Twilight Land Part 20

"Aye, aye," said the saint; "I suppose it was, in sooth, my turn.

Ne'th'less, it gives me joy to follow so close so fair and lovely a lady." And as he spoke he winked one eye at Cinderella, beckoned towards her with his cup of ale, and took a deep draught to her health. "I shall tell you," said he, as soon as he had caught his breath again, "a story about an angel and a poor man who travelled with him, and all the wonderful things the poor man saw the angel do."

"That," said the Blacksmith who made Death sit in his pear-tree until the wind whistled through his ribs--"that, methinks, is a better thing to tell for a sermon than a story."

"Whether or no that shall be so," said St. George, "you shall presently hear for yourselves."

He took another deep draught of ale, and then cleared his throat.

"Stop a bit, my friend," said Ali Baba. "What is your story about?"

"It is," said St. George, "about--"

The Fruit of Happiness

Once upon a time there was a servant who served a wise man, and cooked for him his cabbage and his onions and his pot-herbs and his broth, day after day, time in and time out, for seven years.

In those years the servant was well enough contented, but no one likes to abide in the same place forever, and so one day he took it into his head that he would like to go out into the world to see what kind of a fortune a man might make there for himself. "Very well," says the wise man, the servant's master; "you have served me faithfully these seven years gone, and now that you ask leave to go you shall go. But it is little or nothing in the way of money that I can give you, and so you will have to be content with what I can afford. See, here is a little pebble, and its like is not to be found in the seven kingdoms, for whoever holds it in his mouth can hear while he does so all that the birds and the beasts say to one another. Take it--it is yours, and, if you use it wisely, it may bring you a fortune."

The servant would rather have had the money in hand than the magic pebble, but, as nothing better was to be had, he took the little stone, and, bidding his master good-bye, trudged out into the world, to seek his fortune. Well, he jogged on and on, paying his way with the few pennies he had saved in his seven years of service, but for all of his travelling nothing of good happened to him until, one morning, he came to a lonely place where there stood a gallows, and there he sat him down to rest, and it is just in such an unlikely place as this that a man's best chance of fortune comes to him sometimes.

As the servant sat there, there came two ravens flying, and lit upon the cross-beam overhead. There they began talking to one another, and the servant popped the pebble into his mouth to hear what they might say.

"Yonder is a traveller in the world," said the first raven.

"Yes," said the second, "and if he only knew how to set about it, his fortune is as good as made."

"How is that so?" said the first raven.

"Why, thus," said the second. "If he only knew enough to follow yonder road over the hill, he would come by-and-by to a stone cross where two roads meet, and there he would find a man sitting. If he would ask it of him, that man would lead him to the garden where the fruit of happiness grows."

"The fruit of happiness!" said the first raven, "and of what use would the fruit of happiness be to him?"

"What use? I tell you, friend, there is no fruit in the world like that, for one has only to hold it in one's hand and wish, and whatever one asks for one shall have."

You may guess that when the servant understood the talk of the ravens he was not slow in making use of what he heard. Up he scrambled, and away he went as fast as his legs could carry him. On and on he travelled, until he came to the cross-roads and the stone cross of which the raven spoke, and there, sure enough, sat the traveller. He was clad in a weather-stained coat, and he wore dusty boots, and the servant bade him good-morning.

How should the servant know that it was an angel whom he beheld, and not a common wayfarer?

"Whither away, comrade," asked the traveller.

"Out in the world," said the servant, "to seek my fortune. And what I want to know is this--will you guide me to where I can find the fruit of happiness?"

"You ask a great thing of me," said the other; "nevertheless, since you do ask it, it is not for me to refuse, though I may tell you that many a man has sought for that fruit, and few indeed have found it. But if I guide you to the garden where the fruit grows, there is one condition you must fulfil: many strange things will happen upon our journey between here and there, but concerning all you see you must ask not a question and say not a word. Do you agree to that?"

"Yes," said the servant, "I do."

"Very well," said his new comrade; "then let us be jogging, for I have business in the town to-night, and the time is none too long to get there."

So all the rest of that day they journeyed onward together, until, towards evening, they came to a town with high towers and steep roofs and tall spires. The servant's companion entered the gate as though he knew the place right well, and led the way up one street and down another, until, by-and-by, they came to a n.o.ble house that stood a little apart by itself, with gardens of flowers and fruit-trees all around it. There the travelling companion stopped, and, drawing out a little pipe from under his jacket, began playing so sweetly upon it that he made one's heart stand still to listen to the music.

Well, he played and played until, by-and-by, the door opened, and out came a serving-man. "Ho, piper!" said he, "would you like to earn good wages for your playing?"

"Yes," said the travelling companion, "I would, for that is why I came hither."

"Then follow me," said the servant, and thereupon the travelling companion tucked away his pipe and entered, with the other at his heels.

The house-servant led the way from one room to another, each grander than the one they left behind, until at last he came to a great hall where dozens of servants were serving a fine feast. But only one man sat at table--a young man with a face so sorrowful that it made a body's heart ache to look upon him. "Can you play good music, piper?" said he.

"Yes," said the piper, "that I can, for I know a tune that can cure sorrow. But before I blow my pipe I and my friend here must have something to eat and drink, for one cannot play well with an empty stomach."

"So be it," said the young man; "sit down with me and eat and drink."

So the two did without second bidding, and such food and drink the serving-man had never tasted in his life before. And while they were feasting together the young man told them his story, and why it was he was so sad. A year before he had married a young lady, the most beautiful in all that kingdom, and had friends and comrades and all things that a man could desire in the world. But suddenly everything went wrong; his wife and he fell out and quarrelled until there was no living together, and she had to go back to her old home. Then his companions deserted him, and now he lived all alone.

"Yours is a hard case," said the travelling companion, "but it is not past curing." Thereupon he drew out his pipes and began to play, and it was such a tune as no man ever listened to before. He played and he played, and, after a while, one after another of those who listened to him began to get drowsy. First they winked, then they shut their eyes, and then they nodded until all were as dumb as logs, and as sound asleep as though they would never waken again. Only the servant and the piper stayed awake, for the music did not make them drowsy as it did the rest.

Then, when all but they two were tight and fast asleep, the travelling companion arose, tucked away his pipe, and, stepping up to the young man, took from off his finger a splendid ruby ring, as red as blood and as bright as fire, and popped the same into his pocket. And all the while the serving-man stood gaping like a fish to see what his comrade was about. "Come," said the travelling companion, "it is time we were going," and off they went, shutting the door behind them.

As for the serving-man, though he remembered his promise and said nothing concerning what he had beheld, his wits buzzed in his head like a hive of bees, for he thought that of all the ugly tricks he had seen, none was more ugly than this--to bewitch the poor sorrowful young man into a sleep, and then to rob him of his ruby ring after he had fed them so well and had treated them so kindly.

But the next day they jogged on together again until by-and-by they came to a great forest. There they wandered up and down till night came upon them and found them still stumbling onward through the darkness, while the poor serving-man's flesh quaked to hear the wild beasts and the wolves growling and howling around them.

But all the while the angel--his travelling companion--said never a word; he seemed to doubt nothing nor fear nothing, but trudged straight ahead until, by-and-by, they saw a light twinkling far away, and, when they came to it, they found a gloomy stone house, as ugly as eyes ever looked upon. Up stepped the servant's comrade and knocked upon the door--rap! tap! tap! By-and-by it was opened a crack, and there stood an ugly old woman, blear-eyed and crooked and gnarled as a winter twig.

But the heart within her was good for all that. "Alas, poor folk!"

she cried, "why do you come here? This is a den where lives a band of wicked thieves. Every day they go out to rob and murder poor travellers like yourselves. By-and-by they will come back, and when they find you here they will certainly kill you."

"No matter for that," said the travelling companion; "we can go no farther to-night, so you must let us in and hide us as best you may."

And in he went, as he said, with the servant at his heels trembling like a leaf at what he had heard. The old woman gave them some bread and meat to eat, and then hid them away in the great empty meal-chest in the corner, and there they lay as still as mice.

By-and-by in came the gang of thieves with a great noise and uproar, and down they sat to their supper. The poor servant lay in the chest listening to all they said of the dreadful things they had done that day--how they had cruelly robbed and murdered poor people. Every word that they said he heard, and he trembled until his teeth chattered in his head. But all the same the robbers knew nothing of the two being there, and there they lay until near the dawning of the day. Then the travelling companion bade the servant be stirring, and up they got, and out of the chest they came, and found all the robbers sound asleep and snoring so that the dust flew.

"Stop a bit," said the angel--the travelling companion--"we must pay them for our lodging."

As he spoke he drew from his pocket the ruby ring which he had stolen from the sorrowful young man's finger, and dropped it into the cup from which the robber captain drank. Then he led the way out of the house, and, if the serving-man had wondered the day before at that which the comrade did, he wondered ten times more to see him give so beautiful a ring to such wicked and b.l.o.o.d.y thieves.

The third evening of their journey the two travellers came to a little hut, neat enough, but as poor as poverty, and there the comrade knocked upon the door and asked for lodging. In the house lived a poor man and his wife; and, though the two were as honest as the palm of your hand, and as good and kind as rain in spring-time, they could hardly sc.r.a.pe enough of a living to keep body and soul together. Nevertheless, they made the travellers welcome, and set before them the very best that was to be had in the house; and, after both had eaten and drunk, they showed them to bed in a corner as clean as snow, and there they slept the night through.

But the next morning, before the dawning of the day, the travelling companion was stirring again. "Come," said he; "rouse yourself, for I have a bit of work to do before I leave this place."

And strange work it was! When they had come outside of the house, he gathered together a great heap of straw and sticks of wood, and stuffed all under the corner of the house. Then he struck a light and set fire to it, and, as the two walked away through the gray dawn, all was a red blaze behind them.

Still, the servant remembered his promise to his travelling comrade, and said never a word or asked never a question, though all that day he walked on the other side of the road, and would have nothing to say or to do with the other. But never a whit did his comrade seem to think of or to care for that. On they jogged, and, by the time evening was at hand, they had come to a neat cottage with apple and pear trees around it, all as pleasant as the eye could desire to see. In this cottage lived a widow and her only son, and they also made the travellers welcome, and set before them a good supper and showed them to a clean bed.

This time the travelling comrade did neither good nor ill to those of the house, but in the morning he told the widow whither they were going, and asked if she and her son knew the way to the garden where grew the fruit of happiness.

"Yes," said she, "that we do, for the garden is not a day's journey from here, and my son himself shall go with you to show you the way."