Meanwhile, the bird flew away, landed on a goldsmith’s house, and began to sing:
‘My mother, she killed me.
My father, he ate me
My sister, Marlene, she made sure to see
my bones were all gathered together,
bound nicely in silk, as neat as can be
and laid beneath the juniper tree.
Tweet, tweet! What a lovely bird I am!’
The goldsmith was sitting in his workshop making a golden chain. When he heard the bird singing on his roof, he thought it was very beautiful. Then he stood up, and as he walked across the threshold, he lost a slipper. Still, he kept on going, right into the middle of the street with only one sock and a slipper on. He was also wearing his apron, and in one of his hands he held the golden chain, in the other his tongs. The sun was shining brightly on the street as he walked, and then he stopped to get a look at the bird.
‘Bird,’ he said, ‘how beautifully you sing! Sing me that song again.’
‘No,’ said the bird, ‘I never sing twice for nothing. Give me the golden chain, and I’ll sing it for you again.’
‘All right,’ said the goldsmith. ‘Here’s the golden chain. Now sing the song again.’
The bird swooped down, took the golden chain in his right claw, went up to the goldsmith, and began singing:
‘My mother, she killed me.
My father, he ate me.
My sister, Marlene, she made sure to see
my bones were all gathered together,
bound nicely in silk, as neat as can be,
and laid beneath the juniper tree.
Tweet, tweet! What a lovely bird I am!’
Then the bird flew off to a shoemaker, landed on his roof, and sang:
‘My mother, she killed me.
My father, he ate me.
My sister, Marlene, she made sure to see
my bones were all gathered together,
bound nicely in silk, as neat as can be,
and laid beneath the juniper tree.
Tweet, tweet! What a lovely bird I am!’
When the shoemaker heard the song, he ran to the door in his shirt sleeves and looked up at the roof, keeping his hand over his eyes to protect them from the bright sun.
‘Bird,’ he said. ‘How beautifully you sing!’ Then he called into the house, ‘Wife, come out here for a second! There’s a bird up there. Just look. How beautifully he sings!’ Then he called his daughter and her children, and the journeyman, apprentices, and maid. They all came running out into the street and looked at the bird and saw how beautiful he was. He had bright red and green feathers, and his neck appeared to glisten like pure gold, while his eyes sparkled in his head like stars.
‘Bird,’ said the shoemaker, ‘now sing me that song again.’
‘No,’ said the bird, ‘I never sing twice for nothing. You’ll have to give me a present.’
‘Wife,’ said the man, ‘go into the shop. There’s a pair of red shoes on the top shelf. Get them for me.’
His wife went and fetched the shoes.
‘There,’ said the man. ‘Now sing the song again.’
The bird swooped down, took the shoes in his left claw, flew back up on the roof, and sang:
‘My mother, she killed me.
My father, he ate me.
My sister, Marlene, she made sure to see
my bones were all gathered together,
bound nicely in silk, as neat as can be,
and laid beneath the juniper tree.
Tweet, tweet! What a lovely bird I am!’
When the bird finished the song, he flew away. He had the chain in his right claw and the shoes in his left, and he flew far away to a mill. The mill went clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clicketyclack. The miller had twenty men sitting in the mill, and they were hewing a stone. Their chisels went click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. And the mill kept going clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. The bird swooped down and landed on a linden tree outside the mill and sang:
‘My mother, she killed me.’
Then one of the men stopped working.
‘My father, he ate me.’
Then two more stopped and listened.
‘My sister, Marlene, she made sure to see . . .’
Then four more stopped.
‘. . . my bones were all gathered together,
bound nicely in silk, as neat as can be.’
Now only eight kept chiseling.
‘And laid beneath . . .’
Now only five.
‘. . . the juniper tree.’
Now only one.
Tweet, tweet! What a lovely bird I am!’
Then the last one also stopped and listened to the final words.
‘Bird, how beautifully you sing! Let me hear that too. Sing your song again for me.’
‘No,’ said the bird. ‘I never sing twice for nothing. Give me the millstone, and I’ll sing the song again.’
‘I would if I could,’ he said. ‘But the millstone doesn’t belong to me alone.’
‘If he sings again,’ said the others, ‘he can have it.’
Then the bird swooped down, and all twenty of the miller’s men took beams to lift the stone. ‘Heave-ho! Heave-ho! Heave-ho!’ Then the bird stuck his neck through the hole, put the stone on like a collar, flew back to the tree, and sang:
‘My mother, she killed me.
My father, he ate me.
My sister, Marlene, she made sure to see
my bones were all gathered together,
bound nicely in silk, as neat as can be,
and laid beneath the juniper tree.
Tweet, tweet! What a lovely bird I am!’
When the bird finished his song, he spread his wings, and in his right claw he had the chain, in his left the shoes, and around his neck the millstone. Then he flew away to his father’s house.
The father, mother, and Marlene were sitting at the table in the parlor, and the father said, ‘Oh, how happy I am! I just feel so wonderful!’
‘Not me,’ said the mother. ‘I feel scared as if a storm were about to erupt.’
Meanwhile, Marlene just sat there and kept weeping. Then the bird flew up, and when he landed on the roof, the father said, ‘Oh, I’m in such good spirits. The sun’s shining so brightly outside, and I feel as though I were going to see an old friend again.’
‘Not me,’ said his wife, ‘I’m so frightened that my teeth are chattering. I feel as if fire were running through my veins.’
She tore open her bodice, while Marlene sat in a corner and kept weeping. She had her handkerchief in front of her eyes and wept until it was completely soaked with her tears. The bird swooped down on the juniper tree, where he perched on a branch and began singing:
‘My mother, she killed me.’
The mother stopped her ears, shut her eyes, and tried not to see or hear anything, but there was a roaring in her ears like a turbulent storm, and her eyes burned and flashed like lightning.
‘My father, he ate me.’
‘Oh, Mother,’ said the man, ‘listen to that beautiful bird singing so gloriously! The sun’s so warm, and it smells like cinnamon.’
‘My sister, Marlene, she made sure to see . . .’
Then Marlene laid her head on her knees and wept and wept, but the man said, ‘I’m going outside. I must see the bird close up.’
‘Oh, don’t go!’ said the wife. ‘I feel as if the whole house were shaking and about to go up in flames!’
Nevertheless, the man went out and looked at the bird.
‘. . . my bones were all gathered together,
bound nicely in silk, as neat as can be,
and laid beneath the juniper tree.
Tweet, tweet! What a lovely bird I am!’
After ending his song, the bird dropped the golden chain, and It fell around the man’s neck just right, so that it fit him perfectly. Then he went inside and said, ‘Just look how lovely that bird is! He g
ave me this beautiful golden chain, and he’s as beautiful as well!’
But the woman was petrified and fell to the floor. Her cap slipped off her head, and the bird sang again:
‘My mother, she killed me.’
‘Oh, I wish I were a thousand feet beneath the earth so I wouldn’t have to hear this!’
‘My father, he ate me.’
Then the woman fell down again as if she were dead.
‘My sister, Marlene, she made sure to see . . .’
‘Oh,’ said Marlene, ‘I want to go outside too and see if the bird will give me something.’ Then she went out.
‘. . . my bones were all gathered together,
bound nicely in silk, as neat as can be.’
Then the bird threw her the shoes.
‘And laid beneath the juniper tree.
Tweet, tweet! What a lovely bird I am!’
Marlene felt gay and happy. She put on the new red shoes and danced and skipped back into the house.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I was so sad when I went out, and now I feel so cheerful. That certainly is a splendid bird. He gave me a pair of red shoes as a gift.’
‘Not me,’ said the wife, who jumped up, and her hair flared up like red-hot flames. ‘I feel as if the world were coming to an end. Maybe I’d feel better if I went outside.’
As she went out the door, crash! the bird threw the millstone down on her head, and she was crushed to death. The father and Marlene heard the crash and went outside. Smoke, flames, and fire were rising from the spot, and when it was over, the little brother was standing there. He took his father and Marlene by the hand, and all three were very happy. Then they went into the house, sat down at the table, and ate.
NOURIE HADIG
(ARMENIAN)
here was once a rich man who had a very beautiful wife and a beautiful daughter known as Nourie Hadig [tiny piece of pomegranate]. Every month when the moon appeared in the sky, the wife asked: ‘New moon, am I the most beautiful or are you?’ And every month the moon replied, ‘You are the most beautiful.’
But when Nourie Hadig came to be fourteen years of age, she was so much more beautiful than her mother that the moon was forced to change her answer. One day when the mother asked the moon her constant question, the moon answered: ‘I am not the most beautiful, nor are you. The father’s and mother’s only child, Nourie Hadig, is the most beautiful of all.’ Nourie Hadig was ideally named because her skin was perfectly white and she had rosy cheeks. And if you have ever seen a pomegranate, you know that it has red pulpy seeds with a red skin which has a pure white lining.
The mother was very jealous – so jealous in fact, that she fell sick and went to bed. When Nourie Hadig returned from school that day, her mother refused to see her or speak to her. ‘My mother is very sick today,’ Nourie Hadig said to herself. When her father returned home, she told him that her mother was sick and refused to speak to her. The father went to see his wife and asked kindly, ‘What is the matter, wife? What ails you?’
‘Something has happened which is so important that I must tell you immediately. Who is more necessary to you, your child or myself? You cannot have both of us.’
‘How can you speak in this way?’ he asked her. ‘You are not a stepmother. How can you say such things about your own flesh and blood? How can I get rid of my own child?’
‘I don’t care what you do,’ the woman said. ‘You must get rid of her so that I will never see her again. Kill her and bring me her bloody shirt.’
‘She is your child as much as she is mine. But if you say I must kill her, then she will be killed,’ the father sadly answered. Then he went to his daughter and said, ‘Come, Nourie Hadig, we are going for a visit. Take some of your clothes and come with me.’
The two of them went far away until finally it began to get dark. ‘You wait here while I go down to the brook to get some water for us to drink with our lunch,’ the father told his daughter.
Nourie Hadig waited and waited for her father to return, but he did not return. Not knowing what to do, she cried and walked through the woods trying to find a shelter. At last she saw a light in the distance, and approaching it, she came upon a large house. ‘Perhaps these people will take me in tonight,’ she said to herself. But as she put her hand on the door, it opened by itself, and as she passed inside, the door closed behind her immediately. She tried opening it again, but it would not open.
She walked through the house and saw many treasures. One room was full of gold; another was full of silver; one was full of fur, one was full of chicken feathers; one was full of pearls; and one was full of rugs. She opened the door to another room and found a handsome youth sleeping. She called out to him, but he did not answer.
Suddenly she heard a voice tell her that she must look after this boy and prepare his food. She must place the food by his bedside and then leave; when she returned, the food would be gone. She was to do this for seven years, for the youth was under a spell for that length of time. So, every day she cooked and took care of the boy. At the first new moon after Nourie Hadig had left home, her mother asked, ‘New Moon, am I the most beautiful or are you?’
‘I am not the most beautiful and neither are you,’ the new moon replied. ‘The father’s and mother’s only child, Nourie Hadig, is the most beautiful of all.’
‘Oh, that means that my husband has not killed her after all,’ the wicked woman said to herself. She was so angry that she went to bed again and pretended to be sick. ‘What did you do to our beautiful child?’ she asked her husband. ‘Whatever did you do to her?’
‘You told me to get rid of her. So I got rid of her. You asked me to bring you her bloody shirt, and I did,’ her husband answered.
‘When I told you that, I was ill. I didn’t know what I was saying,’ his wife said. ‘Now I am sorry about it and plan to turn you over to the authorities as the murderer of your own child.’
‘Wife, what are you saying? You were the one who told me what to do, and now you want to hand me over to the authorities?’
‘You must tell me what you did with our child!’ the wife cried. Although the husband did not want to tell his wife that he had not killed their daughter, he was compelled to do so to save himself. ‘I did not kill her, wife. I killed a bird instead and dipped Nourie Hadig’s shirt in its blood.’
‘You must bring her back, or you know what will happen to you,’ the wife threatened.
‘I left her in the forest, but I don’t know what happened to her after that.’
‘Very well, then, I will find her,’ the wife said. She traveled to distant places but could not find Nourie Hadig. Every new moon she asked her question and was assured that Nourie Hadig was the most beautiful of all. So on she went, searching for her daughter.
One day when Nourie Hadig had been at the bewitched house for four years, she looked out the window and saw a group of gypsies camping nearby. ‘I am lonely up here. Can you send up a pretty girl of about my own age?’ she called to them. When they agreed to do so, she ran to the golden room and took a handful of golden pieces. These she threw down to the gypsies who, in turn, threw up the end of a rope to her. Then a girl started climbing at the other end of the rope and quickly reached her new mistress.
Nourie Hadig and the gypsy soon became good friends and decided to share the burden of taking care of the sleeping boy. One day, one would serve him; and the next day, the other would serve him. They continued in this way for three years. One warm summer day the gypsy was fanning the youth when he suddenly awoke. As he thought that the gypsy had served him for the entire seven years, he said to her: ‘I am a prince, and you are to be my princess for having cared for me such a long time.’ The gypsy said, ‘If you say it, so shall it be.’
Nourie Hadig, who had heard what was said by the two, felt very bitter. She had been in the house alone for four years before the gypsy came and had served three years with her friend, and yet the other girl was to marry the handsome prince. Neither girl told the
prince the truth about the arrangement.
Everything was being prepared for the wedding, and the prince was making arrangements to go to town and buy the bridal dress. Before he left, however, he told Nourie Hadig: ‘You must have served me a little while at least. Tell me what you would like me to bring back for you.’
‘Bring me a Stone of Patience,’ Nourie Hadig answered.
‘What else do you want?’ he asked, surprised at the modest request.
‘Your happiness.’
The prince went into town and purchased the bridal gown, then went to a stone cutter and asked for a Stone of Patience.
‘Who is this for?’ the stonecutter asked.
‘For my servant,’ the prince replied.
‘This is a Stone of Patience,’ the stonecutter said. ‘If one has great troubles and tells it to the Stone of Patience, certain changes will occur. If one’s troubles are great, so great that the Stone of Patience cannot bear the sorrow, it will swell and burst. If, on the other hand, one makes much of only slight grievances, the Stone of Patience will not swell, but the speaker will. And if there is no one there to save this person, he will burst. So listen outside your servant’s door. Not everyone knows of the Stone of Patience, and your servant, who is a very unusual person, must have a valuable story to tell. Be ready to run in and save her from bursting if she is in danger of doing so.’
When the prince reached home, he gave his betrothed the dress and gave Nourie Hadig the Stone of Patience. That night the prince listened outside Nourie Hadig’s door. The beautiful girl placed the Stone of Patience before her and started telling her story:
Angela Carter's Book Of Fairy Tales Page 20
