The Orphan and the Beardless Deceiver

Whether it happened or not, there once lived a poor orphan who had nothing and no one. One day, he managed to get some grain and took it to the mill to grind. A beardless trickster also came to the same mill, bringing grain of his own. The orphan ground his grain and was about to leave when the beardless trickster said, "Let's go together."

"Let's go," said the orphan. And so they went. As they walked, the beardless one said, "You know what?"

"What?" asked the orphan.

"Let's mix my flour with yours, and when we knead yours, we'll add mine."

"That's a great idea," said the orphan.

They kneaded the dough using the trickster's flour and added the orphan's flour, baking a fine, golden loaf of bread. The beardless one looked at the bread and said, "Let's make a bet: whoever tells the better lie gets the bread."

"Alright," said the orphan.

"There was once a goose in our household," began the beardless trickster, "raised by my grandfather. It was a marvelous goose: no matter the task—whether at home, in the fields, plowing or mowing—it handled everything on its own. I used to ride it, galloping across the fields or up into the mountains. One day, as we were crossing a field, a jackal suddenly attacked us and tore a chunk out of my goose's side. The goose fell, dying. I quickly chopped down a tree, wove a patch from the branches, and mended the goose's side. It jumped up, I mounted it, and we raced home... Now it's your turn, orphan."

The orphan began:

"My father had an apiary with a hundred hives. Every day, he would inspect it and count all the bees. One day, he counted and found one bee missing. We all rushed around searching, but couldn't find the lost bee. We discovered that the bee had gotten stuck across the sea—it had broken its leg and was captured by some bandits who harnessed it to a plow, forcing the poor bee to till their land. My father went there, saw what was happening, and became furious. 'Who gave you the right to do this?' he shouted. They refused to back down. My father grabbed the bee by its ear and pulled. The bee's head came off and remained in my father's hand. He took a walnut from his pocket, smeared it on the bee's neck, and reattached its head. From the bee's neck grew a massive walnut tree. The tree grew and grew, producing so many walnuts that all we did was knock them down and sell them. A crow landed on the tree and ate all the walnuts. My father threw a clump of dirt at the crow, and it got stuck in the tree. The clump grew, stretched out, and turned into a vast field—perfect for plowing or sowing. We planted a vineyard there, and the vines grew heavy with grapes, so beautiful that even an enemy would delight in seeing them. The grapes hung in clusters, all crimson. We were about to harvest when, out of nowhere, a jackal-fox appeared, destroyed our vineyard, ate everything, and ruined us completely. I thought, 'I'll wait for it, catch it, and teach it a lesson—I'll make it throw stones with its tail, it'll remember me!' So I found the hole the fox used to sneak into the vineyard, sat down, and waited. Suddenly, I heard a noise. My heart was pounding with fear: I was trembling, yet excited, waiting to see the jackal-fox. And sure enough, it appeared. I grabbed it by the tail, caught it, and held on tight. I pulled out a whip and started lashing it. May God grant you happiness—I gave it a thorough beating. As I whipped it, it started spilling out papers covered in writing and scattering dust."

"And what was written on those papers?" interrupted the beardless trickster.

"The bread goes to the orphan, and the dust to the beardless one." And so, the bread went to the orphan.

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The Orphan and the Beardless Deceiver

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