Legends from River & Mountain

by Carmen Sylva; Alma Strettell

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!”

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!”