the wind was growing still.
The prince, fearing he should not give the right turn to the magic command, repeated it time after time saying the words in different order and with different expression. But in vain.
At last, at a certain way of saying the words, it seemed to him that a bit of heather on a distant mound had lifted itself up to listen, but sunk immediately back, undistinguishable among the multitudinous blossoms.
"The sun is going down," said the Lapp woman. "If we do not quickly find the right manner of saying the words, the frost will come, and then it will be too late."
By this time the sun's red beams had sunk quite down to the horizon. All nature was silent. A cool and damp evening mist, the forerunner of the frost, spread itself like a veil over moor and mound. All living things which had ventured to bloom for a short time in Lapland were now doomed to death.
Prince Abderraman was pallid with terror. His voice choked, and he could scarcely articulate the one untried arrangement of the magical words:
"Marraba donai Adáma taësan."
Behold! On the distant hillock, a heather blossom raised itself on its stalk. It grew as rapidly as does the lily which the Afghanistan fairies cause to spring forth in the red dawn, when they tap on the blue mountains with their magic wands.
The mist lay all around the mound. Out of the mist arose a slender figure, and as the prince approached the mound, running breathlessly, Lindagull came toward him pale with the escape of death. Prince Abderraman had found the right order for the words just in time to save her life.
The Princess Lindagull was borne to the tent in the arms of Abderraman, and her strength soon returned under the Lappish woman's kind care. Pimpedora was happy; and Pimpepanturi in his gladness forgot his longed-for dinner, which was sadly burnt in the pot.
OUT OF THE MIST AROSE A SLENDER FIGURE.OUT OF THE MIST AROSE A SLENDER FIGURE.
The hero-prince, picturing to himself the perils of the princess and the wonder of her recovery, swooned with rapture. His first words as he recovered were a prayer to Allah; and then he asked Lindagull:
"How did it feel to be changed into a heather blossom?"
"Just as if one sank back into the cradle of childhood and knew no more of the world than to eat, drink, and be happy in God's love," answered Lindagull.
"And how did it feel when you came back to life again?"
"Just as when one awakes on a clear morning after a deep and pleasant slumber."
"To-morrow shall we go back to Persia?"
"Yes," answered Lindagull. "But the good woman and her son have had a share in saving the poor captive Lindagull. We will take them with us and they shall have a palace in Ispahan."
"No; many, many thanks," answered Pimpedora; "I like my reindeer tent in Lapland better."
"Are there snow and reindeer in Persia?" asked Pimpepanturi.
"Snow is found only on the highest mountains," said the princess; "and instead of reindeer we have horses, antelopes, and gazelles."
"No, thank you heartily, then," said Pimpepanturi. "You can go with pleasure, and marry whom you wish. Nowhere in the world is there to be found so good a land as Lapland!"
It was of no use trying to dispute that question with the Laplanders, so the prince and princess set out the following day without them. Before departing they presented the Lapp woman and her son with their gold-embroidered clothes and with many jewels; receiving in return gifts of Lappish garments made from reindeer skin.
The Lapp woman put the costly Persian robes carefully away in birch bark, and rejoiced because with them she could buy a whole field of grain.
Shah Nadir sat alone in Ispahan's golden palace and groaned with grief. He could not forget his lost daughter. His wicked and ungrateful sons had raised a rebellion against him, and were marching with a large army toward the capital to cast their father from the throne.
While affairs were at this juncture the Grand Vizier announced that a young foreign couple, dressed in reindeer skin and followed by a dog, wished to prostrate themselves at the king's feet.
Shah Nadir never refused audience to a stranger,—(perhaps such a traveler would know something of his dear lost child!)—and so the two foreigners were led into his presence.
The young man cast himself down before the feet of the Shah; but the young woman, without ado, threw her arms around his neck; at which proceeding the Grand Vizier's beard became green with consternation!
But Shah Nadir, under her Lappish hood of reindeer skin, recognized his child so long sought and so hopelessly bewailed. "Allah! Allah!" cried he in joy; "now I am willing to die!"
"No, my lord king," broke out Prince Abderraman. "Now shall you live to rejoice with us, and to win back your kingdom again."
When Shah Nadir learned about his daughter's captivity and of the loyal service which the prince had shown her, he immediately proclaimed Prince Abderraman successor to his throne, promised him the Princess Lindagull in marriage, and sent him in command of the fifty thousand knights with gold saddles to fight the rebellious army.
It was not long before the prince won a glorious battle, took the rebel sons prisoners, and came back victorious to the rejoicing people of Ispahan.
Then was the wedding of Prince Abderraman and Princess Lindagull celebrated with great state (but without a wild beast fight!) and they lived long and happily after. But one day every year,—and that was the thirty-first of August, the date of Princess Lindagull's deliverance,—the royal pair showed themselves (to the great wonderment of magnificent Persia) in the Lapps' outlandish clothes of reindeer skin, so that in their prosperity they should not forget the great escape and blessing of the past.
In his old age, Shah Nadir had happy little grandchildren to sit upon his knee. The wicked sons ended their careers as swineherds for old King Bom Bali in Turan. The dog, Valledivau, lived to be thirty years old and died of the toothache (!); his skin was stuffed and kept in great honor. But about Pimpedora, and Pimpepanturi who bore for a season the proud name of Morus Pandorus von Pikkuluk´ulikuck´ulu, nothing has since been heard in Persia. Probably they have never found a better land on the earth's broad expanse than Lapland.
—Z. Topelius.
In the time of Charles the Twelfth there lived, in North Finland, a poor herd-boy called Sikku. His name should have been Sixtus, but the tongue of the Finn is so unmanageable that some names baffle it, and in that case he simply makes them over to suit himself,—to the form that he can best pronounce; so for that reason, Sixtus became Sikku.
Sikku was so poor that he had neither cap nor shirt nor shoes; but not in the least did this trouble him. He was always gay and happy, and while tending his cows at the foot of Sipuri Mountain, sang songs from morning till evening or blew on his wooden horn, taking great delight in hearing the mountain echoes mimic him.
Sikku had an old jack-knife, which counted for riches to him; and besides that he rejoiced in a comrade named Kettu, a long-nosed, long-tailed yellow dog, faithful to Sikku, but with a testy temper toward other folk.
The two stood by each other in plenty and in need, through weal and through woe. Kettu drove the cows together when they strayed, Kettu watched them while Sikku took his midday nap, and Sikku shared with Kettu the hard bread that was, for both, the usual breakfast and dinner. With the bread, they always had a fine soup of clear spring water, and almost every day a delicious dessert,—strawberries, raspberries, Arctic blackberries, blueberries, red whortleberries, wild cherries, or berries from the mountain-ash.
Kettu scorned such things, but Sikku enjoyed them all in the course of the summer, and thought he fared like a prince. When the weather was very rainy and cold, however, he would begin, toward evening, to long for the porridge pot. Oh, that nice warm porridge pot, that he could scrape and scrape, eating all the porridge there was left anywhere in it! Kettu got the porridge ladle to lick, and stole Miss Pussy's milk from the broken earthen dish which stood on the floor near the water-tub, though he seldom got the milk without a battle!
The master of Anttilla Farm was stingy and grasping and his wife was like him, but what mattered that to Sikku? He had his freedom, and the only thing he was responsible for was that all the fifteen cows returned to the farm every evening to be milked. Not another care in the world had Sikku, and for a time all went well and happily.
One day he climbed up the highest peak of the mountain while Kettu watched the cows in the valley. There was a wide beautiful view over forests, marshes, and small lonely lakes, but no houses were in sight. Sikku had never in his life thought that the world could be so big! His heart warmed within him as he saw the sun sparkle on the lakes between the dark branches of the pines. When a cloud sailed over the sky, one gleam after another flashed, vanished in shadow and shone out anew in another spot. Sikku sang and sang, blowing his wooden horn between times. The sounds rang out merrily up there on the mountain and turned into a little song:
"Oh, Sipuri Mountain! Tu-tu´! Falidu´!Tu-tu´! Falidu´!In all the whole world not a boy can be foundWho is tending his cows, with such grandeur around.Tu-tu´! Falidu´!"
While he was singing, there suddenly appeared before him a hideous little old woman who said to him, "All the land that you see shall be yours if you will be my boy and obey me."
"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Sikku, observing the woman closely and recognizing her as the troll woman from Allis Farm.
"Give me the white cow, Kimmo," continued she, "and say when you go home that the wolf caught her."
Sikku's eyes grew big and he answered: "Indeed I will not. I am no such rascal as that!"
"Then blame yourself for what happens," said the troll woman; and with that she hopped, crow fashion, down the mountain.
Kettu began to howl from the valley. Sikku sprang down and found that Kimmo had sunk in the wet marsh so that only her horn stood up above the soft, yielding ground. He tried to drag her out, but he was not strong enough, and when he had worked over her until he was worn out, he had to give up and go home driving only fourteen cows, while the bell cow lowed and Kettu howled.
Poor Sikku told of the disaster and got a hard thrashing; and the next morning was sent to his work without anything to eat, not even the dry bread usually given to him for the noon meal.
He sang no songs that day but sat hungry and sorrowful at the foot of the mountain. By and by, the long-bearded old troll man from Allis came to him and said:
"Give me the black cow, Mustikka, and say that the wolf tore her to pieces, and I will give you all the land you can see from Sipuri Peak."