Isle of Nines

Three Romanian Folk Tales

Once upon a time,  as all true tales begin, and if they did not begin so, they would not be told at all, there was a poor young lad. He hired himself from farm to farm, to earn his daily bread.

And because he kept himself neat and comely, all the lads in the village envied him. The other farmhands had taken a dislike to him and were forever mocking him, yet he paid no mind to them and went about his work quietly.

When they gathered in the evenings and gossiped about this and that, he pretended not to understand the barbs thrown at him; he acted the fool. So they nicknamed him the village simpleton.

But the masters he served were very pleased with him and each tried to keep him longer than the others. 

When he passed through the village, the girls nudged each other and looked at him from beneath their brows. And truth be told, they had good reason to look.

He was fair-faced and handsome. His black hair, dark as a raven’s feather, flowed like a mane upon his neck, white as snow. A faint moustache shadowed his upper lip. And his eyes, ah, those eyes he had! they had made all the girls in the village sick with love.

At evening, when he brought the cows to water,  the girls came one after another to find an excuse to speak with him. But he paid no attention to any of them and pretended not to understand what they wanted. So, to show that they did not care about him, they mockingly called him the village Prince Charming.

And indeed, it was no wonder. He looked neither to the right nor to the left; he simply drove the cattle to pasture, and whatever he did turned out better than what the other farmlads did. No one knew how he managed it, but the cows he tended were always finer than the others. They gave more milk, for wherever he led them the grass seemed sweeter and more plentiful.

Wherever his foot stepped, the place seemed to flourish, as though even the grasses rejoiced beneath him. No doubt he had been born under a lucky star and was destined for something great. But he himself knew nothing of it, nor did he ever boast, for he did not know what fate had hidden for him in the years to come.

Instead, humble as God had made him, he went quietly about his business and never spoke ill of anyone, nor meddled with the affairs of others. Yet it was precisely for this reason that the other lads mocked and slandered him.

One spring day, weary from wandering after the cows, he lay down beneath the shade of a great leafy tree and fell asleep. And truly, he had chosen a fine place for such a rest.

It was a little valley decked with all manner of flowers, blooming so brightly that they seemed to invite a passerby to wander among them. Nearby, a small stream, wound its way among burdock leaves and weeds, and the gentle murmur of the water seemed to lull a man to sleep.

The tree above him was tall and noble, as though it were to reach the clouds. Among its branches little birds nestled and their chirping kindled love in whoever listened.  The deep shadow of its leaves was cool and abiding. No sooner had he laid his head down than he fell asleep. And in his sleep, a dream came to him.  In his dream,  a fairy, more beautiful than all the fairies of heaven and earth, told him: “Go to the court of the emperor of this land. There fortune awaits you.”

He woke startled: “What could this mean?” he wondered, and all day the thought troubled him. He could not understand that the star under which he had been born had begun to serve him.

The next day he drove the herd again past the same tree, lay down once more beneath it, and again the same dream came. When he woke he said to himself, “This is no clean thing,” and all day he walked lost in thought.

On the third day he went deliberately to the tree, lay down, and dreamed the dream once more. This time the fairy threatened him with sickness and every human misery if he did not obey.

When he rose and brought the cows home to the byre, he went straight to his master and said:

“Master, thoughts drive me to go into the world and seek my fortune. I have laboured long enough as a hired hand, and no sign has come that I shall ever rise higher. Give me my reckoning, I beg you.”

“Why, lad, would you leave me?” the master answered. “Are you not content with your wage? Is there not food enough? Stay with me, and I will find you a good girl from the village, with a little dowry, and I will help you as my heart bids me, so that you may settle here like other neighbours. Do not wander the world and end with nothing.”

“I am content with you, master,” the lad replied. “Food I have in plenty — I cannot complain to Heaven. Yet the wish has come upon me to go, and I will not stay for any reason.”

Seeing he could not be turned, the master gave him what little was owed, and the lad took his leave.

He left his village and came straight to the imperial court, where he hired himself out as gardener’s lad in the emperor’s garden.

The head gardener was glad to take him when he saw how clean and comely he was, for until then the twelve princesses had complained that he always brought the ugliest and most wretched men to serve them.

The lad was bathed, dressed afresh, and given garments fit for a gardener in the imperial service. The clothes became him well.

Besides the ordinary work of the garden, his chief task was to make, each day, twelve small bunches of flowers and to present them every morning to the twelve daughters of the emperor when they came to stroll in the garden.

These princesses were fated never to marry until someone should guess the secret of their destiny. Their fate had given them a passion for dancing. Every night they wore out a pair of white silk slippers in dancing. No one knew where they went to dance. The emperor grieved over the expense of slippers and over the ice in their hearts, for no suitor could warm them.

So he sent word through his own land and into foreign realms: whoever could discover what his daughters did at night to wear out their shoes might choose one of them for wife. 

He kept them locked in a chamber of the palace, shut behind nine iron doors and nine great locks. Yet no one knew where they went, for none had ever seen them leave the house.

So it was ordained for them.

When the proclamation was heard, suitors came in streams,  sons of lords and emperors, great nobles, even lesser nobles. Each who came stood watch one night at the door of the princesses.

The emperor waited eagerly each morning for good news, but instead was told that the young men who watched in the evening were gone by dawn. No trace of them remained. Eleven youths had vanished already. The rest began to hesitate; they no longer wished to stand watch. They preferred not to risk their lives for women who had destroyed so many. One by one they departed the court, leaving the princesses to the mercy of Heaven, for no man would lose his soul for the sake of a woman.

Even the emperor grew afraid, seeing how the youths who tried to watch his daughters disappeared, and he no longer dared urge anyone. He was forced to buy twelve new pairs of slippers every day, and he feared his daughters would grow old maids, braiding white hair, never knowing the marriage hearth.

The gardener’s lad carried out his duty faithfully. The princesses were pleased with the flowers he brought, and the head gardener with his work.

When he gave the bunches to the princesses he never raised his eyes, except when he handed them to the youngest. Then, for some reason, he blushed like a peony and his heart beat so that it seemed it would leap from his breast.

The youngest noticed, but thought him merely shy.

Day after day it went so. He knew she was far above him. Yet what can the heart do? It pushed him forward, the wretched thing. He longed to stand watch himself, yet he remembered what had befallen the others.

One day the youngest princess spoke carelessly to her sisters of how the gardener’s lad blushed like beetroot when he came before them and how clean and fair he was. When the eldest heard such gentle words from the youngest’s mouth, she began to mock her sharply, saying how strange it was that her heart should soften toward a mere servant.

Worst of all, he feared if he were driven from the court, he would no longer see the princesses each morning when he handed them their flowers. For by then, their grace and beauty, and above all the gentle gaze of the youngest princess, had enchanted him so deeply that he felt he could not live without touching their soft white hands each morning as he gave them their flowers.

One night, falling asleep with his desire fixed upon him, he saw again the fairy of the flowery valley. She said to him:

“Go to the eastern corner of the garden. There you will find two young laurel bushes, one cherry-red, one rose-red. Beside them lies a golden hoe, a golden watering-can, and a silk cloth. Take the bushes, plant them in fine pots, tend them with the golden hoe, water them with the golden can, wipe their leaves gently with the silk cloth, and care for them as for the light of your eyes. When they have grown to the height of a man, whatever you ask of them shall be granted exactly.”

She spoke and vanished like mist.

Scarcely awake, scarcely wiping sleep from his eyes, he ran to the eastern corner and stood amazed with joy when he saw everything just as the fairy had said. He took the bushes, tended them as best he knew, dug often with the golden hoe, watered with the golden can, wiped with the silk cloth, and cared for them as for the apple of his eye. The laurels grew as if by miracle. Soon they stood as tall as a man. Beauty like theirs had never been seen. When they reached the height of a man, he came to one of them and spoke as the fairy had taught him:

In that instant a flower-bud appeared, grew, opened into a blossom so lovely he could not keep from breathing its scent. He plucked it and hid it in his breast, as the fairy had instructed.

“Laurel tree, laurel tree,
With golden hoe I have dug you,

With golden can I have watered you,

With silk cloth I have wiped you,

Grant me the gift, whenever I wish,

To be unseen by any eye.”

That evening, when the princesses entered their locked and bolted chamber to sleep, he slipped in unseen behind them. He watched what they did, but they could not see him. Instead of undressing for bed, they began to comb their hair, to put on gowns, to adorn themselves for going out. He wondered at what he saw and resolved to follow them closely, to learn where they went and what they did.

Suddenly the eldest said:

“Are you ready, sisters?”

“We are ready,” they answered.

At the gate the eldest stamped again, and the steel doors opened. 

As they entered, the lad trod upon the hem of the youngest’s gown. She turned quickly, saw no one, and called to her sisters:

“Sisters, I think someone follows me — someone trod on my gown.”

They looked about and, seeing nothing, the eldest answered:

“Do not be so fearful, sister. Who could be here to follow us? Not even a magic bird could reach where we are now. Look again,  perhaps your gown caught on a thorn, and because you are timid you thought someone trod on it. Do not be so light-headed.”

She was silent.

The lad followed them.

They passed through a forest with leaves of silver, through another with leaves of gold, through a third with leaves of diamonds and precious stones that dazzled the eyes.

They came to a great lake. In the middle of the lake rose an island, and on the island stood palaces such as he had never seen. The emperor’s own palace seemed nothing beside them; they shone so that one could look at the sun, but not at them.

They were built with such cunning that when you climbed into them it seemed you descended, and when you stepped down from them it seemed you ascended.

Twelve little boats waited at the shore, each rowed by boatmen clad in purest gold thread.

The princesses stepped into the boats. The lad entered the youngest’s boat.

The boats moved off in line like cranes.

Only the youngest’s boat lagged behind. Her boatman marvelled that it was heavier than usual and pulled harder at the oars to catch the others.

When they reached the far shore, music sounded,  that forced the feet to dance whether one wished or not.

The princesses rushed into the palace and began to dance with the youths who waited for them. They danced until their slippers were in shreds.

The lad followed them closely.

Inside the great dancing-hall stretched so far one could scarcely see its end. It was adorned with gold and jewels, lit by torches in golden candlesticks taller than a man. The milk-white walls shone, striped with gold and set with sapphires and rubies that burned like fire.

The lad stood in a corner and gazed at wonders he had never seen.

Yet he could not stay still. The music lifted him; he danced without willing it. Even the candlesticks, the tables, the benches danced.

No words can tell the beauty of that music,  organs, flutes, guitars, lutes, horns, bagpipes, and many more, all playing together so that the finest musicians in the world would have stood astonished.

And the princesses! They danced with fire, every dance, so fiercely one could burst laughing.

They danced until near dawn.

Then suddenly the music ceased. A table appeared laden with every delight known and unknown. They sat and ate and drank their fill.

The gardener’s lad sat in his corner, mouth watering. Servants in splendid garments waited on them. When they rose, they returned the way they had come. The lad followed like a shadow.

In the silver-leafed wood he broke off a small branch. A great rustling passed through the trees, as though a storm raged among them, yet no leaf stirred, not even in the slightest breeze.

The princesses started.

“What is that?” they cried.

“What should it be?” said the eldest. “Surely the magic bird that nests in the tower of our father’s palace has passed through the leaves. Only she can reach here.”

They went on and returned to their locked chamber the same way they had left.

The next morning, when the lad gave the bunches of flowers, he hid the silver branch in the youngest’s bouquet.

She marvelled when she received it, glanced with pity at the lad, and could not understand how the branch came among her flowers.

The second night it happened again. The lad followed them secretly, this time breaking a branch from the golden-leaved trees, which he hid again in the youngest’s flowers the next day.

Again the eldest soothed her sisters’ fear when the rustling came. But the youngest felt a secret joy stir in her heart when she found the golden branch.

The third night he followed once more, broke a branch from the diamond-leaved trees; again the rustling sounded, again the eldest calmed the others.

Yet the youngest, finding the diamond branch in her flowers, looked secretly at the lad and thought he seemed little different from sons of lords and emperors. He seemed so dear to her.

He, too, gazed at her with longing eyes, but secretly, and saw that she was troubled. He pretended to understand nothing and went on with his work.

The sisters caught them speaking and laughed at her, mocking her words.

The youngest was silent and swallowed her shame. She could not cease wondering how the gardener’s lad had discovered their secret.

It entered her mind that he could not be an ordinary man, since he had done things even magic could not explain. And truly, his noble bearing, his gentle, well-made face showed plainly he was no common servant. Everything about him drew the heart.

After the princesses entered the house, the youngest told them the gardener’s lad knew everything they did at night.

They gathered and planned to destroy him as they had destroyed the others.

But the lad slipped in unseen among them and heard their counsel.

Now that he knew all, he went to his laurels and spoke to the rose-red one:

“Laurel tree, laurel tree,

With golden hoe I have dug you,

With golden can I have watered you,

With silk cloth I have wiped you,

Grant me the mind and bearing of a prince, a son of emperors!”

Again a bud grew, opened into a marvellous flower. He took it and hid it in his breast.

At once the sunburn left his face; his skin became clear and bright as though newly born. His mind sharpened. He understood things differently.

And suddenly he found himself clothed in garments such as princes wear.

He went to the emperor and asked to stand watch over the princesses one night.

The emperor pitied his youth and advised him to keep to his work rather than perish.

He insisted.

The emperor consented.

He did not even suspect this was the gardener’s lad, so greatly had he changed.

When the emperor showed him to the princesses and told them his wish, they did not recognise him.

Only the youngest, pierced to the heart, knew him and began to pine with love.

The next night, when they went to dance, they took him with them.

He knew what they prepared for him, yet he guarded himself carefully from the trap. They reached the enchanted palace, danced until near dawn, then sat at table.

A drink was brought to him, the same drink that had destroyed the eleven lads who came before. It would rob him of wits and feeling.

Then he turned eyes full of tears and burning love toward the youngest and said gently:

“See? I perish for love of you, if your heart is ice.”

“No,” she answered, “my heart is no longer ice. The fire of your love has warmed it.”

She did not drink.

“Better to be a gardener’s wife with you than an emperor’s daughter.”

When he heard that, he threw the drink behind him, drew closer, and said:

“Fear not, my lady. You shall not be a gardener’s wife for long.”

All who were there heard their words.

The power of the enchantment broke. In an instant they found themselves back in the emperor’s palace. The enchanted palace vanished like mist, as though it had never been. When the emperor saw them, he stood frozen, hands on his beard. The former gardener’s lad told him the whole secret of the nights. The emperor gave the youngest princess to the beautiful and loving lad. Then the other princesses came forward, each with the prince or noble she had chosen. The emperor consented and gave them in marriage.

Great rejoicing spread through every land — a joy so vast that if a hundred mouths spoke instead of one like mine, it could not tell it all.

Before the wedding the youngest asked her betrothed by what power he had discovered their secret and broken the spell that bound them.

He told her.

And she, so that her husband should not be greater than she, but equal as all mortals are, went and cut down the laurels and burned them.

Then they were wed and lived happily, as one lives in this mottled world, until at last they were worn out together in deep old age.

And I mounted my horse and rode away.

(The translation from Romanian was done with the assistance of several AI models)