THRICE

TOLD

TALES

Karl F. Hollenbach

Karl F. Hollenbach

ii

Copyright 2003 Karl F. Hollenbach

All rights reserved.

Initial publication 2003 by Dunsinane Hill publications, Ekron, KY 40117

Second publication 2012 by internet marketing KY, LLC, Louisville, KY 40204

June 2013 revision and third publication by internet marketing KY, LLC, Louisville, KY, 40204, USA

All rights reserved

CreateSpace ISBN-13: 978-1484949887

CreateSpace ISBN-10: 1484949889

DEDICATION

The Greeks judged a work not by the story it told – which is a child’s criterion – but by the manner of its telling.

The Life Of Greece, Will Durant.

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PREFACE

“The Juggler” and “The Stone Prince” are ancient CHILDREN’S stories whose message of love speaks to the child in

all men and women of good will.

“The Piper” and “The Black Forest Quartet” are CHILDREN’S fables based on German folk tales.

“The Two Wishes and “The Happiest Day” are derived from Indian lore and are usually read to OLDER CHILDREN.

The story, “Baron Munchausen,” is based on the book of Baron Munchausen’s narrative of his marvelous travels and campaigns that appeared in England at the end of the eighteenth century. Its success

resulted in the printing of enlarged editions. Rudolph Raspe, a German exile living in London, is assumed to be the author.

A real Baron Karl Friedrich Munchausen lived in Germany at this time and Raspe may have known him. The real Munchausen may have told good stories, but he disapproved of the great lies the book

attributed to him and died of grief at being named the world’s greatest boaster.

“The Lorelei” is an adaptation of the famous tale from Legends

of the Rhine by Wilhelm Ruland.

“The Just Judge” and “Ivan The Fool” are retellings of famous fables by Leo Tolstoy, from his collection Fables and Fairy Tales.

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CONTENTS

Copyright ii

Dedication iii

Preface iv

Table of Contents v

Acknowledgments vii

1 The Juggler 1

2 The Happiest Day 12

3 The Stone Prince 21

4 The Piper 33

5 The Black Forest Quartet 54

6 The Two Wishes 70

7 Baron Munchausen 75

8 The Lorelei 92

9 The Just Judge 97

10 Ivan the Fool 105

About The Author 120

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The publisher wishes to thank Marie Bouwer of South Africa for the effort she took to transcribe the original paper version into an

electronic document.

The publisher is deeply grateful to Shae Thoman, editor, for all of the input and suggestions made on totally focusing these stories

for children.

Mr. John Snyder drew the pencil sketch illustration on page 11, for “The Juggler,” and kindly gave permission to use it with the story.

The author and Martha J. Hollenbach drew the other ten (10) “primitive art” sketches and maps used to illustrate parts of different

tales and fables.

1

1 THE JUGGLER

The snow began to sting his cheeks. Jacopone had to squint his eyes. A spiral glistened in the last rays of the evening sun. Yes! He saw it now. It was the Abbey. The old farmer had said the Abbey of Our Divine Mother, was just over the hill. Jacopone ceased pushing against the wind, and slowly, with difficulty, (for the sleeves of his old goatskin coat had frozen) he crossed himself.

"Holy Mother!" he prayed aloud. "Thank you for leading me here safely. This poor soul does not deserve such kindness. I thank you, Blessed Mother, for all your gifts to me, your humble child, Jacopone." With these last words, he lifted up the single bag he carried. "See? Your Jacopone has not forsaken his golden balls."

Inhaling the cold air gave him strength, as he again bent into the wind and trudged happily, the remaining mile towards the Abbey. His coat crackled, as he slung his bag of golden balls over his right shoulder. The sudden clicking among them became the drumbeat to the whistling song of the wind through the trees that lined the narrow road to the Abbey. Joy welled up within Jacopone's heart, and he hummed a song of praise for his good fortune. The good brothers would allow him a warm place by the kitchen hearth. He knew within, how eagerly he would gather twigs for its fire, even if it took a day's walk through the cold, dark forest, and how respectfully he would clean its every utensil, as if they were holy relics.

The rope dangled like a frozen pole, and Jacopone had to push it rather than pull it, to ring the bell. He waited as a warm feeling flowed through his shivering body. The scratching of a sliding bolt

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on the other side of the huge oaken door abruptly stopped with a loud clang. A bright beam of light glowed through the widening crack, as the door slowly opened a huge bearded face peered through the opening and a long arm thrust a lantern over Jacopone's head. "Come in, little one!"

Brother Sebastian stood over six foot tall and dwarfed Jacopone's frail, small body. An imaginary heat brightened Jacopone's face as Brother Sebastian held his lantern in front of him. Frozen in thought, now that warm shelter and a hot meal tempted him, Jacopone looked up into the red bearded face of the monk, and his lips cracked into a smile. Father Sebastian grabbed Jacopone's arm, and pulled him inside the Abbey entrance.

"Come! Get out of the cold. Hold this!" He thrust the metal loop of the lantern in Jacopone's cold, red hand, and closed the door. With one powerful push, the monk slammed the bolt into the hole and with a flip of his hand, clanged the latch against the door.

Jacopone started to explain his presence, but Brother Sebastian merely pushed him gently (for a man twice Jacopone's size) forward and pointed his hand through the large sleeve of his brown cassock, towards a door down the dark corridor. "Keep your strength, my son, you can speak later, after you've thawed your clothes and driven the shivers from your bones," he said, as he took the lantern from Jacopone.

Jacopone waited for Brother Sebastian to lead the way, but another gentle push sent him in the direction of the door, at the end of the corridor.

The door led into the abbey kitchen, where a fire from three logs, each longer than Jacopone was tall, cast long narrow shadows on the stone floor and showered golden warmth over Jacopone's white, frosted body, after he puppet-like, pulled off his old goat skin coat, and spread it before the fire.

"Brother Thomas, can you find something warm to eat for our young pilgrim?" asked Brother Sebastian.

Brother Thomas was slightly taller than Jacopone, but round like a barrel, so big that he could not see his feet when he looked down. "Ha! My little friend. You look like a plucked chicken that's turned blue from age. Here! Drink this."

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Jacopone took the steaming mug and touched his tongue to the simmering liquid. Hot, but savory. Slowly he sipped, and then swallowed larger gulps. Brother Thomas and Brother Sebastian watched Jacopone tilt the mug up and swallow the last drop. He wiped his arm across his mouth, and thrusting the mug out towards Brother Thomas, smiled with eyes that begged for more. The two monks laughed. Jacopone had begun to change from blue to pale pink.

"What is your name, my son?" asked Brother Sebastian. Brother Thomas handed Jacopone another steaming mug.

"Jacopone. Jacopone the Juggler, my Lord." "I am not your lord, Jacopone. Just Brother Sebastian." "What were you doing out in such freezing weather?" "Looking for this Abbey, my Lord...I mean, Brother Sebastian.

I have no place to go. I pray that I may stay here. I shall work with the greatest joy at whatever chore you give me. I need only a small corner in this great kitchen. I eat little and am strong for my size."

"You may stay with us, my son, as long as you wish. Brother Thomas? It seems our Blessed Mother has provided you with a new scullery aide. After prayers, perhaps you can arrange the small alcove behind the hearth for him." Brother Sebastian blessed Jacopone, as he left the kitchen.

During the next seven weeks, as the snow piled so high that coming in or out of the Abbey was impossible, Jacopone mastered all the scullery chores assigned to him and performed them with such eagerness, that the Abbot himself complimented him one day. Each of the twenty-eight monks of the Abbey spoke kind words to him and invited him to visit where each worked during the day.

One night in the alcove, behind the hearth, Jacopone kneeled, as he did each evening, before the little straw cross he had fastened to the wall and offered a prayer of thanks to the Divine Mother, for all She had given him. He fell asleep with his eyes open and awoke when the cock crowed, finding himself still kneeling in prayer.

Throughout the day and night, Jacopone sang silently to himself over and over again his own special prayer to God: "Lord, I give Thee all. Lord, I give Thee all."

In the early morning at the first sound of the bell announcing the time for the Angelus, Jacopone jumped out of bed and kneeled by his bed of straw and prayed aloud, "Lord, I give Thee all." He

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continued repeating the words silently as he put on his smock, fetched wood from the outside for the kitchen fireplace, and then stoked it until all the logs were blazing.

During the Angelus, Jacopone would stand behind the statue of Mary, the Divine Mother, and continue silently repeating his special prayer. After the morning Angelus, the monks would clasp their hands within the sleeves of their cassocks and walk in a single line to the dining hall for breakfast. Repeating his special prayer silently in his thoughts, Jacopone would follow the last monk in the line; and as soon as all of them had entered the dining hall, he would rush into the kitchen and gather as many bowls of bread as he could carry, with two arms and hands to the long table, where all the monks ate.

Jacopone noticed that Brother Bernard, Brother Lawrence, and Brother Francis, had stepped from the line of monks into their own cells, and had not come to the dining room.

"When you have finished cleaning the table, Jacopone, take breakfast to Brother Bernard in his cell, and also to Brothers Lawrence and Francis," said Brother Thomas.

When all the monks left the dining room, Jacopone carried the bowls and cups to the kitchen, wiped the table clean, and began singing aloud, "Lord, I give Thee all; Lord, I give Thee all." He found a large tray on which he placed breakfast for each of the three monks, and holding it between his two outstretched arms, marched down the dark hall in step to the rhythm of his song.

Brother Bernard's door was slightly open, and Jacopone whispered softly that he had breakfast for him. Brother Bernard concentrated on the fine lines of golden hair he was painting on the Madonna and Child on the canvas, resting on a large easel before him, and did not hear Jacopone.

Balancing the tray on one hand, Jacopone knocked softly on the door and said, "Brother Bernard, I have breakfast for you."

"Put it on the table, please," said Brother Bernard. He did not stop painting and did not look towards the door, as Jacopone quietly stepped into the room, and placed the bowl and cup on the table. Early morning sunlight had begun to fill Brother Bernard's cell, and a bright streak suddenly fell upon the canvas, illuminating the face of the Madonna. The blue and white veil about her head highlighted the gentle eyes and warm smile that Brother Bernard had painted.

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Entranced, Jacopone stood by the side of the picture and marveled at the beauty Brother Bernard had created.

"It's to be my gift to Our Lady, Jacopone, and it must be finished by Christmas morning," said Brother Bernard. He was unconsciously flattered by the awe his painting had inspired in Jacopone, and was pleased that it was nearly completed.

"Your painting is beautiful, Brother Bernard. Our Lady will truly be pleased Christmas morning," said Jacopone. But, like a small crack that appears on a plate, there was ever so small a crack within Jacopone's peace. How fortunate is Brother Bernard, Jacopone thought, to have such skill and ability to create such a magnificent Christmas gift for his - Jacopone's - blessed Divine Mother Mary. He excused himself from Brother Bernard's presence and left with slightly less elation, than he had before entering.

Jacopone carried the tray more from habit than thought now, and the words of his short, repetitive prayer changed unwittingly to "Lord, I give Thee...little." He forced himself to smile and to pray - but not sing - "Lord, I give Thee ... all." A few steps down the hall was Brother Lawrence's cell, and Jacopone saw that the door was open and allowed light to fall on the dark cobblestone floor of the hall.

"Come in!" said Brother Lawrence. He motioned with his hand for Jacopone to place the tray on the small table in the corner of his cell, and then sat on the bench next to the table. He smiled at Jacopone, and pointed to a wooden statue of Mary. "I've just finished carving it, Jacopone, and must begin painting it so it will be dry by Christmas morning." Jacopone slowly walked around the statue and stopped in front of it, as he bent his head slightly upward, to view the beatific face. "It's my Christmas gift to Our Lady. Do you think she will be pleased?" asked Brother Lawrence smiling.

Jacopone turned towards Brother Lawrence with moist eyes. "Yes, she will be greatly pleased. I am sure, Brother Lawrence." He sighed. He forced a smile and picked up the tray from the table, not realizing that he had been invited by Brother Lawrence to talk with him. "I must take Brother Francis his breakfast," he offered.

His pace slowed and his thoughts repeated, "Lord, I have so little to give. Lord, I have so little." He knocked on Brother Francis's door, which was slightly ajar, and then pushed it slowly open. He saw Brother Francis bent over a table writing musical notes on parchment

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after he would hum different sounds. He did not wish to disturb Brother Francis, and in truth, he did not wish to speak with Brother Francis now. Brother Thomas had told him, Brother Francis wrote a special hymn each year for the monks to sing at Mass, on Christmas morning. "It is Brother Francis' special gift to the Divine Mother," Jacopone said to himself. He was not aware that he did not say "our" Divine Mother this time.

He placed the bowl and cup at the end of the table, at which Brother Francis sat. Still humming a note, Brother Francis looked up at Jacopone, and nodded with a smile. Jacopone gave a slight bow and stepped towards the door, as Brother Francis sang out, "Thank you, Jacopone!"

As he left the room, he closed Brother Francis's door and the sudden disappearance of the light, bathed the hall in a cold darkness that chilled Jacopone's body. There would be warmth and light in the kitchen at the end of the hall. He hurried to the kitchen, but the light and the warmth from the roaring fire did not take the chill from his body.

Brother Thomas removed a tray from the hearth and placed it on the table in front of the open fireplace. "These are the first of the sweet cakes I am going to bake for Christmas. Try one and tell me if you like it, Jacopone," he said. "They have dried grapes from this summer; the hazel nuts you gathered this fall, and spices our noble count sent us from his journey east." He picked up one of the hot cakes, and shifting it from one hand to the other, presented it to Jacopone. "You, my dear Jacopone, are the first to sample."

Hearing the words "Lord, I have nothing" in his thoughts, Jacopone wished only to be left alone, but he took the sweet cake as graciously as possible. Feeling it too hot yet to bite, he blew on it. Absorbed in his despondent thoughts, he tasted nothing in the small bite he took. "The brothers will be pleased with them. Brother Thomas," he said. "I'll put the rest of it under my pillow and enjoy eating it later." He walked towards the alcove behind the hearth, without saying another word to Brother Thomas, who had picked up a sweet cake and started to blow on it.

As he fell upon his bed of straw, the sweet cake dropped from Jacopone's grasp. He buried his face in his hands and wept. "Lord, I have no gift," he cried to himself. "I cannot use the brush like Brother Bernard or carve and paint like Brother Lawrence and I can't

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write beautiful hymns of praise to you and the Divine Mother or even sing with any proper voice like the brothers." He rolled over and stared in the corner of the alcove. "I can't even prepare small sweet cakes like Brother Thomas."

The rising morning sun now sent a small beam of sunlight through the narrow window high above his straw bed. Despairingly, Jacopone watched the circle of light move slowly across the cobblestone floor. He visualized all the gifts the monks had made being placed before the altar on Christmas morning. In his imagination, he pictured the Divine Mother smiling with joy at the many gifts. Each monk, including Brother Thomas, had a gift for Christmas morning, which he had made, but he, Jacopone, who had been given so much since he came to the Abbey, had no gift.

The sunlight reached the corner of the alcove, where Jacopone had thrown his bag of golden balls. He shook his head sadly, as the sun fell upon the bag. The bag of golden balls was his only possession. (Brother Sebastian had given him new clothing.) "My only possession, the only thing I have, is not something I made myself. I have nothing to give on Christmas morning," he whispered to himself. "All I can do is juggle."

Suddenly he rose from the bed. "Juggle? I can juggle!" He remembered the applause and shouts of approval at the fairs. "I'm the best!" he exclaimed. Juggling required ability and skill. He had that ability and he possessed that skill. Now he realized that he had been wrong in saying he had nothing. He reasoned that while juggling was not a gift like a beautiful painted picture or a finely carved statue, it was like an angelic hymn that was written to be sung. Juggling was not a gift to give, but to perform!

For the remaining nights until Christmas Eve, Jacopone took his five golden balls, which he had polished so that they glistened in the moonlight, and practiced juggling until the bells of the morning Angelus rang. Not only could he keep all five balls in the air at once, but also he could catch them from behind himself, without changing the smooth rhythm of all five balls floating through the air.

On Christmas Eve, he fell into his deepest sleep, since first seeing Brother Bernard's painting of the Madonna and Child. He was dreaming that all the brothers were telling him how well he juggled, when the morning Angelus bell rang. He grabbed his bag of golden balls, which were by the side of his straw bed, and scurried to the

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kitchen to place the bowls and cups on the long table. This morning he would not follow the brothers when they

walked from the chapel to the kitchen. He would go to the chapel before the mass on Christmas morning, and alone, present his gift before the altar.

Even though a thin sheet of ice covered the cobblestones leading into the chapel, Jacopone no longer felt chilled and could now taste the hot sweet cake he had bitten into several days ago. He had been given so much, and now, he too, had a gift to present before the altar.

He crossed himself before the statue of the Blessed Mother and placed a bit of red cloth, which had been discarded by a visiting noble, in front of the statue. He smiled, as he looked up into the face of the statue and carefully removed each of the five golden balls, polishing each before he placed them in a row before himself.

The shadows on the altar danced from the light of the many candles, and Jacopone's eyes glistened as much from an inner light as from the outer light of the candles. He kneeled on the red cloth, picked up the five golden balls, and with a smile, stretched from ear to ear, began to juggle all five in the air at one time.

His juggling surpassed his best performance at any fair. The golden balls glittered from the candlelight and appeared as if a giant wheel turned in mid-air. The chilled chapel air did not prevent perspiration on Jacopone's forehead from seeping into his eyes, but in the ecstasy of his giving, he felt nothing but bliss.

Brother Jerome had been delayed and now hastened to the dining hall. Passing the chapel entrance, he heard heavy breathing from somewhere near the altar. He stopped and looked in. To his horror, he saw Jacopone performing some unrighteous act before the altar. Shocked, he stood still a moment at the repugnance of such a sacrilege, before running to the dining hall.

"Father! Father!" he shouted as he burst into the dining hall. "A great sacrilege! Jacopone! In front of the altar." He grabbed the Abbot, pulled him off his bench, and dragged him into the hall while he continued shouting "Sacrilege! A great sacrilege!"

Curious and surprised, all the monks followed Brother Jerome down the hall to the chapel, as he tugged at the sleeve of the bewildered Abbot. Brother Jerome stopped at the entrance to the chapel, and now in speechless shock, pointed towards the altar,

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where Jacopone, in a frenzy of delight, was juggling all five golden balls and the red cloth, a feat he normally would have considered impossible.

Recovering from the initial shock, the Abbot raised his hands. "Stop this sacrilege! Stop at once!" he yelled. He ran towards Jacopone, when suddenly the sunlight falling on the statue of the Divine Mother, blazed in a radiance of golden light. The Abbot and the monks stopped, their eyes glued on the transfigured statue of the Divine Mother. In astonishment, they watched as She stepped from her pedestal and walked towards the juggling Jacopone. With the hem of her gown, she wiped the perspiration from his brow.

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2 THE HAPPIEST DAY

A lone figure, thin and bent like a standing praying mantis, stepped cautiously on to the green carpet of tall grasses, before plunging eagerly into the lush vegetation of hanging vines and tall trees. The early morning dew, trapped in the crook of a giant stonecrop leaf, cooled his dry, parched lips. The scarlet berries of a withered Jack-in-the-pulpit, quelled his suppressed appetite. Mulafa had found the enchanted land of his dreams.

Sitting on a fallen tree, he wiggled his parched feet into the soft earth, letting its cool moisture ooze between his dry toes. The cool sensation brought forth memories of those few happy moments, when he would dangle his feet on the edge of the Brahmapur, the sacred river that flowed by the humble hut, he and six younger brothers and sisters shared with their widowed mother.

In those happy moments by the Brahmapur, away from the deadening duty of hauling water to the fields each day, he would watch the leaves and twigs swirl by and become small skiffs that carried imaginary pilgrim souls like himself, to Paradise. He had determined in his heart that someday the sacred Brahmapur would take him to happiness. And so it was, that when his brothers and sisters had all married, and his mother passed away, Mulafa built a small dinghy that carried him down the Brahmapur.

The water and berries had renewed his strength from the scorching journey through the desert. The shade, under which he rested, encouraged him to slip into peaceful reverie. A line of ants, marching to his right, slowly reminded him of Norestan, the village to which his voyage down the Brahmapur had first taken him. The

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master potter, to whom he apprenticed himself in Norestan, had told him that the way to happiness lay in hard work.

"Is it not a beautiful day today?" he would ask. "On such a beautiful day we can get twice as much done."

And so Mulafa had worked, and worked, and worked on gloomy rainy days and twice as hard on beautiful sunny days. Working at the potting wheel was far more rewarding than hauling water to the fields. "This bowl you have created, Mulafa, is excellent." Unfortunately, such praise from his Master had touched his vanity more than his humility; and the gold piece the lady had given him for the bowl, increased his greed more than his creativity. After his seven years of apprenticeship, something was still missing.

"Are you not happy, Mulafa?" his Master had asked. "I should be, Master. I now have a skill - a profitable skill. I am

respected among the other guilds and have gold coins in my purse." "But are you happy?" "I enjoy my work. I enjoy working," replied Mulafa, without a

smile. "Mulafa, my son, perhaps you should visit Sudestan." "Why is

that, Master?" replied Mulafa. "In Sudestan, when it is a beautiful day, they say, 'It is too

beautiful to work. Today we shall play.'" The long row of marching ants had passed, as a soft breeze

rippled through Mulafa's curled strands of black hair, which had become matted and grimy. He touched his thick beard and remembered how it had been perfumed and trimmed close to his skin in Sudestan; how he had lounged in satin and silk robes, talking endlessly to companions about the bitterness of the stuffed grape leaves they were devouring; or the poor performance of the horses in the last race at the hippodrome; or the ruby broach Batesta had given to his new mistress.

Mulafa had easily convinced himself that he had found happiness in Sudestan, where everyone indulged himself in all pleasures, but no work. Then one day, Mulafa observed a street urchin, guide a rusted hoop with a stick along the cobbled street.

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The child shouted with joy, when a sharp strike from his stick bounced the sagging hoop off a small rock and a sudden full swing of his stick, sent the hoop gracefully around the corner. The child was happy! And with all Mulafa had, he wasn't.

"Happiness! You want to be happy?" exclaimed his friend Batesta. "Be satisfied, my dear friend," he counseled Mulafa. "You have wealth, companions, and the time to indulge in both."

Mulafa had shrugged his shoulders, and looking into Batesta's eyes, shook his head, "No!"

"Very well, my friend. Have you heard of Karmastan?" Again, Mulafa shook his head, "No." "I have heard - understand, I have only heard, I do not know

for certain - that those who have journeyed over the Enchanted Desert to Karmastan seeking happiness, never return."

Batesta had smiled after conveying this important information, but Mulafa's questioning expression left him no doubt that it was not understood. "They all found their happiness! Don't you understand? That's why no one ever returns." Mulafa had smiled slightly, then wider until his white teeth sparkled. He had embraced Batesta and thanked him with tears of joy in his eyes.

The next morning, seven years to the day after he had first come to Sudestan, Mulafa had stepped into the Enchanted Desert.

The pleasing melodies of birds abruptly stopped. Mulafa cocked his ears. From deep within the forest, the swishing sound of tall grass being pushed aside grew louder. Mulafa stood up from the log on which he had been resting, and squinted his eyes to bring better into focus, the dark shadows of the trees. A line of tall figures slowly emerged from the shadows - like the marching ants - but not as many. Dappled light suddenly glistened upon the bright golden helmets of the figures, as if fireflies suddenly released from a basket.

They were coming to meet him! A warm feeling in his heart prompted him to wave his hands above his head.

"Ho! He yelled. "Here! Here!” The line of figures instantly turned in a column and marched directly towards Mulafa. Overwhelmed by this obvious welcome, Mulafa laughed with joy. "These are soldiers sent to greet me, a mere stranger to their land!" he thought. He watched, entranced, as they divided into two columns and halted on both sides of him, leaning their pikes at an angle that formed a sort of tent over Mulafa, as their red cloaks walled him

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within. "How gracious!" Mulafa thought. "They immediately provide

me protection. And here is their commander coming to greet me personally." A tall figure with a large white plume in his helmet, stepped in front of Mulafa, put his hands on his hips, and smiled.

"Your Excellency," said Mulafa, "I am honored by your reception."

The tall figure lifted his hand parallel to the ground and pointed to his neck. He waved his hand quickly back and forth several times and yelled, "Secare! Secare!" All the soldiers in both columns lifted their free left hand to their necks, waving it quickly back and forth and yelled, "Secare! Secare!"

Mulafa reasoned that "Secare" - which sounded like "sah 'ka ray" to him - meant "welcome," or "greetings" in their language. To show his great pleasure for this wonderful reception, he raised his hand to his neck, waved it back and forth, and cried, "Secare! Secare!" as tears of joy ran down his cheeks.

All the soldiers laughed and began babbling "Secare! Secare! Secare!" The two columns began to march in the direction from which they came. The commander, the tall figure Mulafa had called Excellency, motioned with his hand for Mulafa to follow.

Mulafa lifted his chin in pride, swelled his chest, and attempted to march in step with the two columns. "Me!" he thought. "A simple, ordinary man - to receive such a welcome!" With an exuberant voice he sang out, "Secare! Secare! Secare!" His marching steps turned into a lilt that kept time with his singing. "Could anyone be more thrilled?" he mused to himself, clapping and swaying.

A half hour later, they reached the outskirts of a city. The people along the street smiled when they saw Mulafa walking between the two columns. Most of them greeted him with their hands waving at their necks, yelling, "Secare!" Mulafa eagerly responded in like manner, much to their amusement. They laughed and pointed towards Mulafa, who continued waving his hand near his neck and shouting, "Secare! Secare! Secare!"

"What a hospitable people are these," he thought. "Never have I heard of or in all my travels experienced such a warm display of affection and friendship in a city. And escorted by an honor guard - for certainly," he concluded, "that's what the two columns of soldiers are. How shall I be able to express to them the happiness I feel?"

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The two columns halted in front of a three story gray stone structure with iron grates covering all the windows. The commander pointed Mulafa to the door and motioned for him to enter.

"Accommodations!" Mulafa said to himself. "And such a large guest house! They do believe in protecting visitors.

Not only do all the windows have ornate iron grates, but here at the entrance is an iron grill."

The commander ordered the guard to open the grill and led Mulafa by the arm up two flights of steps. Mulafa appreciated the evident concern the commander had for his comfort, when he opened the door to room number 33, and with a hand gesture invited Mulafa to enter.

A bed, a chair, a table, and a chamber pot. To show his pleasure and appreciation for this private room, Mulafa waved his hand near his neck and said, "Secare!"

The commander threw his head back and laughed. Nodding his head, "Yes," he left the room, grunting "Secare!" under his breath over and over again. Mulafa noticed the commander locked the door, which was further evidence of their concern for his safety.

Mulafa stretched out on the bed, placed his hands behind his neck, and sighed. "Batesta! If you could see me now!" he thought. "Here I am. Only an hour in Karmastan, and I've been welcomed and escorted by a troop of at least two dozen soldiers, greeted by the people in the streets, and provided with a private room."

Mulafa raised his head and saw through the small opening at the top of his door, the back of a soldier standing guard. "And favored with a special guard for my protection. Oh, Batesta, you are so right! I can understand why no visitor wishes to return from Karmastan."

From the courtyard came the sound of hammering. Mulafa got up from the bed and peered through the grillwork covering the inside of the window, which, he realized was more evidence of their concern for his safety - to keep him from falling out. They truly had gone beyond the call of observed hospitality. He shook his head in amazement and looked down onto the courtyard.

Several men were building a platform that stood about five feet from the ground. That accounted for the hammering. "Apparently," he thought, "there is to be some celebration." He noticed two men had unloaded a large block that appeared to be a baptismal font or

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some kind of altar and were taking it up the stairs that had been attached to the platform. "I wonder if I was given this third floor room in order better to see the festivities?" he thought.

A scratching noise by the door caused him to turn. A bowl had been shoved through the small opening at the bottom of the door. The aroma of cooked food informed his empty stomach that they had provided lunch for him. He picked up the bowl, took off the large hunk of bread that sat on top, and placed it on the small table. Potatoes, onions, carrots, and something green, which he did not recognize. "How considerate they are," he thought. "For my convenience, they have put the different vegetables together in one bowl."

The potatoes could have been cooked a little longer and there was a little too much gravy - too watery. Of course, the cooks had been given short notice to prepare lunch for him, Mulafa reasoned. That's why. To hurry his lunch, they had emptied his drinking water into the bowl. That was thoughtful and considerate. Mulafa shook his head in agreement with his conclusions and dipped the bread into the thin gravy to soak up the last drops. He walked to the bed, stretched out, and before the sun went down, fell into a deep sleep with a broad smile upon his face.

A crowd had gathered in the courtyard the next morning, and the noise soon woke Mulafa. He rubbed his eyes and stepped to the window to look down. Hundreds of men, women, and children were standing around the platform, which had been completed the previous evening. On the farther side of the platform, a large golden throne sat on a dais covered with purple carpeting. The block that Mulafa had seen the two men carry up the stairs, now rested on the side closest to the dais with the golden throne.

A flourish of trumpets drew cheers from the crowd. From the building behind the dais, courtiers in colorful uniforms followed a short, fat man dressed in a purple robe that dragged ten feet behind him. With as much dignity as his stature and obesity would allow, he stepped in front of the golden throne while two courtiers draped the end of his robe around and in front of him.

He raised his left hand above his head and spoke. A few moments later, he lowered his left arm with the hand parallel with his neck and shouted, "Secare!"

The crowd began shouting, "Secare! Secare! Secare!"

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Mulafa did not notice the guard enter, until he heard the door close. The guard held two bracelets, fastened together by a chain the length of an arm. He quickly fastened a bracelet around each of Mulafa's wrists and motioned for him to go out the door.

Mulafa appreciated the gift of two rather unusual bracelets, particularly their being joined together with a chain. He smiled and nodded his head to express his thanks, while wishing that he could be closer to the festival activities. His wish was more than fulfilled.

Mulafa reached the bottom of the stairs and the guard motioned for him to go out the center door, into the courtyard. The crowd continued to yell, "Secare! Secare! Secare!" Mulafa could not believe what he saw. Soldiers kept the crowd from a path running from the steps of the building he had just left all the way to the steps of the platform. Tears came to his eyes. "Never have I received such cheers and attention," he thought, as he walked along the path to the platform.

Humbly, he ascended the steps of the platform with the shouts of the crowd ringing in his ears. He stepped onto the platform and raised his arms in a gesture not only to show them the bracelets, but also to demonstrate his deep appreciation for the gift. Then he lowered and waved both hands near his neck, and yelled, "Secare!"

The crowd yelled louder, stomped on the ground, danced in circles, and began shaking their hands near their necks with great laughter.

"I must be part of the festival!" he thought. Slowly he turned around and smiled at all the crowd. He noticed a hooded figure at a corner of the platform near the block, but he was too absorbed in the moment to give it much thought.

The guard came up the steps and motioned for Mulafa to step next to the block. "I was right!" he thought. "This is an altar. I am to have some honor bestowed upon me!” The guard motioned for him to kneel before the altar and then rather energetically, Mulafa thought, pressed his head down upon the altar. Straight ahead, Mulafa could see the short, fat man on the golden throne, lift his hand.

What honor was to be bestowed upon him, a total stranger? And why? Ah! That is the reason. All strangers are given such a welcome and graciously made part of the people of Karmastan. Yes. Why would anyone wish to leave? Was he to be anointed or possibly

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have a wreath placed upon his head? The shadow on the floor, Mulafa guessed, was that of the

hooded figure he had seen standing at the corner of the platform. The shadow appeared to be holding something - perhaps a wreath. Yes, a wreath to be placed on his head!

Overjoyed, Mulafa exclaimed, "This is my happiest day!" The ax sliced easily through Mulafa's neck, and his still smiling

head rolled on the platform floor.

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3 THE STONE PRINCE

Franz Frederick Von Stahlbach became the seventh Prince of Ostmark, when he was only seven years old. The first Stahlbach had been given the small County of Ostmark, in 1347 by the Emperor Charles IV, for his support in the Kurverein, by supporting the decree that a majority of the seven electors, without papal confirmation, could elect an emperor. A century later, the County of Ostmark, was created a Principality by Maximilian I, to strengthen those portions of the Empire that supported him in the creation of the Hapsburg dynastic empire. Frederick, the sixth Count of Ostmark, therefore, became Prince of Ostmark.

The handsome, tall Frederick, had married Matilda, the beautiful, religiously inclined, great-granddaughter of the Emperor Louis III of the House of Wittelsbach. Matilda gave birth to two daughters before Franz Frederick was born. Two years later, a third daughter was born and again in two years, a fourth daughter. With the death of his father three years later, young Franz Frederick became the seventh Prince of Ostmark.

Franz Frederick inherited his father's handsome features, physical strength, and keen intellect, and from his mother he learned compassion and chivalry. It was these characteristics of the young Prince that caused him to offer himself as hostage to the Ottoman Sultan Suleiman I, as a guarantee of the withdrawal of Imperial Troops from the field, during the first siege of Vienna in 1529.

Franz Frederick's bravery and chivalrous manner so impressed Suleiman that he became like a son to the Sultan. Six months later,

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when an assassin ran with a raised dagger towards the Sultan, Franz Frederick jumped in front of Suleiman and received the assassin's fatal blow. With great honors, Suleiman had the body of Franz Frederick returned on a royal barge down the Danube to Ostmark.

Suleiman had also sent a chest of gold on the barge with the command, that a monument be built in Ostmark to honor Franz Frederick. His four sisters convinced Tilman Riemenschneider, the skilled wood carver, to come to Ostmark, and create a stone statue of the Prince. Riemenschneider found no likeness of the Prince and gained little insight, as to the Prince's features from the myriad descriptions of him. While searching for the finest block of stone throughout the Ostmark, Riemenschneider would attempt to visualize the Prince in his thoughts, and gradually in his mind's eye, a figure emerged. In the quiet of his heart, it began to speak.

Seven men toiled to erect the huge block of stone, in an upright position in a separate room, near the palace kitchen, where Riemenschneider would not be disturbed. Alone, he walked slowly around the block of stone, trying to feel the figure that was inside.

"Use your hammer and chisel, Herr Riemenschneider, and remove this outer covering from around me," a voice said. Riemenschneider looked around the room. No one was there. "Come, mein Herr, I am the figure in the stone. Release me with your hammer and chisel. I shall tell you where to work on the block of stone."

Riemenschneider picked up his hammer and chisel and began. As the days progressed, and the four sisters came to watch the master at work, they smiled among themselves, as he spoke to himself while chiseling bits and pieces of the block of stone. "Where? In front of you? Of course, I see now. You are holding your sword. One moment, my Prince. I must be careful of your hands." The sisters watched, as he carefully chiseled larger pieces from the front of the stone block. Gradually the rough image of a huge sword appeared. The sisters quietly left the room, shaking their heads at the skillful master, who continually talked to himself.

Within a year, the ten-foot tall, lifelike statue of Franz Frederick, gazed down from a pedestal in front of the town hall at Heimstadt, the capital of Ostmark. Wrapped in his knight's cloak, Franz Frederick rested his hands on the hilt of a two-handed sword. A large ruby glistened in the pommel of his sword, and two emerald

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eyes gazed far into space and time. The children of Heimstadt learned at an early age that the Prince watched over them day and night, year after year, generation after generation.

The belief in the miraculous powers of the Stone Prince began shortly after the erection of Franz Frederick's statue. It had its beginning when Katrina Stoltz took sweet cakes from the oven and placed them on the only table in her small cottage. She had promised her son Oscar to bake them for his seventh birthday, and was surprised that he was not there ready to grab a cake, while the sugar she had sparingly sprinkled on them was, still gooey.

"Oscar!" she exclaimed in sudden fear. She rushed outside, searching down the narrow lanes that separated the rows of small cottages. Oscar had lost his hearing after an illness that winter. She had to find him soon, before he wandered too far away.

"Oscar?" she asked, as she looked at old Wilhelm, sitting on a bench in front of his son's house. The blank expression on old Wilhelm's face did not change, but he raised his hand and pointed towards the town square.

Rushing down the lane towards the center of the town, she suffered the abusive words of those she blindly pushed aside in the growing crowd, which, like a walnut dropped in honey, slowed her. She ignored the blind beggar whose pleading song for "a copper" kept in beat with the tapping of his knarred crutch on the cobblestones. Panting, gasping for air, Katrina Stoltz suddenly, burst into the open market square and took a great breath, like a drowning man, who suddenly fills his lungs, as he bursts from his struggle through deep, dark water, into the fresh, cool air.

Farmer's carts and their stalls displaying their fresh produce, blocked Katrina Stoltz's view of the pedestal in the center of the square, on which the statue of Prince Franz Frederick stood, but she could see the upper portion of the statue of Prince Franz Frederick, regally looking above and beyond the buildings around the square and majestically holding his sword with both hands. The statue of the Prince mesmerized Katrina, and she stepped among the carts and stalls towards it. As she neared the statue, the pedestal came into view, and she saw a small boy standing in front of it, talking to it. It was Oscar!

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She pushed past a chattering group of four old farmers discussing the poor prices they had received for their produce. She accidentally knocked over several baskets of potatoes and squash the old farmers' wives had just stacked in front of their vegetable stalls.

"Oscar! Oscar!" she yelled. The crowd around the statue stepped aside and stared quizzically at a woman who was interrupting their affairs on market day.

"Oscar, be careful, child." She cried out, forgetting for the moment that the child could not hear. But Oscar turned around just before she reached him.

"What is it, Mama?" "Oscar, why did you run away from home?" She extended both

arms to him, as he stood on the base of the pedestal. He turned, took both of her hands, and slid down the sloping

side. "The Prince called me, Mama," he said. "Oscar!" she cried, suddenly realizing he heard her. "You

answered my question! Can you hear now, my child?" "Yes, Mama. The Prince has made it all possible." "The Prince? What are you saying, child?" "This morning I heard Prince Franz Frederick call my name.

He said to come to him in the center of town and he would help me to hear again. So I came."

"And you can hear again!” His mother exclaimed. "The Prince said to wash both my ears with the rain water lying

at his feet. I did and then I heard you call my name." Curiosity brought more people nearer the statue, as Katrina

pulled Oscar hurriedly from the square down the lane to their home. Several of them heard the words exchanged between Oscar and his mother.

"That was deaf Oscar," one old woman exclaimed. "He ain't deaf no more. I heard him tell Katrina the Prince did

it," an old farmer said. "Did what?" asked another old woman. "Why, help him to hear again. That's what. He just took some

of the rainwater that was at the feet of Franz Frederick, and he rubbed it on his ears. I saw him do it," said the old farmer.

"The rain water!" exclaimed the old, the middle-aged, and the young in awe.

"It was the tears of the Prince," said a stooped and toothless

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grandmother. From that day on the miracle water - "the tears of the Stone

Prince" - attracted all the town's people, including the Mayor's family. Within a generation, hundreds trudged through the forests and over the mountains of Ostmark, to obtain a few drops of the tears of the Prince, in order that they might see again, cure them of a skin disease, or even become pregnant. In the next century, the tears of the Stone Prince became part of the spiritual folklore of Ostmark and beyond. However, the name Franz Frederick was forgotten.

The town merchants prospered from all the curious country folk, the superstitious religious pilgrims, and the hopeful sick that came to Heimstadt, to see, pray, or be healed by the tears of the Stone Prince. Jacob Burckhardt, speaking for his fellow innkeepers, told the town council of their concern, that the increase of sick pilgrims taking the rainwater would soon deplete the small amount of it that collected at the feet of the Stone Prince. The Mayor, ever mindful of the money spent by the pilgrims in Heimstadt, assured Herr Burckhardt that providence would certainly take care of such a problem.

The next evening, Herr Burckhardt looked through the window of The Hare and Turtle Inn, (which had been in his family for two generations) and saw the long line of sick and crippled men and women standing patiently in front of the statue of the Stone Prince, waiting to dip their finger into the rainwater.

When darkness came and there was no one left in the town square, Herr Burckhardt quietly walked to the statue and looked at the feet of the Stone Prince, under the light of a full moon. There was not even a drop of water left! From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow move quickly against the sidewall of the town hall. Herr Burckhardt stepped into the shadow of the statue. It was the Mayor's dwarf lackey, Rollo, struggling with a bucket half his size.

Rollo placed the bucket on the pedestal and climbed up. He rubbed his finger around the hollow place in front of the feet of the Stone Prince and then licked it.

"Empty!" he said. He giggled and slowly poured all the water from the bucket

into the hollow place, so that water ran over and down onto the ground. Once more, he stuck his finger in the water and licked it! Laughing, he jumped down from the pedestal and scurried off into

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the shadows of the buildings. Herr Burckhardt walked towards the feet of the Stone Prince

and put his hand into the water. He lifted his cupped hand and turned it over slowly, so that the water dripped drop by drop. "The Mayor works miracles!" he thought, as he sauntered back to The Hare and Turtle Inn.

The next morning, Frau Burckhardt woke her husband, shortly after the sunburst through the windows of their inn. "Fritz says there is no rain water in front of the statue."

At the sound of "statue,” Herr Burckhardt instantly opened his eyes and rose from bed. "That stupid son of yours doesn't know what he's talking about."

"He says the hollow place is gone." Herr Burckhardt jumped out of bed, got dressed, and raced to

the center of the town square. He pushed several old men, who were jabbering in front of the statue, aside. The hollow place no longer existed! There was no water. Herr Burckhardt ran to the Mayor's house.

That very day, the master stonemason repaired the hollow place with cement, but before it had dried, it crumbled. The next morning, he again used cement to repair the hollow place and again before it dried, it crumbled. Each day for a week, a different stonemason attempted to repair the hollow place, but each evening it crumbled. The water was gone.

The sick and crippled grumbled, the pilgrims ceased praying, and the superstitious and curious threw spoiled vegetables at the Mayor's house. The Mayor and the town merchants at first sighed with relief when the town square became empty of the troublesome superstitious and curious outlanders and the sick and crippled who moaned and cried all day. The next day and the following days were, however, different. The money that the outlanders spent in Heimstadt ended.

On market days, the old farmers and their wives continued to bring their produce into the town square, but no one spoke anymore of the "tears of the Prince," and no one looked at the top of the pedestal, to see if rain had wetted the place in front of the feet, of the Stone Prince. No sick or crippled souls, no praying pilgrims, no superstitious or curious outlanders, came near the statue of the Stone Prince. The citizens of Heimstadt no longer called the statue "the

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Stone Prince" but only "the statue." The last leaves had fallen, as winter winds chilled the morning

air and turned puddles into slippery, ice hazards, for the old and rollicking games for the young. The last of its flock, heading for the warm climate of the Mediterranean Sea, a perky bluebird, swooped down from its perch on the church steeple, onto the town square, to glean bits of food left, after the farmers' wives packed their remaining produce in carts and dismantled their stalls. Plump from an abundance of grain, the bluebird flew to the stone statue of Prince Franz Frederick and perched on the hilt of his sword.

A few drops of water fell upon the bluebirds head. He looked up to the bright sky, but saw no clouds. Another drop fell. He looked higher up into the face of the stone statue and saw tears falling from the two emerald eyes.

"Why are you crying?" the bluebird said to the statue. "I am sad, my little one." "Sad? On such a beautiful day? Who might you be, sir, and why

are you sad?" asked the bluebird. "I am the spirit of Prince Franz Frederick, and this is my stone

statue. I am sad because I see so much hardship and grief around me, and no longer can I do anything to help."

The bluebird hopped on the statue's right shoulder, to which the Prince's head was turned. "Your tears were getting me unnecessarily wet, my dear Prince, and it is easier for me to talk with you here, on your shoulder." The bluebird turned his head sideways and looked up into the Prince's emerald, watery eyes. "What hardship and grief do you see?"

"In a dark attic room in the last house on the narrow lane leading to the vineyards, is a young student reading by a single candle. He wishes nothing in the world for himself, except the opportunity to study, to become a doctor at the medical college in Bologna. He helps his poor, widowed mother, raise his four younger sisters. There is little chance that he will obtain his wish ... unless." The Prince stopped.

The bluebird courteously waited for the Prince to finish, but he did not. Finally, the bluebird asked, "Unless what, my dear Prince?"

"If he had the ruby stone in the pommel of my sword, there would be sufficient money from its sale to provide for his mother and sisters and for him to go to Bologna to learn the art of

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medicine," said the Prince. "So much money for a red stone?" said the bluebird. "Humans

are indeed strange creatures." The bluebird thought for a moment. The cold weather would not come for a day or so. It was a little thing to do, and it would please the Stone Prince and certainly the young man. "My dear Prince, I shall be glad to take the red stone to the young man."

"How gracious of you, bluebird. I know cold winter is near and you must be on your way south. Tomorrow morning, you can remove the ruby from the pommel of my sword and take it to him."

The next morning, the bluebird pecked several times at the ruby, until it no longer was held fast by the small flanges. He took it in his beak and flew in the direction of the vineyards.

The young boy had fallen asleep at the table where he was reading. The candle had burned through the night before going out. The bluebird fluttered quietly to the table, placed the ruby in the middle of the open book, and then flew back to the stone prince.

"Thank you, my little friend," said the Prince, after the bluebird perched on his shoulder again. "The young man awoke and discovered the ruby. He was so excited and joyful, that I can see him running now to the goldsmith, at the other end of town, to see what value it has."

"I am glad that I could be of help. Tomorrow morning, however, I must leave before the days become colder. But tonight, I shall sleep in the curve of your arm and keep you company, my dear Prince."

The first rays of the morning sun woke the bluebird. He found no bits of grain in the town market or in any parts of the town. In a few days, it would be too late for him to fly south. "I must leave today, my dear Prince."

"Yes, I know," said the Prince. "The shop of Master Jacobus burned to the ground last night and all his tools and material for making fine violins are destroyed. His pupils and apprentices will leave him...unless."

The bluebird did not ask, "Unless what?" this time. "You have no more jewels in your sword or on your clothing, dear Prince; otherwise, I would be pleased to help again."

"Take the emerald from my eye!" said the Prince. "How will you see?" asked the surprised bluebird.

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"I still have my other eye," said the Prince. "Do this once again for me, and you can fly south tomorrow."

The next morning, the bluebird awoke from his nest in the crouch of the Stone Prince's arm, just before the sun rose on the horizon. "Are you sure you want me to take your emerald eye?" he whispered to the Prince.

"Yes. Master Jacobus needs it more than I. Quickly, bluebird. He's standing before the smoldering embers with his old hat in his hand. Drop the emerald in his hat."

Old Master Jacobus walked around the hot ashes, kicking something that looked like it might be salvaged, lifting a burned board that covered a blackened metal tool. There was little left. All was gone. He hung his head down in deep prayer and held his hat in front of him, with both hands. As he opened his eyes, he saw a bird flying towards him and suddenly swoop down to drop something in his hat. Startled, Master Jacobus stood frozen and watch the bluebird fly up and away. He bent his head down and lowered his eyes. Something small glistened in his hat.

The Prince again thanked the bluebird, once he returned and sat on his shoulder to describe how Master Jacobus danced around the ruins of his old shop, when he discovered the emerald in his hat. "He shall make finer violins than before, and his pupils will play them in the royal palaces. And you have helped make this possible, my dear little friend."

The bluebird told the Stone Prince that he was again pleased to have helped. A few snowflakes fell upon the Stone Prince and the bluebird. "I must leave tomorrow morning," the bluebird said.

"Yes, I know," replied the Prince. Frost covered the town square, as the bluebird shook off the

snowflakes that covered his feathers, but it soon vanished with the first rays of the sun.

"Good morning, my dear bluebird. Shall I tell you what I saw this morning?"

"Yes, if you wish, my dear Prince," replied the bluebird. He quickly added, "But I leave today."

"Yes, of course," said the Prince. The bluebird waited, but the Prince said nothing more. A

minute passed. "What was it you saw this morning?" asked the bluebird.

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"A scholar hurriedly translating a Greek history before his eyesight fails. He cannot afford glasses."

"You have no more jewels," said the bluebird. "I have one remaining emerald," said the Prince. "But it is your only remaining eye." "Yes," said the Prince. "Take it to him." "You will not be able to see!" said the bluebird. "And neither will he," said the Prince. "Very well. But tomorrow I leave." "Yes, of course," replied the Prince. The scholar heard the fluttering of wings, before he realized

that a bird had flown through his window, and dropped a stone on the paper on which he was writing. In an instant, the bird had flown out the window and away. The young scholar picked up the green stone and started to throw it out the window, when suddenly a sunbeam pierced the stone and set it on green fire.

"An emerald!" said the astonished scholar. The Prince told the bluebird after he returned that the young

scholar would save his eyesight and complete his manuscript. "Is it dark, bluebird?" asked the Prince. It was in fact still

daylight and large flakes of snow were falling. "It is dusk. Some snow is falling. I shall spend this last night,

cuddled in your arm. Tomorrow I leave." "Yes, tomorrow you must leave," said the Prince. That night it snowed, until it reached the top of the pedestal,

and the Stone Prince appeared to be standing on the snow. It was two days and nights, before the snow melted and the Mayor and his council could walk cautiously on the wet cobblestones, past the statue to the town hall.

"Look, my lords!" said the Mayor. "The ruby is gone from the sword!"

"And the emeralds are missing from the eyes," said the fat councilman.

"The statue is a worthless piece of stone," sighed the thin councilman.

"It must be removed!" cried the tallest councilman. Yes! Away with the statue!" cried the others. The next day, four men tied ropes about the statue and

harnessed them to two horses. The horses tugged at the ropes, until

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the statue toppled from its pedestal and crashed into three pieces onto the cobblestones.

"Throw the pieces on the wagon," said the Mayor, "and dump them into the ravine."

The strongest of the four men, turned the middle part of the statue over. "There's a dead bird nested in the arm of the statue."

"Throw it in the ravine with the chunks of stone," commanded the Mayor indifferently.

The wagon hauled the three pieces of stone and the dead bird to the ravine. The four men tilted the wagon up over the edge of the ravine. The three stone pieces, rolled and slid down the wagon, into the ravine and crashed at the bottom with such force, that stone dust stirred about the broken pieces.

A wind, cold and sudden, swirled down the ravine and lifted a small blue feather, mingled with stone dust into the heavens.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Karl F. Hollenbach was born in 1925 in Louisville, Kentucky.

He received his B.A. and M. Ed. from the University of Louisville. His esoteric and metaphysical articles have been published in Japan and England as well as the United States. He and his artist wife live on Dunsinane Hill Farm near Fort Knox, Kentucky.

Additional information about the author may be found at http://BooksAuthorsAndArtists.com and on the Books, Authors, and Artists Facebook page at

https://www.facebook.com/BooksAuthorsAndArtists

Also by Karl F. Hollenbach:

A JOURNEY TO THE FOUR KINGDOMS

ANECDOTES AND SPECIAL NOTES

SCROOGE AND MARLEY

PATTON: MANY LIVES, MANY BATTLES

MANSIONS OF THE MOON (FORMERLY ERICIUS)

FRANCIS ROSICROSS

HANDBOOK – APPLYING METAPHYSICAL PRINCIPLES IN

TEACHING

THE GREAT HAWK

THE RIGHTEOUS ROGUE