Czechoslovak Fairy Tales. Fillmore Parker
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he had been delayed. But when he saw red blood at the bridge he stopped short and looked around.
“What audacious villain,” he cried, “has dared to kill a man in my kingdom!”
Hardly had he spoken when the seer stood before him with drawn sword demanding satisfaction for the insult of his words.
“I don’t know how I’ve insulted you,” the king said, “unless you’re the murderer.”
When the seer refused to parley, the king, too, drew his sword and defended himself.
To overcome the first two kings had been mere play for the seer, but it was no play this time. They both fought until their swords were broken and still victory was doubtful.
“We shall accomplish nothing with swords,” the seer said. “That is plain. I tell you what: let us turn ourselves into wheels and start rolling down the hill and the wheel that gets broken let him yield.”
“Good!” said the king. “I’ll be a cartwheel and you be a lighter wheel.”
“No, no,” the seer answered quickly. “You be the light wheel and I’ll be the cartwheel.”
To this the king agreed. So they went up the hill, turned themselves into wheels and started rolling down. The cartwheel went whizzing into the lighter wheel and broke its spokes.
“There!” cried the seer, rising up from the cartwheel. “I am victor!”
“Not so, brother, not so!” said the king, standing before the seer. “You only broke my fingers! Now I tell you what: let us change ourselves into two flames and let the flame that burns up the other be victor. I’ll be a red flame and do you be a white one.”
“Oh, no,” the seer interrupted. “You be the white flame and I’ll be the red one.”
The king agreed to this. So they went back to the road that led to the bridge, turned themselves into flames, and began burning each other mercilessly. But neither was able to burn up the other.
Suddenly a beggar came down the road, an old man with a long gray beard and a bald head, with a scrip at his side and a heavy staff in his hand.
“Father,” the white flame said, “get some water and pour it on the red flame and I’ll give you a penny.”
But the red flame called out quickly: “Not so, father! Get some water and pour it on the white flame and I’ll give you a shilling!”
Now of course the shilling appealed to the beggar more than the penny. So he got some water, poured it on the white flame and that was the end of the king.
The red flame turned into a man who seized the flaming horse by the bridle, mounted him and, after he had rewarded the beggar, called his servant and rode off.
Meanwhile at the royal palace there was deep sorrow for the murdered kings. The halls were draped in black and people came from miles around to gaze at the mutilated bodies of the two elder brothers which the horses had carried home.
The old witch was beside herself with rage. As soon as she had devised a plan whereby she could avenge the murder of her sons-in-law, she took her three daughters under her arm, mounted an iron rake, and sailed off through the air.
The seer and his man had already covered a good part of their journey and were hurrying on over rough mountains and across desert plains, when the servant was taken with a terrible hunger. There wasn’t anything in sight that he could eat, not even a wild berry. Then suddenly they came upon an apple tree that was bending beneath a load of ripe fruit. The apples were red and pleasant to the sight and sent out a fragrance that was most inviting.
The servant was delighted. “Glory to God!” he cried. “Now I can feast to my heart’s content on these apples!”
He was already running to the tree when the seer called him back.
“Wait! Don’t touch them! I will pick them for you myself!”
But instead of picking an apple, the seer drew his sword and struck a mighty blow into the apple tree. Red blood gushed forth.
“Just see, my man! You would have perished if you had eaten one apple. This apple tree is the eldest queen, whom her mother, the witch, placed here for our destruction.”
Presently they came to a spring. Its water bubbled up clear as crystal and most tempting to the tired traveler.
“Ah,” said the servant, “since we can get nothing better, at least we can take a drink of this good water.”
“Wait!” cried the seer. “I will draw some for you.”
But instead of drawing water he plunged his naked sword into the middle of the spring. Instantly it was covered with blood and blood began to spurt from the spring in thick streams.
“This is the second queen, whom her mother, the witch, placed here to work our doom.”
Presently they came to a rosebush covered with beautiful red roses that scented all the air with their fragrance.
“What beautiful roses!” said the servant. “I have never seen any such in all my life. I’ll go pluck a few. As I can’t eat or drink, I’ll comfort myself with roses.”
“Don’t dare to pluck them!” cried the seer. “I’ll pluck them for you.”
With that he cut into the bush with his sword and red blood spurted out as though he had cut a human vein.
“This is the youngest queen,” said the seer, “whom her mother, the witch, placed here in the hope of revenging herself on us for the death of her sons-in-law.”
After that they proceeded without further adventures.
When they crossed the boundaries of the dark kingdom, the sun in the horse’s forehead sent out its blessed rays in all directions. Everything came to life. The earth rejoiced and covered itself with flowers.
The king felt he could never thank the seer enough and he offered him the half of his kingdom.
But the seer replied: “You are the king. Keep on ruling over the whole of your kingdom and let me return to my cottage in peace.”
He bade the king farewell and departed.
THE THREE CITRONS
ONCE upon a time there was an aged king who had an only son. One day he called the prince to him and said: “My son, you see that my head is white. Soon I shall be closing my eyes and you are not yet settled in life. Marry, my son, marry at once so that I can bless you before I die.”
The prince made no answer but he took the king’s words to heart and pondered them. He would gladly have done as his father wished but there was no young girl upon whom his affections were set.
One day when he was sitting in the garden, wondering what to do, an old woman suddenly appeared before him.
“Go,” she said, “to the top of the Glass Hill, pluck the Three Citrons, and you will get a wife in whom your heart will delight.” With that she disappeared as mysteriously as she had come.
Her words went through the prince’s soul like a bright dart. Instantly he determined, come what might, to find the Glass Hill and to pluck the Three Citrons. He told his father his intention and the old king fitted him out for the journey and gave him his blessing.
For a long time the prince wandered over wooded mountains and desert plains without seeing or even hearing anything of the Glass Hill and the Three Citrons. One day, worn out with his long journey, he threw himself down in the shade of a wide-spreading linden tree. As his father’s sword, which he wore at his side, clanked on the ground, twelve ravens began cawing from the top of the tree. Frightened by the clanking of the sword, they raised their wings and flew off.
The prince jumped to his feet. “Those are the first living creatures I have seen for many a day. I’ll go in the direction they have taken,” he said to himself, “and perhaps I’ll have better luck.”
So