The next day they came and found the godmother dead under the stove. They didn’t give her proper burial, but threw her into a hole.
XXX.—TRANSFORMATION INTO A NIGHTINGALE AND A CUCKOO.
A damsel fell in love with a snake, and was also beloved by him. He took her to wife. His dwelling was of pure glass, all crystal. This dwelling was situated underground, in a kind of mound, or something of the sort. Well, it is said that her old mother at first grieved over her. How could she help doing so? Well, when the time came, the snake’s wife became the mother of twins, a boy and a girl; they looked, as they lay by their mother, as if they were made of wax. And she was herself as beautiful as a flower. Well, God having given her children, she said: ‘Now, then, since they have been born as human beings, let us christen them among human beings.’ She took her seat in a golden carriage, laid the children on her knees, and drove off to the village to the pope.[11] The carriage had not got into the open country, when sadness was brought to the mother. The old woman had made an outcry in the whole village, seized a sickle, and rushed into the country. She saw she had manifest death before her, when she called to her children, and went on to say: ‘Fly, my children, as birds about the world: you, my little son, as a nightingale, and you, my daughter, as a cuckoo.’ Out flew a nightingale from the carriage by the right-hand, and a cuckoo by the left-hand window. What became of the carriage and horses and all nobody knows. Nor did their mistress remain, only a dead nettle sprang up by the roadside.
[11] The orthodox Greek priests are always designated ‘popes.’
XXXI.—TRANSMIGRATION OF THE SOUL.
A certain woman had a kind of adventure. When she went out into the field to cut grass, or to fetch hemp, and placed food in the stove, then somebody took the victuals out of the stove, and ate them all clean up. She thought, what might such a thing as this signify? Nohow could she guess it. She came, the door was shut, and there was only remaining in the house a baby—maybe half a year old—in the cradle. Well, she betook herself to a wise woman. She entreated her and paid her to come, and she came. She looked about, she snuffed about—I mean the wise woman. All at once she heard something indefinite. ‘Go you,’ she said, ‘into the field, and I’ll hide myself and we’ll see what this is.’ The woman went into the field, and the wise woman hid herself in a corner, and kept a look-out. Then, pop! the baby jumped out of the cradle! She looked, and it was no more a baby, but an old man. He was quite dwarfish, and his beard was long. In a moment he was after the eatables, pulled the victuals out of the stove, then gave a screech, and began to gobble up the food. When he had devoured all, then he became a baby again; but now he didn’t crawl into the cradle, but lay down, and screeched till the whole house rang. Then the wise woman was after him: she placed him on a block of wood, and began to chop the block under his feet. He screeched and she chopped: he screeched and she chopped. Then she saw how, taking an opportunity, he became an old man again, and said: ‘Old woman, I have transformed myself not once nor twice only: I was first a fish, then I became a bird, an ant, and a quadruped, and now I have once more made trial of being a human being. It isn’t better thus than being among the ants; but among human beings—it isn’t worse!’
XXXII.—THE WIZARD.
There was here once in our village a certain Avstriyat, who was such a wizard that he could cause rain or hail to pass away when he chose. It happened that we were cutting corn in the country; a cloud came up. We began to hurry off the sheaves, but he took no notice, cut and cut away by himself, smoked his pipe, and said: ‘Don’t be frightened—there’ll be no rain.’ Lo and behold, there was no rain. Once—all this I saw with my own eyes—we were cutting rye, when the sky became black, the wind rose: it began to whistle at first afar off, then over our very heads. There was thunder, lightning, whirlwind—such a tempest, that—O God! Thy will be done! We went after our sheaves, but he—‘Don’t be frightened, there’ll be no rain.’ ‘Where won’t it be?’ We didn’t hearken to him. But he smoked his pipe out, and cut away quietly by himself. Up came a man on a black horse, and all black himself: he darted straight up to Avstriyat: ‘Hey! give permission!’ said he. Avstriyat replied: ‘No, I won’t!’ ‘Give permission; be merciful!’ ‘I won’t. It would be impossible to get such a quantity in.’ The black horseman bowed to the man, and hastened off over the country.
Then the black cloud became gray and whitened. Our elders feared that there would be hail. But Avstriyat took no notice. He cut the corn by himself and smoked his pipe. But again a horseman came up; he hastened over the country still quicker than the first. But this one was all in white, and on a white horse. ‘Give permission!’ he shouted to Avstriyat. ‘I won’t!’ ‘Give permission, for God’s sake!’ ‘I won’t. It wouldn’t be possible to get such a quantity in.’ ‘Hey! give permission; I can’t hold out!’ Then, and not till then, did Avstriyat relent. ‘Well, then, go now, but only into the glen, which is beyond the plain.’ Scarcely had he spoken, when the horseman disappeared, and hail poured down as out of a basket. In the course of a short hour it filled the glen brimful, level with the banks.