The Serpent Youth

Once there lived a woman. In her old age, she gave birth to a son. But it would have been better if this son had never been born, for the child was a serpent. Nevertheless, the mother loved her serpent son, cared for him, nursed him, and raised him to be big and healthy. One day, the serpent spoke in a human voice:

"Go, mother, to our king and tell him: 'My serpent son asks for your only beautiful daughter's hand in marriage.'"

The mother was terrified. It was frightening enough that her son, a serpent no less, dared to ask for the king's daughter in marriage, but even more terrifying was the fact that the serpent spoke in a human voice. But what could she do? Her son wouldn't leave her alone—go, go!

"The king will kill me, my son," she said, but he wouldn't listen. The old woman gathered her courage and went.

She arrived at the palace. The king summoned her and asked, "What do you want, old woman?"

"My serpent son won't leave me in peace. He asks for your daughter's hand in marriage." And she told him everything. The king wasn't surprised. He listened to her and said:

"Everyone knows my power is not great. A strong neighbor oppresses me and ravages my land. Even now, he has sent messengers with three tasks. If I fail to solve them, he will destroy my kingdom. Tell your son: if he solves these tasks and saves me and my kingdom, I will give him my daughter. If not, then not. The first task: I have a herd of horses; he must determine which is the mother and which are her foals. The second task: I have a pestle from a mortar, and the king demands that a thousand ells of leather be cut from it and sent to him. And the third task: one region of my kingdom suffers from drought—he must find water there."

"Oh dear," thought the old woman, "I've gotten myself into a real mess!" And she ran home.

"Well, what did you do?" asked the serpent son.

"What could I do?" said the mother, barely able to breathe, her mouth dry. "My death has come, nothing more." And she wept.

"Don't cry," said the serpent. "Don't be afraid. That king won't defeat me." The mother heard this and laughed as if she had gone mad.

"That king won't defeat you, little serpent?"

"No," said the serpent, "he won't!"

"If he won't, then listen!" And she told him all three tasks. The serpent didn't hesitate:

"Go back to the king and tell him: 'Send your advisor to that king and say: Let him cut samples from the pestle and tell us how wide he wants the leather to be.' He won't be able to do it, and the king will disgrace himself, not us. Second: tell them not to let the herd drink for three days. When they finally let them drink, the horse that neighs first is the mother mare. As for the place suffering from drought, there's an oak tree in such-and-such a spot. Let them dig it up, and water will flow."

The mother hurried back to the king. When she arrived, everyone in the palace was already despondent, having lost all hope. Though things were grim, when they saw the old woman, they began to laugh at her. But when they heard the serpent's answers, they all bowed to her and treated her with great honor. They relayed everything to the messengers, sent the advisor with them, and left the wicked king looking foolish with his tasks.

The king was saved, and true to his word, he summoned the serpent savior to the palace. A huge serpent slithered into the palace. He was greeted with great honor. Everyone fawned over the serpent, smiling more out of fear than joy. They seated the serpent next to the beautiful princess. The wedding began.

The beauty sat there, consumed by grief and despair. She sat, her lips sealed as if with a knife, but what could she do? Such, it seemed, was her fate.

The wedding ended. The newlyweds—the serpent and the beauty—were led to the bedchamber. The king closed the doors and began to beat his head with his fists, tear at his hair, scratch his chest, and moan.

"The cursed serpent will devour my beauty!"

But in the bedchamber, something else was happening: the serpent wrapped himself around the beauty, embraced her, caressed her, and kissed her. The princess stood there, neither alive nor dead. She couldn't look, couldn't even breathe from fear, frozen like stone.

And the serpent caressed her, pleading:

"Love me, don't push me away! Be careful, lest it come to pass that you beg me for love, while I run from you as you do now."

He pleaded, he begged, and suddenly—a miracle: he shed his serpent skin, and there stood a tall, handsome youth, radiant as the sun. The princess looked at him and couldn't tear her eyes away. Her heart raced, her eyes sparkled, her face lit up. They stood there—a sight of pure happiness... They embraced, caressed each other. The youth's hair shone like golden rays of the sun, and the bride's pearl-like fingers ran through them, caressing them.

The princess's nanny peeked through a crack—what was that glowing? Had the cursed serpent breathed fire from his mouth, burning the princess? She peeked—and what did she see? There was nothing more beautiful than the youth and the maiden, and their bliss was beyond description.

The old woman wept for joy and ran to tell the king. Everyone shouted and made a commotion. They ran to the bedchamber and, in their joy, broke down the doors. The king rushed in, grabbed the serpent skin.

The youth was frightened, shuddered... He wanted to run, to hide—he leapt and flew up as a dove. The dove fluttered around the bedchamber, searching for a way out. The beautiful bride chased after him, afraid he might fly away from her forever, crying and laughing at the same time.

The dove found the door and flew out. The beauty begged her father for a horse, mounted it, and raced after her dove-groom. The dove flew, cooing. The beautiful bride chased him, shadow to shadow. When the dove perched on a tree, the bride rode up. When the dove took flight, the bride's horse galloped after him. The dove flew, and with him the beauty on her horse, all the way to the sea. In the sea, near the shore, was a small island. On the island stood a tall, straight poplar tree, like an arrow. The dove flew to the very top of the poplar and cooed. A breeze blew, bending the top of the poplar toward the shore—bringing the dove closer to the bride. When the poplar straightened, the top moved away, taking the dove with it.

The beauty spurred her horse. The horse leapt, barely managing to stay on the small island, its hooves just barely touching the shore. The poplar bent, and the beauty reached out her hands to the dove. The dove flew down, perched on her shoulder, and cooed right by her cheek. The horse leapt back to the shore, and the dove now caressed the bride's face with its wings, now sat on her knees. The bride tried to catch it, but the dove wouldn't let her.

And to this day, the dove still flutters around his bride—sometimes perching on her shoulder and cooing to her, sometimes caressing her knees. And there is no end to their love, tenderness, and caresses.

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The Serpent Youth

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