Morbrent and Tommy are late comers to the group around Auntie’s cottage. Hearing scraps of the news about Sebesh’s “attackers”, Morbrent jumps to the conclusion that real monsters are stomping their way to the village at this time. He grabs his friend’s arm in fear as he tries to make sense of what is being said.

Tommy notices Gorman emerging from the cottage door. “Why is he always in the middle of things?”

Bending his head down to avoid the low door opening, Gorman half-turns to answer Auntie’s anxious question. “I am only going to see how many there are, Auntie. Don’t worry. I will get to the mountain slope before the moon rises past the peaks.”

Gorman is taller than most of the other villagers. However, it is not his stature that quickly opens his way through the crowd. His status is firmly as the lowly mucker, so villagers are reluctant to be close to him.

Gorman was always fastidious in cleaning up his outerwear after morning rounds. Nevertheless, several of the women, young and old, turn up the noses as he passes.

The original hamlet was an accidental decision by two families who had made the dangerous trek across the mountains to the east. They were too tired to go further so they stayed in the meadow that became the Commons. One of those founding families was Grandfather Gorman’s great/great grandparents. The other family petered out over the generations. Different families were welcomed as they made their way there, either fleeing violence or searching for peace. Every new arrival was welcomed by the Gorman clan. They didn’t do so with any fanfare. They merely gave the newcomers beds and food for the night, then helped them start their own gardens and abode. The Gormans neither wanted thanks nor did they receive it for very long. Outsiders somehow found it intimidating and even suspicious that help should be so freely given. There must be something they wanted.

So, when Morbrent’s family was chased away from a town beyond the other side of the nearby lake, Grandfather Gorman’s quiet welcome was greeted with more ill feeling rather than gratitude.

As the village grew larger and some newer families did not know how to behave in a self-reliant community, disputes occurred and certain conventions fell apart. Reluctantly, village meetings were held to settle disagreements between established residents and newcomers. It was decided to begin certain village services for the benefit of all, even though these things had been taken care of by individual families in the past. The village’s growth produced previously unnecessary group actions. Conventions transformed into rules.

The Gorman family’s main contribution to the village in his grandfather’s time had been to help the community by taking on the one task that everyone avoided – keeping the packed-clay street clean of the nightly accumulation of muck. Newcomers simply tossed the contents of their chamber pots out the bedroom window as they arose. With bedrooms being on the second floor of most of the houses, a wide spray pattern was created. Telling them it was rude to do so fell on deaf ears. “Well, this is what they do in the big towns. Since we don’t have a gutter, walk on the Commons side of the street if you must be out in the early morning.”

Grandfather Gorman decided that his commitment to the welfare of the village had to be scraping the muck every morning from the street in front of the houses and pile it for use, after a year’s aging, in the far side of the Commons. This was, wisely, placed downwind of the village houses.

What was at first considered a blessing by the other villagers became the curse of Grandfather Gorman’s family. When the old man grew too ill to do his morning rounds, villagers grew upset, then angry. The elder Gorman had no son. His two daughters were forced by the constant, acrimonious blather in the village to take over from their father. When the older daughter was to be married to the new family that later produced Morbrent, her suitor renounced his troth, saying he could not live in a house which smelled all day of muck. He told this to Grandfather Gorman’s other daughter, Yolotli, not wanting to face the young woman whom he knew was now with child. Grandfather Gorman lived only another few summers. He said to his dying days that he was proud of his family’s hard work and contribution to the village. His daughters were not so sure.

As the years flowed by, young Gorman accompanied his mother and aunt on their dreary morning duty to the village. By the time he had seen twelve summers, Gorman showed intelligence in suggestions to ease their burden, and strength with his growing height and doggedness to get the work done.

Auntie Yolotli once took a break to apply a soothing salve to her sister’s hands. “Father always said that our family’s mission is to help others. Laka, your lovely son follows in that tradition. Is that his destiny? To serve others?”

“Your voice carries a hint of questioning spite, dear Yolotli. And yet, here you are, always searching for healing herbs to ease the suffering of others.”

Yolotli dropped her head. “Appreciation. Merely the hint of appreciation is all I desire. Not from you, dear sister. We understand each other.” Still holding the hand she was caressing, they leaned against each other’s cheek.

Another four summers was all the love that Laka could give to her son. Then her heart gave up.

A few days after the village funeral Gorman disappeared.

He returned the next spring. Would not speak of where he had been. Was angered when he learned that Yolotli had been left to muck the street on her own for all that time.

In their one-storey cottage, Gorman tearfully apologized to his aunt. “Dear Auntie, what has our family done to deserve this punishment?”

He was in a deep depression and decided that the only way to break the circle of torment was to leave the village for good.

Yolotli sighed. “My dear Gorman. I do understand where you are. I, too, was there after… after Laka left us. In my anger at the ignorant misery inflicted on us by the village I spent my anger on the clay pots scattered about our home. When nothing was left to smash, and our good neighbours came to see what the noise was all about, I ran off into the woods on the far side of the lake. In my mind I could only see myself slipping under the lake’s soothing water. Then, sitting on a rotting log to get up my courage, I saw mushrooms poking up under the log. Thinking they were poisonous, I resolved to ease my pain by taking a handful, wade into the water, down the mouthful and slip away, to no longer be a bother to anyone.”

Gorman was horrified. “Auntie! You can’t!”

She smiled. “I didn’t. I did wade out, but when I stuffed the mushrooms into my mouth and stood there waiting for it all to end, the mushrooms spoke to me. The ripples on the water spoke to me. The kestrel yelled at me. Butterflies gathered around my shoulders and lifted me back to the log. When they dropped me onto the nearby grass, I looked down to see my body bounce slowly as waves of colour spread out and I lay on the pillows of the meadow, and the music of nature sang to me from everywhere.” Yolotli took a breath.

“The music spoke to me in ways I had never heard before. I could not understand it, at first. Then many meanings rose in my mind. Floating above my sleeping body, I started to understand. How nature connected every living thing in ways that people could not know. They fought so hard from knowing. I saw that the harder they fought against nature’s songs, the more monstrous they became. They changed from loving the life in which they participated, to loving not-life. They lived in rooms above life. They changed to loving not-nature. Too many went on a savage quest to surround themselves with not-life. Absolutely straight lines. Square boxes. Rules that constrained creativity rather than celebrating it.”

Yolotli sat silently, remembering her time of change.

Gorman was intrigued. He wondered if something like that could happen to him. “Auntie…”

She looked up at his questioning face. “You wonder if the same reshaping might happen to you?’

He nodded.

Yolotli shook her head slowly. “This is not like a salve I apply to your wound, dear Gorman. It may burn through your arm. It may take you down into the depths of a black spiral from which you cannot climb out… It is dangerous. You must be prepared.”

He was confused. “How can I be prepared for something with such unknown dominion over my mind? Were you prepared?”

She shook her head. “I have always been possessed by the power of nature, so perhaps, yes, that was my meagre preparation… Perhaps I was guided by a few tendrils of nature.” She took his hands into hers. “First, dear Gorman, you must open your eyes to the many appearances that nature presents. They are not what you wish them to be. They may be terrible to your eyes, as one animal eats another. But seeing it all from the eyes of a soaring kestrel, you will see that every thing eats every other thing. A wolf pack will devour a deer, and at the end of its life the wolf’s body will be devoured by the soil, feeding the plants above it. Nature wishes only to maintain life. It passes no judgment as to which life will hold the stage at any time. There is only life, or not-life.”

Gorman nodded. “And, as you have taught me, people seem to have the power to create more not-life than has existed before.”

She smiled. “You have begun your journey to enlightenment.”

Gorman and Morbrent are playing in the Commons.

The game is simple – use a wooden-tipped spear you made yourself to hit a target, which is a tightly woven ring of tough reeds set against a stoop of straw. The loser then goes to gather the spears and they take another five paces further away. Despite being only a lowly mucker, Gorman usually wins, particularly as they get to distances beyond twenty paces.

This time, as Morbrent angrily stomps to retrieve the spears, he deliberately yanks Gorman’s spear sideways, cracking it. When he tosses the broken spear to Gorman, Morbrent yells, “You better find stronger wood to make your spears, Mucker. This one almost left a long splinter in my hand!”

They nearly come to blows, but a friend of Morbrent trips Gorman from behind. The young man finds himself lying flat on his back, breathing heavily as they stand over him, daring him to get up to fight. He doesn’t, wisely knowing what he can do and what he should do. His tormentors laugh and call him a coward, then stomp off, but still looking back to see if Gorman is going to come after them.

Jumping to his feet as Morbrent walks away in the distance, he glares at them. Gorman hefts his broken spear, wondering how far it would fly. Then he stares at the way it broke, leaving an arm’s length from the tip to hang by a sliver of wood. In his mind, Gorman imagines the short piece in his hand, lengthening his arm length by twice. He mumbles absently, “I wonder if I could control the spear as I threw it with something like that? It would go much farther…”

Next morning on his early rounds, Gorman gets caught twice. Morbrent and his cohort from next door, Tommy, toss the full contents of their families’ chamber pots over Gorman as he walks warily between their houses. Not warily enough.

The two pranksters laugh loudly from their bedroom lofts as Gorman the hapless mucker shakes the night’s residue off his broad-brimmed hat and leather cloak.

Life carries on the village. Food is gathered, prepared for the day and for the future. Things are repaired, built or ignored. People speak of trivialities and matters of import.

That afternoon the village shepherd is seen running across the fields from the mountain slope. He runs to the edge of the village, at the blacksmithy, completely exhausted. Panting hoarsely, he is unable to get out what he wants to say. He collapses against the blacksmith’s fence, gasping and groaning. A small crowd gathers around him. The blacksmith, Elaina, holds his shoulders up from behind the fence and helps the shepherd clutch at the top rail.

Finally, looking furtively at the crowd, he takes a deep breath to say, “Monsters! Monsters killed all the sheep! They knocked every one on the head!” He pants hard, dramatically. “And they’re coming here!” The shepherd lifts a quavering hand to point up to the green slope of the nearest mountain. “I took the short-cut ravine to warn you.”

At that he slips backwards against Elaina. She gently lowers him along the fence to the ground.

On pulling her hand away from his shoulder Elaina sees that her hand is covered with blood. Jumping around the fence, she lifts him back up. “Help me carry Sebesh to Auntie Yolotli! He’s bleeding.”

Elaina thinks, Sebesh is one for making up wild stories as he sits alone with his sheep. But he is bleeding.

Sebesh lets the group carry him to Auntie Yolotli’s cottage near the centre of the small village. All the while he weakly protests. “Have to prepare. We need to, to gather weapons. The monsters are coming to kill us all…”

At Auntie’s door, her nephew, Vasu, has heard the commotion and opens the door to let the group in. They are greeted inside by wafting smells of healing herbs coming from an array of pots sitting randomly on makeshift shelves and tables. Auntie Yolotli shuffles from the hearth, mumbling to herself, carrying an overfilled iron kettle of hot water. She indicates for the group holding Sebesh to place him on a pile of straw under the only open window. One of the group, Gorman, gently lowers Sebesh’s leg he was carrying then steps quickly to take the steaming, heavy iron kettle from Auntie. “Here, let me…”

She reluctantly lets him take the round, blackened handle from her wrinkled hands. “Careful, dear Gorman. It is too full to carry. I did not intend to have guests this morning.” She flashes him a kind smile.

Soon most of the village is gathered outside around Auntie’s cottage. The few who had heard what Sebesh had said passed it on excitedly. The crowd quickly becomes agitated. “Monsters? What can we do?” “What can we do? We’re only villagers.”

The “monsters” finish off their meal of a sheep, eating the hastily barbecued meat more slowly than when they had started. Some seat themselves next to a large boulder to crush the larger bones with a carefully chosen rock. Each uses a long bone sliver to scoop out the marrow.

A few of the younger ones feed their small pack of dogs the remaining bones. Even after having gobbled up the innards that had been tossed to them earlier, the dogs now fight over the choicest bones, yelping and growling with sinister teeth bared. In his excitement, one of the dogs nips at the hand of a young teenage girl who feeds him. A protective boy kicks the dog strongly in the ribs, sending it flying into a quarrelling pair, both of whom whip their teeth into a shoulder and rump. The unfortunate dog yelps and jumps away to lick his wounds.

That entertainment brings loud guffaws from the four men. The girl who had been nipped stands in the midst of the canine melee, holding in her tears. Her mother shakes her head as she rushes to scoop her child away to a safer location. “Leeloo! You have to be more careful around these beasts when they are eating! Yes?… Give me a hug.”

As she reaches to hold her daughter, the girl lets out a single sob. “I’m not afraid of them. They’re just dogs.”

Pulling her tight to her bosom, they twirl away from the campfire and her small clan.

Standing beyond the now contented group, with their noses touching, Mother kisses her child and smiles. “Has it started ye…”

Trying to push away, the girl interrupts petulantly, “No!”

Mother continues to hold her gently. “Ok, fine, my dear. Just tell me when it does. I only want to help you.” She kisses her again. “Please?” Mother pats her child’s bum then lets her slip out of her grasp.

Half turned away, Leeloo composes herself. She relents. “I will, Mother. It’s just… it sounds yucky. And… I want to stay with you, Mother. Not go with those, those ruffians.” She smooths down her well-worn cloth shawl over her leather skirt.

Leeloo’s sad face brings a tear to Mother’s eyes. “And so you shall, my lovely one. So you shall.”

Placing a hand on Leeloo’s shoulder, Mother turns to gaze back at her ragged clan around the campfire. “We are a poor clan. Half of us – our elders mostly – were not able to keep up when we crossed the terrible, cold mountains.” They both shake their heads sadly.

Leeloo mumbles, “Grandma…” Tears slide down both their cheeks.

Needing to change her attitude, Mother grins broadly. “But here we are! In a land of plenty! We took only the one sheep we needed and when we see the shepherd again, we will repay him with joyful work. The rest of his flock will be gathered up and herded to another pasture, then we will bring him back and help him with the herd. We used to be very good shepherds. Far away.” Mother turns to stare at the mountains through which they were forced to flee.

Leeloo nods, “Meelo said she saw the shepherd running along a ravine toward the distant village. She says he fell against a rock and hurt himself but then stumbled away.”

One of the clan pulls a flute from his personal bag. Feeling its smooth bone contours and the holes he had lovingly crafted along the shaft, he dreams of notes he used to coax out of the instrument. A woman nearby says softly, “Arash, maybe it is time. Your music has been silent since we, since the monsters burned our lovely village… Here, maybe we are going to be safe.”

Arash strokes his flute delicately, hearing the music in his mind. He nods, then places the flue to his mouth. The first sound that escapes is a hoarse bleat followed by discordant bawls. Arash coughs, then starts again. The flute moans, a long painful appeal to the darkening sky. Then his fingers slip from hole to hole producing a cold plodding beat so that in each of their minds the clan sees the terrible trek they made across barren mountains. The flute then turns warmly to a frolicking beat of lambs jumping as sheep munch through green fields. Arash ends with a single long questioning note, pointing down the slope toward the distant village.

by George Opacic

In a village of industrious craftspeople there lived a young woman who could not cook.

When still a child, her mother had asked her to watch as the soup was made. Mother collected garden-fresh potatoes, carrots, celery, mushrooms and tomatoes, along with parsley, pepper, basil and salt from the pantry. The kitchen air blossomed with the small basket of garden produce she had just gathered. The daughter added more wood to the fire to heat the water, ready on the stove in their iron soup cauldron. Mother showed her daughter how to peel and chop the vegetables, how long to boil the root vegetables and then add the rest of the ingredients each at their own times. When the soup was ready, Mother served it to her family and proudly announced that their daughter would have soup for them the next day.

In preparation for that coming meal, the daughter went out next morning. Mother told her to take along a basket so she could carry home any produce she might want to collect, but the daughter said, “I have a different idea, mother.”

Later that morning the daughter came back with a strong boy who was carrying a heavy cauldron.

Mother was surprised. “Daughter, you do not have any vegetables under your arm and why is Tommy carrying that cauldron?”

Pleased to show her initiative the daughter replied, “Tommy is carrying the vegetables in the soup and it was all prepared by his mother. All I have to do is heat it up in time for supper.”

Sure enough, when Mother looked into the cauldron, it was full of prepared vegetables, spices and even water. “Tommy, why did you carry that heavy cauldron all the way from your house to here? Are you not going to have the soup yourself?”

Tommy looked a bit embarrassed. “Why, no, ma’am. Your daughter bought the soup all prepared and my mother only asks that you have the cauldron cleaned when I come for it tomorrow.”

Now it was Mother’s turn to be confused. “Bought? What do you mean bought?”

Placing his heavy load on the floor inside the door, Tommy explained. “Well, Susan, here, said she’d give my mother a coin if she would prepare the cauldron of soup. And here it is… Do you want it?”

Mother politely thanked Tommy for delivering the soup and promised that the clean cauldron would be ready for him in the morning.

When Tommy left, Mother turned sternly to her daughter. “Susan! What a complete waste of valuable coins! And where did you ever get those coins to throw away with such carelessness?”

Susan was not deterred by her mother’s attitude. “Mother, when you sent me last week to work for old Mrs. Harlow, she agreed to pay me five small coins for my work. So you see, I still have four coins left.”

“WHAT?” Mother was furious. “Mrs. Harlow is old and stiff with her joint pains and she can hardly get out of bed anymore. I sent you there out of charity, to help the poor woman! Not for you to rob her of her last possessions!”

Standing firm in the face of her mother’s wrath, Susan replied. “I did not ask Mrs. Harlow for the coins. She offered them because, as she said, she does not have much time left and she wanted to do some good with her coins before she passed on.”

Mother thought about that. “But still, Susan, I showed you how easy it is to make your soup. How will it look if Tommy goes about telling everyone in the village that you don’t know how to cook? There wouldn’t be a boy around here who would have you!”

“Have me as what, Mother?”

“Why, as a wife, of course!”

Susan thought for minute. “I have to say, Mother, that I cannot think of having any of these boys as my husband.”

“Susan!”

Seeing that her mother was about to become apoplectic, Susan scurried away to the stove with her cauldron of soup.

And so it was that Susan grew into a strong-willed young woman who made up her own mind as to what should be done in her life. She never did learn the craft of making her own food. But Susan did not go hungry while her mother was around.

And, apparently, her lack of skill in the kitchen did not deter the young men of the village from constantly asking her to accompany them for a walk in the meadow by the nearby lake. It was during the second of those invitations that Susan found herself in a compromising situation.

Charles was the eldest son of the village blacksmith. He followed in his father’s profession, of course, and was becoming a competent smith with bulging muscles.

One day, Susan was speaking to a group of young ladies about what she had learned when visiting the other village. Her stories were about the people from the great and mysterious and exciting city where the King lived.

Susan had been sent by her mother to the village on the other side of the lake to visit their relatives. Mother thought that Susan would settle down after having a bit of an adventure. Mother was wrong.

The neighbouring village was close to the highway that was used by the King’s men to travel to the sea coast, so the village had grown larger around the original travelers hotel. Now there were three hotels to serve the travelers, not all of whom were in the service of the King.

Susan had stayed for eight days with different relatives. Each night after the big supper, she was regaled with stories of the many travelers and the stories that they brought from the sea coast and from the King’s city. Susan’s mother had allowed her to take one of her small coins along and, on her third day in the bustling village she determined to spend her coin. Accompanied by a cousin who was delegated to keep her safe, Susan walked into the public house that comprised the lower level of the newest and grandest hotel in the village.

She had no idea what to expect. Whatever she may have dreamed about the public house, it was so delightfully foreign from any other experience she had, that Susan stumbled and then danced about from table to group in a trance. She had long conversations with people she had never met before and they spoke of silky clothing styles and jeweled buggy whips and food from the sea that tickled the tongue and curious relationships using words she had never heard before but which she just knew would horrify her mother if she ever heard them.

Hours later, her cousin finally managed to drag Susan outside. It was dark. It was well past supper time but Susan’s head was so filled with the wonders she experienced inside the public house that her head was spinning with colourful visions. Or maybe it was the drink that she bought with her coin.

Back in her own village, everything seemed grey and dull and so boringly quiet that Susan felt the urgent need to tell others about her adventures in the outside world. So, one evening, when Susan was asked by some acquaintances what she had seen and heard in the village across the lake, Susan was more than ready to tell them. She did add a few things, elaborating somewhat on the experiences that travelers had recounted in the public house. As Susan spoke, more young ladies crowded round, eager to hear. The larger the crowd became, the more fantastic Susan’s stories became, and the stories changed from happening to others, to happening to her.

Charles and a few other boys wandered by to see why a crowd was collecting. When they saw that it was Susan telling everyone about her adventures beyond the lake, the boys stayed. Charles was as interested as the others at first. However, he, too, had been to the other village while accompanying his father to bring back supplies of iron and coal. He finally could not contain himself as Susan told of how she had fought off a ruffian from the coast. Charles let out a loud guffaw. “You fought him off? I’d have trouble with some of those devils!”

Susan saw that she was on the verge of losing her rapturous audience. “Yes, Charles, you might have, but this old seaman had lost a leg, which is why they called him Pegleg. As he reached out for me I kicked his wooden leg and he fell headfirst onto a stout chair.”

With delighted chuckles, the audience was back on her side.

Susan learned from her first night’s story-telling to keep closer to reality.

Despite himself, Charles was intrigued with Susan. One day when Charles delivered a packet of new nails for Susan’s father to use on a project, Susan took the lead in bartering for payment. Her father backed away with a knowing smile. Normally, the packet of nails would have been worth two bushels of fresh vegetables from their garden. Susan’s father had been prepared to offer one-and-a-half bushels then perhaps bargain up to the two.

Susan opened the packet to inspect the nails. “Two of these are beginning to rust, Charles. Were they all made this week?” She smiled coyly up at his bushy-bearded face.

He grinned down at her. “I should be careful you don’t kick my pegleg. Yes, Susan. All these nails were hammered out by me, personally, this week. I will take the standard two bushels…”

Susan interrupted him, “Why Charles…” She surprised Charles and her father with her suggestive pose, “…I am disappointed that you should be so forward.” She combed a slithering hand through her light brown curls.

Charles was speechless. He stared at Susan’s hair, then his eyes started wandering, then he suddenly glanced at Susan’s father. At a distinct disadvantage under this feminine onslaught Charles cleared his throat. “Ah, well, like, we normally exchange this many nails for, ah, two bushels, but if, well, like, under the circumstances, with those two very slightly rusty nails in the packet, I will offer my apologies and accept a single bushel of your garden vegetables.” He heard what he had just said and quickly added, “Like, if you wouldn’t mind packing it tightly and having a few good-sized potatoes on the bottom.” He had glanced over at Susan’s father with a pleading look. “If you don’t mind, sir?”

Susan nodded in satisfaction. “That will be fine, Charles. Perhaps you’d care to accompany me to our garden. I can allow you to choose your own potatoes while I collect the rest of the basket.”

Susan’s father had to suppress a laugh. As the two young folk walked back to the garden, Father couldn’t wait to go inside to tell Mother what he had witnessed. Inside, he laughed out loud while she tittered in amusement, and some wonder.

That was when Charles had asked Susan if she’d like to go with him to the meadow by the lake.

That meadow was a favourite place for young folks to meet. Some sat on the slope leading to the lake, gazing at the ripples taken by a breeze across the calm water and made plans. Some gazed at each other, saying nothing, doing much. Some didn’t know what to do and sat stiffly wishing the other person with them would do something. Anything.

Susan was excited to be in the meadow once more. The last time, with Tommy, she was in the category of wishing that something would happen.

As they found a quiet location hidden from the village by shrubs and trees, Susan unfurled her blanket with the intent of sitting down. Charles could not contain himself. He exploded into a runting maelstrom, jumping at Susan and shoving her back onto the blanket, immediately covering her with his sweating body.

As Charles was pulling his pants down, Susan twisted sideways and, in doing so, elbowed him in the side of the head. Stunned, he was easier to push off her. Susan rolled away to jump to her feet. She yelled at Charles as he scrambled to pull his punts up. “What do you think you’re doing, you stupid brute! If you ever touch me again I will scratched your eyes out! One at a time! Believe me!”

Then Susan spun around and ran across the fields back to her house, her heart racing. Before she got to their garden in the Commons, Susan found herself smiling.

Charles could get only as far as kneeling on this pants. They would not go further, the legs having been half-knotted as he yanked them while on his back. He spitted and growled and swore in animal frustration. On his knees.

They never spoke again.

A Fable

Once upon a time there lived a shepherd who served his master faithfully and honestly. One day whilst keeping the sheep in the forest, he heard a hissing, and wondered what the noise could be. So he went farther into the wood to try and find out. There he saw that the forest was on fire, and a snake was hissing in the midst of the flames. The shepherd watched to see what the snake would do, for it was quite surrounded by the fire, which approached it nearer and nearer.

Then the snake cried out, “For God’s sake, good shepherd, save me from the fire!”

So the shepherd stretched his crook across the flames and the snake glided rapidly over the staff and up his arm onto his shoulder, till at last it wound itself round his neck. Then the shepherd was terrified and exclaimed, “What shall I do? What an unlucky wretch I am! I saved you, and now your are about to kill me!”

The snake answered, “Do not be afraid. Only take me to the house of my father. My father is the king of snakes.”

But the shepherd, being already in great fear, began to excuse himself, saying he must not leave his sheep. Then the snake said, “Nothing will happen to your sheep. Do not be anxious about them. But let us hurry home.”

So the shepherd went on with the snake through the forest, until they came to a gate made entirely of snakes. Then the snake on the neck of the shepherd hissed, and instantly the snakes untwined themselves, so that the man could pass through. As soon as they had gone through, the snake said to him, “When you reach my father’s house he will offer to give you whatever you like — gold, silver, or precious stones. Do not, however, take any of these things. Choose, instead, the language of animals. He will hesitate at first, but at last he will give it you.”

Meanwhile they arrived at the palace, and the king of snakes said, weeping, “For God’s sake, my child, where were you?” Thereupon the snake told him all that had happened, how he had been surrounded by fire, and the shepherd had saved him. Then the snake king said to the shepherd, “What do you wish that I should give you for saving my son?”

The shepherd answered, “I desire nothing but the language of animals.”

The snake king, however, said, “That is not good for you, for if I give it you, and you tell anyone about it, you will instantly die. Therefore it is better that you ask me for something else.”

“If you wish to give me anything,” replied the shepherd, “give me the language of animals. If you will not give me that, I want nothing — so good-bye,” and he turned to go away.

Then the snake king called him back, saying, “If you indeed wish it so much, take it. Open your mouth.” The shepherd did so, and the snake king blew into his mouth, and said, “Now blow once yourself in my mouth.” The Shepherd did so, and then the snake king blew again into his mouth, and this they did three times. After that the snake said, “Now you possess the language of animals. Go, in God’s name, but do not for the world tell anyone about it. If you tell anyone you will instantly die.”

The shepherd returned across the forest, and, passing through it, he understood everything the birds and animals, and even the plants were saying to each other. When he came to his sheep he found them all there, safe and sound, so he laid himself down to rest a little.

Hardly had he done so before two or three ravens settled on a tree near him, and began to converse together, saying, “If that shepherd only knew that just on the spot where the black sheep is lying there is, deep in the earth, a cave full of gold and silver!”

When the shepherd heard that he went off to his master and told him. The master brought a cart, and dug down to the cave, and carried the treasure away home. But the master was honest, so he gave up the whole of the treasure to the shepherd, saying, “Here my son, all this wealth belongs to you. For to you God gave it. Build a house, marry, and live upon the treasure.”

So the shepherd took the money, built a house, and married, and by and by he became the richest man in the whole neighborhood. He kept his own shepherd, and cattle driver, and swineherd. In short, he had great property and made much money.

Once, just at Christmas, he said to his wife, “Get ready some wine and other food, and tomorrow we will feast the shepherds.”

The wife did so, and in the morning they went to their farm. Towards evening the master said to the shepherds, “Come here, all of you. You shall eat, drink, and make merry together, and I will go myself this night to watch the sheep.”

So the master went to watch his sheep, and, about midnight, the wolves began to howl and the dogs to bark. The wolves spoke, in wolf language, “May we come and take something? You also, shall get a part of the prey.”

And the dogs answered, in dog language, “Come! We also are ready to eat something.”

But there was one old dog there who had only two teeth left. This old dog shouted furiously, “Come on, you miserable wretches, if you dare. So long as I have these two teeth left you shall not do any damage to my master’s property.”

All this the master heard and understood. Next day he ordered all the dogs to be killed except that old one. The servants began to remonstrate, saying, “For God’s sake, master, it is a pity to do this.”

But the master answered, “Do as I have ordered you,” and started with his wife to go home. They rode on horseback, he on a fine horse and his wife on a handsome mare. But the master’s horse went so fast that the wife remained a little behind.

Then the master’s horse neighed, and said to the mare, “Come on, why do you stay behind?”

And the mare answered, “Ah, to you it is easy — you are carrying only one weight, and I am carrying three.”

Thereupon the man turned his head and laughed. The wife saw him laughing, and urged the mare on quicker till she came up to her husband, and asked him, “Why were you laughing?”

He said merely, “I had good reason to laugh!”

But the wife was not satisfied, and again begged he would tell her why he laughed. He excused himself, exclaiming, “Give up questioning me. What has come to you, my wife? I forget now why it was I laughed.”

But the more he refused to tell her, the more she wished to know. At last the man said, “If I tell you I shall die immediately!”

That, however, did not quiet her, and she kept on asking, saying to him, “You must tell me.”

In the meantime they reached their house. When they had done so the man ordered a coffin to be made, and, when it was ready, had it placed in front of the house, and laid himself down in it. Then he said to his wife, “Now I will tell you why I laughed, but the moment I tell you I shall die.”

So he looked around once more, and saw that the old dog had come from the field, and had taken his stand over his head, and was howling. When the man noticed this he said to his wife, “Bring a piece of bread for this poor dog.”

The wife brought a piece and threw it to the dog, but the dog did not even look at it, and a cock came near and began to peck at it.

Then the dog said to the cock, “You think only about eating. Do you know that our master is going to die?”

And the cock answered, “Well, let him die, since he is so stupid. I have a hundred wives, and often at nights I gather them all round a grain of corn, and, when they are all there, I pick it up myself. If any of them are angry, I peck them. That is my way of keeping them quiet. Only look at the master, however. He is not able to rule one single wife!”

The man, hearing that, got out of the coffin, took a stick, and called his wife to him, saying slyly, “Come now, and I will tell you what you want to know.”

The wife, seeing she was in danger of getting a beating, left him in peace, and never asked him again why it was he laughed.

The man nodded to himself.  Learning to be smarter than the animals is hard. I am learning.

• Source: Csedomille Mijatovies, Serbian Folk-Lore (London: W. Isbister and Company, 1874), pp. 37-42. (With the addition of one line by G. Opacic)