Favorite Folktales From Around the World

by Jane Yolen

  Then the strange owl-beings flew on to the big lake at the bottom of which the land of the dead was located. The old owl-man’s magic sleep medicine, and the feathered prayer sticks which the young man had carved, enabled them to dive down to the bottom of the lake and enter the land of the dead. Once inside, they used the sleep medicine to put to sleep the spirits who are in charge of that strange land beneath the waters. The owl-beings reverently laid their feathered prayer sticks before the altar of that netherworld, took up the beautiful young spirit-wife, and lifted her gently to the surface of the lake. Then, taking her upon their wings, they flew with her to the place where the young husband was sleeping.

  When the husband awoke, he saw first the Morning Star, then the middle anthill, and then his wife at his side, still in deep slumber. Then she too awoke and opened her eyes wide, at first not knowing where she was or what had happened to her. When she discovered her lover right by her side, she smiled at him, saying, “Truly, your love for me is strong, stronger than love has been; otherwise we would not be here.”

  They got up and began to walk toward the pueblo of their birth. The young man did not forget the advice the old owl-man had given him, especially the warning to be patient and shun all desire until they had safely arrived at their home. In that way they traveled for four days, and all was well.

  On the fourth day they arrived at Thunder Mountain and came to the river that flows by Salt Town. Then the young wife said, “My husband, I am very tired. The journey has been long and the days hot. Let me rest here awhile, let me sleep awhile, and then, refreshed, we can walk the last short distance home together.” And her husband said, “We will do as you say.”

  The wife lay down and fell asleep. As her lover was watching over her, gazing at her loveliness, desire so strong that he could not resist it overcame him, and he stretched out his hand and touched her.

  She awoke instantly with a start, and, looking at him and at his hand upon her body, began to weep, the tears streaming down her face. At last she said, “You loved me, but you did not love me enough; otherwise you would have waited. Now I shall die again.” And before his eyes her form faded and became transparent, and at the place where she had rested a few moments before, there was nothing. On a branch of a tree above him the old owl-man hooted mournfully, “Shame, shame, shame.” Then the young man sank down in despair, burying his face in his hands, and ever after his mind wandered as his eyes stared vacantly.

  If the young lover had controlled his desire, if he had not longed to embrace his beautiful wife, if he had not touched her, if he had practiced patience and self-denial for only a short time, then death would have been overcome. There would be no journeying to the land below the lake, and no mourning for others lost.

  But then, if there were no death, men would crowd each other with more people on this earth than the earth can hold. Then there would be hunger and war, with people fighting over a tiny patch of earth, over an ear of corn, over a scrap of meat. So maybe what happened was for the best.

  ONE NIGHT IN PARADISE

  Italy

  Once upon a time there were two close friends who, out of affection for each other, made this pledge: the first to get married would call on the other to be his best man, even if he should be at the ends of the earth.

  Shortly therafter one of the friends died. The survivor, who was planning to get married, had no idea what he should now do, so he sought the advice of his confessor.

  “This is a ticklish situation,” said the priest, “but you must keep your promise. Call on him even if he is dead. Go to his grave and say what you’re supposed to say. It will then be up to him whether to come to your wedding or not.”

  The youth went to the grave and said, “Friend, the time has come for you to be my best man!”

  The earth yawned, and out jumped the friend. “By all means. I have to keep my word, or else I’d end up in Purgatory for no telling how long.”

  They went home, and from there to church for the wedding. Then came the wedding banquet, where the dead youth told all kinds of stories, but not a word did he say about what he’d witnessed in the next world. The bridegroom longed to ask him some questions, but he didn’t have the nerve. At the end of the banquet the dead man rose and said, “Friend, since I’ve done you this favor, would you walk me back a part of the way?”

  “Why, certainly! But I can’t go far, naturally, since this is my wedding night.”

  “I understand. You can turn back any time you like.”

  The bridegroom kissed his bride. “I’m going to step outside for a moment, and I’ll be right back.” He walked out with the dead man. They chatted about the first one thing and then another, and before you knew it, they were at the grave. There they embraced, and the living man thought, If I don’t ask him now, I’ll never ask him. He therefore took heart and said, “Let me ask you something, since you are dead. What’s it like in the hereafter?”

  “I really can’t say,” answered the dead man. “If you want to find out, come along with me to Paradise.”

  The grave opened, and the living man followed the dead one inside. Thus they found themselves in Paradise. The dead man took his friend to a handsome crystal palace with gold doors, where angels played their harps for blessed souls to dance, with Saint Peter strumming the double bass. The living man gaped at all the splendor, and goodness knows how long he would have remained in the palace if there hadn’t been all the rest of Paradise to see. “Come on to another spot now,” said the dead man, who led him into a garden whose trees, instead of foliage, displayed songbirds of every color. “Wake up, let’s move on!” said the dead man, guiding his visitor onto a lawn where angels danced as joyously and gracefully as lovers. “Next we’ll go to see a star!” He could have gazed at the stars forever. Instead of water, their rivers ran with wine, and their land was of cheese.

  All of a sudden, he started. “Oh, my goodness, friend, it’s later than I thought. I have to get back to my bride, who’s surely worried about me.”

  “Have you had enough of Paradise so soon?”

  “Enough? If I had my choice …”

  “And there’s still so much to see.

  “I believe you, but I’d better be getting back.”

  “Very well, suit yourself.” The dead man walked him back to the grave and vanished.

  The living man stepped from the grave, but no longer recognized the cemetery. It was packed with monuments, statues, and tall trees. He left the cemetery and saw huge buildings in place of the simple stone cottages that used to line the streets. The streets were full of automobiles and streetcars, while airplanes flew through the skies. “Where on earth am I? Did I take the wrong street? And look how these people are dressed!”

  He stopped a little old man on the street. “Sir, what is this town?”

  “This city, you mean.”

  “All right, this city. But I don’t recognize it, for the life of me. Can you please direct me to the house of the man who got married yesterday?”

  “Yesterday? I happen to be the sacristan, and I can assure you no one got married yesterday!”

  “What do you mean? I got married myself!” Then he gave an account of accompanying his dead friend to Paradise.

  “You’re dreaming,” said the old man. “That’s an old story people tell about the bridegroom who followed his friend into the grave and never came back, while his bride died of sorrow.”

  “That’s not so, I’m the bridegroom myself!”

  “Listen, the only thing for you to do is to go and speak with our bishop.”

  “Bishop? But here in town there’s only the parish priest.”

  “What parish priest? For years and years we’ve had a bishop.” And the sacristan took him to the bishop.

  The youth told his story to the bishop, who recalled an event he’d heard about as a boy. He took down the parish books and began flipping back the pages. Thirty years ago, no. Fifty years ago, no. One hundred, no. Two hundred, no. He w
ent on thumbing the pages. Finally on a yellowed, crumbling page he put his finger on those very names. “It was three hundred years ago. The young man disapppeared from the cemetery, and the bride died of a broken heart. Read right here if you don’t believe it!”

  “But I’m the bridegroom myself!”

  “And you went to the next world? Tell me about it!”

  But the young man turned deathly pale, sank to the ground, and died before he could tell one single thing he had seen.

  A PRETTY GIRL IN THE ROAD

  United States

  One time there was a fellow a-riding along and it was getting dark and coming on to rain besides. He seen a girl a-standing beside the road, where an old house had burnt down but the chimney was still there. She was a tall slim girl with a poke bonnet on, but he seen her face plain. He stopped and says if you are going somewheres I will give you a ride, because my horse carries double. She says her name is Stapleton, and her folks live down the road a piece. So then she jumped up behind him light as a feather. Pretty soon he spurred the horse a little, so she had to put her arms round his waist.

  They rode on about a mile and he found out her first name was Lucy, and she wasn’t married neither. He could feel her breath on his neck while they was a-talking, and he liked it fine. He got to thinking this was the kind of a girl he’d like to marry up with, because he liked her better than any girl he ever seen before.

  So they rode another mile and it was pretty dark by this time, and they come to a graveyard. And there was a big house with lights in the windows just a little way off. She says that’s where my folks live, but I’d better get down here. He figured she was going to take a short cut home, so her paw wouldn’t know she had been riding with a stranger. Folks was awful particular about what their daughters done in them days. The girl jumped off and walked over to the gate. He says, “I’ll be seein’ you pretty soon.” but Lucy just waved him goodbye and went into the graveyard.

  The fellow waited awhile so she would have time to get home, and then he rode up in front of the big house. Soon as the dogs begun to bark an old man come out, and he says, “My name is Stapleton.” He says the fellow is welcome to have supper with them and stay all night, as they have got plenty of room. And then he hollered a boy out of the barn to take care of the traveler’s horse.

  They had a mighty good supper, but there wasn’t nobody at the table only Judge Stapleton and his wife. The fellow kept looking for Lucy to show up any minute, but she never come. So after while he went to bed in the spare room. It was a fine shuck mattress too, but he didn’t sleep very good.

  Next morning after breakfast they got to talking, and the judge says to him and his wife just moved here a year ago. “We used to live two miles down the road,” he says, “but our house was lightnin’-struck and burnt plumb down. There ain’t nothing left now but the old chimney.” The fellow says yes, he seen that chimney when he rode by there last night. “I don’t mind losing the house,” says the judge, “only our daughter was sick in bed. We carried her out to the gate, but the shock was too much for her, and she died that same night.”

  The fellow just set there, and the judge went on a-talkin’ about what a fine girl his daughter was, and how him and the old woman was pretty lonesome nowadays. “We buried her in that little graveyard,” says the judge. “You can see her stone from the front gallery. There ain’t one day goes by, rain or shine, that my wife don’t walk over there an’ set by the grave awhile.”

  Everything was mighty still for a minute, and then the traveler says, “What was your daughter’s name?” It sounded kind of funny, the way he said it, but he was obliged to know.

  “Her name was Lucy,” says the judge.

  THE DREAM HOUSE

  Ireland

  A few years ago there was a lady living in Ireland—a Mrs. Butler—clever, handsome, popular, prosperous, and perfectly happy. One morning she said to her husband, and to anyone who was staying there, “Last night I had the most wonderful night. I seemed to be spending hours in the most delightful place, in the most enchanting house I ever saw—not large, you know, but just the sort of house one might live in oneself, and oh! so perfectly, so deliciously comfortable. Then there was the loveliest conservatory, and the garden was so enchanting! I wonder if anything half so perfect can really exist.”

  And the next morning she said, “Well, I have been to my house again. I must have been there for hours. I sat in the library; I walked on the terrace; I examined all the bedrooms; and it is simply the most perfect house in the world.”

  So it grew to be quite a joke in the family. People would ask Mrs. Butler in the beginning if she had been to her house in the night, and often she had, and always with more intense enjoyment. She would say, “I count the hours till bedtime, that I may get back to my house!” Then gradually the current of outside life flowed in, and gave a turn to their thoughts; the house ceased to be talked about.

  Two years ago the Butlers grew weary of their life in Ireland. The district was wild and disturbed. The people were insolent and ungrateful. At last they said, “We are well off. We have no children. There’s no reason why we should put up with this, and we’ll go and live altogether in England.”

  So they came to London, and sent for all the house agents’ lists of places within forty miles of London, and many were the places they went to see. At last they heard of a house in Hampshire. They went to it by rail, and drove from the station. As they came to the lodge, Mrs. Butler said, “Do you know, this is the lodge of my house.” They drove down an avenue— “But this is my house!” she said.

  When the housekeeper came, she said, “You will think it very odd, but do you mind my showing you the house? That passage leads to the library, and through that there is a conservatory, and then through a window you enter the drawing-room,” etc., and it was all so. At last, in an upstairs passage, they came upon a baize door. Mrs. Butler, for the first time, looked puzzled. “But that door is not in my house,” she said. “I don’t understand about your house, ma’am,” said the housekeeper, “but that door has only been there six weeks.”

  Well, the house was for sale, and the price asked was very small, and they decided at once to buy it. But when it was bought and paid for, the price had been so extraordinarily small, that they could not help a misgiving that there must be something wrong with the place. So they went to the agent of the people who had sold it, and said, “Well, now the purchase is made, and the deeds are signed, will you mind telling us why the price asked was so small?”

  The agent had started violently when they came in, but recovered himself. Then he said to Mrs. Butler, “Yes; it is quite true, the matter is quite settled, so there can be no harm in telling you now. The fact is that the house has had a great reputation for being haunted, but you, madam, need be under no apprehensions, for you are yourself the ghost!”

  THE PEASANT AND THE FIEND

  Estonia

  A horse belonging to a peasant who was performing husbandry work for a landowner, fell down. Deprived of his horse’s aid, the peasant could do nothing; he was lost! With but a single ruble in his possession, he set out to a horse fair at Kukerversky Inn, which stood twenty miles away; there he hoped to exchange his ruble for a horse. He took with him the end-crust of a loaf, some sprats and a bottle of kvass and, halfway, sat down to eat.

  A gentleman who was riding along the road upon a fine horse came up level with the peasant and stopped; then he entered into conversation and, learning the object of the peasant’s journey, offered to sell his horse and whip for a ruble, saying, “Never feed this horse, but flog him frequently with the whip; the more you punish him the better will he thrive and the harder will he work.” Next the gentleman vanished.

  The astonished peasant took the horse and, riding off, from time to time used the whip. The horse worked excellently during some years, and without food.

  On the evening of Christmas Day, when the peasant and his family sat at table feasting, the horse thru
st his muzzle through the open door into the room. It seemed to the master of the house that there were tears in the horse’s intelligent eyes, and, pitying his faithful assistant, he took a piece of bread from the table and gave it to the poor creature.

  Suddenly the horse became transformed into a man, and stood before the astounded peasant as his old landlord, who had died several years previously. “Know, March,” said he, “that the gentleman who sold you the horse was the Fiend himself; he tortures thus many who on earth have not feared God and have wrought evil. In my lifetime I was not concerned with the salvation of my soul and served Mammon. I did not fear to do injustice, and even rejoiced when I defrauded. I tormented many peasants and in their hearts they desired my death, which came and consigned me to the Fiend’s claws. I know that I shall never escape from him. Although I stand before you in the form of your old lord, my Fiend-master will soon arrive and lead me to a place where live many unhappy condemned souls.” Having spoken thus, the lord wept bitterly.

  Suddenly a noise and cracking sounded in the stable, and the same gentleman presented himself as had sold the horse to the peasant. He said to the latter, “Not having obeyed me and having given the horse food, March, you will now be deprived of his services.”

  The gentleman seized the whip and struck the landlord several times on the back. The landlord again became a horse, the gentleman jumped on him, flogged him with the whip, and vanished like a whirlwind. Thus the Fiend had forced the unhappy landlord to serve the peasant during three years.

  THE TINKER AND THE GHOST

  Spain

  On the wide plain not far from the city of Toledo there once stood a great grey castle. For many years before this story begins no one had dwelt there, because the castle was haunted. There was no living soul within its walls, and yet on almost every night in the year a thin, sad voice moaned and wept and wailed through the huge, empty rooms. And on All Hallow’s Eve a ghostly light appeared in the chimney, a light that flared and died and flared again against the dark sky.