Prevod

Once upon a time, as never before, and so on. There once lived in a certain land a great dragon, a dreadful monster. He had seven heads, lived in a pit, and fed on human beings alone. Whenever he came out to eat, everyone fled, shut themselves indoors, and stayed hidden until he had satisfied his hunger with some travelers whom ill fortune had brought his way. All the people of that land lamented the dragon’s cruelty and lived in terror of him. Prayers beyond counting were offered far and wide, that God might deliver poor humankind from this insatiable dragon, but all in vain. Sorcerers of every kind were brought in, and all were put to shame, spells and all. At last, when the emperor saw that nothing availed, he resolved to give his daughter in marriage, together with half his empire, to the brave man who would rid the land of this scourge, and he made his decision known to everyone. Once the news had spread through the country, several brave young men agreed to go together and lie in wait, to deliver the land from so fearsome a dragon. They decided to build a fire on the outskirts of the city nearest the dragon’s lair, which was also the seat of the empire, and to keep watch there by turns, one at a time, while the others rested. And lest the man on watch should fall asleep and the dragon come upon them like a ready-served meal, they swore that whoever let the fire go out would be put to death, as punishment for sleeping when he ought to have been awake. These brave men were joined by a stouthearted fellow, a true son of Romania, the very sort you know, who had heard of the emperor’s promise and had come to try his luck too. So they all set out, chose a place near the pit, and settled down to watch. They watched one day, they watched two, they watched several, and nothing happened. Then one day, a little after sunset, when it was our hero’s turn to keep watch, the dragon came out of his pit and headed toward the young men sleeping beside the fire. The heart of the man on watch shrank to the size of a flea, but he plucked up his courage, rushed forward, and flung himself at the dragon with his naked sword in his hand. He fought until he found his opening, and swish! off came one head; swish! off came another; and so, one by one, he cut off six heads. The dragon writhed in agony and lashed his tail so fiercely that the sight would have made you shudder with fear. Our hero, however, was fighting for his life and had grown weary, while his companions slept like logs. When he saw that they would not wake, he gathered all his strength, threw himself once more upon the dreadful dragon, and cut off its last remaining head. Then black blood poured from the foul creature, flowing and flowing until it put out the fire altogether. What was our hero to do now, so that his companions would not find the fire out when they woke? For their agreement was to kill whoever let it die. First he cut the tongues out of the dragon’s heads and tucked them inside his shirt; then, as quickly as he could, he climbed a tree and looked all around, hoping to catch a glimmer of light somewhere, so that he might go and ask for a little fire to rekindle their own. He looked this way and that, but nowhere could he see a light. He looked once more, with the greatest care, and far, far away, somewhere between earth and sky, at an unspeakable distance, he caught sight of a spark that barely flickered. Down he climbed and set off toward it. He walked and walked until he came to a forest, where he met Murgilă, the spirit of dusk, and stopped him in his tracks, to make the night last longer. Going farther, he came upon Miază-noapte, Midnight herself, and had to tie her up too, so that she would not catch up with Murgilă. What could he do, what trick could he devise to manage it? He asked her to help him hoist a tree onto his back, saying that he had cut it through at the roots. He told her to set her back against it while he, with his own back to the other side, pulled with his hands, so that it would fall onto his shoulders and he could go about his business. Miază-noapte, moved by pity and his entreaties, put her back against the tree he pointed out, and while she pushed, he bound her tightly to the trunk and hurried on, for he had no time to lose. He had not gone far when he met Zorilă, the spirit of dawn. Now Zorilă was in no mood to stand about talking, for he said he was pursuing Miază-noapte and meant to overtake her. By one means or another, our hero secured him as he had the other two, though it took far more trouble. Then he went on until he reached a great cave, where he had seen the fire. Here fresh troubles awaited him. In that cave lived some giants, each with a single eye in his forehead. He asked them for fire, but instead of giving him any, they seized him and tied him up. Then they set a cauldron of water over the flames and prepared to boil him for their supper. But just as they were about to throw him into the pot, a noise was heard not far from the cave. They all went out, leaving one of their old men to finish the task. As soon as our hero found himself alone with the old fellow, he began plotting against him. The old man untied him to put him into the cauldron, but the young man instantly snatched up a burning brand and hurled it straight into his eye, blinding him. Then, before the old fellow could utter so much as a peep, he tripped him and sent him tumbling into the pot. He took the fire he had come for, took to his heels, and escaped safe and sound. When he reached Zorilă, he set him free. Then he ran on until he came to Miază-noapte, untied her too, and went to Murgilă, whom he likewise sent about his business. When he reached his companions, they were all still asleep. You see, the first pale light of day had not yet begun to show, so long had the night been. The young man had halted its course, and thus had ample time to roam in search of the fire he needed. He had scarcely got the fire burning again when his companions woke and said, “What a long night that was, cousin!” “Long indeed, cousin,” he answered, puffing out his cheeks as he blew on the flames. They got up and began stretching and yawning, but shuddered when they saw the monstrous beast beside them and a great pool of blood spreading all around. They stared wide-eyed and, to their astonishment, noticed that the dragon’s heads were missing. Our hero said nothing of what had happened to him, for fear of stirring up envy among them, and they all returned to the city. When they arrived, everyone, young and old, was rejoicing over the dragon’s death, giving thanks to God that the long night had passed and they had lived to see daylight once again, and praising their deliverer to the skies. Our hero, who had also noticed the missing heads, was not troubled in the least, for he knew his conscience was clear. He made his way to the imperial court to see what would come of those tongueless heads, having guessed that some devilry must be afoot. As it happened, the emperor’s cook, a black-skinned, thick-lipped Gypsy, had gone out on the off chance of seeing how the young men keeping watch were getting along. Finding them asleep and the foul beast lying dead, he had at once set to work with his kitchen cleaver and chopped off its heads. Then he had carried them to the emperor and displayed them, boasting that he was the one who had done the mighty deed.

When the emperor saw his cook appear with these trophies of victory, he ordered a great feast to celebrate his betrothal to his daughter, and planned a wedding to which he would invite all the emperors. The Gypsy showed everyone his clothes, which he had drenched in blood to make his story believable. When our hero arrived at the palace, the emperor was sitting at table with his guests, in high spirits, while the scoundrel occupied the place of honor, perched on seven cushions. Approaching the emperor, the young man said, “Most exalted emperor, I have heard that someone has boasted to Your Majesty that he killed the dragon. It is not true, Your Majesty. I am the one who slew him.” “You lie, you lout!” shouted the swaggering Gypsy, ordering the servants to throw him out. But the emperor, who could not quite believe the Gypsy had performed such a feat, said, “What proof have you of your words, brave young man?” “My words,” replied the hero, “can readily be proved. Only command that someone first examine the dragon’s heads displayed over there and see whether they still have their tongues.” “Let them look, let them look,” said the scoundrel. He was beginning to lose his nerve, though he pretended not to care. They searched, and found no tongue in any of the heads. The guests sat dumbfounded, wondering what this could mean. The Gypsy, who was now utterly dismayed and regretted not having looked inside the heads’ mouths before bringing them to the emperor, shouted, “Throw him out! He’s a madman and doesn’t know what he’s saying!” But the emperor said, “So, young man, you mean us to understand that whoever can produce the tongues is the one who killed the dragon?” “Come now, emperor,” said the Gypsy, trembling like a leaf and turning yellow as wax, “can’t you see this beggar is a half-wit who has come here to deceive us?” “Let whoever is deceiving you be punished,” the young man answered calmly. Then he began taking the tongues from inside his shirt and showing them to the whole gathering. With every tongue he displayed, a cushion fell from beneath the Gypsy, until at last he himself fell from his chair, so terrified had the wretch become. Then our hero told everything that had happened to him, and how he had managed to hold back the night for so long. It took the emperor little thought to see that the young man was speaking the truth. Furious with the Gypsy for his villainy and shameless lies, he gave an order, and two unbroken horses and two sacks of walnuts were brought at once. He had the Gypsy and the sacks of walnuts tied to the horses’ tails, and let them loose. Away they galloped through the marshes, and wherever a walnut fell, a little piece of the Gypsy fell too, until both he and the walnuts were scattered far and wide. Afterward, when all the preparations had been made, a great wedding was held a few days later. Our Romanian lad took the emperor’s daughter as his wife, and there was such merry celebration as had never been seen, lasting several weeks; he was also placed upon the imperial throne. The maiden wept and thanked God for saving her from that hideous creature, that foul black wretch. I was there too, helping at the wedding, carrying water in a sieve; and at the end of the feast they brought a basket of dried plums to toss into all the gaping mouths. Then I mounted a saddle, and so on.