In the Suicide Mountains (12 page)

And now, as if at some signal from Armida, Chudu the Goat's Son rushed straight at the murderer, bellowing with gleeful, boundless rage, and the exact same instant Armida screamed “
Yi!
” like a wild insane savage and leaped six feet onto the murderer's back. The Goat's Son turned into a huge anaconda and wrapped his fat body around the murderer's two arms, and squeezed and constricted till the six-fingered man dropped the sword. Armida, by this time, had her knife at the man's throat, and the prince, by this time, had picked up the sword and was stabbing him with it. (He had no choice; no jail in the world could hold the six-fingered man.)

“Tricked!” cried the six-fingered man, and burst out crying. “The dwarf
did
do magic, and it was the
girl
that killed the dragon! I knew it all the time!”

To hush him before anyone could hear what he was saying, Christopher the Sullen cut his head off and—with the same swipe, by accident—cut off one six-fingered hand. He put the hand in his pocket. The head, as soon as it hit the ground, cried: “Praise God!”

For an instant, the Suicide Mountains fell silent, as if holding their breath, amazed.

Now the monks all came running, shouting and swearing oaths. “
Let them all be mules!
” shouted Chudu the Goat's Son, and at once they were all mules, and their weapons fell clattering. They stopped running and turned and stared at each other and a few began to kick.

“Good thinking,” cried Armida. “We'll hitch them up to the treasure wagons and drive them to the palace, and when we get there we can change them back to people and chuck them in the dungeon!” The prince, Armida, and the dwarf began rounding up the mules. Even with Chudu's magic they were hard to catch, but by the time the first cock crowed and the sky began to light, the last of them was captured and hitched securely to his treasure wagon.

“There's one last thing we must do before we leave,” said the prince. “We must bury the six-fingered man.”

“That's true,” Armida said. “For all his evil, he had good in him, too, and he relieved the suffering of as many people as he murdered. It would be wrong to leave his bones for the crows to pick.”

So they left the mules to stand waiting in the barn, chewing oats and hay, and walked around to get the body and carry it to a burial place. Lo and behold, when they reached the green slope where the body had lain there was no sign of it, neither clothes nor blood; but there was a new-born babe sitting picking the grass and trying to eat it, getting dirt in its mouth but not minding in the least, burbling and larbling and chirping like a sparrow. When they picked it up it laughed at them happily, and they noticed it had only one hand, and the hand had six fingers.

Much puzzled, they carried the babe along with them and set him down under a tree while Armida and the dwarf got out the wagons and Prince Christopher the Sullen went to the horsebarn and saddled his horse. When Boy was saddled the prince got up in the saddle with the babe, and Armida and the dwarf climbed up into the seat of the lead wagon, with the rest of the mules and wagons tied one after another behind, each wagon richer than the last, and they started for the palace.

“Does it talk yet?” Armida called forward to the prince.

“I don't know.” He asked the baby: “Can you talk yet?”

The baby smiled merrily and nodded and began to talk:

Chapter Sixteen

The Baby's Tale

I
n a certain village there lived two brothers, a rich one and a poor one. The rich one lived square in the center of town and had a huge wooden house and was a member in good standing of the merchants' guild. But the poor one, more times than I care to tell, had not even so much as dry bread to eat, and when his little children wept and begged for food he had nothing at all he could give them, but bade them suck on rags. From long before sun-up to long after dark, the poor man struggled like a fish against ice, but he could never earn anything.

“One day he said to his wife, ‘I will go to the center of town and ask my brother for help.' ‘Go then,' said his wife, ‘but your brother is a pig and will not help you.' He came to the rich man and said, ‘Ah, my own brother, help me a little in my misery. My wife and children are without food, they go hungry for days on end.' His brother answered him, ‘Work in my house for a week, then perhaps I will help you.' What could the poor man do? He set to work, swept the yard, curried the horses, carried water, and chopped wood. At the end of the week the rich brother gave him one loaf of black bread. ‘This is for your work,' he said. ‘Thank you even for that,' said the poor brother. He bowed low, till his head was against the floor, and was about to go home. ‘Wait,' said the rich man. ‘Come and visit me tomorrow and bring your wife with you. Tomorrow is my birthday.' The poor man was ashamed and said, ‘Brother, I don't belong there, you know it well. Your other guests will be merchants in glittering boots and fur coats, and I wear plain linden bark shoes and a wretched gray caftan.' ‘Never mind, just come. There will be a place for you.' ‘Very well then, brother, I will come.'

“The poor man returned home, gave the bread to his wife, and said, ‘Listen, wife, we are invited to a feast tomorrow.' ‘A feast?' she said, ‘who has invited us?' ‘My brother,' came the answer. ‘Tomorrow is his birthday.' Though the wife was normally a patient woman, she spit out the window. ‘Your brother is a spider and a weasel and an eel, but very well, we will go.'

“Next morning they rose and went to the center of town. They came to the rich brother's house, wished him a happy birthday, and sat down on a bench. Many prominent guests were already at the table, the mayor and all the aldermen, merchants and wealthy tradesmen, and a distant relative of the king. The host served them all abundantly, but he forgot even to think about his poor brother and sister-in-law, and did not offer them anything; they just watched the others eating and drinking, and were too ashamed to beg to be given food. The dinner was over, the guests began to rise from the table and to thank the host and hostess. The poor man too rose from his bench and bowed to his brother, so low that his head was against the floor. The guests went home drunken and merry, noisily singing songs.

“The poor man, however, walked with a painfully empty stomach. He said to his wife, ‘Let us sing a song too, wife.' She said: ‘Eh, you blockhead! The others are singing because they ate savory dishes and drank mead and wine to their hearts' content. What gives you the idea of singing?' ‘Well,' he said, ‘after all I have been at my brother's feast. I am ashamed to walk without singing. If I sing, everyone will think that I too had a good time.' ‘Well, sing if you must, old fool,' said his wife, ‘but I won't.' The peasant began singing a song and he heard two voices. He stopped and turned to his wife. ‘Was it you who accompanied me in a thin voice?' ‘What is the matter with you?' she said. ‘I wouldn't sing a note. I didn't have a good time at all and your brother is a carp.' ‘Then who was it?' he asked. ‘I don't know,' said she, ‘but sing again and I will listen.' He sang again, and although he sang alone, he heard two voices. He stopped and said, ‘Is it you, Misery, who are singing with me?' Misery answered, ‘Aye, master, I am singing with you.' ‘Well, Misery, let us walk together.' ‘We shall, master. I will never desert you now.'

“The poor man reached home, and Misery asked him to go to the tavern with him. The peasant answered, ‘I have no money.' ‘Oh, foolish peasant! What do you need money for? I see you have a sheepskin, but of what use is it? Summer will be here soon, you will not need to wear it anyhow. Let us go to the tavern and sell the sheepskin.' The peasant and Misery went to the tavern and drank away the sheepskin. On the following day Misery began to moan that his head ached from drinking, and he again called upon his master to drink some wine. ‘I have no money,' said the peasant. ‘What do we need money for? Take your sledge and cart—those will do.'

“There was nothing to be done. The peasant could not rid himself of Misery. So he took his sledge and cart, dragged them to the tavern, and drank them away with his companion. The following morning Misery moaned even more and called upon his master to go drinking again; the peasant drank away his harrow and plow. Before a month had gone by, he had squandered everything; he had even pawned his hut to a neighbor and taken the money to a tavern. But Misery again pressed him: ‘Come, let us go to the tavern.' ‘No, Misery, do as you like, but as for me, I have nothing more to pawn or sell.' ‘Why, has not your wife got two dresses? Leave her one, and the second we will drink away.' The peasant took one dress, drank it away, and thought: ‘Now I am cleaned out! I have neither house nor home, nothing is left to me or my wife.'

“Next morning Misery awoke, saw that the peasant had nothing left to be taken away, and said: ‘Master!' ‘What is it, Misery?' ‘Listen to me. Go to your neighbor and ask him for his cart and oxen.' The peasant thought and thought, and finally he said, ‘Misery, if I drink away my neighbor's cart and oxen, he will shoot me.' ‘Well, I do not ask that of you yet,' said Misery. ‘Let us haul logs and earn some money for our drink.' The peasant went to his neighbor and said: ‘Give me your cart and a pair of oxen for a while; I will work a week to pay you for the hire of them.' ‘What do you need them for?' ‘To go to the woods for some logs.' The neighbor frowned and did not like it, for the man had a name for drinking at the tavern, but he was kind and said, ‘Very well, take them; but don't overload the cart.' ‘Of course I won't, my benefactor!' He brought the pair of oxen, sat with Misery on the cart, and drove toward the woods. On the way he found a log that was lying beside a field and had lain there many years, and he stopped the oxen and got down to try to put the log in the cart. Misery slipped away into some bushes for a moment, for he needed to take a piss, and the peasant had to tug at the heavy old log all alone. When he lifted it, lo and behold he saw a ditch that was filled to the brim with gold. ‘Well, why do you stare?' cried Misery, who had now returned. ‘Hurry up and get it in the cart.'

'The peasant set to work and filled the cart with gold. He took everything out of the ditch, down to the last kopek; when he saw that nothing at all was left, he said, ‘Have a look, Misery. Is there any money left?' Misery leaned over the ditch. ‘I don't see any more,' he said. ‘Something's shining over there in the corner—see?' said the peasant. ‘No, I don't see it.' ‘Crawl into the ditch then, Misery; you'll see it.' Misery crawled into the ditch. He no sooner had got in than the peasant covered him with the log, which was heavy as an ox. ‘It's better that you stay here,' said the peasant, ‘for if I take you with me, you will make me drink away this fortune.' The peasant came home, stored the money in his cellar, took the oxen and cart back to his neighbor, and began to consider how to establish himself in society. He bought wood, built himself a large wooden house, and lived twice as richly as his brother.

“After some time, a long time or a short time, he went to the town to invite his brother and sister-in-law to his birthday celebration. ‘What an idea!' his rich brother said to him. ‘You have nothing to eat, yet you are celebrating your birthday!' and he laughed with scorn. ‘True,' said the brother who had once been poor, ‘at one time I had nothing to eat, but now, thank God, I am no worse off than you. Come and you will see.' ‘Very well then, I will come.' The next day the rich brother and his wife came to the birthday feast; and lo and behold, the once wretched man had a large wooden house, new and lofty, such as not even his brother had. The peasant gave them a royal feast, fed them with all kinds of viands, and set various meads and wines before them, feeding his brother and sister-in-law first of all. The rich brother asked him: ‘Tell me, please, how did you become so wealthy?' The peasant told him truthfully how miserable Misery had attached himself to him, how he had led him to drink away all his possessions, down to the last thread, till nothing was left but the soul in his body, and how one day Misery had left him for a moment, and how he had found the vast treasure and penned up Misery.

“The rich man was envious and angry. He thought to himself: ‘I will go to the field, lift the log, and let Misery out—let him ruin my brother completely, so that he will never again dare boast of his riches to me.' He sent his wife home and rushed to the field. He drove to the big log, turned it over, and stooped to see what was beneath it. Before he could bend his head all the way down, Misery jumped out and sat on his neck. ‘Ah,' he shrieked, ‘you wanted to starve me to death in there, but I'll never leave you now.' ‘Listen, Misery,' said the merchant, ‘in truth it was not I who imprisoned you beneath that log.' ‘Who did it then, if not you?' ‘It was my brother who imprisoned you, and I came for the express purpose of freeing you again.' ‘No, you are lying! You cheated me once, but you won't cheat me again.' Misery sat securely on the rich man's neck; the rich man carried him home, and his fortune began to dwindle. From early morning Misery applied himself to his task; every day he called upon the merchant to drink, and much of his wealth went to the tavern keeper. ‘This is no way to live,' groaned the merchant. ‘It seems to me that I have suffered sufficiently to pay for my selfishness and pride. It is high time I separated from Misery—but how?'

“He thought and thought and finally said to his wife, ‘I will go and ask my brother for help.' ‘Go then, fool,' said his wife, ‘but your brother is an ape and a dolt and will not help you,' and she spit out the window. He came to his brother's house and said, ‘Ah, my own brother, help me a little in my misery. I have behaved toward you like a pig, like a spider and a weasel and an eel, and like a carp, because I thought you were a foolish oaf and beneath my notice. But now I am chastised and brought to my senses, for Misery sits here on my neck both night and day, and I cannot shake him.'