‘My daughter has guessed your riddle,’ said the king.
‘How did she guess it, my king? At night when I was asleep, there came a bird to my breast. I caught it, I killed it, I cooked it. Just as I was going to eat it, it flew away.’
The king says, ‘Kill him; he’s wandering.’
‘I am not wandering, my king. I told your daughter the riddle. Your daughter had an underground passage made, and she came to where I was sleeping, came to my arms. I caught her, I stripped her, I took her to my bosom, I told her the riddle. She clapped her hands; her servants came and took her. And if you don’t believe, I am wearing her sark, and she is wearing mine.’
The king saw it was true.
Forty days, forty nights they made a marriage. He took the maiden, went, bought back his father, his mother. [[12]]
When I translated this story, I deemed it unique, though the Bellerophon letter is a familiar feature in Indian and European folk-tales, and so too is the princess who guesses or propounds riddles for the wager of her hand to the suitors’ heads. She occurs in ‘The Companion’ of Asbjörnsen (Dasent’s Tales from the Fjeld, p. 68, and so in our ‘Jack the Giant-killer,’ cf. p. 3), and in Ralston’s ‘The Blind Man and the Cripple’ (p. 241), of both of which there are Gypsy versions, our Nos. 1 and 24. In Ralston’s story, as here, the princess takes her magic book, her grimoire, and turns over the leaves to find out the answer (cf. also the Welsh-Gypsy tale of ‘The Green Man of Noman’s Land,’ No. 62). Maive Stokes’s Indian Fairy Tales has a story, ‘Rájá Harichand’s Punishment,’ No. 29, p. 225, where a ráni is ‘very wise and clever, for she had a book, which she read continually, called the Kop shástra; and this book told her everything.’ I know myself of a Gypsy woman who told fortunes splendidly out of her ‘magic book’—it was really a Treatise on Navigation, with diagrams. Fortune-tellers with ‘sacred book’ occur in Mary Frere’s Old Deccan Days, p. 261. Now, since translating this story, I find it is largely identical with Campbell’s West Highland tale, ‘The Knight of Riddles,’ No. 22 (ii. p. 36), with which cf. Grimm’s ‘The Riddle,’ No. 22 (i. 100, 368). See also Reinhold Köhler in Orient und Occident (ii. 1864), p. 320.
No. 4.—Story of the Bridge
In olden days there were twelve brothers. And the eldest brother, the carpenter Manoli, was making the long bridge. One side he makes; one side falls. The twelve brothers had one mistress, and they all had to do with her. They called her to them, ‘Dear bride.’ On her head was the tray; in her hands was a child. Whoseso wife came first, she will come to the twelve brothers. Manoli’s wife, Lénga, will come to the twelve brothers. Said his wife, ‘Thou hast not eaten bread with me. What has befallen thee that thou eatest not bread with me? My ring has fallen into the water. Go and fetch my ring.’ Her husband said, ‘I will fetch thy ring out of the water.’ Up to his two breasts came the water in the depth of the bridge there. He came into the fountain, he was drowned. Beneath he became a talisman, the innermost foundation of the bridge. Manoli’s eyes became the great open arch of the bridge. ‘God send a wind to blow, that the tray may fall from the head of her who bears it in front of Lénga.’ A snake crept out before Lénga, and she feared, and said, ‘Now have I fear at sight of the snake, and am sick. Now is it not bad for my [[13]]children?’ Another man seized her, and sought to drown her, Manoli’s wife. She said, ‘Drown me not in the water. I have little children.’ She bowed herself over the sea, where the carpenter Manoli made the bridge. Another man called Manoli’s wife; with him she went on the road. There, when they went on the road, he went to the tavern, he was weary; the man went, drank the juice of the grape, got drunk. Before getting home, he killed Manoli’s wife, Lénga.