TURKISH-GYPSY STORIES
by Francis Hindes Groome · from Gypsy folk-tales
Adapted Version
Once there was Prince Leo. He was very kind. He helped many people.
The King had three sons. He gave money to each son. Prince Leo was the youngest. He had a kind heart. He saw poor people. He gave them his money. He helped many people. He paid for poor girls’ weddings. His brothers built ships. They built shops. Prince Leo gave all his money away. He was very happy. He helped many.
The King saw Prince Leo. The King asked, "What did you do?" Prince Leo said, "I helped poor people. I paid for weddings." The King was happy. He gave Prince Leo more money. Prince Leo took the money. He went on his way. He saw more poor people. He gave them money. He helped them all. He spent almost all his money. Only a few coins were left. He had just enough for a small meal.
Prince Leo walked on the road. He saw some people. They were very angry. A dead man had a debt. The people were upset. They said, "He owes us money. He cannot rest." The dead man could not find peace. Prince Leo had just a few coins. He gave them to the people. "Here," he said. "This pays the debt." The dead man could now rest.
Suddenly, a man stood there. He was quiet. He said, "Thank you, Prince Leo. You were kind. I will go with you. I am The Grateful Spirit." The Grateful Spirit offered to help Prince Leo.
They walked many days. They came to a village. A beautiful princess lived there. Her name was Elara. She was very sad. Her husbands always disappeared on their wedding night.
The Grateful Spirit told Prince Leo, "You must marry Princess Elara." Prince Leo was scared. The Grateful Spirit said, "Do not worry. I will help you." Prince Leo trusted The Grateful Spirit. They got married. That night, The Grateful Spirit hid. A big dragon came out of Elara's mouth. It was scary. The Grateful Spirit was fast. He cut off its heads. He put the dragon heads near Prince Leo.
Prince Leo woke up. He was safe. Princess Elara's father was happy. Everyone celebrated. They were very happy.
They traveled together. The Grateful Spirit said, "We must share everything. Even your new wife." Prince Leo was sad. "No!" he said. "I love Elara." The Grateful Spirit held his sword. He moved it to cut. Princess Elara screamed. A small dragon head fell out of her mouth. This was the last dragon head.
The Grateful Spirit smiled. "The dragons were bad," he said. "They hurt your wives. I saved you and Elara." He looked at Prince Leo. "You were kind to me. You paid my debt. Now I help you."
The Grateful Spirit said goodbye. He disappeared. Prince Leo and Princess Elara went home. They were happy. They were rich. Kindness is good. It comes back to you.
Original Story
TURKISH-GYPSY STORIES
No. 1.—The Dead Man’s Gratitude1
A king had three sons. He gave the youngest a hundred thousand piastres; he gave the same to the eldest son and to the middle one. The youngest arose, he took the road; wherever he found poor folk he gave money; here, there, he gave it away; he spent the money. His eldest brother went, had ships built to make money. And the middle one went, had shops built. They came to their father.
‘What have you done, my son?’
‘I have built ships.’
To the youngest, ‘You, what have you done?’
‘I? every poor man I found, I gave him money; and for poor girls I paid the cost of their marriage.’
The king said, ‘My youngest son will care well for the poor. Take another hundred thousand piastres.’
The lad departed. Here, there, he spent his money; twelve piastres remained to him. Some Jews dug up a corpse and beat it.
‘What do you want of him, that you are beating him?’
‘Twelve piastres we want of him.’
‘I’ll give you them if you will let him be.’
He gave the money, they let the dead man be. He arose and departed. As the lad goes the dead man followed him. ‘Where go you?’ the dead man asked.
‘I am going for a walk.’
‘I’ll come too; we’ll go together; we will be partners.’
‘So be it.’
‘Come, I will bring you to a certain place.’
He took and brought him to a village. There was a girl, takes a husband, lies with him; by dawn next day the husbands are dead.
‘I will hide you somewhere; I will get you a girl; but we shall always be partners.’
He found the girl (a dragon came out of her mouth).
‘And this night when you go to bed, I too will lie there.’
He took his sword, he went near them. The lad said, ‘That will never do. If you want her, do you take the girl.’
‘Are we not partners? You, do you sleep with her; I also, I will sleep here.’
At midnight he sees the girl open her mouth; the dragon came forth; he drew his sword; he cut off its three heads; he put the heads in his bosom; he lay down; he fell asleep. Next morning the girl arose, and sees the man her husband living by her side. They told the girl’s father. ‘To-day your daughter has seen dawn break with her husband.’
‘That will be the son-in-law,’ said the father.
The lad took the girl; he is going to his father.
‘Come,’ said the dead man, ‘let’s divide the money.’
They fell to dividing it.
‘We have divided the money; let us also divide your wife.’
The lad said, ‘How divide her? If you want her, take her.’
‘I won’t take her; we’ll divide.’
‘How divide?’ said the lad.
The dead man said, ‘I, I will divide.’
The dead man seized her; he bound her knees. ‘Do you catch hold of one foot, I’ll take the other.’
He raised his sword to strike the girl. In her fright the girl opened her mouth, and cried, and out of her mouth fell a dragon. The dead man said to the lad, ‘I am not for a wife, I am not for any money. These dragon’s heads are what devoured the men. Take her; the girl shall be yours, the money shall be yours. You did me a kindness; I also have done you one.’
‘What kindness did I do you?’ asked the lad.
‘You took me from the hands of the Jews.’
The dead man departed to his place, and the lad took his wife, went to his father.
In his introduction to the Pantschatantra (Leip. 1859), i. 219–221, Benfey cites an Armenian version of this story that is practically identical. Compare also the English ‘Sir Amadas’ (c. 1420), first printed in Weber’s Metrical Romances (Edinb. 1810, iii. 243–275); Straparola (1550) XI. 2 (‘The Simpleton,’ summarised in Grimm, ii. 480); ‘The Follower’ or ‘The Companion’ of Asbjörnsen (Dasent’s Tales from the Fjeld, p. 68), on which Andersen founded his ‘Travelling Companion’; ‘The Barra Widow’s Son’ (Campbell’s Tales of the West Highlands, No. 32, ii. 110); Hahn, ii. 320; Cosquin, i. 208, 214; Hinton Knowles’ Folk-tales of Kashmir, pp. 39–40; Wratislaw’s Sixty Slavonic Folk-tales, No. 18 (Polish); and especially Reinhold Köhler in Orient und Occident (1864, ii. 322–9, and iii. 93–103). What should be of special interest to English folklorists, is that Asbjörnsen’s ‘Follower’ forms an episode in our earliest version (Newcastle-on-Tyne, 1711) of ‘Jack the Giant-killer.’ Cf. pp. 67–71 of J. O. Halliwell’s Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales (1849), where we get the redemption of a dead debtor (who is not grateful), a witch-lady who visits an evil spirit, and the cutting off of that evil spirit’s head by a comrade clad in a coat of darkness. The resemblance has never been noticed between the folk-tale and the Book of Tobit, where Tobit shows his charity by burying the dead; the archangel Raphael plays the part of the ‘Follower’ (in both ‘Sir Amadas’ and the Russian version the Grateful Dead returns as an angel); Sara, Tobias’s bride, has had seven husbands slain by Asmodeus, the evil spirit, before they had lain with her; Raguel, Sara’s father, learns of Tobias’s safety on the morning after their marriage; Tobias offers half his goods to Raphael; and Raphael then disappears. The story of Tobit has certainly passed into Sicilian folklore, borrowed straight, it would seem, from the Apocrypha, as ‘The History of Tobià and Tobiòla’ (Laura Gonzenbach’s Sicil. Märchen, No. 89, ii. 177); but the Apocryphal book itself is plainly a corrupt version of the original folk-tale.
Madame Darmesteter’s Life of Renan (1897), contains at p. 251 the following passage:—‘That night he told us the story of the Babylonian Tobias. Rash and young, this Chaldæan brother of our Tobit, discouraged by the difficult approaches of prosperity, had entered into partnership with a demi-god or Demon, who made all his schemes succeed and pocketed fifty per cent. upon the profits. The remaining fifty sufficed to make Tobias as rich as Oriental fancy can imagine. The young man fell in love, married his bride, and brought her home. On the threshold stood the Demon: “How about my fifty per cent?” The Venus d’Ille, you see, was not born yesterday. From the dimmest dawn of time sages have taught us not to trust the gods too far.’
Unluckily there seems to be no authority whatever for this alleged Chaldæan version, which should obviously come closer to the folk-tale than to the Book of Tobit. At least, Professor Sayce writes word:—‘The passage in Madame Darmesteter’s Life of Renan must be based on an error, for no such story—so far as I know—has ever been found on a cuneiform tablet. It may have originated in a mistranslation of one of the contract-tablets; but if so, the mistranslation must have appeared in some obscure French publication, perhaps a newspaper, which I have not seen.’ Alack! and yet our folk-tale remains perhaps the oldest current folk-tale in the world.
No. 2.—Baldpate
In those days there was a man built a galleon; he manned her; he would go from the White Sea to the Black Sea. He landed at a village to take in water; there he saw four or five boys playing. One of them was bald. He called him. ‘Where’s the water?’ he asked. Baldpate showed him; he took in water.
‘Wilt come with me?’
‘I will, but I’ve a mother.’
‘Let’s go to your mother.’ They went to her.
‘Will you give me this boy?’
‘I will.’
The captain paid a month’s wages; he took the lad. They weighed anchor; they came to a large village; they landed to take in water.
The king’s son went out for a walk, and he sees a dervish with a girl’s portrait for sale. The king’s son bought it; it was very lovely. The girl’s father had been working at it for seven years. The king’s son set it on the fountain, thinking, Some one of those who come to drink the water will say, ‘I’ve seen that girl.’ The captain came ashore; he took in water; he lifted up his eyes, and saw the portrait. ‘What a beauty!’ He went aboard, and said to his crew, ‘There’s a beauty yonder, I’ve never seen her like.’
Baldpate said, ‘I’m going to see.’
Baldpate went. The moment he saw the portrait, he burst out laughing. ‘It’s the dervish’s daughter. How do they come by her?’
Hardly had he said it when they seized him and brought him to the palace. Baldpate lost his head the moment they seized him. But two days later they came to him: ‘This girl, do you know her?’
‘Know her? why, we were brought up together. Her mother is dead; she suckled both her and me.’
‘If they bring you before the king, fear not.’
He came before the king.
‘This girl, do you know her, my lad?’
‘I do, we grew up together.’
‘Will you bring her here?’
‘I will. Build me a gilded galleon; give me twenty musicians; let me take your son with me; and let no one gainsay whatever I do. Then I will go. I shall take seven years to go and come.’
They took their bread, their water for seven years; they set out. They went to the maiden’s country. At break of day Baldpate brought the galleon near the maiden’s house; the maiden’s house was close to the sea. Baldpate said, ‘I’ll go upon deck for a turn; don’t any of you show yourselves.’ He went up; he paced the deck.
The dervish’s daughter arose from her sleep. The sun struck on the galleon; it struck, too, on the house. The girl went out, rubs her eyes. A man pacing up and down. She bowed forward and saw our Baldpate. She knew him: ‘What wants he here?’
‘What seek you here?’
‘I’ve come for you, come to see you; it is so many years since I’ve seen you. Come aboard. Your father, where’s he gone to?’
‘Don’t you know that my father has been painting my portrait? He’s gone to sell it; I’m expecting him these last few days.’
‘Come here, and let’s have a little talk.’
The girl went to dress. Baldpate went to his crew. ‘Hide yourselves; don’t let a soul be seen; but the moment I get her into the cabin, do you cut the ropes; I shall be talking with her.’
She came into the cabin; they seated themselves; they talk; the galleon gets under weigh. He privily brought in the king’s son.
‘Who is this?’ said the girl. ‘I am off.’
‘Are you daft, my sister? Let’s have some sweetmeats.’
He gave her some; they intoxicated the girl.
‘A little music to play to you,’ said Baldpate.
He went, brought the musicians; they began to play. The girl said, ‘I’m up, I’m off; my father’s coming.’
‘Sit down a bit, and let them play to you.’ They play their music; she hears not the departure of the galleon.
‘I’m off,’ said the girl to Baldpate.
She went on deck and saw where her home was. ‘Ah! my brother, what have you done to me?’
‘Done to you! he who sits by you is the son of the king, and I’m come to fetch you for him.’
She wept and said, ‘What shall I do? shall I fling myself into the sea?’ No, she went and sat down by the king’s son. Plenty of music and victuals and drink. Baldpate is sitting up aloft by himself; he is captain. They eat, they drink; he stirred not from his post.
Two or three days remained ere they landed. At break of dawn three birds perched on the galleon; no one was near him. The birds began talking: ‘O bird, O bird, what is it, O bird? The dervish’s daughter eats, drinks with the son of the king; she knows not what will befall them.’
‘What will?’ the other birds asked.
‘As soon as he arrives, a little boat will come to take them off. The boat will upset, and the dervish’s daughter and the king’s son will be drowned; and whoever hears it and tells will be turned into stone to his knees.’
Baldpate listens; he is alone.
Early next morning the birds came back again. They began talking together: ‘O bird, O bird, what is it, O bird? The dervish’s daughter and the king’s son eat, drink; they know not what will befall them. As soon as they land, as soon as they enter the gate, the gate will tumble down, it will crush them and kill them; and whoever hears it and tells will be turned into stone to the back.’
Day broke; the birds came back. ‘O bird, O bird, what is it, O bird? The dervish’s daughter eats, drinks; she knows not what will befall her.’
‘What will?’ the other birds asked.
‘The marriage night a seven-headed dragon will come forth, and he will devour the king’s son and the dervish’s daughter; and whoever hears it and tells them will be turned into stone to the head.’
Baldpate says, all to himself, ‘I shan’t let any boats come.’ He arose; he came opposite the palace; some boats came to take off the maiden.
‘I want no boats.’ Instead he spread his sails. The galleon backed, the galleon went ahead. One and all looked: ‘Why, he will strand the galleon!’
‘Let him be,’ said the king, ‘let him strand her.’
He stranded the galleon.
Baldpate said to the king, ‘When I started to fetch this girl, did I not tell you you must let me do as I would? No one must interfere.’
He took the girl and the prince; he came to the gate. ‘Pull it down.’
‘Pull it down, why?’ they asked.
‘Did I not tell you no one must interfere?’
They set to and pulled it down. They went up, sat down, ate, drank, laugh, and talk.
The worm gnaws Baldpate within.
Night fell; they will bed the pair. Baldpate said, ‘Where you sleep I also will sleep there.’
‘The bridegroom and bride will sleep there; you can’t.’
‘What’s our bargain?’
‘Thou knowest.’
They went, they lay down; Baldpate took his sword, he lay down, he covered his head. At midnight he hears a dragon coming. He draws his sword; he cuts off its heads; he puts them beneath his pillow. The king’s son awoke, and sees his sword in his hands. He cried, ‘Baldpate will kill us.’
The father came and asked, ‘What made you call out, my son?’
‘Baldpate will kill us,’ he answered.
They took and bound Baldpate’s arms.
Day broke; the king summoned him. ‘Why have you acted thus? Seven years you have gone, you have journeyed, and brought the maiden; and now you have risen to slay them.’
‘What could I do?’
‘You would kill my son, then will I kill you.’
‘Thou knowest.’
They bind his arms, they lead him to cut off his head. As he went, Baldpate said to himself, ‘They will cut off my head. If I tell, I shall be turned into stone. Come, bring me to the king; I have a couple of words to say to him.’
They brought him to the king.
‘Why have you brought him here?’
‘He has a couple of words to say to you.’
‘Say them, my lad.’
‘I, when I went to fetch the dervish’s daughter, I was sitting alone on the galleon; your son was eating, drinking with the maiden. One morning three birds came; they began talking: “O bird, O bird, what is it, O bird? The dervish’s daughter eats, drinks with the son of the king; she knows not what will befall her. And whoever hears it and tells will be turned into stone to his knees.” No one but I was there; I heard it.’
As soon as Baldpate had said it, he was turned into stone to his knees. The king, seeing he was turned into stone, said, ‘Prithee, my lad, say no more.’
‘But I will,’ Baldpate answered, and went on to tell of the gate; he was turned into stone to his back.
‘The third time the birds came and talked together again, and I heard (that was why I wished to sleep with them): “A seven-headed dragon will come forth; he will devour them.” And if you believe it not, look under the pillow.’
They went there; they saw the heads.
‘It was I who killed him. Your son saw the sword in my hands, and he thought I would kill them. I could not tell him the truth.’
He was turned into stone to his head. They made a tomb for him.
The king’s son arose; he took the road; he departed. ‘Seven years has he wandered for me, I am going to wander seven years for him.’
The king’s son went walking, walking. In a certain place there was water; he drank of it; he lay down. Baldpate came to him in a dream: ‘Take a little earth from here, and go and sprinkle it on the tomb. He will rise from the stone.’
The king’s son slept and slept. He arose; he takes some of the earth; he went to the tomb; he sprinkled the earth on it. Baldpate arose. ‘How sound I’ve been sleeping!’ he said.
‘Seven years hast thou wandered for me, and seven years I have wandered for thee.’
He takes him, he brings him to the palace, he makes him a great one.
Miklosich’s Bukowina-Gypsy story, ‘The Prince, his Comrade, and Nastasa the Fair’ (No. 24) presents analogies; but ‘Baldpate’ is identical with Grimm’s No. 6, ‘Faithful John,’ i. pp. 23 and 348, where in the variant the third peril is a seven-headed dragon. Cf. also Wolf’s Hausmärchen (Gött. 1851), p. 383; Basile’s Pentamerone (1637), iv. 9; Hahn, i. 201–208, and ii. 267–277; and especially the Rev. Lal Behari Day’s Folk-tales of Bengal (London, 1883), pp. 39–52, the latter half of ‘Phakir Chand.’ Here two immortal birds warn the minister’s son of four perils threatening the king’s son:—(1) riding an elephant; (2) from fall of gate; (3) choking by fish-head; (4) cobra. Penalty of telling, to be turned into statue. Another Indian version is ‘Rama and Luxman; or, the Learned Owl,’ in Mary Frere’s Old Deccan Days, No. 5, pp. 66–78, whose ending is very feeble. See also Reinhold Köhler’s Aufsätze über Märchen und Volkslieder (Berlin, 1894), pp. 24–35.
No. 3.—The Riddle
In those days there was a rich man. He had an only son, and the mother and the father loved him dearly. He went to school; all that there is in the world, he learned it. One day he arose; took four, five purses of money. Here, there he squandered it. Early next morning he arose again and went to his father. ‘Give me more money.’ He got more money, arose, went; by night he had spent it. Little by little he spent all the money.
And early once more he arose, and says to his father and mother, ‘I want some money.’
‘My child, there is no money left. Would you like the stew-pans? take them, go, sell them, and eat.’
He took and sold them: in a day or two he had spent it.
‘I want some money.’
‘My son, we have no money. Take the clothes, go, sell them.’
In a day or two he had spent that money. He arose, and went to his father, ‘I want some money.’
‘My son, there is no money left us. If you like, sell the house.’
The lad took and sold the house. In a month he had spent the money; no money remained. ‘Father I want some money.’
‘My son, no riches remain to us, no house remains to us. If you like, take us to the slave-market, sell us.’
The lad took and sold them. His mother and his father said, ‘Come this way, that we may see you.’ The king bought the mother and father.
With the money for his mother the lad bought himself clothes, and with the money for his father got a horse.
One day, two days the father, the mother looked for the son that comes not; they fell a-weeping. The king’s servants saw them weeping; they went, told it to the king. ‘Those whom you bought weep loudly.’
‘Call them to me.’ The king called them. ‘Why are you weeping.’
‘We had a son; for him it is we weep.’
‘Who are you, then?’ asked the king.
‘We were not thus, my king; we had a son. He sold us, and we were weeping at his not coming to see us.’
Just as they were talking with the king, the lad arrived. The king set-to, wrote a letter, gave it him into his hand. ‘Carry this letter to such and such a place.’ In it the king wrote, ‘The lad bearing this letter, cut his throat the minute you get it.’
The lad put on his new clothes, mounted his horse, put the letter in his bosom, took the road. He rode a long way; he was dying of thirst; and he sees a well. ‘How am I to get water to drink? I will fasten this letter, and lower it into the well, and moisten my mouth a bit.’ He lowered it, drew it up, squeezed it into his mouth.
‘Let’s see what this letter contains.’
See what it contains—‘The minute he delivers the letter, cut his throat.’ The lad stood there fair mesmerised.2
In a certain place there was a king’s daughter. They go to propound a riddle to her. If she guesses it, she will cut off his head; and if she cannot, he will marry the maiden.
The lad arose, went to the king’s palace.
‘What are you come for, my lad?’
‘I would speak with the king’s daughter.’
‘Speak with her you shall. If she guesses your riddle, she will cut off your head; and if she cannot, you will get the maiden.’
‘That’s what I’m come for.’
He sat down in front of the maiden. The maiden said, ‘Tell your riddle.’
The lad said, ‘My mother I wore her, my father I rode him, from my death I drank water.’
The maiden looked in her book, could not find it. ‘Grant me a three days’ respite.’
‘I grant it you,’ said the lad. The lad arose, went to an inn, goes to sleep there.
The maiden saw she cannot find it out. The maiden set-to, had an underground passage made to the place where the lad lies sleeping. At midnight the maid arose, went to him, took the lad in her arms.
‘I am thine, thou art mine, only tell me the riddle.’
‘Not likely I should tell you. Strip yourself,’ said the lad to the maiden. The maiden stripped herself.
‘Tell me it.’ Then he told her.
The maiden clapped her hands; her servants came, took the maiden, and let her go. The maiden was wearing the lad’s sark, and the lad was wearing the maiden’s.
Day broke. They summoned the lad. The lad mounted his horse, and rides to the palace. The people see the lad. ‘’Tis a pity; they’ll kill him.’
He went up, and stood face to face with the king.
‘My daughter has guessed your riddle,’ said the king.
‘How did she guess it, my king? At night when I was asleep, there came a bird to my breast. I caught it, I killed it, I cooked it. Just as I was going to eat it, it flew away.’
The king says, ‘Kill him; he’s wandering.’
‘I am not wandering, my king. I told your daughter the riddle. Your daughter had an underground passage made, and she came to where I was sleeping, came to my arms. I caught her, I stripped her, I took her to my bosom, I told her the riddle. She clapped her hands; her servants came and took her. And if you don’t believe, I am wearing her sark, and she is wearing mine.’
The king saw it was true.
Forty days, forty nights they made a marriage. He took the maiden, went, bought back his father, his mother.
When I translated this story, I deemed it unique, though the Bellerophon letter is a familiar feature in Indian and European folk-tales, and so too is the princess who guesses or propounds riddles for the wager of her hand to the suitors’ heads. She occurs in ‘The Companion’ of Asbjörnsen (Dasent’s Tales from the Fjeld, p. 68, and so in our ‘Jack the Giant-killer,’ cf. p. 3), and in Ralston’s ‘The Blind Man and the Cripple’ (p. 241), of both of which there are Gypsy versions, our Nos. 1 and 24. In Ralston’s story, as here, the princess takes her magic book, her grimoire, and turns over the leaves to find out the answer (cf. also the Welsh-Gypsy tale of ‘The Green Man of Noman’s Land,’ No. 62). Maive Stokes’s Indian Fairy Tales has a story, ‘Rájá Harichand’s Punishment,’ No. 29, p. 225, where a ráni is ‘very wise and clever, for she had a book, which she read continually, called the Kop shástra; and this book told her everything.’ I know myself of a Gypsy woman who told fortunes splendidly out of her ‘magic book’—it was really a Treatise on Navigation, with diagrams. Fortune-tellers with ‘sacred book’ occur in Mary Frere’s Old Deccan Days, p. 261. Now, since translating this story, I find it is largely identical with Campbell’s West Highland tale, ‘The Knight of Riddles,’ No. 22 (ii. p. 36), with which cf. Grimm’s ‘The Riddle,’ No. 22 (i. 100, 368). See also Reinhold Köhler in Orient und Occident (ii. 1864), p. 320.
No. 4.—Story of the Bridge
In olden days there were twelve brothers. And the eldest brother, the carpenter Manoli, was making the long bridge. One side he makes; one side falls. The twelve brothers had one mistress, and they all had to do with her. They called her to them, ‘Dear bride.’ On her head was the tray; in her hands was a child. Whoseso wife came first, she will come to the twelve brothers. Manoli’s wife, Lénga, will come to the twelve brothers. Said his wife, ‘Thou hast not eaten bread with me. What has befallen thee that thou eatest not bread with me? My ring has fallen into the water. Go and fetch my ring.’ Her husband said, ‘I will fetch thy ring out of the water.’ Up to his two breasts came the water in the depth of the bridge there. He came into the fountain, he was drowned. Beneath he became a talisman, the innermost foundation of the bridge. Manoli’s eyes became the great open arch of the bridge. ‘God send a wind to blow, that the tray may fall from the head of her who bears it in front of Lénga.’ A snake crept out before Lénga, and she feared, and said, ‘Now have I fear at sight of the snake, and am sick. Now is it not bad for my children?’ Another man seized her, and sought to drown her, Manoli’s wife. She said, ‘Drown me not in the water. I have little children.’ She bowed herself over the sea, where the carpenter Manoli made the bridge. Another man called Manoli’s wife; with him she went on the road. There, when they went on the road, he went to the tavern, he was weary; the man went, drank the juice of the grape, got drunk. Before getting home, he killed Manoli’s wife, Lénga.
I hesitated whether to give this story; it is so hopelessly corrupt, it seems such absolute nonsense. Yet it enshrines beyond question, however confusedly, the widespread and ancient belief that to ensure one’s foundation one should wall up a human victim. So St. Columba buried St. Oran alive in the foundation of his monastery; in Western folklore, however, the victim is usually an infant—a bastard sometimes, in one case (near Göttingen) a deaf-mute. But in south-eastern Europe it is almost always a woman—the wife of the master-builder, whose name, as here, is Manoli. Reinhold Köhler has treated the subject admirably in his Aufsätze über Märchen und Volkslieder (Berlin, 1894, pp. 36–47); there one finds much to enlighten the darkness of our original. ‘God send a wind,’ etc., is the husband’s prayer as he sees his wife coming towards him, and hopes to avert her doom; ‘My ring has fallen into the water,’ etc., must also be his utterance, when he finds that it is hopeless, that she has to die. The Gypsy story is probably of high antiquity, for two at least of the words in it were quite or almost meaningless to the nomade Gypsy who told it (Paspati, p. 190). The masons of south-eastern Europe are, it should be noticed, largely Gypsies; and a striking Indian parallel may be pointed out in the Santal story of ‘Seven Brothers and their Sister’ (Campbell’s Santal Folk-tales, pp. 106–110). Here seven brothers set to work to dig a tank, but find no water, so, by the advice of a yogi, give their only sister to the spirit of the tank. ‘The tank was soon full to the brim, and the girl was drowned.’ And then comes a curious mention of a Dom, or Indian vagrant musician, whose name is probably identical with Doum, Lom, or Rom, the Gypsy of Syria, Asia Minor, and Europe.
1 Told by an old sedentary Gypsy woman of Adrianople. ↑
2 Lit. ‘the lad there became dry’; but that is how an English Gypsy would put it. ↑
Story DNA
Moral
Kindness, even to the dead, can be repaid in unexpected and life-saving ways.
Plot Summary
A king's youngest son, known for his boundless generosity, spends all his money helping the poor. With his last coins, he pays a debt for a dead man, saving his corpse from desecration. The grateful dead man's spirit then becomes his mysterious partner, guiding him to a village where a beautiful girl's husbands mysteriously die on their wedding night. The dead man helps the lad defeat a dragon that emerges from the girl, saving his life and securing his marriage. Later, the dead man dramatically insists on dividing the lad's wife, which reveals a final dragon's head, proving the dead man's actions were to save them both, fulfilling his gratitude before he departs.
Themes
Emotional Arc
innocence to wisdom
Writing Style
Narrative Elements
Cultural Context
The story reflects a widespread folk motif known as 'The Grateful Dead,' found across many cultures and time periods, including Armenian, English, Norse, and Indian versions, and even parallels with the Book of Tobit.
Plot Beats (14)
- A king's three sons receive money; the youngest spends his on charity, while his brothers invest.
- The king gives the youngest son more money, which he also spends on the poor until only twelve piastres remain.
- The lad encounters Jews beating a dead body for a debt of twelve piastres and pays it to stop them.
- The dead man's spirit appears and offers to be the lad's partner on his journey.
- They arrive at a village where a beautiful girl's previous husbands have all died on their wedding night.
- The dead man arranges for the lad to marry the girl, promising to help him survive the night.
- During the night, a dragon emerges from the girl's mouth, and the dead man, hidden, cuts off its three heads, placing them in the lad's bosom.
- The lad wakes up alive, and the girl's father celebrates the successful marriage.
- As they travel, the dead man insists on dividing their shared wealth, including the wife.
- The lad is reluctant to divide his wife, but the dead man insists and prepares to cut her in half with his sword.
- The girl screams in fear, and a final dragon's head falls from her mouth.
- The dead man reveals that the dragons were killing the husbands and that his actions were to save the lad and the girl.
- The dead man explains he is repaying the kindness the lad showed him by saving his corpse from the Jews.
- The dead man departs, and the lad returns to his father with his wife and the money.
Characters
The Youngest Son ★ protagonist
Lean and agile, with a youthful build, likely of average height for a young man from the Ottoman Empire. His features are not explicitly described but would reflect a Turkish or Romani ethnicity, with a warm complexion and expressive eyes.
Attire: Initially, simple but well-made garments befitting a king's son, perhaps a tunic and trousers of sturdy linen or wool, in earthy tones. Later, as he travels, his clothes would become more worn, possibly a simple cotton shirt and loose trousers, reflecting his journey and generosity. He would not wear elaborate jewelry.
Wants: To do good deeds and help the poor, driven by an innate kindness. Later, to find a suitable life partner and return to his family.
Flaw: His extreme generosity and trusting nature can leave him vulnerable and penniless. He is also somewhat naive about the dangers of the world.
He begins as a naive but generous prince who squanders his wealth on charity. Through his journey with the Dead Man, he learns about hidden dangers and the true nature of evil, ultimately proving his worth and returning home with a wife and wisdom.
Generous, compassionate, trusting, brave, and somewhat naive. He prioritizes helping others over accumulating wealth.
Image Prompt & Upload
A young man of Turkish or Romani ethnicity, standing upright, facing forward, full body visible from head to toe. He has a lean build, dark brown hair cut short, and warm, dark brown eyes. His face is kind with a gentle expression. He wears a simple, light brown linen tunic, loose dark trousers, and worn leather sandals. His hands are open, indicating generosity. Plain white background, full body visible head to toe, single figure, no watermark, no text, no signature.
The Dead Man ◆ supporting
Initially, a corpse, then a reanimated figure. He would appear gaunt and pale, with a spectral quality, but capable of physical action. His form is human-like but with an otherworldly stillness.
Attire: Simple, shroud-like garments, possibly tattered and earth-stained, reflecting his recent burial. He would not wear any adornments.
Wants: To repay the kindness shown to him by the Youngest Son. He seeks to ensure the Youngest Son's well-being and success.
Flaw: His existence is tied to his gratitude, and he cannot rest until his debt is paid. He is also bound by the rules of his reanimated state.
He serves as a guide and protector, fulfilling his debt of gratitude. Once his purpose is served and the Youngest Son is safe and successful, he departs to his place, presumably finding peace.
Mysterious, loyal, wise, and pragmatic. He is bound by gratitude and acts as a protector and guide, often testing the Youngest Son.
Image Prompt & Upload
A gaunt male figure of Turkish or Romani ethnicity, standing upright, facing forward, full body visible from head to toe. He has very pale, almost translucent skin, sunken features, and dark, unkempt hair. His eyes are dark and appear ancient, with a solemn expression. He wears a simple, tattered, earth-stained white linen shroud-like garment. His posture is unnaturally rigid. Plain white background, full body visible head to toe, single figure, no watermark, no text, no signature.
The Dragon-Girl ◆ supporting
Beautiful and alluring, with a delicate appearance that belies the danger within her. Her features would be consistent with a Turkish or Romani woman, with a graceful build.
Attire: Rich, elegant clothing befitting a village girl of marriageable age, possibly a flowing dress or a two-piece ensemble of a long skirt and embroidered blouse, made of fine cotton or silk in vibrant colors. She might wear simple, traditional jewelry.
Wants: To find a husband who can survive the night with her, and to be free from the dragon's curse.
Flaw: The dragon that emerges from her mouth, which has caused the death of all her previous husbands.
She begins as a victim of a curse, unknowingly causing death. She is freed from the dragon by the Youngest Son and the Dead Man, becoming a loving wife and a symbol of the Youngest Son's success.
Initially appears cursed and dangerous, but is ultimately innocent and grateful. She is likely quiet and perhaps fearful due to her past experiences.
Image Prompt & Upload
A young woman of Turkish or Romani ethnicity, standing upright, facing forward, full body visible from head to toe. She has a graceful figure, long, dark, wavy hair, and large, dark, expressive eyes. Her face is beautiful with a gentle, slightly melancholic expression. She wears a flowing, deep blue silk dress with gold embroidery along the neckline and cuffs, and a simple gold necklace. Plain white background, full body visible head to toe, single figure, no watermark, no text, no signature.
The King (Youngest Son's Father) ○ minor
A man of regal bearing, likely of Turkish or Ottoman ethnicity, with a dignified presence. He would be of average height, perhaps with a slight stoop from age, but still commanding respect.
Attire: Rich, formal court attire, such as a flowing silk caftan or robe in deep jewel tones, possibly embroidered with gold thread, over fine linen trousers. He would wear a jeweled turban or a crown, and a sash.
Wants: To assess his sons' capabilities and ensure the well-being of his kingdom and family.
Flaw: None explicitly shown, but perhaps a slight initial skepticism towards his youngest son's unconventional choices.
He begins by testing his sons and ends by accepting and celebrating the return of his youngest son, recognizing his wisdom and good fortune.
Fair, discerning, and wise. He values generosity and good deeds, recognizing the unique qualities of his youngest son.
Image Prompt & Upload
An elderly man of Turkish or Ottoman ethnicity, standing upright, facing forward, full body visible from head to toe. He has a dignified build, a long white beard and mustache, and wise, dark eyes. He wears a flowing, emerald green silk caftan with gold embroidery, a jeweled turban, and a wide gold sash. His expression is discerning and regal. Plain white background, full body visible head to toe, single figure, no watermark, no text, no signature.
Locations
King's Palace/Court
A royal setting where the king resides and interacts with his sons, likely adorned with elements reflecting Ottoman or Turkish architectural styles, such as intricate tilework, domed ceilings, and plush textiles.
Mood: Formal, authoritative, a place of judgment and familial interaction.
The king questions his sons about their use of money and gives the youngest son additional funds.
Image Prompt & Upload
A grand Ottoman-era palace interior, with high, arched windows letting in soft daylight. Ornate Iznik tile panels in blues and greens adorn the lower walls, while the upper walls are plastered and painted with delicate floral motifs. A large, intricately carved wooden divan with silk cushions sits against one wall. Sunlight streams through a geometric patterned window, casting soft shadows on the polished marble floor. no border, no frame, no watermark, no text, no signature, edge-to-edge illustration.
Village with the Cursed Girl
A village where a mysterious curse causes husbands to die after their wedding night. The architecture would be typical of a rural Turkish village, with simple stone or mud-brick houses, possibly with wooden balconies and red-tiled roofs, nestled in a landscape of rolling hills or plains.
Mood: Mysterious, dangerous, foreboding due to the curse.
The dead man leads the lad to this village where the lad breaks the curse by slaying the dragon.
Image Prompt & Upload
A quiet, moonlit Turkish village nestled in a valley, with simple, whitewashed stone houses featuring dark wooden shutters and red-tiled roofs. A narrow, unpaved path winds between the houses, casting long, deep shadows. A few cypress trees stand tall against the clear night sky, which is dotted with stars. The air is still and cool, with a sense of quiet mystery. no border, no frame, no watermark, no text, no signature, edge-to-edge illustration.
The Long Bridge (Manoli's Bridge)
A monumental, long bridge under construction, constantly collapsing on one side. It is made of stone and possibly wood, spanning a significant body of water. The depth beneath the bridge is considerable, and it becomes the final resting place for Manoli and his wife.
Mood: Tragic, cursed, monumental, a place of sacrifice and despair.
Manoli is drowned and becomes the foundation, and later his wife Lénga is also killed near it.
Image Prompt & Upload
A vast, ancient stone bridge under construction, with massive, rough-hewn stone arches spanning a wide, turbulent river. Scaffolding made of thick timber beams clings to the unfinished sections, where one side appears to be crumbling into the churning water below. The sky is overcast and windy, with dark clouds gathering, and the river surface is choppy and grey. The scale is immense, conveying a sense of arduous, unending labor. no border, no frame, no watermark, no text, no signature, edge-to-edge illustration.
