Legends from River & Mountain

The Caraiman towers up, dark and threatening of aspect, with his mighty peak of rock, that looks as though a great fragment of it had been partly loosened, and were hanging in mid-air. That part of the rock is shaped like a set of bagpipes—and this is the tale they tell about it.

Long, long ago, when the sky was nearer to the earth than now, and there was more water than land, there dwelt a mighty sorcerer in the Carpathians. He was as tall as the tallest pine-tree, and he carried upon his head a whole tree with green twigs and budding branches. His beard, that was many yards long, was of moss, and so were his eyebrows. His clothing was of bark, his voice was like rolling thunder, and beneath his arm he carried a set of bagpipes, as big as a house. He could do anything he liked with his bagpipes. When he played softly, young green sprang up all round about him, as far as his eye could reach; if he blew harder, he could create living things; but when he blew fearfully loud, then such a storm arose that the mountains shook and the sea shrank back from the rocks, so that more land was left uncovered.

Once he was attacked by some powerful enemies, but instead of having to defend himself, he merely put the bagpipes to his lips, and changed his foes into pines and beech-trees. He was never tired of playing, for it delighted his ear when the echo sent back the sound of his music to him, but still more was his eye delighted to see all grow into life around him. Then would thousands of sheep appear, on every height and from every valley, and upon the forehead of each grew a little tree, whereby the Caraiman might know which were his; and from the stones around, too, dogs sprang forth, and every one of them knew his voice. Since he had not noticed much that was good in the inhabitants of other countries, he hesitated a long while before making any human beings. Yet he came to the conclusion that children were good and loving, and he decided to people his land with children only. So he began to play the sweetest tune he had ever yet composed—and behold! children sprang up on every side, and yet more children, in endless crowds. Now you can fancy how wonderful the Caraiman’s kingdom looked. Nothing but play was ever carried on there; and the little creatures toddled and rolled around in that beautiful world and were very happy. They crept under the ewes and sucked the milk from their udders; they plucked herbs and fruit and ate them; they slept on beds of moss and under overhanging rocks, and were as happy as the day was long. Their happiness crept even into their sleep, for then the Caraiman played them the loveliest airs, so that they had always beautiful dreams.

There was never any angry word spoken in the kingdom of the Caraiman, for these children were all so sweet and joyful that they never quarrelled with one another. There was no occasion for envy or jealousy either, since each one’s lot was as happy as his neighbour’s. And the Caraiman took care that there should be plenty of sheep to feed the children; and with his music he always provided enough of grass and herbs, that the sheep, too, might be well nourished.

No child ever hurt itself, either; the dogs took care of that, for they carried them about and sought out the softest, mossiest spots for their playgrounds. If a child fell into the water, the dogs fetched it out; and if one were tired, a dog would take it upon his back and carry it into the cool shade to rest. In short, the children were as happy as though they had been in Paradise. They never wished for anything more, since they had never seen anything outside their little world.

There were not yet any “smart” or “ugly” clothes then; nor any fine palaces with miserable huts beside them, so that no one could look enviously at his neighbour’s belongings. Sickness and death were unknown, too, in the Caraiman’s country; for the creatures he made came into the world as perfect as a chick from its shell, and there was no need for any to die, since there was so much room for all. All the land which he had redeemed from the sea had to be populated, and for nothing but sheep and children there was room on it, and to spare, for many a long day.

The children knew nothing of reading or writing; it was not necessary they should, since everything came to them of itself, and they had to take no trouble about anything. Neither did they need any further knowledge, since they were exposed to no dangers.

Yet, as they grew older, they learnt to dig out little dwellings for themselves in the ground, and to carpet them with moss, and then of a sudden they began to say, “This is mine.”

But when once a child had begun to say, “This is mine,” all the others wanted to say it too. Some built themselves huts like the first; but others found it much easier to nestle into those that were already made, and then, when the owners cried and complained, the unkind little conquerors laughed. Thereupon those who had been cheated of their belongings struck out with their fists, and so the first battle arose. Some ran and brought complaints to the Caraiman, who in consequence blew a mighty thunder upon his bagpipes, which frightened all the children terribly.

So they learnt for the first time to know fear; and afterwards they showed anger against the tale-bearers. In this way even strife and division entered into the Caraiman’s beautiful, peaceful kingdom.

He was deeply grieved when he saw how the tiny folk in his kingdom behaved in just the same way as the grown people in other lands, and he debated how he might cure the evil. Should he blow them all away into the sea, and make a new family? But the new ones would soon be as bad as these, and then he was really too fond of his little people. Next he thought of taking away everything over which they might quarrel; but then all would become dry and barren, for it was but over a handful of earth and moss that the strife had arisen, and, in truth, only because some of the children had been industrious and others lazy. Then he bethought himself of making them presents, and gave to each sheep and dogs and a garden for his particular use. But this only made things far worse. Some planted their gardens, but others let them run wild, and then perceived that the cultivated gardens were the fairest, and that the sheep that had good pasture gave the most milk. Then the trouble became great indeed. The lazy children made a league against the others, attacked them, and took away many of their gardens. Then the industrious ones moved to a fresh spot, which soon grew fair also under their hands; or else they refused to be driven out, and long conflicts arose, in the course of which some of the children were slain. When they saw death for the first time they were greatly frightened and grieved, and swore to keep peace with one another. But all in vain—they could not stay quiet for long; so, as they were now loth to kill one another, they began to take away each other’s property by stealth and with cunning. And this was far sadder to see; the Caraiman, indeed, grew so heavy of heart over it that he wept rivers of tears. They flowed down through the valley and into the sea; yet the wicked children never considered that these were the tears their kind father was weeping over them, and went on bickering and quarrelling. Thereupon the Caraiman wept ever more and more, and his tears turned to torrents and cataracts that devastated the land, and ended by changing it into one large lake, wherein countless living creatures came to their death. Then he ceased weeping, and blew a mighty wind, which left the land dry again; but now all the green growth had vanished, houses and gardens lay buried under heaps of stones, and the sheep, for lack of pasture, no longer gave any milk. Then the children cut their throats open with sharp stones, to see if the milk would not flow out in a fresh place; but instead of milk, blood gushed out, and when they had drunk that they became fierce, and were always craving for more of it. So they slew many other sheep, stealing those of their brethren, and drank blood and ate meat. Then the Caraiman said, “There must be larger animals made, or there will soon be none left!” and blew again upon his bagpipes. And behold! wild bulls came into the world, and winged horses with long scaly tails, and elephants, and serpents. The children now began to fight with all these creatures, and thereby grew very tall and strong themselves. Many of the animals allowed themselves to be tamed and made useful; but others pursued the children and killed them, and as they no longer dwelt in such peace and safety, many grievous and dangerous sicknesses appeared among them. Soon they became in all respects like the men of other lands, and the Caraiman grew more and more soured and gloomy, since all that which he had intended to use for good, had but turned to evil. His creatures, too, neither loved nor trusted him, and instead of perceiving that they themselves had wrought the harm, thought that the Caraiman had sent sorrow upon them out of wanton cruelty and sport. They would no longer listen to the bagpipes, whose sweet strains had of old been wont to delight their ears. The old giant, indeed, did not often care to play on his pipes now. He had grown weary for very sorrow, and would sleep for hours together under the shade of his eyebrows, which had grown down into his beard. But sometimes he would start up out of sleep, put the pipes to his mouth, and blow a very trumpet-blast out into the wicked world. Hence there at last arose such a raging storm that the trees ground, creaking and groaning, against one another, and caused a fire to burst out, so that soon the whole forest was in flames. Then he reached up with the tree that grew upon his head, till he touched the clouds, and shook down rain, to quench the fire. But all this while the human beings below had but one thought—how to put the bagpipes to silence for ever and ever. So they set out with lances and spears, and slings and stones, to give battle to the giant; but at the sight of them he burst into such laughter that an earthquake took place, which swallowed them all up, with their dwellings and their cattle. Then another host set out against him with pine-torches, wherewith to set his beard on fire. He did but sneeze, however, and all the torches were extinguished and their bearers fell backwards to the earth. A third host would have bound him while he slept, but he stretched his limbs, and the bonds burst, and all the men about him were crushed to atoms. Then they would have set upon him all the mighty wild beasts he had created. But he swept the air together and made thereof an endless fall of snow, that covered them over and over, and buried them deep, and turned to ice above them; so that after thousands of years, when their like was no more to be seen on earth, those beasts still lay, with fur and flesh unchanged, embedded in the ice.

Then they bethought themselves of getting hold of the bagpipes by stealth, and carrying them off while the giant was asleep. But he laid his head upon them, and it was so heavy that men and beasts together could not drag the pipes from under it. So at last they crept up quite softly and bored a tiny hole in the bagpipes—and lo! there arose such a storm that one could not tell earth or sea or sky apart, and scarcely anything survived of all that the Caraiman had created. But the giant awoke no more; he is still slumbering, and under his arm are the bagpipes, which sometimes begin to sound, when the storm-wind catches in them, as it hurries down the Prahova valley. If only some one could but mend the bagpipes, then the world would belong to the children once more.

VI
THE STAGS’ VALLEY

Between the mountains Caraiman and Omul lies a wide valley shaped like a crescent. It is called Valea Cerbului—the Stags’ Valley—though for a long time past no stags have been seen there. But the valley contains something else which time cannot do away. All along the foot of the mountain, and leaning up against it, stand a number of gigantic stone figures, with unmistakable hands and faces, not unlike statues of the ancient Egyptian gods. A strange legend is told about these figures.

In days gone by there dwelt among these mountains a race of men, proud and of mighty strength, who were feared in all the region round about, for whatever they undertook was sure of success. From the hour of their birth they lived out under the open sky, slept upon the snow, and bathed in the icy mountain-streams. They were so tall that they could climb the highest mountains in a few steps; and if they did but give a tree one single stroke, it remained crooked for all time to come. They drank the milk of winged hinds and rode upon winged stags, whose wings, however, only increased their speed in covering the ground, for they could not rise into the air with burdens upon their backs.

An aged, very aged King ruled over these men; he was so wise that they consulted him about everything, and obeyed him like children. It was a glorious sight when the old man, with waving white locks and beard, swept by upon his winged stag, all his men following after, like a storm-cloud, beneath whose thunder the Carpathians shook again.

There was something, however, which filled them all with deepest concern. King Briar had no son, but only one daughter—a glorious maiden, as tall as a fir-tree, as bold as a boy, and so strong that she could lead the wild winged stags three and four on one halter, without giving way a step when they reared and tore at the bridle.

The men held a great council, and came to lay their anxious thoughts before the King. “May the Great Spirit send thee yet a long, long life,” said they, “but when he shall call thee down to the golden caverns below, whom are we to choose in thy stead, since thou hast no son? We would gladly choose thy daughter, and gladly would we serve her, but how can we submit a maiden to the hard test our kings have to undergo?”

The King stroked his white beard and answered: “Who knows but my child would endure the ordeal as heroically as though she were a lad? Ye can see that in all other matters she is brave and strong, and if she should choose a good and a wise mate, ye would be as happy then as ye are now. I will ask her if she will make the trial.”

King Briar clapped his hands. Then the Carpathians trembled from end to end; and presently, amid a trampling of hoofs and rustling of wings, a sound like the rushing of the storm-wind drew near.

The King’s daughter stood upright upon a stag’s back, clasping the golden chains that held his bit in one hand, while with the other she swung a whip, as long as a huge snake, that flashed in the air like a streak of fiery lightning. Her form seemed to reach up to the sky, and her hair fluttered about her like a thick cloud, hiding the sun at intervals. But, instead of the sun, the stars in her face shone forth, and the teeth that her laughing mouth disclosed, as she sang and shouted for glee.

The King glanced at his men with a smile, as though he would have said, “Is she enough of a lad for ye?”

At that moment she sprang to the ground, and throwing the chains to some of the bystanders, she cried, “There, take them; but there is not one of you can drive them all at once.” Then kneeling before the King, she asked in gentle tones, “Didst thou call me, my father?”

“Vijelia,[4] my child, arise and look upon these men; they have come to ask who shall be king after me. Whom thinkest thou?”

The maiden gazed earnestly at one and another, and when she had scanned every face, she turned again and examined each a second, yea, and a third time. Her face the while grew ever more anxious and grave, and more gloomy the frown that drew her heavy brows together, till the flashing eyes, in which a tear glistened, were darkened as by the shades of night.

Then she spoke in a deep and hollow voice: “None, my father; for not one is thine equal in my eyes. But thou, in thy wisdom, hast surely chosen long since, and chosen the best.”

“He whom I choose must submit to the test of which I still bear the scars on my body. Dost thou know the test, my child?”

“Yea, surely do I know it! It is a pity that I am not a lad. The test would not make me quail!”

“And what if I should treat thee as a lad?”

“Me!” A crimson flush overspread the cheeks and forehead and throat of the noble maiden, and with trembling lips she spoke:—

“I have not deserved so great an honour, and know not whether I have understanding enough; but the test I will gladly endure, if my father will make the first throw with his own hand. He shall himself consecrate me as his successor, but he must yet live for long years after, and grant me my freedom as of yore.”

This speech was greeted with a tempest of applause, that thundered and re-echoed till the eagles felt the air quiver around them, and the trees swayed as though beneath the northern storm-wind. The King’s daughter bent her head with a smile of acknowledgment, and thrust back the golden locks from her glowing face. The day upon which the test was to begin was now fixed, and the place for it chosen.

First of all, Vijelia had to stand through a whole day, without meat or drink, in the burning sun. If she showed any weakness or weariness, or ate and drank too greedily when evening came, she could not be king.

The second day she was to collect a mighty heap of stones from a certain river in the depths of the valley, and would have to perform her journey countless times before she could get together the requisite number of stones, which, on the third day, were to be cast at her. If her endurance failed beneath the stoning, she could not be king.

The oldest man of the tribe explained all this to her, and she listened to him with a cheerful face.

The day came—a burning hot July day—and at sunrise Vijelia, clad in a snowy woollen robe, took her stand upon a neighbouring hill-top. For the first few hours she sang, as she stood there, in a full and ringing voice; but as noon drew on, her lips and throat grew so dry, she was fain to keep silence. The sun had already passed over the highest of the mountain-peaks before she even changed her weight from one foot to the other. Suddenly she heard the sound of hoofs ascending towards her, and lo! her stags appeared, and, flying around her, fanned her with a cool breeze from their wings; then her favourite hind drew near, offering her full udders for her mistress to drink from. But Vijelia, with stern voice, bade them all depart, and with drooping heads the faithful creatures slank away to their pasture.

The hours crept slowly on, and the sun burnt so hot that the tips of Vijelia’s golden locks were singed by it. But she did not stir.

When the sun was setting the men came and offered her a drink of water, but she only moistened her lips with it, and called, “Mititica!” Then the winged hind came flying up, and she took a little milk from her, refusing all other nourishment.

King Briar gazed with anxious eyes at his beautiful daughter, but she gave him a merry laugh, and said the first day had passed quickly and easily indeed. When the darkness fell she went down to the river, and plunged as many as ten times into its cool depths. Then she climbed the bank, and sitting upon a mossy stone, began to shake out the coils of her hair. The moon rose over the mountain-top and looked down upon the maiden sitting there in her heavenly beauty, and tenderly did she shed her beams upon her, so that the drops that were wrung from the golden coils glittered like silver. The moon did not know that that perfect body was to endure a cruel hail of stones, or she would have veiled her face for very sadness.

When the second day dawned, there stood Vijelia in her short garment, as fresh and cheerful as though no fatigue could ever touch her. When the men came to fetch her down for this day’s work, she was ranging over the hill upon her stag Graur, casting herself down upon his back, and playing with his wings, like a child in the cradle. But now she sprang down and dismissed the creature with a light touch of the hand; then, taking a broad, flat fragment of rock upon her shoulder, she carried it down into the valley, laid it beside the river’s edge, and wading into the water, began to seek for stones, which she piled upon it as high as it would hold.

“Help me up with it on to my shoulder,” said she. But none of the men could lift the weight. Then she bent down, and, laughing, threw it on to her left shoulder. Moreover, she made the men pick up the stones that had slipped off the while, and throw them on to the heap with the rest. Then she set off so fast up the hill that no one could follow her, put down her load, and ran back to the valley again without waiting to rest.

King Briar sat watching his daughter from the heights above, and stroked his white beard in silence.

Long before the day had begun to decline, Vijelia had already collected the prescribed number of stones. She crossed her arms and stood and looked at the heap, without the smallest sign of flinching. King Briar’s heart sank as he watched his child standing there, and he slept but little that night. Yet she slept, quietly and soundly, beneath a giant pine, through the branches of which the moonbeams stole to look at the beautiful sleeper, lying with her head on her arms, her lips slightly parted, in the sweetest, most childlike slumber.

When the dawn aroused her, she sought out a linen garment that she had spun and woven herself, so that she could rely upon its strength.

And thus she appeared before her people, so fair that the heart of many a one burnt within him at the thought of misusing her.

The heap of stones disappeared in a few minutes, for each man had armed himself with one. Now they formed a great circle round the maiden, who quietly gathered her hair up and fastened it in a knot.

“So that ye may not think my mantle shields me,” she explained, with a smile.

The first stone sped from the hand of King Briar himself, who looked his daughter firmly and earnestly in the face as he cast it. She kissed the place on her arm where he had smitten her, and threw him a kiss with both hands. Then she stood as still as a statue beneath the hail of stones, though her anguish grew with every moment. Only once a sigh escaped her, and she crossed her hands for a moment over her breast—and the hands were so white! But she let her arms drop again directly, and only turned her head aside, looking towards the sun, that was slowly, very slowly, sinking nearer to the mountain-top, and bathed the maiden’s face in a golden glow.

On a sudden the rain of stones ceased, and all the men knelt, with lowered swords and lances, at her feet, while in solemn voices they swore faith to her—eternal faith, and never to be broken.

But she raised her hand and spoke:—

“And I swear to you to work, to fight, and to endure, with and for you, to my life’s end!” Then she turned to the King and whispered low to him: “Give me thy hand, father; I am weary.”

The old man cast his mantle round her, and clasping his arm about her, led her homewards. She leaned her head on his shoulder, but as she went she felt something snuffing about her ear, and there was Graur, her faithful stag.

“Ha, do thou carry me!” she cried, and kissing the beast’s warm, downy nose, she sprang on his back and was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. Graur bore her down to the river, in which she bathed for a long time, stretching and cooling her bruised limbs. She drank greedily, too, of the ice-cold water, and then came dashing homewards as merrily as though she had endured nothing.

For a while life went on again as of old, and Vijelia was once more the same untamed creature that she had ever been—wild as the storm-wind, and refusing to hear aught that concerned the affairs of government. But King Briar aged visibly, and his people besieged him with requests that he would choose a mate for his daughter, so that he might soon hope to hold a fair grandson upon his knee.

“Whom wilt thou have for thy husband, my child?” he one day asked his daughter. “Do none of our people please thee?”

“Nay,” answered Vijelia, “I cannot wed any of those who stoned me; I should always remember it, and could not give myself to him in true love. The man whom I shall love must come down from the air above, into which none belonging to us can rise up—none save our winged stags.”

She had scarcely ceased speaking, when there appeared as it were a mighty cloud, descending from the heavens, and from the midst of the cloud the sound of a harp rang forth unearthly sweet. Slowly the cloud sank earthwards, and now it disclosed to view a radiant youth, his head covered with waving curls, who held in his hand a harp, that towered aloft as high as the forest trees, and was strung with golden strings, that glittered, like a rainbow, with a thousand changing hues. Now he would smite the chords with a powerful hand, and again he would only blow softly upon them, and then they sent forth such sounds as melted the very heart in one’s breast.

Vijelia stood motionless, gazing up at him, and still she gazed on, as he sprang boldly to the ground, and with a thrust of his hand sent back the cloud that had brought him thither, away into the blue distance above. And now he came straight toward the maiden, and stretching out his hands to her, spoke thus:—

“I come from out the air; I am Viscol.[5] Wilt thou be mine, for I am thine equal?”

“Yea,” answered the maiden, as though in a dream. “I will be thine, for all time.”

But King Briar frowned, saying:

“And dost thou, indeed, love him already, my child? Have a care; for thou wilt not find happiness at his side, and he is not fitted for our people; he will ever be ranging far away over the skies and leaving thee alone, till thy men will refuse to serve thee. Child, child, it will come to a bad end, and thou wilt not be happy!”

“Happy or not, it is all alike to me, father. I cannot live without him; and I would rather be miserable with him than happy with another!”

With a deep sigh, the old King consented to her wish; but he cut short the promises and protestations of the youth with an impatient gesture of the hand.

“I will judge thee by thine actions,” he said curtly.

At first all went merrily enough; now Vijelia would ride through the heavens upon a cloud, and again, her husband would go forth with the flying stags. But the King often heard his men complain that there was much unrest in the land, and that the stranger had better never have come.

Presently, however, Vijelia began to stay much at home with her father, while her husband went rushing over the world. She spoke very little, and looked far sadder than she had done upon the day of her stoning. When she was asked where her husband was, she would hang her head and answer, “I know not;” or again, if inquiry were made when he was coming back, or when he would carry her forth with him upon the clouds, still the answer was, “I know not.”

And when he did return he was rough and violent, and the more humbly and quietly his young wife behaved, the more hardly he treated her.

Often did old King Briar’s beard tremble and his head droop toward the earth, whereon, indeed, he soon laid him down, saying:

“I shall never see my fair grandson now! May the Great Spirit grant thee, in him, the happiness thou hast not found for thyself!”

When he was dead, his men mourned night and day with lowered spears around his grave, for nine times nine weeks. And Vijelia did not cease from sighs and groans, until, in the midst of her great sorrow, a wondrous fair but exceeding tender little son was laid in her arms. Her tears rained down upon his tiny face as she gave him the name of Zephyr. Alas! how was he ever to rule this mighty people, and how withstand his father’s harsh usage?

She held him in her arms night and day, and never left him for an hour. He lay upon her lap when she sat and pronounced sentence, or tried to smooth over quarrels with all justice and wisdom.

When Viscol returned his anger knew no bounds. She had to defend the fragile child like a lioness, for he would fain have dashed him to pieces against a rock. He threw the whole land into an uproar; he gave unjust judgments, and was a scourge indeed, until he dashed forth again upon his wanderings. His harp, which he had forgotten, was, however, a source of consolation and joy both to mother and child. She learnt to play dirges upon it, to which all the people listened; but it was sweeter yet when Zephyr breathed across the strings—then the whole air seemed to be swelling with song, and the heart in every bosom melted for delight.

Zephyr grew dazzlingly beautiful, all the more so since his mother thought much of training and hardening him against the time of the “King-choosing,” which she dreaded exceedingly for her tender boy. She would trust him now to Graur, now to Mititica, who had to carry him for hours, and use him to their quickest pace. But in the midst of these rides Mititica would often kneel down and suffer him to suck a draught of her milk. Vijelia, too, would run races with the boy, and teach him to bend the bow and to bear heavy burdens; and, that he might become used to pain, she would smite him with rods and pelt him with stones, and if he did not laugh over it, but began to weep, she would call him coward, and after bathing him in the coldest streams, would strike him the next day yet harder, till he learnt to clench his teeth and laugh.

The people had such a hatred of Viscol that they would suffer him to enter the land no more, and shot at him as soon as he drew near upon his cloud. Some of them loved the boy for his noble mother’s sake, but some bore a grudge against him, because he was so delicate and tender. But when he played upon his harp all were enchanted, and, indeed, when he stood beside the harp, his silky golden curls falling upon his shoulders, he looked like a being from another world. He could not, it is true, drive five stags at once, or bear such burdens as his mother could; but he was far stronger than she had ever dared to hope, when he reached his sixteenth year, and the men judged it was time to try him and see if he were strong enough to be king. If it should chance otherwise, they were ready to force upon Vijelia another husband, chosen from amongst them, whose son might be expected to prove a stalwart king.

Zephyr bore the heat of the sun the whole day without flinching, and no one knew that all through the ensuing night he tossed to and fro in fever, while his mother watched beside him and bathed his temples. The next day he gathered the stones together, and his mother went beside him all the while, and secretly lent a helping hand. When evening came and the darkness covered them, he sank fainting into her arms. And now dawned the day, of which the unhappy mother stood in such dread. Every stone that struck her boy’s fair body smote her in the heart. Once she saw him reel, but her clear voice, ringing out in cheery encouragement, brought back the colour to his cheeks and the smile to his white lips. There were only a few more stones yet to come, when one, cast by a spiteful hand, sped forth, sharp and pointed, and struck the lad upon the temple. A wild cry burst from his mother, who flew to catch her fainting child in her arms, and kneeling down, pressed his blood-stained locks to her heart. He opened his eyes once more. “My harp—bring me the harp!” he whispered, and clasping it in his arms, he breathed out his pure soul into those chords, till the heavenly sound echoed on and on, vibrating ever further upon the air. But the poor mother rose up with fixed and terrible gaze, and lifting her arms to the clouds, she cried, “May ye then turn to stone, O ye men of stone! The Great Spirit will hear a mother’s voice, that cries aloud for vengeance! Stone shall ye become, who have broken faith with me! Stone shall ye become, who have cast out the purest spirit among you!”

And behold! before her eyes the people, as they stood in a circle, were turned to stone. But she sighed so deeply that the sighs burst her bosom, and went forth in wails of sorrow to tell the world of a mother’s woe, and to shake the foundations of the world, that had wrought such evil!

And the winged stags rose up into the air and disappeared for ever.

VII
THE WITCH’S STRONGHOLD

Going up the Prahova valley one cannot see “Cetatea Babei,” the Witch’s Castle, because it is hidden by the Bucegi Mountain. It is a jagged peak, and looks as though it were covered with ruins. A field of eternal snow lies between it and the Jipi. In far-off times, when wolves guarded the flocks, and eagles and doves made their nests together, a proud castle stood there, and within the castle busy doings went on. From morning till night it rang with pattering, clanging, bustling sounds, and hundreds of hasty footsteps scurried to and fro therein. But at night-time a light shone forth from the tower, and the humming of a mighty wheel was heard, and above the hum of the wheel a wondrous, soft song seemed to hover, keeping time with it. Then people would glance fearfully up toward the castle and whisper: “She is spinning again!” And she who sat spinning there was the mistress of the castle, a very evil witch, to whom the mountain-dwarfs brought all the gold that they found in the depths of the earth, that she might spin threads of gold for all the brides to wear upon their heads on their wedding-day.[6] The gold was unloaded in heaps in her castle, and she weighed it and chose it out—and woe to the dwarf who did not bring the required weight; he was thrust between the stem and bark of a huge tree, and squeezed until he gave up the very uttermost grain of gold; or he would be caught by the beard only in the tree, and there he might struggle and writhe as he pleased, and cry for mercy—the old witch turned a deaf ear to it all. The name of Baba Coaja (“Mother Bark”) had been given her, perhaps because of this cruel custom of hers, perhaps because she was as hard as a stale crust of bread, and as wrinkled as the stem of an old oak. She alone understood the spinning of the golden threads, and she went on preparing them for hundreds of years in advance.

Baba Coaja had a wondrously beautiful daughter, named Alba (“The White One”), for she was as white as the snow that covered the mountain-tops. Her skin was like velvet, and like velvet, too, were her brown eyes, and her hair was like the gold-threads that her mother spun.

She was always kept shut up, for Baba Coaja had plenty of work for her to do; and, besides, no one was to be allowed to see her, still less to woo her. She had to wind all the golden thread on reels, and store it up in underground cellars, ready for all those hundreds and hundreds of years to come. This work was very burdensome to the sweet maiden, because her mother would sing and mutter all sorts of evil spells and sayings as she spun, so that a portion of sorrow and heartache was already prepared for each bride, so soon as the golden threads should have rested upon her head; and Alba thought sadly of all the trouble that was being thus determined beforehand. Indeed, she once sat down herself to the great wheel, while her mother was away, and spun a length of thread into which she worked nothing but good wishes. But when Baba Coaja came home she was very wroth, and beat her daughter unmercifully, saying, as she threw the thread upon a heap with the rest: “Thou shalt never wed until thou canst tell thine own spinning apart again!”

In her heart the old witch was glad to have a pretext for keeping her daughter to herself, for it had been prophesied that Alba would be very unhappy, and would die young. The only being that she loved in the world was her beautiful child, yet, however much trouble she took to please her with fine clothes and all sorts of pretty trifles, she could not bring a shade of colour to her cheek or a smile to her eyes, for the only thing the maiden yearned after was freedom, and that was never hers. How she longed to go wandering for once beneath the trees that clothed the foot of the mountain whereon she dwelt. Up there nothing grew, save a little short grass; and the winter lasted far longer than the summer. When the wind howled round the castle, raging as though he would tear it to pieces, then her heart would grow heavy indeed; she would sit for hours before the hearth, staring into the fire, watching the sparks fly, and thinking of nothing at all. Or again, she would listen to her mother’s uncanny singing, while the humming of the wheel and the howling of the storm mingled in one dreary accompaniment. And then she would wonder why she spun so much sorrow for the brides into the gold-threads—why men were not suffered to be happy and gay, out there in the beautiful sunshine, for that always looked bright and merry. But she could never make out the reason why, and would fall asleep at last from sheer thinking. The great reels of gold in the cellars all had one and the same face, yet she would play with them, and pretend they were people, and make up their histories, and try and fancy what would befall the brides that were to wear those golden threads; but as she knew nothing of the world, all her stories were very unlikely ones.

“Mother,” she asked one day, resting her chin upon her hand, “are the people in the world just as we are, thou and I—or have they other forms, and other thoughts?”

“What are the people in the world to thee? They are all very bad, and would only do thee harm if they got hold of thee.”

“But a while ago a beautiful creature came up our mountain, and there sat one upon him, one who was fairer far to see than any of the little dwarfs; he had black locks, and no beard, and a purple mantle. Was not that a man?”

The old witch was terror-stricken at this speech, and answered: “If he does but ride up here again, I will break his neck for him, and those in the valley shall never see him again!”

“Oh, mother! do not thus—he was so fair!”

“If thou dost think but once again of him, I tell thee I will lock thee in the cellar, and make thee weigh gold out night and day. As it is, thou art grown so idle in these latter times, and dost nought but sit there and ask useless questions! Hast thou not all thy heart can desire?”

“Nay, mother; I too would fain have a beautiful creature, such as yonder man had, and sit upon it. Up here there are but sheep, and one cannot sit upon them.”

“Now thou wouldst have a horse indeed, wouldst thou, foolish child! Dost not see that it were dangerous to life to ride here? The grass is slippery and the abyss deep. One false step, and thou wert lying shattered to pieces down below.”

Alba thought over this for a long while, and wondered why it was dangerous for horses to go where sheep could tread in safety; but to this question also she got no reply, for she did not dare to ask it. Only, the dwarfs appeared much uglier to her than before, and the gold became so distasteful to her that she could not bear to look at it. She constantly thought of the beautiful horse, and of the youth who was to have his neck broken if he showed himself there again. Why did her mother want to break his neck? This time, too, she found no answer, however much she puzzled over the matter.

Some time after, the handsome youth rode up to the mountain again; he was tormented by curiosity to discover who lived in that mighty castle, whose walls were hewn out of the living rock. He was a king’s son, and his name was Porfirie. He was not used to being unable to do things, and any obstacle was welcome to his impetuous nature. When they spoke to him of marriage, he was wont to reply that he should win his bride from the clutches of a dragon, or pluck her down from a cliff, but never have her tamely wooed for him by a deputy, and end up with a commonplace wedding!

Just at that moment Alba was busy bedecking herself, by way of passing the time, after having worked at reeling off gold all the morning. She had bathed her hands and face, and combed her long hair with her ivory comb, and about her brow she had bound a double row of pearls, in which she had fastened an alpine rose sideways. Her robe was white, with a golden girdle, and over it flowed a green velvet mantle, held on either shoulder with chains of pearls. Around her snow-white throat she laid a string of emeralds, as large as pigeons’ eggs, a present from the mountain-dwarfs; and then she looked at herself in the glass, in which, however, she could not see how her golden hair gleamed upon the green velvet mantle. Indeed, she could not have seen aright at all, or the glass was bad, for now she smote her face, crying: “How ugly I am!—oh, how ugly! That is why my mother hides me from all men, and gives me fine dresses, and jewels like a queen’s—that it may be forgotten how ugly I am!”

Just then the sound of horses’ hoofs echoed among the rocks, and with horror-stricken gaze she beheld the handsome stranger, who was to lose his life if he appeared again before the castle. He must be warned at any cost. She sprang like a wild goat down the mountain-side, with fluttering mantle and waving hair, in which the sunbeams seemed to catch as she went. The young King saw her speeding towards him over the rocks, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the stones upon the way, and reined in his horse in wonder-struck admiration. He asked himself what princess, or mountain-fairy, this might be, flying down to him thus. And now she waved both her arms, crying breathlessly: “Back, back! Do not come up hither—it were thy death!”

“And though it should be my death,” he exclaimed, “I would die gladly, seeing I have beheld the fairest maid that ever trod this earth!”

Alba stood still before him, a faint blush overspread her cheeks, and looking at him with wide-open eyes, she said: “Am I fair?”

“Yea, verily, wondrous fair! So bewitching art thou, with thy golden hair and thy golden eyes, that I love thee from this hour!”

“And I love thee, too,” replied the guileless maiden, unaware of the fact that it is not customary among men to say what one thinks. “But do not say my hair is golden, for gold is so ugly!”

“Ugly!” The King’s son laughed. “I have never heard that of it before. Hast thou, then, seen so much gold that it has grown to seem ugly to thee?”

“Ah, yes! I see nought save gold—instead of green trees, gold—instead of flowers, gold—instead of men, gold—heaps of it, like that.” And she spread out her arms and turned herself about. “Oh, how much rather would I sit upon yon beautiful creature! I have never seen a horse before—may I touch it?”

“Yes, indeed, and stroke it too, and climb up beside me. Thou shalt ride as long as thou hast a mind to.”

Then he bade her rest her foot on his and give him both her hands, and so he drew her up before him on the saddle, clasped his arm about her, and gave his horse the spur. He fancied she would be frightened, but no such thought occurred to the gentle, innocent creature, for she knew nought of danger. As soon as the ground was soft beneath them he loosened the reins, and away they sped, through the woodland shade, and over the flowery meadows.

Alba shouted and clapped her hands for glee, crying: “Faster, faster yet!” So they drew near to the city, through which they had to ride before reaching the hill upon which the royal castle stood. Then suddenly fear came upon the maiden.

“Are all these human beings?” she asked, as they rode at a foot’s-pace through the streets. “And does not the wind blow down these tiny houses?”

“Nay,” laughed Porfirie. “The wind does not blow here as hard as it does up yonder.”

“See, my people,” he cried to the folk as he passed, “here I bring you your Queen. She is a fairy-blossom, and I plucked her from yonder cliff!”

“But I am no Queen,” said Alba in affright.

“I am a King, and since thou art to be my wife, thou wilt become Queen also.”

“Thy wife? But I was to have no husband, my mother said.”

“She only said that because she knew that none was to have thee, save I alone.”

“Art thou not at all bad, then?”

“No, I am not bad.”

“Then art thou not a human being?”

“Nay, but I am.”

“Yet my mother said that all human creatures were bad, and that I must have nought to do with them.”

“Who is thy mother, then?”

“That I do not know. She spins gold.”

“Spins gold? And for what?”

“For bridal veils—but I will have no gold at my wedding!” added Alba hastily, and she clutched at her head as though she would defend it from that dangerous contact.

“But thou canst not do otherwise,” said Porfirie, “or every one would wonder. Here we are at my home; we are even now riding into the courtyard, and thou must speak pleasantly to my mother.”

“Is she old and ugly?”

“Nay, she is fair and proud.”

“What does ‘proud’ mean?” asked Alba.

Porfirie looked into her eyes—they were as clear and unsullied as the sun itself. He pressed the maiden to his heart; then throwing the reins to the attendants who came forward, he sprang from his horse, lifted Alba gently to the ground, and offered his hand to lead her up the broad stone steps.

They entered a lofty hall, and there sat a tall, noble lady, surrounded by many maidens, and she was spinning beautiful gold-coloured silk. All rose from their work, and gazed in delighted amaze on the beautiful pair standing beneath the portal, that was just then flooded by the glory of the setting sun.

“Here, mother,” cried Porfirie, “is thy dear daughter, my sweet bride, whom I found up yonder, quite near the sky; and I am not yet sure whether she be not indeed one of the heavenly inhabitants, that will presently spread wings and flee away from us!”

“Oh, thou beauteous lady!” cried Alba, and fell at the feet of the Queen, who raised her up and kissed her with great kindness.

“And thou art spinning too,” she went on, “only far, far more beautifully than my mother; for what thou dost spin is as soft and fine as snowflakes, or the petals of flowers.”

“What does thy mother spin, then?”

“Oh, always that hard, ugly gold!”

“Gold!” echoed the bystanders; and many laughed, and did not believe the maiden’s words.

“Canst thou, too, spin gold?”

“I can, but I may not.”

“Why not?”

She was opening her lips to tell what her mother did over her spinning, but all at once she felt strangely ill at ease, and realised how angrily every one would look at her if the maidens knew that all kinds of sorrow was spun for them into their bridal veils. And here they were all looking so happy and so kind, these bad people, against whom her mother had warned her! They seemed far better, indeed, than that mother herself, of whom the mountain-dwarfs were always so horribly afraid.

She was relieved of her perplexity by hearing one of the maidens whisper: “Her dress is velvet—real white velvet!”

“And the jewels—from whom did she get her jewels?” said another, rather louder.

“From my friends,” answered Alba. “Would you like them? I have many more such playthings at home.” And taking the emeralds from her neck, she gave each of the girls one.

She would have done the same with her strings of pearls, had not the Queen prevented her.

“Are thy friends so rich, then?” inquired the latter.

“I do not know. What is ‘rich’? They bring it all up out of the earth in sacks; and when they do not bring enough, they are punished.”

Then the Queen’s face darkened; she drew her son aside and said: “This maiden is none other than the daughter of the abominable witch, Baba Coaja. Take her back as quickly as possible to the spot where thou didst find her. She will only bring trouble upon our house.”

“Ask anything of me but that, mother,” replied the young King, turning pale. “I love this sweet and innocent maid with my every thought, with my every breath, with all the blood in my veins, and though she were Baba Coaja her very self, I could not give her up!”

The Queen sighed. But she gave orders that an apartment should be made ready next to her own for the maiden; and the wedding was fixed for the following day.

The Queen desired to adorn her new daughter for it with her own hands, but she had a bitter struggle with her, because the maiden would on no account suffer any gold-threads to be laid upon her head. She fled from one end of the castle to the other like a hunted doe, she cast herself upon the ground, and hid beneath the coverings of the divans; she begged and prayed with streaming eyes that she might be spared. “Let the Queen put some of the beautiful silken threads of her own spinning upon her hair, only not the horrible gold!”

But as she knelt wailing and praying before her, the Queen gave a sign, and two of the attendant maidens bound her hands, while a third fastened on the golden veil. They all expected to see an outbreak of rage and despair; but Alba grew quite quiet. As pale as death, she bowed her head beneath its burden. “Thou art harder than my mother,” she said, “for she would not give me a husband, lest I should be unhappy, but thou dost thyself call down sorrow upon me!”

No one understood these words. Alba could not be prevailed upon to explain them, whereby the general mistrust of her was yet further increased. She looked so sad that the people no longer even recognised in her the beaming maiden of yesterday; and all her young husband’s words of love could not chase the clouds from her brow.

At court there was presently no talk of anything but the countless treasures of the young Queen, and many people urged the King to go up the mountain and examine them for himself. He cared nothing for the treasures; he only thought of how he could bring back the smile to his young wife’s face, and fancied that perhaps, if he fetched her the ornaments she was fond of, she would grow merry again. For she smiled pityingly at the little stones other people called jewels, and could not at all understand that such trifles should be costly. But as soon as she learnt that Porfirie intended to ride up to her castle again, she was terror-stricken, and implored and conjured him not to do so. “It will surely be thy death,” said she.

He, however, would not be convinced, and the more she depicted the dangers that awaited him there, the more did these very dangers attract him; so that one morning he set off secretly, while she still lay in a deep slumber.

With only a few followers, he dashed up towards Baba Coaja’s castle. But she spied his coming from afar, and cried out to him as he drew nearer: “A curse upon thee—thou who didst ravish my child, only to bring her to sorrow! See here, then—satisfy the greed that has driven thee back hither, miserable wretch! I never desired to have aught to do with thee—why didst thou seek me out?”

With these words she began to scatter down jewels in endless quantities upon the horsemen; but as they fell, the precious stones were changed into ice and snow, and whirled through the air in such clouds that the unhappy men were unable to shield themselves, and were, moreover, so dazzled that they could no longer see their way. The greater number of them fell over the precipices; but the young King, who, thirsting for vengeance, tried to reach the castle that he might strangle the terrible witch, was so completely caught in the avalanche that ere a moment was past he could no longer move a limb, and before he had time to utter a word he was buried deep beneath the snow.

As he disappeared, Baba Coaja said, with a malicious laugh: “Now she will come, to him, not to me—yet it will be to me, not to him, that she comes. I shall have my child again, for she may not remain in the wicked world, and among men, whom I hate.”

And indeed it was not long before Alba, weary with her long journey afoot, her white velvet dress dusty and travel-stained, came hastening up the mountain.

“Where, where is he?” she asked, with blanched lips.

“So!” said the old witch, “thou hast run away from me with a strange man, and now comest back, and dost not ask after me, but after him? He is not here.”

“Yes, yes, he is! I traced him, up to the edge of yonder snow!”