Tales of Wonder (29 page)

“It is certainly another strange dream,” admitted the abbot. “But I myself have had many such dreams. Perhaps you are working too hard.”

“But the angel knew Brother David's name,” protested Kenan. “And he knew Brother John's name, too.”

“Then he read your heart,” said the abbot. “Surely an angel could do that.” Then he turned over on his side and said, “Go back to bed, Brother Kenan.”

After prayers Brother Kenan went to work in the monastery kitchen with Brother David and Brother John. He told them of his second dream.

Brother John, who could heal any ache with his herbs, said, “I have a simple that will help you sleep. And in
that
sleep you will not dream.”

So Brother Kenan said no more.

But that night he dreamed again. This time the angel came and took him by the shoulder and shook him hard and said:

Take you a bell into the wilderness, a bell without clapper or tongue. And when that bell rings by itself—there build a house of God with Brother David and Brother John. AND DO IT SOON!

Brother Kenan did not even stop to put on his sandals. He hurried down the dark corridor to the abbot's cell. He burst in, and was surprised to see the abbot sitting up in his bed. By his side were David and John.

“I have had yet another dream,” began Kenan.

“Come,” said the abbot with a great smile, and opened his arms. “So have we all. In the morning we must search for a piece of iron for your quest.”

In the morning, after prayers, the three monks and the abbot looked all around the monastery for metal for the bell. But except for small nails and smaller needles, the pots and pans to cook the monastery meals, some rakes and hoes in the garden, and a knocker on the door, no metal could be found.

The abbot gave a large sigh. “I suppose I must give you our only bell,” he said at last. “Come up with me to the bell tower.”

So the four climbed to the top of the tower, high up where only Brother Angelus, the bell master, went. And there, lying under the chapel's bell, was an iron bar.

“I have never seen it before,” said Brother Angelus with awe. “It is a miracle.”

The abbot merely nodded and sighed again, this time in thanks. Such miracles, he knew, often occurred when one was as old and as forgetful as the bell master. Still, when the four had descended the stairs, the abbot blessed the bar and gave it to Kenan.

“Go you must,” he said, “so go with God.”

The three monks left the monastery and took the road going north. Only to the north was the land empty of towns.

Brother Kenan was in the lead, carrying the iron bar like a banner before them.

Brother David was next, his pack filled with bread and cheese and string with which to practice knots, for his fingers always had to be busy with something.

Brother John was last, his basket filled with herbs and simples in case of any accidents or ills.

The three monks traveled for nearly three weeks. Their food ran out, and John found berries and mushrooms and roots. Their wine gave out, and David found a fresh, flowing spring. Their spirits ran low, and Kenan cheered them on with a psalm. And always the silent iron bar went before.

One day, though, Brother David grew weary. He thought to himself, “Perhaps it was not a holy dream after all. I swear that that bell will never ring on its own. I must make the miracle happen.” So that night his clever fingers fashioned a sling of the strings. And in the morning, as they marched along, he walked behind and aimed several small stones at the iron bar. But the stones went left or the stones went right. Each shot missed, and Brother Kenan marched on with the bell as silent as ever.

The next day Brother John grew weary. He thought to himself, “All dreams do not come from God. That bell will never ring by itself. Sometimes one must help a miracle along.” So he waited until he found a bush with hard, inedible berries growing along the path. He grabbed up a handful and threw the lot of them at Kenan's back. But the berries went left or the berries went right. Not one of them struck the bar, and Brother Kenan marched on with the bell as silent as ever.

The next day the monks came upon a broad meadow that stretched down to the banks of a tumbling stream.

“This would be a lovely place to build a house of God,” thought Kenan with a sigh, for he, too, was weary. But putting such a thought behind him as unworthy of his dream, he shouldered the iron bar and walked on.

Just then, a small brown bird flew across the meadow, fleeing from a hawk. The little bird ducked and dived to escape its pursuer, and in its flight it flew straight toward the three monks. At the last minute, noticing them, it turned sharply and rammed into the iron bar. It broke its wing and fell.

As the hawk veered off into the woods, the iron bar sang out from the collision with a single clear and brilliant tone.

“The bell!” cried David and John as one.

“The bird!” cried Brother Kenan. He jammed the iron bar into the soft sod of the meadow and took up the wounded bird. And when he picked the bird up, the iron bar standing straight and true in the meadow grass rang out again and again and again. Each note was like a peal of hosannas to the Lord.

So the monks built their house of God in the meadow by the river. Brother David's wonderful hands and Brother John's wonderful simples cured the wounded bird. And with patient care, Brother Kenan melted down the iron bar and cast a perfect bell.

Ever after, the little brown bird sang outside Brother Kenan's window to call the many monks who worked in the abbey to their prayers. And its voice was as clear and as loud and as pure as the monks' own iron bell.

Sans Soleil

There was once a prince called Sans Soleil, which is to say, Sunless. It had been prophesied at his birth that he would grow so handsome his beauty would outshine the sun. That he might not be killed by the jealous star, he had to be kept in the dark, for it was said that he would die if ever a shaft of sunlight fell upon his brow.

So the very night he was born, his father, the king, had him carried away to a castle that was carved out of rock. And in that candlelit cave-castle, the young prince grew and flourished without ever seeing the sun.

Now, by the time Sans Soleil was twenty years old, the story of his strange beauty and of the evil prediction had been told at every hearth and hall in the kingdom. And every maiden of marrying age had heard his tragic tale.

But one in particular, Viga, the daughter of a duke, did not believe what she heard.

“Surely,” she said, tossing her raven-black hair from her face, “surely the king has hidden his son from the light because he is too monstrous to behold.”

Her father shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “I have been to this cave-castle and have seen this prince. He is handsomer than the sun.”

But still Viga did not believe what her father told her. “The sun cannot harm anyone,” she said. “There is no sense in what you say.” And she took herself to the king dressed in her finest gown of silver and gold.

“Sire,” she said, “at court you have been taken in by lies. The sun is not harmful. It nourishes. It causes all things to grow. It will not kill the prince.”

The king was touched by the girl's sincerity. He was moved by her beauty. He was awed by her strength of purpose, for it is no little thing to contradict a king. Still, he shook his head and said, “It was prophesied at his birth that he would die if ever a shaft of sunlight struck his brow.”

“Old wives and young babes believe such tales. They should not frighten you, sire. They do not frighten me,” Viga replied.

“They do not frighten you because you are not the one who would die,” said the king, and at these words all the courtiers smiled and nodded their heads and murmured to one another. “Still, I will give the matter more thought.”

Viga gave a low curtsey. And as she rose, she said quietly, so that only the king could hear it, “It does seem strange that
sun
and
son
do sound the same.” Then she smiled brightly and departed.

The king was true to his word and gave the matter more thought. And what he concluded was this: that his son and Viga should be wed. For he liked her courage and admired her beauty, and thought she would make his son a most suitable wife. So the king and the duke set the wedding date for a week from the following night.

When the night was deep and no spot of sun still lit the kingdom, a carriage with drawn curtains arrived at Viga's door. Out stepped the handsomest man she had ever seen. He was dressed all in red and gold, like the sun.

They were wed by candlelight, and their golden rings were carved with images of the sun. There was feasting and dancing till three. Then the two talked and kissed far into the night, as befits a couple who are but newly wed.

But at the crowing of the village cocks announcing that the sun would soon rise, Sans Soleil stood up. “I must go. I cannot allow the sun to shine upon me.”

“Do not leave me,” Viga said. “Now that we are wed, I cannot bear to have you away from my sight. Do not be afraid of the sun. It will not harm you. Stay here with me.”

“No, I am safe only in my cave. You are my wife; come and live in my cave-castle with me.”

“Live in a cave?” said Viga. “Never.”

So the prince tore himself from her grasp and ran out into the waiting golden carriage. With a crack of the whip, the horses were away before the sun could gain the sky.

However, Viga was a woman of strong will. So determined was she to prove to Sans Soleil that she was right and he would not be killed by the sun, she devised a plan. That very day she sent her maidservants to buy up all the cockerels in the kingdom. Then she had her footmen bind the birds and throw them down into the duke's deepest dungeons, where it would always be dark as night.

But there was one rooster the servants could not buy, the pet of the potter's boy. The child cried so much at the thought of losing his bird, his father would not part with it.

“What is one cockerel out of so many?” the servants asked themselves. And so they neglected to tell their mistress of the last bird.

That evening again Sans Soleil's carriage came to Viga's door. As before, the prince was dressed all in red and gold like the sun, and the feathers on his cap stood out like golden rays. In his hand he carried a sunburst, a ruby brooch with beams like a star.

“This is my only sun,” he said to Viga. “Now it is yours.”

And they forgave one another for the harsh words of the morn. They touched and kissed as married couples do, far into the night.

At the coming of the dawn, far off in the village, the cockerel belonging to the potter's child began to crow.

“Is that a cockerel I hear?” asked Sans Soleil, sitting up.

“There is no cockerel,” replied Viga sleepily, for she thought indeed there was none.

But again the rooster crowed out, and, hearing no answering call from his brothers, he sang out louder than before.

“I am sure I hear the warning of the sun's approach,” said Sans Soleil.

“It is nothing but a servant's snore,” Viga replied. “Stay quiet. Stay asleep. Stay with me.”

But on the third crow, Sans Soleil leaped up. “I must go,” he said. “I cannot allow the sun to shine upon me.”

“Do not put your faith in such old wives' tales,” cried Viga. “The sun cannot hurt you. Put your faith in me.”

But it was too late. The prince was gone, running down into his golden carriage and away to his cave-castle before the sun could start up in the sky.

However, Viga was a woman of strong will and passion. She was determined not to lose her lover for a single day because of such a foolish tale. She was convinced that if the prince but forgot the sun, he would learn that it could do him no harm. So she decided to have the last rooster put in her father's dungeon.

But she did not trust her servants anymore. With her cloak wrapped about her and covering her face with a sleeve, Viga slipped out into the streets. By the potter's hut she saw the bird strutting and preening its feathers in the sun. Quickly, she looked around, but there was no one in sight. She reached down, snatched up the cockerel, and hid it under her cloak. In the night of her garment the bird made no sound.

She was back in her own home before the potter's child could set up his wail. The cockerel she put with its brothers in the dark. Then she waited impatiently for the sun to set that she might see her lover again.

That evening, so great was his haste, Sans Soleil himself drove the golden carriage to the door. He leaped to the ground and in a graceful bound ran to the waiting girl.

They ate and touched and sang and danced and talked until the night was through. But there were no cockerels to crow and warn them of the dawn.

Suddenly the prince glanced out of the window. “It is becoming light,” he cried. “I must leave. You know that I cannot allow the sun to shine on me.”

“Love me. Trust me. Stay with me,” said Viga, smoothing his hair with her strong hands.

But Sans Soleil glanced out of the window again. “Is that the sun? Tell me, for I have never seen it shine.”

Viga smoothed his neck with her fingers. “Forget your foolish fears. The sun nourishes. It does not kill. Stay with me here and greet the dawn.”

The prince was moved by her plea and by his love for her. But just as he was about to stay, fear, like an old habit, conquered him. He jumped up and blinked at the light. “I must go to my cave. Only there will I be safe,” he cried. And before she could stop him, he tore from her grasp and sped out into the dawn.

Viga ran after him. “Do not be afraid,” she called. Her long black hair streamed out behind her like the rays of a black star. “It is but a tale. A tale for children.
You
are the sun.”

But the prince did not hear her. As he ran out into the courtyard, the sun rose in full brilliance over the wall. Sans Soleil had never seen anything so glorious before. He stood and stared at the burning star. The sunlight struck him full in the face. And with a single cry of pain or anger or regret, he fell down dead.