And now, as if at some signal from Armida, Chudu the Goat’s Son rushed straight at the murderer, bellowing with gleeful, boundless rage, and the exact same instant Armida screamed “Yi!” like a wild insane savage and leaped six feet onto the murderer’s back. The Goat’s Son turned into a huge anaconda and wrapped his fat body around the murderer’s two arms, and squeezed and constricted till the six-fingered man dropped the sword. Armida, by this time, had her knife at the man’s throat, and the prince, by this time, had picked up the sword and was stabbing him with it. (He had no choice; no jail in the world could hold the six-fingered man.)
“Tricked!” cried the six-fingered man, and burst out crying. “The dwarf did do magic, and it was the girl that killed the dragon! I knew it all the time!”
To hush him before anyone could hear what he was saying, Christopher the Sullen cut his head off and — with the same swipe, by accident — cut off one six-fingered hand. He put the hand in his pocket. The head, as soon as it hit the ground, cried: “Praise God!”
For an instant, the Suicide Mountains fell silent, as if holding their breath, amazed.
Now the monks all came running, shouting and swearing oaths. “Let them all be mules!” shouted Chudu the Goat’s Son, and at once they were all mules, and their weapons fell clattering. They stopped running and turned and stared at each other and a few began to kick.
“Good thinking,” cried Armida. “We’ll hitch them up to the treasure wagons and drive them to the palace, and when we get there we can change them back to people and chuck them in the dungeon!” The prince, Armida, and the dwarf began rounding up the mules. Even with Chudu’s magic they were hard to catch, but by the time the first cock crowed and the sky began to light, the last of them was captured and hitched securely to his treasure wagon.
“There’s one last thing we must do before we leave,” said the prince. “We must bury the six-fingered man.”
“That’s true,” Armida said. “For all his evil, he had good in him, too, and he relieved the suffering of as many people as he murdered. It would be wrong to leave his bones for the crows to pick.”
So they left the mules to stand waiting in the barn, chewing oats and hay, and walked around to get the body and carry it to a burial place. Lo and behold, when they reached the green slope where the body had lain there was no sign of it, neither clothes nor blood; but there was a new-born babe sitting picking the grass and trying to eat it, getting dirt in its mouth but not minding in the least, burbling and larbling and chirping like a sparrow. When they picked it up it laughed at them happily, and they noticed it had only one hand, and the hand had six fingers.
Much puzzled, they carried the babe along with them and set him down under a tree while Armida and the dwarf got out the wagons and Prince Christopher the Sullen went to the horsebarn and saddled his horse. When Boy was saddled the prince got up in the saddle with the babe, and Armida and the dwarf climbed up into the seat of the lead wagon, with the rest of the mules and wagons tied one after another behind, each wagon richer than the last, and they started for the palace.
“Does it talk yet?” Armida called forward to the prince.
“I don’t know.” He asked the baby: “Can you talk yet?”
The baby smiled merrily and nodded and began to talk:
Chapter Sixteen. The Baby’s Tale
In a certain village there lived two brothers, a rich one and a poor one. The rich one lived square in the center of town and had a huge wooden house and was a member in good standing of the merchants’ guild. But the poor one, more times than I care to tell, had not even so much as dry bread to eat, and when his little children wept and begged for food he had nothing at all he could give them, but bade them suck on rags. From long before sun-up to long after dark, the poor man struggled like a fish against ice, but he could never earn anything.
“One day he said to his wife, ‘I will go to the center of town and ask my brother for help.’ ‘Go then,’ said his wife, ‘but your brother is a pig and will not help you.’ He came to the rich man and said, ‘Ah, my own brother, help me a little in my misery. My wife and children are without food, they go hungry for days on end.’ His brother answered him, ‘Work in my house for a week, then perhaps I will help you.’ What could the poor man do? He set to work, swept the yard, curried the horses, carried water, and chopped wood. At the end of the week the rich brother gave him one loaf of black bread. ‘This is for your work,’ he said. ‘Thank you even for that,’ said the poor brother. He bowed low, till his head was against the floor, and was about to go home. ‘Wait,’ said the rich man. ‘Come and visit me tomorrow and bring your wife with you. Tomorrow is my birthday.’ The poor man was ashamed and said, ‘Brother, I don’t belong there, you know it well. Your other guests will be merchants in glittering boots and fur coats, and I wear plain linden bark shoes and a wretched gray caftan.’ ‘Never mind, just come. There will be a place for you.’ ‘Very well then, brother, I will come.’
“The poor man returned home, gave the bread to his wife, and said, ‘Listen, wife, we are invited to a feast tomorrow.’ ‘A feast?’ she said, ‘who has invited us?’ ‘My brother,’ came the answer. ‘Tomorrow is his birthday.’ Though the wife was normally a patient woman, she spit out the window. ‘Your brother is a spider and a weasel and an eel, but very well, we will go.’
“Next morning they rose and went to the center of town. They came to the rich brother’s house, wished him a happy birthday, and sat down on a bench. Many prominent guests were already at the table, the mayor and all the aldermen, merchants and wealthy tradesmen, and a distant relative of the king. The host served them all abundantly, but he forgot even to think about his poor brother and sister-in-law, and did not offer them anything; they just watched the others eating and drinking, and were too ashamed to beg to be given food. The dinner was over, the guests began to rise from the table and to thank the host and hostess. The poor man too rose from his bench and bowed to his brother, so low that his head was against the floor. The guests went home drunken and merry, noisily singing songs.
“The poor man, however, walked with a painfully empty stomach. He said to his wife, ‘Let us sing a song too, wife.’ She said: ‘Eh, you blockhead! The others are singing because they ate savory dishes and drank mead and wine to their hearts’ content. What gives you the idea of singing?’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘after all I have been at my brother’s feast. I am ashamed to walk without singing. If I sing, everyone will think that I too had a good time.’ ‘Well, sing if you must, old fool,’ said his wife, ‘but I won’t.’ The peasant began singing a song and he heard two voices. He stopped and turned to his wife. ‘Was it you who accompanied me in a thin voice?’ ‘What is the matter with you?’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t sing a note. I didn’t have a good time at all and your brother is a carp.’ ‘Then who was it?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know,’ said she, ‘but sing again and I will listen.’ He sang again, and although he sang alone, he heard two voices. He stopped and said, ‘Is it you, Misery, who are singing with me?’ Misery answered, ‘Aye, master, I am singing with you.’ ‘Well, Misery, let us walk together.’ ‘We shall, master. I will never desert you now.’