Episode 143 – Sinbad’s First Voyage – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 143 Show Notes

Source: Middle Eastern Folklore

This week on MYTH, we’ll catch up with Scheherazade as she spins out another of her 1001 Nights. You’ll see that sometimes complaining about rich people works, that you should always be careful when landing on weird islands, and that not all spirits actually do anything. Then, in Gods and Monsters, a gardener is going to get the runaround from a mischievous little bird. This is the Myths Your Teacher Hated podcast, where I tell the stories of cultures from around the world in all of their original, bloody, uncensored glory. Modern tellings of these stories have become dry and dusty, but I’ll be trying to breathe new life into them. This is Episode 143, “Sinbad’s First Voyage”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
It’s been quite a while since we’ve visited Scheherazade and her 1001 Nights, so this week we’re going to be meeting one of the more famous figures from her tales: Sinbad the Sailor. We covered the frame story for this folklore collection back in Episode 22A, but the short version is that the ruler of some nonspecific kingdom somewhere in the Middle East (different tales were added from different origins over the centuries) gets cheated on. He executes his wife and then proceeds to marry a virgin each day, have wedding night sex, and then execute his new wife each night. After the vizir runs out of virgins willing to die this way, he’s forced to offer up his own daughter Scheherazade as bride. Being a very clever woman, she tells her murderous new husband a story before he can have her killed and then goes to bed, promising to finish it the next night. And of course she does so, but starts a new tale each night for, you guessed it, 1001 nights.
The tales of Sinbad are a fairly late addition to the cycle (though not as late as our dear street rat Aladdin from Episode 42), appearing as independent stories in 18th century collections. They are set in the Sasanid Empire in modern Iraq under the reign of the Abbasid Caliph Harun al-Rashid in the 8th century. During this time, there lived in Baghdad a poor porter (someone hired to carry heavy things for other people, often from ships or from the markets) named Sinbad (or more properly Sindibadu al-Bahriya, but I’ll stick with the typical Sinbad for simplicity).
On one especially hot day, Sinbad was hired to carry a heavy load clear from one end of the city to the other. In some versions, his name is actually Hinbad at this point, but I’m not going to do that. It was exhausting, back-breaking work made all the worse by the unrelenting sun beating down on him. It was so bad, in fact, that he’d only made it halfway to his destination before he was so fucking tired that he had to take a break. He wasn’t getting paid by the hour, so every minute he wasn’t moving cost him money – which tells you just how exhausted this poor man was.
He’d wound his way into a fairly quiet street in an upscale part of town. The avenue was wide and relatively breezy and the stones beneath his feet were sprinkled with rose water to make traveling more pleasant. All in all, it seemed a perfect place to take a load off, so he found a shady bench, set his burden on the ground, and stretched out with a groan. His spot proved to be even lovelier than he’d originally thought – here in the shadow of a very expensive house, the air was perfumed with aloeswood (a dark, fragrant tree known as the Wood of the Gods often used for perfume) and pastilles (an aromatic paste burned as a deodorizer). Inhaling the heavenly scent deeply, Sinbad realized it was wafting from the open window of the house above to mingle with the rose water steaming from the sizzling street.
As he relaxed, he heard the faint, sweet sound of expert musicians, their melodies twining beautifully with the trilling of nightingales and other songbirds. He sniffed the air again, and this time he could almost taste the heady aroma of roasting meat and sweet treats beneath the perfumes. Someone was clearly having a grand feast, and a particularly good one at that. He’d never been down this particular street before, so he found himself wondering just who the hell lived here. His curiosity was more powerful than his exhaustion, so he stood up and sauntered over to an impeccably dressed servant he spied leaving the mansion. “Hey there, friend. If you don’t mind me asking, who owns this incredible place?”
The servant gave him an incredulous look. “Surely you can’t be serious. How can you live in Baghdad and not know the name of Sinbad the Sailor, that famous explorer who has sailed upon every sea under the sun?” As it so happened, the poor porter had indeed heard of the more famous Sinbad and, more importantly, of the man’s immense wealth. He’d often lamented how unfair it was that he was the poor, miserable doppelganger of such a rich, happy man. Casting his eyes up towards the heavens, he cursed his fate aloud. “Are you there, god? It’s me, Sinbad. Have you ever stopped to think about the vast difference between that Sinbad’s life and mine? How in the hell is it even a little fucking fair that I have to suffer such hardship and privation day in and day out to earn barely enough bread to keep myself and my family alive while that lucky bastard has more money than he knows what to do with? What has he done to earn that life of leisure? What have I done to earn this life of torment?”
Sulking, he kicked the dust and headed over towards his burden. Before he could move more than a few steps however, a different servant emerged from the door and approached the poor Sinbad. “Would you please come with me, sir? My master would like to have a word with you.” This summons was entirely unexpected and more than a little unnerving. He couldn’t help but wonder if the famous sailor had heard his poorer double’s outburst and wanted to punish him (which, being as rich as he was, there was nothing the porter could do to prevent said punishment). “Oh, uh, I totally would, really, but you see, I, uh…” His gaze fell on his heavy burden. “Oh yeah, I can’t just abandon that parcel since I was hired to carry it safely across the city. You understand.”
The servant was utterly unmoved. “What I understand, sir, is that my employer has asked to see you and so see you he shall. But fear not – I will set a guard for your parcel so that it doesn’t wander off while you’re inside. Now please, come along. My master does not like to wait.” Sinbad tried his best to find some other excuse, but the diligent servant managed to take him by the elbow and usher him inside. Gulp.
Following the servant through the door, the porter entered a vast room far more luxurious than any he had ever seen before. At its center sat a great round table where a great company of men had gathered. They munched idly on the delicacies piled up on the table as they chatted and laughed, swapping stories and jibes. At the head of the table, in a clear place of honor, sat an older man with a long white beard and a grave countenance. Even before the servant indicated this venerable man as the lord of the house, the poor Sinbad was making his best trembling bow. He felt extremely out of place amongst this gathering of the great and wealthy men of Baghdad.
The old man motioned for his guest to approach and seated him at his right hand, a place of great honor. The lord of the manor took it upon himself to heap a plate full of the tastiest delicacies for the poor porter before pouring him a goblet of very expensive wine. After giving the porter a chance to enjoy the meal, he asked after his name and occupation. “My name is Sinbad, my lord – Sinbad the porter.” “Be welcome in my home, Sinbad the Porter. I speak on behalf of all my guests when I say that we are glad to have you. You probably have some idea of why I called you up to see me: I’d like you to repeat what you said in the street below my window.”
The porter was understandably terrified. This was beginning to feel an awful lot like an execution. Still, it wasn’t like he could refuse this powerful man an answer, so he tried to make his answer an apology, hoping it would soothe the rich man’s temper. “My lord, I am so sorry for my indelicate and indiscreet words. I was just tired and in a foul mood from carrying a particularly heavy package on the hottest day in months. I beg you to forgive my trespass.”
The old sailor laughed. “Be at ease, man. Do you really think me such a bastard as to blame you for complaining about work? I was not always the rich old man you see before you, and I can assure you that I fully understand your situation. It seems that the stories about me have become garbled and twisted or you wouldn’t be so terrified of me. Tell you what – you rest here and regain your strength for the heavy burden you bear, and I’ll tell you the true story of what happened out on the high seas.” Confused but intrigued and in desperate need of a break, the poor porter agreed. Leaning back with a satisfied smile, Sinbad the Sailor whispered into one of his servant’s ears and then began his story.
He was born rich, inheriting a great deal of wealth from his parents at a young age. Being exactly as good with money as you’d expect a reckless young man born into privilege to be, Sinbad soon squandered almost all of it. Even at that young age however, he’d seen enough to know that to be old and poor was a difficult existence; he needed to get his shit together. The socialite had drunk, gambled, or otherwise wasted all of his cash, so the only option was to sell his house and furniture at public auction. Taking what he could get for it, he joined up with a merchant fleet and invested most of his money along with his new friends to outfit a ship together.
Embarking at Balsora, they set sail for the East Indies across the Persian Gulf, keeping the Persian shores on their left and the Arabian Felix on their right. Being a landlubber up until then, he spent those first few days at sea green at the gills and puking his guts out over the railing several times a day. It took about a week to get his sea legs and, from then on, he was never again troubled by sea sickness. As they sailed, the crew would put in at the occasional island port to sell their goods or buy things they thought they could get a premium for later on. It was uneventful and prosperous, but it wasn’t meant to last.
One day as the ship was sailing past a small island that seemed to be entirely covered in lush meadow that barely cleared the tops of the waves, the wind dropped to nothing at all. They were becalmed. The ship wasn’t going anywhere until the winds came back, so the captain had the sails furled and gave permission for any in the crew who wished to visit the island for a little beach day. Sinbad thought it seemed like a better way to spend the day than roasting on the ship deck, so he climbed in the boat and helped row ashore.
The landing party explored for hours, but didn’t find much of interest. The entire island seemed to be the same lush meadow that only barely stuck above the water, with no real hills or valleys to speak of. Noon came and so the group found a comfy spot, built a fire, and broke out a picnic lunch. Just as they started eating though, the island began to tremble and quake, subtle at first but soon growing to a tooth-rattling shake. Sinbad struggled to get to his feet as the ground rocked beneath him, but he could clearly hear his shipmates still on the boat screaming at everyone ashore. “That’s no island, it’s a fucking whale! Get back to the ship!”
Those who were close enough threw themselves into our little boat. Others jumped into the sea and began to swim for it. But Sinbad? He was too shaky to get more than a few steps before the whale, scalded by the fire they’d built upon it, dove for the deep ocean. The hapless sailor got dragged down in its wake and would have drowned if his flailing hand hadn’t slapped a piece of wood brought ashore for the fire. He clung to it desperately as it bobbed to the surface. After catching his breath and saying a hasty prayer in thanks, Sinbad looked around. A breeze had sprung up while he was trying not to die, and the ship had unfurled its sails to catch it. They were bringing all of the men who had either rowed or swam back up on deck but, in the confusion, no one noticed a missing Sinbad. Or maybe they just thought he was dead, dragged to a watery grave by the diving whale. Either way, the ship sailed off over the horizon and left him drifting in the open sea with only that log to cling to.
He floated all that day, the beating sun burning his skin and leaving him dehydrated and a little delirious. When night fell, he began to despair. How long could he really cling to that hunk of wood? How long could he survive in the unrelenting elements without food or fresh water? Sinbad dozed fitfully that night, never able to truly sleep for fear of falling off his precarious perch but not really aware of the world around him either. It wasn’t until a wave bounced him off a rock shortly before dawn that the stranded sailor realized he’d drifted to an island. A real one this time.
This was no pleasant beach, but a rocky, jagged cliff rising sharply above the waves. It was high and steep but it was also Sinbad’s only path to safety so with a shaky breath, he began to climb. Luckily for him, there were tree roots protruding from the rock, making it easier to find hand and footholds. There were several moments of breath-stopping panic when a rock or root gave way under his grip, his heart dropping into his stomach, but he recovered each time and eventually reached the top, collapsing on the brush atop the cliff. There he lay until sometime around noon, more dead than alive. By then, hunger and thirst were more pressing than exhaustion, so the bedraggled man forced himself to his feet and went foraging. Sinbad found some wild vegetables and some edible mushrooms for food and a small, clear spring for water. After a simple but filling meal, he felt a hell of a lot better. Rising to his feet, he set out to explore this unknown island he’d found himself stranded on.
The rocky cliff soon gave way to a great grassy plain. Horses wandered across it, grazing for their own lunch. His keen eyes spotted tethers and hobbles on the animals, which meant these were no wild beasts. There must be other people on this island, which could be very good or very bad. Even as he was examining them though, Sinbad heard voices. Spinning around, he scanned for the voices but there was no one there. Spinning in a circle, he could in fact see no source for the voices he had definitely heard. Stopping, Sinbad listened carefully and they came again, though strangely echoey, as though they were coming from deep underground even though they had to be fairly close..
Before he could solve this puzzle, a man emerged from the thick brush, caution and curiosity at war on his face as he confronted this stranger on his island. He’d been set to watch the horses and had noticed this foreign stranger wandering around and looking awfully hard at the animals. He apparently spoke the same language that SInbad did because of course he did. “Hey there, friend. Whatcha doin, hm? Who are you?” Doing his damnedest to look nonthreatening, Sinbad told his story about the vanishing whale island and drifting here all alone.
Sinbad absolutely looked the part, his skin in bad shape after two days of exposure to endless sun and salt and his clothes looking a little tattered. The local man relaxed. He explained that he was one of the grooms of Mihrage, who was the king of this island. Each year, they came to feed the king’s horses on this great plain and it was the groom’s job to keep a watchful eye on them. Taking pity on the stranded traveler, the groom brought Sinbad with him to a nearby cave where he and the other grooms had set up camp, which explained the weird echoes he’d heard before. They invited him to sit down at their fire and share in their food, which Sinbad was only too happy to do.
“You were lucky to stumble across us when you did, stranger. We’re heading back to the city tomorrow to bring the king’s horses back to him. If you’d come by after we were gone, I doubt you’d have ever made it to the inhabited part of the island without our guidance.” They passed the hours until nightfall swapping stories, and Sinbad went to sleep that night in a much better situation than he could have imagined just 24 hours ago.
The grooms rose with the dawn and, not long after, they set out for the capital with Sinbad and the herd of horses in tow. The head groom carried word of their unexpected visitor to the king, who was thrilled to extend an audience to this stranger. Sinbad once more related his adventures to date, this time to King Mihrage. The nobleman was very impressed with Sinbad’s tale of derring do and ordered that he be well cared for and provided with whatever he needed as long as he was here in the city.
Being a merchant by birth and by training (even if he’d been a very bad one until very recently), Sinbad decided to seek out his fellow merchants in the city, especially any who were visiting from other places. If anyone would have news of Bagdad or – even better – a way back, it would be them. King Mihrage’s city was located on the island’s shore in a natural harbor, so it drew merchant vessels from all over. Sinbad was able to find all sorts of interesting gossip and share his own stories and news in return.
Alas, none of these merchants had come from Baghdad nor were they headed that way. Their news was all very interesting, but it wasn’t terribly useful. When he ran out of new merchants to talk to, Sinbad would go and explore the small, neighboring island of Cassel. It belonged to King Mihrage (I assume as part of his private estate) and was said to be the home of a spirit named Deggial. It was common knowledge among the local sailors that, if you listened closely, you could often hear Deggial playing his timbales (a type of drum) at night. Despite his extensive wanderings across Cassel though, Sinbad never saw any sign of the mysterious spirit. The strangest thing he saw on the island were massive fish at least 200 cubits (about 300 feet) long. Luckily, those great monsters were even more scared of Sinbad than he was of them and fled at the slightest movement. He also found some more reasonable fish, only one cubit (or about a foot and a half) long with heads that looked like undersea owls. Strange to be sure, but hardly a spirit.
One day, as Sinbad was returning from just such an exploration, he saw a ship which had just dropped anchor and was beginning to unload its cargo. It was a very familiar ship, as were some of the merchants he saw directing the unloading of their cargo into the warehouses. Hurrying over, Sinbad was soon sure that he recognized these men (though all were too busy to pay him enough mind to recognize him). What’s more, he also saw his own damned name on some of the crates being unloaded.
Exuberant, Sinbad looked around until he spied the captain of the ship and hurried over to him. “Excuse me, Captain. Who does that cargo belong to?” asked Sinbad, gesturing towards the ones with his name on it. “A merchant named Sinbad of Baghdad who was on my ship until recently. He and several others of my crew were lost when a group of them landed on an island that turned out to be a sleeping whale, dragged beneath the waves when the beast dove. I have decided to sell his merchandise for him and return whatever I can make for it to his family if I ever meet them.”
That’s actually a very honest and kind thing for this merchant captain to do. Of course, since the very much alive Sinbad was standing right the fuck there in front of him, he was a little nonplussed about the plan. “Do you not recognize me, Captain? I am that very same Sinbad whom you thought dead! That’s my name on my crates.” The captain, who was somehow so certain that Sinbad was dead that he still did not recognize the man, was angered by this assertion. “Are you fucking serious? What is the world coming to when a random asshole will try to steal a dead man’s goods. Are there no honest men left in the world? I watched Sinbad die with my own two eyes, so there’s no way in hell that you are he. How dare you try to steal that good man’s legacy!”
“I appreciate you trying to protect my legacy Captain, truly, but it really is me standing here. Let me tell you a story.” And he proceeded to relate to the Captain everything that had happened since landing on that whale. As he was doing so, his story drew the attention of some of the other merchants who were more observant than the Captain and rushed to embrace their friend who they had thought dead. Hell, maybe the Captain is face blind. Either way, he was finally convinced by the combination of the story and the recognition of the other merchants and he declared that he accepted this man as the one and only Sinbad.
Now it was the Captain’s turn to draw Sinbad into a heartfelt hug. “Heaven be praised that you escaped what seemed certain doom, my friend! These goods have always been yours, so they are of course yours to do with as you see fit.” It had been frustrating having to prove that he was who he said he was, but Sinbad had never doubted the Captain’s sincerity or good intentions. In thanks for his honest service, the rescued sailor tried to reward the Captain with several bales of merchandise, but all offers were refused – he’d simply been doing the right thing.
Bemused, Sinbad picked out some of the finest goods he had brought from Baghdad and took them into the city as a gift for King Mihrage in thanks for his hospitality. The king was amazed to see the formerly bedraggled and impoverished man offering such an extravagant gift. He’d known that Sinbad had lost everything when he went down with the whale, and so he listened in wonder as Sinbad related his sudden good fortune. Accepting these gifts, the king gave Sinbad many fine gifts of his own in return. Taking the rest of his wares to the market, the rescued merchant made many savvy deals for many things that were rare back home, especially spices like nutmeg, cloves, pepper, and ginger, but also camphor and aloes wood.
These he traded with great skill along the return trip such that, when they returned to Balsora, Sinbad had made about one hundred thousand sequins (the local currency). His family rejoiced at his return, especially since it seemed he had finally settled down and not only become a respectable merchant, but a damned good one. Their joy was only matched by Sinbad’s at seeing them again, something he’d not at all been sure he would ever do. With his newly made wealth, he bought a new house, land, and slaves (which, gross but pretty expected given the time period). There, he planned to live in comfortable happiness and enjoy the pleasures of life until the hardships of his perilous journey faded from his memory. But of course, this was only the first of the great voyages of Sinbad so clearly his happy retirement from adventuring didn’t last.
By this time, the day was getting late and so the elderly Sinbad decided to call a pause in his story to the young porter. He ordered the musicians to begin playing again, and the feasting started up again as before. Calling the younger Sinbad over, the elderly sailor gave the porter a purse with 100 sequins for being such a captivated audience. “Take this and return home, my new friend. Don’t worry about your package – I had my servants deliver it to its destination while you were resting up using a cart, so you can head on home and get some sleep. I’d appreciate it if you came back tomorrow to hear more of my story.”
Overcome by Sinbad the Sailor’s generosity, the porter made his way home, lost in thought. The rich merchant sailor wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Jingling the purse, which was more money than he’d ever made for a job in his life, Sinbad the porter decided that he would indeed return to hear more of the story the next day. When he reached his home, his wife and child were overcome with joy at Sinbad’s unexpected good fortune. His wife heartily agreed that he must of course stay in the good graces of their surprising new benefactor. Thus it was that, early the next day, Sinbad rose and went again to the home of Sinbad the Sailor. But alas you and I will have to wait until some other time to hear of the second voyage.
The Seven Voyages of Sinbad the Sailor start out as a pretty normal adventure story but, as they go on, they just keep getting weirder. I don’t think that Deggial the spirit really did anything in this tale (unless it had something to do with Sinbad’s ship conveniently showing up), but it does introduce us to the idea that the supernatural is going to be present in these stories. Sinbad is one of those folklore heroes that shows up time and time again in film and other media, though it’s been some years since his last voyage. But while we wait for the ever-restless sailor to set sail once more, it’s time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about the personalities and history of one of the gods or monsters from this week’s pantheon that was not discussed in the main story. This week’s mischievous critter is the little bird.
This story comes from Persian Fairy Tales, collected by Eleanor Brockett in 1941. Once upon a time in the city of Balkh in modern Afghanistan, there lived a rich man. Being extremely wealthy, he had built for himself a spectacular private garden. Whomever he hired outdid themselves as the result was like something straight out of a fairy tale (which, you know, it basically is). Every kind of sweet-smelling flower the man had ever heard of (and a few he hadn’t) were all here to perfume the air in an exquisite melange. The artfully winding paths were shaded with dozens of different trees laden with a variety of delectable fruits. It was a tiny slice of paradise.
Given how luxurious this garden was, especially compared to the surrounding countryside, it should come as no surprise that it was extremely popular with the local birds. In particular, there was a little bird who had something of a mischievous streak. He would amuse himself for hours by hopping from tree to tree, plucking fruit from the branches, and dropping it so that it went splat on the walkways and benches below. It was a waste, which was apparently the joke. Hey, I didn’t say the bird was a master comedian, just that he was kind of an asshole.
Anyway, the gardener who had been hired to tend this little Eden was understandably aggrieved at the constant wanton destruction of the fruit. It filled his heart with sorrow instead of the joy he usually felt whenever gazing upon his beloved charge. He wrung his hands and moaned and complained to the heavens about how unfair it all was, but since he didn’t do it beneath the open window of a legendary sailor, his complaining accomplished precisely shit. To his credit, after he’d had himself a good vent session, the gardener realized that the only way to stop this destruction from continuing was to catch the culprit.
To this end, the gardener went into town and acquired a large net, then set it high in the branches the mischievous little bird most frequently vandalized. It didn’t take long for him to hear a shrill warble of complaint come from that direction. Sure enough, the little asshole had been caught in the net and was struggling to free himself. Leaping from his hiding place, the gardener grabbed the bird in one hand and reached out to wring its little neck with the other. Before he could execute the little critter for its crimes against fruit, the bird looked up at him with big, soulful eyes. “Please, great human, please don’t kill me. You’re such a clever, intelligent man and I am just a simple beast. Spare me and may heaven’s favor always shower upon you!”
The gardener was surprised and flattered by the little bird’s unexpected speech. His anger deflated and his murderous impulse passed. He loosened his grip a little and brought the bird up to his face to talk to it more easily. Seeing that his words were having an effect, the bird went on. “Consider, oh great man, that if you kill me, I shall be the one who most benefits. The loss of your fruit cannot be undone, but I won’t have to worry about anything at all ever again. Cause I’ll be dead. Remember what they say: hastiness is always a mistake. If you kill me, I won’t care anymore because corpses can’t care, but while I’m still alive I really want to stay that way. Living is great. You think I’ve done you wrong, but do my crimes really warrant a death penalty? Can I at least have a few last words?”
This little bird has already had a last speech, but the gardener was moved by the bird’s fervor. He sighed. “Alright, fine. I guess it won’t hurt to let you say your piece before you die.” “I’m so glad you agree. Now listen up – far to the west, there is an oasis. That is my home, where my family lives. It’s a very nice oasis, especially since my family – did I mention I have a family – yeah my family lives there, but that oasis isn’t even one percent as nice as this garden. It called to me. It sang to my soul. So I came to visit.
“I just sat on a branch for a while and watched a lapwing and a nightingale sitting together atop a date palm tree. Presently a locust buzzed by and both of them wanted to catch and eat it, but it was the nightingale who was quick enough to actually do it. Before he could gulp it down though, the lapwing stole it right out of his damned beak! The nightingale complained that it was unfair, that the lapwing should catch his own bugs and not rob him of his rightful prize. ‘Nonsense’ said the lapwing. ‘For a hunter to catch his prey is simple, but to rob the hunter of his prey? Now that takes finesse.’ The nightingale shrugged his wings. ‘Maybe you’re right, lapwing. Fine, have the locust. Say, are you the same lapwing I’ve been hearing about lately? The one that brought King Solomon news of the City of Sheba? How did he reward you and the other lapwings for that service?’
“‘It was indeed, nightingale. He gave us three gifts as a reward: we can always tell how deep under the earth there is water to be found; we wear a crest of nobility on our heads now; and we always know the quality of any fruit. For instance, I know that this garden has been visited by a foul spirit who has cursed the trees. Anyone who eats the fruit of this garden this entire year will immediately die. And what about you, nightingale? Does your species have any special gifts?’ ‘As it so happens, we also have three gifts. How convenient! We have a pleasing, melodious voice; we are nocturnal just like all holy men; and we are incredibly beautiful in both form and color.’
“Do you understand now, oh great man, why I had to destroy the fruit? Why, as soon as I heard the lapwing and the nightingale saying that, I set myself the task of protecting everyone in this incredible garden by plucking all the fruit and dashing it to the ground so that no one ate it and died!” The gardener, who was already deeply impressed by this talking bird (and more than a little flattered by all the nice things it had to say about him) felt bad about trapping it. Hell, maybe he even owed the bird a debt for his heroic fruit destruction. The bird could sense that the situation had shifted in his favor. “If you promise to let me go, oh wise man, I will tell you three great truths about the universe. The maxims will give you the key to finding happiness in this world and the next. These maxims will help you earn the trust and high regard of everyone around you. These maxims will let you achieve your dreams. So? Do we have a deal?”
The gardener nodded, relaxing his grip further. “We do. Alright, I’m all ears.” “We are agreed. Maxim One: Never trust anyone of doubtful character. Maxim Two: Never believe impossibilities. And Maxim Three: Have no regrets about things that cannot be changed.” These did indeed sound like wise sayings that could be used as life counsel, so the man released the bird back into the air. It took to wing immediately and darted away, circling overhead in a rush of joyful movement. The bird didn’t go far though before coming back to land on a branch that was within conversation range but very deliberately out of grabbing range.
“I can’t believe you fell for that bullshit! I really thought you were going to realize that I was lying to you, but you never did! If only you knew how thoroughly I deceived you.” The gardener was confused and his anger was returning. “What do you mean?” “Inside my body is a gem the size of a duck’s egg. It’s of such extraordinary size and quality as to defy all imagining. However much you’re thinking you could have gotten for it, double that. Triple it. If you had killed me when you had me in your hands, you would have had a fortune large enough to let you wallow in deepest luxury for the rest of your life and then some.”
As you can imagine, the gardener felt his trust had been betrayed and he felt foolish for believing this talking bird who had obviously made up a lie to get out of trouble. Embarrassment turned to rage and the gardener got to his feet and bellowed at the heavens. He felt such deep shame that he thought seriously about hanging himself from one of those tree branches with a piece of fruit in his mouth. He ripped the robes from his body, literally tearing them from top to bottom, then scattered ashes on his head as a sign of contrition. By the time he had done all of this, the gardener had regained a little of his composure.
Doing his best to act casual, the man sauntered over to the tree where the bird sat, watching his fury with a gleam of amusement and mockery in its cold beady eyes. In one explosive motion, he leapt towards the bird, hands outstretched, trying to seize the lying little bastard and wring his lying bastard neck. The bird had expected this and so his perch was just out of reach of the man’s leap. With trilling laughter, the bird hopped up onto a higher branch that was clearly safe from anything the man might try (since, being a gardener, he didn’t have a bow or anything handy).
“You should’ve seen the look on your face dude! I had to sweet talk my way out of those grubby mitts once already – do you really think I’m going to let you catch me a second time? No fucking way. Just accept it – I won, you lost, get over it.” The gardener realized that he had indeed been outsmarted by a bird. Twice. Shame overwhelmed him and he collapsed to a weeping heap at the base of the tree. And still the bird wasn’t done rubbing salt into the wound. “How can you even call yourself a man after such a humiliating defeat? I mean really – I even gave you three legitimately wise pieces of advice and you forgot all three immediately.
“Maxim One: Never trust anyone of doubtful character. My dude, you had all the reason in the world to doubt my character, so you shouldn’t have believed my story about the poison fruit or, really, about pretty much anything I say. You accepted every single word out of my beak without question or hesitation. I’m a liar, so believe me when I tell you I’m lying. Maxim Two: Never believe impossibilities. Now, I realize that me being a talking bird makes this one a little more complicated, but you can see very clearly that I am a very small talking bird. How in the hell would there be room inside my body for a massive gem? How would something the size of a duck’s egg even get inside me? It was obviously a little revenge trick. There’s no gem and there never was. Maxim Three: Have no regrets about things that cannot be changed. If you’d listened to that one when you saw the fallen fruit, we wouldn’t even be in this situation. If you’d listened after you let me go, you wouldn’t be standing there with your clothes all torn up and ashes sizzling atop your noggin. And you really believed I thought you were a wise man? Ridiculous.” Laughing, the bird flew away and left the man to his weeping and shame.
This is kind of an unusual story in that the villain (albeit the extremely minor, low-stakes villain) comes out on top. The little bird is an unrepentant asshole who gets caught in his assholery and decides to gaslight gatekeep girlboss his way out of things. The poor gardener was just trying to do his job. Like, I think he would have been fine with the bird snatching fruit if he was actually eating it, but the wanton destruction for shits and giggles was upsetting. On the plus side, he hasn’t really lost anything from this experience except some self-respect and a nice set of clothes; maybe he’ll be a little more cautious the next time he meets a charlatan and keep himself safe.
That’s it for this episode of Myths Your Teacher Hated. Keep up with new episodes on our Facebook page, on iTunes, on TuneIn, on Vurbl, and on Spotify, or you can follow us on Twitter as @HardcoreMyth, on Instagram as Myths Your Teacher Hated Pod, and on Tumblr as MythsYourTeacherHated. You can also find news and episodes on our website at myths your teacher hated dot com. If you have any questions, any gods or monsters you’d want to learn about, or any ideas for future stories that you’d like to hear, feel free to drop me a line. I’m trying to pull as much material from as many different cultures as possible, but there are all sorts of stories I’ve never heard, so suggestions are appreciated. The theme music is by Tiny Cheese Puff.
Next time, we’re heading to west Africa for a story of gourmet meals and grotesque horrors. You’ll see that you are what you eat, that just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean your ideas are good, and that no one likes a dusty eye. Then, in Gods and Monsters, a very strange baby will try to marry out of his league. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.