THE PRINCE WITH THE GOLDEN MOUTH
Many, many years ago, there dwelt in a far country a Khan who was great and good and dearly loved by his people. Yet no one in all his kingdom loved or admired him so much as did his faithful wife and young son. Truly there never was a happier, more affectionate family. The three shared their joys and sorrows, their cares, their pleasures and their secrets, and indeed one was scarcely ever seen without the other two. Now the Khan and his family and the whole kingdom had in common one great sorrow; the country was watered by a clear, broad stream, and unless this flowed, full and strong, all the year, the land dried up, there was a great famine, and the people died of hunger and [[113]]thirst. At the source of this river lived two serpent-gods, hideous monsters, and as evil as they were ugly, and every year these frightful creatures demanded a young man or maiden whom they might devour. Unless this desire was speedily fulfilled, they stopped the water at the head of the stream, it dried up and the people began to suffer and then die.
Many and many a time had the Khan and his counselors talked of the matter the whole night through, scheming, planning, wondering how they might save the young people of the land from this dreadful fate, but all to no avail. If the serpents did not get their yearly gift of precious human blood, the death of hundreds of men, women and children was the result. And so it seemed better for one young man or maid to die each year than that so many should perish.
The time had now come for this terrible sacrifice, and throughout the length and [[114]]breadth of the land there was sorrow and anxiety. Fathers and mothers could scarce sleep for thinking that it might be the turn of their son or daughter to go to the head of the river and be cast into the cave of the monster serpents. Nowhere was there more unhappiness than in the family of the Khan, for he grieved for each lad or lass as if each were his own child. Seeing the care and sorrow in his father’s face, the Khan’s son, whose name, by the way, was Schalu, thought long and earnestly.
“Surely,” he kept repeating to himself, “there must be some way in which I can help my father and free my country from this great curse!” But no matter how hard he thought, no way presented itself to his mind. The fateful time drew ever nearer, and finally the very next day was the dreaded one on which the serpent-gods would send a messenger, demanding by name some girl or boy in the kingdom.
That night Schalu could not sleep for [[115]]thinking of the tragedy of the morrow. “Suppose I were the one,” he thought. “Of course they would not really dare to ask for the Khan’s son—but just suppose—” and then he pictured to himself the sorrow of his father and mother and his own horror at such a death. “And we are no different, really, from the others,” he said to himself. “The fathers and mothers among our subjects must suffer as keenly as their king and queen would, and as for the boys and girls—they are really just like me.” All at once Schalu sat up in bed and stared into the darkness; a great idea had entered his mind.
“I will go to these terrible serpent monsters myself!” he breathed excitedly. “I will offer myself to them—I, a Khan’s son—if they will give up their frightful practice hereafter!” There was little sleep for Schalu after he had made up his mind to this deed; all night long he lay wide awake, planning how he would plead and argue with the serpents for the lives of his [[116]]people, and getting up his courage to meet his fate and die bravely, as befitted a prince.
Very early in the morning, before the sun was up, he arose, dressed himself and slipped quietly from the palace. He had not gone far before he was startled by hearing a step behind him, and turning around he saw Saran, a faithful friend, following him. Now Saran was a boy of his own age who had been brought up at the palace with him, as his servant and companion, and he and the Prince loved each other as brothers.
“O my master and friend!” said Saran, running up to Schalu. “Forgive me for having followed you! I have seen your trouble and anxiety these many days, and when you started forth alone this morning, my heart misgave me that some ill might befall you.”
At first the Prince was much annoyed that he should have been discovered, but as he looked at Saran, he suddenly felt relieved [[117]]to have a friend near, and he opened his heart and told all his plan of self-sacrifice. He feared Saran would entreat him to give it up and go home, but his friend listened in silence to the end and then said: