"Behold the spirit of ananda the wood-carver, ascending to adorn the temple of the G.o.ds' kingdom."

And now for the s.p.a.ce of a whole month the Wood-carver remained closely at home letting himself be seen by no one save his wife only. Daily he washed himself over with milk, and sat in the shade out of the coloured light of the sun. At the end of the month his wife brought him a garment of white gauze, with which he covered himself; and he wrote, he also, a feigned letter, and went up with it to "All-protecting"

the Khan.

As soon as the Khan saw him he cried out,--

"How art thou returned from the G.o.ds' kingdom? And how didst thou leave my father 'All-knowing' the Khan?"

Then ananda the wood-carver handed to him the forged letter which he had prepared, and he caused it to be read aloud before the people in these words:--

"To my son, Chotolo-Ssakiktschi.

"That thou occupiest thyself without wearying in leading thy people in the way of prosperity and happiness is well. As regards the erection of the temple up here, concerning which I wrote thee in my former letter, ananda the wood-carver hath well executed the part we committed to him, and we charge thee that thou recompense him richly for his labour. But in order to the entire completion of the same, we stand in need of a painter to adorn with cunning art the sculpture he hath executed. When this cometh into thy hands, therefore, send straightway for Kun-dgah the painter, for there is none other like to him, and let him come up to us forthwith; according to the same way and manner that thou heretofore sendedst unto us ananda the wood-carver, shall he come."

When the Khan had heard the letter, he rejoiced greatly, and said, "These are in truth the words of my father, 'All-knowing' the Khan." And he loaded ananda the wood-carver with rich rewards, but sent and called unto him Kun-dgah the painter.

Kun-dgah the painter came with all haste into the presence of the Khan, who caused the letter of his father to be read out to him; and he as he heard it was seized with great fear and trembling; but when he saw ananda the wood-carver standing whole before him, all white from the milk-washing and clad in the costly garment of gauze as if the light of the G.o.ds' kingdom yet clove to him, he said within himself,--

"Surely the fire hath not burnt him, as I see him before mine eyes, so neither shall it burn me; and if I refuse to go a worse death will be allotted me, while if I accept the charge I shall receive rich rewards like unto ananda," So he consented to have his painter's gear in readiness in seven days, and to go up to the G.o.ds' kingdom by means of the pile burnt with fire.

When the seven days were pa.s.sed, all the people a.s.sembled in the field of Kun-dgah the painter, and the Khan came in his robes of state surrounded by the officers of his palace, and the ministers of the kingdom. The pile was well heaped up of beams of wood steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain; in the midst they placed Kun-dgah the painter, and with the melody of every solemn-sounding instrument they set fire to the pile. Kun-dgah fortified himself for the torture by the expectation that soon he would begin to rise on the clouds of smoke; but when he found that, instead of this, his body sank to the ground with unendurable pain, he shouted out to the people to come and release him. But the device whereby he had intended to drown the cries of the Wood-carver prevailed against him. No one could hear his voice for the noise of the resounding instruments; and thus he perished miserably in the flames.

"Truly that bad man was rewarded according to his deserts!" exclaimed the Prince.

And as he let these words escape him thoughtlessly, the Siddhi-kur replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Prince hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight.

TALE IX.

When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again to the cool grove, and having in the same manner as heretofore taken captive the Siddhi-kur, bore him along to present to his Master and Teacher Nagarg'una.

But by the way the Siddhi-kur asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not speak craved the token that he willed he should tell one, which when the Prince had given he told this tale, saying,--

FIVE TO ONE.

Long ages ago there lived among the subjects of a great kingdom six youths who were all boon companions. One was a smith's son, and one was a wood-carver's son; one was a painter's son, and one was a doctor's son; one was an accountant's son, and one was a rich man's son, who had no trade or profession, but plenty of money.

These six determined on taking a journey to find the opportunity of establishing themselves in life; so they all six set out together, having taken leave of their friends, and the rich man's son providing the cost.

When they had journeyed on a long way together without any thing particular befalling them, as they were beginning to weary of carrying on the same sort of life day by day, they came to a place where the waters of six streams met, flowing thither from various directions, and they said, "All these days we have journeyed together, and none of us have met with the opportunity of settling or making a living. Let us now each go forth alone, each one following back the course of one of these rivers to its source, and see what befalls us then." So each planted a tree at the head of the stream he chose, and they agreed that all should meet again at the same spot, and if any failed to appear, and his tree had withered away, it should be taken as a token that evil had befallen him, and that then his companions should follow his river, and search for him and deliver him.

Having come to this agreement, each one went his way.

The rich man's son followed the wanderings of his stream without falling in with any one till he had reached the very source of the river-head; here was a meadow skirting a forest, and on the border of the forest a dwelling. Towards this dwelling the youth directed his steps. There lived here an ancient man along with his ancient wife, who when they saw the youth opening the gate cried out to him,--

"Young man! wherefore comest thou hither, and whence comest thou?"

"I come from a far country," answered the youth, "and I am journeying to find the occasion of settling myself in life; and thus journeying, my steps have brought me hither."

When the ancient man and his wife saw that he was a comely youth and well-spoken, they said, "If this is indeed so, it is well that thy steps have brought thee hither, for we have here a beautiful daughter, charming in form and delightful in conversation; take her and become our son."

As they said these words the daughter appeared on the threshold of the dwelling, and when the youth saw her he said within himself, "This is no common child of earth, but one of the daughters of the heavenly G.o.ds (1). What better can befall me than that I should marry her and live here the rest of my days in her company?"

The maiden, too, said to him, "It is well, O youth, that thy steps have brought thee hither." Thus they began conversing together, and the youth established himself on the spot and lived with his wife in peace and happiness.

This dwelling, however, was within the dominions of a mighty Khan. One day, as his minions were disporting themselves in the river, they found a ring all set with curious jewels, in cunning workmanship, which the rich youth's wife had dropped while bathing, and the stream had carried it along to where the Khan's minions were. As the ring was wonderful to behold, they brought it to the Khan.

The eyes of the Khan, who was a man of understanding, no sooner lighted on the ring than he turned and said to his attendants,--

"Somewhere on the borders of this stream, and higher up its course, lives a most beautiful woman, more beautiful than all the wives of the Khan; go fetch her and bring her to me."

The Khan's attendants set out on their mission, and visited all the dwellers on the banks of the stream, but they found no woman exceeding in beauty all the wives of the Khan till they came to the wife of the rich youth. When they saw her, they had no doubt it must be she that the Khan had meant. Saying, therefore, "The Khan hath sent for thee," they carried her off to the palace; but the rich youth followed mourning, as near as he could approach.

When the Khan saw her, he said, "This is of a truth no child of earth; she must be the daughter of the heavenly G.o.ds. Beside of her all my other wives are but as dogs and swine," and he took her and placed her far above them all. But she only wept, and could think of nothing but the rich youth. When the Khan saw how she wept and thought only of the rich youth, he said to his courtiers, "Rid me of this fellow." And so, to please the Khan, they treacherously invited him to a lone place on the bank of the river, as if to join in some game; but when they had got him there they thrust him into a hole in the ground, and then rolled a piece of rock on the top of it, and so put him to death.

In the meantime, the day came round on which the six companions had agreed to come together at the spot where the six streams met; and there the five others arrived in due course, but the rich youth came not; and when they looked at the tree he had planted by the side of his stream, behold, it had withered away. In accordance with their promise, therefore, they all set out to follow the course of his stream and to search him out. But when they had wandered on a long way and found no trace of him, the accountant's son sat down to reckon, and by his reckoning he discovered that he must have gone so far into such a kingdom, and that he must lie buried under a rock. Following the course of his reckoning, the five soon came upon the spot where the rich youth lay buried under the rock. But when they saw how big the rock was, they said, "Who shall suffice to remove the rock and uncover the body of our companion?"

"That will I!" cried the smith's son, and, taking his hammer, he broke the rock in pieces and brought to light the body of the rich youth. When his companions saw him they were filled with compa.s.sion and cried aloud, "Who shall give back to us our friend, the companion of our youth?"

"That will I!" cried the doctor's son, and he mixed a potion which, when he had given it to the corpse to drink, gave him power to rise up as if no harm had ever befallen him.

When they saw him all well again, and free to speak, they every one came round him, a.s.sailing him with manifold questions upon how he had fallen into this evil plight, and upon all that had happened to him since they parted. But when he had told them all his story from beginning to end, they all agreed his wife must have been a wonderful maiden indeed, and they cried out, "Who shall be able to restore his wife to our brother?"

"That will I!" cried the wood-carver's son. "And I!" cried the painter's son.

So the wood-carver's son set to work, and of the log of a tree he hewed out a Garuda-bird (2), and fashioned it with springs, so that when a man sat in it he could direct it this way or that whithersoever he listed to go; and the painter's son adorned it with every pleasant colour. Thus together they perfected a most beautiful bird.

The rich youth lost no time in placing himself inside the beautiful garuda-bird, and, touching the spring, flew straight away right over the royal palace.

The king was in the royal gardens, with all his court about him, and quickly espied the garuda-bird, and esteemed himself fortunate that the beautiful garuda-bird, the king of birds, the bearer of Vishnu, should have deigned to visit his residence; and because he reckoned no one else was worthy of the office, he appointed the most beautiful of his wives to go up and offer it food.

Accordingly, the wife of the rich youth herself went up on to the roof of the palace with food to the royal bird. But the rich youth, when he saw her approach, opened the door of the wooden garuda and showed himself to her. Nor did she know how to contain herself for delight when she found he was therein.

"Never had I dared hope that these eyes should light on thee again, joy of my heart!" she exclaimed. "How madest thou then the garuda-bird obedient to thy word to bring thee hither?"

But he, full only of the joy of finding her again, and that she still loved him as before, could only reply,--

"Though thou reignest now in a palace as the Khan's wife in splendour and wealth, if thine heart yet belongeth to me thine husband, come up into the garuda-bird, and we will fly away out of the power of the Khan for ever."

To which she made answer, "Truly, though I reign now in the palace as the Khan's wife in splendour and wealth, yet is my heart and my joy with thee alone, my husband. Of what have my thoughts been filled all through these days of absence, but of thee only, and for whom else do I live?"